by Hana Sheik
“Good morning. How can I help you?” His subtly accented English was crisp and clear and polite.
“I’m here to see Zoya Ali.”
The friendly expression on the young man’s face broke with his confusion. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” he replied, watching the other man’s bafflement intensify.
It was the truth, though. His half-sister Zoya wasn’t expecting Manny to be here for some good old-fashioned family time, courtesy of their bullheaded father.
I’m close, though. Nearly done with this charade.
He didn’t see it as anything else.
“I don’t have a standing appointment, no, but she’ll want to see me,” he clarified.
It was a total bluff. He had no clue what Zoya would think once she knew he occupied her shop.
Frowning now, the young man darted his narrowing eyes to Amal. But he spoke to Manny when he asked, “What did you say your name was, sir?”
“Mansur Ali. I’m her half-brother.”
That proclamation cracked like thunder through the shop.
The young man snapped his jaw shut, but the whites of his eyes continued to bulge with shock. “I’ll go tell her. Please wait here.”
He swiveled and headed for the door he’d come through.
“I don’t think he expected that,” Amal murmured.
No, and neither will my half-sister, Manny thought grimly, shoving aside the odd trickle of concern for the woman he’d come to meet. Misplaced emotions would only further complicate this situation. All he had to remember was that this was a means to an end. If he could keep that as his focus, he’d come out of this unscathed.
Amal neared him, her fingertips on his arm unwarranted but welcome. “You can do this,” she said, her voice unwavering, filled with stalwart confidence. She had enough for them both, and he could feel it seeping into him from the simple connection she’d made. Grateful for her presence again, he gave her the briefest of smiles as a reply.
Their stares simultaneously veered to the shop’s back door as it swung open again, nearly crashing into the wall from the force. The willowy woman who hurried out took one look at him and froze in her spirited tracks. She gawked just like the young man. He hovered behind her closely.
Manny could have sliced the tension in the room with a knife. It sat in the air, thick and annoying. But it came in handy. Giving him the time to size up this half-sister of his.
Zoya was nearly as tall as he was. It made it easier for him to look her in the eyes, unearth what she could possibly be thinking now he stood before her.
She was pretty, in a cute kind of way. Her eyes were an identical shade to his, and they shared the same narrowly tapered nose. But her skin was a pinkish beige-brown, her face was wider, and her cheeks were rounded.
He knew she was three years younger than him, making her Amal’s age. And Manny also understood from the private investigators’ exhaustive dossier that Zoya had studied horticulture in college, and gone straight from school into opening a now thriving florist business. She was doing well, having had the lease on her marketplace location for close on five years.
He knew about her. But he didn’t know her.
Amal’s touch hadn’t left his arm and he concentrated on it, longing to clasp her hand under his and be reassured that she was with him through this no matter what happened. That she’d continue to be unjudgmental and generous with her sympathy.
For someone who didn’t recall him in adulthood, she excelled at soothing the worst emotions in him.
If they hadn’t been standing in his half-sister’s shop, Manny might have lingered over the thought that this connection he had to Amal would never disappear. No amnesia or great distance would destroy it. Some deep part of him would always care for her.
But, not fully ready to wrestle what that meant, he concentrated on his half-sister. She was finally addressing him.
“Mansur. Is it really you?” Zoya widened her eyes at his subtle nod.
He tensed, preparing himself for her to throw him out angrily. After all, he was a stranger. A family member, yes, but a strange man who had burst in on her life. For all he knew she hated him and wished he didn’t exist.
That theory crumbled when Zoya smiled widely. The smile lifted her round cheeks and revealed two dimples. His body jarred on a flashback, of his father’s grizzly bearded face, of the deep dimples that had never been hidden by his thick henna-colored facial hair, and of his wide, contagious smile. That spectral laughter still echoing in Manny’s mind from the dislodged memory chipped at his defenses. With one smile, this strange woman had awoken the ghost of his father, and now the phantoms of his past haunted him.
Not a strange woman, but your half-sister.
He resented the truth in that thought.
So what? She bears some resemblance to our father. That doesn’t change anything.
And it didn’t. Not for him. He was here to fulfill the clause in his father’s will. Just as smoothly as he’d walked into Zoya’s life he’d be walking out of it, richer by forty acres of farmland.
“How did you find me?” Zoya clapped a hand to her mouth, blinked several times, and then, breathing deeply, lowered her hand and added shakily, “I can’t believe it’s really you.”
Zoya stepped closer, pausing in front of him, her smile tearful but effervescent. And all Manny could think was that she hadn’t tossed him out of her shop yet. Small mercy.
“We have to talk,” he said.
It wasn’t what he’d planned to do. Hardly an in-and-out mission. But now that he saw her he strongly desired to have her comprehend that this was a one-time scenario. He didn’t need her, or her siblings, or her mother. He didn’t want their family.
He had his mother, and maybe Amal again, and that was enough.
Oblivious to what he had planned, Zoya bobbed her head. Her ready agreement was unnerving to him.
“I was thinking the same thing. Should we grab coffee?”
