Haunting Jasmine (22 page)
“The terrorism angle felt dropped in, but I loved the actors.”
“I didn’t notice those details. I just enjoyed the experience.” He’s still holding my hand as we stroll down Virginia Street, weaving our way through a colorful city crowd. An Asian man sits on the sidewalk, playing a mournful-sounding stringed instrument.
“That’s an erhu,” Connor says.
“It’s beautiful.” I drop a five-dollar bill into the musician’s instrument case. Bills and coins pepper the velvety interior. “Makes me feel transported.”
“Why don’t we transport ourselves to the land of dessert?” Connor leads me into the Chocolate Box, featuring every kind of chocolate, cupcake, and pie in imagination. I choose the rhubarb pie; Connor chooses pear compote. We sit by the window and watch the people pass.
“Ah, pear, my favorite,” Connor says, savoring a mouthful. “It’s been so long since I’ve enjoyed fruit this way.”
“You were so excited about the pizza, and now dessert. You act like you haven’t eaten in years.”
“I haven’t,” he says. “You brought me here, allowed me to eat, to enjoy life for a while. Thank you, Jasmine.”
I focus on people passing on the sidewalk. “I didn’t do this for you—”
“You did.”
“Come on. How?”
“You need me. The power of your heart, of your imagination, allows me to be here for now.”
“What are you talking about?” A strange prickle travels up my spine. “What do you mean, ‘for now’? Are you going somewhere?”
“I don’t want to,” he says softly. “Believe me, I want to stay with you forever.”
The heat spreads up through my cheeks. The pie seems to grow too rich, too heavy. “Don’t talk about forever. Robert used to talk that way. Let’s talk about something else.”
“All right. Then let’s talk about people. I used to play this game. Look at people and try to imagine their lives.” He nods toward a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase. “He’s a traveling salesman.”
I point to an elderly couple in pastel colors and hats, cameras slung around their shoulders. “Tourists from one of the cruise ships.”
A woman in rubber-soled shoes races by. “Busy nurse going home from work,” Connor says.
A couple saunters past, the man a puffed-up bodybuilder, the woman a buxom blond in five-inch silver heels. Both appear to have visited the tanning salon for countless hours.
“We know why
they’re
together,” I whisper.
they’re
together,” I whisper.
Connor sips his espresso. “Why?” he says, feigning ignorance.
“You know. Just look at them.”
“Nothing wrong with a little sex.”
I blush fiercely, my lips tingling at the memory of his kiss. “But how long do you think they’ll stay together? How long can sex sustain you?”
“For a very long time,” he says in a low voice. He kisses me again. I’ve had it with this trip to the city.
“Your place or mine?” I whisper against his lips.
Chapter 35
Auntie’s house is dark, except for the orange porch lamp lighting our way. Upstairs in the apartment, the door is barely shut before Connor is pulling me into his arms. I press my hands into the rough stubble of his cheek, stand on tiptoe to kiss him. I’m in a soft twilight world, falling into a well of sensation, his hands on my hips, traveling the landscape of my body, easing me in a slow dance toward the bedroom.
My nerve endings awaken after such a long sleep, our clothes peeling away like layers of resistance. In the darkness, Connor takes my hand and presses my fingers to a scar on his chest.
I gasp. “What happened? That must have hurt.”
“Long story,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you later. I wanted you to feel this and not be alarmed.”
“I’m not alarmed,” I whisper.
“That’s good.” He pulls me onto the bed and into his arms. He’s gentle at first, then insistent, demanding, generous. He speaks to me in a low, rumbling voice, and I throw caution out into the night. I become my deepest, sensual self—I am color, scent, instinct. Connor responds in kind, and we move in symphony.
“You make me feel alive,” he whispers, our limbs intertwined, our sweat mingling. “More than alive.”
The night passes in a blur. Between frenzied bouts of lovemaking, we share secrets I have never revealed. Somehow, I’m compelled to share my deepest thoughts.
