 
Disappearance in the Desert

A Jessica Thorpe Novel

By William Wresch

Copyright 2018 William Wresch

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

Matteo

Yes, both my husband and lover were killed in Dubai. They were both marvelous men, and I will mourn them forever. But I will also always be grateful for the time we had together. Every moment was precious (even if each of them drove me crazy from time to time).

But let me start this story by describing another man I loved, the man before Dubai – Matteo Schweig. Doctor Matteo Schweig, engineering Ph.D., president of Nature's Flavors, a huge Swiss corporation. He was my boss, and he was my lover. I was with him in the last month of his life, but of course neither of us knew his life was nearly over.

That month? In some sense I was playing hooky. I should have been at work, doing public relations and human resources for the new water bottling plant Matteo had just built, but the plant was in my home town – Amberg, Wisconsin – and he was in Bern, Switzerland, corporate headquarters. What to do about a long distance romance? Well, Matteo is CEO of the company, so he is able to bend a few rules. He didn't even have to bend them too far. Since I am HR director, there is some logic to training me on some of the technology our plant uses. If I understand the technology better, I should be better able to hire the right people. That's what we told anyone who asked. But the company does not employ stupid people. They knew I was flying back to training in Bern so I could be with Matteo. And you know what? I don't think anyone objected. So, I was flying back to Bern to spend four weeks training during the day, and having the best nights of my life.

The trip over? Green Bay, Chicago, Frankfurt, Bern. Three transfers, twelve hours, I was dead tired. Then there was immigration, customs, luggage, all of which took time and energy. I had tried to clean myself up a bit in the Frankfurt airport, but I knew I looked shopworn. I had worn an elegant black dress Elias had given me on my first flight to Bern, plus heels, pearls, and a smile. But, as I stepped out into the reception area, I had to wonder, does he still want me?

He was waiting for me. Mid-forties, good hair, square face and square body, he looked like the rock you built a civilization on. And he was waiting for me. I studied his face as I took the final steps toward him, mentally crossing my fingers. It had been six weeks. Did he still want me? I kissed him and whispered in his ear, "Please tell me you still love me."

"I love you more than ever." I had my arms around his neck and I refused to let go for a very long time. And, here's what matters – he let me. No rush, no impatience, no need to move here or there. I think he would have stood will me hanging on him forever. And that told me far more than any words.

Eventually we dealt with the luggage and found his car. He gave my three large suitcases a look.

"Are you moving here?"

"Ball gowns take up room." I said. He smiled and carried two cases as if they weighed nothing. I rolled the third to his car. I could see it was daylight, but I had no idea of the time. In a perfect world it would be night so we could go straight to bed. No such luck. But I kept him occupied as he drove home. He might have to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, but I could put my hands anywhere I could reach with a seat belt on.

He got us home in one piece, and we carried my bags up to his bedroom. There I decided I needed a shower, and he needed to help with my zipper. It's an old ploy, but it works one hundred per cent of the time. I had my arms around his neck, and my lips kissing his cheek while he unzipped my dress. By the time he was down near my hips, I knew I wouldn't be showering alone. We left a trail of clothes behind us as we headed for the shower. That led to his bed and a very nice Welcome Jessica Party for two.

He let me nap after that, one very tired, but very happy lady.

I woke when the maid sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair out of my face. "Ist zex." Ulrike spoke no English. She had just said something about sex. Why? She was pointing at the clock. It was six. Oh, I get it. Sex was six in German. Nice language – they have sex twice a day.

I rolled out of bed. Ulrike had laid out my clothes for me. I put on some underwear and then sat down at the wife's dressing table to work on my hair and makeup. Ulrike sat next to me like that was part of her job. And she did suggest a little more blush, and she helped with my hair. Is that part of maid training in Switzerland? She then helped me with my dress. I was pleased to see she had pulled out the ball gown I had worn the night Matteo had seduced me. Good choice. She then put the pearls around my neck and gave me a big hug. I was ready for my man.

What did my man have waiting for me? He must have heard me come to the top of the stairs, because he stood at the bottom, looking up at me, and waiting. The look said everything. At the bottom of the stairs I grabbed his neck, he grabbed my ass, and we stayed locked together for a long time.

What did we do that evening? We sat together in front of the fireplace while Ulrike got dinner ready, we ate by candlelight, then we danced, then we went to bed. But that description leaves out what really mattered – his arm around my shoulders when we sat together, his smile across the dinner table, his hand at the small of my back when we danced. I can't tell you how happy I was.

I had arranged my travel so I arrived on a Saturday. I wanted a Sunday with him. How did we spend it? We walked through his orchard and his vineyard. We held hands. We sat under a tree and drank some of his wine. The wine hadn't improved, but we sat close and I loved every drop. What is October in Bern like? It was still fairly warm. I wore one of my cotton dresses and put a sweater over it. That was enough. What stands out is the colors. The trees were turning, but there were multiple species, so there were multiple colors. And since Bern is surrounded by rolling hills, there were color displays in every direction. We walked, and I looked at the colors. We sat, and I looked at the colors. We drank wine, and I looked at the colors. He kissed me, and well, I looked at him.

In the evening we went back to the hotel where we had first danced. I wore my ball gown. He wore a smile. We ate, we drank wine, we danced. You sometimes wonder if you can ever equal that first night. We did. I was much more relaxed, and frankly, much more in love. We talked about this and that, we held hands, we smiled a lot. When he took me home, we loved a lot.

Monday was my first day of training. I wore blue jeans, tennis shoes, and an older shirt. Matteo drove me in but he said Ulrike would come to get me when class ended at four – I would want to get home and change before dinner. There were several classrooms on the second floor of his office building. I found mine, picked up a huge binder from a pile by the door, and found a chair. I was first to arrive.

How do I describe my four weeks of training? The company has plants all around the world, so it conducts training in the local language. Nice in theory, but this class was filled with me and seven guys from Australia. They seemed to understand each other. I didn't have a clue. The trainer was a nice middle aged guy who could have been a college professor. Very patient, but limited in his English. He used power Point slides, so we could read the main points, but if anyone asked a question there was the double accent problem – Australian and German. A few times I was able to translate between the accents, but often I was just as lost as everyone else.

Did that mean the class was a waste? Not at all. The first week was about safety. The plant in Amberg bottles the local water. The first step is to make the plastic water bottles. Molten plastic is hot – really hot. Be careful. The extrusion screw builds up lots of pressure. Things can burst. Be careful. Essentially he wasn't letting us anywhere near one of these machines until we understood the dangers and had adopted safe techniques. As I am hearing this, I am thinking back to my job as HR director. Training was one of my jobs. Had I ever done safety training? No. Ouch. Not so good, Jessica. I took lots of notes and tried to think through how I would turn this information into simple training back home.

Week two? The instructor divided us into two teams of four and gave us two machines to pull apart. Our job was not just to put them back together, but to find any worn parts that should be replaced. He would not tell us how many defective parts were on each machine, but we were to replace only what was needed. We lost points if we missed a part that should go, or pulled a part that didn't need to go. Cool challenge. Essentially he was having us inspect, but also measure wear, and calculate tolerances. There might be two millimeters of wear on a part. Was that okay?

The team of four Aussies was done early every day and took off for beers around three. My guys wanted to race with their buddies (and go drink with them), but I took it step by step and measured everything, and then compared what I found to recommended tolerances. In short, I was slow and boring. My three Aussies put up with me until about three thirty, and then they were off to drink. I stayed until four.

Here's where I say I won first prize on Friday. That's certainly what I expected. And we did win, but it turned out to be pretty undramatic. We missed one part that needed replacement and replaced none unnecessarily. The other team missed two parts and replaced two unnecessarily. Given all the parts we had gone through, the difference was not that much. Oh well. At least we won.

Class the third week was similar to the second in that we were in teams again, only this time we were to build a machine from scratch. Each team got a pile of boxes, just as we would if a new machine arrived at the plant. Our job was to build it. Once again, my team was slower. I read the assembly manual. We followed it exactly. The other team finished at three each day and went off for a beer. Our guys decided to have some fun, so they added half a dozen machine parts they had found somewhere. Come Friday, both machines ran, but theirs had extra parts, which confused them and confused the instructor. They got marked down half a grade, while my guys laughed.

Class the fourth week consisted of field trips. They had a small bus that took us to different plants near Bern. The primary idea was for us to study maintenance logs, and talk to people about their experience. Since the only water plant I had ever seen was ours in Amberg, I really appreciated the chance to see these other facilities. What did we learn about maintenance? That some people keep good logs, and some people don't. We also learned which three parts go first. Both were useful pieces of information.

Okay, so probably more about extruder maintenance training than you want to know, but I need to make it clear – I really did go to the training, and I really did take it seriously. Okay? Now for the real reason I was in Bern – the nights and weekends.

Class ended at four. The Australian guys all wanted to invite me out for a beer. Funny how their English was now very clear when they were trying to get me to come along with them. I declined. Ulrike was waiting for me down the street, and we went straight home.

Back home, Ulrike led me upstairs, pointed to my shower, and then turned the bed covers down. "Zex," she said, meaning after my shower I could rest until six. Sounded like a good idea to me. I took my shower, slipped on a night gown and got into bed. Jet lag was working on me big time the first week, and I guess I just got in the habit for a nap the other weeks. Given how we spent our evenings and nights, afternoon rest was not a bad idea.

Ulrike got me dressed each evening. There was a reason I had arrived with three huge suitcases – I had come prepared. Yes, I had jeans for class, and a few cotton dresses for day time, but I had nothing but satin for evenings. I get large paychecks, and I had weeks to prowl Amazon, so I came with almost two dozen gowns. They were different colors, and different skirt lengths, but they all had the same basic features – lots of me visible up top, and lots of flare in the skirts. Off the shoulder looks, spaghetti straps, thin straps, all with deeply scooped necklines. Lots of me to see. Floor length skirts, knee length, shorter skirts, all flared so they moved when I moved. I move my hips, and the skirt keeps going.

So did the gowns work? Let me describe our evenings. Matteo got home a little after seven. We sat in front of the fire place and talked, and then we had dinner and talked, and then we danced and talked. Okay? Three basic locations around the house – a huge old farm house. We talked. Yes. And the conversations were good. But when we sat by the fireplace or danced, he held me. Always. He kept a hand on me, his arm around my shoulders. He had big hands, and warm. And they brought me to him.

Dinner? He had a formal dining room. We sat across from each other. There was a chandelier and wall sconces, but those lights were barely on. The real lighting came from a candelabra. Candle light. A girl's best friend. I glowed. He looked. We talked, and he looked at my face, but his eyes slid down my neck, my chest, my breasts mounding from their satin embraces. He looked. I smiled. I knew where his hands would be soon enough. Every evening. There was food, pork I think, but there was wine, and his look. I sat, back straight, shoulders squared, happy with what I saw on his face.

Matteo took me out one night for dancing, but most nights we ate at home. And I didn't mind. I loved his house, I loved him, I loved sitting in front of the fire with his arm around me. I told him about class, showing off what I had learned – teacher's pet. I was rewarded with bonus points when we got to bed. I think I was getting an A in the bedroom. I know he certainly was.

Each weekend he had a surprise for me. The first weekend we drove up into the Alps. He had rented a room at a small inn on a small lake. I am not sure I can describe how beautiful it was, but let me try a couple key points. The lake was a mirror. It was so sheltered there was almost no wind, so if you looked at it you saw a reflection of the mountainsides, now all covered in fall foliage. Take the best fall colors you have ever seen, and then double them as they are reflected off the lake. That was the view we had as we walked, and it was the view we had from our room – which was the other special feature. It had glass doors that opened out onto a small balcony where we could sit, drink wine, hold hands, and look at the view. I have no idea what a room like that costs, but it was worth every Swiss Franc.

For two days we took walks, ordered room service, sat on the balcony, and bounced around a huge bed. I held his hand, I hugged him, I lay on top of him, I pulled him on top of me, I kept his arm around my shoulders. I wanted to touch him and have him touch me, and that just went on and on. I didn't want to press him, but my constant thought was, can we come here again? And again? I loved every moment there.

The second weekend we went hiking in the Alps. Ulrike packed a lunch and gave us a thick blanket. I knew what I wanted with that. We climbed up one trail or another, stopped at a meadow around lunch time, ate a sandwich, and then laid out on the blanket. I immediately took my favorite position, my head between his shoulder and chest, and I watched the Alps rise and fall as Matteo breathed. The colors were amazing, as was his arm, warm across my back. The combination was so wonderful I found myself kissing and crying. Why am I crying? I have no idea. I held him, he held me, I cried and told him how much I loved him. He let me hold him like that for a very long time. The man has patience, even for a woman who can't explain why she is crying.

The third weekend was our last full weekend. Where did we spend it? Back at the inn on the lake. When he pulled into the parking lot, I started with a string of "Thank yous" that went on as we checked in, as we walked to the room, as we put our bags down, and as I pulled him onto the bed. We didn't get around to room service until late that night. Did I pick the right man or what?

At the end of the fourth week, we stayed in town. What did we do? We waltzed of course. We went to the hotel we had been to the night we met. We ate a good meal, and then we waltzed until the band was done for the night. At that point Matteo stuck a bunch of bills in the band leader's hands, and we danced for another hour. After each dance I stood in front of Matteo and enjoyed the look on his face. He looked at my eyes, and he looked at my chest, and I was happy he was enjoying both. Near the last dance he whispered, "I have learned a new English word – I adore you." I jumped into his arms. On the ride home he repeated it and I started crying. What else could I do?

That night we had a long conversation in bed. He was on me, but he held his weight from me, his face hovering above mine.

"Jessica, stay here. There are many jobs for you here. You would be a great trainer. You even speak Australian." Short joke, I guess.

"And you will find me an apartment for when your wife is in town?"

"I won't divorce her. We are Catholic. And she doesn't deserve it. She comes up here to an empty house. We have no children, and I work long hours and travel much of the time. In Italy, her family home is filled with crying babies, running children, an endless stream of people coming and going. Dinners seem like shouting matches. I hate it, she loves it. So she lives there, and visits me two weeks out of every ten or twelve. It is a strange marriage, but it is our marriage."

"In Amberg I have two daughters, both with boyfriends who may soon be husbands. Grandchildren may be on the way."

"You can fly there any time you wish."

"Ask me again next time I am in Bern. Keep asking. Eventually the answer will be yes." I said that. Stupid woman. I had once told him I was a simple woman. I'm not. I am stupid. I held him, I loved him, the right answer, the only answer, was "yes." If I had just said that one word, things might have gone so differently. But we all think there will be another chance, another day, until there isn't.

We made love, of course, and held each other all night. In the morning I was all over him in the shower. Give me soap, and warm water, and a naked man, and I go a little crazy. I must have been crazy. I held him tight, I had my mouth all over him, and never once did I say the one word I should have said. I never said "yes."

We got dressed quickly enough. Ulrike had me all packed. She had laid out my usual traveling dress – the black satin. Matteo held me and brought the zipper up so slowly he drove me crazy. I leaned into him, my arms around his neck, waiting for him to pull the zipper back down. I bet he was tempted. He held me tight, and long. Neither of us said a word. I didn't want to let go, and neither did he. Good man.

I wanted to drag him back into bed, but the flight schedule would not allow it. So we did what people do. We pulled bags out to the car, we drove to the airport, and we said we loved each other. I had my hands all over him, and he complained about what I was doing to his driving, but I didn't care. I wanted him now, planes be damned. Unfortunately, the planes won out. I kissed him as long as any woman has kissed a man, and then got on my plane.

Chapter 2

Alone in Amberg

So, what do you do in Amberg after a month in Switzerland? First, you try not to cry. I struggled on the airplane and finally decided I can cry myself to sleep every night from missing him, or I can feel happy for having had a month with him. The situation is the same either way – I'm here, he's there. So why spend my days crying? I held myself to that approach all the way back to Green Bay, and even as I walked back into my trailer with a month's worth of mail, most of which had gotten crushed in my mailbox. Be strong, Jessica. Keep your head on straight, Jessica. I rolled my bags in from my SUV, got the first one unpacked, then I laid my head down on my bed and watered my pillow. Thank God for jet lag. I was too tired to cry more than a few minutes before I dropped off to sleep.

Sunday I dealt with my tears by staying busy. I drove down to the Wausaukee IGA and got groceries. I made myself an early lunch. Then since it was Packer season, I did what every other normal Amberger did – I drove to the Amberg Bar to watch the game and drink beer. Who do I find there? Clark. I grab the stool next to him, order a beer, and put my elbows on the bar same as everyone else.

"You missed some good games," he says.

"I am sure I did."

"Is he the one?"

"Oh yeah."

"You moving there?"

"No."

"That makes it tough."

"This isn't a Disney movie. It doesn't all work out. But even if I just see him one month every year, I will die a happy girl."

"Glad to hear it." At that point the Packers kicked off, so all conversation in the bar stopped. The Bear receiver got the ball a couple yards deep in the end zone and tried to run it out. All eleven Packers hit him at the seven.

"Are you old enough to remember when the Bears were good?" I asked.

"Nobody's that old." So it went for the next three hours. Nobody paid much attention to the score. It was never close. By the second quarter more people were watching two guys play pool. I ended up drinking two beers and leaving during the fourth quarter. I had mail to sort through and bills to pay, and much as I loved the Packers, watching them play the Bears wasn't exactly riveting.

Monday morning I was up at the plant by eight. I carried in the big maintenance training manual I had been given, and my notes on safety training. I stepped into my office and found Hannah sitting at my desk.

"Hi."

"Welcome back." Hannah immediately stood and came around the desk. "Jonas asked me to sit in for you."

"Good idea. How did it go?"

"It was pretty quiet actually. I got bored and spent a lot of time playing solitaire on the computer."

"From time to time, I do that too." I put my binder on my desk and sat in my chair.

"One of these nights would you come over?" She had lowered her voice. "I would like to talk with you about Theo."

"Sure." And Hannah left, probably to Theo's office. I assumed they were still together. I logged into my computer and began dealing with old emails. These days, any absence is punished by an email backlog. I spent the rest of the morning working on my backlog and was still not done.

As I worked on emails, I wondered if Janos would stop in and start harassing me. I could see he was in his office, but he left me alone. Good. At noon I took a walk through the plant to see if things were going okay (they were), and then I drove to a diner up the road for a bowl of soup. Afternoon, I finally read through the last of my emails, and while I had to respond to several of them, I thought they could wait another day. Right now I wanted to get some training ideas down while they were still fresh in my mind.

What did I do that evening? I called my girls. If anything was going to revive my spirits, it was hearing their voices. What did we talk about? I was curious to know about the men they had been dating, but I left it for them to bring up that subject. Both did, and both mentioned said man was in the room with them. You know how you can hear a smile over the phone? That's what I heard. I had happy girls. So I went to bed a happy mother.

Chapter 3

The Sky Falls

Everyone has dates they remember. Wedding, birthdays, and often dates of national tragedies, like September eleventh. Wednesday, November third is a day I will always remember. It started out simply enough. I went to the office. I had already determined I would spend the day working on safety training. I would sit at my computer and do PowerPoint slides.

Except that's not how things went. Instead, I got an email from Matteo's assistant. He was in India. She was a little worried about him and would get back to me. She had sent the message at the beginning of her day, so it was seven hours old. Since then, she had emailed me two more times. The first said there was some kind of problem. She would find out more and get back to me. The most recent message told me he had been hurt. He had been down on the floor inspecting some equipment at a new bottling plant the company was building, when something had bit him. She didn't say what it was, and it wasn't even clear if anyone knew. Having seen him crawling around on the floor in our Amberg plant, I could well imagine him on his hands and knees in India, making sure that everything was perfect. And now he was sick. How sick? She didn't say, and probably didn't know.

I sat back in my chair and read her emails again and again and again. Finally I wrote back to her, thanking her for what she had told me, and begging her to pass along any updates as she had them. Then I just sat and stared at my computer. India. What the hell could have bit him in India? I imagined everything from scorpions to cobras. Was he in pain? Was he being helped? Did they have drugs? I stared at the screen while my mind raced. I was vaguely aware I was crying.

Somewhere in there Janos came into my office. "I just found out. I wasn't sure you knew, but I guess you also got word. I am sorry." He stood just inside my door, and he did look sorry. "If I hear anything more, I will let you know." And he left. He was trying to be helpful. Maybe there was more to this guy than I had thought. But all I cared about now was what I was seeing – or not seeing – on my computer.

I sat and stared, yes, and cried, for over an hour before the next message. They had taken him to a hospital. I thanked her for the update, and went back to watching the screen. Hours passed.

At four Janos came back. "Jess, you can't sit here all night. Let's go to the lodge. We can monitor the situation from the computer in the lodge office. Hannah will feed you, and I will keep my hands off you. I promise." I heard the name Hannah, and nodded. Yes, it would be good to have her hand to hold. I took one last look at my computer, then shut it down.

I drove to the lodge without ever seeing the road. Somehow I got there without hurting anyone. I went straight into the office and waited while Janos logged in. He went straight to email. He gave me his office chair, and I sat and stared again. He came back a few minutes later with a glass of white wine. I drank it. Hannah came in a few minutes later, pulled a chair next to mine, and hugged me. I hugged her while I cried and stared at the computer. She had lost weight, but she was still soft and good to hold. I kissed her. I stared at that damn computer and waited.

Hannah got up after a while, I guess to serve dinner. Janos brought me another glass of wine, and asked me if I wanted to go in to dinner. I just shook my head with my eyes never leaving the screen. My world was now twelve inches by twelve inches. I drank the wine and waited.

Janos came in later and sat with me. He put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into his chest and cried. We were sitting like that when the next message came in. They were concerned about Matteo's heart. I thought I would lose it completely at that point. Janos kept his arm around my shoulders, and I wrapped my arms around his neck while I cried into his chest. Neither of us said a word.

He sat with me for an hour, maybe two. Then Hannah took his place. She was wearing a nightgown. She sat with me for a while, then said we should go to bed. I wanted to stay in the office, but I was exhausted. I let her lead me upstairs. She took me into her room and undressed me. She slipped a satin nightgown over me, and we slid into bed. I had my arms around her and my head on her chest, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

Somewhere during the night I woke up and immediately hurried downstairs. Janos was sitting at the computer. There was one new message. He slid over into the other chair so I could be in front of the computer as I read. Matteo was struggling. They were giving him drugs for his heart. They had machines ready to help. Janos carried me back upstairs and put me back in bed with Hannah. I wrapped myself around her and fell asleep again.

In the morning Janos sat on the edge of our bed and stroked my hair. There had been no new messages. He and Theo would be going into work. He had left the computer running in the office. I should stay with Hannah. I held his hand, thanked him, and rolled back over to face Hannah. I kissed her, put an arm around her, and fell back asleep.

Around noon Hannah and I went down to check the computer, both of us still in our nightgowns. There were no updates. I sat and stared at the computer, Hannah went into the kitchen to make lunch. Later she brought me a sandwich and a glass of wine. I drank the wine and ignored the sandwich. We sat together all afternoon, holding hands and staring at a screen that never changed.

Five o'clock came. Janos brought me a glass of wine and took over for Hannah. I drank the wine, held his hand, and waited. The message came at seven. Matteo's heart had stopped. There was nothing they could do.

Janos carried me up to his room. He put me in bed, then took off his clothes and joined me. The minute he was in bed, I grabbed him as tightly as I could. I held him desperately. He held me, we kissed, I cried. I kept his arms around me all night.

In the morning I pulled him on top of me. "Please make love to me. Please." He was gentle, and he took his time. As he did it I cried, and held him, and cried some more. When he finished, I wrapped my legs around him and told him I would never let him go. He let me hold him that way for a very long time. I slowly loosened my hold, but I never let go of him. "Please hold me." He did. I cried all over his chest and kissed his neck. I alternated between thanking him and begging him to keep holding me. He was good to me. He was gentle with me. We made love again, and then I went back to sleep.

I don't know how long I slept. It was night. Late night, I think. Janos was back in bed with me. He was holding me. It felt too tight. I twisted a bit, to get some room, but he held me. The guy was an athlete. His arms were like iron. I laid my head back down and went back to sleep.

When I woke up in the morning, he was on me, and in me. He was kissing me, his mouth tight against mine. It hurt. I tried to twist away, but he held me.

"Janos, don't."

"You wanted this yesterday."

"I don't want it now. Please. Let me go."

"No." He was moving in me. And kissing me. I felt him come in me.

"Now let me go."

"Jess, you wanted this yesterday. You wanted it other times. You know you want it now."

"I don't. Please. Let me go." He just wrapped his arms around me tighter. It felt like he could crush my chest if he wanted to.

"He's dead. I'm here. I'm your boss, and your lover. You are mine now."

"No."

"Don't be stupid. You are just a bar girl. You slept your way to your current job, and you will keep sleeping with your boss to keep your job. You are mine. You will do what I tell you. You will make my breakfast. You will do my laundry. You will be in my bed every night. You will smile when I slide into bed with you. You love me. You want me. I will see that in your face morning noon, and night. Everyone will see it. You are mine."

"No."

"Say that word one more time, and you are fired."

"I quit."

"You quit and you are back to your trailer, back to minimum wage, if anyone will hire you. You'll stay. You'll stay for the money, and you'll stay because you like being fucked by me."

"I quit." His face was maybe an inch above mine, and I was looking straight into his eyes. I saw the anger build. But maybe, he saw my anger build too.

"If you leave this bed, you will never work for us again, and I'll tell every employer you stole from us."

"I quit. Now get off me." He didn't move, but I could see his eyes change. I have no idea what was going on between his ears, but something was happening up there.

"I was going to promote you."

"Please, just get off me."

And, miracle of miracles, he did. He kissed me one more time just for emphasis, but he got off me, got dressed, and left. I heard doors slam, and his car drive off.

I didn't wait for him to change his mind and come back. I took the world's quickest shower to get his stench off me, dressed, and ran down to my Toyota. I was done.

Chapter 4

A New Start

So, what do you do when the love of your life is dead? You cry, and then you start over. In some ways, Janos made that all easier. If he hadn't been such an ass, I would have stayed with the company, gone in to the office every day, and sat at my desk rereading emails from Matteo, and crying when my door was closed. Since I was done at the company, I could do my crying at my trailer, and then start anew.

First step, shop at the Wausaukee IGA. Listen to, "didn't I hear something about the plant owner?" And, "someone said you have changed jobs." Local confusion. Amberg has maybe one hundred people, Wausaukee maybe three hundred. So they are small enough that everyone hears everything, but big enough that the message gets garbled along the way. My first three times shopping I explained that I was no longer working at the water plant. By visit four, people stopped asking.

Next step? Where else – the Amberg Bar. The only business still alive in Amberg, and the best place to see a Packer game. Men up here know fishing, logging, and Packers. I got two questions about the plant, and then we were off to how weak our linebackers seemed this year. I went over every two or three days for a couple weeks, had a couple beers, and waited for Clark. He let me have a couple weeks to decompress, and then he took the bar stool next to me one night. Clark is maybe eighty years old, with a bad back, large belly, and hair that is only a memory. He sits hunched over the bar, faces the TV even when nothing is on, and talks to you sideways. He once dated my mother. He might be my father.

"Every job I have is nine bucks an hour, dead end work with no benefits. I am not sure anyone has ever worked for me for over a year."

"I was here for nine."

"I think I told you once before you should move to Green Bay."

"Call me stubborn. I like my trailer, and I like my four acres. I'm not going anywhere."

"Angie wants to work days down in Wausaukee. If you want her hours, I could use you Wednesday through Sunday."

"Done."

And that was it. I was a bartender again. I had lasted six months in the corporate world. I had saved every paycheck, I had seen Switzerland, I had no regrets. Clark might be the owner, but I would run this bar, and I would be back with people I knew. I couldn't think of a better place to recover.

How did my winter go? It snowed nearly every day in December, my Toyota started every morning, we had the furnace in the bar repaired twice, and the Packers went through two rounds of the playoff before the worst officiating in the history of bad officiating cost them a chance at another Super Bowl.

Spring was better. Ben proposed to Tiffany. They had a wedding planned for fall. I still had the ten grand Elias had given me, so I covered all the costs. I got Clark to change my days so I could go to Green Bay each Saturday to look at wedding dresses with Tiffany and Britney. You want fun, spend a day with two young girls trying on wedding dresses, walking, and posing, and laughing. I think Tiffany found the dress she wanted on the first Saturday, but we kept looking for six more weeks, just because it was fun. I was happy and proud and pleased to be with my girls. My two college graduates. My two nurses. My pride and joy.

