Meredith

September, 1998

In the foothills on the eastern slope of the mountains along California’s central coast, where summer temperatures rise like lava and ooze into fall, rain between April and October is only a wish. So when heavy-laden clouds slid low over the town of Coelho on the first afternoon of September, Meredith took notice. She sat alone in Pain sur la Table, at her usual corner table by the windows, and chastised herself for not checking the weather report before spraying her roses for mites. For the next few minutes, she tried to cling to thoughts of her roses, but a stronger thought ripped them from her. I am more dead than alive.

That revelation had first shocked her on the morning of her fiftieth birthday, but it sneaked up on her at random now. On that day, three weeks ago, she acknowledged the literal truth of the statement; she would not likely live another fifty years. The deeper meaning she pushed aside. Then, of course, her subconscious had thrown up a series of nightmares, which Meredith interpreted as a challenge: lie there and take it or get up and fight. She had not yet made the choice. She had little faith in her decisions. Take the timing of the rose spraying, for example.

She sighed and turned back to her scallops Provençal, but within seconds, a murmur from a table to her left pulled her away. The sound had come from the three younger women who sat looking toward the restaurant entrance. Meredith followed their gaze. They watched a man as the host led him through the dining room. The shock of recognition nearly choked her.

His face angled away from her, but she could tell. It had to be Ravi. As he took his seat at a nearby table, she lowered her gaze and seized her wine glass, draining it to give her heart time to find its normal rhythm. A mixture of joy and fear and memory jumbled her thinking. Should she speak to him? No, let him make the first move. Should she try to leave now before he noticed her? No, he knows where I live. She was the only reason he would come to this town. But why would he come here after all these years? And what would he see when he looked at her now?

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear and smoothed her neckline. If only she were wearing something in salmon. Ravi had loved her dressed in that color. It brought out the blue in her eyes, he said. But it had been years since she owned anything in—

All these years …

She looked at him again. His eyes were downcast, his face partly hidden behind a menu, but she could see his hairline, his smooth brow, his hands. Like a snowflake falling into the fire, her joy melted instantly. He was not Ravi. Of course not. This man was too young. Her face flamed and she ducked her head. What a fool I would have made of myself, if I had called out Ravi’s name! Her hand shook as she poked her fork around the remnants of her lunch. Her breath came in shallow little puffs, until her poised self took over and forced her to slow down, breathe deeply, find her center. A minute later, she risked a quick study while the man gave his order and then, she signaled for a refill.

He had a book lying on the table, face down. Was it one she had read? At the same moment she looked to see if the title was visible, he reached for the book and glanced in her direction. Instantly, as though she were practiced in the art of subterfuge, she blinked rapidly and positioned her fingertips below her lashes ready to catch a misbehaving contact lens. Said imaginary lens now dealt with, she picked up her magazine and made a pretense of reading. It took a minute for her pulse rate to drop to normal.

As often as she dared, Meredith raised her head as though only to cast a casual glance around the room, but each time her eyes darted toward him. Stop this! Your behavior is ridiculous. She forced her attention back to the article, reading the same paragraph three times without comprehension.

Again, she abandoned her reading, but this time she turned her face toward the window, away from him. The sky had brightened. Those dark clouds had offered only a false promise. If she left now, she would have plenty of time to garden before sunset. Or she could stop by the salon and let Phillipe suggest a style change. Then again, maybe a better use of her time would be to shop for the trendier clothes her friends urged her to choose. Ditch the classics was how they put it. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly three o’clock, well past time to leave here. What excuse did she have to linger?

At that moment, the sun broke through and a ray filtered through her wine glass casting a bright pool of pale gold on the tablecloth. She slid her hand over to the light and smiled when her index finger appeared to become a magic wand with glowing tip. As if she could wave her hand through the air and transform her life. As if she could envision that life. As if she dared.

Well, why not?

She surrendered with a sigh. She drank the last of her wine, turned away from the window, and picked up her magazine again. They had not even served the man his lunch yet. How could she leave?

Unlike her friends, Meredith seldom encouraged desiring looks from men, and though she attracted her share of them, she just never imagined herself on the giving end. She simply did not stare at strange men. Yet it was hard to ignore this man with his beautiful skin, like fine tea-dyed silk, and hair, as black as any she had ever seen, curling down to his shoulders, and if he chanced to look up from the book he now read, she was certain his eyes would seem as deep and dark as temple pools on a moonless night. Oh, and his mouth—

Startled by the server’s approach to her table, she snapped, “What?”

