Behind the Curtain

by BETH KERY

  . . . Except that Asher didn’t have that cold, arrogant expression.

  “Are you ready for this?” Asher asked her quietly under his breath.

  “No,” she whispered shakily.

  He glanced over at her, a flicker of concern crossing his face. He stopped her abruptly on the gravel path and stepped in front of her.

  “Asher—”

  He cut her off by seizing her mouth in a quick kiss.

  “Don’t let them get to you. You’re too special for that, Laila. You’re worth a thousand of them. A million.”

  A hushed, nervous laugh left her throat. “Oh, really? To whom?”

  “To me,” he said without pause. Her smile faded.

  “Asher?”

  “Coming, Mom,” Asher called, squeezing Laila’s hand before he turned.

  • • •

  They sat in a pristine, luxurious room that overlooked a wide terrace and the lake in the distance. It was a room meant to intimidate, and it did its job well. At least on Laila, it did. It was decorated in blackwood and white upholstery, with silver and crystal accents. Laila didn’t think she’d ever been so uncomfortable in her life. The sound of a magnificent blackwood grandfather clock ticked loudly in the oppressive silence.

  “So you perform in a nightclub,” Asher’s father said, interrupting the horrible silence. Asher had just explained to his parents that Laila was a singer. They’d agreed beforehand to be honest with his mom and dad about that, without revealing any details that might tie Laila back to Yesenia. It had been Laila’s choice not to mislead Asher’s parents from the first about her career. It had been an intuitive decision, one that she was now actively dreading.

  “That’s right,” Laila said breathlessly.

  Madeline and Clark shared a swift glance that somehow spoke volumes of puzzlement and vague disapproval. She might as well have just revealed that she flew to Mars for a living.

  “She writes her own music, as well,” Asher said from where he sat next to Laila on a stiff, stylized white couch. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “She’s the most talented musician I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re hardly much of a judge, son,” Madeline said. Her superior, knowing glance at Laila seemed to say loud and clear that no one knows a man better than his mother. “His piano teacher practically had to chain him to the bench during his lessons. He always wanted to be playing football or out on his sailboat.”

  “I didn’t know you took piano lessons,” Laila said, turning to Asher.

  He shrugged. “I might as well not have, as much as I actually learned.” He waved at the gorgeous Steinway at the corner of the room. “Why don’t you play something, Laila?”

  She flushed in embarrassment.

  “Don’t put the girl on the spot, Asher,” Clark said.

  “He’s not always the most sensitive of men,” Madeline agreed.

  “I think Asher is incredibly sensitive.”

  All eyes zoomed to Laila.

  “I mean . . . he’s always thinking about my needs. He understood I was an artist even before I did. He’s the one who encouraged me to sing and write. He knew I wouldn’t be happy, being anything else,” she said, looking at Asher. Relief swept through her when she saw his small smile and the warmth in his eyes. He reached up and touched her cheek briefly, and for a moment, they might have been the only two people in the room.

  Clark cleared his throat loudly. “Well, he always was more sensitive to his lady friends’ needs than he was his parents’. I suppose that’s not uncommon for a young man.”

  Laila felt heat flood her cheeks at the subtle innuendo.

  “I don’t know how you would know that, Dad,” Asher said. “I’ve never brought any of my girlfriends around the house before.”

  “We have met several of them, though, at various functions. And one hears things,” Clark said, frowning pointedly at his son. “It’s not as if you’ve ever been lacking in female companionship.”

  Asher sat forward, eyes blazing. “What’s that supposed to—”

  “Lunch should be ready in ten minutes or so,” Madeline said loudly, cutting off Asher’s angry query. “Asher, why don’t you take Laila out onto the terrace and show her the gardens down by the lake?”

  Madeline cast a nervous glance between father and son. There was something in her eyes Laila recognized in that moment: a mother’s worry. Maybe Madeline Gaites-Granville would never win an award for Warmest Mother of the Year, but she was genuinely concerned about the rift between her husband and son. More than that, she did love her son fiercely, despite Asher’s doubts on that front. Asher and his father looked incredibly alike at that moment, both of their handsome faces cast in an angry, stubborn expression. Laila felt a little guilty, knowing he was holding in whatever he longed to say because she’d asked him specifically not to roughen the waters.

  “I’d love to see the gardens,” Laila told Asher.

  Frowning, he stood and put out his hand for her.

  They reentered the French doors that led to the terrace a while later. At first, Laila thought the stunning room was empty. But then she noticed Asher’s parents standing near the Steinway in the distance.

  “. . . I’m telling you, she must be a Muslim if she’s Moroccan,” Clark Gaites-Granville was saying to his wife as he pointed at his phone, as if he’d discovered some proof there and was showing her.

  Laila looked up at Asher’s face and immediately knew he’d heard as well. She squeezed his hand tightly. He blinked and looked down at her. Her heart sank when she saw the fury building behind his eyes.

  Asher shut the French doors loudly on purpose. Clark and Madeline both turned toward them. Laila was stunned—and a little impressed—at how cool and unruffled they were as they asked Laila and Asher about their walk, and Madeline ushered them into the dining room.