Summer I heard rumors about the plant. People I had hired stopped in for a beer. They said there was talk of the managers going back to Switzerland. People in the front office seemed tense. I nodded, wished them the best, and poured them a beer. I felt completely cut off from the plant. I was glad it was there, and glad I had helped a couple dozen people get jobs, but the place had nothing to do with me anymore. I was a bartender, and a damn good one. I moved the conversation over to the Packers fast enough. Preseason was starting. Draft choices were in town. There was lots to talk about.

And then, one day comping back from the IGA, I found a BMW parked in my yard. Sitting on the porch of my trailer was Elias. I had enough brain cells working to at least put the car in park, but then I was racing across the yard like a six year old girl in pigtails. He just had time to get ready for me before I leapt into his arms and damn near knocked him on his ass.

"You came. You're here. I love you. You're here." And on and on. You get the idea. I had my arms so tight around his neck I am not sure if he could have talked if he wanted to, but he never would have gotten a word in anyway. I was just babbling and kissing his mouth and neck and climbing up Mount Elias. My general momentum was toward the door of my trailer, but I realized my keys were still in my car. I ran back, turned off the engine, grabbed my keys, grabbed Elias, opened the door, and pushed him back to my bedroom.

I wish I could describe a beautiful romantic scene at this moment, but basically it was me tearing off his clothes and then my clothes and then pulling him into bed. My hands were all over his body, my mouth was all over his face, my legs were, well, busy. I wanted that man in me and when he finally was, I held him so tight I wondered that either of us could breathe, not that I would have noticed.

Only after he had made love to me did I settle down enough to talk, and even then, I had a grip on him that was probably leaving finger prints. I held him on top of me, my arms around his neck, my legs wrapped around him, my body pressed to his. My breasts were tight against him. I wanted all of me tight against him. I looked up at him, so very happy to be looking up at him. So very happy to be right where I was.

But I needed to talk. And I needed to see his face while I talked. I need to see his eyes as I said my words, words that were jumbled. Words that were not easy.

"Elias, I love you. I want you, but... Why are you here?" I stopped there. Your turn Elias. Please say the right things.

"I came for you." Yes, good, but...

"You gave me away."

"I came to get you back." I felt his arms tighten across my back as he held me. Elias, you are such a good man. But what the hell is going on?

"After a year?"

"Yes." What? Just "yes"? I had a million questions, but it appeared I wasn't going to get any answers that made any sense. So, what to do? Don't be stupid. He's here, he's holding you, he wants you. Shut up and kiss him. Which is what I did.

Eventually I loosened my grip on him. I decided I needed to make him dinner – and maybe – carefully – talk to him. I put on my shortest satin nightgown. He put on his pants and a t-shirt. We sat in the kitchen. I poured us each a glass of wine and started cutting up a salad. Initially neither of us said a word. Thank God. There was far too much to say, and far too many ways that conversation could go wrong. I heated up two fish fillets, put them on the salads, and sat down next to him. He ate with his left hand, European style, I ate with my right hand – American style, and we held our free hands while we ate. I put our hands on my thigh, and was pleased to feel him caress my leg.

I was finally ready to talk – at least a little. But he went off in a whole new direction.

"Your daughter's wedding is in two weeks?"

"Yes."

"You will invite me?"

"Yes."

He took his hand off my thigh and put his arm across my shoulders. "Thank you. I wish to meet your family." I had no idea what to say. I put my head on his shoulder, felt the warmth of his arm around me, and knew I was completely happy. I think he ate some more of his salad. I kept my head on his shoulder, and my arms on his chest. There was far more to say, but it could wait. We went back to bed. I knew it was well after midnight in Switzerland, so I let him sleep. I would be on him again in the morning.

At dawn I felt him move, so I slid across his chest, put my arms around his neck, and kissed him. How do I describe my man? Mid-forties, good hair – blond, well trimmed, but longer, in the European style. If I let him stand, he would be just under six feet (but I didn't intend to let that happen for a while). Blue eyes, square chin, ears a little larger than average. He probably would be labeled as "good looking" rather than "handsome," but I loved the way he looked, and frankly I was still astonished and grateful that he was here.

"If I ask nicely, will you make love to me this morning?" I asked as I kissed him.

"If I make love to you, will you put on your waltz gown so I can see what you will look like when we dance in Bern?"

See why I love him? We made love, this time much more slowly, with me kissing and holding him, but this time not bruising him in the process. After we showered (I do need to get a larger hot water tank, given what I like to do in the shower), I slowly dressed in front of him, teasing him a bit as I pulled on the long slip. Then I made him wait while I sat in front of a mirror and worked on my hair and makeup. I did let him put my lipstick on me and I asked him to help a bit with my petticoat, and to help zip my dress (the man knew enough to zip it slowly, with his hand sliding up every inch of my back).

I stood and waited. He stood and looked at me. Neither of us said a word, and I admit to a little concern as time passed, but I could see his eyes, and I thought I saw love. And then he actually took a knee. He was tight against me, his arms around my ass, his face between my breasts. He held me. I wrapped my arms around his head and pressed him to me. He was so warm, and his arms felt so good.

After a time, he leaned back away from me, still on a knee. He looked up at me.

"Every time I see you, I am struck by how beautiful you are. I love you." He took a ring out of his pocket and slipped it on my finger. I looked at it and had no idea what to say. I was clever enough to say nothing. "It was my mother's. Will you marry me?"

"Yes." It was the only word I could get out. We looked at each other, then he wrapped his arm around me just below my ass, lifted me, and laid me down in my bed. As he held me and kissed me, I thought, this is what I want. Hold me, put me on my back, I want to look up at your face for the rest of my life. I was too busy kissing him to say anything. I hope he understood what I was thinking.

That waltz dress ended up getting pretty wrinkled, but there was a ring on my finger and the greatest man in the world in my bed. I was one happy lady.

Chapter 5

We go to work

Okay, so the man practically falls out of the sky after a year, and asks me to marry him. I am happy, but maybe shocked would be a better description. But the surprises keep coming. I am standing in my slip making eggs (that waltz gown is not going anywhere near a kitchen), when I learn my future.

"We bought the plant." Elias is sitting at my table. Maybe I should describe my trailer, if that would help set the scene. I have your standard fourteen by sixty trailer. You come in the front door, and the living room is to your right. To your left is the kitchen. The kitchen is maybe eleven by eleven and has just enough room for a small table and four chairs (which stick out into the hallway and living room). Down the hall is the bath room, and then two bedrooms.

The trailer is my age. Literally. My mother wouldn't say who paid for it, any more than she would tell me who my father was. But she did say, this is where she moved when I was born (her mother wanted her out of the house (not a pleased granny)), and she said she owned it. I have updated a few things over the years, but forty years is hard on a trailer. Just saying, the rich guy from Switzerland is sitting in an old chair, at an old table, in a small kitchen, in an old trailer. He is telling me he has just bought a multimillion dollar factory, and I am wishing I had spent two hundred for a new table and chairs last time they were on sale.

"Why?" Good question, by the way. Elias was the one who had conceived of the water plant in the first place, but was forced by his board to sell it (and get rid of me).

"Dr. Schweig was a good man, and a brilliant engineer. He was a terrible manager. He hired an endless stream of losers. Without him around, the company made one bad decision after another. They need money, and this plant is bleeding cash. We got it for a very good price."

"So you get the plant again, and you get me again?" Okay, a bit rude, but I had to ask.

"When you are finished with those eggs, would you come over here?" He pushed back his chair and motioned towards his lap. So, he's going to answer my question with an arm around me. Good. I put eggs on a plate, added some toast, and put the plate in front of him. He never touched it. Probably just as well. I had worked with his maid and knew the quality of bread he was used to. The stuff I just put in front of him wasn't in the same league.

"I've already said 'yes,' but I do have to wonder." I sat on his lap, and felt both his arms come around me. I was tempted to put my head on his shoulder, but I wanted to see his face while he answered my question. So I was sitting up, almost leaning away from him.

"When we were Schweig's building for the sale handover, you told me you would always love me."

"I did, and I will."

"But you tuned away before you heard me. I said I loved you, and I would come for you."

"It's probably best I did not hear you. Matteo was a good man. I loved him completely. Thinking you might come for me would have been so complicated."

"I respected him, but he had my woman. I was going to get you back."

"So you bought the Amberg plant?"

"I bought the Amberg plant to prove the concept was always right. And to prove you were right. By the way, we have complete access to the plant records, and it is obvious the plant went off the rails after you left."

"I just did some hiring and PR."

"You were the adult in the room. With you gone, the clown they had running the place ballooned the payroll bringing in assistants, receptionists, and consultants from Switzerland, all female, all very well paid, and all needing expense accounts."

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say, and frankly, I didn't really want to hear any more about that man. "So what happens next?"

"Everyone in the office was sent back to Switzerland yesterday." I felt sorry for Hannah and Theo. They had liked it here. Would they stay together back in Switzerland?

"So you will bring in your own managers from Switzerland?"

"No. We will use locals. You became the general manager at midnight last night. You will use the next three weeks to find a permanent manager, and then we leave."

"Back to Bern?"

"Briefly, and then to Dubai."

Okay, I have not had breakfast yet (I wasn't hungry, but that's not the point), and what have I learned? I am getting married, I will run the plant while I appoint a new manager, and then I will move to Dubai. A very reasonable response would be to say, "no." Wouldn't it? Who knows how long he has had to think through all these changes, but I am getting them with no time to think at all. A very reasonable response would be to say, "no, I don't want that." What did I really ask? "Where is Dubai? Near Bern?"

"It's in the Middle East."

"I can't go there. I am a woman."

"You'll do fine there."

At this point our conversation ended. Not because I didn't have more questions. I did. I just couldn't think how to ask them. Dubai? What do I even ask about that? Or about how I manage the plant. Or about anything else?

So, what did I say? "Help me get dressed, and we will go up to the plant."

As we drove to the plant that morning I was barely paying attention to the road, must less to the business. Elias had asked me to marry him. To have him show up at my door was about as likely as having Martians pay me a visit. So forgive me if I was driving badly. Besides, every time I put my left hand on the wheel, the base of my new ring rapped, and it felt like electricity running through my hand. Each time it did that, I wanted to pull the car over and kiss him. I was a serious danger on the road. Fortunately, in northern Wisconsin, all traffic problems disappeared decades ago.

While I drove, he gave me our agenda and timeline. I can't say I was listening. My mind was on my ring, our bed, his mouth, my arms around him... I was just catching the barest of outlines. Tiffany's wedding was in three weeks. A Saturday. Sunday we would pack. Monday we would fly to Bern. We would be there about a week. (To get married?) Then we would fly to Dubai. I had visions of the Swiss Alps in fall colors. Colors for Dubai? Brown?

"Why Dubai?"

"I have found a good company to partner with. I have already signed several contracts, and I expect several more to follow. We are going to do a lot of business there."

"How long will we be there?"

"Probably several years. Maybe longer."

"Dubai? Will I have to wear a veil?"

"Long sleeves, long skirts, no veil."

"I don't have any of those dresses."

"You can buy them in Dubai." I had seen Casablanca. I had visions of me walking through narrow streets where vendors yelled at me. Ingrid Bergman hadn't worn a veil as she shopped. But she was Ingrid Bergman. I was just Jessica.

But I wasn't going to complain. What would I say – thanks for coming back to me, I will love you forever, but do we really need to go to Dubai? All I knew about the place was Elias' company thought they could do a lot of business there – a water company in a desert country? Yes, there might be some possibilities. But I knew this was one of those places where being a woman might be challenging.

Was I in any position to object? Not hardly. I would be with him. That should be enough. Besides, at the moment I was too overwhelmed by it all to think very clearly. Put yourself in my position. In the last twenty four hours I had gotten my man back, I was wearing an engagement ring, and I had just been told my address was changing from Amberg, Wisconsin to – well, to wherever Dubai was. My mind was in complete melt down. Had I gotten lost on the drive to the plant that morning, I would have felt perfectly excused.

What was the one coherent thought I had?

"How do I pick the new manager?"

"You will do what farmers do. You will find the bell cow." That made no sense to me, but I decided I would watch him and see what he had in mind. What else could I do? My mind was still deciding whether it would melt down over his return, my ring, or my life in Dubai. Finding a new plant manager in three weeks? That seemed the least strange thing to occur to me.

We got to the plant around ten. We found all the employees in the parking lot. I parked my Rav4 in the same spot I had used months before, and we walked toward the biggest group of people. As we walked towards them, all the other employees gathered near. Several new people had been hired since I left, but I knew all the others. We talked, I shook hands with the men, hugged the women. A few minutes passed, and then I raised my voice so all could hear, and I pointed to Elias.

"Let me introduce Elias Gruber, President of Naturale, who has just arrived from Switzerland. His company bought the plant from Nature's Flavors." Suddenly every eye was on him. Elias isn't tall, maybe five eleven, and he is thin, much like a distance runner. But he is wearing a thousand dollar suit, has his tie pulled tight, and there is a look in his eye like wherever he is, whatever he is doing, he is in charge. Which, if you think of it, he was.

"Two years ago, I identified this location for the plant, and started building the factory. For important business reasons we later chose to sell the plant to Nature's Flavors. Now we have bought it back. As of today, you are all employees of Naturale. There will be a few changes in HR procedures and benefits, all of which will be explained to you by the new plant manager, Mrs. Thorpe." There was a pause as he pointed to me, and every head turned my way. I saw a jumble of faces, most looking pleased, but many just as shocked as I was.

"I think the best procedure," he continued, "is for you to all go back to your work stations. Mrs. Thorpe and I will come to each station. Please introduce yourselves and explain your main duties. Is that clear?" Apparently. People went back inside pretty quickly, although I am happy to say many stopped briefly to congratulate me.

For the next two hours, we walked the plant and talked to people. Elias was courteous, and spoke a few minutes with each of the employees, mostly asking about their work duties rather than their personal lives. I introduced myself to the new people, and caught up on family news from the people I had hired. Several of the women noticed the ring on my finger. I just smiled.

So now what? Apparently the plant had been purchased complete with inventory, so people just started up the extruders, poly beads came down the pipes, bottles came out the extruders, water went in, and labels went on. We were making product.

Sound simple? I wish. Janos and his people had taken all the IT equipment with them (not that I blame them, they had company secrets to protect), so we had to wait most of the day for a company out of Green Bay to come up and rebuild our information systems and phones. We also had no contracts with suppliers or with shippers or distributors. What did we have? A manual. Plant Initiation Guide. Elias gave it to me, and then walked away. He had a corporation to run. This plant was my problem.

I won't take you through what the next two weeks were like, but let me point out the guide has a chapter on things like "Financial Services Contracts" and "Power and Gas Utilities." I had to get us a bank, get us a utility company, get us a trucking company and a new contract with the railroad. I am a bartender. How the hell do I do all this? I follow the guide step by step -- very carefully.

I'd love to say I never screwed up, and it wasn't all my fault, but when the rail cars ordered by the last owners arrived the same day as the rail cars I ordered, the Burlington Northern was blocked back up to Iron Mountain. My bad.

Meanwhile, while I am getting us up and running, Elias reminds me I need to find my replacement. It's near the end of my second week as manager that I have a little bit of time to work on this. And frankly, finding a replacement manager seems like a really good idea. I had been using my old office, and Elias had been using Janos' old office. Elias was burning up bandwidth as he kept in touch with the home office and all the other plants. I interrupted him just before lunch.

"Tell me about a bell cow."

"I'll show you." And he leads me up the hallway to the employee breakroom. We stand casually, and say "hello" to people as they go in for lunch. Apparently we aren't going in. Elias and I stood outside and chatted, mostly talking about dinner (which we rarely ate before nine), but I noticed he was paying no attention to me. I stood closer and was about to plant a kiss to remind him I was still with him, but he put a finger on my lips and stopped me. What? He hugged me and asked me to be quiet. I grabbed his ass. Apparently that was okay, but I was not to talk.

Finally he asked me to name the four people I heard talking in the breakroom, and then to go in to the break room and take a picture. I should tell the folks in there the picture was so he could learn their names. I did all that, and then we went back to my office. When he closed the office door I assumed he was going to have at me, but instead, he wanted me to transfer the picture I had taken to my desk computer so we could get a good look at it.

"Show me the four people who did most of the talking," he asked. I did, and suddenly I knew what he was doing. Our breakroom has half a dozen small tables. Chairs are all over. Nominally there should be four chairs per table, but a couple tables had just one or two chairs, and two tables had seven or eight. Three of the talkers were at the tables of six; one was at a table of two.

"Tell me about these three." He was pointing to the table of six. There was a man in his mid-thirties, a woman around forty, and a man about fifty. I explained all three had worked at the plant since it opened, and all three did a good job.

"Have your receptionist bring the three to you one at a time while I am out in the plant. Decide which one you want to replace you, but tell me before you tell them. Okay?"

"Sure. But first tell me about your bell cow comment."

"People think cows follow the one with the bell. But farmers first wait to see which cow the others follow, and that is the one they put the bell on. The bell comes after the leadership designation, not before. Get it?"

Interesting idea. I would try it. I knew these three people. And I knew all three were good workers. But which of them was a leader? As I brought them in, I explained I wanted to have an informal gathering of workers with Mr. Gruber. Where do the employees usually go, and what do they usually do? The younger man said he didn't spend much time with the other workers – he hung out with some guys his age in Crivitz. The older man said his church kept him busy after work. The woman, Brenda, explained people were very busy, so they only met at the Amberg Bar on occasion. So instead, they tended to do things like birthday celebrations in the breakroom at noon. Who brought the cake, I asked. Brenda had. I thanked her and went to find Elias.

"It's Brenda." I said once I had him back in my office.

"Why?"

"She works well, she has been here from the start, and it turns out she has been leading some initial social gatherings."

"Is she tough enough to fire someone?"

"I don't know."

"Decide. Can she fire people or not?"

I thought back to what I had seen back when I had been at the plant. "Her first reaction will be to help people who are struggling, but I think she will act directly if she has to."

"Good. Make it official, and start training her."

"You are giving me just a few days with her."

"Do what you can now, give her your email address while we travel, and do the real training by email - when she asks for it."

So I invited Brenda back into my office and told her she was the new plant manager if she wanted the job. When I told her the job paid $100,000, I thought she might faint. I had just told her her children could go to college. She was kind enough to ask about me. I just held up my left hand. We both smiled.

And that was that. I walked into the plant with Brenda, got everyone's attention, talked a few minutes about how well they had all done in getting the plant up and running again, and how it was now time for one of them to take over. I talked a little about Brenda, and then let her have the floor. She said all the right things about how well the plant was functioning and what a difference it was making in the community. She kept it short and sweet. The transition was now official. But first I invited everyone to the Amberg Bar at the end of the shift for a beer to celebrate the new manager. Brenda was honored and excited. I was pretty sure she was the right choice. I would see.

Later, while we were all in the bar having a good time, I did see something that made me a little uncomfortable. Elias stood to one side and talked with people, but he never talked to anyone very long. It was like he was unsure what to say to them, and vice versa. He held a beer in his hand like all the others, but he was standing there wearing a thousand dollar suit. Our workers were a little nervous, and when the loggers came in, they looked at him like he was another species. Meanwhile, Morgan was always behind with the beers, so I went back to help. Word had gotten around about my engagement, and almost all the women from the plant came around to look at my ring and say nice things. I found I was handing out beers with my left hand, just so people could see the rock on my finger. Yes, I was showing off a bit, but can you really blame me?

Eventually people started drifting off. Brenda came around to give me a hug, tears in her eyes. I told her I would spend the next few days with her, and I was very confident about her abilities. She went off to tell her family, and no doubt leave them all dumfounded.

As for me, much as I wanted my man back in my trailer and back in my bed, I felt I needed to do come community work. When the plant had first opened, I had taken Matteo Schweig to each of the local restaurants so he could meet people, and just be seen. The idea was to build good will. And he had done it well. If anything, we needed good will even more now. The company was under new ownership, and there would be confusion and concerns about what the new owners might do. After all, this was the same company that pulled out a year or so ago. We had fences to mend, or bridges to build. Call it what you wanted, some outreach by Elias might do us worlds of good as we reestablished the plant as an asset to the county. He had been in town two weeks, no doubt there were questions, now was the time to get him out and about.

So I decided to forego my private party with my fiancée and take him to dinner in Wausaukee. I was sure he would be the hit of the Wausaukee Café. He wasn't. He walked in wearing his thousand dollar suit (I had offered to take him to my trailer to change, but he said he was comfortable as is), and gave the restaurant the same look he might have given a subway station. I knew two people there, so after we were given a table I walked him over for a quick introduction. It was very quick. He wasn't exactly rude, but there seemed no way to connect with him. How did he like Wausaukee? He had been here once before, and it seemed humid in the summer. How were things going at the plant? It was meeting all its metrics. Would he be staying long? No. I suspect at that point, both locals were thinking, no great loss.

It got worse. Back at the table he looked at the menu and saw nothing he wanted. Could he just have a salad? Absolutely. The waitress was very proud, they now had a salad bar, just like the super club did. He looked at me, clearly confused. I pointed to the small buffet counter where he could make his salad.

"I make my own salad?"

"Sure. You'll like it." He didn't. We walked over together and each made a salad, but you could tell me was not happy.

"If we have to make our own meal, why did we come to a restaurant?" He was speaking quietly, but everyone had stopped talking since his arrival, so everyone heard every word he said. I was certain it would be all over Wausaukee the next day.

"This gives people more choices." I was suddenly the restaurant booster. Elias could see that people were watching him, and he did not want to be rude, I am sure.

So he said, "Great idea." He said it with a smile, and some attempt at enthusiasm. He has limited skills as an actor.

As we drove home I tried to move things in a better direction.

"For most of the next eight hours, I am going to keep you so busy you will think you are marrying triplets. But somewhere in there, besides making me the happiest woman in the world, you will need to think of one thing you like or respect about Amberg or Wausaukee. Find some way to finish the sentence, you know what I really like about Amberg... You may be thinking, what I really love about Amberg is the beautiful woman I will be marrying, but you will be saying, what I really love is... "

"There are fewer mosquitoes than I remember." Fortunately I knew he was joking. At least I was pretty sure he was joking.

Chapter 3

Before the Wedding

The next week you would think we would be consumed by the wedding, but remember my daughters were brought up poor. There would not be a four day sequence of bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner, wedding, then present opening. I was sure Tiffany and Britney and their friends would go out one or two nights to have fun, but there would be nothing formal. As for rehearsal, really, you start at one end of the aisle and go to the other. I would go down early on Saturday to get my hair done with Britney and Tiffany and two of their girlfriends, but until then, I would stay up in Amberg and get the water plant ready for my travels.

Working with Brenda was easy. I showed her the production schedule, gave her all the contracts and contact numbers, and I pretty much could have walked out the door. But I spent both days with her answering her questions, and explaining the relation of our plant to the corporate offices in Bern, complete with the names and email addresses of some of the people I had met there. If she really was going to be the manager, it was the kind of thing she should know. And I have to admit, I enjoyed talking with her. She was enthusiastic and bright.

The difficult part of those days was the love of my life. Elias had Janos' old office, and he spent his day on that computer monitoring the rest of the company and getting ready for the Dubai trip. He was in his office; I was in mine. Then came the end of the workday and irritation started. And most of the problems started over simple things.

First was the car. He had rented the largest BMW the company makes. He wanted to drive it to work. I told him it didn't leave our driveway.

"How much does a car like that cost?"

"US? Roughly a hundred thousand."

"Median household income in Marinette County is forty three thousand. Trust me – I read our marketing research. Wisconsin is below the national average in income, and Marinette County is one of the poorest counties in a poor state. You are driving a car that costs more than double what most families earn in an entire year. Only two kinds of people drive Beemers up here – assholes and tourists."

"You hate the rich."

"We all want to be rich, but until we are, we don't want the rich to shove their riches in our faces." The Beemer stayed home.

Then came dinner. Dinner at the Wausaukee Diner had not gone so well, but hope springs eternal. The supper club on the edge of Wausaukee had a better menu. We could go there, mingle with the locals, and get him an acceptable meal. The mingling started well enough. There were five or six couples I knew, so I did introductions, and Elias smiled and mentioned the weather seemed very nice for this time of year. He was trying. I still hadn't managed to get the thousand dollar suit off his back, but I thought one step at a time.

Then came the fork. He found something he liked on the menu, he ordered a bottle of wine from California, they even brought him his salad, so he didn't have to make his own. He was relaxing, and looking around him less and less like he had been seated in a train station. I was describing some of the old logging tools they had mounted on the walls for decoration. He even seemed interested. He ate his salad, had no complaints, and they took away his plate – but left his fork. He caught the waitress' mistake, and put his fork on the salad plate as she turned. She took it off the plate and put in back on the table in front of him.

"I think you'll want this for your steak." He just stared at me.

"Is there a fork shortage?" He asked me.

"They don't change utensils with each course here or in most Wisconsin restaurants."

"You're serious?" At no time did he raise his voice, but he didn't have to. He was the celebrity in the room, so folks were attending to his every word. I could see faces over his shoulder. Heads were dropping. He might just as well have stood up and called every person in the state a bumpkin.

I returned to a lecture on how each logging tool on the wall was used, and we went on with the meal. But the damage was done. We were eating in the best restaurant in the northern half of the county, and it didn't know proper silver settings. That guy from Europe said so. I am sure that would be the message passed around town in the morning. Was he right about the correct silver service? Of course he was. But no one likes an outsider finding fault with local activities. I had brought him here to make friends for the plant, but he had stepped on lots of toes.

Friday night I thought I would cook for him at home and keep him out of the public eye. I mentioned that at breakfast, but he looked around my kitchen and said we should go out. Now it was my turn to be insulted. I looked around the room, trying to see it from his perspective. The countertops were Formica with wear spots, the cabinets were a cheap laminate, and even the new floor I had put in the year before suddenly looked shoddy. Okay, not impressive. But it was my home. In some ways, it was me. I didn't want to follow that thought any farther, so I pitched another restaurant – the All Seasons Club. It was the fancy resort that went belly up every two or three years. It had been resold, renamed ("boutique something or other"), and remodeled over the summer. We would try that.

As we drove over after work, I described the history of the place. Rumored to be a Capone hangout in the 1930s, it had been popular with folks from Chicago. One of the major renovations in the 1990s had been done by a Chicago area city treasurer who had used three million to add a wing to the main building. It was nicely done, but she had ended up doing ten years for embezzlement. Who owned it now? Who knew? All of this history was my way of lowering expectations.

As it turned out, whether the current source of money was legitimate or not, it was being well spent. The resort is on a large island in the Menominee River, and you used to get there over a pretty rickety wooden bridge. Now they had cleared a huge parking lot just before you got to the island, and you were picked up in a fancy golf cart and taken over to the resort. Along the way you saw lawns and flower gardens that must have employed every kid from Wausaukee High and every nursery in Chicago.

As for the main lodge, it had a huge porch with an endless supply of wooden rockers. You could sit there and look out at the lawns and the golf course while waiters brought you drinks. We went straight in to a beautifully paneled entry and had a competent-looking maitre-d tell us they would set a table for us soon, and would we enjoy a few minutes in the lounge while they got ready for us? Or, put another way, we had stepped in to a four or five star establishment. Elias was pleased, and I was relieved.

The lounge had a beautiful bar and a dozen or so tables with leather chairs at each. When Elias asked for a wine list, they brought him a book. When he ordered a bottle, it was brought by a wine steward who showed the bottle, opened it gently, handed Elias the cork, then poured him a taste. I have no idea what the wine cost, but it was served like it was very special. All I know is Elias was pleased with it, and I thought it tasted good.

When we got to the dining room, it was the same level of service, plus a table with views across flower gardens. The menu was extensive, and tableware included multiple forks. Elias was happy, I was happy.

The only odd part of the meal was an interruption by the hotel manager. He initially stopped by our table to see if we were satisfied with our meal, then took a closer look at me.

"Jessica?"

"Yes." I took another look at him. He seemed vaguely familiar, but I could not place him.

"I'm Ed Ritter. I was in your sophomore English class at Wausaukee High."

"Oh. Hello." I was still working on his face. Where had he sat? What had he said? It had been over twenty years. Finally I gave up and did introductions. "This is my fiancée, Elias Gruber, the president of Naturale, the owner of the new water plant."

"It is an honor, sir." He said to Elias. "Thank you for dining with us. I hope our service met your expectations."

"It has been very good. I think we were both pleased."

"Well I hope you will visit us again. I would love to show you around the resort." He shook each of our hands and then backed away.

So much for old class mates. The food had been good, Elias seemed happy, we had used all the forks, and finished all the wine. We took our time walking back to the porch and to a golf cart that took us back to my Toyota and then to my trailer.