It wasn’t a question, really, though she’d phrased it as such. Reaching for the ties of her half-apron, Zoya slipped it off and folded it neatly. The young man, who looked to be about Zoya’s age, took the apron from her.
“I’ll be back, Salim,” she told him.
The man clutched her hand, gave it a squeeze, and said, “I’ll be here when you do.” Then he stepped through the back door and left them to continue their conversation.
Alone with Zoya now, Manny watched his half-sister’s attention flicker to Amal, her smile brightening in its wattage.
That was his cue to introduce them—something he figured he’d have to do, but he didn’t relish. After all, this was supposed to be a no-frills meeting. He wasn’t trying to establish a relationship with Zoya or her family.
But he couldn’t be rude, so he made the introductions.
“This is Amal,” he said, his eyes straying from his half-sister to watch their interaction. He needn’t have worried. Amal’s sunny smile looked anything but uncomfortable.
“Your flower shop is beautiful,” Amal said, waving to the shelves full of brightly colored flora.
Zoya touched a hand to her heart and dipped her head in gratitude. “It comes from a place of labor and love, so it makes me happy to hear you think so, Amal. My fiancé, Salim, is a great support. He helps me run the business. Without him, it wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful as you say.”
“You’ve both done an excellent job. You should be proud.”
Amal’s compliments to Zoya chafed Manny. He struggled to comprehend what was happening. He didn’t want Amal to be making friends with Zoya. He wanted to wash his hands clean of this moment in the very, very near future.
Firing daggers at her, he watched as Amal barely turned her head to regard his glowering look. A look he’d hoped would communicate his growing agitation. But
Amal was riveted as Zoya pointed out some of her favorite flowers to her.
“About that coffee...” he interjected, his gaze snapping from Amal to Zoya.
“Will you be coming with us, too?” Zoya asked Amal. “If you haven’t tried the coffee in Addis Ababa yet, then you’re in for a treat.”
“I’d love to taste Ethiopian coffee,” Amal said.
Manny was glad they were finally moving out of Zoya’s shop and getting nearer to the end of this meeting. Though even as they walked through the Mercato in search of a café where Amal could taste authentic Ethiopian coffee, Manny couldn’t get rid of his prickly intuition that there was yet another obstacle ahead of him before his elusive inheritance.
And her name was Amal.
* * *
Amal’s muffled squeal made the quest for coffee worth it. That was what he told himself when she took her first sip of traditionally brewed Ethiopian coffee and exclaimed, “This is delicious!”
Having already sampled what Addis Ababa had to offer coffee-wise, he wasn’t as affected—and yet even he grudgingly admitted that Zoya hadn’t exaggerated the good cup that could be found in this run-of-the-mill restaurant. No advertisements promoted the tasty, freshly ground beans. Any normal patron would be going in blind. But they had his half-sister.
Lucky us.
There was a bitter flavor to his thinking—more bitter than his black coffee.
Unaffected by his off-putting mood, Amal and Zoya gabbed over their coffee. Their excitement might have been contagious if he’d allowed himself to listen. So he’d tuned them out for the greater part of it, only finally tuning in now.
“It’s tasty, isn’t it?” Zoya was asking with a grin.
Amal nodded vigorously. “I don’t have anything to compare it to in Addis Ababa, but I’ve had cappuccinos in Hargeisa that are good, but not this good.”
“I’ve made it my mission to find the best coffee,” Zoya told them, including Manny when she smiled his way, “and after nearly five years as a marketplace vendor, I can say this place can’t be beat.”
Zoya repeated her praise in Amharic, for the hostess of their coffee ceremony. The hostess murmured her gratitude, also in Amharic.
“I wonder if I can make this at home,” Amal said, having emptied her small handle-less cup and waiting for a refill from the fresh green beans that the hostess roasted for them now. “Mama Halima would probably like it.”
At the mention of his mother, Zoya looked at him, and Manny grasped the opportunity to tie this meeting up and move on with his life before his half-sister got the idea that he wanted more from her. Like a relationship. Something he absolutely didn’t care to establish today.
Or ever, he thought firmly.
“Mansur?” Amal was saying.
She continued to insist on calling him by his given name, and he’d given up correcting her. He liked the way she said his name. But she was the exception.
“Do you think your mother would like some coffee? I think she would.”
She was looking to him for an answer. And so was Zoya.
Manny pried his jaws apart to say, “We’ll look for a gift for her in the market. Which reminds me—we should be leaving.”
“How long are you staying in Addis?”
His half-sister wasn’t smiling anymore. What he might have described as wariness masked her expression, concealing what she was really thinking once more.
Manny gritted his teeth and worked through the childish urge to snap that it wasn’t her business. She’d merely asked a question of him. One he could handle sans adult tantrum.
Flicking a gaze to the restaurant’s exit, he said offhandedly, “As my business is concluded, not much longer.”
He didn’t elaborate on how that “business” was the inheritance left by their father solely to him. But Amal knew what his icy nonchalance hid, and she frowned at his ungracious tone toward Zoya. He’d been concerned that she might form an attachment to the other woman, and now she was proving his suspicions correct.
“You’re leaving soon?” his half-sister asked.
