“Oh my gosh,” Saint Sarah whispers on turning around.
It’s this girl with trim hair and neat, high bangs. Her lips are red, and she wears no other makeup. She stands up, revealing a black fifties-style dress with crisp white collars. The guy beside her, wearing huge red-rimmed aviators, stays seated.
“Never thought I’d see you here,” the girl says, coming over to us. “How are you?”
Her voice is husky and carries over the other diners.
“I’m great,” Saint Sarah says. “And you?”
“Fantastic,” the girl says. “Malcolm is with us too. He’s in the restroom.”
“Oh, really?” Saint Sarah says, moving a step closer to Muhammad. “What’s going on with you?”
“Just working,” the girl says, glancing up at the restaurant doors. “At an art museum, a small one. When did you start wearing the head scarf?”
I snap to attention. Saint Sarah started the hijab recently?
She, our study circle leader, pauses and says, “Two years ago. After I moved.”
“Awesome,” the girl says. “It looks good on you. Colorful. Oh, here’s Malcolm.”
A tall, thin young man exits the restaurant and turns toward the patio steps. He looks the total opposite of Muhammad. My brother’s fashion sensibilities run more into the support-your-sports-team end of the aesthetics spectrum, whereas this guy is wearing a faded concert T-shirt under a fashionably loud plaid jacket and fitted, distressed jeans. Muhammad’s hair is short and boring, whereas this guy’s is up-and-coming, straight-up rakish. An impressive forehead lies below the hairdo. And beneath that, a five o’clock shadow finely mists his strong jawline, just so.
Cute.
“Malcolm, look who’s here,” the girl calls out. “It’s Sarah.”
Malcolm does an abrupt dramatic stop when he sees her. At first I can’t tell if it’s put on or actually authentic, but when he resumes walking, overly casual, hands in his pockets, arms stiffened, it’s evident his initial reaction had been real. He stops by the girl with red lips and observes Saint Sarah. It’s an openly searching look, and I would’ve blushed if I’d been her.
“Whoa, Sarah,” he says quietly. “What’s up?”
Saint Sarah, uncharacteristically mute, smiles half her wattage and weaves an arm through mine.
“Just finishing up school,” she says. “This is my friend, Janna, and her brother, Muhammad, my fiancé. Guys, this is Malcolm and Trish, old friends.”
Trish takes Muhammad in for the first time as he steps forward to shake hands with Malcolm, pumping enthusiastically like a goofball politician. I’m still contemplating the ramifications of Saint Sarah’s reference to Muhammad as her fiancé so I don’t make any moves toward friendliness.
“Congratulations,” Trish says. “Wow, that’s zany. Getting married so young.”
Saint Sarah laughs high and fake, and I become intrigued with these “friends” from her past. Especially since Malcolm keeps staring at Sarah like she has an extra eye or something. Muhammad takes no notice, probably reveling in being called her fiancé.
“Oops, look at the time,” Saint Sarah says. “We’ve got to drive to Inverness. Catch up later?”
“Where are you staying in Inverness?” Trish asks.
Muhammad steps in and clarifies. “My sister and I are staying there, but Sarah will be with her cousin in the city.”
“Oh, at Noura’s?” Trish asks. “Maybe we’ll stop by then.”
Saint Sarah smiles and leans in for a hug with Trish. Malcolm moves in as well, but Saint Sarah turns away and strides off.
Muhammad and I have to hustle to catch up with her after we bid adieu to her friends.
“Old friends,” Saint Sarah mutters. “No biggie.”
“That Malcolm guy? He acted quite weird,” I say. “Don’t you think so, Muhammad?”
“No, not really,” Muhammad says. “Sarah, you’ll have to come in and meet my dad now that we’re, you know, engaged.”
“Oh,” Saint Sarah says. “Right. About that . . .”
“We’ll need to get a ring,” Muhammad says. “How about during the week coming up?”
“Um,” Saint Sarah mumbles. “Maybe.”
“Aren’t you going to congratulate us?” Muhammad asks, thumping me on the back.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, because, it’s not, you know, finalized,” whispers Saint Sarah, as though the man talking to himself across the street is going to put an announcement in the New York Times if he hears.
“Yeah,” Muhammad says. “We’ll tell our families first.”
I don’t say a word because I’d taken a few glances back and seen Malcolm and Trish remaining standing at the edge of the patio, talking, eyes fixed on us.
Something’s fishy, and, like the last time, on the first date of my brother’s that I chaperoned, I’m stung with pity for my brother. He couldn’t seem to see the kernel of the matter: Saint Sarah and Malcolm have a history.
I hang back and let them walk ahead. For a couple that has apparently just got engaged, they sure are atypical. Muhammad’s the one getting giddy with the wedding prep, while she stays silent.
I’m getting an intuition about maybe-not-so-saintly Sarah’s sordid past. I vow to investigate and put my findings to good use.
On the ride over to Dad’s, I try in vain to bait her (“Malcolm looks a lot like Liam Hemsworth, don’t you think, Sarah?” and “He looked at you like he’s known you for a long, long time, eh, Sarah?”), but she doesn’t bite (“Liam Hemsworth? Really? You think so?” and “Did it look like he’s known me for that long? Well, he does wear glasses and he didn’t have them on. Probably explains his eye trouble.”). She’s concentrating on the road like she’s taking a driver’s exam. Muhammad is counting things off on his fingers, things to do re the engagement, and doesn’t pay attention to us.
Sarah does realize I’m quick on the uptake though and, after a while, begins to take control of the situation by opining on diverse topics totally unrelated to 1) guys, 2) engagements or weddings, and 3) friends.
I fall asleep and have to be nudged awake, truthfully this time, after she parks the car on Dad’s circular driveway.
I run up to the front door thinking about baby Luke, my laddoo. Dad opens it with a smile, his arms out for a hug.
He’s wearing his weekend outfit of crisp button-down shirt and khakis. The way you know it’s leisure wear is that the shirt collars are lifted up, not curled over a tie.
His wife, Linda, holding the laddoo, is coming down the massive staircase. She hugs me, hands over Luke, and directs the maid to take my backpack to the basement. Linda’s another one who has a constant smile on, a high, gummy one. I smile back at her out of habit. And because of the laddoo.
He’s seriously chubby, with a dense roundness that’s solid and real. His eyes take a while to register me, but once they do, he giggles and scratches my face in boisterous greeting. Linda tells me that Logan is already asleep.