An Illusion of Trust (Sequel to The Brevity of Roses) Page 3

  “You have free reign,” he says, making a sweeping gesture. “New furniture, new paint, new carpets … whatever you like.”

  “Not before we move in,” I say. “It’s fine for now.”

  “I want you to make it yours.”

  How can I make him understand that I’ve never had the luxury of such decisions? I simply don’t have the experience or knowledge necessary. He’s waiting for a response, so I nod. “Show me what you intend to do to our bedroom.”

  As I follow him up the stairs, I steel myself for my second ever look at the room where he made love to Meredith. My first had been little more than a polite glance, so brief I held my breath through it. Jalal stands at the top of the stairs scrutinizing me as I climb.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “Stop it.” I shoo him down the hall toward the back of the house. When I step into the bedroom, I catch my breath, but not for the reason I did the first time. The room is empty. Every trace of Meredith erased. I remembered the room as big, but now it looks enormous. “The furniture’s in storage?”

  “I gave it away.”

  “Gave it?”

  “To Lorena. She has taken care of this house for years, so …” He shrugs.

  The man gave thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture to the housekeeper he already pays a ridiculous salary. How he manages his inheritance from Meredith is a mystery to me. “But … why?”

  “I thought—” He shakes his head and gestures halfheartedly around the room. “I want it to be your dream room.”

  I smile. He’s not fooling me. He wants his memories of this room erased. “Don’t you want any input? It’s your room too.”

  “I have only one request … no twin beds.”

  I crook my arm in his and rest my head against his shoulder. “I’ll buy the largest bed I can find.”

  He laughs. “Of course you will because soon you will want to have both children sleeping with us.”

  Three

  Azadeh and Kristen moved into the renovated apartment in the Coelho house a couple of weeks ago. The contractors have several rooms of the main house torn up, but Jalal promises they’ll finish work by mid-November, six weeks from now. It’s weird to think about not living here in our beach house. This is my first real home, the first place I ever felt truly loved and safe. But we’re outgrowing it. Even with one child, on some days these four rooms seem to shrink to one.

  When it’s time to move, I won’t have much to pack. I’ve already gone through the boxes I brought with me when I moved in here. Jalal teased me about having a back-up plan, saying I kept that stuff in case I couldn’t stand living with him and wanted to move out. We’re long past that stage, so it was time to get rid of most of it. Now, I’ve distilled my previous life into one box containing some spiral notebook journals and a few mementos and photos, which I’ll probably leave here in the garage.

  One last time, I sort through the photos of my brother and sisters—Brandon, Nicole, Amber. I haven’t seen them in ten years. The photos show happy faces, not the terrified ones I last saw when Child Protective Services ripped them out of my life and sent me to live with the father I hadn’t seen in almost twelve years. I have a few photos of my mother, Becky. Only one shows my father. God, how young they were when they married. My father’s face is partly scratched out. Did Becky do that during one of her weepy drunks or did I do it in anger? I don’t remember now.

  Anyway, I don’t need a photo to remember his face. It’s burned into my brain from the few months I lived with him before the court emancipated me, so I could go back home to take care of Becky. And then, after I moved back out here, I saw his face all over Sacramento on real estate signs and billboards: LET STEVE MARSHALL FIND YOUR DREAM HOME! The man who deserted his wife and daughter now helps put other families in their dream homes. Irony’s a bitch.

  Today, I’m with Jennie and Adam, sitting on the living room floor with paint and tile samples spread out on the carpet around me. Until I married Jalal, tacking up a few posters and draping a gypsy shawl or two in an effort to liven up a dingy apartment was the extent of my decorating experience. “I have no clue what I’m doing,” I tell Jennie. “I don’t have good taste.”

  “Bull. You suggested some great ways to fix up the restaurant when you waited tables for me,” she says. “And you’ve spent a fortune on decorating magazines, so you must have a pretty good idea what you like by now.”

  “Yeah, but what I like might not be good enough for her house.”