“Excuse me,” he said, “but would you like me to bring you another glass of the pinot grigio?”

“Oh.” She smiled, repentant. “Yes, please.”

Now, what had she been thinking? Oh, yes, his mouth. She marveled at her silliness. One would think she spent her days reading romance novels rather than anthropology journals. All right then, look at him that way. What could his ancestry be—Indian, Greek possibly, or Middle Eastern … ah-h … a Persian Prince?

Oh, my.

Eyes closed, she breathed in, held it, then exhaled slowly through her nose. She opened her eyes and focused on his book, which she recognized and thought little of, but was glad he seemed too absorbed in to notice her scrutiny. What concerned her was the presence of those three young women at the table next to his—fringe members of her social circle—who had noticed her fascination. She caught their glances, their quiet laughter. They judged her pathetic. And why not? Even though her friends joked that she had piped the water supply to her house directly from the fountain of youth, clearly, she was too old for this man. Yet, there she sat.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the server when he returned with the wine.

“Not just now,” she said. In a few minutes, she would order coffee, and then dessert, both perfectly good reasons to prolong her stay. Besides, if she drank this third glass of wine, she would have to sit here a while before attempting to drive home. With her schedule settled, she gave way to imagining who this mysterious man might be. Possibly a lonely traveler who would welcome her as a tour guide—an interpreter even—though she had grown rusty in most of the languages she knew, and if he spoke Farsi, well to be honest, she was never fluent in that to begin—

Good lord! She had progressed to full-blown fantasy. It was time to order that coffee. Strong coffee. A double espresso.

Oh!

Meredith found herself looking straight into his eyes. Frozen in mid-stare, she watched him speak briefly with the server, then push his chair back, pick up his book, drop it in his leather messenger bag and—Oh, my lord!—head directly toward her table. Another blush warmed her face and she prayed he would blame the wine.

“You have watched me since I arrived,” he said. He had only a slight accent—more a formality than accent really.

“I … I’m … I’m sorry …”

A smile sparked in his eyes a second before it spread to his lips. “May I join you?” he asked.

Motioning for him to sit, she took another deep breath and regained most of her composure. “I apologize for my habit of staring. I didn’t mean to be rude. You see, I was an anthropologist, so I often observe people and try to guess their genetic ancestry.”

“Persian,” he said.

“Ah-h.”

“And from your appearance, I assume your ancestors were from a country far closer to the Arctic Circle.”

“Denmark.”

“Ah-h,” he said and smiled at her again.

He looked into her eyes—into her—until she began to feel she was an imposter, some distant cousin to herself. Another apology crept toward her lips: I’m sorry; I don’t seem to know who I am. But the words went unspoken. She told herself such disorientation was only the effect of too much alcohol, and yet when his lunch arrived with a bottle of bordeaux and two glasses, she did not refuse to share his wine. He would consider that rude.

He studied her face as he tasted the wine. Never taking his eyes off her, he nodded his approval to the server, then waited until the young man left before he spoke. “You say you were an anthropologist? You look far too young to have retired.”

“Age is not the only reason to retire.”

“Indeed.”

“Esman Meredith ast,” she said, offering her hand. When he arched a brow and a smile played at the corners of his mouth, she feared her grasp of Farsi had deteriorated to the point she had failed to even properly introduce herself.

“I am Jalal,” he told her. Instead of shaking her hand, he clasped it in his and lowered it to the table, holding it for a few seconds before he let go to pick up his knife and fork. “I hope you will not find it rude of me to eat as we talk,” he said, “but I am starving.”

“Not at all.” She felt so exquisitely aware of Jalal’s presence she could barely breathe. The fear he might look into her eyes again and discern this kept her from looking directly at him. Instead, she watched his hands, perfect hands, whose touch would be gentle, yet firm and oh so certain in their movements …

Stop stop stop!

She tasted the bordeaux. “Jalal is an interesting name. It means greatness, or something similar, does it not? Your parents must have had high hopes for you.”

“So it would seem.”

