The Brevity of Roses (13 page)

Despite herself, she smiled at the idea. “The shock would probably kill her.”

“If not the shock,” said Jalal, “the envy would.”

“We’re terrible,” she said, but she was laughing with him.

“Hurry up,” he said. “Finish planting.”

“Why?”

Jalal lowered his voice to a comical macho bass, “Because, woman, big portfolios turn me on.”

For the second time that day, Meredith pelted him with soil.

Jalal had made good on his threat to teach her how to cook, and today they were starting a French stew—
daube
he called it—which would be marinated, cooked, and cooked again over three days. He had set out an enormous pile of garlic cloves for her to peel. She had never eaten the dish. “This had better be worth all this trouble, Jalal.”

“You will love it, I promise … and besides—” Jalal’s cell phone was ringing. He answered and motioned for her to keep working while he listened to the caller. His eyes widened and he said, “When? … you are driving? … at my house? … of course, I do, Goli—hold on.” He blocked the phone mic with his thumb. “My mother and sisters want to visit.”

She said, “Oh,” but then, not sure he meant this visit to involve her, said nothing more.

“Well?”

“Oh! You mean here? Yes, of course. Yes.”

He put the phone back to his ear. “Let me talk to Shadi,” he said and headed for the door to the hall. “I will give you the directions from MapQuest.”

Meredith went back to peeling the garlic, until reality hit.
Good lord, I can’t meet his family!
He had barely told her anything about them, and what he had, she suddenly couldn’t remember. And what did they know about her? Or had they even known she existed before today? Did they know how old she was? Maybe it was time for that new hairstyle, something younger. And the house. What about the guest rooms? Dusting and vacuuming was the only attention they had received in years. She could buy new linens, at least.

Jalal returned to the kitchen. “They will be here in about an hour,” he told her.

“What? No!”

“But you said—”

“Yes, yes, I want to meet them, but not right now! I thought they were only planning the visit.” She dropped her knife and wiped her hands frantically. “Look at the house—look at me! Oh, my lord! What day is it?” She grabbed the phone with one hand and searched the list of numbers on the wall beside it with the other. “Maybe Lorena is free today and could rush right over. She could bring her sister. Oh, Jalal, how could you do this to me?”

Jalal laughed. “Meredith, slow down.” He took the phone from her and hung it up. “You look beautiful. The house is lovely. My mother and sisters are excited about meeting you.”

“But the guest rooms … and baths, they need to be cleaned, the linens—”

“You and Lorena keep the whole house spotless. And my sisters can make their own beds. Just relax.”

Eyes popping, she took a step back from him. “Relax? Relax! Are you completely insane?” Jalal laughed and pulled her into his arms. He tickled her until she had to laugh too. Then he kissed her throat and undid the top button of her shirt. She squirmed in his grip, but he wouldn’t let her loose. “Don’t you dare start something now!”

“All right, then get to work on that garlic.”

“I will not! I need to get to work—”

“You need to relax,” he whispered in her ear.

Meredith covered his mouth with her fingertips and pushed his face away. “Let me go.”

“You are wasting time. Do you want my mother to walk in here and find us still naked on the kitchen floor?” he asked.

“Jalal!”

He sighed, as if admitting defeat, but he kept hold of her. “You have exactly fifteen minutes to do whatever you imagine you need to do to fix yourself up, but then you have to get back down here to chop that garlic, or I promise I will embarrass you beyond belief when they get here.”

“
Please
, finish for me. Let me have the whole hour to get things ready.”

“On second thought,” he said, reaching for her buttons again, “you would be much more at ease after—”

Meredith slapped his hand away. He opened his arms and she turned to run upstairs, his laughter growing fainter behind her with each step.

Jalal’s mother and sisters arrived a little less than an hour later, but by the time the doorbell rang, she had changed clothes, touched up her hair and make-up, aired out the guest rooms, and freshened them with clean sheets and towels. As she followed Jalal to the door, she reverted to the calm, cool, socialite she had been before he threw her life into pleasant chaos.

