Date with a Sheesha (6 page)

One day, about a year and a half ago, should have been the best day of my life. I was in Hawaii. The weather was fine. The mai tais were flowing. And the man I was in love with proposed to me.

The only problem was, Alex Canyon was one of
two
men I was falling for. The other wee complication was that the other man, Ethan Ash, didn’t know how I felt. Suddenly I was put in the position of having to decide how to spend the rest of my life. Married?

Pining after a man I didn’t have? Quite a bit to ask out of a sultry evening on Waikiki Beach.

I said yes.

I shouldn’t have.

A couple of weeks later I was single again. But single with prospects. I’d finally had the
cojones
to come clean with Ethan. I loved him. I loved him more than Alex. Which was weird, because I didn’t even really know him all that well. I knew he was a good, kind man. I knew he had a great sense of humour. I knew he was a devoted father to his daughter. I knew he could be puppy dog 39

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cute or drop-dead, Great Dane handsome, depending on the circumstance. I knew he was a hard worker, dedicated to the elderly residents of Ash House, all of whom he treated like family. And I knew he made my knees weak, my heart flutter, my brain go to mush. Barbra and Brutus and my mother heartily approved.

When I thought about what my perfect future might look like, he fit the picture.

We’d spent the last eighteen months figuring things out. It wasn’t always easy, or simple, but we moved forward, step by step. Our first kiss was an unfortunate incident while I was inebriated and still engaged, neither being a good time to smooch somebody other than your intended. But our first
real
kiss, on our first
real
date, was something special. And this time, it was all Ethan’s doing. About halfway through our candlelight dinner at Calories, he suddenly leaned across the table, stared into my eyes, and growled in a deep, sexy voice, “I can’t wait until we’re alone so I can kiss you.”

I don’t know what I’d said or done to convince him this was something he really wanted to do, but I nearly choked on my Saskatchewan elk with pumpkin dumplings as I began waving wildly for the server to bring our cheque. Ethan grinned and pulled down my hand. He convinced me it was better to “bask in the anticipation.” I tried to eat and engage in normal first-date conversation, but from that point on my mind could focus on nothing more than imagining the feeling of his lips on mine. It was a veeeeeeery long meal. But in the end, he was right. It was like waiting to leave for an exciting vacation you’d been planning for months. The anticipation was half the fun. The eventual reality was explosive.

Then came our first time sleeping together—which did not happen that same night, but not long after. It was a spectacular event that spanned an entire weekend and resulted in a pulled muscle and impressive carpet burn. Time passed and things continued to go well. Very well. Eventually, we decided it was time to tell Simon that her dad and I were officially a couple. Who were we kidding? She’d figured it out long before we did.

Next came getting the approval of friends. That came easily 40

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too. My friends loved Ethan, and a guy like Ethan has pretty cool friends, who were pretty cool about me. They all just wanted us—

Simon included—to be happy.

Then came the nail-biter. Meeting the parents.

Both of us just have mothers left. Ethan’s mom is a busy woman who spends a lot of time on the golf course, wintering in Palm Desert where she golfs a lot, and aboard cruise ships visiting golf destinations. She was “delighted” to meet me. Ethan didn’t say much, but I got the sense that she was “delighted” to meet pretty much anyone.

At first, my mom’s reaction was a little tougher to read. She was quite confused about what had happened to Alex. Explaining the situation to a woman like my mom was not easy, so I left out quite a few details. I might have even thrown in a white lie or two.

But given time, and how endearing Ethan is, never mind his pen-chant for older people—he’d made a career out of it, after all—

Mom warmed up very nicely.

As more months slipped by, almost without being aware of doing it, we found ways to make our lives fit together. We had careers to consider, shopping habits, eating habits, taste in movies. Would we wear each other’s clothes? (T-shirts—yes; shoes—no). Where would we spend the nights? How often? And about a million other things.

That was just the beginning. It had been many years since I’d dived into a serious relationship. And as we became more serious about one another, so did the issues that followed. When I let my mind wander, it used to be about things like: Can I afford that doggie (read: clothing, shoes, trip, miscellaneous sparkly tchotchke) in the window? Can I get away with not working out today? If I eat a bag of Doritos without anyone seeing me do it, will I gain weight? But now, sometimes, while I’m supposed to be goofing off on the couch on rainy Saturday afternoons or lolling about in bed on Sunday mornings, I find myself asking: Where is this going? Is he the one? Should we move in together? What about marriage? Children?

This was hard stuff. But, oh, it was fun too.

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I needed to talk to Errall about taking Barbra and Brutus while I was away, but Lilly told me she was on a conference call. No doubt with some high-powered, highfalutin, high-priced lawyer she was doing battle with in court. And she’d be loving every second of it. I’d once witnessed Errall on such a call. I’m no slouch when it comes to confrontation and fighting for what I believe in, but this conversation—or at least Errall’s side of it—was really something to hear. Accusations, recriminations, and barely veiled threats flew from her mouth like silver bullets from a pistol. Her aim was uncannily precise and deadly. When she’d hung up, I thought she’d either collapse from her efforts or wield her weaponry in my direction and clear the field. Instead, she let out a big sigh, then smiled like a schoolgirl who’d landed her first kiss with the football team’s captain (or, in her case, the head cheer-leader). Her face was flushed, her eyes glittery with excitement. I think she might have orgasmed if I’d not been in the room.

While I waited in my own office for a call from Lilly to tell me Errall was free, I decided to start on some research for my upcoming trip. It was time to find out what I was really getting myself into.