Despite her focus on Jalal, she had not forgotten the women at the other table. She heard their muted voices, and would like to think they shared her astonishment at this turn of events, but dared not look to see. More likely, Jalal’s move to her table would only add juice to their gossip.

A voice in her head—it sounded like her mother’s—piped up. What on earth are you doing sitting here with a strange man who, for all you know, could be half your age? Despite her irritation at this intrusion, Meredith examined his face. There was a fine web spun at the outer corners of his eyes, and a thin, dull blade had pressed a vertical crease between his brows. When she argued that surely he was older than twenty-five, silence fell within, as it had without, and though she reasoned there ought to be some awkwardness to the silence at their table, she felt none. She took sips of his wine, allowing him a few uninterrupted moments to eat. Then, she pointed to his shoulder bag. “I’ve read that book.”

He sneered. “Pop psychology.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I thought so too.”

Jalal looked up from his plate. “So, Meredith, did you work in Iran?”

She shook her head. “I visited only once. Briefly.”

“I am surprised you learned the language for only one visit.”

“Actually, I didn’t. Linguistics was my degree emphasis.”

“I am impressed.”

Embarrassed, she felt the need to explain. “I don’t speak Farsi well.”

“I do not speak Danish at all,” he told her.

Until she caught the quirk at the corner of his mouth, she thought he mocked her. She smiled. A man with a sense of humor always intrigued her.

“Tell me,” he said, “how did you become interested in anthropology?”

She opened her mouth to respond, then paused. Though she had always known the answer, she had no memory that any non-academic had ever bothered to ask her the question. “I was raised in a … sheltered environment—racist, to be honest—and I struggled with that. In my heart, I felt that despite our varying skin colors, religions, cultures, our commonalities outweighed those differences. I think I just needed to find the truth.”

“And what did you find?”

“My instincts were right.”

He gazed into the distance for a moment, as if considering her statement. “But, men and women, in all cultures, are quite different from each other,” he said. “Do you agree?”

“I’m not sure I do.”

For the second time, his face registered equal parts surprise and amusement. He pushed his plate aside, picked up his glass, and eased back in his chair. “You are wrong, Meredith.” He swallowed the last of his wine and set the glass on the table. “For example, the way we handle sexual attraction. Whereas I am quite open with my desire, you are drinking far more wine than you ever do at lunch, and hoping the effect does not wear off before I take you to bed—because if it does, you will never have the nerve to allow us that pleasure.”

He had read her perfectly. She had done her best to drown her cultured reserve, but she would never admit it. Instead, she slid aside her glass and looked him in the eye. She smiled. “Let’s go,” she told him.

Jalal signaled for the check.

Meredith lay next to Jalal. Through the open window, she watched twilight smudge into night. They had spent the dregs of the afternoon and the full of the evening in her bed, and now, though her body was deliciously relaxed, her mind zinged. Shocked—finally—that she had brought this stranger into her home, she tallied what little she knew about him.

He had paid for her lunch; he had driven her home in his Lexus; he dressed well, wore a TAG Heure watch and his messenger bag was Gucci, so he certainly had the appearance of money. But what did that prove? He could be a gigolo, or whatever they were called now. Boy toy? It was entirely possible he had been—or still was—the companion of another wealthy woman who lavished him with gifts. He was charming and seemed educated, but then so was Ted Bundy. My lord!

She glanced over at him. His eyes were closed, but she sensed he was not asleep, and if he was, what did it matter? She had too many questions. “Jalal?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Were you born here, in America?”

“No.”

“When did you immigrate?”

He yawned. “We left Iran soon after the revolution, but we lived for about a year with relatives in Lebanon, and then four years in France. We came to America twelve years ago. I was eighteen.”

So there! She was not twice his age.

Still, you are old enough to be—Meredith hushed that voice again by asking if he emigrated with his parents.

“Yes,” he said, “and two brothers, four sisters, and one grandfather.”

“Where does your family live?”

“My grandfather has since died. The rest of my family lives in Seattle.”

“Do you see them often?”

“No. My brothers and sisters are all married with numerous children. I am not missed.” He rolled to his side, facing her. “And, before you ask, I have never been married, nor do I have any children.”

Where does your money come from was what she almost blurted out. Before she could think how to rephrase the question tactfully, he spoke again.

“I am a computer genius,” he said. “I have more money than Bill Gates.”