She stood to the side and let Jalal open the door. Even so, the five women almost knocked her over as they jostled to give him hugs and kisses. His mother, the shortest of them, was crushed in the middle, but her smile of adoration as she gazed up at Jalal made it obvious she didn’t mind.

Laughing, Jalal declared, “Enough.” The women let go, his sisters drawing back when he took his mother’s hand and turned her to face Meredith. With his other hand, he pulled her closer to his mother. “Maman,” he said, “this is Meredith. Meredith, this is my mother, Nasrin Shirazi.”

As she hugged Nasrin, she heard one sister murmur to another in Farsi. With Nasrin speaking to her, she missed a word or two, but caught enough to piece together the expressed thought—Jalal wasn’t likely to give their mother grandchildren from
this old one
. She was relieved she couldn’t identify which sister said it. If she didn’t know who had pierced her heart, it would be easier to tuck away that spoken truth, bury it deeply, and treat them all equally as Jalal’s beloved sisters. Her smile never wavered as Jalal introduced them, oldest to youngest: Goli, Shadi, Azadeh, and Ziba. She exchanged ceremonial hugs and kisses with each.

Having assumed Jalal would entertain his family in the living room, Meredith gasped when he led them toward the kitchen. She followed reluctantly, worried Nasrin, if not his sisters, might consider her an ungracious hostess, and worse, that any time spent in the kitchen would surely reveal her own lack of cooking skills.

“Oohs” and “ahhhs” greeted her entrance. The women loved her kitchen, though she felt somewhat foolish accepting compliments on the room she valued least. Within minutes, they had uncorked wine and agreed on the dinner menu. As Nasrin, Goli, Shadi, Azadeh, and Jalal busied themselves with the meal preparations, Meredith realized her first fear had proved unfounded. She had never seen a group of people more at home in a kitchen.

Her second fear dissolved when Ziba, carrying a bottle and two glasses, motioned for Meredith to sit with her. “I hate to cook,” she said. “Let’s just drink and watch.”

Ziba stayed true to her plan, so Meredith observed the activity, amazed at how Jalal and these women filled the room with life. Their conversation, punctuated often with laughter, was mostly in English, with a sprinkling of French and Farsi she had no trouble following. Even when they disagreed, it was good-natured and, more often than not, settled by a swat from Nasrin’s wooden spoon.

Jalal and his mother shared that mischievous twinkle in their eyes, and her mouth pursed like his did in amusement. But Nasrin’s gray-streaked hair was straight, like three of her daughters’. Apparently, Goli and Jalal had inherited curls from their father. Meredith couldn't help comparing her mother with Jalal's. Nasrin, dressed in a maroon velour sweat suit, evidently felt comfort trumped fashion. Tailored slacks and a twin-set were as casual as her mother had ever dared to dress. Even in pajamas and robe, she had appeared neatly pressed.

Nasrin had a joyous carefree air, though Meredith knew she had to be tougher than she looked. This woman had raised seven children, lived through a difficult time of revolution followed by emigration twice, and made a new life for her family in a land far from her birth. Meredith could only imagine that kind of inner strength.

She repeated the sisters’ names in her mind, attaching details to help her remember who was who. They were all attractive, though not in the same way. Goli, with her wide hips, full breasts, wild hair, and hearty laugh, was the earth mother. Her obvious pregnancy completed the picture. Shadi, the tallest, most sophisticated and striking, was the social one. Azadeh, with her fragile beauty, and veiled eyes, was the quiet one. And Ziba, the youngest and most petite, seemed the least serious of them all, as if being the last born of seven made her somehow less substantial.

“Meredith,” said Shadi, “did Jalal ever tell you the story of his arranged marriage?”

“Do not!” warned Jalal, his face growing red.

“No, no, tell it!” said Ziba. Turning to Meredith she added, “This is hilarious.”

“You tell it best,” Shadi said to Goli.

