by Susan Cory
Iris sank gratefully into a chair, the woven rush creaking agreeably. The wooden salad bowl Luc had just positioned in front of her joined a warm baguette nested in a napkin-lined basket, silver candlesticks, and a vase of blood red ranunculi to create an inviting setting.
“This looks beautiful— but you shouldn't have to cook on your night off.”
“We're celebrating your first day teaching. I want to hear all about it.” He joined her at the table. “What are your students like?”
“Well, they didn't stalk off to Gilles' office demanding to be reassigned, so I'll take that as a sign of success.”
Sheba, settled comfortably under the table, could be heard chomping on some delicacy (far better fare than the leftovers Iris usually provided) from a plate Luc had set down nearby.
The pinkish light of dusk filtered through the two walls of windows in the tall corner kitchen. Luc stuck his iPod into the stereo system's dock, and Nina Simone's throaty voice purred I want a little sugar in my bowl. Outside, the warm September evening settled into twilight, still sultry, even as the days were getting noticeably shorter. Fall was coming.
“I'm trying out a new recipe for scallops, Cara.” Luc poured himself a glass of Prosecco and lifted it. “Salute. To you and Ellie surviving the semester.”
Iris understood most of the Italian words that Luc would often lapse into, courtesy of his seven years as chef in his own restaurant in Rome. She daydreamed about taking Italian lessons and traveling around Italy with him. But then she would stop herself. No projecting things too far into the future. After Iris' brief, unhappy marriage, and a subsequent series of loser boyfriends, she was gun shy.
Later, between bites of succulent scallops, Iris tried to describe her students. She told Luc about the brittle young woman who held herself apart from the others, and the British student who everyone seemed to like despite his snobby, upper class trappings. She told him about her plan to show the class how to organize a project from start to finish.
“This design studio sounds pretty ambitious. Are you sure you'll have enough time for this and the townhouse commission?” Luc asked, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him.
“I'll have to make time. If I'm going to teach, I want to do it well,” Iris said, a hint of challenge in her voice.
“Just seems like you're juggling two full-time jobs.”
“That's why I have Ellie sharing the teaching with me.”
“Uh huh,” said Luc, chewing, watching Iris.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Luc stared at the contents of his glass as he twirled the stem, then continued, “I was just remembering the last time I got myself overextended. It led to big problems.”
Iris felt a prick of irritation. “Sometimes it feels like I fritter away too much of my life when I should be focused on more important things.”
“Like work?”
“No, not just work. Things that really push me creatively, like maybe starting to build sculptures again. I've been remembering how much satisfaction I got from building up a large block of wood, then chiseling it down into an organic shape.”
“Why would you want to add another activity to your plate when you're already so busy?”
“I just need to be more deliberate about what I spend my time doing. A professor I met at GSD, Xander DeWitt, said that if you love what you're doing, it's not really work. It's your life.”
Luc leaned down to scratch behind Sheba's ears and said casually, “Who's Xander DeWitt?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had been six months since Jasna had tracked down the Bosnian grocery store in Watertown and since then she'd made it a point to stop in at least once a week. A bell tinkled as she entered and headed straight for the check-out counter. Lara was there as usual, still dressed in her Catholic school uniform, hunched over a book. Her dark brown hair curtained most of her oval face, showing just a slice of her fine features.
“Hi Lara,” Jasna said. “How's the homework coming?”
Lara lifted her striking hazel eyes and smiled shyly at Jasna. “I was hoping you'd come today.” She turned the book face down. “Homework's OK. We're reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn in English class now. Have you read it?”
“No. Is it good?”
“Really good. Francie, the main character, is eleven when the book starts. She has to work in a factory. And later, she doesn't get to go to high school because they're poor.” Lara's voice caught. “It's really sad.”
“Lara,” a gruff voice boomed from the storeroom doorway. “The customers don't have time for silly talk.” Her father stood, wiping his hands on his apron glaring at them both.