“This is the first time I’ve done anything like this,” I say, lying in the crook of Connor’s shoulder.
“You’re a wild woman. You must have been a wild child.”
“Not really. The closest I’ve come to wild is playing doctor with Alvin Gourd, the neighbor kid, when I was seven.”
“We can play doctor now, if you want.”
“I like this better.”
“What did you do with … Alvin?” Connor says, stroking my hair.
“We took off our clothes and looked at each other with flashlights.”
“If you’re feeling nostalgic, I’m up for playing that game. Got a flashlight?”
I pat his chest playfully. “You’re silly. I wanted to see where all his parts were. Reminded me of shriveled fruit.”
“I’m not shriveled.”
“Not a bit. You’re more like the Superman of the human body.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Wonder Woman.”
“I did run around in a cape when I was about five. I thought I could fly.”
“I wanted to run at the speed of sound,” Connor says. “But I was too slow, and I had no muscle. My nickname was Chicken Legs.”
“I can’t imagine you slow, with no muscles, or with chicken legs. Impossible.”
“I changed when I grew up.”
“So did I,” I say. “When I was little, I thought I heard the voices of spirits. Deep, dark secret. Nobody knows except Auntie Ruma. And now you know, too.”
Connor is quiet, his body suddenly tense. “You talk to ghosts,” he says finally.
“I’ve seen them in the bookstore, too. There, I’ve said it. You think I’m crazy.”
“Not at all. The universe is full of spirits. Why wouldn’t you see some of them? You’re not crazy.”
“Robert would say I was. When I confronted him about Lauren, he said I was crazy at first.”
“How did you find out?”
“It wasn’t any one moment. I didn’t catch them in bed together. Nothing so dramatic. It was an accumulation of details. I suspected him for a long time, but I was in denial. I secretly wanted to stay with him. I’m ashamed of that fact. I wanted life to go back to the way it was.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“But that life was an illusion.” I sit up and fluff the pillows. “I pretended I had no clue, but I knew before there was any real evidence. I started checking the numbers he called on his cell phone. I sniffed his clothes, checked his pockets. I even stopped by the university, sat at the back of his lecture halls. I started following him in my car.” That desperate woman was someone else, another version of me.
“He forced you to turn into a detective. Who can blame you? He was an asshole. He didn’t deserve you.”
“Thanks.” The room darkens, as if my sadness is leaching light from the stars. “I felt like an idiot, sneaking around. I’ve never told anyone I did that. Now I’ve told you.”
“You’re not an idiot. Not even close.” He touches my face, his tenderness bringing tears to my eyes.
“Thanks for being my cheering section.”
“Anytime. I can wait on you, too. Are you hungry? Do you want something from the kitchen?” He’s getting up, his gorgeous form moving toward the door, sans clothing.
“A slice of cheesecake, but I don’t have any.”
He makes a magician’s motion with his fingers. “I’ll conjure one for you. There, cheesecake. Abracadabra.”
I press my hands to my cheeks, feigning surprise. “You did it. Wow! While you’re at it, how about conjuring some Indian desserts?”
“Like what?”
“
Mishti doi
, a smooth Bengali yogurt. Or
jelabis
—orange, sweet pretzels dipped in syrup. Those are south Indian, but I love them. Pure sugar.”
Mishti doi
, a smooth Bengali yogurt. Or
jelabis
—orange, sweet pretzels dipped in syrup. Those are south Indian, but I love them. Pure sugar.”
“I’m already in a diabetic coma.”
“Or
roshagollas
—breadlike balls of pastry, also dipped in syrup.”
roshagollas
—breadlike balls of pastry, also dipped in syrup.”
“Is there a river of syrup in Bengal?”
“There are many rivers.” I watch his profile in the darkness. He seems to be made of many tiny points of light.
“Let’s visit one right now.”
I lie back against the pillows. “I wish we could. I feel safe with you. But that’s silly, isn’t it? You could be just like Robert. You could sleep around on me. Go off with another woman. Tell everyone my secrets. You could say, by the way, Jasmine, I made no commitment to you.”
