Haunting Jasmine (20 page)
“I can’t believe you’re going back to that job so soon.” Tony’s face falls like a landslide.
“My aunt will return healthy and ready to clutter up the place again.” But my throat is dry, and I want to hug Tony. “She belongs here, not me.”
“Yeah, whatever.” He turns on his heel and strides away, as if I’ve offended him.
“Hey, wait!” I say, but he has gone into the library. Fine, let him go. I need to focus on my meeting.
When Scott Taylor arrives, he exudes his usual brash confidence, the personality of a boss. I forgot how tall he was, how commanding, although he’s slim, narrow shouldered, and not obviously overbearing.
“Hell of a time getting here.” His voice projects through the house. He stamps his rain boots on the carpet in the foyer as he snaps shut his umbrella. Water drips from his thin Armani raincoat. He’s underdressed for the weather. The soaked shoulders of his jacket have become nearly transparent, revealing the white dress shirt underneath.
“Let me take your coat. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Almost didn’t. The ferry was running late.” He yanks off his wet jacket and hands it to me. I hang it in the closet.
He stares at the statue of Ganesh. “What’s the elephant for?”
“He’s the Hindu god of new beginnings, remover of obstacles. You kneel, touch his feet, and pray to him.”
Scott laughs. “Can he get rid of all this drizzle?”
“I’m getting used to it. I almost find the rain … soothing.”
“Soothing, huh?” Scott looks closely at me, as if I’m hiding behind a screen and he can’t quite make out my features. “You do look different.”
I touch my hair. “Different how?”
“You look good. This vacation is doing you good.”
I smile, although I would not call this a vacation. “Thanks for coming all the way out to our blustery island.”
“I had a client meeting in Seattle anyway, so I figured I could make a quick detour out here on the ferry. Took longer than I expected.” He pats his briefcase. “Where can we get to work?”
“I cleared a space in the back,” I say, leading Scott down the hall to the tea room. Now I remember how to walk in these heels. I’m good at it. I don’t wobble. I’m smooth on these designer stilts, even if my feet are squished.
He follows, his shoes echoing across the hardwood floor. “I hope you’ve been preparing your presentation.”
“I’m on it,” I lie. “Don’t worry.” My stomach turns upside down. I can catch up, no problem. How could I have fallen behind?
In the tea room, he opens his briefcase on a large table and extracts a few manila file folders. “Coffee would be great,” he says.
“Black, strong, no cream, one spoonful of sugar.”
“Hey, you remembered.” He smiles.
“Coming right up.” I pour him a mug of coffee, bring him the mug and sugar, and sit across from him. “How’s everyone at the office?”
“Working hard,” he says, pulling a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. He doesn’t mention anyone else vying for the Hoffman account.
“Carol?”
“She’s working on a big one. Now, let’s get to the Hoffman account.” He pats the sheaf of papers. “We need to emphasize our accelerating returns, diversification. Keep these notes and go through them.”
“Sure thing.” The papers smell like ink from a copy machine. In a way, I miss that smell. The odor of challenge.
“Let’s go over the talking points.” He pulls two copies of a memo from his briefcase and hands one across the table. A familiar exhilaration rushes through me. I’m good at making presentations, at conveying the best that our company has to offer.
“I know these by heart,” I say, grinning at him.
“You’re good. But let’s go over this anyway… .”
Someone wanders into the tea room—the blotchy-faced man who sought picture books for himself when I first arrived. My heart skips a beat.
“… returns for equity,” Scott is saying.
“Mmm-hmmm.” I try to focus on the memo.
The blotchy-faced man looks around, shoulders hunched. He needs help.
“… and performance reports,” Scott says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve got it all down.”
Tony pops his head in the door and motions to the blotchy-faced man, who then follows Tony down the hall.
“… when you give your presentation, focus on the chairman of the board,” Scott is saying. “I mean,
chairwoman
. She’ll have questions. Be prepared.”
chairwoman
. She’ll have questions. Be prepared.”
“I’m always prepared.” I strain to hear what Tony is saying to the blotchy-faced man in the hall. I can’t make out the words.
Scott taps his forefinger on the table. “Are you with me? You look distracted.”
“I’m listening.”
“Good.” Scott glances at his watch. “Wish we had more time. I have to catch the ferry back. I’ll leave the papers with you.” He drops his copy of the memo into his briefcase, then gets up and heads to the foyer for his coat. “Review the files,” he says on his way out.
“You know I will,” I say.
I’ll be prepared. I’ll blow them all away with my expertise, and Scott will make me partner. The Hoffman account will be the culmination of years of hard work. I’ll rake in loads of money and live happily ever after in my new, private condo on the beach, in luxurious sunshine, Robert and Lauren be damned.
Chapter 32
For the next week, I get up early to practice my presentation. I pace in Auntie’s apartment, the floor creaking, and talk to myself, gesticulating, using an imaginary pointer. I read every sheet of paper that Scott left for me, memorize every talking point.
Then I walk the beach. I inhale the wild, salty scent of the sea. I don’t bring my oversized handbag or my cell phone.
One evening, my parents and I visit the Mauliks again, but the atmosphere is muted, subdued. Sanchita has not returned. Mohan has hired a nanny to help with the children.
I focus on my work, and on reading. I discover H. P. Lovecraft, marveling at his propensity to use big words like
eidolon
and
eldritch
and
Cyclopean
. Nabokov and Wordsworth. I excel at story time, and when the book group meets, I sit with them in the tea room to discuss literature.
eidolon
and
eldritch
and
Cyclopean
. Nabokov and Wordsworth. I excel at story time, and when the book group meets, I sit with them in the tea room to discuss literature.