“I was just asking Lara if the Mjevena coffee is by the Nutella,” Jasna said.
The girl came out from behind the counter to lead Jasna to a section of shelves between the pungent spices and the jars of jam. Jasna watched the father retreat back to the storeroom.
Lara was all long legs and thin arms, like a young Jasna at age twelve. Jasna tried discretely to spot bruises like the one she'd caught sight of a week before when Lara's long sleeves had ridden up her arm, but Lara didn't reach far for anything this time. Jasna quietly clenched her fists.
The father had a disturbing resemblance to a German hedgehog doll she'd seen once in a shop window in Montreal, soon after she'd moved there with her brother. This guy had the same fuzzy bristles on his head and same ugly stub nose.
Lara handed Jasna the bag of coffee. “Go on. Smell it.”
This had become their ritual. Jasna had told Lara that just one sniff could transport her across the ocean back to Bosnia. Jasna had been only thirteen when she'd left her homeland, too young to care for coffee, but its rich comforting small carried her back to that shabby kitchen in Srebrenica which had once been the center of her world. Not that she'd ever want to actually make that trip.
Lara giggled as Jasna sniffed then went into a fake swoon. She said, “How about some cevapi for your dinner? I made it this morning before school and it's really good.”
Jasna smiled. “I thought I recognized that amazing aroma.” They headed over to the steam table and Jasna lifted the lid from a stainless steel pan. “Mmm, I'll take three of these. You're quite the saleswoman.”
Lara scooped three of the minced lamb and beef kabobs into a waxed paper carton and Jasna added it to her basket.
As she passed the bakery section she said, “I had better get some Somun bread to go with the kababs. And maybe some of this Travnički cheese.” She filled up her basket and brought it to the check-out counter.
The creak of the heavy storeroom door opening again caused them both to stiffen. In her peripheral vision, Jasna could see the father standing immobile, arms crossed, watching them.
After Lara slid her change across the counter, Jasna gave the girl a quick smile, then hurried out of the store with her plastic bag. Her mouth was dry, and her body was damp with sweat. She unlocked her bike, got on a bit unsteadily, and edged out into traffic.
She had to do something about this situation. Had Lara's father seen the girl slip the note into Jasna's bag of groceries?
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following Monday afternoon the heat wave broke and an impossibly blue sky crystallized beyond the GSD's glass roof. Terrace doors were propped open at the ends of the stepping studio levels to let in the crisp breezes of a New England fall.
Iris was working her way through one-on-one desk crits, or informal working sessions with her five students to review their initial design strategies. Five foot high, gray Homasote walls surrounded each workspace, creating individual fortresses. Iris, perched on a backless stool in Jasna's pod, huddled over an array of sketches on yellow tracing paper. In just one week Jasna had come up with some interesting concepts. The fragile young woman, dressed in an army jacket and lace-up boots, explained her theory that the urban context on busy Mount Auburn Street made privacy a priority. She pointed out that the site was crowded by ot
her large buildings, cutting off light and air. In response, she had oriented her building inward, toward a multilevel courtyard.
Iris had removed her laptop from a tote and was searching for images to show Jasna of a similar courtyard townhouse in a dense suburb of Tokyo when she noticed Xander, in a pressed navy shirt and perfectly matching pants, standing in the opening to the pod.
“So sorry to disturb you both. May I borrow you for a moment, Iris?” he asked.
Iris followed him out of the studio into the dimly-lit corridor, where he gave her a sheepish look.
“I'd like to apologize again for how our dinner ended last week. I was having such a good time talking with you. On Saturday I'm going up to Manchester, New Hampshire to visit a Frank Lloyd Wright house. Would you be interested in joining me on this small pilgrimage? We could have lunch somewhere and make it a day.” He waited expectantly.
Iris' mind froze. Viewing a building by one architectural celebrity while in the company of another was wildly tempting. But she and Luc had plans to go apple-picking on Boston's North Shore on Saturday. She couldn't cancel on him to go off with another guy, could she? No.
