The Sheikh's Small Town Baby

by Holly Rayner

  The booth is nice and warm. I remove first the red hat and then my thin white jacket and deposit them onto the booth next to me. I see Teresa stifle a giggle.

  “What?” I ask. Her laugh is infectious, and I start to laugh myself. I feel giddy around her, and it doesn’t take much to make the laugh bubble from my lips.

  “That hat!” she says, covering her pretty lips with one hand. “Why would Neville have a hat like that?”

  I lift it up and look at it. “I like it,” I say.

  “I do, too. It looks perfect on you. But really! It’s not Neville’s style.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe there’s more about this Neville than you know. Maybe…” I turn the hat in my hands, taking in the clown-like colors. “Maybe he doesn’t open the restaurant for lunch because he’s moonlighting at a carnival.”

  She erupts in a fit of giggles just as a woman with a long, grey braid walks up to the table. She has two glasses of water in her hands, and she sets them down on the table. “Did someone already serve you two the laughing gas special?” She speaks loudly, and I see flesh-colored hearing aids in both ears. This must be Marge.

  “Oh, Marge!” Teresa says loudly, confirming my suspicions. Teresa waves a hand to me. “This is Jabir. He’s here all the way from Dalai, on business.”

  “Dalai! That’s where our factory owners live. You happen to know the Abdullah family?”

  I smile and extend my hand, making sure to keep my voice loud and my enunciation clear as I introduce myself. “My name is Sheikh Jabir Abdullah.”

  “Well, well, well! I’ll be! Welcome to Marge’s diner, Mr. Abdullah. It’s a pleasure and an honor, both.”

  “Thank you. It’s wonderful to be here.” This is the truth. I glance across the table at Teresa, and see that she’s gazing at me with dreamy eyes. That makes me feel even better, and I sit up straighter.

  I can still feel Teresa’s eyes on my as Marge rattles off the short lunch menu. I order the turkey club, and Teresa asks for her “usual.” When Marge departs, I find that I’m glad to have Teresa all to myself again.

  Her mood is slightly different now, and some of the lightness that was there just a moment ago is gone. Something about our exchange with Marge has her nervous, and I wonder if it’s the fact that I introduced myself as a sheikh.

  I’m eager to see her smile again, so I bring up a topic that I know will relax her. “I was serious about what I said last night. I’m very interested in buying one of your paintings.”

  She shifts in her seat, and then smiles reluctantly. I can see some of her nervousness falling away again. “Really?” she asks. She takes a sip of her water. Her long lashes brush against her cheek as she looks down. She’s beautiful.

  Her eyes flick back to mine. I’m surprised at how much blue there is in them today, in this new lighting.

  I’m lost for a moment, but then I clear my throat. “How much… How much are they?”

  “Umm…I don’t know, really. Dawn’s the only person who’s ever bought them from me, and she gives me twenty-five a piece. Does that sound good—er, fair? To you?” I can tell she’s uncomfortable discussing the price.

  I smile. “I’ll give you three hundred,” I say. I pull out my wallet, and she lifts a hand.

  “No, no!” She waves her hands over the table. “That’s way too much!”

  “No, it isn’t,” I reply firmly. “You’re an artist. Teresa. If anything, I’m getting a bargain.”

  She appears stunned. I carefully remove three crisp, hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, and place them on the table between us. She lets them sit there for a moment before sweeping them up. “Thank you,” she says softly.

  “You should get used to it,” I say. “I won’t be the last art collector to value your work.”

  She’s quiet. When she speaks again, her voice is feather soft. “Tell me about Dalai,” she says. “You’ve been so kind to me, Jabir, listening to all of my stories and showing so much interest in my art. Now I want to learn about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “That might take a while.”

  I pause, and consider what I want to share with her. Somehow, the usual facts of my life don’t seem suited to this conversation—here and now, with this beautiful, interesting girl. What can I tell her that will make her laugh? What can I say to keep those bright eyes sparkling when she looks my way?

