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Sallam retreated to the entrance. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
I shook my head. “La shokran.”
“Nice accent,” he said approvingly, and then he dipped his chin and shut the door behind him.
I was alone.
Alone in the room my parents had lived in for nearly half of the year. The last place they’d slept in, some of the last things they’d touched. Every surface drew my notice, begged a question. Had my mother used this desk? Had she sat in the leather wingback chair? Did she last write with this quill? I rummaged through drawers and found a stack of blank sheets of paper, all except one. The top sheet had two words written in a delicate hand.
Dear Inez.
She never got to finish the letter. I was robbed of my mother’s last words to me. I dragged in a deep shuddering breath, filled my lungs with as much air as I could, and then exhaled, fighting to keep myself from breaking down. This was a golden opportunity to study the room as they’d left it, before it became cluttered with my things.
The waste basket had several crumpled-up sheets, and I wondered if it took Mamá several tries to think of what to say to me. A sob climbed up my throat, and I abruptly turned away from the wooden desk. I hammered down the wave of emotion, pressing in like a strong tide. Another exhale later, and I was calmer and clearer eyed. I continued my exploration, determined to do something productive. My gaze flickered to my parents’ room.
I nodded to myself and straightened my shoulders.
With a bracing breath, I opened their door—and gasped.
Papá’s trunks were open on the bed, clothing strewn all over, shoes and trousers lying in piles. The drawers of a lovely oak dresser were open, the items inside tossed around as if he’d been packing in a hurry. I frowned. That didn’t make sense—their last note told me they were staying longer in Cairo. The sheets were gathered at the foot of the bed, and Mamá’s luggage sat on a chair near the large window.
I walked farther inside, examining the dresses slung over the back of the chair. Clothing styles I’d never seen my mother wear at home. The material was lighter, and more youthful, and heavily adorned with ruffles and beading. Mother’s clothing in Argentina, while fashionable, never drew any notice. She wore her modesty with a polite smile and pretty manners. She was raising me to be the same. Inside the wardrobe, rows of shimmering gowns and well-heeled leather shoes greeted me.
I fingered the fabric curiously, a feeling of wistfulness stealing over me. My mother was someone who knew the right way to comport herself; she always spoke eloquently and she knew how to host large parties and guests at the estate. But here, her clothing suggested she was more carefree, less starchy and refined.
I wish I would have gotten to know that side of her.
A sharp knock interrupted my reverie. Probably Sallam wanting to make sure I was settling in. He seemed like the kind of person my parents would have liked. Polite and competent, a good listener and knowledgeable.
I crossed the room and opened the door, an answering smile on my lips.
But it was not Sallam.
The stranger from the dock leaned against the opposite wall, legs crossed at the ankle, with my trunks stacked one on top of the other at his side. His arms were folded across his broad chest, and he stared at me, a sardonic curve to his mouth. He appeared to be faintly amused.
“Mr.Hayes,I presume?”
CAPÍTULO CUATRO
The man in question kicked off the wall and sauntered into the room. “You’re more resourceful than I thought you would be,” he said cheerfully. “It’s been duly noted, so don’t try that shit with me again.”
I opened my mouth, but Mr. Hayes pressed on with a smirk. “Before you cast judgment on my language, I’ll venture to guess that a young woman who traveled across the ocean, pretending to be a widow, has most likely consigned the proprieties to hell.” He bent his knees, his blue gaze level with mine. “Where they belong, I might add.”
“I wasn’t going to cast judgment,” I said stiffly, even though I had been. Mamá expected me to observe the proprieties, no matter what I personally believed. Sometimes, though, rebellion beckoned like a siren, and I couldn’t resist.
Hence my being here at all.
“Oh no?” he asked with an irritating smile. Then he ventured farther into the room, leaving the door open behind him.
“Well,Mr. Hayes,” I said, turning my body to keep him in my line of sight. He seemed like the type of person one ought to meet head on while standing. On the docks, I’d written him off, but there was something different in the way he carried himself now. Perhaps it was his brawn, or the faintly smirking line to his mouth. He looked and felt dangerous, despite his informal conversation. He lazily walked about the room, picking up random objects and setting them down in a careless fashion.
“Thank you for bringing me my bags.” And then because I couldn’t quite help myself, I added, “That was very kind.”
He threw me a dirty look. “I was doing my job.”
“So, you work for my uncle,” I said. “That must be exciting.”
“It certainly is,” he said. His elegant accent was at odds with the irreverent edge in his voice. He sounded like a stuffy aristocrat, except for that subtle hint of hostility lurking under the surface, and the colorful language.