  • • •

  If the prelunch attempt at polite conversation was a bad dream, then luncheon itself was an all-out nightmare. The four of them sat at the most opulently set table Laila had ever seen. Asher felt so far away from her, on the opposite side of the table. She had the random impression that the distance and all the silver, crystal and china between them had been purposefully set there to separate them.

  She was having trouble remembering what heavy silver fork or what spoon to use, especially when Clark was shooting questions at her from the end of the table.

  “What is it that your father does for a living in Detroit, Laila?”

  She paused awkwardly in the action of biting into a shrimp. “He owns an automobile collision and repair shop,” she managed to say.

  “Madeline has explained to me that you’re Moroccan?”

  She set the shrimp down onto her plate. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “But you are a U.S. citizen?” Clark continued.

  “Laila was born in the U.S.,” Asher interrupted impatiently, tossing down his silver fork onto the china. “She’s as much a U.S. citizen as you are.”

  “I’ve never met a Moroccan before. I was just trying to understand,” Clark defended.

  “She’s Moroccan-American, Dad. That’s not all that she is. Why are you focusing on it so much? You really need to get out of your lily-white world a little.”

  “No . . . it’s okay,” Laila interrupted when Clark opened his mouth to retort angrily to his son. “I don’t mind you asking about my background. It’s only natural. I mean . . . it’s kind of mind-boggling for me to imagine what it was like for Asher to grow up here, in this spectacular place,” she said, glancing around the opulent dining room. She attempted a smile at a stunned-looking Madeline. Laila realized with a sinking feeling that his mother thought it was tactless of her to specifically point out their wealth. “Asher and I come from really different worlds. It’s going to take a little bit for us to learn about what the other one is used t
o.”

  “You make it sound like that’s important,” Madeline said, leaning forward. “For you to learn about each other’s worlds.”

  “We’re in love, Mom. I’d say it’s pretty damn important,” Asher stated bluntly.

  The color washed out of Madeline’s face. She sat back in her chair. Laila held her breath, her gaze zooming over to Clark’s face. He didn’t look pale like Madeline did. He appeared positively ashen.

  “Do I take this to mean,” he said slowly, “that Asher has met your parents?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Laila said as calmly as possible, even though it felt like an explosion was about to occur at any moment. She sent Asher a pleading glance. It was no use. She could sense the conflagration building.

  “May I ask why not?” Clark asked.

  She swallowed thickly and placed her hands in her lap. There would be no more attempts at eating. She didn’t think she could keep the food down.

  “My parents are a little old-fashioned. Moroccans tend to be a very close-knit community, as a rule,” she tried to explain as tactfully as she could. “At least when it comes to matters of romance.”

  “Are you saying that your parents wouldn’t approve of Asher?” Madeline asked, sheer disbelief spreading on her pretty face.

  She saw Asher close his eyes briefly in obviously peaking frustration. Laila swore she could hear all the crystal in the room giving off an eerie, barely audible ring.

  “Your parents wouldn’t approve of my son?” Clark abruptly repeated loudly.

  “Clark—” Madeline muttered, sounding alarmed at his tone of voice.

  “I don’t believe this,” Asher said, his mouth slanting in fury. He tossed down his napkin. “You don’t approve of me. Why should Laila’s parents?”

  Clark looked positively apoplectic. Laila gave Asher a wild, worried glance. What if Asher’s father had a heart attack, right there at the head of the table? Asher’s father abruptly stood from the table, as well.

  “Asher, I demand to talk to you. Right now. In my study,” he said, pointing toward a door.

  “Clark, please,” Madeline implored.

  Asher laughed. Laila couldn’t believe it, given the off-the-charts tension level in the room. He pushed back his chair and stood.

  “It’s not easy to hear, is it, Dad? That someone else could possibly be on the judging end of things. It’s usually Mom and you who are sitting in the judges’ chairs, isn’t it?”

  “Asher, please. Stop this,” Madeline said, her muted voice shaking.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Asher asked his mother. “Do you know why I brought Laila here today?”

  “Because you wanted to hurt us, as usual?” Clark bit out between a tight jaw.

  “I brought her because you’re my only family, despite the fact that you constantly wish I were something different. Still, I was stupid enough to believe you’d want to know someone who is important to me. I’m used to you disapproving of me, but I mean . . . Look at her,” Asher challenged hotly, putting out his hand in Laila’s direction. Laila sank in her chair. “How could a beautiful, talented, loving woman like Laila possibly hurt you? How could me living my own life and having my own career hurt you? You’re hurting yourselves,” he shouted, walking around the table with a long-legged, rapid stride. He reached for Laila’s hand. She stood awkwardly. “And I’m so fucking sick of it,” he declared. Laila’s heart felt like it froze in her chest when she saw his expression: so cold. So hurt.

  “Please don’t contact me anymore,” Asher said as they began to walk away.

  “Asher,” both his mother and Laila said plaintively at once. Their voices didn’t seem to penetrate. Laila looked over her shoulder as Asher led her toward the door. Her stare briefly met Madeline’s. For a fraction of a second, she thought she saw a plea in the older woman’s eyes. But there was nothing Laila could do or say.