We had a good time in bed, but as I looked at my ceiling I wondered when the last time was I had painted it, and I listened as the bed squeaked. I had the window slightly open so I could hear the poplars rustle in the wind, but I was hearing old bedsprings rather than leaves that night. And I was thinking about fancy resorts but also the aging kitchen we would get up to in the morning. My mind should have been on the man in my arms and on the wedding of my daughter. Instead it was on fading paneling and old furniture. Elias held me like he had before, but did he see me the way he had before? Were three weeks in my trailer three weeks too many?

I kissed him and told him I loved him, and he said he loved me. But as we drifted toward sleep, I felt myself grasping him when I should have been caressing him. I am sure I frowned in my sleep.

Chapter 4

The Wedding

Saturday we drove to Green Bay in the Beemer. Elias insisted – we were going to a large city where nicer cars were okay – he said. He drove me to the salon where I was to meet my girls. We were there at nine and talked constantly until we were done just before noon. Hair salons should be required meeting places before weddings. They give all the females a chance to talk about anything and everything before they got out in front of all the relatives and engaged in all the events of the day. What was on Tiffany's mind? Hoping the caterer got the food right, hoping the best man gave a G-rated toast, and hoping the wind didn't blow her hair into crazy shapes after all this work.

What was on my mind? Introducing Elias. How might he react to my daughters and their friends? How might they react to him? Most importantly I wanted this to be Tiffany's day. How could I be there, but be largely invisible? With luck, she and her friends would dominate the evening, and we old folks would just sit on the periphery. That would be best.

In between shampoos, manicures, and hair dryers, we did talk through the final plans for the afternoon. The girls had things pretty well worked out. Ben's father golfed with a judge who would officiate, and the two had jointly written their vows (I did not expect to hear the words "submit" or "obey"), and the basic outline for the event had been worked through. Since Tiffany's father was in Germany (married to Brunhilda and absent for twenty years), he would not walk her down the aisle, I would. Since the ceremony and the reception were occurring in the same place, things would move quickly from vows to meals to dancing. It sounded good to me.

Of course what everyone was excited about was the location – Lambeau Field. They had two reception rooms up on the club floor, and Tiffany had picked a weekend when the Packers had a bye week. The room was not only available, but not overly priced. If you were any kind of Packer fan, getting into Lambeau Field at any time, for any reason, was exciting. To get there for a private evening up on the same level as the corporate boxes delivered bragging rights for years. Tiffany had guaranteed an extra level of excitement for her wedding. Good girl.

By noon all the i's had been dotted and the t's crossed and our hair done. We all drove to Tiffany's apartment to get dressed ourselves and to help her get dressed. One of the girls opened a bottle of champagne, so soon we were all sitting around in our slips, working on our makeup, and giggling. I can't tell you how good that felt. This was going to be a great day, and a fun day.

The first to leave were Britney and the other two bride's maids. They were all so cute. They were wearing long satin gowns in forest green with yellow bows around their waists – Packer colors. The wedding wasn't until four, but they went over a little after two to make sure the reception area had been set up well, the caterer had arrived, the flowers were placed, you know, all the stuff that the vendors promise you, and you hope they actually get right.

That left Tiffany and me alone. I helped her get her dress on, and then put on my own gown. She had gone with a strapless gown with full skirts and a petticoat. She had the figure for it. The satin gown had layers of lace and really was magnificent. There would be no veil, and I was glad. She was glowing, and I wanted all the world to see that.

I wore a baby blue tulle evening gown. It was off the shoulder, and floor length with a short train. It was a beautiful dress, very elegant. The kind of dress Elias would expect to see on his wife?

What did we talk about in that hour together? Their honeymoon – they were going up to Sister Bay for a week. The wedding costs – they had held the guest list to sixty close friends, so costs would be less than twelve thousand, dress included. I had already given her ten thousand. Now I got out my checkbook and wrote a check to "Mr. and Mrs. Ben Andrews" for another ten thousand. My wedding present to them. The fact that I was able to write a check that size was my gift to myself.

Since we were alone, Tiffany asked me about Elias. I held nothing back. I described our initial meeting at the fishing lodge in Amberg, and my anger at him, then our time together in Switzerland where I learned to love him, only to have him hand me off to Matteo Schweig when ownership of the water plant changed. Yes, there had been trouble with his family. Was there yet? Maybe. But. Elias had come for me, and I would be his. We would be going to Dubai and might be there some time. When would we marry? He hadn't said, but he had given me his mother's ring. Tiffany had been eying it. It had a three diamond setting, two smaller – half carat diamonds – surrounding a larger stone in the middle – maybe one carat? Maybe a little less? Lots of women got larger diamonds these days, but this ring had history. And this ring was on my finger.

I asked about Britney. She said Josh had been hanging around, but that relationship was over. Not sure why. Rob was the current guy. Lab tech. Nerdy but nice. He was still a project, as I would see at the wedding, but she had gotten him to shave his beard and wear better clothes. He might be the one.

By now it was after three and time to get moving. I called Elias, and he brought the Beemer around from wherever he had been sitting and emailing various business contacts. I never had to worry about him staying busy. That was never going to be the problem.

We took our time getting Tiffany and her wide skirts through the doors, down the stairs, through more doors and into the back seat of the Beemer. Good thing it was a large car, because she filled that seat. I got in front with Elias, introduced the two of them, and we set off. When he asked directions, I got to give my favorite line of the day – "south to Lombardi Avenue, then left 'til you see greatness."

And in my judgement, Lambeau Field is greatness personified. We got to park near the east entrance, and took the elevator up to the club level. I had only been to Lambeau once before – nine dollar an hour bartenders don't make many Packer games – and I had never been up to this level. I am not sure if I was more excited about my daughter's wedding or this visit to Lambeau (I know, a terrible thing for a mother to say). What we found at the club level was everything I had hoped – carpeting, large windows, a huge bar, and a reception room where every one of the contractors had actually fulfilled their contract. The flowers were beautiful and were everywhere. The buffet was already set up along one wall. The tables were nicely made up (and I looked, each place setting had three forks), chairs were set for the marriage ceremony. Even the judge was already there waiting for us.

Tiffany wanted this to be an informal ceremony, so rather than hide in some room until the organ played, she immediately walked among the guests, most of whom had already arrived. She got lots of hugs, and lots of compliments. I hovered close by, but not too close. I held Elias' hand and introduced him to a few people who asked, but mostly people were waiting for Tiff to approach. She did a nice job working the room.

Meanwhile, I looked over at Ben. He was standing with several of his friends, and while they were talking, I could see he was constantly looking over at Tiffany. What did I see on his face? Pride, fascination, desire, happiness – just what he should be feeling, in my opinion. He was going to be a good husband to her. I was sure of it.

Eventually it was past four and Britney took charge. She got the groom situated at the end of the room by the judge, and got everyone else seated. Those in the wedding party she arranged at the far end of the room. There was an aisle between the tables and between the chairs, so it was pretty clear where we would be walking when she had us ready. They had hired a band to come in around seven, but the keyboard player had agreed to come in early, so we even had the wedding march. I had Elias sit down in one of the first row chairs, and then I went back to join the wedding party. At this point I have to admit I sort of got in the way. Britney was doing such a good job organizing everything, I just walked up to her and gave her a big hug and a kiss.

"I am so proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom, but will you go stand where you belong?" I gave her another hug, we both smiled, and then I went over to Tiffany. Britney spent another minute getting everyone paired up properly, then signaled the keyboard player, and we were off. We waited while the first three couples walked the aisle, then as everyone rose for the bride, Tiff and I walked through, hand in hand. We took our time. She smiled and nodded at almost everyone, and she still had that glow. I could see Ben looking back at her like she was a goddess.

When we finally got to the front of the room, rather than just put her hand in his, I wrapped my arms around him, gave him a big hug and whispered "Be good to her. By the way, your fly is open." Don't ask me why I said that. He was trying so hard not to laugh I thought he would choke. Finally I put her hand in his and went to sit down next to Elias.

From this point on the judge took over. He had some interesting things to say and seemed a decent guy. But I was most interested in the vows the kids had written. I was really happy with what I heard. They decided to say their vows in unison. They said this:

"I love you and will always love you. I promise to care for you, to support you, to encourage you, to be your best friend and you lifelong lover. I will always be there for you, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, on good days and bad, I will love you, trust you, enjoy you, and stay with you until our lives end."

Pretty good vows, don't you think? There was some kissing at this point, and the exchange of rings, and final words from the judge, and that wrapped it all up. The judge declared the marriage official, and that was that. Rather than walk some place, the wedding party just turned around and faced the room, and people lined up for kisses, comments, and some tears.

Elias and I stayed seated and out of the way. Besides, I wanted to talk with him.

"How did that compare to a wedding in Bern?"

"We mostly have civil ceremonies, and they certainly are simpler than trying to deal with some priests and pastors. The ceremony takes place in city hall and tends to last about ten minutes."

"That's it?

"Once the papers are signed and the couple agrees they want to get married, it is all done."

"Is there a reception?"

"Yes, of course. With food and dancing, like here."

"And when will this take place?" I was turned toward him and looking at him through this full exchange, but as usual with men, he was turned more forward and only glancing at me. Why do men do that? But he understood the importance of my question and turned directly to me to answer.

"You wear my ring, you have my name on your passport. I love you. I think we have been married since the day you came to my apartment. But yes, we should have papers signed and a ceremony and a reception. I would like it to be in Bern. We can send the plane for your daughters and their men. Would that be okay?"

"Yes, I love Bern. As long as my daughters are present, I would love to marry you there. But when?"

"I leave that to you. On Tuesday you can speak with a wedding planner and begin the arrangements. When you have what you want, we will marry."

"Elias, I love you. I promise I will make you happy." I kissed him, and frankly climbed on him a bit, enough that some heads turned. I didn't care. I loved him, I wanted him, I kissed him.

It was at this point I felt the presence of another couple in our periphery. I hated to separate myself from Elias, but I was the mother of the bride, so I knew I had to do some socializing. I backed away from Elias and looked up at the couple. They were roughly our age, so I guessed they were Ben's parents, come to be polite. Elias and I immediately stood while Ben's folks began a conversation about the obvious – wasn't it a great ceremony, didn't the kids look beautiful, they were a great couple, the reception here at Lambeau was a brilliant idea, they were paying for the honeymoon in Sister Bay and had helped with the ring (I guess this was their way of saying I shouldn't expect any help with the wedding expenses). Elias and I nodded and agreed with everything. Why not? We would only see them at major holidays. They were ordinary people saying ordinary things. I had no problem with that.

Eventually they finished what they felt was their required conversation, and they drifted off to their next conversation. Since Elias and I were up and the receiving line was now shorter, we got in line to talk to my daughters. We did hugs and handshakes with the two bride's maids and their men, and then got to Britney.

"You are at table 2. Did you really tell Ben his fly was open?" Britney was not smiling, but I saw no real heat from her.

"I love how well you are organizing this. By the way, this is Elias Gruber, my fiancée. And yes, I might have said something like that to Ben. I didn't think he would squeal on me."

"Hello, Mr. Gruber." She immediately turned back to me. "Please don't say anything like that to Rob. I think he would faint."

"I bet he will surprise you."

"Yes, some days he does." We did another hug and kiss and moved on to Ben and Tiffany. They were holding hands. Another good sign. Ben just laughed when he saw me. Tiffany wagged a finger at me, and then kissed me.

"Thanks mom – for this, for being here, for everything."

"You have given me joy almost every day for twenty three years. I have never been prouder to be your mother." And of course we cried a bit, and then I got out of the way, pulling Elias not to table 2, but out of the room and to one of the sky boxes that they had left open for us to look at. Down below was the field.

"Elias, on that field, magic has happened." I paused. "This is where you wrap your arms around me, and stare down at the filed with religious awe." I felt his arms around me. "You know what I want." He held me tighter and I leaned my head back over my shoulder to kiss him. Life at that moment was about as good as life gets. I had his arms, and the Packers, a happy daughter, and a marriage of my own coming up.

What happened the rest of the night? We eventually sat down at our table. It was the "parent" table. Us, Ben's parents, Ben's uncle and wife, and aunt and husband. We passed the rolls and the salad dressing, told each other one more time how beautiful the ceremony was and how good the "kids" looked. We made it through the buffet line and through more polite conversation. The men wanted to know what line of work Elias was in. He told them. They explained their "lines" but were probably briefer now that they knew they were sitting with an international business owner. Everyone was polite, including Elias. He expressed interest in insurance underwriting, trucking logistics, and family law. Eventually the music started and I think everyone was pleased they could stop making such an effort at conversation.

Tiffany and Ben started the dancing, but others soon joined in, including Elias and me. He held me close; I held him closer. I had my arms around his neck and my mouth by his ear. I made a number of suggestions of what I would do when we got home, and his hands slid as low on my ass as a family event would allow.

I also danced with Ben and with Rob. Both held me practically at arm's length. Ben talked about how much he loved Tiffany and how good he would be to her. I told him he was off to a great start. All I wanted now was three or four grandchildren. He promised he would make me a grandmother soon enough.

Rob also held me at arms' length, but he had a nice smile. He stood straight, wore his tux well, and told me what a nice daughter I had. I told him if he had marriage ideas of his own, I expect at least six grandchildren. He looked at me and said, "I think Britney gets to make that call." I broke off the dance and gave him a big hug. "That's the right answer, and I think you are the right man. Good luck landing her."

After several slow dances to get the initial formalities out of the way, the band moved up the tempo to include some polkas and party favorites like "YMCA" and the chicken dance. I wonder if the main cultural export of the US will one day be the chicken dance. We do have some weird dances.

Eventually it was midnight and people – mostly older people like us – started leaving. Elias and I started toward the door as well. We stopped and hugged Tiffany and Britney and Ben and Rob. I explained it might be a while before we saw them again, but I would keep in touch. And then we were out of the reception, and out of Lambeau Field. Going down in the elevator I knew I was leaving an important moment in my life. My baby wasn't a baby any more. I was proud, I was happy, but I was also sad. I don't know how all three of those can be combined, but they were.

We walked to Elias' Beemer, me holding my skirts up to keep the train from dragging on the asphalt, shivering a bit from the October cold. Lambeau Field was huge behind me, huge and beautiful. I regretted having to leave it. Would I ever be back? As you can tell, my mood was all over the place, but it was mostly sinking. Don't ask me why.

Somehow his Beemer made things worse. Not the car's fault, it was really nice. The leather seats were nicer than any chair I had ever sat in, there was leg room forever, the dash looked like it was fine furniture, and that huge car was dead quiet. We slipped out of town and up 141 without any engine or tire noise. It was easily the finest car I had ever been in. Did it make me feel good? Nope. Like I said, I had no idea what was going on with me, but the quieter the car was, the more I wanted noise.

So I started talking nonstop. What did I talk about? The wedding? No. Our wedding? No. Dubai? No. I talked about the Packers. Owned by thousands of people around town, not by some egomaniac like Jerry Jones. Ordinary people, in an ordinary town. A town of 100,000 competing and winning against cities of many millions. Four Super Bowl victories. But that was nothing. The real record was from before the Super Bowl, the three NFL championships in a row, something never done, and won in the Ice Bowl, the greatest game ever played by the greatest players of all times, with Bart Starr winning the game on the last play with a quarterback sneak behind Jerry Kramer, right through the Cowboys, and it was so cold both players and fans left the stadium and went straight to local hospitals for frostbite treatment, and furthermore what about Aaron Rodgers and all his records?

You get the idea. My mouth never stopped trying to fill the silence being created by the car, that beautiful, damn near perfect car. For a full hour, all the way up to Amberg, through the night, through the trees, through tiny towns, my mouth never stopped. What was going on with me? I think I was having a panic attack. I was with this rich man in a fantastic car, wearing a gown that cost more than my last truck, about to go to Switzerland, then Dubai, but first talking with a wedding planner about my first marriage since I was eighteen. Really? I was the bartender at the Amberg Bar for nine years. Minimum wage I understood. Maybe even working on machines in a small bottling plant. But this?

Elias pulled into the patch of grass and gravel I call my driveway, and when the car stopped, I stopped. I gathered up my skirts, and walked with Elias into my forty year old trailer. My forty year old trailer. Walking in an evening gown into my forty year old trailer. My arm being held by a man who was worth millions, maybe billions. Up the steps and across my eight by ten wooden plank deck into my forty year old trailer.

When we got inside, I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want to see the faded paneling and cracked kitchen table. I just turned and grabbed Elias.

"We need to talk." What I meant to say was, "I need you to talk, to say something reassuring, to tell me this is going to work."

Instead, he said, "Yes, but first kiss me." Which I did, gladly. And he held me. That was good. And then he started unzipping my gown, and that was good, but it wasn't going to lead to talk, was it? No, because then he started unhooking my bra, and then sliding his hand down my bare back and under my panties. He was kissing me the whole time, and I was holding my arms around his neck, and kissing too, but, well, he got me up in the air and then down the hall to our bed. My clothes disappeared, and my back hit the bed, and I suddenly had nothing to say.

I love the feel of the man, and the way he treats me in bed, and that night was good too, but... When he was done, he got off me, and slid to one side, but I held him to me – one hand aside his face, one hand holding to his upper arm, keeping him across me. I was wearing him like a blanket. And I held him that way most of the night. He fell asleep quickly (a major defect in men) and tried to roll away, but I held firm. You want me? You got me. But I have you too.

And I spent the rest of the night going through every moment of our time together, looking for why we should be together. I held him tight to me while I went back in time, hoping through osmosis or something, he would feel what I was thinking and help me resolve this.

Where did I start? With our first meeting. I was moonlighting at a fishing resort, tending bar there one night a week. He had come to town with his engineers, pretending to be a fisherman, but really checking out the area to see if the water plant project made sense. And he made me terribly mad. He kept a hand on me while we talked, telling me he always kept a hand on women when he talked to them, to show he could, and to establish "the proper relationship." Pig. And while he held me like that, he explained how much he despised Americans. We were simpletons. He spoke four languages; we didn't even speak our one language correctly. Then he gave me five hundred dollars to write a letter to the newspaper supporting the water plant he had decided to build, not because he needed my support, but because he wanted "sparkles" to enhance the image of the plant.

The next time I saw him, he tricked me into getting on his private plane for a flight to Bern, where he made me work as his maid and kept me as a prisoner for weeks. Why? Some Wausaukee nut cases had shot up the house of a woman who was protesting the water plant. He was worried that local fruitcakes like that would give his company a bad image, so he sold the plant at a loss, and sent me over to the president of the new company (Matteo Schweig) – another Swiss water company. He didn't just dump me – he practically sold me, as part of the plant sale.

Now, he is back in Amberg, not happy with the local restaurants, and worse yet, he goes to Lambeau Field and never says "Wow." Not once did he show any excitement about being in the cathedral of professional football. And he wants me to marry him??!! This can't be right.

This train of thought goes on for hours, as I lay there, holding him tightly against me, hoping my thoughts are passing through my chest into his, and he is seeing the error of his ways. Is he? Eventually I did fall asleep and he did slip off me. The communication link, if it existed, was broken. When I woke in the morning, his back was to me. I had an arm across his chest and was holding myself tightly to him. I wanted him. But I also wanted him to want me. I held on tight. I pressed my breasts into his back, my hips against his backside.

"Please," I thought, projecting my thoughts through the back I was so tight against. "Please tell me you love me, but also, tell me why you love me. I need to hear it. I need to feel it. Until I do, every evening gown I put on is just me playing dress up pretend."

He woke up. Maybe it was my head pressed against his back that woke him. When he rolled over toward me, I just looked at him. I had been talking to him all night. I had nothing left to say. Well, eventually I did have one word – "Why?"

I will give him this – he didn't say anything glib like, "Why what?" He looked at me and knew I was troubled. He didn't say a word until he had his arms around me, and had used his hands to stroke my hair, pull me closer to him, and slide the hair from around my face. He kissed me. Gently. He took his time. Finally he spoke.

"I don't want you ever to be unhappy. Whatever is going on with you, tell me. Please."

"Did you hear what I said last night?"

"Yes, Bart Starr is the greatest quarterback of all time. He won three straight NFL championships, two Super Bowls, and the Ice Bowl."

"No. After that."

"Jessica please, what is bothering you?"

"I don't know why you love me. I am a bartender who lives in a trailer."

"You helped revive a factory that provides jobs to twenty two people and water to thousands."

"You don't like it here. But this is me. I like salad bars, and I will use the same fork throughout dinner. I worship the Green Bay Packers."

"This is not all of you. You are also the lady who held my arm as we walked through Bern, the lady who loved Gurten, and the lady who turned every head when we walked into a restaurant. You are the lady who brought this plant back to life. You are the lady your passport says you are – Mrs. Gruber. Swiss lady. You have an apartment in Bern and one in Dubai. You keep a home here so you are able to visit with your daughters. You like the people here, but you also like the people of Switzerland. You love the Packers, but you also love the Alps. You are my lady. You are my lover. You are my wife."

Okay, so I am crying, and hugging him, and pulling him on top of me. I want to make love to this man more than I want to breathe. And, being the perfect man, he does make love to me. And when he was done, I finally fell asleep

Chapter 5

Pre-Bern

I slept past noon. Partly I slept because I had been awake most of the night, but mostly I slept because for the first time I was relaxed. He loved me, he respected me, he would stay with me. I could exhale. I had my man. Actually I didn't have him right at that moment. He was off somewhere. I guessed he had his Beemer and laptop somewhere close to a cell tower so he could run his business.

But I had him in the feeling he had left all over my body. He had held me. He had kissed me. He had said all the right words. He was right. I wasn't just a bartender any more. I had worked in Europe. I had reopened the water plant. All this was fact. More importantly, it was fact he recognized. He respected me. I needed that. The ring was marvelous, and the wedding would be wonderful. But that only endured as long as he respected me. And now I knew he did.

So I lay in bed a little longer, enjoying the places he had touched me, and the memory of his kisses. My life was beautiful, and it was going to keep getting better.

Eventually I got up and showered. I spent forever on my hair and makeup. I picked a sleeveless cotton dress in fall colors that I thought looked good on me. If this was to be our last day in Amberg, I was not going to frump around in jeans. I would look good for my man. I would also cook for him. My plan was to keep him here in the trailer for the evening. I would create a final night we would remember.

I had been in my kitchen over an hour when I heard the Beemer in my drive way. Elias was wearing a short sleeved polo shirt (that probably cost fifty bucks), and his biceps were on display. Somehow the man had been finding time to work out. Good for him (and me). He joined me in the kitchen and fondled me while I looked through my cupboards to see what I could put on the table for dinner.

"Tonight I am going to take you back to the island restaurant for another good meal."

"No, tonight I am going to cook for you. This afternoon, you are going to help me pack."

"How can I help?"

"You will tell me which clothes are right for Bern, and which for Dubai." I took his hand and led him to the first of my clothes closets. I probably have more clothes than any woman in Marinette County. I opened the closet door and started holding up dresses.

"Which should I take?"

"In Bern you show your shoulders. In Dubai you cover your shoulders and knees."

"That's all the help you can give me?"

"It's easier for me if I see you wearing the dress."

So I started stepping out of one dress and into another. Each time I changed, he "helped" with my zippers. And each time the zipper seemed to come up more slowly while his other hand held my ass more tightly. I liked this way of packing. I should do this every time. Not that we were making much progress. I kissed him, he held me, dresses came on and off, he did a quick look and the dress went in one pile or another. We made it through about six dresses when he just threw me on the bed and we went at it. Wow. You'd think we had never been in the sack before. We were like two teenagers. Packing instantly became my favorite activity.

A couple hours later we tried again, but we were just on the second dress when he just hugged me, held me, kissed me, and whispered exactly what I wanted to hear. We laid back down and held each other. It was a private plane. There was no baggage limit. In the morning I would fill a number of bags and maybe in Bern we could do this packing activity again (I hoped). For this afternoon, we just held each other, whispered, fondled, and kissed. I think I was growing biceps just by how tightly I was holding him. I loved that man so much, and I made sure he knew it.

It was dark out before I finally got up to make him his pork cutlets in mushroom gravy. I had completely out of any vegetables, and I only had two potatoes to mash, but he seemed happy with the meal. Maybe it was me wearing just a slip and sitting on his lap that influenced his opinion of the meal. I had my arms around his neck, and my head on his shoulder. I was one happy girl.

Chapter 6

Bern

Thank God for private planes. I not only needed time to fill bag after bag with clothes, but I needed to call Britney about my trailer. She promised she would come up every two or three weeks, open my mail and pay my bills. I left a large check on the kitchen table for her. I also called Brenda Stark to see if she had any final questions. She had email access to me, but that was not the same thing as being there. But – and this would be difficult for me – I needed to not micromanage. I needed to help, not hover. So, come to think of it, maybe email was best. Anyway, she asked about the wedding, I asked about her boys, and we wished each other the best.

Elias was good about my bags. He took load after load out to the Beemer. He filled the trunk, then the back seat, and then the floor of the back seat. I was going to have some ironing to do when we got to Bern, but I would have a gown for whatever events awaited me.

About noon Elias' patience started wearing thin, so I packed the last of my toiletries, and closed up the trailer. When would I be back again? I was tempted to ask Elias, but I didn't want to sound like I was having any regrets. I was headed to Switzerland to be married, and that was where my thoughts should be. But I did look back as we drove away. You don't live some place forty years without feeling something when you leave.

Private planes are great, but even they have limits. It turns out you need to stow luggage so it won't shift in flight. I filled the back end of the plane, and the crew had to figure out how to tie it all in place without crushing my clothing too badly. Elias spent the time working from his lap top. I tried to stay out of the way. I was wearing the black satin tea-length dress and pearls Elias had given me on my first trip to Bern – my "elegant" outfit, and I sat in the leather chair next to him. Did he notice I was wearing the dress he had given me for my first flight? Maybe. As soon as the pilots had my luggage loaded and had gone up to the cockpit, I started crossing and uncrossing my legs as my skirt rode up. Elias was busy on his computer, but not too busy to notice. One hand came over to my thigh while his other hand somehow managed to keep working his laptop. I pulled his hand to where I wanted it, and crossed my legs. It was an eight hour flight, and I managed to keep his attention for most of it.

In Bern all my bags became a problem again. They ended up bringing a second car. With the time changes, it was about six am when we got to the apartment, and I worried about all the extra effort this was going to cause Frau Klemp so early in the morning. But there she was, waiting for us at the top of the stairs. I got a big hug, lots of German, and a hand that led me inside and down to Elias' room. She knew where I wanted to be.

Frau Klemp took bag after bag of my clothing from the drivers, and hung everything in the closets. Meanwhile, Elias said he had to go in to work, even though we had gotten little sleep on the plane (part of that was my fault). Twenty minutes later, the drivers were gone, Elias was gone, and Frau Klemp motioned to my bed. I did what any normal person would do. I went to bed and was instantly asleep.

Several hours later, I rolled over feeling much better. And why wouldn't I feel good? I was in Elias' bed – my husband's bed – in our apartment in Bern. This was now my home. Huge, beautiful, and mine. High ceilings, lacquered woodwork, chandeliers, floors either carpeted or parqueted, double doors into the bedroom, a kitchen that could serve banquets.

I headed to the shower. You are not supposed to nap when you change time zones, it just slows down the adjustment process. But I didn't care. I felt much better now that I had some sleep. I took forever in the shower, then started getting dressed. Should I put on my maid's uniform just for fun? No. I put on one of the gowns Frau Klemp had helped me with when we had gotten Elias' "Dinner date" messages in the past. I wondered if Frau Klemp would "stage" me as she had in the past.

She was waiting for me in the kitchen. As in the past, her talk was nonstop – and all German.

"Gut morgen, mein tochter." She hugged me.

"Mein mother." I said.

"Ja, mutter." So, I had said something that was almost German? I repeated what she had said, trying to get the pronunciation right.

"Und freund." Friend? If ever there was a woman I was desperate to talk to, Frau Klemp was it. Maybe I could at least get a few words right, and, let's be honest, if I was going to live here, knowing some German was important. Meanwhile, she hit me with a whole paragraph that meant nothing to me, except she pointed to a plate of fruit and yogurt. Okay, my breakfast. She talked, I ate.

Somewhere in there I had a brilliant idea. When I was last here, she had used a phone to translate Gruber's messages to English. Could the same app translate English to German? Her phone was on the counter and I pointed to it.

"Deutsch – English. English – Deutsch?" I was pretty sure "Deutsch" was the word for German. I must have been right, because she nodded and then played with the app. She handed me the phone with two boxes on the screen. The first word I typed was "friend." It came back "freund." I showed that to her and tried to pronounce it. German was going to be much harder than my high school Spanish. Nothing sounded the way it looked, but I worked on it, and Frau Klemp was very patient with my poor attempts.

