Bitter Almonds (37 page)

Shareef swatted her finger aside. ‘The stars above are closer to you, Nadia.'

‘I am trying to hold on to the last thread between us for Mama's sake.' She lifted her chin. ‘I don't need you. I am old enough to get married without you.'

He grabbed a fistful of her hair. ‘You defy your brother?'

Omar was on Shareef before he could twist his grip. He held Shareef's neck from behind in the crook of his arm, trapping his throat in an iron-clad hold. ‘Let go.'

Shareef freed Nadia's hair and flailed his arms to no use.

Waleed tried to intervene. ‘This is not the way to solve anything.'

‘When did you
ever
act like my brother, Shareef?' Nadia screamed. ‘You were
never
there for me or for anyone in this family. Always watching out for yourself. Just because we don't say anything to your face doesn't mean we are blind.' Rubbing her scalp, she scrunched her hair and in the process added a disheveled look to her fierce stance.

Omar had never seen her look more beautiful. He released Shareef with a shove and faced Mama Subhia. ‘Is there any truth to what he is saying?'

Mama Subhia clasped his face in her palms. ‘I knew your parents well. Your father's mother was from Jenin. Do you hear me? She had red hair and pale skin with red freckles. We didn't have time to take family portraits from your father's house when we fled.'

Omar swallowed with difficulty. ‘You never mentioned my grandmother before.'

‘I didn't see a need to.' She dropped her hands. ‘I thought we made you feel like you were one of us.'

He kissed her hand and touched it to his forehead. ‘You did.'

‘When we made it across the border with the other refugees, I wanted to register you and Fatimah under our family name, as our children. But Mustafa would not have it. He insisted you were the single male survivor of the Bakry family.' Mama Subhia held his shoulders with both hands, giving them a gentle squeeze. ‘Mustafa said you had the responsibility of carrying on your father's family name. Do you think he would have said that if he had any doubt about your origin?'

‘You know what I can't figure out?' Huda's tone came out surprisingly, calm and mellow.

Everyone turned toward her.

‘I have been tending to the women of this community since forever. And they are refugees like us, many from surrounding villages.' She squinted at her brother. ‘Not one of them mentioned anything about that English doctor you are talking about. And you, in particular, know how women love to gossip. How do you explain that?'

Shareef shifted from foot to foot. ‘How should I know? Maybe . . . maybe they spared your feelings, they wouldn't say it to your face.' He darted his eyes to his mother. ‘Or maybe they . . . they respected Mother too much for taking him in.' He shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘I have a better explanation.' Huda's voice hardened, making the sharp switch more frightening. It matched her dead stare. ‘You made it all up.'

Shareef's face crumbled. ‘There was a British clinic, wasn't there? I mean, just because women didn't—'

‘Stop lying,' Huda shot back. ‘Why are you doing this?'

‘Mother always favored Omar over me.'

‘How old are you? Nine? Mama would never favor anyone over her own son. It's against nature. Don't you understand?'

‘She kicked me out of this house!' Shareef yelled, spit flying out of his mouth. ‘For him!'

‘She did it for Nadia's sake, not Omar's.' Huda's tone chilled the entire room. ‘You should be kissing Mother's feet right now for allowing you back after what you did.'

‘That was Sameera's fault.' His voice lost its defiant edge. ‘She tricked me.'

Huda crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Did Sameera trick you into cutting ties with us? Did she trick you into screaming at your mother? You know Omar shouldered the burden of this family alone. And one more thing,
brother
, Omar never raised his voice in Mama's presence. Not once.'

‘Stop this.' Mama Subhia approached Shareef, giving him that mixed look Omar saw in her eyes before. ‘You will do what is expected of you now, son. We will leave what happened behind us and never talk about it again.'

Shareef opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind.

Mama Subhia turned to address Waleed. ‘Go to the mosque and bring the
sheikh
and a couple of witnesses. We will seal this marriage before God tonight, and do the civil registration in the morning. The wedding will be the last Thursday of this month. Almost three weeks from today.'