  “I’ll be out of the condo by this Wednesday. You can do whatever you want with it. I won’t be coming back. Don’t try to call. It’ll just lead to disappointment. For all of us,” he said, before he pulled Laila alongside him out the door.

  • • •

  “You never even told them you won the Pulitzer Prize,” she said twenty minutes later. She felt numb, despite the warm, brilliantly sunny day. Traffic was lighter than it had been earlier. Plus Asher was driving extra fast in his agitation. They flew down Lake Shore Drive, not far from Asher’s condominium.

  She saw him grimace and his hands tighten on the wheel. “They wouldn’t have cared, Laila. Don’t you get that? Just because your parents think the sun rises and sets on you doesn’t mean mine do.”

  “They love you, Asher. I know they do.”

  “How can you defend them?” he asked in a burst of anger as he took the Fullerton exit. “Look at how they treated you! It was unforgivable.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It was wrong, yes. They were rude. They don’t know how to act around someone different than them.”

  “How can you just let people walk all over you like that?”

  She gasped at his harshness.

  “You’re always doing that, apologizing in some way for who you are. What you are. Whom you want,” he continued bitterly. “You put up the curtain when you perform, like you need to dim the reality of you. You’re always caving. You’re always bending over backward to please everyone. Instead, you should be showing the world how wonderful you are, and telling anyone who doesn’t like what they see to go fuck themselves.”

  Electric indignation sizzled through her.

  “Like you tell your parents to fuck themselves constantly, because they don’t approve of you? That’s not how I do things, Asher.”

  He made a sarcastic “well, that’s obvious” sound and gesture that mounted her fury and helplessness.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded, angered, but also bewildered and hurt by his bitter outburst.

  “I don’t know,” he said irritably, frowning furiously.

  “Yes, you do. This is our past rising up to the surface again, isn’t it? You say that you’ve forgiven me, but you haven’t. You try to pretend that you’re okay with who I am and how I deal with my family, but you’re not,” she shouted. “The truth is, you think I should focus solely on what I want for my career and my life, and screw what anyone else thinks. For you, the selfish way is the right way, and to hell with whoever gets in your way. You think I should be like you, don’t you? You know what, Asher?”

  He turned to her as he slowed at a stoplight. His face was rigid with anger—and possible disbelief at her uncharacteristic shouting.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve, calling your father an arrogant WASP because he only thinks about his goals and his values and his needs. You’re just like him. No wonder you two can’t get along.”

  She opened up her car door and snatched her purse.

  “Laila, what the hell? Get in the damn car,” Asher yelled, reaching for her forearm.

  She shook him off. He stared at her in angry disbelief when she stepped out and turned to slam the door shut.

  “I’ll catch a cab,” she told him through the partially opened window. She turned and marched through two lanes of stopped cars to the curb and grassy verge.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Asher didn’t call her that afternoon, nor did she call him. He didn’t come to her performance that night. She knew that for certain, because she swallowed her pride and asked Rafe if he’d seen him in the audience. Rafe’s answer had been no, but Laila had already known the truth. She’d learned that there was some nameless thing inside her that always alerted her to his presence, even when the curtain separated them. If he was there, her performance was different.

  Because when he was there, she sang to him alone.

  She was miserable at his absence. It would have been bad enough, under any circ
umstances, fighting with him. But she was agonizingly aware that the hours they had together were precious, because they were so few.

  She couldn’t eat much that Saturday. Tahi grew concerned about her when Laila didn’t leave the condo. Knowing how she’d been spending every moment with Asher recently, Tahi immediately guessed that they’d fought or broken up. But Laila was too caught up in a sense of fatalistic fear to take solace from opening up to Tahi.

  “Are we still leaving for Detroit in the morning?” Tahi asked her hesitantly that night when Laila joined her in the kitchen after her show. Laila felt bad for the people who had paid good money for her show. Her heart just hadn’t been in her performance. Afterward, she’d taken the L home. But when she’d stepped past that white column in the underground, there’d been no Asher.

  “I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t,” Laila told her cousin listlessly as she took down a glass for tea.

  She noticed Tahi start to speak, and then stop herself. “What, Tahi?”

  “You say that like if there had been a good reason, you would have. Isn’t this disagreement you and Asher had good reason? It’s just a few family dinners, Laila. You’ll have a thousand more of them in the future. Why don’t you stay back, and patch things up with Asher before he leaves for London? Say you came down with something. I’ll back up your story.”

  The familiar trapped, panicked feeling she associated with that summer in Crescent Bay suddenly overwhelmed her. Would there be thousands of family gatherings in her future? She suddenly pictured it, a series of imagined dinners in Detroit taking place over the years. As time wore on, each of her cousins—even the younger ones—would be joined by a fiancé or spouse at their side. Yet no one special would ever sit beside Laila. Not in that familiar place, they wouldn’t. Because that place would no longer be her home, she realized.

  Because one thing was achingly absent from the picture: Asher.

  A feeling of doubt and dread building in her, she mumbled an excuse to Tahi and fled the kitchen.

  She tried to call Asher when she entered her bedroom. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach swelled when it almost immediately went over to voicemail. He’d turned off his phone.