Goli stopped working and wiped her hands on the aproned mound of her belly. “When Jalal was seven,” she began, “our brothers Farhad and Navid convinced Jalal that Baba—our father—was about to arrange a marriage for him. Of course, Baba and Maman were too modern thinking for that, but Jalal didn’t know. Naturally, he was anxious to see his intended bride, so Farhad and Navid took him to the bazaar and pointed out the carpet weaver’s daughter.”

At this point in the story, Jalal sighed loudly and turned away. Azadeh gave his back a sympathetic pat.

“This girl,” Goli continued, “was as big as a man, fierce-looking, and brayed like a donkey. Jalal was so horrified he begged them to plead with Baba on his behalf. And of course, they agreed to do it, but only if Jalal paid them.”

Nasrin shook her head, tsking at the memory.

Goli continued, “Well, Farhad and Navid were not asking for money; they wanted their pound of flesh. Poor Jalal did all their chores for more than a week before Maman caught on and put a stop to it.”

“Those boys,” said Nasrin, “working Jalal so hard.” She shook her spoon in the air, as though still angry. “They could have made him sick again.”

“
Really
, Maman!” said Shadi. “Jalal was perfectly healthy by then.”

Jalal, shaking his head, moved over to the stove. He poured oil in a sauté pan and adjusted the flame. “Maman still sees me as sickly,” he said. “She greets me by patting my stomach to make sure I am fat enough.”

Meredith asked, “Jalal was ill as a child?”

“He almost died!” said Nasrin. “He never told you this?”

Suddenly, Meredith recalled that Jalal had once mentioned a childhood illness, but she had never bothered to ask him more about it.
I can’t admit that to his mother!

Jalal came to her rescue. “No, Maman,” he said, “I did not tell her, just as I have not told her a thousand other things the five of you will probably embarrass me with.”

“Bah!” Nasrin said to Jalal, then directed her next words to Meredith. “Jalal nearly died with meningitis when he was a baby.”

“A baby!” Jalal and his sisters chorused.

“He was four years old!” said Goli.

Nasrin flapped a hand of dismissal in Goli’s direction and said to Meredith, “It was years before he regained his strength.”

“Enough of that,” said Jalal, “could we stop reminiscing about my delightful childhood and concentrate on getting dinner started, so we can have tea? Maman made
baghlava
, Meredith. Wait until you taste it.”

With more chopping, tasting, and seasoning, the
khoresh
was set to simmer, the kitchen wiped clean, and the tea brewed. They gathered around the table.

Azadeh turned to her. “After tea, will you show us the rest of your beautiful home, Meredith?”

“And her wonderful garden,” said Jalal, glancing out the windows. “Well, tomorrow, I guess. The sun is already setting.”

“Do you all come down often to visit Jalal?” asked Meredith.

“This is the first time,” said Nasrin. “He has only come up to visit us twice since he moved to California.”

“We had to come down,” said Ziba, “because Jalal wouldn’t bring you up to meet us.”

“Ziba does not mean that the way it sounds,” Jalal said quickly.

“No!” agreed Azadeh. “It wasn’t that he didn’t want us to meet you.”

“I never
said
that,” protested Ziba.

“Well, it sounded that way,” Goli and Shadi said at the same time.

Ziba huffed and turned to Meredith. “Did you think I—”

With a clap of her hands, Nasrin ended the squabble. “Actually, Meredith, we came down today because we decided it would be fun for the five of us to take a trip together.”

Meredith smiled. “Well, I am very happy to meet you all,” she said. “You are welcome in my home anytime. And, Nasrin, this
baghlava
is the best I’ve ever eaten. Thank you for bringing it.”

Nasrin acknowledged the compliment with a smile, though she waved it off and shook her head. “It was nothing; such a small thing.”

“Jalal told us you were an anthropologist,” said Goli. “Did you spend any time in the Middle East?”

“Not as much as I would have liked. Most of our research took us to Africa.”

“Meredith is a linguist,” said Jalal. “She speaks Farsi.”

At just that moment, she happened to glance at Shadi, whose face registered alarm before she exchanged a look of guilt with Goli. “I’m not at all fluent,” Meredith said quickly.