“No commitment? We’ll see about that.” He comes back to bed and pulls me into his arms again, and I’m riding a sailboat on a smooth lake, clear as glass, dreaming, falling, healing.
Chapter 36
As night peels away its veil of darkness, Connor appears almost surreal lying beside me, an imprint of the perfect man summoned from my imagination. Funny, the way his face remains unchanged. The stubble has not grown on his jaw since yesterday. The scar on his chest is a dark dent, jagged at the edges.
What happened to you?
I mouth to him silently.
I mouth to him silently.
His lashes flutter open, and he smiles at me. How to explain to him the rush of emotion in my heart? “How are you this morning?” he asks in a deep, sleepy voice.
“I’m great. You make me feel beautiful. When Robert left me, I felt ugly. I thought, if only I were more attractive, he would stay with me.”
“You’re always beautiful. Don’t ever question that.” He pulls me into his arms, and I snuggle in close.
“When you say it, I believe it.”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
I nestle in the crook of his shoulder. “Reading about what your father witnessed, and endured himself, in Africa makes me feel that I can survive anything. People have put up with much worse. When I get back to L.A., I’ll be able to face whatever comes.”
He strokes my hair. “So you’re leaving me.”
“I have to make a living. I have loose ends to tie up with Robert.”
“Then why don’t you come back here?”
The possibility had planted a seed in my mind. “On this remote island? This is my aunt’s domain. Tell me you’ll come and see me in L.A.”
He’s silent a moment. “I would love to, but—”
“But what? You have other obligations? You’re not married, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“No girlfriend? Fiancée?”
“No and no. You’re suspicious.”
“I can’t help it.”
“One day you will learn to trust again.”
“Maybe; maybe not. But I feel hopeful again.”
He nuzzles my neck. “And I feel like a living, breathing man. I love the way you smell. I forgot the smell of a woman, and not just any woman. You have your own smell, Jasmine. I could inhale you all day and night.” He shifts position so that he’s lying on top of me, his elbows propping himself on either side of my body, and for a while, I forget my worries, forget my fears, forget the future….
“How did that feel?” he asks finally, cradling my head in the crook of his shoulder. We’re both breathless.
“Out of this world,” I whisper. I’ve given all of myself, and I have survived. I get up, pull on my robe, and open the blinds. “I wish this could last forever.”
“I’m here with you now.” I feel him come up to me, stand behind me. He wraps his arms around my shoulders. I lean back against him, close my eyes, turn in his arms. Oh, the feel of him, the warmth. He strokes my hair. I look up at him, his face distorted from this angle.
He kisses me again, a long kiss full of promise, full of good-bye. Then he extracts himself from me and pulls on his cargo pants, T-shirt, and travel jacket, as always. Strange for a doctor to wear the same casual clothes every time I see him.
My heart is heavy, and yet, I am also renewed. He comes back to me and takes my face in his hands. “I hate to leave you. What do you want? Tell me.”
“I thought I wanted no strings attached. Now I don’t want to be away from you.” I take a deep breath. “But I’ve got things to work out, a life to decipher.”
“I know you do. You’re on your way.” He’s dressed and ready to go, right down to the antique watch, which needs winding. The hands are stopped at three o’clock.
“I’ll come with you this time.” In a minute, I’m dressed and following him down the narrow staircase. His outline seems to shimmer ahead of me, as if a miniature sun is shining in front of him.
As we enter the first-floor hallway, Tony’s voice drifts from the tea room. He’s singing a haunting melody that reminds me of a sad farewell. He must have come in early to do inventory. The lights are on. And he must have left the front door unlocked, although the store is not yet open, because a man steps out of the parlor into the hall. He’s dressed in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants, and he’s holding a yellow Labrador retriever on a leash—a patient service dog. The man’s head is shaved to rival the best Marine haircut. Sweat glistens on his face. His hands are trembling.
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