The Art of Inheriting Secrets(83)

He caught my hand before I could pull away. “I don’t want you to lie.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just new, this thing between us. Precious.” He kept his eyes on the road but lifted my hand to press my palm to his mouth, to his cheek. “I don’t want anything to ruin it.”

A heady surge of emotion moved in me, in my belly, my chest, my throat. “Me either, Samir. I mean it.”

He settled my hand over his heart and, holding it there, looked at me. I nodded.

Now, curled up in his bed with his cat, I wondered what he was doing that kept him out of bed so long, and wearing the T-shirt he’d given me, I padded out of the bedroom and saw the light on in his study. The door was cracked slightly, allowing a bar of light to fall across the wooden floor. “Samir?”

He came to the door wearing sweats and a worn sweater and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that only made him look more amazing. He said, “So sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t sleep, and—”

“It’s all right. I’ll go back to bed.” I stepped close to give him a kiss. He caught my arm and then turned to push the door open.

“You may as well know that I’m in here writing.”

I nodded. “I saw the big stack of paper last night.”

“It’s not another novel like the ones in the living room.” He took off his glasses, tossed them on the desk, and turned to pluck a paperback from the shelf. He placed it in my hands.

The cover showed a starry sky with a trio of moons, two people standing in the foreground, faces upturned. Moons of Vara, the title read, by Sam Malak. “You wrote this? You write science fiction now?”

His arms were crossed over his chest. He nodded.

“How many have you written?” I turned the book over to read the copy, and it had a thoughtful, alien discovery tone. “I wonder if my boss has read you. He loves this kind of book.”

His defenses were still in place, cloaking his expression. “I’ve written six, in two different series.” He shrugged. “They’re . . . somewhat popular.”

“Can I read this one?” I held it to my chest.

He smiled slowly. “If you like.”

“I want to read all of your books, Samir. I want to see how your mind works.”

“It’s not embarrassing? That I’m writing genre instead of literary fiction?”

I gave him a look. “I love to read, and honestly, who cares what category it is? A good book is a good book.”

He caught my face, kissed me, and then just stood there with his forehead against mine for a moment. “I am so happy we met.”

“Me too.” I closed my eyes and breathed in his scent. “I’m going to take this back to bed and read it and let you keep working.”

“Sure you don’t mind? I wouldn’t, but I have a deadline, and I’ve been spending a lot of time with a certain buxom beauty.”

“Buxom, is she?”

He cupped a breast. “Indeed.”

I stood on my toes and kissed him one more time. “You know where to find me.”

In the morning, I walked home across the village green, a carrier bag full of Samir’s novels, both the science fiction series and the first three. He said not to give him book reports, and I promised I wouldn’t, but I also felt that he was allowing me the history of his literary self.

Aware of my grumbling tummy, I stopped in at the bakery to pick up a loaf of bread for later and a pastry for my breakfast. It was just after the morning commuter rush, and the line was only ten minutes long. I checked my phone as I waited.

There were a lot of emails and voice mails. I would listen to the voice mails at home, but I scrolled through the emails as I stood in line. Another note from Grant, which I didn’t open; one from my accountant containing figures I wouldn’t be able to read on the phone; and one from my Realtor, asking if there’d been any change.

My mood, so light and airy when I’d left Samir, started to fold in on itself as real-world obligations and problems began shoving their way in. I thought of Grant, threatening me yesterday, and wondered if I ought to just let it go, let him have the money.

The bell rang over the door, and I glanced up idly to see Pavi, wearing a pair of jeans and a bright peasant blouse with embroidery along the neckline. Behind her was a woman in a turquoise kurta, the hem of the tunic embroidered with darker thread and a border of silver. Her hair was cut into a thick, straight pageboy, and she wasn’t as old as I’d imagined—maybe late fifties.

Their mother. My stomach dropped.

Pavi caught my eye and gave me a very slight shake of her head. I turned away, glad to step up to the counter and place my order. Helen spied me through the window to the kitchen and gave a vigorous wave but held up her flour-covered hands to illustrate why she could not come out. I shook my head, waved.

Don’t look at Pavi, I thought as I took my place in the group waiting for goods. I held my phone in my palm, and my head was directed that way, but out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t stop trying to capture more glimpses of her. She moved stiffly, and her hands were slightly misshapen, and I remembered that she had rheumatoid arthritis. Other than that, she was youthful, her face unlined, no gray in her hair.

When the girl behind the counter called out my order, I picked it up and planned to hurry out, but Pavi caught me. “Olivia! I didn’t see you there. Come, meet my mother, here from India for her summer visit.”