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“You gave Salim to your sister to care for. Tariq’s older brother raised him as his own. It’s not like you gave your son to some random stranger.”
“Tariq didn’t see it that way. Not at first,” Melanie said. “He only met his son when Salim was three years old. Tariq was furious. You were always going to keep your baby.”
“You had your reasons,” Lucy said.
Melanie nodded. “Yes, I did,” she said softly. “As no doubt did you. Anwar values loyalty above all else. It matters to him deeply that you were going to keep his child. He’s hurt that you didn’t tell him…that you were going to keep your pregnancy a secret.”
“After how he treated me? How could I forgive him? How could I risk telling him of our child? I didn’t know what he would do. He might have expelled me from his life permanently, taken the boy, and never let me see my child. Anything could’ve happened.”
“He had to let you go. Anwar believed Hamad. The evidence was compelling.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Women’s instinct and intuition,” she said. “And my rational mind wasn’t clouded with family duty and misplaced loyalties. Anwar may be many things, but he is not heartless.”
“No. A heartless man would not love a falcon as he does,” Lucy said.
“It’s a surrogate for the real thing,” Melanie said. “A woman he can trust. A woman he can love.”
Lucy sucked in a breath and swept her hands brusquely over the rivulets of painted molten lava she had hurled at the canvas. “I can’t forgive him.” She pressed her palms firmly and smeared a blaze of red along the length of the artwork.
“I know. I know,” Melanie said softly. “When Tariq abandoned me, it hurt so much I felt like my heart was burning. I wanted marriage. I wanted a man who would love me. I wanted children. He didn’t. Not to a commoner. At least, that was what his advisors decreed. I vowed never to open myself to pain like that again. It was beyond horrific—the worst of circumstances. I wanted to flee from the tainted memories that united us and stained our past. I wanted to run from the contamination of the choices I had made. I wanted to bolt from the danger Tariq presented. But imagine if I hadn’t given our love a second chance?”
“You wouldn’t have your beautiful children,” Lucy said
“Yes, and I wouldn’t be happily married to a man who loves and adores me and encourages my career.”
“Anwar’s been very supportive of my art. More supportive than my mother or father or anyone I loved.”
“I know. He showed me the collection he purchased. He’s your biggest fan. I can see why,” Melanie said, sweeping her hands around the studio.
“What can I do?”
“Trust the hand of fate that has brought you together again. Trust the love that has created your child. Trust in the desert and its dreams. Can you do that?”
* * *
When Anwar employed Lucy, Lucy Gaysford, as she was then known, as his art expert, the kingdom was aflame with the news that Tariq’s younger brother had hired a foreigner to acquire rare pieces of art on the kingdom’s behalf. A foreigner! A Westerner! An outsider! The kingdom reeled. But behind closed doors Melanie clapped and smiled and whooped with joy.
She knew too well what it was like to be an outsider. Neither a member of the boy’s club nor the gender or class deemed most worthy. Secretly, she always cheered for the underdog, except she knew Lucy was no one to be underestimated. Her credentials and achievements aside, Melanie sensed Lucy had an inner talent, a source of genius that perhaps even Lucy never knew she possessed. It took an artist to see an artist, she reflected as she gazed around her studio.
Melanie had watched with admiration and pleasure as Lucy convinced Anwar to break with stuff tradition, encouraging him to acquire extraordinary contemporary artworks for his collection. Rothko’s, Pollocks, Twomblys, de Koonings, and more—all male artists Melanie noted to her dismay, arrived from America, Europe and Asia.
The people of Avana were horrified. “What is this rubbish?” “My 3-year-old son could have painted better,” in the wake of scorching criticism, Lucy remained steadfast—with Anwar’s unwavering support.
Melanie admired Lucy’s bravery and daring and her influence. She had always thought Anwar’s priceless collection of 15th-century master paintings was too safe, too somber, too stuffy—better suited to crusty old shrines to the past than a region embracing the future.
Sadly, it was inevitable that with Lucy's considerable talent came envy. People, all anonymous, hiding in the shadows of secrecy, set out to discredit Lucy. Melanie could have hazarded a guess who, starting with the former art consultant that Anwar had fired when he passed full control of his collection to Lucy.
In those early months that Lucy worked with Anwar, Melanie had hoped that she would soon have an ally, a friend, a confident, another woman from the West she could confide in—and dreamed of collaborating on some design project in the future. But that was not to be.
As quickly as Lucy arrived, she disappeared in a malström of brutal, career-ending accusations and shame. It had been at Melanie’s insistence that Anwar went in search of her.
“Bring her back. Reveal the truth. Or are you afraid?" Melanie had goaded.
Melanie knew very well what Anwar feared. All na Hassirs were the same. They feared love because they had been raised to hate.
Women's intuition and instinct, plus a good ground to the ear, told Melanie that Anwar and Lucy's connection ran deeper than a working relationship. She had heard the rumors, firmly suppressed by the palace, that one night, when the desert was rich with dreams, Anwar had stolen Lucy's heart.