“Really?”

He laughed and snuggled up to her. “Of course not, but if you let me get a little sleep, I will tell you the whole boring tale over breakfast.”

His answers had not stilled her mind. She had failed to ask him the right questions. What answer might he have given if she had asked why he did not dismiss her on sight, as other men his age would have done? Or how often, at first meeting, he took a woman home after lunch and stayed for breakfast.

Or what he really thinks of a woman who allows that, offered her mental mother.

Funny, this situation should shock her. After all, fall into bed first, get to know each other later, if ever, was typical of her generation, the “love” generation. Though, to be honest, she had barely claimed membership in that before she met Stephen. And her afternoon with Jalal bore no resemblance to that meeting.

The first time she saw Stephen had been at graduate school when she ran into him—literally. Late for class, as usual, she had burst through an exit of Denton Hall and nearly knocked him down the steps. As it was, she scattered the papers he carried. She apologized and tried to help in their retrieval, but he only laughed and waved her on.

“You’re obviously in a hurry,” he said.

She felt worse that he had taken it so well and apologized again before turning to leave.

“What’s your name?” he called after her.

“Meredith Dahlberg.”

“I’ll look you up,” he said.

And he had.

Stephen, seven years her senior, with his hair and beard grown halfway between Ivy League and counterculture, amazed her by how much they had in common. For a start, he was a PhD candidate in the anthropology department. They talked for hours—before classes, after classes, on the common, in the coffee shop—and soon they talked late into the night, smoking pot or drinking wine. Afterward they lay curved and layered together like an intricate jade carving. These details, she kept from her parents for as long as possible. Although her father approved of Stephen’s lineage, and her mother found him charming, they both would have voiced displeasure at their daughter behaving like one of those damned, immoral hippies.

Meredith had savored a secret pleasure in her acts of rebellion.

Aware of Jalal, even in her sleep, Meredith woke several times during the night. Each time, before dozing off again, she worried about how to deal with the situation in the morning. Finally, though it was still dark, she slid carefully out of bed, trying not to disturb him. Minutes later, he joined her in the shower. Good lord. She could blame the wine for her irresponsible behavior yesterday, but now she was completely sober, standing inches from him—naked. His fingertips touched her lips, traced the curve of her throat, and slipped lower still. Mmmm, yes.

As dawn’s light washed rosy gold over her kitchen, Jalal brewed the tea and cooked their omelets. Due to her lack of culinary talents, she had volunteered to make toast. She carried it to the table and sat down. “You promised to tell me about your work,” she told him.

“Ah, yes, my credentials.” He paused to slip the second omelet from the pan. “My father is a successful businessman, my grandfather was even more so. Their connections enabled them to move some of their assets out of the country before the revolution. When the time came, they paid my tuition at university. I got my MBA, and then,” he spread his arms wide in a grand gesture, “I went out into the world.” He gave a wry grimace. “New York City, actually.” He set their plates on the table and took a seat opposite hers.

“Where did you work in New York?” she asked.

For a moment, he only looked out the window, watching the hummingbirds at the feeder. Finally, he picked up his fork. “Crain-Harris,” he said. “I was good at it, but I hated the work. It was not what I had wished for myself.”

“What did you wish for yourself?”

He paused for another thirty seconds, then looked directly at her. “I wanted to be a supermodel.”

Struck silent, she debated his seriousness. With his looks, not for a second did she doubt he could have been a model, but …

He laughed. “Oh, the look on your face.”

“Well, not because I didn’t think you—”

“A writer,” he said, “a poet. I wanted to write.”

A poet, imagine that. She took a bite of her omelet and waited for him to tell her more. He said nothing. She looked up to find him gazing out the window again, so she waited still. The silence grew longer than she could stand. “And now you’re here in California,” she blurted.

“Indeed,” he replied. “I warned you my life story would bore you.”

She kicked herself for opening her mouth, for giving him the out. Why had she let him skip over years of his life without telling her anything that happened during them? Now, he thought she simply had no interest.

“And you, Meredith? Have you always lived here in Coelho?”

“What? No. But, Jalal, I didn’t mean to—”

“Have you always lived alone in this house?”