  I take a sip of water before beginning.

  For the next hour and a half, I regale Teresa with any and every humorous story I can think of from my childhood. She laughs when I tell her about the time, when we were six, that Hassan and I got locked in a storage closet during our mother’s birthday celebration. Her eyebrows shoot up as I recall the time my father paid a local radio station to let me DJ for an hour, and I mistakenly swore live on air. She’s full of questions about the palace, the city, and my country.

  I barely taste the turkey club, though I’m vaguely aware that I like it. All of my attention is on her, and her reactions.

  Before I know it, I’m paying the bill, and Teresa and I are sliding out of the booth. I desperately don’t want the lunch hour to end. As we begin driving back to the inn, conversation turns to the factory.

  “They could do with hiring quite a few more people,” I mention.

  “I know, and they’ve tried. But that’s the thing with this town; people seem to leave it to go elsewhere, not the other way around. So many of the kids I went to high school with are gone now. They move to Melrose, or farther even.”

  “Why?’

  “Housing, for one thing. Lots of the houses around here were built at the turn of the century. You can see how old they are, right?” She points out the window, and I look at the wooden structures as they pass.

  She continues. “They’re near impossible to renovate. I mean, a lot has to go—pipes, electric, wood. You name it. So young people don’t want to buy them. In Melrose, you can rent a nice, new apartment for five hundred bucks a month, or less.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask.

  “I got lucky. My uncle and father own a summer cabin at the edge of town. We used to visit it a lot when my cousins and I were little. We’d all go stay there and fish in the river and stuff. Now that all of us kids are grown, I get to live there full time.”

  “But not everyone has a summer cottage to rent.”

  “Right.”

  We pass by one of the towering, five-story brick buildings. “What about these?” I ask, gesturing. “They look like apartment buildings.”

  She peers out the window and shakes her head. “Nope. Those are old offices for Keller and Son’s logging. See there, on the side?”

  I see faded white block writing on one side of the building, which spells out the company name.

  “There’s a few of them,” Teresa says. “Keller and Sons, and up the road there’s Johnson and Co.”

  “That’s you!” I say. I recall the last name from her name tag.

  “Right. My family used to log. That was before that industry totally died. Now we…” her voice trails off.

  “Paint?” I guess.

  “Something like that.” She’s quiet, and I can tell she doesn’t like the way the conversation is going. I decide to change tack.

  “So, about those pies you mentioned last night…”

  She picks up on my hint immediately. “Dawson’s! Yes. Let’s go! I could totally go for something sweet right now. I’ll introduce you to Pete!”

  The afternoon is filled with maple pecan pie, and more tea by the roaring fire of the Mountain Laurel. Teresa offers to introduce me to snowshoeing, and after I get over my initial reaction—snow and shoes don’t seem to go together well, in my experience so far—she does her best to convince me that it’s a wonderful sport. The next day, decked out in a pair of her father’s boots and snow shoes, along with a thick, warm jacket, I find out that indeed, it is.

  Later in the evening, sore from
our hike and still wearing tall snow boots, I follow Teresa through a row of folding chairs. I squeeze amongst townspeople, who are all talking animatedly with one another.

  Teresa and I reach two empty seats, and I look around as we sit.

  Everyone looks excited. I recognize Dawn and Neville, who have found coverage for the inn so that they can watch the talent show. Dawn even gives me a little wave, and Neville motions to my hat and gives me a thumbs up. I return it. Then I see Pete Dawson, the man who sold us the pies the day before. I feel strangely at home in the town hall as the lights dim and an MC takes the stage.

  Two hours later, after a surprisingly wonderful show of poetry, tap dancing, skits, and of course the almost-famous Sue Jackson violin playing, I find that I don’t want the evening to end. So when Teresa mentions that she’s cooking up some venison stew the next day at her cottage, and asks if I want to join her for dinner, I happily say yes.

  To be honest, I have no idea what venison is.

