Nick was down on one knee. Anna squeezed her eyes shut.
Then she realized he was touching her feet. She opened her eyes and saw that he was taking shoes from a shoebox. And notjust any shoebox: this one bore the distinctive Manolo Blahnik name.
“A present already?” she managed through her breathless relief. “But it’s not even Christmas morning yet...”
Dismay rushed in. She had messed things up already.Herpre-Christmas gift, the little photo album she’d made for him, tucked into his suitcase, was a sweet idea—but in comparison to a pair of Manolos, the photos were just embarrassing. “I don’t know what to say...”
“You could start with ‘thank you.’ ” He placed the first shoe on her foot, then the second. They were blue satin pumps and matched the color of her cocktail dress exactly; each toe sported a light silver crystal square buckle; the heel was a high stiletto.
“They’re gorgeous! Thank you!”
“Now you really are going to look absolutely perfect.”
Anna bit her lip. She had no room for these in her suitcase, and had been planning to wear shoes with a lower heel that were easier to walk in. She had so many places she needed to go today. But how could you say no to Manolos? She’d just channel her inner Carrie Bradshaw.
She kicked out one of her feet. “Perfect fit.”
“Perfecteverything.” He checked his watch. “And on that note, I should go so I don’t miss my flight. See you tonight—but call me when you get to the airport and let me know everything’s on track. Don’t forget, my mother is a very exacting woman. Nothing can go wrong.”
Anna’s smile faltered, but Nick didn’t notice. The door clicked shut and he was gone.
TWO
Maryam
December 20
Denver International Airport
Maryam. Maryambeti. Look around. The most perfect time of year,nah?” Dadu said.
Beside her grandfather, Maryam Aziz nodded but didn’t look up. She was too intent on herding—there really was no other word to describe it—her parents and grandfather through Denver International Airport while maneuvering the leaning stack of suitcases piled on their overstuffed luggage cart.
Dadu, Maryam’s paternal grandfather, reverted to a happy child during the holidays. A slightly wizened, five-foot-seven child, with a pot belly and a lined but beaming face. He was dressed now in a festive bright red cardigan, green corduroy pants, and shiny brown patent leather loafers. The woolen scarf around his neck was decorated with smiling snowmen and the words “Merry Christmas” embroidered in bright green at the edge—a gift from their next-door neighbor Mrs. Lyman.Maryam suspected the widowed seventy-five-year-old grandmother had a small crush on her dadu. The irony, of course, was that neither their Muslim family nor Jewish Mrs. Lyman actually celebrated Christmas.
But this year was different. This year Christmas, Hanukkah, and Eid—the celebration at the end of the Muslim month of Ramadan—would all fall within days of one another for the first time in over three decades. As a result, the decorations, songs, and general good cheer hit Maryam a little differently; she was almost thirty-one years old, and this was the first time she had felt included in the various holiday traditions she had witnessed her entire life. Her grandfather, meanwhile, had been absolutely giddy at the tri-holiday convergence, and made sure to gift the entire neighborhood and his friends from the mosque with brightly wrapped boxes of Indianmithaisweets and candy canes before they left for Toronto for her younger sister Saima’s wedding.
“Beti, you’re not looking! See the tree? And they are playing your favorite holiday song.” Sure enough, the strains of “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” could be heard faintly above the sounds of thousands of frazzled passengers. Maryam flushed.
“I liked that song when I was six, Dadu,” she muttered, but obliged him by admiring the thirty-foot tree in the middle of the departures lounge. It was decorated with white fairy lights and giant red, silver, and gold ornaments. A serene angel, garlanded in lace, a delicate halo of gold adorning her dark brown hair, graced the top of the tree.
“She looks like your dadi-ma,” her grandfather said,referring to his late wife. They were silent for a moment, both lost in memories. Her grandmother had passed away a few years ago. This was the first trip Dadu had taken since, adding to the pressure Maryam carried today.
Not that she needed any more pressure. With a quick glance to make sure her parents, Ghulam and Azizah, were following, she cut a path through the packed crowd.
“So much happiness,” Dadu sighed. “Plus, a wedding as well! How blessed we are, yes?”
Maryam pushed the luggage cart and tried not to panic. When her younger sister, Saima, resident family nomad, had impulsively announced her engagement to a virtual stranger named Miraj Sulaiman six weeks ago, followed by the happy couple’s intention to tie the knot during the last ten nights of Ramadan, her parents had predictably freaked out. While Maryam worried over her sister’s hasty decision to marry, her parents, once they were assured that Miraj was also a medical doctor and the son of a prominent Toronto family, were more concerned about the logistics of the wedding.
“You can’t get married during Ramadan,” Azizah said. “Ramadan is for fasting, family, and prayer, not parties, dancing, and shopping!”
“We’re getting married on December 25, and that’s final,” Saima said firmly. She had called them from Sierra Leone, where she was completing her two-year tour with Doctors Without Borders. Leave it to her sister to find true love in the middle of a war zone. “It’s the only time that works for both of us. Besides, Muslims get married on Christmas all the time! Even Maryam—” she started, but came to an abrupt halt.
“Muslims marry on Christmas because it’sconvenient. Everyone is at home anyway. Nobody gets married during Ramadan!” Azizah said, ignoring Saima’s comment. “I absolutely forbid it.”
“Miraj and I are heading back to Sierra Leone in January. I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to travel without anikah. What would people say?”
Maryam had to hand it to her baby sister: hitting their parents with the double whammy of sacrificing-doctor andlog kya kahenge, what would people say—as in, everydesiparent’s horror over becoming the next item on the community rumor mill—was pure genius.