 

36

Nadia lifted the hem of her wedding dress and took the first step into her new home with her right foot, inviting good luck. She could barely stand, her legs wobbling like rice pudding. The mad rush to get everything ready for the wedding in such a short time had taken its toll. Her feet hurt and she contemplated taking off her shoes, but wouldn't that seem undignified?

Omar closed the front door behind them, undid his tie and opened the collar of his white shirt. ‘I thought the evening would never end.'

‘You did well with the band. Everyone seemed to enjoy their music.'

‘Good. Wish they had wrapped it up a little earlier, though.' He draped his suit jacket on the back of the lone chair in the living room. With Omar's tight budget and Fatimah's modest contribution, they were able to buy a decent bedroom set and the necessary kitchen appliances. The rest of the apartment remained nearly empty.

Nadia headed to the bedroom. A couple of pins holding her veil in place had dug like nails in her scalp throughout the wedding ceremony, and she had resisted the need to pull them out as long as she could. She could take the pain no longer, tugging on the veil to loosen the pins. Her heavy locks spilled from their elaborate hairdo, but the stubborn pins didn't budge. Why were her fingers shaking like that?

‘Here, let me help you.' Omar reached out to unpin her veil. His warm breath brushed her face, and his cedar wood-laced cologne invited
a flood of memories. The shaking spread to her entire body. What was happening?

Dropping the veil to the floor, he combed his fingers through her hair until the locks came undone. His breathing deepened, his smile vanished, and a strange expression clouded his face.

The pulsing pressure in her head dissipated with blood rushing to the sore spots. Must be why the room started spinning. Dear God, let her not be the kind of silly girl who fainted on her wedding night. She placed her palms on his chest. ‘Hold me.'

He wrapped his arms around her, tentative and lax at first, then his muscles tightened and his palms spread flat on her back. ‘God, you are trembling like a leaf. Are you cold?'

She buried her face under his chin. His quickening heart rate pulsed in the vein touching her cheek. She moved her head from side to side to indicate her answer, brushing against his skin, marveling at his increasing warmth.

He made a deep throaty sound. ‘Do you know how long I have dreamt of this moment? You in my arms?'

She shook her head again, inhaling his masculine scent, unable to speak.

‘Too long, Nadia. Too long.' He dipped his head to brush her ear with his lips. ‘I wish I could tell you, but I don't know how to say things like that.' He nuzzled the tender spot on the side of her neck. ‘God, you smell good.'

A quiver darted to her toes, like a shot of electricity spiking her heartbeat. Under her fingertips, a tremor ran through his chest muscles. Was that her effect on him? She flipped her head to face away, laying her other cheek flat against his shoulder.

Releasing a ragged breath, he moved his hands down her back. ‘Don't be afraid. It's you and me now.'

She was a married woman in the arms of her beloved husband. Only thing,
Omar
was her husband. This was supposed to be the most natural
thing in the world. Why did she feel this awkward? She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘That's the problem.'

He stiffened. ‘I don't understand.'

Lifting her head, she kept her eyes on the base of his throat. ‘I think . . . I need more time. To get used to the idea of . . . you and me.' Her voice came out strangled, like a child's, about to cry.

He withdrew his hands and stepped back. ‘Of course. Take all the time you need.' His jaw muscles pumped, his face and neck flushed red.

He seemed hurt, as if she had insulted him. Why had she listened to Huda talk to her about this night? Now she couldn't stop coming out like a frightened fool. She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘My feet hurt.'

A wave of confusion passed over his face before he went down to one knee and slipped off her high heels. He massaged her feet. Keeping his head down, his forehead almost touched her lap.

She ran ten fingers through his hair to the back of his head, admiring the coarse feeling on her skin. ‘Your hair is so thick now.'

Exhaling loudly, he dropped his forehead between her knees. His warm hands inched up her legs under her gown. No, his hands were not warm. They were hot, searing her skin. He branded her legs, matching his slow progress with her crawling fingers through his hair. Her skin vanished, and her entire body fused into one entwined nerve connecting her legs to a deep spot in her stomach. What feeling was that? How could she put a name to something totally new? Hearing herself pant, she released his hair and placed her palms on her knees to stop his ascending hands.