Where did we go after friend, mother, daughter? Well, we were working in a "kuche" and she was baking "brot." I probably didn't learn more than eight words that day, but I had a start, and I had a tool. I was really proud of myself. Look at me – I speak "etwas Deutsch." I put on an apron, helped with the soup, and played with the phone.

I was having so much fun cooking with Frau Klemp and translating words, I totally lost track of time. Suddenly it was dinner time, and there was Elias, standing in the doorway and smiling. The minute she saw him, Frau Klemp took the apron off me, and put at hand on my backside, pushing me out of the kitchen. I went fast enough.

Where did we go? Elias led me into the huge man room, and we took a love seat by the windows facing the street. Frau Klemp brought us each a glass of wine, and she and Elias had a short conversation, I think about dinner, but she looked at me, and I guessed I was in there somewhere.

"So, you are learning a little German?"

"I am just reading from her phone."

"I will bring you your own phone tomorrow. It will have a local sim card and a translation app. Learning a little German would be good. And later, some Arabic."

"When will we go to Dubai?" We are sitting close together, holding our free hands, and we are looking directly at each other. Can he see my discomfort? I think Dubai, and I think women wearing shrouds. Is he sure I won't have to wear a veil? He squeezed my hand. I guess that is supposed to reassure me. I guess it will have to do for the moment.

"We will be here two weeks, maybe three. Time for you to meet with the wedding planner, and maybe enough time for us to get up into the Alps for a few days."

"I would like that." And my thoughts moved to the Alps – and away from Dubai.

Our time in Bern turned out to be four weeks. How do I describe them? Elias was with me most evenings, although he did travel for business several times, and he was out of bed at ungodly hours to get to the office and take calls from places where the sun rose earlier.

He took me into his office a couple days. It turned out to be just a few blocks from his apartment. It seemed to be the practice in Bern to reuse old buildings, so this place that looked like knights might walk out the front door, was actually almost a whole block wide and as modern inside as any office building in the states (not that I was any kind of expert beyond what I had seen in movies). I met with some people, and signed some papers. I was paid for the time I was general manager of the plant in Amberg (eight thousand US for three weeks work), and given a contract as Elias' administrative assistant for our time in Dubai (four thousand a month for duties that were not named). I had brought my checkbook with me from the US (Lord only knows why), and they used my account information to move money into my account at the Pembine Wausaukee bank. After twenty years of struggling to maintain the five hundred dollar minimum balance, I guess that was no longer going to be a problem.

I used the office computing systems several times to check on the Amberg plant, but I saw no glitches in the production numbers I saw, and I got no emails from Brenda Stark, but except for one asking about a trucking company that did our shipping, she seemed to be doing fine on her own.

I made an effort to meet some people around the office, and they seemed friendly enough, but I had no real work to do there, so after each short visit, I went back to the apartment and back to Frau Klemp. She took me shopping with her several times, and once we walked down to the river, just to stand, and watch the water flow.

She talked to me now, more slowly, and more carefully. She was hoping I would understand. And, with the help of my new phone and its translation app, I did get at least some of what she was saying. I learned she had two sons and a daughter, and two grandchildren. I explained I had two daughters, and we worked on ages, and hair color, and the most superficial things in the world, but it was a start. My grammar was bad, and there were little words like "de" and "der" that went with some words, and I got them wrong, and my pronunciation was terrible, but it was a start. Would I ever really speak German? It was a struggle. I feared I would just have a few phrases here and there. But I tried. I had good days, and bad.

Speaking of bad days, during my second week in Bern, I met with the wedding planner. Frau Schultz spoke heavily accented English, but that was not the problem. She was businesslike. Maybe a better label would be "cold." I think some of this is the culture – formal is the basic approach. Some of this was her – she wanted (I guessed) to show she was an expert on such things. Some of this was me. I wasn't sure what I wanted, so I was vague, and that threw her off her stride. But some of the interaction just came across as rude.

"You have been married before?" She had a checklist of questions she was starting with.

"Yes. Twice."

"You will wear white?" Now there is a stupid question. No, I am not a virgin, but I will still wear white. If only virgins wore white, the white satin manufacturers might as well declare immediate bankruptcy.

"Yes." (What I wanted to say was "Damn right I will.")

"You will invite the priest?"

"There will be no priest. We will have a civil ceremony and then a reception."

"Mr. Gruber agrees?"

"Yes." (What I wanted to say was "yes, he does, and it's none of your damn business.")

As you can see, we started off on the wrong foot. She was determined to ask the questions on her list. I wanted to talk about the reception. Where would it be? What options are available? How do we create magic? But this was not a lady who often encountered magic.

We played twenty questions for about an hour, and then I ended it by saying I needed to speak to my fiancée about some of the important questions she was asking. I would call her next week.

When the planner left, Frau Klemp brought me a glass of wine. I needed it. I sat by the window and stared out at the street as I had months before. I needed Elais.

Finally he came home. I waited until I heard him enter the room, then I slowly turned toward him. The look on his face was exactly what I needed. Here was a man who had to be exhausted, but the look of desire on his face was obvious. I waited until he was in front of me, and then I held out a hand. He pulled me up. In one smooth motion I was up and had both arms around his neck. The dress I had chosen was tight across my hips and tight across my ass. That's where he put both hands. My compliments to the dress maker.

He started to say something, but I kissed him. I didn't want to talk. I wanted to hold him and feel him holding me. We stood that way a very long time as I kissed him, and his hands held me to him. I felt no need to do anything else.

Finally I was the one who spoke. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For bringing me to Bern, for being my man, for knowing how to hold me." I laid my head on his shoulder. "Please, hold me a little longer." And he did.

Eventually I saw Frau Klemp at the end of the room. Apparently dinner was ready. But I wasn't. I made him stand and hold me another ten minutes before I finally told him that dinner was ready. Yes, I can be selfish. But his hands felt so good.

We did finally go in to dinner. He had a huge dining room, but we just took one corner of it. He sat at the head of the table. I sat just to his right. Close to his right. As usual, being European, he held his fork in his left hand. I used my right. That meant seated as we were, we had a free hand to hold when we wished. I wished. At one point I even pulled his free hand down and put it on my thigh. Yes, I'm a hussy, but can you blame me? I love the man and we are about to get married. Copping a feel seems like part of the plan. Not that he minded. Neither one of us was paying much attention to the food.

Did we talk? Eventually and sporadically. I wish we had talked less, since it raised some complications when I loved the simpler process – I kiss you, you hold me, I kiss you. But there were things we needed to deal with.

"We will fly to Dubai next week Saturday."

"Why so soon?"

"For Muslims, the weekend is Friday and Saturday. If we arrive Saturday, we are there for the start of the work week on Sunday."

"I could use more time with the wedding planner."

"Oh?"

"She asked lots of questions, but we didn't get anything resolved."

"This will be a big wedding and she knows people will talk about her work. She needs to be careful and get everything right."

"She asked about a priest. I said 'no.' Are you sure about that?" At this point my hand was off his, and I was turned even more directly toward him. This was an important question. Nevertheless, I was pleased to feel his hand stay on my thigh. Good man.

"If we involve the church, they will have you in meetings and lectures for six months."

"If you wish that, I will do it. I am your woman. If you are Swiss, I am Swiss. If you are Catholic, I am Catholic."

"Thank you. But I am not very Catholic. They would probably make me sit through the same lectures. No, we will be modern and do a civil ceremony only."

"Okay. But let's do this. We rent a beer hall and have it decorated. We send everyone over there, while you and I go straight here to our bed. They get beer, and I get you to myself."

He smiled moment, and then got very serious. The hand on my thigh was now gripping it pretty strong. "Here's something you need to think about. As my wife, you are also my hostess. You will host gatherings at our home, at our apartment in Dubai, at restaurants, and at work events. In many ways, that will be your full time employment – dressing well, standing comfortably, saying the right things to people you barely know. Our wedding reception will be the first of many times you will need to smile for hours, and stand even when your feet hurt. You will also have to learn some German – at least enough to compliment the women on what they are wearing."

"Das ist eine schon kleid."

"Not bad. You need some help with that, but you have a good start." At this point he turned fully toward me, and put one hand at the back of my head while the other slid to my hip. "Do you understand what I am asking? This is now and forever. When you marry a CEO, it is part of the package."

"Elias, I am your woman. You are my package. I will do anything for you." That got me a kiss. I think Frau Klemp intended to bring out another course, but we had other plans. By the time we got to the bedroom we had pretty much undressed each other. I put on the satin nightgown Frau Klemp had set out for me, wrapped my arms tightly around Elias, and got into bed. I ignored the wedding planner, and I ignored Dubai. I had my man in my arms.

Chapter 7

Mountain Air

As always, he was gone when I woke up. Did he never really sleep? I showered, dressed, and left the apartment. I needed air, and space. I walked to one of the cobblestone pedestrian areas and looked into shop windows, but I wasn't seeing anything. I was imagining our wedding and our reception. I really did need to get some help from Elias. This reception was for both of us. What did he want? What did I want? What did his family want? What help could I expect from this wedding planner? Yes, I was nervous. I am a bartender from Amberg. Who am I to throw a reception in Switzerland?

I was just a few blocks from his company. I walked in, took the elevator to the top floor, and said "hi" to his secretary.

"He's in a meeting right now. Can you wait a bit?"

"No, if he is busy it can wait until this evening."

"I think he will be happy to see you after this meeting." She looked at the door to his office like rampaging felons were on the other side. She mouthed "Board members – two uncles and a nephew."

Now I was stuck. I knew this was a family business – a billion dollar family business. So you mixed business and family, and... Well, I was sure things got complicated. I wanted to be around to help, but I wasn't ready to meet his family yet. Besides, I had a decent "office" dress on, but I hadn't put on any makeup or done much with my hair. Basically I would come across as pretty washed out. Not a great first impression. Really, is this the best you could do, they might all ask. I thought the best thing to do was just tell his secretary. She saw the problem immediately, slid me her purse, and pointed to the washroom down the hall.

Twenty minutes later I was more ready for the public. Unfortunately for Elias, the meeting was still ongoing. I could hear voices through the door, not a good sign. They weren't exactly shouting, but this was not a prayer session either.

Finally the door popped and out came two uncles and a nephew. I knew trouble when I saw it. Elias had told me one of the uncles was still upset he had not been named CEO, and if he had his way... Well, no family is perfect.

The first guy out was Uncle Emil. I had seen this guy around the office a couple times – and I had seen the looks on people's faces when he walked by. Emil was a grump. When he saw me, he came right over, a look on his face that was half smile, half sneer. Oh well. He was soon to be family, so I would do my best. Head up, shoulders back, I gave him my best German.

"Gut Morgen. Ve gates?" I had just used half the German Frau Klemp had taught me. I thought it might cut some slack with the grumpy uncle. No such luck.

"Deutsch?" And off he went with a long string of German, about as fast as it was ever spoken, the whole point being to show my ignorance. I let him go on for a while, then tried to explain:

"Ich spreche klein Deutsch." I speak a little German. But he wouldn't let up. He kept going on about something. I kept repeating "Klein Deutsch, klein Deutsch" and holding up my hand to show a small gap between my thumb and index finger. Small, right? But he wasn't letting up. Finally, I said "Klein Deutsch" one more time, and this time I couldn't help myself. I held the thumb and index finger about two inches apart and looked down at his pants. I thought the nephew and secretary were going to choke. The other uncle turned red and put a hand over his mouth to hide his laughter. And ugly uncle? He just started sputtering. Suddenly he couldn't speak in German or any other language. The elevator became very inviting, and he was gone. Uncle number two took the next elevator, as did the nephew, but not before he shook my hand. Both of them were muttering "klein Deutsch" and laughing as the elevator doors closed.

"Emily," Elias said to his secretary, "I would be pleased if this story did not make the office rumor mill."

"Please, Mr. Gruber?"

"Well, at least wait a few days." Then he turned to me. "You may not know much German, but you are pretty effective with what you know. Come in and tell me what is on your mind." I went into his office and he closed the door.

"Is there trouble?" I asked.

"Just the usual. He wants my job. Today's approach was to establish metrics for success. The point of course is to find metrics where I will not succeed, and then he can take over."

"You're all family."

"That doesn't mean we don't compete with each other. But, besides giving my uncle his new nickname, why did you come in?" Good question. What would be a good answer? I need to reassurance about the wedding reception? I need reassurance about, well, what exactly? I guess I was just having a bad morning. He was having a worse morning. My fears could wait.

"I wanted to see how things are going at the Amberg plant."

"You have only been gone two weeks, Jess. Give the woman a chance. You picked her. Don't micro manage her." Good solid advice. I nodded agreement.

"Okay. But while I am here, give me a kiss." He did. But I found myself clinging to him, thinking, I do love you, Elias. Really I do. I held on tight enough for him to notice.

"What's up, Jess? What do you need? Is it about the wedding? Dubai?"

"Just hold me tighter." He did. "That's what I needed."

"Are you sure that's all you needed, Jess?"

"Yes. But you mentioned a trip into the Alps. Will we have time for that?"

"We can go up later this week, okay? We will leave in the morning. We will have Thursday and Friday night up there, then drive home and fly to Dubai on Saturday. Would you like that?"

"Thank you." I held him tight. "And tonight, can we eat at that Italian restaurant you took me to my first trip to Bern?"

"Of course." I kissed him one more time and then left before he worried about me. I walked back to the apartment feeling somewhat better. I would have my time with Elias. And for today? I would use my phone to look at wedding reception venues on the Internet. Once I knew what the local norms were, maybe I would be better prepared to talk with Frau Schultz.

Early Thursday morning, Elias took me up to the mountains. It was late enough in the fall that much of the color was gone, but there were still some leaves on birch trees and some of the maples. It was lovely, and even if it hadn't been, I wasn't there for the view, I was there for the man.

Although I have to say, the cabin was pretty great too. It was tiny. Ancient, beautiful, and tiny. Maybe twenty by twenty (or whatever that is in meters). Two walls were field stone, and two were timber. The roof was red tile and seemed almost vertical. The ground level had a bathroom and stairway in one corner. Otherwise that level was all one room – sitting room and kitchen and fireplace. That was it. Upstairs there was a huge bed. On it was a patchwork quilt that I guessed was an antique and probably worth more than my Toyota. I liked looking at it, and I like being under it even more.

What did we do for two days and two nights. Nights are easy enough to imagine. I got into that soft, soft bed and sank deep into that old mattress. When Elias joined me, I sank so deep I nearly disappeared, and I was just fine with that. I wrapped myself around him, and held him for hours. Yes, make love to me, stay with me, hold me. And he did. I am sure at some time during the night the fire in the fireplace went out, but I don't remember ever getting cold. Good man.

Days? We sat in front of the fireplace, we took walks, we ate meals at a café even smaller than our cabin. Sometimes we talked. Mostly we just held hands. We talked about many things, but one conversation was the one I remember.

First, the reception. I was still foundering, trying to determine what might be expected. We got maybe one bar up in the mountains, but with patience, I was able to bring up the websites for three reception venues I liked. Would Elias? One was a castle. I thought that might be interesting. When I showed it to Elias, he just started laughing.

"That's Emil's castle. I don't think he rents it to anyone not connected to the historical society."

"And he wouldn't rent it to me, I'll bet."

"Klein Deutsch might surprise you. Relatives call him a cherry pie – crusty on the outside, soft on the inside."

"I think I'll just see the crust."

"Maybe. It's probably best to go somewhere else, anyway. What else have you got?"

I showed him two other venues – an old farm, and an old abbey. Yes, there are newer places in Bern, but if I wanted new, why would I be in Europe?

"I have been to receptions at both. Both are good, but the dance floor is bigger at the abbey."

"Done. We will use the abbey. Okay?"

"Of course it is okay. Tell the wedding planner, and she can negotiate a date and start finding caterers. Have you looked at a dress?"

"No."

"Frau Schultz will recommend a shop for you. She will get a commission from them, but they will do a good job. You can fly back from Dubai for fittings. Or you can get a dress in Dubai. They have some of the best shops in the world."

"Do the dresses have veils?" I was kidding. Maybe.

"I have hired a woman to help you. She's local. She knows the shops and the language. She will be your guide. With her help, you can spend a great deal of money, and learn to enjoy the place."

Enough. I didn't want to talk about Dubai. I wanted to enjoy the Alps. How Elias could bare to leave them was a mystery to me. I assumed he was going to make a lot of money. It would take me a lot of money to think about trading the Alps for the desert. I was fiancée, so I would go where he went, but I was in no hurry. I tried to make those two days in the Alps last as long as any two days have ever lasted. And I think I managed it pretty well.

Chapter 8

Dubai

Dubai shocked the hell out of me. Green Bay is the biggest city I have ever been to, so part of it was the sheer size of Dubai. But it was also the look of the place. I have seen movies of Los Angeles, and it had some similarity to that with the many freeways and bumper to bumper traffic, but if anything, the buildings were even bigger. I had heard about the Birj Khalifa, the world's tallest building, but I was impressed not with the height, but with its beauty. It was like a needle going up into the sky. Everything else I saw on the drive into town was like that – not just big, but pretty. Where were the sand dunes?

We got into town later in the day and went straight to the apartment Elias had rented. It was in a ten story building, had a large balcony, and was huge – and white. The floors were white tile, the walls were white, the high ceilings were white. There were carpets here and there, and some furniture, but much of the apartment was still empty – and white. Our bedroom? Huge, white, with a huge white bathroom, and huge white closet and huge bed covered with – you guessed it – a white comforter. I wondered about getting snow blindness.

Now that I have described the town and the apartment, let me describe the one thing that mattered – the maid. We were coming up the guest elevator with two of my bags. Two men were coming up the freight elevator with the rest of our things. Elias starts telling me about this maid who will be so helpful to me.

"I got lucky. On one of my trips to Dubai I found a woman who speaks English and Arabic, and she is getting better at German. She will be a great help to us."

Then the elevator doors opened, and I saw the woman. She was not beautiful, she was stunning. Whatever her home country was, they should have starred her in their movies or television shows. She was maybe twenty five. Her skin was the color of lightly chocolated milk, and just as smooth. She probably stood five eight, and had long, thick, jet black hair that shined in gentle curves that flowed down over her shoulders. Her face? Huge brown eyes that had a bit of an Asian influence to their shape. Small nose, full lips, pointed chin giving her face the classic heart shape. She had a long, thin neck, full breasts, and small waist rounding out to her hips in a perfect curve. To say she looked like a model was not to give her proper credit. She was wearing a maid's uniform, but on her it looked like an evening gown. It had thin straps, a tight bodice, and skirts that hung halfway down her thighs. It fit her so well it looked like it had been tailored for her.

I stopped dead and just looked at her. I was staring, but I could not help it. And she seemed comfortable with that. She stood and let me look at her, almost as if she were a beauty pageant contestant and she was letting the judges get a good look. She looked back at me, and calmly waited.

"Jessica, this is Saanvi, your maid." Saanvi curtsied, but rather than the quick drop of the knee, she slowly lowered her right knee almost to the floor, while holding out her skirts. As she rose with perfect grace, I thought, my God, she's a ballerina. Having been introduced, she now stepped forward and took my coat.

"Please, Mam, let me." I let her take my coat, and we all followed her into the apartment. "I have some dinner waiting for you in the dining room." Elias and I went there while Saanvi directed the men to the bedroom and started sorting out my dress bags.

"She is a very beautiful woman." I said as we sat down, always the master of the obvious.

"Yes." Elias is a very smart man. He dug into his food and mentioned the fish was always good in Dubai. Talking about one woman to another woman is risky business.

"How long has she worked for you?"

"About six or seven weeks. I was talking with a potential business partner in Dubai, mentioned I needed a maid, and he suggested Saanvi. Turned out she even knew a few words of German."

No doubt that's the first thing he noticed about her – a few words of German. I focused on my meal too. This was a time for me to watch every word. If I asked more about her, it might show concern, jealousy, insecurity, mistrust... The obvious question was – are you sleeping with her? I guess the follow up question would be – if not, why not? She is beautiful. But I am not a complete fool, so I avoided any questions at all.

"Yes, I can see why she would be very helpful." And that was my last comment on that subject. I ate dinner, he ate dinner, Saanvi directed drivers to various closets and managed the unpacking. And that was that. No, not really. I wanted that to be that, but how could it be? She was not just pretty and younger – the classic risk, she was beautiful, graceful, and much younger. She was a triple threat. Short of shoving her in front of a bus, what was I going to do? I had no idea. I ate my fish. I hate fish. Where's my cheeseburger, or a pizza? This woman is going to poison me with bad fish. What woman wants a beautiful woman just down the hall? Beautiful. If only she had just been beautiful. No, she was stop dead in your tracks stunning. And she had been alone with Elias on his past visits. How often had he come here? How often had he stayed? When had he gotten this apartment, and when had she moved in?

Elias must be a mind reader, or I am a terrible actress. He reached over and took my hand.

"Tomorrow, when I am at work, call the wedding planner. I am sure she will help us have the perfect wedding. When you talk with her, remember I love you, and plan out a day that lets me show that to you, and to the world." What do I say to that? Nothing. I got up, sat on his lap, got my arms around his neck and kissed him long and hard. God I loved that man. I laid my head on his shoulder and whispered that to him over and over. His arms around me drove me half crazy. And of course I said the one word I wanted – "tighter."

"They seem to like white here." I really am a brilliant observer of foreign cultures. It was after dinner, and we were wandering the apartment together, getting comfortable with the place.

"High ceilings to let the heat rise, white colors to reflect the sun. In the summer it will be 120 here."

"Please tell me we have AC."

"Yes. Now come with me to the balcony." There were sliding doors out onto a large balcony, maybe ten feet by twenty five or so. A few pieces of patio furniture were already out there. The view? We seemed to be perpendicular to the gulf. It was to our right while the city was to our left. Seven stories up, there was still some traffic noise. This was a busy city.

"Two blocks away is an area with nicer shops," he pointed down at some buildings wrapped around a small lagoon. "I think you will find much of what you want there, but of course there are two of the world's largest malls there," he pointed to the left into a crowd of buildings. "I have an account at one of the local banks, and a visa card for you. This is an apartment, Jess, make it a home." He was standing behind me, and I had his arms wrapped around me, your basic man-shawl. I had nothing to say. I held his arms around me and looked. This was my first view of anything remotely like this. Hell, this was my first balcony.

Eventually I did say one word: "tighter." Of his many virtues, I think I most appreciate his patience. He held me – tighter – for a very long time while I looked at this city. What did I see? White buildings stretching off as far as I could see to the left, the blue waters of the Persian Gulf stretching out to my right. My man held me, and I looked at my new city.

"Where is your office?"

"There." He pointed toward a group of glass buildings across a larger highway.

"I won't be able to walk over."

"No one walks here. Take a taxi. They are cheap."

"Will I have an office there?" At this point I turned and looked at him.

"You aren't a plant manager any more, Jess. Not even remotely. You are my wife and my hostess. Your job is here. I explained that, right?"

"The Amberg plant has gone through so many problems, I thought maybe I could just monitor things there, and maybe advise..."

"Monitor if you wish, but I need you to focus on your new job. Business dinners are an important part of the local culture. As a successful hostess, you will do far more good for the company than any of my plant managers." My natural response was to say "yes, but..." But I held my tongue. I would show him I could host those dinners, and then I would have a thing or two to say about how things progressed in Amberg.

"Every room is white. I get it. Heat. But is any color possible?"

"Saanvi can help you pick out pictures and accessories that are culturally appropriate."

"Speaking of Saanvi, does she have an apartment?"

"The apartment has a servant's quarters. She will stay there."

A live-in maid who is easily one of the ten most beautiful women in the world. Great.

"The trip has made me tired. Can we go to bed?" I didn't wait for his answer. I grabbed Elias' hand and led him to our bedroom. It would have been a much sexier move if I hadn't taken the wrong turn in the hallway, but he played along and let me lead him – eventually – to our room. If I was going to make this apartment a home, I decided to start right then and there by seducing my man.

My process? I went with the tried and true. First I leaned in to him and asked him for "help" with my zipper, then I spent forever walking around in my slip, sliding up against him as I unbuttoned his shirt. Finally I asked him to help me choose between two very short, very tight nightgowns. If Dubai demanded long dresses out on the street, I would wear even shorter dresses at home for contrast, starting right now. He picked the one in my left hand, not that it mattered, they were both an invitation masquerading as a nightgown. I took forever sliding into it, and of course stood close as I adjusted the straps. He decided maybe he should help me get them straight. I kissed him to thank him for his help.

Having teased him just short of too far, I led him to our very white bed. The bed was huge and white and now was ours.

Chapter 9

Saanvi

The next morning Elias was gone before I woke. I was going to have to put something about that in our wedding vows. I will stay with you forever, and at least until seven in the morning. But he was gone, and I was alone in a strange new country.

But I wasn't alone long. Saanvi came and sat next to me on the bed. But I have to stop here and describe that simple act. She didn't just sit. It was as if she blessed the bed with her ass. The motion was so fluid – the collection of her skirts, her knee bend, the lowering of her backside, the position of her back. If she had been wearing toe shoes she would have been a ballerina sitting in our bedroom. It was beautiful just to watch her move.

Once seated, she smiled, and reached over to touch my face, sliding some hair off my cheek.

"You are so beautiful." No, I didn't say that, she did, with her hand still brushing my face. She kept her hand there, and looked at me with those huge eyes. Now what?

"Thank you." What else could I say? She rearranged her skirts and slid closer to me, her hand still moving across my face, playing a bit with the hair near my forehead. The touch was light, yet somehow I felt it more than if it had been heavy. It was like my skin was anticipating her fingers.

"Did you sleep well?" She is leaning closer to me as she talks. Her maid's uniform had spaghetti straps (really), and one of them slid off her shoulder as she leaned toward me. I think I stopped breathing.

"Yes." Really. That's all I could think to say. She is leaning closer, her hand is on my face, her hair begins to tumble forward and touches my chest. I can feel it on my chest and on my breasts. Finally she leans all the way down and kisses me lightly on the lips. I don't know how things are done in this culture, but I think more is going on than a friendly morning greeting. And, well, I don't mind. I pull one of my hands out from under the duvet and put it on her back, not pulling her toward me, but certainly not pushing her away.

"You have very nice eyes." She is sliding a hand down the side of my face, near my eyes. And she kisses me again. This time she holds the kiss while her other hand slides over my breast.

"Saanvi, what are you doing?" As always, I am master of the obvious, but I thought I should ask.

"I am hoping to please you." The kisses continue. And her hands? Well, she has really good hands. Now both my hands are on her back, and I am definitely holding her to me. She raises her hips, slides the duvet to one side, and slides into bed with me. She takes the male position – her knees between mine, her elbows to my sides. Her mouth never leaves mine.

And something happens with her hair. It is long, and black, and slick, and somehow it slides down both sides of her head and lays on both sides of mine. It is like a tunnel. There is enough light so I can see her eyes, but the rest of the room has disappeared. There is just her face – and her hands – and her hips slowly moving across mine.

It is definitely time for me to end this. And I do – eventually. I look into those eyes, I feel her warmth, I slide my hands across her back and then down to her ass. I think I may be as turned on as I have ever been. But. I need to end this.

"Saanvi, please make me breakfast. I will see you after I am dressed."

"Yes, Mam." She gives me another very long kiss, slides both her thighs against mine, holds one of my breasts in her hand, and then, ever so slowly slides off me. The minute she stands I wish she were back with me again, but she does what I asked. She goes off to make breakfast. I lie there trying to catch my breath. I was worried about her and Elias? I should worry about her and me.

I showered, not paying any attention to what I was doing. I was confused by what she had done, but I was even more confused by my own reaction. I had never looked at a woman with interest before. I had certainly never touched one that way. Now I had. And, I guessed, I probably would touch her again.

When I got out of the shower, she was gone. She had made the bed and left my clothes out for me, including a dress – the thinest, softest cotton I have ever felt, with long sleeves, skirt down to my ankles, and a high neckline – a Dubai dress. I worked on my hair, put on a little makeup, and went to the kitchen.

She had eggs, toast, and fruit waiting for me. She stood by my chair and smiled.

"We are friends?" She asked.

"We are friends." I kissed her and sat down to breakfast.

"We shall see the city together?"

"Yes, but not today. Today I will see it alone. It is safe, isn't it?"

"Yes, but wear a hat for the sun. A tourist bus stops at the stores down the street. It will take you everywhere visitors go."

"I like that idea." I ate my breakfast while Saanvi stood behind me playing with my hair. It felt good, as did the kiss she gave me when I rose from the table. Whatever was going on, I summarized it easily – it felt good.

We stood at the door for a few minutes. I kissed her several times, and held her, and then headed out. Elias had prepared everything for me. A visa card, a door key, and a phone with local sim card and map app waited for me by the entryway. I put them in my bag, strapped on white sandals, put on a white wide-brimmed hat that Saanvi gave me, and headed out to explore.

