Blink of an Eye (8 page)

Miriam closed her eyes. The prospect of marrying Omar wasn't unlike swallowing acid.
Samir . . . dear Samir!

“I'm not sure I can leave Samir.”

Sultana grunted her frustration.

They had planned their escapade down to the last detail: the permission to travel required of all women, the passport, the money, the destination—everything. Actually doing it would be like jumping off a cliff, but Miriam was in a free fall already. Yes, marrying Omar might be
worse
than death.

“Could you get me to Jidda on one of your husband's Learjets?”

“Of course. I travel there regularly—the pilot wouldn't suspect a thing. But why to Jidda? I thought—”

“Being collected for a marriage wasn't part of our plan. The sheik will come for me tomorrow, but if I convinced Samir that I have to go to Jidda for an urgent shopping trip, they would be forced to wait until my return. It will buy us time. And send them in the wrong direction.”

“Samir knows about the wedding?” They were talking quickly, in hushed tones now.

“No.”

The wedding
—it sounded strange. Horrible. “I would double back to Riyadh for a flight to Paris and then go on. If I'm doing this, I have to do it right.”

Miriam saw the faint outlines of a smile through Sultana's veil. “That's the Miriam I know.”

They talked for another twenty minutes, reviewing the plan with care. Sultana finally took her arm and steered her back toward the shops. “We have to be careful. Is Salman due back tomorrow?”

“Not for three days.”

“Then bring all the documents with the money and meet me at the airport tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I'll tell Samir I am expecting you.”

They entered the market and walked silently for a few minutes.

“Can you get a flight schedule for Paris?” Miriam asked.

“Of course. If you have any problem, call me tonight. I'll do the same.”

Miriam took a deep breath. She was going on the run.

chapter 7

s
eth found the dance squad in Hearst Field, next to the gym. Some called them cheerleaders, but these girls were hardly the kind Seth had seen in high school. They were the kind who competed on ESPN2 at the national-championship level and eventually went on to dance on cruise ships or, in some cases, Broadway.

The squad leader was a blonde named Marisa, a bright physics undergraduate who'd approached Seth for help on several papers. He never quite figured out what she needed help with, but he spent an hour in the park with her once, discussing the distinctions between nuclear physics and high-energy physics.

Marisa was a walking oxymoron—an intelligent student who seemed determined to hide behind a Hollywood persona. She'd smiled and asked him why he didn't have a girlfriend. And when he blushed, she drew her finger down his arm and suggested they get to know each other.

Two evenings later, Seth found himself on his first date in three years. Everything progressed well at first. She, the perfect twenty-one-year- old babe with enough beauty to boil the blood of most men, and he, the wonder boy with enough brains to send most women into the deep freeze.

They went to the Crab Shack for dinner, and with each crab leg, her flaws increasingly annoyed him. Her blind acceptance of a news anchor's point of view, as if being housed in a television made one a god; her wisecracks about Dr. Harland. By the time they got to the main dish, even her white teeth looked plastic to him. How could such a bright student be so easily swept along with this pap?

He became so distracted, in fact, that he took a sip of the hot butter, mistaking it for his iced tea. She laughed, of course, a high-pitched young laugh. Now her youth glared at him. She was a mere pup, flashing her plastic teeth and raving on about a world she saw through naive lenses.

To Seth's amazement, she asked him out the next day. He politely declined. It was the last time they'd talked.

Seth headed toward the squad. He didn't recognize Marisa until she noticed him. He nodded and smiled. She must have mistaken the gesture as encouragement, because she whispered something to the others and then broke into a punchy cheer that made as much use of her hips as it did her mouth.

Seth covered his embarrassment by clapping and saying, “All right, way to go,” or something similar. He wasn't positive, because the better part of his mind was shouting him down with objections.

All six faced him, wearing slight grins. He wondered what Marisa had told them.

“Hello, girls.”

“Hi, Seth.”

He stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets. “What are you guys doing?”

Practicing their dance, you idiot.
He grabbed the Super Ball.