The first websites I found told the typical touristy stories, focussing on the glitz and glam of Dubai that Anthony had talked about. On the surface, there seemed little new to discover. Dubai is one of seven emirates on the Persian Gulf, ruled by a sheikh, predominantly populated by immigrants. Tallest building in the world, biggest this, greatest that, paralyzing traffic, lots of sand, lots of shopping, lots of tourists, lots of excess.

The one bit of surprising news: although the United Arab Emirates is famous for its large oil reserves, rumours were swirling that these big, fat, underground vats of oil were starting to dry up. Specialists were predicting the oil would last only another century or so. All together now: awwwwwwwwwww.

That explained the rush to attract big tourism dollars.

Given my background, and the violent events that were taking me there in the first place, I decided to check out the crime situation in Dubai. I tapped away and carefully studied the informa-42

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tion presented. It seemed Pranav Gupta was right. According to the statistics I dug up, the place had a reputation for being practically crime free. Uh, but what about the dead guy found in the souk? Where did that fit into the statistics? Maybe it didn’t count because he was Canadian?

And then, for the best news of all, I confirmed that under sharia (Islamic) law, in some Peninsula countries, homosexuality is a crime considered so grievous it incurs the death penalty. At the very least, every country in the region considers homosexual practices illegal.

Eek.

I’d had just about enough of that bit of frightening news. I was about to switch gears and delve into the world of antique rugs when my phone rang. It was time to head downstairs to visit Errall. Come to think of it, things might not be getting any better, I realized, as I stepped away from my desk. Dealing with Errall Strane, bless her wizened little heart, could sometimes be as frightening as marching in a Gay Pride Day parade in Yemen.

“Are you crazy?”

Unlike Anthony, our resident legal eagle wasted no time even pretending to consider the positive aspects of time spent visiting the Middle East.

I was sitting in the stark, cool confines of Errall’s large office.

The space was dominated by stainless steel, icy glass, chunky granite, and row upon row of metal bookshelves weighed down by heavy, lawyerly tomes. If the room were a photograph, it would be matte, rather than glossy, illustrative rather than artistic. It suited Errall to a T. She sat behind her desk, a familiar frown sitting comfortably on her cut-glass face, sharp, pale edges under-scored by dark features. She was Cruella de Vil’s pretty sister.

Part friend, part enemy, part legal advisor, part landlord, part pain-in-the-ass, Errall Strane has been in my life since she began dating my high school friend Kelly. That was many years ago. A lot had happened since then. Including Kelly’s death from cancer a couple of years ago, and my adopting their dog, Brutus, to live 43

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with Brutus’s sister, Barbra, and me. I like to tell people that the only reason I hang around with Errall is because it’s always a good idea to kiss up to your landlord—especially given the recent explosion in the local economy and real estate market values, which has made offices like mine a treasure. But, in reality, I suppose I kinda like her. She’s smart, challenging, interesting, quick-witted, and reliable. Unless she’s grumpy. Then she’s none of those things and we don’t talk.

“You know what?” she said, hunching forward onto her desk and brushing aside a swath of recently snipped black bangs. “I don’t even want to know. Don’t tell me. I don’t really care. All I want to know is: have you made arrangements for Brutus and Barbra’s future if you don’t make it back?”

“You’re overreacting,” I assured her. “This is Dubai I’m going to, not the front lines of Iraq or Afghanistan. Check it out online.

You’ll see.”

Her eyes narrowed in a way that made me nervous. “My god, you’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

“Wha…?”

“You idiot.”

Part of me was saying inside my head: Damn! Caught again.

How did she know? But then I realized I had no idea what she was talking about. I was innocent.

“You’re running away,” she announced it as if it were a sentence. “What happened? Did he walk too slowly in front of a jewellery store? Did he leave an empty container of milk in the fridge? Did he invade your precious personal space for too long?

What did it, huh? What’s got you so scared that you’re running away to a frigging war zone?”

“Errall, no…”

“Russell, I know you. You’ve been skirting around getting into a serious relationship for so long, you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

I was? I don’t?

“I was beginning to think I was wrong about you. How long has it been for you and Ethan? A year? A little more? Let’s see, that’s about how long you were with Alex before you decided to kick his ass to the curb too, wasn’t it?”

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This was distressingly true.

“As soon as he brings out a ring and wants to marry you, you decide the relationship is not right for you. So you hook up with a guy who already has a boyfriend. You finally convince Ethan to give you a chance. And now…tell, me, what was it? Did he propose to you last night? Is that why you’re suddenly on your way to the goddamned Middle East for crying out loud, you stupid jerk?”

Years ago I would have snarled back like a cornered lion (I am a Leo, after all) and stormed out of her office. A few days later we’d make up. Not by saying “I’m sorry” or anything like that, but by a simple, wordless ceasefire. Today I knew better. I would still snarl, but it was much more fun to stick with it and go a few rounds to see where things went.

“This has nothing to do with my relationship with Ethan. We are very happy. I happen to have a case, a very lucrative case, a case which requires me to travel to Dubai,” I answered calmly.

“What is it with you? Is there no one left willing to hire you right here in Saskatchewan?”

There are. Plenty of people. Like the Saskatchewan Charolais Association, for instance, which hired me to investigate some irregularities in their Semen Directory registration system. Then there was Marianna Renchuk, a Ukrainian dance instructor who wanted me to find out if the Elaine O’Grady School of Irish Dance was pilfering her best students by promising free lessons.

Admittedly, in a city the size of Saskatoon, at just over a quarter of a million, the flashy, dramatic,
Law-and-Order-
worthy crimes are not a dime a dozen. There likely will never be a
CSI: Saskatoon
.

Still, the city has its fair share of interesting happenings for a professional snoop like me. The fact that some of them take me out of town to further my investigation is simply circumstantial (and my good luck).