  But I feel so warm and happy, as I pull the red and yellow hat over my ears and join the crowd leaving the hall, that I simply don’t care. If I get to hang out with Teresa, the dinner doesn’t matter. She could serve water-logged, semi-frozen suede shoes on a plate, and I’d be just fine with that.

  Chapter 6

  Teresa

  I’m not usually a wine girl. On top of that, I don’t usually have dinner guests. So, a half hour before Jabir is supposed to arrive, I have a mini panic attack.

  I’m standing up on a step stool, searching the very back of the cabinet above my stove. I’ve almost emptied it out entirely; a little coffee pot, chipped gravy boat, and several travel mugs are strewn about the countertops. I’m sweeping my hand blindly across the shadowy back section, finding nothing. I could have sworn I had a pair of wine glasses! Where did they go?

  I’m perspiring a little, despite the fact that the gas heater’s gone out. Again.

  My hand thuds against the wall. That’s it. They’re not back there. I dejectedly step off of the stool and place my hands on my hips as I survey the dining area.

  Because I couldn’t find a tablecloth, I’ve thrown a wall tapestry over the table. Does it look silly? It’s decorated with birds, which I think Jabir will like, but I’m worried that it looks like what it is—a tapestry, not a tablecloth. No cloth napkins, either. I’ve torn paper towels off the roll and folded them up nicely under the silverware, but still…they’re paper.

  And Jabir…he’s a freaking sheikh! My hands move to my head and dig through my hair, and I crouch down, hyperventilating. What was I thinking? Inviting a member of a royal family here, to my little cabin?

  My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel perspiration gathering under my arms. I try to take a deep breath, and as I do, I catch a whiff of the venison stew.

  It smells delicious.

  Well, at least there’s that.

  I slowly get up on wobbly knees and make my way to the stove, where a big pot of stew is simmering. Lifting the pot’s lid, I breathe in the scent.

  Perfect.

  The venison comes from this year’s hunting season. My father shot the deer, and the whole family agrees that the meat is sweet, tender, and flavorful. I’ve added in parsnips, carrots, Yukon Gold potatoes, fresh parsley, and a few spices.

  After stirring it a few times, I’m able to contemplate my wine glass conundrum more calmly.

  I stride over to the cabinet that holds my glasses, and take in my options. Juice glasses, or coffee mugs.

  Determined not to collapse to my knees again—because now there’s only twenty minutes until he’ll be here, and I still have to change my shirt and fire up the heater—I whip out two juice glasses and carry them to the table.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve managed to start the gas heater up again, and have just changed into a thin, heather-grey sweater when there’s a knock on my door.

  When I open the door, I am greeted by the sight of Jabir, smiling, carrying flowers.

  He holds them forward. “In appreciation,” he says, almost bowing a little, “for the kind invitation.”

  I can barely breathe. They’re dahlias, my favorite kind of flower.

  “How did you…?” I gasp, clutching the flowers and breathing in. “That’s my middle name! Dahlia. Did you know?”

  He winks at me. “I stopped at Dawson’s, and Pete walked me through his greenhouse. He might have mentioned it.”

  “Thank you.” The flowers smell sweet, and I realize they’ll make the perfect centerpiece for our table, which so far is painfully sparse. “Come in! This is the cottage I was telling you about.”

  He walks into the room and comes to a stop, rotating slowly as he takes it all in.

  The entire cottage consists of a small mud room area, which is basically a bench and coat hooks, and then an open concept dining area and living room. The small kitchen is sectioned off by a bar of countertop, and behind the kitchen, a narrow hallway leads to the back bedroom and a bathroom.

  The wall between the bedroom and main area is only partial; the top eight inches is left open, so that heat from the main area can freely transfer to the sleeping area. Along the top edges of the partial wall, my family has collected paperback books. They line the wall, creating a colorful border. I love the way those old books smell. Second to the fragrant, rich stew I have on the stove, the books fill the space with a comforting, old-fashioned scent.

  I enjoy watching Jabir look at my space. I feel oddly proud of it, and imagining his first impressions makes me realize just how quaint and cozy the place is.