“Working on our backflips,” Marisa said.

“Cool.”

Silence.

“I heard about your run-in with Professor Baaron yesterday,” Marisa said.

“You did? Yeah, that was pretty bad.”

“For him maybe. I heard you came out pretty good.”

“That depends on how you look at it.”

“I think the student body understands exactly what happened.”

Seth wasn't sure what she meant. “The irony is that Baaron's holding a reception in my honor tomorrow night at the Faculty Club.”

A redhead with hands on hips blew a round pink bubble and then popped it loudly. “What kind of reception?” she asked.

Seth felt inordinately awkward. “Well, there's this award called the Dannie Heinemann Prize. Mathematical physics. It's a pretty big deal to the faculty.”

“Who'll be there?” asked a brunette who looked like she'd borrowed her legs from a horse.

“The faculty and guests,” Seth said. “Two hundred or so.”

She blinked. “Two hundred? Who are you, the president?”

Seth's embarrassment resulted in a smile. “Like I said, it's pretty important to some people. I was thinking maybe you could attend.”

Marisa glanced at the others. “Me?”

“All of you.”

She stared at him for a moment before understanding dawned.

Her mouth curved into a seductive grin. “You want us to spice things up a bit.”

“What do you mean?” the redhead asked.

“We could dance.”

“Oh, please!” The horse-legged brunette crossed her arms.

Marisa turned to her. “Why not, Maggie? What's wrong with a little routine to liven up the party?”

“Not exactly the kind of party—”

“Exactly! It's not
Seth's
kind of party, so we add a little flavor.”

“Will Brad Baxter be there?” the redhead asked. Brad was the director of physical education.

“Could be,” Seth said. “Do you want him to be there?”

“You can do that?”

“Sure,” Seth said.

The rest of the squad members were looking at each other, not objecting. Except for Maggie. “What do you want us to do?” she asked. “I'm not sure I like this.”

“It's harmless,” Marisa said.

“I don't think he's talking about backflips off Baaron's table,” Maggie said, looking at Seth.

He nodded. “Actually, I had something else in mind. Something more MTV than ESPN.”

“Do we look like strippers to you?” Maggie demanded.

“No.” Seth felt his face go red. “That's not—”

“Give it a rest, Maggie!” Marisa snapped. She turned to Seth. “So we come in and do a sexy dance, maybe heat Baaron up a little. I don't see the harm in that. This isn't exactly a parochial school, right? How do you want to work this?”

Seth wasn't sure whether the idea was hers or his, but she was a smooth operator, he'd give her that much. He could see her running for Congress one day.

“Well. When I stand up to give my speech—they always want the guest of honor to tell them how indebted they are to Berkeley—when I get to a certain point, you could come in and do your . . . routine.”

The others were beaming now. The idea had taken root. “So that's it?”

“Maybe table dances would be a good idea. All the department heads and a grand finale with Baaron.” What was he thinking?

“I don't know,” Maggie said.

“I love it!” Marisa said. “When was the last time the faculty gave us our due? Just think about that, Maggie. This will loosen them up a bit. Talk about making a splash.”

“If we have to take the fall—”

“Please, it's only a dance. We're not going in there with picket signs and beating them over their heads. This is Berkeley!”

“If there is any heat, I'm sure it'll come down on me,” Seth said. “I seem to have a propensity for heat.”

Red flag, Seth.

Marisa looked at the others for a quick approval. An echo of “I'm in” and a halfhearted shrug from Maggie settled the issue.

She turned back. “Okay, we're on. Any other surprises?”

“Only one.” Seth faced a petite blonde whom he'd seen Phil ogling on occasion. “I have a friend who needs a date. His name is Phil. Handsome guy with a pocket protector. Trust me, he's quite charming once you get to know him.”

“You . . . you want me to go out with some guy named Phil?”

Seth nodded. “Just ask him out to dinner. Maybe a movie.”

“No problem,” Marisa said. “Right, Suzi? He's charming.”

“Okay.”

“You'll do it?” Seth asked.

