Then again, it was Ramadan, the month of miracles. At this point Maryam would take the miracle of getting a good night’s sleep over almost anything else. After glancing at her parents and Dadu, she could tell the feeling was mutual. It was nearly seven p.m., and she felt dead on her feet. This day refused to end.
“Saima, don’t you want to get a good night’s rest so you can look fresh tomorrow when you meet your in-laws for the first time?” Maryam wheedled. “I doubt the airport will even be open overnight. Let’s see what they’re offering in terms of accommodation.”
Her sister considered her words and reluctantly nodded. “But we come back here right aftersuhoor,” she said, referring to the predawn morning meal that kicked off their fasting day.
This time Ghulam went to the counter for the hotel and meal vouchers, returning with a wry smile on his face. “Snow Falls Inn,” he announced.
Maryam sighed. What she wouldn’t give for a Marriott, preferably one with a twenty-four-hour concierge lounge. Whoknew what horrors awaited them in this tiny Canadian hamlet. Plus, they would probably be the only Muslim and non-white people in the entire village. The good citizens of Snow Falls had probably never even heard of Ramadan. How were they going to find something to eat at five a.m., forsuhoor?
Just for one night, she reminded herself. She would scrounge something from a vending machine, and they would be out of here on the first flight.
Before they boarded the yellow school bus commandeered to ferry stranded airport passengers to Snow Falls Inn, Maryam dug out boots and heavy snow jackets from their luggage, for once grateful for her family’s overpacking tendencies. With a pang, she wondered where Anna was, and if she had packed wisely. Or if her luggage had managed to get on the plane after all, she thought, recalling that Anna had noticed her suitcase on the tarmac back in Denver. Those heels were pretty, but completely impractical in this weather. She looked around but didn’t see Anna.
Maryam boarded the bus with her family, the rumble of the engine lulling her even as the musty pleather seats recalled her long-ago school days. Beside her, Saima sniffled quietly. Maryam squeezed her hand. “It will be all right,” she whispered.
“You don’t know that,” Saima said. “You’re always trying to make everything better, but you don’t control the weather. You don’t control the planes. This is a disaster.”
“Things will be better tomorrow,Inshallah,” Maryam said. God willing. “Makedua. Whatever is meant to be, right?” As a child, she had been taught to pray for what she wanted, but alsoto accept what was written for her, both the good and bad. While her adult belief in fate and predestination had become more nuanced, it seemed appropriate to remind her sister that, at this moment, there was very little they could do. “Just think how funny this story will be to your grandchildren,” Maryam added. “Especially since they’ll have no idea what snow is, because of climate change.”
Saima pushed her. “You’re always so paranoid. What’s climate change?” she grumbled, but smiled slightly.
The bus rumbled to a halt, and Maryam wiped the fogged-up window and peered out at a deserted, silent side street, every surface piled high with snow. When she stepped onto the sidewalk, her foot sank into powdery snow nearly to her knees. At least the blizzard-like conditions had eased, so there was some visibility. Maryam tried to make out the details of the looming three-story inn. She linked arms with Dadu, who was clearly delighted by their wintry surroundings.
“A white Christmas!” he exclaimed. “Just like in the movies.” He started to tunelessly sing the holiday anthem. “I’m sleeping in a white Christmas,” he sang. “Just like the amazing ones in the fort.”
“I don’t think that’s how the song goes,” Maryam said, amused.
“You don’t know the backstory of the song,beti,” her grandfather explained. “You see, every piece of art that endures has a strong origin story. This song is about a soldier dreaming of the snow forts he used to make before he joined the army.” Maryam didn’t have the heart to correct her grandfather, especially when he got a familiar faraway look in his eyes. “I used tosing this to your dadi-ma. I only wish she were here. Every Christmas we would watch the holiday movies, too,” he said, his face falling. Her grandmother had passed away three years ago, after nearly fifty years of marriage, and Dadu still mourned the loss keenly.
“I bet she loved the romantic ones,” Maryam said softly.
“What is a movie without love?” Dadu asked rhetorically. As a former Bollywood director, he loved a good romantic story line. “This town would have been the perfect backdrop for one of my films,” he added.
“The hero and heroine running through the snow toward each other?” Maryam asked, teasing him about an old Bollywood trope.
Dadu smiled at her, and they shuffled carefully through the snow to the main entrance, carrying their bags. Snow Falls Inn was an imposing building constructed in the Second Empire style, with a pitched mansard roof, dormer windows, and massive bay windows out front. Slim white columns stood sentry in front of a recessed entry with oversized wooden doors closed tight against the chill. Stained glass windows streamed cheery light from inside the establishment, and with its elegant stone face, the hotel looked like it would be more at home on the streets of Paris—perhaps minus the garish holiday lights, in varying shades—than in this quiet Ontario village. With a quick glance to make sure the rest of her family was following, she pulled the heavy wooden door open.
A blast of warmth instantly extinguished the chill from her hands and face. Inside, she found her grandfather a seat before making her way to the lobby. The inn had a grandreception area decorated with a riot of color, with a fireplace so large she could have stepped inside without stooping. It was piled high with logs, the fire banked. Behind the reception desk, two middle-aged white women cheerfully checked in other stranded passengers. One of the women, dressed in a bright red Christmas sweater with three green dinosaurs in matching Santa hats, made Maryam smile. Her smile faded when the young man currently being served turned around and she recognized Saif’s impossibly handsome face. She looked around for a pillar to hide behind, or maybe a swimming pool to dive into.
“Maryam?” Saif said, his deep voice making her shiver despite the warmth from the fireplace.
“Where?” she said, and then flushed bright red. Had she really responded with “where” to herown name? Dear God, please let her Ramadan miracle be a giant pit opening in front of her so she could disappear.
Saif laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I know, right? I can’t believe we’re stuck here, either,” he said, kindly reframing her inane remark. “I was looking forward to catching up with my cousins in Toronto, and of course attending your sister’s wedding. Guess we’re all stranded for the night.”
“Yup. Guess so,” she stammered. Part of her was surprised that Saif recognized her. She knew she looked different now that she wore the hijab, and it had been years since they had last met. For his part, Saif had only grown more attractive. He had always been tall, but his six-foot frame had filled out over the past five years; he had put in some serious time on the weight bench. The last time she had seen him, he had been lanky; nowhis broad shoulders, powerful arms, and trim waist were emphasized by his well-fitting hoodie and jeans. But it was more than that—Saif seemed comfortable in his own skin. The lazy smile he threw her now did something to her stomach. She caught a whiff of his aftershave as he took one step closer—something woodsy with a hint of citrus—and she resisted the urge to inhale deeply.
“I like your hijab,” he said, his tone low and teasing. “The dark blue suits your eyes.”
Maryam’s eyes flew to his face in surprise, and thankfully one of the women at reception beckoned her forward, and she beat a hasty retreat, muttering excuses.
“Good evening, love, how are you tonight?” the woman behind the reception desk asked in a rolling Aussie accent. Her name tag read “Kath,” and she was tanned despite the frigid weather, dressed in a black blazer and sensible blue khakis.
Maryam, still reeling from her embarrassing encounter with Saif, gave her a strained smile as she handed her the hotel vouchers from the airport.
“You’ll have to double up, love. Plenty of stranded passengers; plus, the... business folk had dibs on the renovated suites.” Kath winked, and Maryam wondered what sort of business she meant. Kath reached across her partner’s desk for the room cards.
“You lot must be especially tired. Ramadan, isn’t it?” the woman in the Christmas sweater, whose name tag read “Deb,” asked conversationally, and Maryam blinked in surprise.