Early Sunday morning, a week before I’m to return to California, I carry the memoir Connor’s father wrote back into the parlor and shelve it. “I guess he doesn’t need another copy,” I say to myself.
“I can always use another copy,” a deep voice says behind me. I whip around, and there he is, striding down the hall, bringing the smell of fresh air and forest.
My heart kicks up to a frantic beat. The blood rushes through my head. “You’re here!”
“I’m glad you’re happy to see me.” He stands in front of me in a black jacket, cargo pants, and T-shirt, the antique watch on his wrist.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” He takes me in his arms and spins me around as if I’m weightless. I’m pressed against his firm chest. I don’t want him ever to let go.
I catch my breath after he puts me down. “I thought I would never see you again—”
“I wanted to give you some time.”
“You could have called.”
“You needed your space.”
“I’ve had enough space.” My thoughts are racing as fast as my heart.
“Listen,” he says, holding my hands, “let’s go away from here, just for today. Unless you have other plans.”
“Connor, I—”
“Bring the memoir—I would like to borrow it.”
“It’s yours.” I grab my coat and purse from the closet. “Wait there. I’ll be right back.” I dash to the office, running on air, and call Tony at home. “I’m gone today. Can you come in and hold down the fort?”
“Did Connor come back?”
I nod and whisper, “He’s standing in the front hall.”
“Go for it, girl. Just close the store.”
I hang up and race for the front door. Connor’s hand is on mine. “Wait. The book.”
I retrieve the book and hand it to him. He holds the memoir close to his chest, and the edges seem to glow. The front door swings open, and we step outside into the bright morning.
The wooden porch plank squeaks beneath my feet. Clumps of soft green moss cling to the railing. The sky stretches away in solid blue, scoured clean by the nighttime rain. A soft, cool breeze wafts across my skin, redolent of the salty sea and kelp. All around us are the sounds of morning—a car engine revving, a symphony of birdsong, the rush of the surf. Steam rises from rooftops and fences warmed by the morning sun.
Connor steps outside and takes a long, deep breath. He still clutches the book to his chest. “I love the fresh air,” he says in that deep, resonant voice. His irises are deep turquoise, almost unreal.
My heart fills with sweet, pure joy.
He puts the book down on the porch, then stares at his hands, turning them over, as if seeing them for the first time in sunlight. He lifts me into his arms and laughs. “I’m here with you, out in the morning!”
“Yes, you are! I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“You look beautiful in this light,” he says, touching my hair.
“And you, too. I mean, you look handsome.” I’m trembling, not from cold.
“I want to explore, live these moments with you. We haven’t any time to lose.” His wavy hair shines—lighter, sun-bleached strands mixed in with the dark. He seems taller, too, and broader, more substantial than he did in the bookstore.
“We could take the ferry into the city. Or stay here.”
“Whatever you choose. I want to be with you.”
“To the beach,” I say. “Come on.”
He’s right behind me as I run down the sidewalk in my sneakers.
He catches up and grabs my hand. The firmness of his fingers, and the heat, send my heart soaring. I can hear his breathing. “I feel the blood in your veins,” he says, squeezing my hand. He throws back his head and laughs. “You make me feel alive, Jasmine Mistry.”
I’m awash in happiness. Still holding his hand, I lead him down to Fairport Beach, past Sunday morning joggers, walkers, and proprietors opening their shops for the day.
We’re on the sand now, racing to the water, away from the buildings of Harborside Road. A few people dot the beach, and a golden retriever leaps in and out of the surf.
We dodge the waves, laughing. I let go of his hand and dance in circles, collapse up on the beach. He flops down beside me, grabs a handful of dry sand, lets the grains slip through his fingers.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says.
“Yes, kiss me,” I whisper. This time, I give in to him. The kiss lasts a minute, an hour, forever. Time stops, the seagulls hover, and the ocean waits. I sink into Connor’s arms, and then we pull back, gazing into each other’s eyes.
“I love kissing you,” Connor says, his hand on my chin. “I wanted to kiss you the moment I saw you in the bookstore, looking like a drowned city transplant.”
I laugh. “What do I look like now?”
“You’re always beautiful.” He pulls me close and kisses me again, and then we’re up, heading for a rugged stretch of rocky beach. He takes my hand and pulls me up onto a flat-topped boulder. The blood pounds in my ears. I’ve never felt more awake.
“How did you get so good at climbing?” I say. “You’re like a mountain goat.”
“I grew up climbing these boulders,” he says. “How about you?”
“I grew up halfway across the island,” I say. “Near the forest. My parents don’t live in that house anymore.”
“Do you miss your old house?” he asks as we clamber across the rocks.
“My sister and I planted a garden in the front. Our dad put in a sidewalk. She and I embedded colorful stones in the concrete before it hardened. I haven’t been back there in years.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Childhood seems so far away now.”
He jumps down to the sand, then up onto another rock. “Let’s go to your old home.”
“Now? Today?”
“Why not?”
“Someone else lives there.”
“So what? We’ll just look.”
“I don’t have a car. It’s too far to walk.”
“We’ll take bicycles. We can rent them in town.” He hops down into the sand. A pristine beach stretches ahead. Not a soul in sight.
“Why would you want to see my old house?” I hop down after him.
“I want to know everything about you.” He crouches next to a tide pool carved from the rocks. “Look, there.” He points into the water.
For a moment, I see nothing, then an underwater world gradually comes into focus. Orange starfish cling to the rocks beneath the surface. Red starfish. Yellow starfish.
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