  “That’s your problem right there. It’s not Meredith’s house anymore. Quit trying to please her.”

  I sigh and rest back against the bookcase. Jennie doesn’t understand. Jalal doesn’t either. They keep telling me to do things my way as if I’m as classy as Meredith. As if I should step into her shoes and carry on. I’m just hoping I can fake it well enough. I lean forward and shuffle through the paint samples again. Jennie continues to rock Adam, though he fell asleep an hour ago. Despite what Jalal believes, that boy sleeps so deeply we don’t even have to lower our voices.

  “Dillydally all you want over the decisions for your house,” Jennie says. “The longer the remodel takes, the longer I get to be with this little one.”

  “We’re not moving to the moon, Jennie. It’s only twenty-six miles. We’ll wear a groove in the road driving back and forth.”

  Jennie shakes her head. “You’ll get caught up in a new life there … socializing and all. You’ll change.”

  I lean forward to lay a hand on Jennie’s knee. “You can put a ghetto girl in a mansion, but she’ll always be ghetto.”

  Jennie laughs. But just as quickly she sobers and lays a hand over mine. “Don’t you be thinking of yourself as ghetto, hon. You’re as first-class as they come. You deserve that mansion.”

  “Spoken like a true mother.”

  “Yeah? Well, as your ‘true mother’, I guess I have the right to ask what you were thinking to let yourself get pregnant again when this one was barely weaned.”

  “So that’s what’s had your panties in a twist for three months? I thought you were just pissed because we’re moving.”

  “That too, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m making up for lost time.”

  “Lost time?” Jennie shakes her head. “So at twenty-six you think your biological clock is about to run down.”

  “Not exactly.” I lower my voice, even though I don’t really expect Jalal back for at least another hour. “Jalal isn’t getting any younger.”

  Jennie stops rocking. “What are you talking about? The man’s only forty-two and in great shape. He doesn’t even have a gray hair.”

  “Yes, he does … until he notices and pulls it out.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” she says. “He’s not vain.” Adam’s stirring sets her chair back in motion. “I wonder if Jalal’s picked up on you thinking he’s getting old.”

  Her words shame me. I pull my hand away and return to sorting the paint samples. “He does seem to read my mind sometimes.”

  “Well, you better watch what you think, then. He’ll never be old, and you know it. Jalal’s just like his father. Some men stay lively, virile, to the end. You keep thinking like you are and you’ll end up with twenty rug rats.”

  “Worse things could happen. Besides, you’ll love being Granny to as many babies as I can pop out.”

  “Lord, let me live long enough.”

  I choose two paint samples and hold them to the sunlight streaming in the window. “So, you’ve got a thing for Korush, huh?”

  Jennie leans forward to smack me, but the sudden movement wakes Adam. “Now see what you’ve done?” She transfers him upright and cuddles his head against her shoulder. He falls asleep again in seconds. She rocks him in silence for a moment, and then she says, “Korush is good-looking all right, but Eduardo has his own charms.”

  I smile at her. Eduardo must have charms indeed. Jennie waited twenty years after her horri
ble first marriage to become another man’s wife. “I need a Coke,” I say and scramble to my feet. “Want one?” I don’t wait for an answer. Jennie and I share a caffeine addiction. While I’m in the kitchen, Jalal arrives and greets Jennie.

  When I step into the living room with a soda can in each hand, he arches his brows. “Renee?”

  “This is for Jennie.” I raise my left hand, then my right, “And this is my only one today. I swear.” I rise on tiptoe to give him a loud smooch and then sit back down with the samples. “Why are you home early?”

  “I want to talk to you about the bedroom ceiling.”

  “Get rid of the mirrors.” I wink at Jennie when Jalal reacts. I love that I can make him blush.