The tourist bus turned out to be a double decker with open seating up top. The day was sunny and in the eighties – hot, but not too hot. I sat up there and looked at my new city. And I was impressed. The bus was one of those hop on/ hop off buses that went to all the more important sites. I hopped off at every stop. By the end of the day I had seen the Dubai Mall, the Dubai Fountain, a hotel shaped like a sail, the Birj Khalifa, the Dubai history museum, the textile souk (market), and walked along Dubai Creek.

Overall impression? Huge, crowded, clean, safe. Tourists and expats were everywhere. It looked to me like locals were a distinct minority.

What stood out for me? For the first couple hours I was looking for the unique – the Birj Khalifa, and the sail hotel. I wanted to see something special. Later I wanted to see the familiar – restaurants we have back in the states, brand names and shops I would have seen before. Could I get the foods and products I was used to? Yes.

During the last hours I found myself sitting more and looking more at people, especially local people. I was especially interested in families. I saw one family walking through a mall, and it became the standard I saw again and again. The father came first, holding the hand of a young son – maybe four or five. The father was wearing one of those long white shirts that goes all the way to his feet. So was the son. Both wore sandals. Behind the father came three more children, all girls. An older one wore black from head to toe – a black headscarf and a black robe. The two younger girls were dressed as Disney princesses. Trailing behind the family was the mother. She also wore a black headscarf, and a black robe. And she wore a black veil fully covering her face. She was watching her family through eye holes.

My reaction? I liked seeing the man with his family, and I liked that he held his son's hand. I sensed affection. But of course, my next thought was, why not the little girls? And why is mom at the back with her face hidden?

I sat on a bench in the mall and saw some variation of that family twenty times. The man always held the hand of a son, and the woman always walked at the back. Not all of the women wore veils, but all of them walked last. I wondered what that felt like. She had her family. She had her man. But she followed behind.

I sat and watched for nearly an hour, and then I decided to get back on the bus and go home.

"Why," I asked Saanvi almost the minute I got in our apartment door, "Do women walk at the back."

"Welcome home." Saanvi gave me a kiss, and stood very close to me, waiting for me to return the favor. I did. Then I walked to the main room and sat on the couch (white fabric of course). Sanvi stood as we talked.

"I enjoyed your city today, but I did not understand the way women walked."

"The prophet, peace be upon him, saw the wind blow a woman's clothing close to her body. He thought such a sight might give men impure thoughts. So he said women should walk behind men. They also sit behind men in any gathering."

"Even a wife must walk behind her husband?"

"So it is written."

"I don't like it."

"There is much here you will not like. Tell what you did like." She stood opposite me. Or maybe I should say she posed. If you have ever seen a beauty contest, you may recall how women stand on stage while waiting to be called forward. That was her position. The main windows were behind her, so there was sun on her hair, and practically a glow coming off her. Come to think of it, she didn't look like a woman on a stage, she looked like the women on a stage wished they looked.

"I liked the huge malls since they mean I can get anything I liked in the US. But I spent most time by the textile souk and the older area along Dubai Creek. I was tempted to ride one of the little boats across the river."

"The boats are called 'Abras'. You would have caused a problem. Men are not allowed to touch women here, even to shake hands. Had you sat on that boat, men would have not wanted to sit next to you. The boatman might have told you not to get on, or he might have taken just you across the river."

"Tomorrow will you go shopping with me? You can teach me more of the customs."

"Yes, I would like that." Long pause while she looked at me. Clearly she was studying me as I was studying her. I was hot and sweaty and tired from my day. I am sure I looked it. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please. And have one yourself."

"I do not drink alcohol." It was curious that her face did not change. She didn't look apologetic or uncomfortable.

"No?"

"I accept Mohammad as the prophet of God."

"You are Muslim." There you go, Jessica. Nailed the obvious on the first try. I had no idea what to say after that, so I kept my mouth shut, usually a step I take too late.

"Yes." She left the room and brought back a glass of white wine. She handed it to me, and then sat at my side, once again moving with incredible grace. How did she learn to do that?

"May I ask what country you are from?"

"Sri Lanka. You may know it as Ceylon."

"But you work in Dubai."

"There was a war in Sri Lanka for many years. It was dangerous there. A man came from India to find girls to work in Dubai. They needed to be sixteen. I was fourteen, but pretty and tall, so they pretended I was sixteen and hired me. I worked for a family for ten years. Mr. Gruber visited several times. I learned a little German and greeted him that way one time. My employer let me work for Mr. Gruber. I think they will do some business together."

"Did you like living in Dubai?"

"Yes. It is safe here. In Sri Lanka, in a war, women are often... hurt."

"And you don't mind wearing all the clothes?" I pointed at my long skirts. Seated, the skirts were down over my feet.

"It is nice not to have men staring at me."

"Yes, you are a beautiful woman, and men will stare." I found myself staring. She really was an extraordinary beauty. She looked back at me while I stared, seeming comfortable with my attention. How could anyone be that beautiful and that poised? Finally I forced myself to stop staring.

"I should change for this evening." I stood and started to my bedroom.

"Let me help. I think I know the perfect dress for tonight." Saanvi followed a step behind me into the bedroom and into a large walk-in closet now overflowing with my clothes. "I suggest this one." She pulled out a rust colored strapless satin gown. Floor length and sheath-cut, it would certainly help get the attention of a man who had worked a long day. Saanvi helped me out of my cotton dress, helped me change bras, and then gave me a shoulder to lean on as I stepped carefully into this tight fitting dress. It was tight across my hips, but it looked good that way. Watch out Elias, your lady is waiting for you. I picked out black pumps with four inch stilettoes, just to go the extra mile.

As I walked back to the living room to await my man, Saanvi followed behind. In past visits to Bern, Frau Klemp had helped me find the right spot to sit so I would look my best when Elias came home and saw me. She "staged" me. Saanvi had similar ideas. I moved to sit back on the couch, but she moved me to a chair opposite the door. I would be framed by the large doorway, the first thing he saw as he stepped into the apartment.

"You look beautiful there, but why not make him wait? Tease him a bit. If you turn and look out the window, you can slowly turn when he comes in, and he can gradually see how beautiful you look this evening. Okay?" She helped slide me around toward the window, and repositioned my hands. Then she took my face in both her hands and kissed me. "You are perfect."

And she was off, probably to work on dinner. Meanwhile I felt her kiss on my lips. I liked it. It's what I thought about for the next half hour as I stared out the window and waited for Elias.

And Elias' reaction when he got home? Everything I could asked for.

Chapter 10

Making a Home

The next month was the most unusual of my life – I spent it shopping. And not just window shopping; I went in and bought things – lots of things. I tried to do it one room at a time. I thought he would do lots of entertaining at dinner, so I started with the dining room. I bought some silk flowers and tried several kinds of cut flowers for the table, bought candelabra and several colors of candles, napkins, silver, dishes, serving spoons... Anything I had ever seen on a table and liked, I now was able to buy. That Visa card seemed to take it all in stride.

For the walls, I did two tapestries and four large paintings of gulf scenes – small sail boats against the desert shore – that sort of thing. Once I got it all hung, the room was definitely more homey. And that seemed to be the central theme when I asked Elias about any potential purchase – "Make it feel like a home." So up went color and my idea of elegance.

The living room would be a challenge. I tried to envision how it would look as guests entered the room. I wanted space, but not emptiness. It wanted it bright, but not blinding. I wanted a flow either out to the balcony or in to the dining room. I didn't want a bar. I did want a place to put a coffee pot. Saanvi had told me locals went through lots of coffee. So I bought a small table to put against the wall, coffee service for twelve, and a tray to carry cups around. I tested it by making a pot with Saanvi, and then first she passed cups around the room, and then I did, just to see how that would go. She was magic, of course, as she slid around the furniture and bent to hand over a cup of coffee. I would never have moves like hers, but I could at least follow the path she took through the furniture.

On the walls, another tapestry, four paintings of old gulf scenes, and a calligraphy. Here I really needed Saanvi's help. Arabic calligraphy was in every shop. Their script alphabet is a perfect match for that kind of art work. But of course the calligraphy was not just pretty lines, but real words. What did they say? What message did I want on the wall for all to see as they entered our home? All the words were quotations from Mohammad (peace be upon him). Which did I choose? Finally I settled on one that told how the virtues of life were rewarded in Heaven. That seemed to be a good thing to quote when people were gathering to discuss business.

The room-by-room process seemed to work, but not quickly. There were so many stores, and so many choices. I kept waiting for Elias to ask me to hurry, that he had some group coming over, but he seemed in no rush. Week after week I bought things, and night after night he had good things to say about my purchases.

Saanvi was a big help. Having lived here ten years, she knew the right stores, spoke Arabic perfectly, and even knew many of the store managers. I guess she had been a good customer when employed by her last family. But shopping with her did involve some surprises. For one thing, if we were out around noon, she would stop for noon prayers. Most large stores had rest rooms, and adjoining them would be prayer rooms - one for men and one for women. She would excuse herself and go to the prayer room for about ten minutes. I asked her one time what she prayed for. She said you didn't ask for things, you recited quotations from the Quran.

The other surprise was her clothing. I had always seen her dressed like any other woman (only much better looking). But when we went out, she put on a long robe (Abaya) and a headscarf (Hijab). Both were black. The robe went all the way to the ground and trailed slightly behind her. The headscarf covered her head and neck, with only her face showing. Both were black.

She seemed comfortable dressed that way. I thought it would be unbearably hot in the summer, but the temperatures moderated in November, slowly sliding to the low eighties and then the upper seventies. The person who felt uncomfortable was me. I was wearing cotton dresses, usually in bright colors, and here she was in all black. The contrast between us felt odd. And it made me feel more visible somehow. Like people would look at the two of us, and I would seem the odd one out.

Finally I asked her if I could get a robe too. She was fine with that and took me to a store that sold such things. They found one my size, adjusted the hem so it would hit the ground but not trip me, and that was that. I had worn scarves before, obviously, so I was able to tie that around my head, and we were all set. I felt a little funny the first time we went into a store dressed like that, and I learned black gets really hot in the sun, but I got used to the clothing fairly fast. We now looked like we belonged together, and no one paid any particular attention to me. I became invisible, and I really didn't mind that.

That pretty much describes the month of November and much of December, except for the one thing that mattered -- our marriage. I followed Elias' advice and chose the abbey. I called the wedding planner every week or so to get updates as she worked with the abbey and with various contractors. And we had a date – April 29. I had a time and a place and a ring on my finger. This was real. Twenty years after my last marriage, I was going to be a bride again. I was all over Elias that night and many nights after. I was one happy girl, and I did my best to make him a happy man.

Speaking of Elias, he continued to go to work early, but he was home most nights. We generally had time for a drink on the balcony before dinner. I had added several pieces of furniture out there, but the most important was a glider. I had a snack table on each end where we could set our wine glasses, which mattered, because it left our hands free. Since I knew he would be home around six, I made sure I was back from the shops in plenty of time to clean up, refresh my makeup, and put on a satin invitation, usually low cut, brightly colored, and short. Some days I used a tight skirt that slowly slid up my thigh, and some days I used a loose skirt that he could push up as high as he liked. My only demand was that one hand stayed around my shoulders. The other hand would be all over my legs – that was good too – but one hand had to be around me. If he pulled it off me to drink some wine, that was fine, but when the wine glass went down, I pulled his hand back where it belonged.

He had always been a good lover, gentle, yet strong. Now he seemed even more patient, more caring. After wine on the balcony, he would take my hand during dinner, ask me about my day and actually listen to my story. I told him about stores and about choices, and he made suggestions, but left all final decisions to me. After dinner it was back out to the balcony as we watched the lights of the city. The temperature would lower slightly, which made it feel even better when he had his arm around me. Eventually we would go to bed, talk about our upcoming wedding, kiss, make love, and sleep in each other's arms. Life with him was phenomenal. Has any woman ever been treated better by a man?

And that's what I said to Saanvi. It was now routine for her to climb into our bed once Elias went to work. I would wake up and find her big browns inches from my face. She would kiss me, get her fingers in my hair, and we would talk. Sometimes we would talk about shopping we would do, but often I would talk about Elias. I did love him, and I wanted to brag about how good he was.

It was Saanvi who put a new frame on that love. "He's nesting. That's what this is all about. He has his mate, he has picked his tree, he is building his nest with your help. This is where you will share your lives."

"Part of that may be true. We are mated. But he is also fixing this apartment for business. We will entertain here. It will help his company."

"You may entertain his family, but I doubt we will see many of them. They have Bern, he has Dubai."

"You are sure?"

"No. But we have been here five weeks. Have you seen any family yet?"

"No, but he will also use this apartment to entertain local businesses. Remember? That's why we put up the calligraphy of the prophet, peace be upon him (Did I get that right?)"

"Good job. Yes, after you mention the prophet, you show some respect, usually by saying what you just said. As for the calligraphy, that matters since we may have an occasional Muslim guest, but we will not have many. In this culture there is home, and there is business. Women control the first, and men control the second. Home is for the family. Why would a woman want strangers coming there? She would probably refuse if her husband asked."

"But I am willing."

"That would confuse any man. He can't shake your hand. He can't touch you. Does he talk to you? About what? Why are you in the room while he is talking business to your husband? The whole thing would confuse him. If invited here, he would not know what to do. If anything, such an invitation would hurt business relations, not help them."

"Elias knows this?"

"Certainly. He has been coming here for years. I am willing to bet he has never been in the home of any business owner. The owner has a big office, he has coffee, he conducts business there."

"So..."

"So he is nesting. This apartment is all about you – you and him."

"If this is a nest, is he thinking..."

"Children? Why not? You two are not too old."

"Yes I am. I am thirty nine. I had my children twenty years ago."

"You are not too old." Saanvi pulled my head toward her and gave me a long kiss, but I wasn't paying any attention. What the Hell! Babies? Not a chance. She had to be wrong.

That day, rather than go shopping, I stayed around the apartment. I spent a long time sitting on the balcony, rocking the glider back and forth. As six o'clock approached I went in to change. I pulled out one of my short, shiny, tits and ass dresses, then put it back. I was thirty nine. Middle aged. Maybe something attractive, but closer to the knee. I found a silk print with half sleeves and a reasonable neckline. We needed to talk.

That night he came home at the usual time and we took our usual places. Maybe I put his arm around me a bit faster than usual, but other than that, it was our standard evening on the balcony. I had an obvious question to ask, but I was hoping I could get around asking it.

"Do you think the apartment is ready for company yet?" I asked.

"You have done a great job with it. Everything is beautiful."

"So do you have any plans to bring people over?"

"Not so far. Maybe later this winter."

"So you don't need me to be a hostess for the company."

"Not so far, but the time will come."

"Until that time, could I do something else for the company? I would like to be useful."

"Why not just stay here and enjoy yourself. There is still the wedding to plan. I am sure the planner will want your approval of many decisions. And I am sure there are more things you might want for the apartment."

"Is there anything more you want?"

"For the apartment?"

"No. From me." I had one hand on the back of his neck, and one hand in his hair. I had his head turned to me. The next words out of his mouth might be the most important of my life.

"What are you asking, Jess."

"Do you want me to have your children?"

"I would love to have a family with you."

"I am thirty nine, Elias. I think my time has passed."

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

"I still love you Jess." And he hugged me. And I was sure he still loved me, just as I was also sure he now loved me less.

We made it through dinner with a silly conversation about the weather. It only rained two or three times a year. Every other day was sunny, and the temperature was so stable it never varied more than two degrees from the day before. Wouldn't this be a great place to earn a living as a weather man?

Out on the balcony we drank our after-dinner wine. We went through the whole bottle. Saanvi opened a second and poured for us. Elias kept his arm around my shoulders, but his other hand stayed occupied by the wine glass rather than my leg. I kept my hands in my lap. We talked about the ships going by in the gulf, and about the traffic noise. Like the weather, these were conversation topics you used when you needed to make words but also needed to avoid words.

In bed we made love, and we kissed and held each other, but we had nothing to say to each other. I am sure we were both grateful when we fell asleep.

Chapter 11

Christmas in Bern

As Christmas approached, it provided one more thing for Elias and me to talk about while we avoided the one topic we both wanted to avoid. We would go back to Bern for several days. There was the company party, and several family invitations. Elias was an only child, and his parents had slid off a road in the Alps years before, so there was no immediate family to spend time with, but both his parents had siblings, so there seemed to be an endless collection of aunts, uncles, and cousins. We would visit most. I would miss being with my daughters in Amberg, but I needed to be with my new husband.

How did the trip go? It started well enough. The office party was huge. I was still learning how big Elias' company was. They had rented a huge hall and filled it with hundreds of employees. And that was just the Bern employees. The company had offices around the world. Total employment? Over three thousand. Annual revenue? Three point four billion US. Ownership? The Gruber family. I had married into serious money, and that was on display at the party. The food was great, the wine endless, the music provided by a band known through Europe. All the women wore evening gowns, and all the men, well, the men were like Elias – they treated their women well. We danced all night. And even if we just stood and talked (and lots of his employees wanted to talk), he kept one arm around me, or at least kept a hand on the small of my back. I kept an arm around his waist, spoke a few words of German, stayed involved in the conversation – if only with a smile. I felt like I was doing my job as his wife, and I actually had fun doing it. But at his apartment, I even had more fun later.

The other days? It was a mixture. I called Tiffany. She was hosting Christmas dinner. Ben was carving a turkey, learning to be a host. Britney was there, and we had a long talk. The surprise? She was there with Billy. They had dated in high school, but had broken that off. Somehow they had gotten back together. How do kids do that? Don't know, but somehow they had made contact. Britney sounded happy. Billy wanted to tell me he was now a section leader at the bottling plant. Things were going well there. I had to make some adjustments in my thinking about him. I had known him as a high school kid, and as a logger desperate to get a job at the plant. Now he was established there, doing a man's job, and dating my daughter. He might not be a college man, but he was a serious man. Maybe this time things would work out between him and Britney.

The family visits? I wore a smile. I used all the German I knew. I praised every home – some apartments (huge and fancy), and some homes on the edge of town (also huge and fancy). I sat and told all the children how beautiful and brilliant they were, praising any tale of music recitals or art work hanging on walls. And there were lots of soccer trophies I made sure to notice (and carefully referred to their game as "football").

I mixed with the women in the kitchen, but made sure I also spent time with the men highlighting all the success Elias was having in Dubai (I knew of three contracts he had signed, and referred vaguely to all the "others" in the works).

All this was stressful (how many children's names can any one person remember?) and boring (how many Christmas trees can you exclaim about?), but I was making my way through it all pretty well until cousin Elise leaned toward me in her kitchen and asked, "When should I be looking for additional cousins?" She asked in English, so there was no question I was misunderstanding. I wish I had been. I just smiled, hoping she could not hear my stomach drop. I mumbled something about the wedding coming in April.

If she was asking, were there others who wanted to ask but hadn't? Probably. I smiled through the remaining house parties, probably drank more wine than I should have, and counted the days for us to get back to Dubai.

By the way, Bern is cold as hell in December, and those picturesque Christmas markets? They float in a sea of slush. My feet were wet after every visit. I bought stuff, wrapped stuff, paid ungodly sums for stuff, and tried to get back to our apartment before I caught pneumonia. I was really pleased to finally get back on our plane and back to sunshine, warm temperatures, and people who weren't going to ask me about my belly.

Chapter 12

I Disappear

Back in Dubai, I had sunshine and warmth, but less Elias. He seemed to travel at least once a week to Saudi Arabia. He would be gone for two or three days. The nights he was away, Saanvi would share my bed. She would brush my hair after I had changed for the night, her hips pressed against my back as I sat before my vanity. I hadn't had my hair brushed since I was a girl. I liked it. But I also knew it was foreplay. Saanvi would brush my hair, her hips warm against me, and then she would disappear while I got into bed.

How long would she be gone? Did she do her evening prayers? Finish some cleaning in the kitchen? I didn't know, and I didn't know how long it would be before she joined me. She was teasing me, of course. Letting anticipation build. Finally she would appear in her satin nightgown, slide into my bed, and take me.

She might be my maid, but in bed, it was she who dominated. She was taller than me, somewhat stronger, younger, and obviously prettier. But she dominated because she knew what to do with me. She slid on top of me, her hair doing that thing where it flowed around my head, her mouth on mine, her legs between mine, one hand under my head holding my hair, and fixing my head in place while her other hand wandered over me, touching all the right places before finally moving between my legs and making me gasp. All I could see was her eyes in the dark, all I could feel was her mouth on mine, her hand in my hair, her hips warm against me, her fingers making me melt. She took me. I loved it.

Even when we slept she kept me. She was on her side, facing me, but she lay partially across me, her arms tight around me, a leg between mine. She held me tight to her all night. Could I have twisted out of her grasp? Maybe, maybe not, but I never wanted to. I kept my arms around her, my body pressed against hers. I had never slept this close to a man. I had never felt such heat. She held me, and I slept.

Mornings she would disappear around dawn. Prayers, I guessed. But it left me cold, the sweat that had gathered on my chest now slowly cooling. I waited, wanting her back, wanting her arms and her warmth. She always came back, and I was always grateful.

In late January Elias was gone again. This time to Bern, but he wanted to go alone. It was "just a quick trip" he said. Maybe, but I had to wonder how many more "quick" trips there would be, how many more times he would leave me. I would be his wife, but not the mother of his children. I had once less way to hold his attention, and his love.

Saanvi was in bed with me the night he left. I spent the night crying. Saanvi had her hands in my hair, holding me face to hers while she kissed me and talked to me. I wanted her to let me go so I could turn my face to my pillow and spend the night crying.

"He'll be back." She must have said that fifty times. So what? Things were so different now. When he was with me he smiled too much, or not enough, or talked too much, or not enough. He held me too tightly, or too loosely, or just didn't touch me at all. Things just weren't right. We had made efforts to reconnect, but it hadn't happened. Finally, he was gone, I was here.

And, in truth, I didn't blame him for his feelings. I had told him he would never be a father. That is not a small matter. I don't know if having children matters as much to men as it does to women, but it matters. I felt just how much it mattered whenever he looked at me. He hid it with a smile or a touch, but that didn't make it go away. He was in pain.

Would he still marry me? Yes. I was sure of that. Would we ever be the lovers we had been? Maybe. I hoped. I really hoped. I couldn't hold him, so I held Saanvi. I clung to her. I clung to her like I would cling to Elias. He was my man. I would be his woman. I would make that happen. I hoped.

Eventually Saanvi got me over on to my back and did her trick with her hair. There was her face, her huge brown eyes in near darkness, her hair shutting out the rest of the world.

"He will be your lover, and I will be your lover. You are beautiful. You deserve kisses and kind hands and our love." I spread my legs, and held her to me. The tears in my eyes made everything a bit blurred, a bit misshaped, but I could see her face and feel her breath as she kissed me again and again. As she moved her hips, I slowly stopped crying. I held her, and I kissed her, and I stared up into that perfect face.

"My Jessica, today I will take you to new places, where only the local women go. We will spend the day together." At that moment, if she had told me we would walk across the gulf together, I would have taken her hand and walked into the water.

She got me up and dressed me. She had me wear one of my prettier satin dresses, and she worked for a long time on my hair and makeup. She did my makeup as she often did now, sitting beside me, her thigh sliding against mine, her face inches from mine, her hands all over my face. After she finished each part of my face, she smiled and kissed me, and I slowly felt better.

She also wore a nicer dress, no maid's uniform. Then she got out both our robes and our head scarves. When we had our heads wrapped in the proper way, she got out another layer – niqabs. We would be wearing veils. These tied around our foreheads and hung down to our chests. There was an opening for our eyes, but here there was a thin layer that let us see out, yet hid our eyes. She helped me tie the niqab on, but offered no explanation for the veils. It seemed obvious – we would be going where the most traditional women went.

I followed her out the door, down to the street, and into a taxi. I kept turning my head to determine how much I could see with this veil – more than I would have thought, but less than I would have liked. On the plus side, no one could see that I had spent half the night crying.

Where did we go? We rode over Dubai Creek to the old side of town – the gold souk. We got out and walked the narrow streets, getting closer to the river before Saanvi found the place she was looking for. Before we went in, she asked me to give her my engagement ring.

"Your marriage is going to happen. We are certain of that, are we not?" I nodded. Somehow with a layer of cloth over my mouth it felt funny to talk. "So let's get this ring sized correctly. This man is where locals get their rings." My ring did need resizing. It turned out Elias' mother had some arthritis in her later years and had the ring made bigger to get it over her swollen knuckles. I had been afraid it might slide off my finger, so I had wrapped a bit of tape over the band. It would be good to get that fixed before the wedding. Before the wedding. I liked the sound of that.

We went in, and she spoke to the owner in Arabic. He brought out sizing bands and got my size. Then he went back to discussing the ring with Saanvi. Finally he gave her a receipt for the ring, and we left.

"He gave me a receipt because of you. He knows you are foreign. No local woman would need or want a receipt. They would trust him. Men like him handle millions of dollars in gold, and there is no theft." I just nodded.

We continued walking down the street. Were we invisible? No man looked at us. We kicked our skirts ahead of us, dragged our skirts behind us, and walked down the street. She showed me some more shops, pointing out items in the windows, having no trouble talking through the veil. Eventually I did say, "Yes, that is pretty," mostly as a test to see if she could hear me. It felt funny to talk against the cloth. I thought I would let her do the talking in the future.

Several blocks later she got us another cab, and we took it to the far edge of town to a local souk. It had mud brick walls and looked like it might be a thousand years old. Inside was booth after booth that sold everything from nuts to blankets, to old rifles. There was even one shop that sold t-shirts, so apparently at least a few tourists made it this far out of town. Saanvi looked in all the booths. It was apparent she had some object in mind. Finally she found halva. The shopkeeper gave us each a small spoonful to taste. That meant getting it up under the veil. I managed, and felt proud of myself. Small things, I know. What did it taste like? It was crushed dates and had that sweet, sticky consistency.

Saanvi bought a liter container. Apparently that had been the object of this visit, for she led us out of the souk and back to a taxi. "Hostess gift" was what she said as we got into the cab.

Off we went again, this time even farther out of town. There were several places along the road that had clusters of shops and restaurants, but mostly it was open space. Dubai has a lot of that. Half an hour later we came through a narrow valley and then up the side of a hill. Dubai has big houses – this is a rich country, but this was the biggest I had seen. It was three stories, white of course, had a flat roof, had to be ten thousand square feet, and was surrounded by a concrete block wall going up about eight feet.

We got out of the cab and walked to the metal door in the wall. We hadn't even gotten to it when it opened and a young woman ran out and hugged Saanvi. There was a lot of conversation in Arabic at that point. I didn't understand the words, but I did understand the emotions – they were happy to see each other. After the hugging and cheek kissing, I was introduced, and we all went inside. I only had a moment to look at the house before we went inside. I saw three doors, and ornate bars on all the windows, all the way up to the third floor. I was thinking of drug lord movies I had seen. I know, very silly, but when you only know the world through movies...

We went into the door on the left and found what I now expected in local homes – high ceilings, white walls, white tile floors. And there had to be twenty women in there, all ecstatic to see Saanvi. I waited until Saanvi took her veil off, and then I took mine off. She got hugs and cheek kisses. I got hugs and cheek kisses, and lots of comments in Arabic that I did not understand. Where do you put a veil when you enter a home? I didn't see a coat rack, so I put it in my abaya pocket. A few minutes later, off came the hijab and then the abaya. One of the younger girls took them from me and put them in another room.

So, what do you do when a room full of people are talking and you don't understand a word? I stood and waited, then finally sat when everyone else seemed to be sitting, and had some halva and coffee when both were served. I also smiled a lot. Several of the women tried talking to me, but eventually settled for exaggerated hand gestures – want to drink coffee? Want halva? Like the coffee? I drank, I ate, I smiled.

Time passed. How long would we be there? I wished I knew. I was still smiling, but I wondered when my cheeks would tire. Finally Saanvi came over to where I was seated.

"I want to go over and visit another family across the way. It will be simpler if you stay here. They have a spare bedroom where you can rest. It has a bathroom. Just stay there until dinner."

"We are eating dinner here?"

"Yes. I thought you might like to see what that is like."

"Okay." What else was I going to say? She had brought me clear out here to meet these people. The least I could do was have dinner. I stood. Saanvi and several women talked, and then two girls about twelve or thirteen took my hands and led me up two flights of stairs to the bedroom. It is simple to describe – white, block walls, high ceiling, large. I think I have just described every room in Dubai – maybe in the Mideast.