Lifting his head, he struck her with an intense gaze she had never seen before. His bright blue eyes turned darker, like the ink from her fountain pen, the expression in their depths too foreign. She sucked in a sharp breath.

Withdrawing his hands, he sat back on his heels. ‘Your feet better?' His voice was deep, and although he asked a caring question, it sounded rugged and edgy.

She swallowed. ‘Yes, thank you.'

He rose, twisting sideways and giving her his back. ‘I'm thirsty. Want me to get you anything from the kitchen?'

‘Fatimah and I ran out of time. We didn't have a chance to unpack the kitchen sets yet.'

He moved toward the door while she was talking. Why was he eager to leave? He could not be that thirsty. Maybe he was giving her a chance to change out of this bulky gown. She slid off the bed. ‘Omar, wait.'

He put a hand on the doorjamb. ‘Yes?'

‘Could you . . . please . . .' The letters melted on her tongue, not forming the words she needed.

He faced her again. ‘What do you need?'

She swept her hair to one side of her neck and turned. ‘Could you . . . undo my dress, please? I can't reach the zipper.' She didn't hear him move for several heartbeats and was about to give up when he came closer. Much closer. If he breathed any deeper, his chest would touch her back. She hung her head, the tense wait making her wish she hadn't asked.

His fingers brushed the base of her neck, lingered on a single spot close to her hairline, then moved to undo her zipper. The dress loosened around her chest and waist. Should she thank him and wait for him to leave? But he didn't move. His body heat radiated through the almost nonexistent space between them, and she sensed it on her exposed back.

‘It's not sleeveless,' he whispered, as if talking to himself.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Your dress. I heard you once say you wanted a sleeveless wedding dress.' He sounded like he had climbed a flight of steep stairs.

She turned around, holding her top over her chest with both hands before the soft fabric slipped down her shoulders. ‘Mama wouldn't allow it.' Embarrassment gripped her throat, making her voice almost inaudible. She chanced a quick glance at his face. His eyes were fixed on
her mouth, not her bare shoulders. He should leave her now to change into a nightgown with some dignity. ‘Weren't you thirsty?'

His eyes struck hers a fraction of a second before he dipped his head and moistened her lips with his. He broke contact, long enough for her to draw in a breath, shallow and shaky. Then his lips were on hers again, full and eager.

She let him kiss her again and again. Maybe she kissed him back, she wasn't sure. How would she know? Thoughts emptied out of her head like water out of a spilled bucket. Her lips merged with his until she became acquainted with their commands. She may have sighed, or it could have been his deep groans that played music in her ears.

Lost in his embrace, she didn't realize her back had become exposed until his fingers tingled her skin at the small of her back. Still clutching the front of her dress, her hands were trapped at his chest. Her dress started to slip down. A wave of panic hit her. Breaking her mouth free, she managed to choke out, ‘Wait. Wait.'

His lips trailed the side of her neck and continued to sear little spots on her shoulder.

‘Omar, wait.'

He rested his forehead where his lips were, releasing a long tortured exhale. ‘Don't do this, please. Don't pull away from me.'

‘But my dress . . . It's slipping.'

‘Let it.' He moved his hands to her hips and pressed her against him.

She gasped at the poking pressure.

‘It's all right, Nadia. This is me.'

She risked freeing one hand and pushed his chest. ‘No, something is wrong.'

Swearing under his breath, he let her go and stepped back.

Gathering the sagging fabric higher, she dropped on the bed and glared at him.

He gripped the corner of the dresser, his breathing hard and loud. ‘I was willing to leave you alone like you asked. But then you called me to undress you.' He rubbed his neck. ‘You have to be clear with me. Do you want us to be together tonight?'

To her shame, she nodded, wanting him to kiss her again, that she was sure of. The rest? Maybe she could skip?

He sat next to her on the bed and held her free hand. ‘Please tell me you know how this works. Didn't you study this at school or something? Hasn't anyone talked to you about tonight?'