“I'm afraid I already have plans for Saturday.”
“I understand, of course. Sorry to pull you out of class. We must have a do-over dinner. I insist.” Xander ducked in to give her a light kiss on each cheek, turned smoothly, and headed toward his office.
She wandered back to Jasna's pod and found her student tapping away on Iris' laptop. Had she left the thing turned on with her password entered and everything?
Jasna looked up and smiled. “I hope you don't mind. I found the photos of the Japanese courtyard building you were looking for.”
Iris tried to refocus her attention on Jasna's project but her mind kept trying to parse the meaning of Xander's invitation. Maybe it was time to mention to him that she had a boyfriend.
CHAPTER NINE
Jasna squinted into the afternoon sun as she waited on the stoop of the tired old apartment building where she'd lived for the last year and a half. When she saw the slight form of the cyclist approaching, she stood up and waved.
Twenty minutes later, in the safety of her kitchen, Jasna poured fragrant orange tea from a copper pot into a pair of small ceramic cups. Lara perched on her chair, silent.
Jasna looked at the girl encouragingly. “You said you needed to ask me something?”
The girl stared into her tea cup as she spoke. “Tata's mad that I won't wear a hijab to school. He says I have to honor my heritage.”
Jasna stirred some honey into her tea then asked, “Why don't you want to wear one?”
Lara looked at her wide-eyed. “Are you kidding? And be pointed out as 'the Arab kid'? Sure, my school has other non-Catholic students, but I don't want everyone to look at me like a weirdo.” Lara looked down at the floor. “But there's something worse. Now he's saying he's going to send me back to Bosnia this summer, after I turn thirteen, to marry some guy from his village—a guy as old as him.”
Jasna slid her chair closer. “Damn,” she said under her breath.
Tears leaked from Lara's eyes. “Do you believe it? He said that's the only way I can stay unsullied. He said that was how old my mother was when they married.”
The girl looked at Jasna with desperation. “I have to run away. I can cook. I'll go to California and he'll never find me. But I need some money. If you could lend me something to take the bus to California I would pay you back when I get a job as a cook. I promise I'll send you the money.”
Jasna covered Lara's hands with her fingers. “We'll figure something out.”
“Tata says he'll kill me if I tell anyone about this. It will disgrace the family. I'm supposed to follow the path that Allah set out for women. But I'll kill myself if he makes me do this!”
“No you won't. Let me ask you, if you did disappear, how hard would he look for you?”
“Very hard. The man in Bosnia is going to give him a lot of money for me. Tata says I must repay him for feeding me and giving me a place to live. He has lots of friends in Watertown and they would help him hunt me down. That's why I have to go to California. I need to be far away.”
Jasna nodded. “Would he go to the police to tell them you're missing?”
“I don't know. He doesn't trust the police.” Lara rubbed her finger along the scarred edge of the wooden table. “He might, though.” She looked past Jasna to the microwave's clock and rose. “I should go. I skipped chess club and he'll be expecting me.”
Jasna rested a hand on Lara's shoulder. “Hang on. Let me think about this for a minute.” She got up and stared out the window at nothing. She thought about the plans she'd been making for the last six months and how this development would complicate everything.
After fifteen minutes Jasna returned to the table, far calmer than she had any reason to be. “I will help you Lara, but I need to explain something to you first.”
CHAPTER TEN
Why hadn't she started this sooner? Iris thought as she stomped up the open steel stairway to the fourth level. It was the last Friday in September and her interim student evaluations were due today, but she couldn't get the GSD website to accept her password. Even web-savvy Ellie hadn't been able to figure out what the problem was. So now she needed to take a break in the middle of Studio to throw herself on the mercy of Peg, Gilles' assistant, who would undoubtedly scold her for leaving things to the last minute.
Peg was a woman of advanced years, with a head of improbably red hair. She sat at her desk in the reception area outside Gilles' office and controlled access to her boss with fierce loyalty. She peered at her computer screen through her thick eyeglasses before finally looking up.