  “It’s perfect,” he says. “It’s so well suited to you. I love the picture’s you’ve put up.”

  He walks up to one as I move behind the countertop into the small kitchen. I find a clear glass mason jar that will work as a vase, and begin filling it with water.

  “They look antique,” he says.

  “Oh, maybe! I found the frames at a tag sale, and the book was one Uncle Joe passed down to me. It was an old birdwatcher’s guide, and I tore out and framed the pictures.”

  “Genius!”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”

  “Well, of course you wouldn’t. You’re one of the humblest people I’ve ever met.”

  “I’ll take that as a…compliment?” I circle the countertops and place the vase full of dahlias on the table. “How were the roads? You can hang your coat there, by the door. And your boots too.”

  “Your boots,” Jabir says, and I laugh. “Thank you, by the way, for these.” He hangs his coat and removes the tall snow boots I borrowed from my dad.

  I grimace as I gesture to the juice glasses and a bottle of wine that I’ve placed on the table. “Would you like a drink?” I’m trying to sound like a good hostess, but my voice wobbles a bit as I look at the pitiful glasses.

  He doesn’t seem to mind in the least. “I would love one!” he says enthusiastically. “It smells so good in here. Whatever you’re cooking…” he breathes in. “Just, wow!”

  I feel my shoulders lower and for the first time all day, I feel myself relax. Maybe this isn’t going to be as difficult as I’ve been building it up to be.

  Now that Jabir is here, in my home, I remember all of the things I’ve grown to like about him over the past few days. He’s warm and friendly, and fun to be around. And of course there’s the fact that he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in person—a fact that I don’t miss as I take in his outfit: a maroon Henley shirt and faded jeans that fit him just right.

  I pour out two glasses of red wine, and by the time I bring one over to Jabir, he’s examining the record player that sits near my small couch.

  “You know what that is, right?” I hand him a glass, and he accepts it graciously.

  “I do. But I can’t believe it.”

  I laugh. “You said, on the first night that I met you, that you’d traveled back in time through a wormhole. Still sticking to that theory?” I ask.

  “I am!” he sa
ys, laughing. “And this is just more evidence to back me up. Can we play something?”

  I bend down and begin pulling piles of records from a low shelf. I can feel Jabir’s eyes on me, and when I straighten I catch him look away quickly. I feel myself blush. “There’s lots to choose from. Take your pick!”

  Self-conscious nervousness has me reaching for my glass and taking a healthy swallow of merlot.

  “This one,” he says finally. “We have to listen to this one.” He picks out a Motown classic, and I giggle when it starts up and he sings along.

  “What do you think?” he asks, as he finishes the chorus with a flourish. “Could I make it in the talent show next year?”

  The thought of Jabir in the town talent show is a double-edged sword. On one hand, it is fun to imagine him sitting next to me in the town hall. On the other, I realize suddenly what a fantasy that is.

  He’s only joking. Next year, he’ll be back in Dalai.

  I force a grin. “You’d be the starring act,” I say. “Watch out, Sue Jackson!”

  “You could be my backup singer.”

  “Just me?” I ask. “Won’t we need a whole row of girls, all dressed in sequin gowns?”

  “Of course! I just wasn’t sure we could put all of that together given the limited resources.”

  “Leave it to me.” I say, with mock seriousness.

  He settles back in the couch. “Well, now that we’ve got that figured out, I can really relax.”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  I walk to the kitchen and grab a plate of appetizers that I’ve put together: little toasted strips of French bread topped with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil, and drizzled with olive oil.

  I bring them back and set them on the coffee table in front of the couch. Since my living room is small, I perch on the couch along with Jabir. I turn my body so that I’m facing him.

  “What’s your brother doing tonight? I almost feel that I should have invited him along, too.”

  Almost. That’s the key word, there. Because I’m really, really enjoying having Jabir all to myself.

  “He’s at the inn, working, most likely. He’s been calling contracting companies to get quotes on road work.”