I used the bathroom and then sat down on the bed. The two girls closed the door and then came to me, urging me to lie down. I did, and then they lay down on either side of me. Well, the bed was plenty big. I made myself comfortable and waited for dinner. The girls lay close to me on either side. They seemed to like my satin dress. They kept touching it. They were wearing cotton dresses that came down to their ankles. Finally they each kissed my cheek and then lay their heads down near mine. I guess we were to nap.

I guess I did sleep for a while. When I woke up I noticed both girls had a hand on me – one on my shoulder, the other in my hair. The minute I moved, they each kissed me. Nice kids. What woke me was the door. It opened and two women came in carrying trays of food. They put the trays on the floor and left. Okay, so I guess it is dinner time.

The trays were put back to back, one for me, and one for the girls. What did we eat, sitting there on the floor? Rice and chicken. It's a desert. Where do you get rice? Maybe this was just something special for the guest. It was good, I ate it, and then I decided I would go looking for Saanvi. It had to be nearly time for us to head back into town.

And, here's when I finally discovered that the door was locked. I really am slow. I turned the handle both ways, pulled, then pushed, thinking I must be doing something wrong. It was a funny door, and I just needed to figure out how to use it, and that would be that. Like I said, I really am slow.

When I couldn't figure out how to open the door, I turned to the girls, pointing to the door and saying "open please." They had yet to utter one word in English, but somehow I figured they would understand. I was standing by the door, they had seen me try to open it, they would now do what needed to be done. But they didn't. They backed away from their tray of food, moving away from the door, their backs to the far wall. What, they were afraid of the door?

So I started knocking. It was a big door, made of solid wood. Very ornate, but very heavy. I wrapped on it with my knuckles. That didn't last long –it hurt. So I waited a few minutes, then started banging with the side of my fist. That hurt less, but it still hurt. But I was getting annoyed. Open the damn door. I need to see Saanvi and get back to town. I added "Hello" to the noise I was making as I pounded. It was a solid door, but I was pretty sure they could hear me on the other side. But they didn't come. So I pounded harder. I hate to be rude, but let me out of here. Maybe they were eating on the far side of the house. Maybe if I was louder...

So I started winding up and really hitting that door. It hurt like hell, but I was past being a good guest. If you can't even open a damn door, don't expect your guests to be quiet about it. I gave the door five really good whacks – each of which hurt, and then waited. Surely they had heard that. I listened at the door. Nothing.

What I did hear was the sunset call to prayer coming through the window. We had to be near a mosque. Okay, it was prayer time. But did that mean I had to stay in this room? I gave the door five more good smacks. Damn that hurt. But it got results. A large man opened the door.

"Did you hurt those girls?" I turned and saw both girls were backed up against the wall and crying, their hands above their heads as if they expected me to pound them next.

"No, I did not." And I was suddenly concerned for them. Had I scared them? Maybe the pounding. Did I look scary to them?

"If you hurt them, you will be punished."

"I did not hurt them. But I want to leave."

"You will stay."

"What?"

"We will talk tomorrow. Now is the time for prayer. Do not hit this door. Do not disturb our prayers."

"I want to leave."

"It is time to pray." He closed the door in my face. What the hell? I turned to see the girls rush to the bathroom. They did a quick wash and then were down on their knees in a corner of the room. They left a space between them. For me? I just stood and looked at them. Finally they both got back up, pulled me into the bathroom and one washed my feet while the other did my face and hands. Then we were back to the corner of the room. This time I knelt with them. Okay, we were going to pray. Me, I was going to pray for some understanding. Saanvi hadn't said anything about staying the night. No cabs? Lots to say? And why the locked door? Why not let me sit with her while she talked? Sure, I could not understand Arabic, but did that mean I was to be locked away while she talked about old times?

Meanwhile, the girls started their first bow. Head to the floor. They each reached back and put a hand on my upper arm. They didn't pull me, but it was clear what they wanted. So, okay, I bent all the way over too. Forehead to the carpet. They sat up, I sat up. They bent down again, I bent down again. I mimicked their moves. And I prayed. To whom it may concern, if you even exist, get this straightened out for me. Elias will be back from Bern in two days. Find a cab and get me back to our apartment by then. Amen.

After the prayer the girls each kissed me, and then they pulled nightgowns out of the closet. I guess it was bed time. Mine was satin, and obviously for big girls. I checked the label – Victoria's Secret. Well then. It barely covered my nipples and while floor length, it had a slit up the side that went all the way to my hip. If Elias had been around, he would have been all over me. But he wasn't. The girls also wore satin, but theirs were more modest.

Time for bed. We all got under the covers, me in the middle, each of the girls with a hand on me. Each lying up against me. I can't say I was tired. I had just taken a nap, and I doubted it was past eight. But I lay there. What else was there to do? This was annoying, but they had fed me and given me a place to sleep. I didn't have too much to complain about.

Eventually I reached out and put an arm around each girl, my hands stroking their hair. They instantly kissed me, and then lay even closer to me. So, okay, I was forgiven for scaring them. I hadn't intended to. We settled in. I even started a short conversation. I pointed to me – "Jessica." They responded "Aisha" and "Zara." So they went from A to Z. They didn't see the humor, but I chuckled. That seemed to relax them a bit. Had I really been that scary? I had just pounded on the door. True, my hand would probably be black and blue in the morning.

Enough. I settled in. Early or not, I would see if I could sleep. Whatever was going on I would deal with in the morning. I closed my eyes, kissed each girl good night, and settled back. But not for long. I had almost drifted off to sleep, when the call to prayer came again. All of us got up, went into the bathroom and shared the sink to wash our hands, feet, and faces, then went to the rug in the corner.

I knelt with the girls, did the bows as they did, and touched my head to the floor. What did I pray? This time I asked the world to forgive me for scaring the girls. I shouldn't have done that, even if it was unintentional. I promised to make any and all future objections less frightening to little ones. Back in bed, I wrapped an arm around each girl and fell asleep pretty fast.

Chapter 12

I Do Lots of Arguing

Having spent a month in Dubai, I knew there were five prayer times. I knew one came at dawn. What I didn't know was just how bad five a.m. felt. The sun may have been up, but it wasn't up much. It took both girls to get me out of bed and into the bathroom to wash before prayers. I was going to take a shower soon anyway, couldn't it wait? Apparently not. What did I pray this time when my forehead hit the floor? Nothing I want to repeat.

After prayers I crawled back into bed and the girls were right in after me. This was beginning to feel like a sleepover, except I was almost forty and they were twelve. I wanted more sleep. They wanted to talk. What did they want to talk about? How the hell would I know? All I knew is they were eager to have a conversation. They had lots of questions. I was on my back. They were on their stomachs resting on their elbows and asking me question after question. Mixed in with the questions were kisses and huge smiles. They were having a great time. I smiled too. Yes, they seemed nice. Periodically I would turn to one or the other and plant a kiss on her, and then all three of us would laugh. It was an odd way to begin the day, but that's what we did.

Breakfast came in after a time. Two trays again. Eggs and flat bread. I knew not to expect bacon. I stood as the two women who brought the trays left. I followed them to the door and put my hand on the handle. Could I leave with them? Yes. They even left the door ajar. Once that was clear, I went back to my breakfast. No need to be rude. I would eat what I had been served, shower, dress, and then go find Saanvi.

The first half of that plan worked. I ate a reasonable breakfast, showered, and then came back to the room with a towel wrapped around me. Here's where I got my first bad surprise. The girls had made our bed, and they had laid out clean clothes for me. Nice, right? Except they had laid out my clothes. Not the clothes I had worn the day before, but clean clothes that could only have come from one place – my apartment. I instantly looked into the dresser in the room and the closet. Both were full – of my clothes. Why? And it wasn't just part of my wardrobe, like maybe the clothes you would pack for a long weekend. It looked to me like everything I owned was now in this room. This made no sense. Or if it did, it made no sense that I wanted to think about.

I couldn't just stand around in my towel, so I got dressed. They had picked another silk dress for me, no sleeves, deeply scooped neckline, hem above my knees. This was not the dress women wore in public around here. Why was I wearing it here? First guess, I would not be going outside in it. Second guess, some man wanted a good look at me. Okay, let's find out who and why.

I headed down the hallway looking for Saanvi and some answers. It appeared this floor was all bedrooms. I walked past a dozen before I turned the first corner. The doors were open on many rooms. Women were in each, younger and older, sitting on chairs or on carpets, talking. I ignored them. I turned one corner, then another. Then I came to his room. The guy who had come to the door the night before. I wanted Saanvi, but this guy might have answers too. If nothing else, it was apparent he spoke English.

"I want to talk to you." His door was open, and I walked right in. He was speaking with two women, but I didn't care. I had a right to know what was going on.

"Sit." He pointed to a couch opposite his. I sat and stared at him. What did he look like? I guessed his age as about fifty, thick gray hair and thick gray beard, but both well trimmed. He wore one of those white shirts that ran down to his ankles. His face? Deeply tanned. He had what I had heard Saanvi call a "hawk" nose. That was supposed to be a virtue. I wasn't so sure. His eyes were brown and intense. He was staring at me, and I didn't like it much. For one thing, I was already at a disadvantage from the dress – lots of skin exposed, my hands having to arrange the skirts to cover as much of my legs as I could, while I bent my legs under me. I was working too hard to be modest, while the dress his girls had chosen for me made that harder than it should have been.

But I adjusted. I sat up straight, put my hands in my lap, looked directly at him, and fired away.

"Why are all my clothes here?"

"You will be living here."

"I will not."

"I think you will."

"You cannot hold me."

"Of course I can. But I don't need to force you to stay here, you will stay of your own choice."

"Don't be silly. I need to get back to Dubai City. Elias will be back from Bern tomorrow and we need to plan our wedding."

"He will not marry you. He will marry Saanvi."

"He will marry me. Our wedding will be April 29."

"He will marry her. It is a better match." So far everything he had said had been said as if he were reciting facts from a textbook. These were facts without hope of denial. This "act" really hit me. "Better match"??!! Like hell.

"She is pretty and young. Fine. But he loves me. He flew to my home to get me. He will come here and get me again."

"You left a note. You broke off the engagement. You left your ring and your Swiss passport. You took all your clothes. Your American passport took a flight to Mumbai. You are among a billion Indians. He will look for you, but he will not find you."

"You bastard."

"I am doing the work of Allah."

"You are doing the work of Saanvi. She is a witch stealing my husband."

"She will be a dutiful wife to him. She will give him children." That landed like a punch to my stomach.

"That is not fair."

"That is completely fair – and true. Now go to your room and think about what I have said."

"You can't hold me."

"I will hold you a little, but mostly you will hold yourself."

"How long?"

"Until she gives him a son."

That was so outrageous I had nothing to say. I stood and left the room, looking for an exit. I would leave now. If I had to, I would walk back to our apartment. Down the hallway, all the doors were now closed. Fine. I just needed the one to the stairs. That was down near my room, right? I turned every door handle as I walked the hallway. None moved. Back around one corner, then a second, I turned handles. There was one door open at the end of the hallway – mine. And the two girls stood in the doorway looking at me, staring at me, fearful as they had been the night before. Shit. I patted them on the head and gave them each a hug.

"Don't worry. I just need to find the door to the stairs. I won't hurt you." While I talked, Aisha gently pushed the door closed behind me. I heard the lock click. "Why?" I asked, knowing there would be no answer.

The two girls led me back to bed and motioned that I should lie down. Is this how I would respond to this craziness – lie down and sleep through it? They each took an arm and stroked it while kissing me. Eventually I lay back. What else was I going to do, punch them? Once I was down, each of them laid on my arm, trapping my arms while they kept their faces close to mine. Aisha sang into my ear. Zara kept her mouth on mine. Both had their hands in my hair and on my face. I couldn't move, obviously. Did I want to? Would I hurt them? No. I laid there and let them hold me and kiss me and sing to me.

And I cried. I saw what Saanvi had done to me, and how clever it was. I had even hidden my face as I crossed town. Not a soul had seen me. Smart, Jessica, real smart. Elias would not look for me in Dubai, he would search all over India, searching a billion people. Meanwhile she had him. She would be sympathetic. She would be helpful. She would be beautiful. She would be close. She would take him. Of course she would. And, in many ways, she was a better match for him. She would give him children. She would help his business. She would charm any and all. She knew this culture and this language. She was learning his language and his culture. And in his bed? Her hair would hang down on either side of his face, and she would hypnotize him. Her hands would hold his face. Her fingers would play in his hair. Her kisses? She would take him. She would love him, and she would give him children.

I tried to scream, I tried to rise, but the girls weighted down my arms and held my face. They kissed my screams and sang into my anger. Periodically I twisted and pulled, and tried to turn, but they were too heavy on my arms and too tightly wound around my face and hair. And they pleased me. The kisses, the songs, the touches, all met my anger and defeated it. How do you fight a sweet voice in your ear, a young mouth on yours, the constant stroke of fingers through your hair? How? I closed my eyes and cried. I cried all morning, and all afternoon, and all evening. Prayer times came and we just lay there in that bed.

I couldn't move, I couldn't fight, I could cry, and ultimately, I could sleep. The girls lay on me all that day and most of the next. I cried. I slept. I cried.

Chapter 13

I Try a New Approach

It was the noon prayer the next day when I stopped crying. It was the day Elias would be getting back from Bern. I needed to do more than cry. I kissed the girls, motioned toward the bathroom, and went to shower and change. They let me. I was tired from the fussing, and I bet they were too. Time to try a new approach.

First, I wore one of my outdoor dresses – long sleeves, long skirt, neck line up to, well, my neck. I wanted to talk with the man again, and not have to worry about where my skirt was riding while I did it. Next, the man's name. I found paper and pencil and did a silly drawing of a face with hair all around it. I showed it to the girls and said my name, then pointed to the picture and down the hall. Okay, they laughed at my art work, but I got the name I needed. "Ibrahim."

Good. Now to deal with that man. I marched down the hall, past all the rooms for the women, rounded two corners and got to his door. It was closed. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. I listened. No voices. It was noon in the middle of the week. He would be at his business. I should have guessed that.

Now what? I walked back to my room, but stopped at every open door along the way. "Hi, I'm Jessica." And I smiled. Yes, you heard me crying for the last two days, but I am smiling now. Okay? I got politeness in response. Names that I tried to remember, and words in Arabic. No English. How was it the only person in the place who spoke my language was the guy I was fighting with? That didn't seem fair. But I kept the smile on my face and worked my way down the hall. Eight women of all ages. I listened for their names, repeated them, worked on my pronunciation when they laughed, but stayed at it. I had been a bartender for nine years, I could make friends.

Eventually I was back in my room with the girls. Now what? There was a chair by the window, and I sat. Not much to look at. I was at the back of the house, and my view was the side of a rock hill. Lots of gray. But I wasn't there to look, I was there to think. He was gone, but he would be back. What was my strategy?

First, how fast did I have to act? Elias would be back today, and the search for me would begin. Yes, he would have a note from me telling him I was through with him, but he would look anyway, wouldn't he? He loved me. He would look – in India. But that would keep him busy while I figured out how to get free. How much time did I have? Saanvi was clever. She would be working on him. She probably had been working on him while I was in Amberg. She had been his maid. The two of them alone in that apartment. How close had they gotten? Given how she liked to wake me up in the morning, I'd bet she had woken him plenty of times. Into his bed, lying on him, her hair curtains framing her perfect face. Okay, enough of that thought. She would be with him, and she would be working on him.

So how much time did I have? He already had a marriage reception scheduled for April 29. Would she use that one? That would be mean. But why not? It was three months off. She could work on him for two or three months, and then when he had given up on me, remind him he already had a reception planned, so why not? If I got free after he was married, would he take me? What if he already had her pregnant? What if she already had a child?

Would I take him from her? Was I that kind of woman? Two bitches had taken my first two husbands from me after I had a kid by each. Would I do that? No. I was no angel, but I was positive I would not do that. So I needed to get free before their marriage, and before she got pregnant, which might or not be April 29. Three months.

That was a reasonable amount of time. I wasn't going to break down any doors. I would watch to be sure, but they appeared to monitor the doors well. I would break down the guy who owned the doors – Ibrahim. I was a woman, I was pretty, I could work on a man. Granted, mostly they worked on me, but I had three months to do what I needed with this man. This time I would succeed.

My opening move actually came as a gift to me – the roof. The girls took my hands and led me around a corner and up a stairway. Apparently I was permitted to go up there. Great. It was a huge space with two water tanks and a dish for satellite TV, but the rest of it was open. And it was used. Several other women were up there. None of them were wearing a robe or scarf, so apparently this still counted as private space. Good. We were free up here.

What was the attraction? Sun, the feel of the wind, and moderate temperatures. A huge tarp held up on poles shaded one corner of the roof, and there the women sat on wooden chairs and looked down at the front of the house and the street beyond. This would be great for me. I could see who was coming and going and know when Ibrahim was back. Also, I could learn about the neighborhood.

What did I see? We were one house in a cluster of houses and stores that extended about two hundred yards surrounded by hills. A very small mosque sat in the middle. An asphalt road ran through our valley. Not many cars, but in just the first hour sitting up there I saw two cabs. So if I ever got down there, I could get transportation. Things were looking up.

When midafternoon prayers were called, all of us went back down to our rooms to wash and pray. And then we were back on our chairs. The others talked about this and that. I smiled and watched. Did cabs come at specific times? When were most people around? I studied the village like some lady in a spy movie. And I watched for Ibrahim.

He got home around six, sitting in the back of a huge SUV. White. Here every car of every size was white. But you could still tell this was not your run of the mill Toyota. He got out carrying an attaché case, wearing the long white shirt, sandals, and head cloth. No power suits here. How did the rich show off? Maybe it was the head cloth or the watch – or the car. Maybe it was just the easy way he stood outside his chauffeur-driven car, outside his huge house, being watched by all his women. This was a man who had money and power. This was a man who thought he could hold me and get away with it. Not necessarily a bad man, but definitely a powerful man. He had the complete attention of every woman on that roof. Did he look up at them? No.

I sat back in my chair and waited. Several other women went down the stairs, no doubt to pester him about one thing or another. I would wait. Let him settle in. Let him deal with the other issues being presented to him. If he were American or European I would say wait until he had finished his first drink, but things didn't work like that here.

I sat on the roof for another half hour, and then went down to my lord and master. I had my speech prepared, and my attitude. I would not be whiney or threatening. I would be simple and direct. I walked into his room and waited while another woman finished whatever she wanted. They stood and talked; I waited. When she was done, I still waited. I walked closer, but said nothing until he had mentally settled on whatever issue she presented.

Then I waited longer. I waited while he looked at me, while he studied my face, while his curiosity built. Why was I here, and what did I want? I gave him plenty of time to ask the questions, and then I answered.

"You don't know me." I said that as a simple statement, then I paused before continuing. "You know Saanvi, and I assume you know Elias at least somewhat. But you don't know me. I would be a good wife for him."

"I have done business with him for over a year. I knew Saanvi would be perfect for him. I have seen them together."

"She is beautiful, but I am a better choice. I love him, and I will be a good wife. I have special skills. I can start and run a bottling plant. Can she?"

"He can hire an engineer for that. What he needs is a wife."

"I will be a good wife for him." I stepped right up to him, my hands at my side, and let him look at me. "Look at me. See me. I would be a good wife." I waited while he looked at me and I looked at him. Then I put my hands on his chest, raised up on my toes and kissed him. "I would be a good wife." I held my face close to his, said softly again, "I would be a good wife," then lowered myself and walked out of his room.

Why the kiss? Not sure. Maybe to show him I could, maybe to get his attention. It seemed right at the time. Now I would leave him with something to think about. I would be a good wife. That was my battle cry. Having declared it, I would follow up.

The next day was a repeat day. Morning prayers, talk with the girls, hello's to the older women, afternoon on the roof watching the world go by. He was home at six. I was in his room at six thirty.

"I would be a good wife." This time I had chosen to wear a satin dress that showed a bit more skin. I had charms, why not show them? There was a reason why Elias had come for me. Look at me. See all of me. This is what Elias gets with me. I let him look, my hands at my side, my shoulders back to give my chest a bit of a boost. After he had plenty of time to look (and I hope appreciate), I moved on.

"I am a better cook than any woman in this house. I want you to give me access to your kitchen." I let that hang in the air. Then I stepped up to him, put my hands on his chest, and rose up on my toes. "You will see," I said barely above a whisper, "I will be a good wife." And I kissed him. Now I stood, my face to his, my eyes to his, my mouth to his. See how quick you are to dismiss me now that you have actually seen me.

"I eat breakfast after dawn prayers. You may cook that meal for me." Damn. I had been thinking of dinner. I hate getting up early. But my face was maybe two inches from his, and I knew he was looking for a reaction. I gave him one. I smiled.

"Thank you. You will see, I would be a great wife." Then I walked out of the room holding myself as if I was completely comfortable. Confidence. It was all about confidence. Reality came as I got back to my room. Frau Klemp had taught me much, and I did think I was now pretty good, but I didn't even know where the kitchen was. Worse, I had thought I would make something that featured my bread making skills. That meant making the dough right now, and getting to the kitchen in the middle of the night to make him fresh bread. But first I needed to find the kitchen.

Actually, the first thing I needed was the find the word "kitchen." That meant I first needed to find a smart phone with Google Translate. I had already decided I would never really speak Arabic any more than I would ever really speak German. But Frau Klemp and I had gotten along pretty well using the translate function, so why not try it here?

Both girls had phones. What self-respecting twelve year old anywhere on Planet Earth went around without a phone? Did they have Google translate? How do you ask that in a language you do not know? It took me a minute, but then I wrote down "translate" on a piece of paper. They got out their phones and translated. Hurray. Next I wrote "Kitchen." They translated. I pointed to the three of us, and then pointed down, assuming it was somewhere on the first floor.

This raised a new kind of confusion. Was I supposed to go down to the kitchen? Was this okay? I looked at the word on the screen. Actually there were two – thank you Google. There was the script that was Arabic, just a squiggle to me, and there were the letters in English that might help me see how to pronounce the word. I gave it a shot.

"Ibrahim Jessica mutabikh." I hoped they understood I was saying Ibrahim had said I could go to the kitchen. At least my simple words were enough to get them talking. Then Aisha went off. She was gone about fifteen minutes, no doubt checking with Ibrahim, and then she was back with an older woman who looked none too happy. But she motioned for me to follow. I did, and so did the girls. We walked to a corner and she unlocked the door. So here is where the stairs were. Down we went.

The kitchen was none too pleasant. It was hot, crowded, and hectic right now as the four people who worked there were preparing the evening meal. I knew enough to stay out of their way. I would do my work after the evening meal. For now, I just needed to see what was where. I could do that from a chair in the corner, and that is where I went.

I will spare you the gory details for how the next twelve hours went, but you can pretty well guess. I waited until dinner was done, served, and cleaned up, then I wandered the kitchen looking for ingredients, using the girl's phone to ask for the simplest things – flour (tahin), yeast (khamira), to make bread (khabaz). Strange kitchen, strange language, no recipe books, and no real time. I worked all night. The girls were real troopers and stayed up with me through the whole thing, which just made me feel more guilty as I realized what a mess I was making. In the two hours I waited in the corner of the kitchen, I decided I would make croissants and an omelet. My croissants would be the lightest he had ever eaten. One would be plain, and one would be chocolate filled.

Great plan. Reality? They did have flour and yeast and salt and some milk, but no butter. Well, maybe they had it, but the women who worked the kitchen didn't think they needed to stay around once their shift was over. I can't say I blame them, but I did need them. The girls and I searched everywhere for every ingredient and every mixing bowl and utensil. Every step took forever as I had to write out what I needed, they had to translate, then we all had to look, then we had to measure... You get the idea. Even the simplest task was exhausting.

At four a.m. the kitchen crew came back, and I got yelled at for the mess I had made – and was making. I held on to my corner of the kitchen and kept working on the bread and croissants. I gave up on the omelet. I would never find what I needed in time, and even if I found the ingredients, my access to the stove top was gone.

Six o'clock rolled around and I had one French bread and three croissants. I picked out the two croissants that looked most like croissants, put them and the bread on a plate, and carried it up to Ibrahim. When I arrived, he was already seated at a table eating from the tray the regular staff had brought up.

"Sit. Join me." I put my tray on his table and sat opposite him.

"I will do better tomorrow." I collapsed back against my chair.

"I will enjoy your croissant and bread today." He dipped his knife into a jar of butter (where had that been all night?) and spread some on one of the croissants. He handed that to me, and then buttered the other one. With enough butter, they would probably be edible, but I was in no mood for food. I had made a promise and failed. I was angry, exhausted, embarrassed, and not at all hungry. He ate his croissant and then broke off part of the bread I had made.

"You don't need to eat that." I said. My voice was so soft from fatigue, I was not sure he would even hear me. "I know what I made is bad. I will do better tomorrow."

"I will be traveling for several days. Let's do this. I have always enjoyed the bread when I have been in Europe. Why not work on your bread, and have one ready for my dinner when I return in three days. Okay?"

"Yes." I smiled and started getting up.

"This is where you kiss me and tell me you will be a good wife."

I laughed, then went around to his side of the table and leaned down to kiss him. "I will be a good wife." And I kissed him. "I will find a way to prove it to you."

"I know you will try."

I went back to my room, thanked the girls (even simpletons like me know to say shukraan), and dropped in to bed. The girls followed me in, and we slept in a mixed bundle.

Chapter 14

The New Normal

The idea behind the baking was to show I would be a good wife. I guess. Maybe it started that way. But it also helped fill my day. How many hours can you stay in bed, or sit on the roof watching traffic? Baking got me access to the kitchen, and maybe access to an outside door. Maybe.

So I baked. It took me two days to find all the ingredients I needed scattered around the kitchen shelves and pantries. Plus time to find the best bowls and utensils. I ran out of things, but I was not allowed to go shopping, so I had to write up shopping lists that the girls then translated to Arabic. It made for delays, but I got what I needed.

My baking improved. Having butter helped. Not being up at four a.m. kneading also helped. Since my bread wasn't required until dinner time, I could do some work in the morning, let the bread rise, and then bake later in the afternoon. I liked that schedule. It kept me somewhat busy, but also allowed time for me to get some rays up on the roof.

Three days later I had three really good breads finished, each with different textures and additives. See, I was saying to him via bread, give me time, and I can do a fine job. I do have skills in the kitchen. One more reason why I will make a good wife. My bread was done, and waiting for him when he got back from his trip. I was in the kitchen watching the other women cook, writing down a recipe here and there. Finally a woman came in and told me Ibrahim would see me. What she actually said was "Ibrahim" and pointed up, but I got the idea.

I went to my room first. I had been in the kitchen for hours and needed a quick wash and some work on my hair. I also applied makeup for the first time in days. A dress? I took off the cotton dress I had been wearing, and looked for something that might be better at getting and holding his attention. Short and shiny always worked with men. But did he want a tight skirt, or loose? I went with tight. Then I slowly walked to his room. Pretty women can be late when they come to men. Pretty women are worth waiting for. Pretty women can casually walk in. So I did.

He was seated at a small table, and he pointed to the chair opposite him. "Please join me for dinner." I settled in, my back straight, shoulders even, chin up, hands in lap. He would see a pretty woman who knew how to conduct herself. Poise. I ate a little of this, and a little of that.

"I like the bread you have been baking."

"Thank you."

"Are you enjoying your time in the kitchen?"

"Yes. I am learning some recipes from the other women."

"Good. I hope your time here will be productive. You should put the time to good use."

"Can we talk about that? Really. How long will you be holding me?" I put down my fork.

"Saanvi and Elias will be lovers. He is already spending more time with her. Assume they marry in the spring, they may already have a child little more than a year from now."

"Or you can let me go now, so we can marry as we planned."

"You will not marry him. She is a better wife." That sentence would have been so much easier to hear if it had been said with any animosity. But instead, he said it as if he were reading sale prices at Walmart.

"He loves me."

"Yes."

"Well? What is there to argue about? He loves me."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Then let him go. Do what is best for him."

"I am best for him."

"She will give him a family. He deserves that, doesn't he?"

"Why do you keep coming back to children? There are many reasons to marry. We love each other. That is enough."

"You have two daughters. Would your life be the same without them?"

"That's not fair."

"Of course it is. Jessica, give him the same opportunities you had. Let him have a family."

"Let me go. I don't care what you say. You have no right to hold me."

"If you love him, you will stay."

"I bake bread while he makes love to Saanvi in our bed? You hold me for a year or two while she takes my place? She takes my man? She holds him in her arms? He holds her, when he should hold me? I love him. I want him. You will let me go." And I launched myself across the table. I knocked plates everywhere and got one good swing in at his face. I hit him hard. I know it because my hand still hurt two days later. He saw it coming, but did not duck or block it. He let me hit him. Then he just wrapped his arms around me and held me while I fought. He stood, and pulled me up with him. I struggled, but other than that one good punch, I was done. He held me, I twisted and turned, but I couldn't get free.