“Professor Reid, I noticed that you haven't submitted your student forms yet.” The faint accusation was delivered in a nasal midwestern accent.
Iris explained her dilemma, then watched Peg's computer screen over the older woman's shoulder as she tried to trouble-shoot the problem. This gave Iris a close-up view of the gray roots on the back of Peg's scalp, no doubt overlooked during a home dye job.
Peg instructed Iris to type in her password, and looked away while Iris carefully did so. The “password incorrect” message shot back.
“Are you sure you're remembering your password correctly? Did you write it down anywhere?”
“Of course I remember it. I always use the same one.”
Peg gave her an appalled look. “That's how people get their identities stolen.” She glanced down at a metal corner peeking out of Iris' tote bag. “Good, you brought your laptop. Sit here and open up your e-mail so you can get a new password.”
Iris opened her e-mail account, retrieved a change-password message page and cast her eyes to the ceiling, trying to think of a word she would be likely to remember, other than 'Sheba1,' her usual one. When prompted she typed in “Luccormier.”
At the sound of a light tap-tap on the doorframe, both women looked up. A preteen girl in a plaid school uniform appeared in the doorway. She had black-fringed hazel eyes, innocently beautiful.
Peg looked up, focused on the girl, and asked “May I help you, dear?”
“I'm looking for Professor DeWitt's office.” The girl's voice was soft and she seemed nervous.
Peg pointed. “It's number 414, about eight doors down on your right.”
As the door swung shut again, they could hear light footsteps recede down the hallway.
Iris hit a button on her keyboard, and her student evaluation page emerged on the screen.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheba's stubby Bassett Hound leg waggled in time to Iris' rhythmic belly patting as they sprawled together on the leather Corbusier sofa in Iris' living room.
“Uh, oh. This poor guy's in trouble, Sheba. The next clue says he has to find unpasteurized cheese in the middle of Detroit. I can't watch.” But Iris' eyes remained glued to the TV. Sure enough, the latest Urban Survivor-hopeful, a software salesman from New Mexico, could be seen ra
cing wild-eyed through the Motor City's mean streets, fruitlessly confronting people for the location of a gourmet grocery. Meanwhile, his opponent, a blackjack dealer from New Jersey with the improbable name of Shelli, was trying to track down a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig in the middle of St. Louis, a far harder task in Iris' estimation. It would be one thing if they were allowed to have their smart phones. Back in the studio, the show's hosts made snarky comments about the contestants' progress while the studio audience shouted out encouragement for their favorite player.
But the spell of the show was broken when a commercial for Fluffy's Fiesta cat food came on and Sheba lifted her head suspiciously from the sofa. When a clowder of cats started mewing on screen, Sheba growled deep in her throat.
Why am I watching this? Iris clicked off the remote. “That does it, Sheba. No more junk TV.”
It had been a month since she'd first met Xander DeWitt, and one dinner and two lunches later her respect for the man had not diminished. At their last lunch at the Harvard Faculty Club he had almost convinced her to create a sculpture studio in her basement with all the heavy tools and equipment that would entail.
Iris looked at her watch—a black-faced Movado with no numbers that had been her father's. Eight-forty-five. Her brain was too tired to work on the townhouse design. She should get some exercise.
“Walkies, Sheebz.”
The dog regarded her mistress with puzzlement. This was not the usual drill.
“I'm serious. COME.”
Sheba trudged after her to the kitchen and allowed her leash to be snapped on, her Ringo Starr eyes telegraphing serious disapproval.
As Iris opened her kitchen door a cool October breeze hit her. She turned back to grab a suede jacket from the front hall closet, and they headed up Washington Avenue, passing Victorian houses, lit up to expose doll-house-like vignettes of the life within. Iris felt virtuous, strolling purposefully in the chilly air. Her neighborhood was still fairly safe to walk around at night, especially for someone with a brown belt in karate.