  “There are no—” He’s talking to Jennie, but when he sees her grin he shakes his head and turns back to me. “Very funny,” he says. “I am thinking of putting in ambient lighting. We can extend the lower cove molding to hide the fixtures. What do you think?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, though I’m not sure what he means by lower cove molding. I didn’t notice the ceiling either time I was in the room. I prefer not to think of the room any more than I have to because I’ll picture Jalal lying there with Meredith. Uh-oh. If he read my mind on that point, maybe the remodel really is his gift to me. “Wait. You drove all the way home to ask me about the lighting? Why didn’t you just call?”

  “Ben stopped work until the electri—” He bites off his words and his eyes widen.

  “So you’d already told him to add the lighting.” I’m not asking a question, so he responds with his sheepish forgive-me smile that he knows works on me most of the time. “You don’t have to consult me on these things, Jalal. I trust your judgment. In fact,” I gesture to the floor around me, “why am I looking at these?”

  “I thought you would want to pick out the paint colors before you talk to the interior designer.” He steps toward Jennie to take Adam, who’d stirred at the first sound of Jalal’s voice and now is awake and reaching for him.

  “Designer? You mean a decorator?”

  “Whatever,” he says, “but good luck to any decorator who tries to talk you into anything you—”

  “Well, why don’t you clue the designer in on your method of just pretending to consult me?”

  Jennie boosts herself out of the rocker and lifts Adam out of Jalal’s arms. “I’ll go change this baby’s diaper while you two try to out smartass each other.”

  “Jennie …” warns Jalal.

  “Hush it, Super Dad. I never took any vow to clean up my language.”

  Jalal offered to let the contractor manage without him and come with me to the interior design gallery, but I knew if he did I wouldn’t really look at anything. I’d just rely on his eyes. Since we married, I think Jalal has matured, and I’ve moved in the opposite direction. Maybe Jennie’s right. Maybe he senses that and it makes him feel old. I don’t want him to feel old, but for the first time in my life, I trust someone to take care of me. It’s a nice feeling.

  Just as I pull in to park, an old woman walks up to the car in the next spot. She opens her door halfway and then stands there as if I’ve parked too close for her to get in. I haven’t; the woman has plenty of room. Ignoring her, I get out, open the trunk, and take out the stroller. I keep expecting her car to pull out, but by the time I have the stroller set up, not only hasn’t it moved, I never even heard her door shut. I’m in no mood to deal with a bitch over an inch of parking space. I slam the truck lid. The woman stands peering through the window at Adam.

  I open the back door on the opposite side of the car, unbuckle Adam from his car seat and transfer him to my hip. As I straighten, the woman smiles at me across the top of the car. I may have been wrong about her. She looks harmless, so I return a half smile and close the door. As I carry Adam to the stroller, the woman moves in the same direction.

  “You’re Jalal’s wife,” she says and offers her hand. “I’m Judith Langley.”

  “Renee,” I say and reach to shake hands, but the woman clasps mine and doesn’t let go. She’s creeping me out now. “It’s nice to meet you, Judith, but if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I was Meredith’s friend,” she says and releases my hand. “And this must be Jalal’s son. Meredith would be thrilled.”

  “She would?” I snap my mouth closed as if I’ve slipped up, though I did a good job of sounding surprised. I know who Judith is because Meredith often wrote about her in her journal. But no one except Aza knows I read that, so I have to pretend I don’t know Judith or that Meredith feared Jalal would grow to regret he missed out on a life with a younger wife and children. Aza found the journal hidden in Meredith’s garden shed and gave it to me, so as far as I know we’re the only ones who know it exists. From what I read about their relationship, I’m surprised Meredith shared that particular regret with Judith.

  “His name is Adam,” I tell her.

  “He’s a beautiful child,” she says and smiles at him again before reaching into her purse to pull out a card. “Here’s my number. Let’s have lunch. Soon.”

  I nod and glance down at the card. “You’re an interior designer?”

  “I’ve resurrected my former career to stave off senility. Back then, we were just interior decorators. Why? Are you looking for one?”

  “Yes. I’m here to get some ideas of my own before we choose a designer.”

  “Well, don’t let me keep you, but if you’d like another opinion, all the more reason to meet for lunch.” Judith waves goodbye to Adam and gets in her car.