“Very soon, hopefully.” Manny kept his eyes on Zoya and away from Amal’s pointed gaze and the guilt she was already awakening in him.
Zoya’s brows knitted with her confusion. “Wouldn’t you like to meet my sisters and my mom?”
“I don’t have time,” he lied.
“Oh...” was her hollow reply.
For a moment the only sound breaking their table’s silence was the hostess transferring the roasted darkened beans into a pestle, then the long-handled mortar grinding the beans and scraping the sides of the wooden bowl.
Manny should have known Amal would be the first to rupture it, with her sweet, silvery voice.
“Does your mother make traditional Ethiopian coffee?”
Amal’s query held a cheery note that enchanted Manny into looking at her once more. She didn’t have eyes for him, though, her attention now secure on Zoya.
“She does,” his half-sister said, laughing lightly, “but I can’t say it’s as good as the cup you’ve just had. She’s tried to teach me, too, but I’ve never had the patience and dedication required to do it.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d love to visit sometime.”
Her request surprised Zoya as much as him. He sat forward, coffee forgotten, and felt the bitter, roasted flavor clash with the flood of fiery bile leaping from his chest into his throat.
Zoya beat him to a response. “I’d like that, Amal. You’re welcome anytime.” Pausing, she glanced askance at him. “As are you, Mansur.”
He glared at Amal, and she stubbornly stared back at him, meeting the worst he could fling at her. Something powerful happened then. His mind changed from night to day, and his heart swayed in the span between one heartbeat and the next.
Amal, Amal, Amal.
She’d seeped into his skin and manipulated him, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to hold on to his annoyance. Maybe he’d regret it later, when he realized how easily she affected him. Right now he couldn’t think beyond what he opened his mouth to ask.
“Would dinner with your family tonight be all right?”
Zoya’s brilliant smile burst clear of the clouds of her circumspection. She didn’t even seem affected that he’d called her sisters and mother her family and not his.
“That’d be perfect!” she exclaimed, her dimples deeper than ever.
She was smiling so brightly it made him feel guilty that he’d upset her in the first place.
Zoya leaned forward in her seat, excitement raising her voice. “They won’t believe that you’re in Addis and that you’re coming for dinner.”
“You all know about me, then?” Manny asked.
He had wanted to ask earlier in her shop, when Zoya had initially called him by name. But he’d figured that his father must have told them of him. That they knew about Manny and his mother in Somaliland.
Zoya appeared bemused, though. “Why wouldn’t we? Our father—inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un—spoke about you all the time.”
Then she surprised him when she grew visibly shy, tucking an errant curl behind her ear and smiling past her apparent nerves.
“I also looked you up. Well, we did. My sisters and I... We were curious about you, and all that you have achieved in America.” She lowered her voice and looked between him and Amal conspiratorially. “Are you really a millionaire?”
Amal covered her mouth with her hand, but she couldn’t completely smother her laughter.
And, despite what he felt about Zoya, he was amused by her wide eyes and genuine need for an answer. “Yes,” he said at last, “I’m a millionaire.”
Zoya’s mouth rounded into a big circle, and her eyes grew even larger with her shock. When the surprise wore off, she apologized.
“It’s just
I don’t meet...millionaires...” she hissed the word, cupping her mouth and speaking for their ears alone “...every day, and you’re my brother.”
Half-brother.
Manny had to bite his tongue to stop himself from correcting her. And there went the temporary lapse in his sour mood.
Raising his cooling coffee to his scowling mouth, he regarded the secretive teasing smile Amal flashed him. She knew what she had done. Exploited his fondness for her. Influenced him into accepting Zoya’s dinner invitation. And now she sneaked gloating looks at him, rubbing in her victory.
Ooh, she was clever. Attractive, smart, and wily. And his heart was doing that stupid thing of falling for her again.
You’re in love with her.
The truth struck him as suddenly and soundly as his about-face decision to dine with Zoya and her family.
He’d never stopped loving Amal.
CHAPTER TEN
HE SHOULD HAVE canceled dinner with Zoya and her family.
Manny regretted the decision not to as he pulled up outside the restaurant. His hands gripped at ten and two o’clock on the wheel. He wanted nothing more than to do a sharp U-turn and beat it back to the hotel. Break this dinner engagement and leave Addis Ababa and Africa as soon as he was able to get his plane in the air.
You’d be leaving Amal, too.
A good thing. Because he’d just realized—like the fool he was—that he had been deluding himself all along.
You love her—so what?
So what? He couldn’t chance loving her again. It was a torturous feeling, wanting her and knowing he wouldn’t be able to have her. For that, he’d have to spill his guts. Come clean with her—first about his failed marriage proposal to her. And once Amal remembered she wouldn’t desire him. She’d explain why he wasn’t enough for her all over again. Why he wasn’t worthy.
Besides, they lived in two separate worlds. He couldn’t see himself staying in Hargeisa for long. And she wasn’t going to leave the life she had in Somaliland.
He’d get through this dinner, see that she was comfortable in her hotel if she chose to do her therapy and remain in Ethiopia alone, and then he would head to his American home. That was if he could even manage to leave the car to meet with Zoya and her family now.
