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Even so, when the time came, the whole palace was nervous. The night of the birth would determine a lot of things and whether the Sheikh liked Keisha or not, he would not go back on his word. Ahmed already had plans made for escape should he need to do it and had spoken in length with Keisha about it. She didn’t like the bet, but she loved him for being so willing to leave everything he knew behind for her and the baby.
For hours, both Ahmed and the Sheikh waited outside. The sisters were fetching things and helping wherever they could, and their mother refused to be anywhere near the pregnant woman until she had produced a girl and was thus gone. They listened to the screams of pain, the shouts, the labored breathing, until finally it all stopped. Then, out of the new silence, came a tiny, fragile cry.
A baby.
With baited breaths, the men awaited the arrival of a new soul. When they were finally allowed inside, Ahmed found a smiling Keisha holding a bright pink baby. It was wrapped in a blanket and he could tell nothing of it, but he loved it immediately anyway. He held his child and Keisha in his arms, clutching them as though they were the most precious things in the world. Because to him, they were.
“Well?” asked the Sheikh and it was the overseeing nurse who answered him.
“A beautiful, healthy baby boy.”
They named him Itamar, after his grandfather.
THE END
Her Passion
Ori Herd was in the habit of giving nicknames to the customers who came regularly to her little bookstore in the heart of Seattle’s Pike Place. The names came from either her first impression of them, the books they pored over or, sometimes, the imaginary alternate lives Ori made up for them to amuse herself.
Like the woman with the plain clothes and nervous demeanor was The Dominatrix, who spent her time in the store reading erotica that would make a stripper blush; the teenager with tattoos and a potty mouth was Bound for Priesthood; the old man who loved history books, and who adored Ori, was Wish You Were My Dad. Ori would work silently beside these readers, knowing exactly where to point them for their next read, bringing them coffee from her little espresso machine.
The bookstore had been her passion, her haven, her place of business ever since she’d walked away from the career that had paid for it all. Astoria Vine had been the biggest rock star on the planet when she’d suddenly, abruptly, disappeared from public life. With her bleached blond mane, violet eyes, and perfect face, Astoria had been the envy of millions…but the woman underneath, the twenty-four year old ex-classical music graduate, had hated the business, the sycophants, the endless parties to which she was expected to attend, the sexism, the presumption that she would sleep with any of the revolting head honchos just to get ahead, the drugs that people tried to force on her. Ori had endured it for five years until, one night after a sold-out gig at Madison Square Garden, she’d found herself sobbing on the top of a New York skyscraper, wondering if it would be easier to just jump. It was only the thought of her younger sister, her beloved Yasmin, that kept her from falling. Then and there, she packed a suitcase and checked out of the hotel and moved across the country to the place she felt she could escape. Seattle.
Now, three years on, and having reverted back to her natural dark brown hair and ditched the contact lenses in favor of spectacles to hide those violet eyes, Ori had at last found where she belonged. Yasmin, now nineteen and tall as a willow, was in college in the city and they lived in a simple apartment out in Queen Anne with their beloved rescue dachshunds, Hamish, and Flea.
If her customers ever recognized her, they didn’t say a word. With her long dark hair piled up on the top of her head, her uniform of jeans, tee and sneakers and a face free of makeup, Ori looked so far removed from that painted and polished rock star as she ever could. She supplemented their income by giving piano lessons, sometimes in the shop, at the old piano she’d gotten from a yard sale. Hamish and Flea guarded the shop dutifully – when they weren’t curled up asleep on one of the sofas with reading customers.
Today, as Ori opened delivery boxes packed with new books, she heard the jingle of the door and heard the skitter of tiny paws on the wooden floors; the dogs greeting of their favorite customers. One of Ori’s favorites.
“Hey, little buddies.”
Ori felt her stomach quiver at the warm voice. She swallowed before looking up, mentally preparing herself for the effect this particular customer always had. She looked up into his green eyes, so familiar now. Yasmin had nicknamed him ‘Come to Mama’, but Ori just called him The Delicious Dude. He’d been coming in for the last few weeks, always very friendly, always making Ori feel like she was the only person in the world. He was tall, his hair almost black and cropped short around a face Michelangelo would have been proud of. It was just his grin which stopped him from being too classically honed – a wide mouth cheeky, a boyish grin which took over his whole face and was impossible to resist.
Ori had been impressed with his reading choices too: Murakami, Auster, Bradbury. They’d bonded over a shared hatred of Animal Farm and a fascination with The Secret History. He’d come in for the first time as she was dealing with a rare difficult customer, a scraggly blonde who was complaining about the bonk-buster she’d bought not having quite enough ‘bonk’ in it.
“I thought it would be about a guy who’s a stud who gets all the ladies. Instead, it’s this weird creepy dude that pretends he’s this other man.”
She handed a bag to Ori, who pulled out a copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley. She glanced up to see if the woman was kidding and met the clear green amused eyes of The Delicious Dude. A look passed between them and Ori had to struggle not to bust up then and there. Instead, with a nod to him, she bore the woman off to get something more appropriate.
When she returned, T.D.D. was grinning at her. “A happy customer?”
Ori smiled back at him, noticing that his dark hair curled around his ears in a way that made her want to run her fingers through it. “Let’s just say I found her something a little less stabby.”
Since that day, he’d been in every afternoon, three-thirty regular as clockwork, so much so, Ori would glance at the clock automatically ten minutes before and switch the coffee machine on.
Now, as he fussed over Hamish and Flea, she smiled fondly at the dogs and at him. “Coffee?”
He stood up and smiled. “On one condition. You’re always so busy – sit with me and have a break.”
Ori, her face flushing, looked around at the pile of boxes she had yet to deal with and made a doubtful face at him. He touched her arm gently, leaving her skin burning.
“What if I promise to help you with that lot, afterward?’
She considered. ‘Okay, deal. But first…”
“What?”
“You have to tell me your name.”