With a sigh, she accepted he would tell her nothing more about his past that morning. “No,” she said, “I wasn’t always here alone. I was married for thirteen years … to a fellow anthropologist, actually. His name was Stephen.” She bit her lip, surprised at her recklessness in saying his name, calling up the ghost in her life.

Jalal refilled their cups. “Why are you no longer with this ‘fellow anthropologist’?”

She studied his face. He had asked the question gently, almost as though he anticipated the answer. “He died,” she said, then lowered her gaze to her teacup as though she might divine some alternate memory in it. “That was fifteen years ago.”

“You never remarried?”

“No. I was …” Was what? She shook her head. “I just didn’t.” She rose from her chair intending to carry her plate to the sink, but at the sight of her barely touched omelet, she sat back down.

Fifteen years. It had shocked her to say the words. To admit she had now lived longer without Stephen than she had lived with him. She had expected so much from marriage. Too much. And Stephen had his own expectations. But at the beginning, she honestly believed she could meet them. She could give it her all.

One month after Stephen received his doctorate, she had become Meredith Dahlberg-Lang. She gave in to her parents’ insistence on a traditional church wedding, but ignored their suggestions for the honeymoon. Besides, that was out of her hands. Stephen had accepted an invitation to present at a symposium in Marrakesh, and all that mattered was they would be together.

Though only twenty-two, she had already accumulated more than a year’s worth of days spent in Europe, but this was her first trip to Africa. Enthralled with Morocco’s utter foreignness, she drank it in with all her senses. Her nights were Stephen’s, but for most of the daylight hours she was on her own, and took advantage of all the “exotic Moroccan experiences” offered by the hotel concierge.

On their arrival home, Stephen wore a pale saffron djellaba, and Meredith wore an embroidered violet kaftan. Despite the North African dress on this couple of obvious Nordic descent, almost no one stared—it was, after all, 1970—but her parents, waiting at the gate, were horrified.

“Welcome home,” said her father, his mouth grim, like a bloodless slash.

Her mother, ever the model for the prim and proper stereotype, stood wringing her hands. “Why are you dressed in these … costumes?”

Meredith refused to let her narrow-minded parents strangle her joy. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Her mother skewered Stephen with a look.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said, laughing, “she fell in love with the bazaar.”

Meredith crossed her arms over her midriff and dug her nails into her ribs through the thin fabric. She had discovered that Stephen had a way of stepping aside, leaving her to take the blame. Like the time he promised to help her cook dinner for his friends, but instead called at noon to say he had volunteered to review a paper for a colleague, and would bring something home for dinner.

“You’ll have to excuse the Chinese take-out,” Stephen said that evening. “Meredith decided to spare us her attempts at cooking.” His friends laughed, taking it as a joke, and she might have laughed too, might not have been offended, except it seemed an inside thing—as if, behind her back, she was frequently the butt of Stephen’s jokes. And now, though he hadn’t protested when they dressed this morning, he had given her parents the impression she had forced him to wear Moroccan dress.

“Oh my lord, Mom!” She slashed a hand through the air. “Look around you. Everyone’s dressing like this now.” That was an exaggeration, of course, but she knew her parents. Just because they had coerced her into wearing a traditional bridal gown, they expected her to discard her bell-bottomed jeans and tie-dyed granny dresses, and chop off her waist-length hair. They wouldn’t be happy until she reverted to wearing designer ensembles, the way a respectable young woman should. It was time they accepted the truth. The Meredith they wanted her to be was gone forever.

Her parents blamed this metamorphosis on Stephen. They were right. On her own, she would never have dared to defy her parents. Stephen’s influence had given her the courage to reject her narrow-moraled upbringing.

On this morning, while she washed the breakfast things, she marveled how far that rejection had gone. Jalal was perusing her pantry and compiling a grocery list. Somehow, she had implied consent to him staying through dinner—at least. She was so far out of her comfort zone, she doubted she could find her way back. I should have left a trail of those empty wine glasses.

Meredith dried her hands and walked to the pantry door. Jalal had his back to her and didn’t notice, so she stood, silent, watching as he moved things from one shelf to another. He had apparently finished his list and was now rearranging items on the shelves. Occasionally, he shook his head and muttered. Who was this man making himself so comfortable in her home? She would let him to do his grocery shopping alone while she made some phone calls to find out.

~~~

Copyright © 2011 by Linda Cassidy Lewis