  I slip the card in my pocket and buckle him in the stroller, but I can’t move toward the shop because Judith has backed her car halfway out and stopped. She lowers her window.

  “You’re moving back into Mer … you’re moving into Jalal’s house, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. After the remodeling.”

  “Then may I point out I know that house far better than any other designer in town? Call me.”

  I wonder at the coincidence as I watch Judith drive away. Meredith will always be in my life. Remodel or not.

  Two days later, the three of us are on the way to Coelho when Jalal says, “You never really told me if anything inspired you at the gallery. What did you decide about decorating our bedroom?”

  “Oh, yes.” I’m facing him, but my eyes are on Adam in the back seat. “I’m having lunch with a decorator today.”

  “When did you arrange that? And when were you going to tell me?”

  “I called her yesterday, and she suggested lunch. Aza’s going to watch Adam, so it won’t interfere with whatever you have to do at the house today.”

  “So why did you not tell me this yesterday?”

  For a moment, I shift my eyes to Jalal. “What’s the big deal? You ordered me to take care of this.”

  “I—” He frowns. “I never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. I only suggested you get some ideas of what you liked before you met with a—”

  “I did and now I am.” Assured that Adam is asleep, I face forward. We drive in silence for a minute.

  “What is this decorator’s name?” he asks.

  I stare straight ahead, pretending to daydream. Azadeh told me about Jalal’s testy relationship with Meredith’s friends, Judith in particular, but she also told me they came to Meredith’s funeral. But since Meredith stopped writing in her secret journal before she married Jalal, I’m not sure what kind of peace he made with Judith. He’s never mentioned her. Why did I open my big mouth? I should have told him I was going shopping. I probably won’t hire Judith anyway. I just want to question her about Meredith. Jalal certainly doesn’t need to know that.

  “Renee?”

  I turn to him, eyebrows raised.

  “The decorator’s name?”

  His exaggerated enunciation is the giveaway he suspects I’m hiding something. Our exchange of vows produced some sort of mind meld—on his end only, apparently. “Judith … something.” I reach for my purse. “I have her card h
ere somewhere.”

  “Langley,” he says.

  “Oh.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “At the design center. She’s an interior—”

  “Designer. Yes. I know. Hence the secret lunch meeting to discuss decorating our bedroom.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not a secret anything. Just forget it. You buy whatever bedding and furniture and window treatments and other crap you want. Leave me out of it.”

  Jalal clears his throat, but then he remains silent during the last ten minutes of the drive. Sometimes his damned sensitivity to my moods ticks me off more than anything. I’ll be going to lunch with Judith, not because of my stubbornness, but because he’ll insist. Just before we turn into the driveway, he reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips.

  It’s hell being married to a saint.

  Jalal carries a sleeping Adam into Azadeh’s bedroom and then leaves to check on the renovation progress in the main house. Aza offers me a cup of coffee and a seat at her dining table. “I’m sorry,” I say, “Adam fell asleep earlier than I intended on the drive over, so he’ll probably wake up before I get back.”

  “Well, I hope so,” she says, “it’s not much fun just watching him sleep. Is Jalal going with you to meet with the designer?”

  “No. He’s keeping an eye on the work downstairs.” I take a sip of coffee. “The designer is someone he knows … a friend of Meredith’s.”

  “Really. Which friend?”

  “Judith.”

  “Oh, yes. I forgot she used to be in that business.”

  “I met her at the design center.”

  Aza only nods.

  I wait while she takes a drink of coffee, and still she says nothing. “So what do you think?” I ask her.

  “Oh. About Judith’s design work? I’ve never seen it, so—”

  “You have, sort of. Apparently, she influenced most of Meredith’s decorating, but that’s not what I meant. Would it be wrong—risky—to involve Judith in our lives?”

  “Risky? Oh. You mean because she’ll remind Jalal of Meredith?”

  “Yes.”

  Aza gestures around the room. “This was her house. Don’t you think that’s already a pretty big reminder?”