“Sure.”

Seth nodded. “Okay. Good.”

Maggie crossed her arms and turned to leave. Her foot caught on Marisa's shoe and she tripped. Tried to catch herself, failed to do so, and sprawled on the ground.

Seth jumped forward to help her up.

But suddenly Maggie was standing, not lying on the grass.

Seth jerked back and blinked.

Maggie crossed her arms and turned to leave.

He'd seen this!

Her foot caught on Marisa's shoe . . .

He'd seen exactly this, just one second ago!

. . . and she tripped.

This time Seth leaped forward just as Maggie began to fall. He caught her on the elbow and kept her upright.

“Whoa!” she exclaimed. “Watch your feet, Marisa.”

Marisa eyed him. “Pretty quick.”

Seth stared at the ground, stunned.

“You okay?”

“Huh? Yeah.” He took a step back, looked up at them, and started to turn.

“I'll call you for details?”

“Sure. Call me.”

chapter 8

s
amir drove Miriam from the market where they'd left Sultana. Miriam watched suburban Riyadh drift by like a dream of mud and brick, her stomach tied in knots. Her voice came out tight and strained, but she managed to blame it on Sita's death.

Of course, she couldn't let Samir know the truth. God forgive her. She didn't dare tell him. Not only because he had a direct line to her newfound father, the sheik, and by association to Omar, but because telling Samir would put Samir himself in terrible danger. When Omar discovered her missing, he would naturally suspect Samir's involvement and question him thoroughly. The less he knew, the better.

In the morning she would betray the man she loved. This truth made her ill. She repeatedly swallowed the lumps that choked her throat. She couldn't even tell him good-bye! She slipped her hand over his and squeezed. He blushed. One way or another, she knew they would end up together. She would leave a letter for him with Sultana, telling him of her undying love and begging him to come for her. A tear slipped from her eye.

Miriam told him about Sultana's insistence that they make a private shopping trip to Jidda the following day. It was a private getaway, only for part of the day, she explained, so she asked for his discretion. Samir agreed with a knowing smile.

She left Samir in the garage, hurried into the house, and walked straight for her room without removing her veil. Nothing must appear out of the ordinary. The last thing she needed was for Haya to see her tearstained face. Fortunately, her young mother wasn't around.

Miriam locked the door to her room, walked to the bed, and sat slowly. Alone for the first time, she slipped off the veil, lowered her head into her hands, and wept.

An hour slipped by before she wiped her eyes and stood. A full-length mirror showed her standing, still dressed in her black abaaya. The princess.

She walked up to the mirror and studied her face. Her eyes were red and swollen, but the dark tones of her skin hid most of the signs of her crying well. She sniffed and ran her hands through her shiny black hair. A very small black freckle spotted her right cheek. When she was thirteen, she'd wanted it removed. But as she looked through a copy of
Cosmopolitan
magazine that Sultana had given her, she saw a stunning model with a similar mark on her cheek. She agreed with Sultana that men must be attracted to it, or the magazine editors would have covered it up.

She turned from the mirror, set her jaw, and pulled off her abaaya. It was time to get on with it. She sifted through her possessions, deciding what she could take that would fit in a single carry-on bag and a vanity case. In the end, she settled for what Sultana and she first conceived of long ago: two changes of Western clothes—jeans and blouses that would allow her to blend in with the people of California; basic toiletries; the Koran; one jewelry box filled with her most expensive jewels, well over a million dollars' worth; and an iPod. The rest of the space would be occupied by the money. With money she could buy whatever she needed in the United States.

She had talked scandalously with Sita and Sultana about one day embracing Western ways, and now that day was here. Jeans might not be acceptable in Saudi Arabia, but Miriam could hardly wait to don them at the earliest possible opportunity. She would distance herself from the abaaya and arranged marriages and smother herself in the symbols of freedom. In the United States she would be anything but Saudi. She would eat and walk and talk like an American. She'd done it before for a summer in California, and she would do it again—this time permanently. Her accent might not be English, but her heart would be American.