"If you love him, you will stay." He said that almost in a whisper as I grunted and struggled to free myself. I barely heard him. But he said it several times as he held me. I exhausted myself, and then laid my head on his chest.

"Please. You have no idea how much I love him, how much I want him."

"I see your love."

"Then let me go."

"No." We were whispering to each other at this point.

"Please." I said. "I will be a good wife."

"I know you will, but not for him." He let me go at this point, and I just stood and looked at him. Why did I bother talking to him? He just didn't understand. I turned and walked back to my room.

It was two weeks before I talked to him again. He was traveling a lot, but even when he was home I could think of no reason to go to him. Let the other women talk to him. I worked in the kitchen, baking more and more bread as more of the women asked for it. And I studied the foods the others were cooking. Several items looked interesting.

Most of my day I spent up on the roof. I sat with the girls and looked down the street. We had short conversations via Google Translate. But mostly I thought of ways to escape – all fantasies of course. Tie bed sheets together and climb down from the roof? Sure and end up in a broken heap in the gravel. Wait in the kitchen and then steal a ride with one of the delivery trucks? Sure, except women were protected from men, so all women were moved to another room before the delivery men entered. All escapes seemed more like cartoon ideas than anything real. There was only one real way out. Ibrahim. And he would not let me go.

But I would try again. What choice did I have? Once more I would face him. Once more I would explain why he should let me go. But not in his room. I would do it on the roof. If he was home, he liked to come up on the roof after the evening prayer. We all did. We were now into late January. Winter. Daytime temps were in the seventies. Nights got lower. It was beautiful up on the roof. Cool tempts, clear skies. The girls and I would wrap a blanket around our shoulders and look up at the stars.

Through much of January I watched him come up night after night. He stood by himself. He might look down the road at the village, but most nights he was like us, staring up at the stars. Almost two weeks passed, and then I decided it had been long enough. It was time to try again. Surely, he was more reasonable now. I walked over and stood before him. I slid the blanket down my shoulders so he could see the short dress I was wearing. But I said nothing. Let him think about the woman I was, the woman he was holding. I am real. I am a person. I deserve better than this. I stood and looked at him.

"I know how this conversation will end." He said. It was dark on the roof, but there was enough light for me to see his face. He seemed modestly amused. I really hated that. "Either you will kiss me and tell me you would make a good wife, or you will hit me, or you will do both. What I don't know is how the conversation will start."

"It will not start with an apology. You should not hold me."

"But I will hold you. I will hold you at least a year, and maybe two."

"This is against all laws."

"Of course it is. But it is still the right thing to do."

I put my hands on his chest, stood on my toes, and looked directly into his face. "Did you love her?"

"I loved her as a daughter."

"She was not your daughter. She could be your wife."

"I raised her as a child. She could not be my wife. She is with the man she should marry."

"If you had kept her, you would have her, and I would have Elias."

"Yes. But it would have been wrong."

"I should hit you again, this time for being stupid."

"If you wish."

But I kissed him. "Think of her kisses, and undo this mistake you have made. It is not too late." I kissed him again, this time holding the kiss and looking into his eyes. He took me by the shoulders and stepped away.

"I think of her often – and I know I have done what is right for her." He walked towards the stairs. I picked up my blanket and walked back to the girls. What a damn mess.

A week later we started sleeping on the roof. Apparently that was a regular thing in January. The girls had a bed roll to lie on. Several other women also slept up there. It was a bit chilly, but nice under the blankets. And we could look up into the stars. It was astonishing how many were visible with so little light coming from the ground. They formed a cloud rather than individual stars.

We would stay in our room until after the evening call to prayer. We would wash, pray, change into our night gowns, and then grab blankets and pillows and climb the stairs. It was chilly in our nightgowns until we got in under the blankets, so we quickly laid out the bedroll, arranged the pillows, and then jumped in together.

The second week of this, we came up the stairs to find Ibrahim also on the roof. Several other women were already lying here and there, so we went through our usual routine. But I saw he was watching us. Watching me. I was wearing my Victoria Secret night gown – white satin with little cover of my breasts and a long slit that opened every time I moved. He was getting an eye full.

Did I hide myself under a blanket? No. In fact I left the girls and walked up to him.

"Do you like what you see?"

"Yes. You are a very beautiful woman." Oops. I hadn't expected the conversation to go there. It literally stopped me in my tracks. I stood and stared at him, and he stared at me. Now what? I had no idea. Slowly I walked closer to him.

"Thank you." I had no idea what else to say. It was dark. It was quiet on the roof. I looked at him, and he looked at me. He held out his hand, and I took it. And I stepped closer.

"Most nights, after you talk to me, you kiss me. I like that."

"I shouldn't do that. You are not my man. Elias is."

"Yes." And he put a hand in the middle of my back. He didn't put any pressure on my back. He just put his hand there. It felt warm. I put my hands on his chest, and looked into his face. What was going on?

"I am not sure why I kiss you."

"Whatever the reason, I am glad you do it." And now his other hand was on my back, one higher, one lower. Both were warm. Our faces were inches apart, and we were speaking in whispers.

"I think I wanted to show you I can be a good wife."

"I am certain you would be a good wife." One of his hands slid up my back and wrapped around my shoulders. I love to be held that way. I kissed him without even knowing I was doing it. He held me tighter. God, his arms were warm.

"I like to be held like this." I was up on my toes now, my hands sliding towards his head.

"Then I will do it more often."

"Please do." And I kissed him again. My arms wrapped around his neck, and my mouth seemed to be linked to his. What the hell was I doing? What was going on?

"I love to hold you like this. In truth, I love you." His hands slid around my back now, holding me closer.

"Tighter. If you love me, hold me tighter." I kissed him. He held me tighter. We stood together for a long time. "I have no idea how I feel about you. I want to punch you. I want to kiss you. I want to stand here with you. I want you to take me down to your room."

"First, you must declare," he said.

"Yes, I love you. I knew it the moment your hand hit my back." I kissed him again, and we walked down stairs to his bed.

Making love with him took patience. He kept stopping. He laid me down in his bed, took off his robe, and lay next to me. Then he stopped to run his hands over me, to kiss me, to tell me I was beautiful. This went on for a while before he slid over me. Then he waited again, kissing me, talking to me, putting his hands on my face. I decided to move things along, and guided him into me. He felt great, but once again, he stopped. I like foreplay as much as anyone, but there comes a time...

And then it occurred to me – he was giving me a chance to say "no." He wanted me. I could feel that below. But he would not take me. I had to agree. I had to tell him. So I did. I put my mouth to his ear and told him exactly what I wanted. And he delivered. He left me hot and breathless and very, very happy. I would not let him go. I wrapped my arms and legs around him and held him as tightly as I have ever held a man.

I had not known an hour ago I would be in this man's bed, but now that I was here, it seemed perfectly natural. Did I love him? Yes. I suppose that's why I had been kissing him all those times. And maybe it was why I hit him. This was all a surprise to me, but it shouldn't have been. It was there for a smarter girl to see. But I saw it now. And I felt it. And I liked it.

He would need some time to get used to me. For instance, he would have to get used to me holding him like this after sex. I had him, I would keep him. He was mine to hold for an hour or more. That was part of the Jessica package. And he would have to know I wasn't going anywhere tonight. Also part of the package. I kept my face close to his and explained the rules. And one more. When he held me – which would be often – the important word would be "tighter." He showed me now that he understood the rule. I smiled. He smiled. We kissed. This was going to work just fine.

It turned out he had rules too. He had two wives. Every third day one of them spent the night in his room. Not much happened, but they got the room. Okay. It gave him two nights to miss me. Also, he would always go slow. It was in the Quran. Really. So I would learn patience. Okay. In the end, I got what I wanted. And he was very good.

And that was my January. I baked during the day, slept on the roof with the girls two nights out of three, and loved that big bearded man every chance I got.

Chapter 15

I Get Married

As January slid into February I was one happy lady. When I slept with the girls, we still slept on the roof. But now I was just with them weekends. They were back in school, some place where they boarded during the week and returned home weekends. They were happy to see me, and now tried a bit of English they were learning in school. Mostly they whispered short conversations as we lay under the blankets.

One night they huddled even closer to me, and I somehow sensed they wanted to talk. Since their English was just school book English, this was not going to be an easy conversation. On the other hand, since these were twelve year old girls, it didn't take much ESP to guess at what they wanted to talk about.

"Ibrahim. Good?" Yup. There you have it. They knew I was sleeping with him, and they were curious.

"Jayid. Jayid." Good twice. That meant very good, right? I had an arm around each and I hugged them a bit tighter for emphasis. Having a man in a good thing, girls. Just wait until you are out of high school, not like the fool who is currently with you.

At this point they each put a hand on one of my breasts. I nodded. Yes, a man would touch you there. I reached down a put a hand on each of their bottoms. They giggled. That was as far as I was willing to go with anatomy lessons. They had a mother. I just wanted to be reassuring. Hopefully I was. They slept that night still keeping a hand on my breasts. I wrapped an arm around their shoulders, kissed them, and went to watching the stars. I loved those nights.

The nights when Ibrahim was home – and it was my turn – were even better. I always started on the roof. I waited until evening prayers were done, put on one of my sexier night gowns, and went up on the roof, standing near where I had first kissed him. And I waited for him to come up. Jessica's rule – if you want me, come and get me. And he did. I waited for him to get close, then I turned my back to him and pulled his arms around me. I leaned back into him, and he slowly slid his hands up until they were on my breasts. Good man. We would look up at the stars for a while, he would fondle me, I would move my ass into him until I felt his reaction, and finally I would turn toward him so we could kiss, which we did slowly as our arms tightened around each other. I made him wait, and hold me, and kiss me, and look at me, and then finally I would say, "Let's go to your room."

I have to give the man credit for patience. He would never rush me. He knew exactly what I would make him do up on that roof, and he did it. Then he would walk down to his room, with me following two steps behind. He was fabulous in bed, and we would hold each other all night, me with a hand in his hair, he with a hand on my ass. We actually slept that way.

When we heard the call to morning prayers, we would get up, do the ritual washing, and then kneel side by side to pray. As we put our heads and hands down on the rug, I sometimes put my hand down on his. Oops. Prayer isn't supposed to be foreplay, but, well, if I burn in Hell, at least I will have good memories. Because after prayers we headed to the shower, and there Jessica ruled. I washed him, and then shampooed his thick longish hair, pushing my fingers deep into his hair and then curling so they couldn't come out again. His head in my complete control, I now kissed him and backed him against a wall. Your turn, Ibrahim. He washed me, he kissed me, he held me and waited while I whispered over and over "tighter." I have never been so clean or so happy.

About the middle of the month something odd happened. I had pretty well figured out who was who on the third floor. Four of the women were daughters, each waiting to get married. Then there was the two girls in my room – also daughters. Then there were the two wives. Wife number one was Ibrahim's age – fifty or fifty two. Not real attractive, I guess a first cousin and an arranged marriage. She had never been pretty, but she made an effort. Unfortunately the effort involved makeup that she seemed to apply with a trowel. But she had never been unkind to me. If I said "salam," she would respond.

Wife two was the problem. She was younger than me – maybe mid-thirties. She had given Ibrahim four daughters. Like most women, she had added a few pounds with each pregnancy. After four pregnancies she had added a lot of pounds, and just kept adding. She had to go three hundred pounds now. It distorted her face so each of her expressions was a bit off, but it was clear there would be no smiles on that face for me.

One day she got up out of the couch in her room and came down to my room. She was sweating like crazy from the exertion and had to lean against my door frame before she had the wind to say anything. What did she say? I have no idea. Well, I didn't know the words, but I did understand the tone. She was unhappy with me. And since she included "Ibrahim" in her sentences, it didn't take a genius to know this was about him and me. Why he might go to her room and climb her mountain of fat was a question she was not addressing. She was unhappy with me, and that was that.

Ibrahim was gone on business for a couple days. When he came back, it was my turn with him, so I waited on the roof, did my usual routine, and finally got into his bed. We were lying side by side, kissing, as we built up to the main event, when Ibrahim decided it was time to talk.

"Layla is upset." That was fat wife number two. I said nothing. What was there to say? "She is blaming you for adultery."

"So, does she plan to stone me?" I thought I was being cute. Ibrahim wasn't laughing.

"We don't stone women any more. But it is a major sin. I have been sinning, and so have you."

"So, solve the problem. Marry me." By now I had my fingers deep into his hair. My face was practically in his. "I have told you time and time again, I would be a good wife. Marry me."

He lay there staring at me. He had one arm under my neck, wrapped around my shoulders. The other arm was across my lower back, holding me to him. Both arms pulled me tighter, but he said nothing.

"You wish to be my wife." It took him forever to get that out.

"How many times do I have to share your bed before you understand I love you?" I was tempted to kiss him to emphasize my point, but I stayed motionless while he looked at me.

"I also love you."

"Do you wish to marry me?"

"Yes."

"Then make me a happy woman. Make love to me tonight, and tomorrow work on getting us married." The first half of that went well, but the second half got complicated.

"I am allowed a third marriage. And your religion doesn't matter as long as you are from the book. You are Christian?"

"No." I wasn't prepared to say more than that. Did I give him a long story about how welcome my alcoholic mom would have been in the local church? Or the way I was treated when I started dropping kids in high school? No need to go into any of that. Was I Christian? No.

"Are you Jewish?"

"No. I am Muslim. You are my man, I am your woman. You are Muslim, I am Muslim."

"It is not that simple."

"Of course it is that simple. I pray with you. I will fast with you."

"Those are acts of faith. But you must also say the Shahada."

"There is no God but God. Mohammad is the messenger of God."

"You must say it in Arabic. And you must believe it."

"Teach me the Arabic."

He slowly taught me the Arabic words. I repeated them, worked on the pronunciation, and eventually got the sentence right. Did I believe it? I believed if I said the sentence, I got to marry the man I loved. And I guess I believed the sentence as much as most people believe what they say they believe. If I burned in Hell, well, first there had to be a Hell. In the meantime, I got Ibrahim.

Once he was certain I could say the shahada correctly, he led me down the hall to address each of his wives. We did old wife – Amara – first. He explained what was going on, and had me repeat the shahada. Her face changed expression under all the makeup. I think she smiled. In any case, she walked over and kissed me on both cheeks. I took that for approval.

Wife number two was more difficult. She interrupted Ibrahim when he was explaining our situation. And she sneered when I repeated the shahada. She had lots to say when I was done, but Ibrahim told her to shut the hell up (it was Arabic, but I was sure that was the general meaning), and we left.

So, I had said the shahada in front of witnesses. I was now Muslim. Were we now married? Did we walk down to the mosque for a ceremony? Did we get the Imam's approval? Here's where it got interesting. Ibrahim told me he would go to work and draw up the marriage contract. The marriage contract? Was this some kind of pre-nuptial agreement? He didn't explain, and I didn't ask. Back in his room he held me, we kissed, he held me tighter, I smiled, he looked like a man in love. Maybe we were married, maybe there were more steps. I would find out tomorrow. For now, we got back into bed, made love like crazy people (okay, that was mostly me), and finally fell asleep.

What does it actually take to get married? It is more complicated and less complicated than I would have thought. First, no mosque or Imam. This is a civil event – a contract between two parties– not a religious event. I was relieved to learn I would not have to be tested by the Imam on how much of the Quran I knew. That wouldn't have gone well (had Elias wanted a Catholic wedding, I would have had the same problem there).

What did the contract say? It said we agreed to be married under all the laws of Dubai. I had no idea what those laws were, and didn't care. He had asked me if I wanted to take his name – I did – so the contract also left a place for me to sign both my old and new name – Jessica Al-Kindi. Everything was in both Arabic and English (at least I assumed both said the same thing). We found four witnesses (two were needed if male, four if female – thanks Mohammad). His daughters all signed off. They even smiled and said nice things while kissing each of my cheeks. I wasn't sure what impact this might have on their inheritance. I was hoping none.

At this point we were officially married, but Ibrahim took two additional steps. First he drove me to the police station to register me. He had the marriage contract – and my American passport – and they had me fill in a form. They took my fingerprints and my picture, and thirty minutes later I walked out with a residency card about the size of a credit card. It had my picture and my vital information in both Arabic and English. I was now a resident, Jessica Al-kindi, wife of Ibrahim Al-Kindi.

Next stop, the local branch of the Bank of Dubai. We sat with a woman banker who filled out another form, made a copy of my residency card, and took an envelope of cash from Ibrahim. Inside were twenty ten-thousand Dirham notes. I had no idea what two hundred thousand dirham was worth in dollars (later I would find out it was worth about sixty thousand dollars), and I did not know why he was putting so much money in my account. I just stared at him. He would explain later – I hoped. I left with a folder full of account information, and a debit card.

All of this was fine, but it didn't feel much like a wedding. On the way home I asked him to stop and buy some flowers. Then after dinner and after evening prayers, I went to my room to change. The girls were home for the weekend, so I stopped at their room and asked them to dress in their prettiest clothes, then come to my room. Once they were there, I pulled out a light yellow waltz gown I thought would double as a wedding dress. The girls had a great time helping me put on the slip, petticoat, dress, and shoes. I went the whole way. Then I gave them some of the flowers, I took some of the flowers, and we all went upstairs. All the women of the house were up there waiting for us.

Ibrahim stood alone. If any other grown man had been there, the women would have been forced to cover themselves. So it was just him. I got to the top of the stairs, waited for the girls, and slowly walked to him.

I stood in front of him and said, "I love you and know that you love me, so I wish to be your wife. I promise to honor you, to support you, and love you for the rest of our lives."

Everyone on the roof had seen enough western movies to know what was supposed to happen next, and he didn't disappoint.

He said, "I love you and know that you love me, so I wish to be your husband. I will love you, support you, and honor you for the rest of our lives." Then he kissed me. All the women (except the fat one) cheered. I think they liked witnessing something they had seen so often in movies.

I put my arms around his neck and whispered "At this point you would normally dance with me, then carry me into your bedroom. But I would be happy to follow you to your room. From this day forward, I will follow you everywhere." He kissed me, turned back towards the stairs, and walked to his room. I followed two steps behind, flowers in my hands, a huge smile on my face. I was married.

Chapter 16

Ibrahim Confesses

Marriage was not a pre-condition for my freedom. I had actually been off the grounds a week earlier. I was spending a lot of time in the kitchen, baking bread and experimenting with dough. I had some ideas for better dishes for Ibrahim. One morning Dannah was down there with us. Her marriage had been arranged, and she would be leaving in about six weeks. In the meantime, she was bored – you could see it in her wanderings around the house. That morning she looked around the kitchen, found something in short supply, and decided we needed to go shopping. She talked to two of the kitchen servants and then pointed at me. I was to go too.

So off we went. We stopped at one of the closets, put on our robes and head scarves, and Dannah and I both put on our niqabs. Dannah led the way out the door and down the street. We were going to a tiny store several blocks away.

What was it like to leave the house after more than three months? Hot. Temperatures in March go into the mid-eighties, and I don't recommend wearing black robes when it is that warm. I was sweating before we were a block from home. And with the niqab covering my face, if there had been a cooling breeze (there wasn't), I never would have felt it. But I did enjoy looking around at the homes and businesses I had only seen from the roof. Of course they were all concrete block painted white, but still, it was fresh scenery to me.

The store was so tiny we walked single file through the two narrow aisles. I wasn't sure if Dannah was looking for something in particular, or was just extending her time out of the house. Finally she picked out two jars of cream cheese. I should explain this stuff in case anyone from Wisconsin is curious. This is not our cream cheese. This stuff is white, just a little thicker than mayonnaise, and it comes in jars about the size of peanut butter jars. They spread it on flat bread.

Two jars in hand, she paid the man sitting at the small counter by the door, handed the jars to one of the kitchen women, and back home we went. As the four of us walked back, kicking our black skirts as we walked, a taxi slowed down, looking for passengers. I could have hopped in and been gone before any of the other women could have reacted. But I never gave it any thought. What I was thinking is how hot it was now, and how cool it would be on the roof that night as I stood there in a really short satin night gown waiting for Ibrahim to wrap his arms around me. Under that niqab was a big smile.

So without any comment, I had already been granted a certain amount of freedom. After my marriage I had much more. Ibrahim gave me my passport after we left the police station. I checked later and found I had been to India and Thailand. I was an adventurous lady. I now also had a residency card, and a debit card, so I had money and proper identification. I could go anywhere I wished. Of course at that point, where did I wish to go? To Ibrahim's bed.

In the weeks after my marriage, Dannah took me with her on several other shopping trips. None of these were necessary, of course. With such a large household, all the food we ever needed was delivered. But she was restless, so we went out after a jar of this or a jar of that. On one occasion we took a taxi, the four of us (Dannah, me, and two kitchen workers) crammed in to a small Toyota. We traveled for about twenty minutes to a larger town with a larger store – a "HyperMarket." Basically the place sold household items as well as food and was about as large as a WalMart. One of the kitchen women pushed a shopping cart, Danna walking in front and the rest of us following.

It was a nice store. It had a huge vegetable and fruit section, with items from all over the world, signs stating the name of the item and the source country. A few items were from the U.S. Dannah threw a few bananas in the cart and we moved on.

It was another corner of the market that got me interested. They had a long row of cooked foods, basically your take-home chickens and lamb kabobs. And they had samosas. These are triangles of dough wrapped around a dab of meat. Our cooks made them all the time, but the taste was uninteresting to me. I thought I could do better. So I got a clerk's attention and ordered two of each kind (there were six), by pointing and raising two fingers. I added my six bags to the cart while Dannah stared at me (at least I think she was. We were both wearing niqabs.) Why did I want six pairs of samosas? I was going to dissect and eat them and see if I could do better.

So that pretty well wrapped up our little adventure in the HyperMarket. We dragged our black skirts over the tiles, checked out (I noticed all the clerks were men) and crowded back into a cab. Once back home, I shed my outer clothing and went straight to the kitchen. I was so serious about studying these samosas, I actually took out paper and pencil and wrote down what I thought of each taste and what I found inside. My conclusion? I could do better.

As a newlywed, I suppose I really should be describing my nights of passion with my new husband, but he was traveling two or three nights a weeks, and his other two wives were demanding their time with him. Sharing a husband is annoying – I don't recommend it.

But we did have our time together. I stuck to my ritual. First, me standing half naked on the roof, waiting for him, knowing he would hold me tight. Hugs, kisses, looks at the stars, longer kisses, tighter hugs, my breathing in his ear and telling him... well, you know. And finally I would walk behind him to his room.

If anything changed there, it was the talking. All the good stuff still happened, and if anything, it was more intense now that we knew this was a permanent arrangement. But we did talk more. We would lay on our sides, and he would let me lock my fingers in his hair and hold his head while he held my back and ass (and did it very well), and we would talk.

I was curious about the money, first of all. Where did that come from? It was the "mahr" or bridal gift. It was in the marriage contract (which I just glanced at). It was mine to keep. Furthermore, I did not have to contribute to the running of the house. He was responsible for all costs. So what did I do with the money? I had no idea, and neither did he. It was safe in the bank. So far, I was liking finances here.

A very different conversation occurred a couple weeks later. I had one hand in his hair and one in his beard and was about to pull him on top of me when his hands held me even tighter and closer, but kept me on my side. He had something to say. He waited until I loosened my hold on him. He wanted to talk? Okay. I kissed him first though. You want to talk, go ahead, but you are delaying something I think you will like.

"Saanvi and Elias were married yesterday." We were face to face, and he was looking at me intensely and holding me tightly. However I reacted, he would see it and feel it immediately.

"That seems early." I had long ago lost track of the date. At one time I had been so aware of April 29. Now I thought it was still March, but I wasn't sure. "Is it April yet?"

"March twenty second."

"He and I were to be married April 29." Ibrahim stared at me and said nothing. His hands didn't move, nor did his eyes blink. He held me, watched, and waited. "Why so early?" I continued puzzling on that. I really can be dumb. It took me far too long to realize he had not just stopped talking, he had stopped moving, and was barely breathing.

"Ibrahim." I finally said after waiting far too long. "I hope she finds love. I hope they are both happy. But they will never be as happy as I am. Believe that. Trust that. For it is true. Five times a day I pray that Allah will keep us together."

"You are to recite a sura from the Quran at each prayer."

"I am a bad Muslim, but a good wife."

"Yes, you are a good wife." And I felt his hands move on me. I kissed him, held him tight, and then did what I had wanted to do before. We had a great night together.

March became April and I continued to spend my days in the kitchen, and my nights waiting for my turn with Ibrahim. The women in the kitchen said my samosas were getting better. My nights with Ibrahim were perfect.

But there was another night he wanted to talk. I am afraid I was not too patient with him.

"I have waited three days to be in your bed. Now you want to talk? You need to travel less and hold me more."

"Yes. I need to travel less. When I am gone, I only think of you."

"That sounds nice, but I need you to prove it." I started pulling on him, but he weighs far more than two hundred pounds, so it was clear I was going to have to wait and listen.

"Saanvi wants to talk to you."

"No. Now climb aboard and make love to me." I got a very pleasant groping of my satin-covered ass in response, but no other movement. He had more to say. Ugh.

"She wants to talk to you."

"Yes, you said that. No."

"You should talk to her."

"Why?" Enough was enough. If he wasn't getting on me, I was getting on him. I pushed him on his back, slid on him, and got my hips right where they needed to be. Ready or not, Ibrahim, here I come.

"She needs you."

"Shut up and fuck me." I pulled up my nightgown and slid down on him.

"You should do this."

"Oh for crying out loud." I had my hands in his hair and I thought I had control of him, but obviously I didn't. "I will talk to her on two conditions. First, you make love to me right this minute. Then, when I am in a far better mood, you will tell me why you didn't marry her."

That got his attention. In fact, I could see from the look on his face I had gone far too far. Oops. But that got him moving. He rolled over on me and got right to it. He had never fucked me so fast – or with that look on his face. I hadn't just crossed a line, I had jumped over it with both feet. He pulled my arms down to my sides, wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. He'd had enough of me playing with him. He was in charge and wanted me to see it and know it and feel it. By the time he was done, I was reaching my head up, trying to kiss him, trying to apologize, trying to undo the damage I had done. As he climaxed, I was crying.

He stayed on me and in me, his arms around me pinning my arms, his face over me, his eyes telling me there were boundaries I needed to be aware of.

"When she came to work here, they said she was sixteen, but she was obviously younger. At night she cried for her mother. She was just a child. She was the same age as my daughters, so I thought of her as a daughter. I still think of her as a daughter." He paused there. He could see I was crying. He moved his arms to free mine so I could wipe my eyes.

"I'm sorry." I was still crying.

"She is beautiful, but she is also still young. She needs help."

"Since you saw her as a daughter, did you arrange her marriage?" I was barely whispering as I asked that. I guessed the answer and was frightened of his answer, and of his reaction.

"Yes." He was whispering now too.

"And all of this? You planned this, not her?" I waved around the room.

"I planned to keep you in your room for two years."

"You could have found her another man."

"She wanted that man."

"So she has him. What do I have?"

"You have an old man who loves you. You also have your passport and some money. You can leave here if you wish."

"But I don't have Elias."

"No. I took that from you. I am sorry."

"You should be sorry. You did a terrible thing." Through this whole terrible conversation, I was on my back, my legs spread for him. He was on me, still in me, his face above mine. I made no move to get out from under him. I wiped my eyes and looked at his face.

"Tell me one thing. Please. No lies, no tricks." I waited and watched his face. "Do you love me? Really?"

"I loved you almost from the first day. I saw right away I was hurting you. I know I will burn in Hell. But I wanted you, so I kept you. I helped my daughter. But this was for me. I love you. I pray you will stay with me."

I think I looked up at him for the next ten minutes. I said nothing. But I also did nothing. I stayed under him, our hips locked, my breasts touching his chest. Lying as I was, what else could I be but his woman? So I laid there. Eventually I dried the last of my tears and put my hands up on his head and neck. What was done was done. I was his woman. I was his wife.

"I forgive you."

Chapter 17

Saanvi Again

I spent most of the next two weeks sitting on that roof. And it got hot. But that was good. It was too hot for any reasonable person to sit up there, so I had it to myself. And that's what I wanted. I had lots of thinking to do, and some emotional adjustments to make. I had thought Saanvi had tricked me. I had been angry at her. I had also felt pretty foolish for letting myself be tricked. And I still had some reason for anger. After all, she must have asked her "father" for help, and she had certainly participated in the plot. So she bore some guilt.

But he was the one who had created the plan. He was the one prepared to lock me in a room for two years. He had cost me Elias. But. He was trying to help his daughter. And. He was now my husband. Damn, what a confused mess. I had every reason to be angry with both of them. I also had at least some inclination to forgive both of them. I had lost Elias, but I had gained Ibrahim.

Around here they say "Inshallah" – as Allah wills it. One response is to just accept things as they are. I was sliding in that direction. There was nothing I could undo, and at least one thing – Ibrahim – that I would not undo if I could. So I sat on the roof, sweltering even under the shade of the tarp, watched people move about the village, and adjusted to my new reality.

Ibrahim helped. He was home every evening for a week, and he made his other wives skip their turns. I waited for evening prayers, changed into my nightgown, and went up to him on the roof. Now he was waiting for me when I arrived. I got a hug and a kiss and quiet time to look at the stars, feel his hands on me, and feel his warmth. I had asked if he really loved me. He showed it to me each night.

I wasn't as playful with him now. Not in bed, and not in the shower. I asked him to teach me a sura about the relations between men and women, and I repeated that as I said my prayers at his side. And lots of times, when we were rising from our prayers, or getting up from bed, I would just stand and look at him. If he saw me doing that, he would walk to me, stand inches away and tell me he loved me. I didn't put my fingers in his hair any more. I did not want to pretend that I controlled him. I didn't. When he told me he loved me, I put my hands on his chest, raised up on my toes, and said "I will be a good wife. I love you, and I always will." Then he would kiss me, and hold me, and I would say, "Please Ibrahim. Tighter. And longer."

Eventually I felt secure with him again, and when he asked me again if I would talk with Saanvi, I agreed. She visited two days later. Ibrahim was out of town on business. I was sitting on the roof when she arrived. She stepped out of her cab, just one more woman in black, but it was obvious it was her, the way she stood, the way she moved. A ballerina in black. As she stepped across the gravel to our door, you had the sense the gravel was grateful for her step.

She made me wait as she greeted the other women of the house. I went down to my room, sat in my chair by the window, and waited. I had my door closed so she would have to knock and enter my space. Eventually I could hear her outside my door. There was a hesitation. Good. And then a light knock. I opened the door and then backed away so she could enter. I said nothing. Neither did she. I closed the door and stood there with her. We were maybe a foot from each other, staring. We were both wearing silk dresses. Mine had long sleeves and skirts down to my ankles. Hers was short everywhere. The bodice had spaghetti straps and showed off most of her chest. Her skirt was tight and short. I was barefoot, she had two or three inch heels that let her look down at me. I don't know which of us moved, but at some point we were touching, her hands around the small of my back, my hands at her shoulders. She gave me one of her delicate kisses. I held her closer.

"Jessica, I am sorry for what I did." She slid her hands farther around me, and down to my ass, her fingers moving the silk over my skin. I looked and waited. Surely there would be more. She owed me more than "I'm sorry." I studied that perfect face. Oddly, I wondered how long she spent putting on makeup. The eyeliner was perfect. The lipstick, the lips... I kissed her.

She lifted me onto the bed, then lay on top of me. She put her knees between mine, my legs now locked in place by my skirts. Then she entwined her fingers in my hair, holding my head. She was on top. She was in control. That was no surprise. I knew my place, and I remembered her talents.

She held her face over mine, her hair once again sheltering our faces. I was to look up into those huge brown eyes and listen. I did. I also slid my hands up and down her back, arriving mostly on her ass. She felt so good to touch.

"I met him here, in this house, one time when he visited. I saw him and I loved him. I had never been with a man before. But I wanted him. I told Ibrahim. He is like my father. He helped. He gave me the greatest gift a father can give a daughter

I laid under her and waited for more of the story. I put my hands on her back and stoked her soft skin under the soft silk. Finish the story, Saanvi. You are here for a reason. Kissing me is not it. You have me where you want me. Now tell me why you are here.

"Jessica, I loved him, but it was so hard to make him love me. He gave me a job. He let me cook for him and spend my evenings with him. I was close. I know I was. But there was you. He bought a whole factory to get you."

"You have him now."

"Some days I do, yes. I think I am close to fully having him."

"But."

"Yes, I need something." She lowered her face and kissed me. I would wait to hear what she wanted. She kissed me again, moved her fingers through my hair, held my head just under her face. This was her favorite position. She took control. All you saw was the beautiful face, the perfect smile, the huge brown eyes. Here she was at her best. I waited. She kissed me again and again. She moved her legs between mine, and slid her hips against me. I wondered if anyone had ever turned her down when she had gotten to this position. I doubted I would. I opened my hips to her and pulled her tightly to me.

We spent the afternoon on my bed. She wasn't ready to tell me what she wanted, and I wasn't ready to let her go. Eventually I tired of her delicate kisses, and I pulled her head down, her mouth now tight against mine. I held her there. I pulled my skirts up and wrapped my legs around her. I held her. Whatever she wanted could wait. I wanted to hold her, and to feel her holding me. And I had that all afternoon.

At the call to sunset prayers we began untangling from each other. She said "I love you" as she began to rise. I looked up at those huge eyes, and I think I believed her. I also said it. And at that moment, it was true.

We got up for the sunset prayer. We washed and then prayed side by side. I asked her what sura she used. It turned out to be the same as mine. When we finished, we sat on the carpet, touching each other. We could have been friends. And lovers. I smiled at the thought. We kissed and got up.

We went down to the kitchen to eat. The cooks gave us lots of things, my samosas among them. I watched Saanvi eat my samosa, hoping for a reaction. None. I still had work to do.

Back in my room she told me all about her wedding. We were back on my bed, but sitting side by side. We sat turned, to see each other's face, but not touching now as she talked. It seemed a normal thing, one woman telling another woman about her wedding, but of course, there was nothing normal about this conversation. I listened. She needed to talk, to prepare me for whatever she would ask. I was curious. I was unhappy, but I was curious.

What had been her state of mind in March? She had worried that sooner or later he would find me, so she had pushed him. She had never seen snow. Could he take her to Bern with him? She would love to meet his family. Would he mind? What were the marriage customs in Switzerland? Where had he planned the reception for Jessica? Could he show her? What did women wear? Could she try on such a gown? It had been obvious to everyone she had been pushing, but they all said the same thing – Elias, don't be a damn fool. Look at her. You are a forty year old workaholic. Do you think you will ever get a girl like this again? She had taken four of his female cousins with her to try on wedding gowns. When they saw how she looked, they sent images to every relative in Bern. Twenty or thirty text messages later, Elias drove over to the bridal shop and proposed there and then.

When the evening prayer call came she interrupted her story long enough for us to wash and pray, and then we went up on the roof. I brought up the bedroll and we laid on it, talking under the stars. The four daughters were also up there. It was a warm night, one that warned you there would not be many more comfortable nights left. So they lay looking up at the stars, and we looked up. They talked, and we talked.

Saanvi wanted to talk more about the wedding and reception. I no longer wanted to listen. I really didn't. The reception had been at the same place I had chosen. A night had been open, they took it, two hundred friends and relatives came to look her over. I interrupted. Had there been snow? Yes. What about flowers, could they get them at the last minute? Yes. What kind were they? Edelweiss. Did she wear any on her gown? No. Why not? I suddenly wanted to argue with her about her floral decisions. No, I wanted to argue with her about everything connected to the wedding, and I felt myself ready to cry. If there was one certainty in the world, it was my desire not to hear about her wedding to Elias – not in the reception hall I had rented.

About my third interruption Saanvi must have heard something in my voice. The four daughters had stopped talking. I was being heard by all on the roof. Saanvi leaned over me, kissed me, and said, "Let's go down to your room." We gathered up the bedroll and went back to my room. When I reached for the light, Saanvi held my hand. So we stood with just the flicker of light coming in through the window.

Saanvi put my arms at my side, and then hugged me, holding me. She put her face to my ear and whispered, "I want to make love to you." She didn't wait for an answer. She reached to the back of my dress and slowly unzipped it. She used both hands and caressed my back and my ass as she went down. Then she slowly took the straps to my slip over my shoulders and slid that down, again touching me the whole way down. Then it was my bra which she unhooked and slid over my shoulders. But when she had it down by my wrists, she pushed my hands to my back and wrapped the bra around my wrists, tying it there. I let her, as I knew I would let her do whatever she wanted with me that night. She backed me to the bed and put me in it.

She had her own clothes off in seconds, and put on a satin nightie she found among my clothes. Of course she immediately got on top of me. But she held me in a new way. She slid one arm under my neck and held my head in the crook of her elbow. I was to look straight up into her perfect face. Her legs were between mine, her hips sliding on mine as her other hand slid down my body. It stayed on my breasts for a few minutes, caressing and slightly pinching, letting me know she could hurt me if she wished. Then the hand slid lower, slowly reaching down between my legs. Her fingers stayed on the edge of me so I could feel where she was, and anticipate where she was going. And then slowly she slid up into me.

I was shaking, and gasping at this point, although she held her mouth over mine. It was dark in the room, and dark under the curtains of hair that hung around our faces. I could see nothing. I could feel everything. Her fingers knew exactly where to go and what to do. I gasped again, but she kept doing it. Her hips held me in place, her arm held my head. She was taking complete control of my body. I could taste her mouth. I could smell her perfume. I could hear her breathing, and my slow moans. My temperature spiked and my breathing all but stopped.

She held me that way all night. She moved on me and in me all night. Once or twice I shifted to one side, thinking she would roll off me, but she didn't want that. She would stay on me, holding me, controlling me. She owned me. She knew it. I told her so, whispering how good she felt and how much I loved her – and wanted her. All night.

At dawn I was exhausted. I was soaking in sweat. But I was desperate for her to keep holding me. My arms were still bound behind me, so I could not cling to her. I could just hope that she kept holding me.

"Shall I visit you again?" She asked. We could hear the dawn call to prayer. Would she get up? I tried to hold her with my legs. I was desperate that she stay with me.

"Yes. Stay with me. Visit me." Did she have to ask? Wasn't it obvious?

"Will you do something for me?" As she asked, her fingers moved in me.

"Yes."

"You are sure?"

"Yes." It would have been so much better if I could have used my arms to pull her to me and kiss her. Whatever she wanted, I would do. She had to know that. But she wanted me to say it. Me, lying there in her arms.

"He knows you are in Dubai." She stopped there and looked at me. It was obvious who "he" was. She wanted to talk about Elias. Now it was even harder for me to breathe. I looked up at her and waited. Whatever she wanted, I would do. But Elias? "He hired an agency to look for you. When you registered with the police after your marriage, there was a public record. They found it and told him after we got back from Bern."

"After you were married." Looking up at her, feeling her in me, I had a lucid moment.

"Yes."

"You miss the point, Saanvi. You are married and I am married. This is over. Done. You have him. I have Ibrahim." I looked up at her. She was silent. Was it over? Is that what this was all about?

"And you love him?" Those huge eyes looked into my face like they were looking into my soul. And it was at that point that I finally got the message. Did I love Ibrahim? Would I stay with him? Or would I go back to Elias if I had the chance?

"Yes. He is my husband. I love him. I will spend my life with him." Oddly, I am crying as I say this. "Elias is yours. I will not take him. He is yours. Love him. Have ten children." And that moment she seemed to collapse onto me, her face on my neck. I could feel tears. She really did love him.

We laid like that for a long time. I think she even went to sleep for part of it. I had to wonder, as I lay there under her, how does a woman so beautiful end up so insecure? She should be able to snap her fingers and get any man. She had beauty, poise, grace, and youth. Whatever feelings Elias had for me, he was getting an eyeful of her. And he would have his family. Love her, Elias, and count your blessings. Inshallah.

Eventually we got up. I would have stayed under her forever, but she ended it. She had what she wanted. She untied me, and we got up to wash, then prayed side by side, our thighs, hips, and shoulders touching as we put our heads on the floor and then rose again. After the prayer she took me into the shower, put me against the wall, and soaped me while I wrapped my arms around her neck, and she kept her mouth on mine. She slid that beautiful body against mine, her hands touching me everywhere. I clung to her neck as she drove me crazy.

When she was done, she put me back in bed still wet, while she dried herself and dressed. She pulled the bed covers up to my chin and then laid on me again. Of course I was pinned by her and the bed covers. Of course she was in control. When was she not?

"Do you love me?" She asked.

"Yes. I love you."

"Do you want me to visit again?"

"Yes, please."

"You will do something for me?"

"Yes. Of course."

"You love Ibrahim?"

"Yes."

"Elias needs to see that. You will show Elias your love for Ibrahim."

"Yes."

"Ibrahim will tell you how to do that." She held my head in her hands and kissed me. She held that kiss for a very long time but not nearly long enough. Then she got up and left me.

I lay there exhausted. I had agreed to help her. And it likely meant seeing Elias again. I started shaking, and crying. Finally I fell asleep.

Chapter 18

We go to Dinner

I slept most of the day but got up for prayers. After the evening prayer I put on a very short satin nightgown and went up on the roof. This was his night to spend with Mount Layla, second wife and largest woman in Dubai. But I thought he might want to see me before he climbed that mountain. He did.

I was wearing so little I moved to him slowly so he could see all of me. Then I stopped a step or two from him and made him come to me. He did. What did I see in his face? Pleasure, love, lust. Nice combination. I kissed him and wrapped my arms around his neck.

"Thank you for looking."

"Thank you for dressing like that."

"You know I love you, don't you?" I had my head on his shoulder and was whispering in his ear. I also knew with my arms up like this, my nightie was pulled up and barely covered my ass. His hands seemed to go there automatically. Good man. So far. "You are my man, and I will be with you forever."

"You are like my daughters. You kiss, and then ask something."

"Saanvi has a plan. I don't think it is needed."

"But you agreed to do it."

"Yes."

"It is simple. You and I will go to dinner at a very nice restaurant. Saanvi and Elias will happen by, and they will see us together. That is all."

"I think there is more."

"They may talk with us. They may even sit with us for coffee. You will look at me."

"Can I wear my niqab?"

"They need to see your face, and see your love."

"They will see my love for you. But you must do something for me. I no longer want to share you with the fat lady."

"No, that is grounds for divorce."

"Just a month."

"Two weeks."

"Three."

"Done. You should be in business."

"You should kiss me and hold me before you go down to climb that mountain." And he did. And when I said "tighter," he did that too. As he did, I whispered over and over, "I love you. I am your woman. I will be with you forever." And yes, I clung to him. He finally took my arms from around his neck, kissed me, and went down to the mountain. I went back to bed, and fell asleep imagining what might happen in that restaurant.

The restaurant event turned out to be five days later. It also corresponded with one of my nights in Ibrahim's bed. So I approached it as a "date night" might have been for a married couple in the U.S. We would go off to dinner, then come back, our love rekindled by good food and wine, and jump into the sack. There would be no wine in our case, but thinking of it as a "date" rather than a "test" made me feel more comfortable about it.

I would be wearing the robe and head scarf of any Muslim woman in these parts, but before we left home – and after we got back, I could wear anything I wanted. I wanted to get Ibrahim's attention. I tried on several dresses, but finally went with a silk number that used very little silk. The spaghetti straps held up just a bit of silk over my breasts, and the skirt barely covered half my thighs. At forty I was not sure I still had the legs for a miniskirt, but I had plenty of mirrors in my room, and I tried them all. They seemed in agreement that I might not have the legs of an eighteen year old, but I had legs that would still work their way on a fifty year old husband. My hope was if I looked inviting enough he would hurry this whole event along so he could get me home, and get me into bed.

I added sandals with four inch stiletto heels, gave myself a final view in two mirrors, then walked down to his room. I knocked, then stood at the door until he came for me. The minute he saw me, I knew I had chosen the right dress. When they talk about a man having his tongue hanging out... My husband wanted me. I got a hug, a kiss (a very long one), a hand on my ass, and an arm around my shoulders. Before I could even say "tighter" he had pulled me into him and damn near knocked the breath out of me. What a great way to start an evening.

Downstairs, I put on my robe and headscarf. I didn't think I would need my niqab, but I put it in the pocket of my robe anyway. Then I followed Ibrahim out to the car. The back seat was huge. Obviously the SUV had been designed to be chauffeur driven. We had lots of leg room, and controls for AC and various electronics. The windows were heavily tinted, so I decided I could entertain my man as we drove. Up came the hem of my robe. I crossed my legs and looked to see what reaction I was getting. I was getting what I wanted. Taking things to their logical extreme, I took one of his hands, put it on my thigh, and crossed my legs over it. How does that feel, husband of mine?

Apparently it felt pretty good. All the way into Dubai City, we kissed, groped, petted, and basically acted like high school kids coming home from the prom. It was a good start to the evening and did make it feel like a date. I leaned against him, put my head on his shoulder, and reminded him one more time, "I love you. You are my man. I will stay with you as long as we are alive." He held me and told me he loved me too. If any couple was ready for this test, we were.

Where did we go to eat? Why not the tallest building in the world? It had restaurants throughout. The driver took us to a special entrance, and we got out at the restaurant's elevator. Up we went forty floors. Yes, the building goes up over a hundred, but forty floors was fine with me. This was five star restaurant with a famous chef and views of the city and Gulf. Elias and I had been here once. It beat the hell out of the Wausaukee Diner.

Ibrahim walked in like he owned the place (maybe he did), and we were led to a table with incredible views. Along the way we stopped and looked at the fish display. All the fish had been caught that day. We were to pick one, and order it prepared as we wished. Ibrahim and the waiter spoke and we continued to our table, Ibrahim walking first, and me following two steps behind. The waiter never spoke to me, nor did he help with my chair or place my napkin. None of that was appropriate with an Arab lady. Having had the same waiter treat me very differently when I had come with Elias, I found the differences interesting. But I was perfectly comfortable with the Arab way. I had come to be with my husband, not to banter with a strange waiter.

There were four chairs at the table. Initially the waiter pointed to two chairs with the best view out the windows, but that would have put our backs to the doors. Ibrahim sat us to the side, still with a view, but with our faces visible to anyone walking in. So, the plotting begins. I had not asked when the encounter was scheduled. I hoped it would be long after our meal when we were sitting with coffee and about to leave. Wouldn't that be best for all? But I left that to Ibrahim and Saanvi. This was their show.

My job was simple. A woman looks at the man she wants. I may or may not say a word. But I would always be looking. So I just needed to look at Ibrahim and not at Elias. I was already turned toward Ibrahim. And we were close enough that if I wanted, I could take his hand. Was that appropriate in public? Maybe not, but it felt comforting that I could reach him if I needed to. Just as a test, I took his hand now, and smiled at him. He smiled back.

Oddly, neither of us had much to say while we waited for our fish to cook. I found myself adjusting and readjusting my scarf. It seemed loose on one side. Or was it too tight on the other? Was it coming loose? Might it slip off my head? I pulled on it and retied it again and again. Finally Ibrahim grabbed my hand. "It is fine."

Okay, so now what? How long did it take a famous chef to cook a fish? And when would Saanvi and Elias arrive? How long had we been here? I looked at Ibrahim's watch. It was huge – a Rolex. That explained something to me – how in a city where every man wears a white shirt to his ankles (yes, I know they are called dishdashas) how do you tell the big guys from the regular guys? I guess a chauffeur and a Rolex would do it. Men needed to display their status. Otherwise, how would silly women know which man would be the best mate? That observation came from a sociology textbook my daughters had brought home from college. I often read their books after I got done at the bar and they went to bed. Some of the books were pretty good. Sociology was for simpletons. The girls needed good grades to get into nursing school, and sociology was an automatic A if you actually showed up for the exams. I read the chapter summaries one night after having spent ten hours on my feet talking Packers and pouring beer and could summarize the key points while nodding off in my chair. Status and mating was one of them. Like you needed a textbook to tell you that.

You may be asking, what does any of this have to do with eating fish in the world's tallest building? Nothing. But it filled my head while I waited for the damn food to appear, and for a man and a woman to come through that door and test me to my limits.

Then I had another thought. When was the last time Ibrahim had said anything? I had been looking at his watch, but I hadn't been looking at him. When I did finally look at him, I saw a man drumming his fingers and moving his eyes around the room. Nerves. My husband was nervous. At this point I suddenly felt really foolish and selfish. I had been scared of what would happen here. But I would be leaving this room with one man or another. Elias would leave here with one woman or another. Who really had something at risk this evening? Saanvi and Ibrahim, both of whom could lose their mate.

I am slow, remember I never finished high school, but I am not heartless. I took Ibrahim's hand again. "Remember your promise. When we get home again, I get you every night for a month."

He smiled and held my hand tighter. "The bargain was three weeks."

"Do you have witnesses? Under Sharia you need two men or four women for a verbal contract to be binding."

"When's the last time I told you I love you?"

"Not recently enough." We didn't kiss, but we did smile and start talking about the view, the fish that seemed to have gotten away, the lights coming on as the sun set. We held hands. He stopped drumming his fingers, and I stopped playing with my hijab.

And, miracle of miracles, the fish appeared. It was covered with some sauce that was no doubt the result of culinary brilliance. Fine. I just wanted to eat. The fish, accompanied by a large fork, spoon, and spatula, were all placed in front of me. As the woman, it would be normal for me to give the food to my husband. And that's what I did, carefully breaking off portions of the fish and putting it on his plate. Then I served myself. We were also given large salads and a basket of "naan," an unleavened bread about eight inches in diameter and looking like the bottom of a pizza. We ate the salad, broke off pieces of the bread, and went through the huge fish in record time.

It was actually a fine meal. But importantly, it gave us something to do, and something else to talk about. I was doubly busy since I got to break off portions of the fish and serve both of us. Woman's work. Fine with me. I wanted to be busy.

Forty five minutes later we had eaten everything but the bones. The waiter cleared the plates and said he would be back with coffee. So, where was Saanvi? If she was coming, this was the time.

Our coffee came eventually. The food was great here, but I thought the service was better at the Wausaukee Diner.

Speaking of which, it was at this moment that Saanvi and Elias walked in. I knew the suit he was wearing. It was the thousand dollar suit I had asked him not to wear out to dinner in Wausaukee, but of course he had worn it anyway. Here it looked perfect. He stood like he knew the place, liked the place, planned to be a regular. And he probably was. Saanvi offset his gray pinstripe with a red silk dress that emphasized every move she made. It had long sleeves, a high neckline, and skirts well past her knees, but she still had every man in the place looking at her. And she had cheated a bit with her hijab. Rather than cover her head down to mid forehead, as I had (and every other respectable Muslim woman did), she had a red silk kerchief that wrapped around her face, but showed two inches of hair at the top of her head. What a hussy!

The two of them stood looking around the room while they waited to be seated, and what do you know, Saanvi spotted Ibrahim! What a pleasant surprise. They both walked over to our table. Ibrahim got up to shake hands and kiss Elias' cheeks, I did the same for Saanvi. Ibrahim and I sat down and invited Saanvi and Elias to do the same. What a surprise, why not join us for coffee, how have you been? We did the usual greetings, Saanvi going on and on about what a great restaurant this was and how much they loved it and blah, blah, blah. She sat to my left, Ibrahim was to my right. Girls on one side of the table, boys on the other. But that left Elias directly across from me. Not good.

I was sitting properly, my back straight, my hands in my lap. My body and head were turned slightly toward Ibrahim. He was seated in the male position, back against the chair, forearms on the table, relaxed. Large and in charge. Saanvi kept talking, but no one was paying attention. This was Elias' show. He was leaning forward – toward me, his elbows on the table.

"You never went to India." That ended Saanvi's history of the chef. She shut up, and we all stared at Elias. Well, I was actually still turned mostly toward Ibrahim, but it's not like I couldn't see Elias. I had spent how many nights under that man, looking up at those eyes. I was desperate not to look at them now.

"It took some time, but I come from a country where we track trillions of dollars in currency moves. We can follow a passport and eventually find out who is using it. You never left Dubai."

My turn to say something. After all, this whole scene was set up for me to end things with Elias. The sooner the better. Sitting across from him, maybe three feet separating us was agony. I kept my head turned. I had to. Please let this end soon. "I like Dubai." For emphasis, I reached out and put a hand on Ibrahim's. That does it, doesn't it? I am looking at another man, holding his hand, isn't that what they want of me? Please, Elias. Shut up, drink your coffee, and go. But he's not ready. Dammit.

"So, you and Saanvi are out shopping one day, you run into Ibrahim and..."

"How I met Ibrahim is my business. What matters now is that we are married. And so are you." Nice job, Jessica. Not too emotional. Just state the facts. And hold Ibrahim's hand. And look at Ibrahim. Hell, look anywhere in the damn restaurant except at Elias.

"And that settles things between us?"

"Of course it does." Oops. A little too loud.

"Then I wish you the best." He stood and walked out of the restaurant without his bride. She went running, a blur of red silk, after him.

I sat with Ibrahim. He sipped his coffee, held my hand when I offered it, and said nothing. I waited until Saanvi was out of the room and then pulled the niqab out of my pocket. "May I?" I asked Ibrahim. He nodded. I tied the top of the veil around my forehead and had my face covered just before my top lip curled and my tears started coming. I took his hand again, holding tightly while he sat and sipped coffee and then called for the car. When we finally left and got into the elevator, I stood behind him and rested my head on his back. I was sniffling a bit, but otherwise, I think I was covering my crying pretty well.

When we got into his car, I wrapped my arms around his neck, put my head on his shoulder, and completely lost it.

"Jessica, it..."

"Don't." I actually put a hand on his mouth. "Don't tell me things will be better in time, or I will get over this. This is not a problem for you to solve. I don't need advice. I need your arms around me as tightly as you can hold me. I need you to tell me you love me. I need you to tell me you understand, even if you don't."

He shut up and held me. I buried my head in his shoulder, my face wrapped in the niqab and in his shirt, it was a wonder I didn't suffocate. Not that I would have minded. I cried, pounded my head into his shoulder a couple times, and even punched him once. He just held me. He whispered that he loved me, I cried, and we drove away from that goddamn restaurant.

I was paying no attention to where we were going. And by now my niqab was twisted around my face so I couldn't see anyway, so I was surprised when we stopped out in the middle of nowhere. The driver got some things out of the trunk and wandered away while Ibrahim and I stayed in the back seat. My world mostly consisted of Ibrahim's neck. My arms were around it, my face was in it. It was several minutes before I turned my head to look through the one eye hole I could use, and then all I saw was night.

Eventually the driver came back and opened our door. Ibrahim slid out, pulling me with him. I straightened my niqab but still all I could see was darkness and a rock wall. I have seen too many mafia movies. I swear my first thought was, oh hell, he's had enough of me and he's going to bury me in the desert. But he took a flashlight from the driver, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and led me toward the wall.

As we got closer, I could see it was not rock, but mud bricks. And there were windows and doors and a central passageway. It was a small building complex. But all ruins now. All the window frames were empty, and all the roofs had collapsed into the rooms. He led me down the main passage. Some of the rooms were better preserved, but most were broken and falling. How many rooms were there? Maybe twenty or thirty down this passage, with two other passages branching off. This had been a village at one time. Maybe centuries ago.

Ibrahim said nothing, but swung his light from side to side so I could see the rooms. We walked slowly and stopped here and there. Finally we got to one room with a carpet on the dirt floor and bedding unrolled – no doubt the work of the driver. He took me in there, and we sat down.

"This was my bedroom. I shared it with my two brothers until I went away to college." He gave me the flashlight so I could look around. As I pointed it in different directions, he described what I was seeing.

"That was the room for my parents. My sisters slept in there. Out in that clear area we boys played soccer a million hours a day. That room was for the teacher. He taught us to read and to pray from the Quran." He moved so his back was against a wall. I pushed his legs apart and sat between them with my back to him. Then I pulled his arms around me while I leaned my head back against his shoulders.

"You may think I brought you here to talk about me, but I want to talk about you."

"Then hold me tighter." And he did.

"My first wife is a first cousin. I had seen her once or twice when we were little, and once or twice when we were older. I think she watched me play soccer once in that area. The marriage was arranged, the bride price paid, and she gave me two sons and two daughters. I was lucky. She was a good woman, and I loved her. I still do. My second wife was for a business alliance. It was like tribes might intermarry before a long caravan. Our family has businesses that align with theirs. An alliance was a good idea. She has given me four daughters – two older ones, and the two twins who shared your room. There was never love between us, but there was respect. We share a bed, as you know."

"That is enough for a man. My sons went to college and joined the business. My daughters went to college too, and they will all marry. I am fifty, a time to marry off the children, and smile at the miracles life has brought. Then Saanvi brought you to my home. We agreed I would keep you in that room for two years. That was cruel, but you would have my daughters for company. My other daughters spend almost all their time at home until their marriage. They learn to wait. You could learn too. I thought.

"But I felt your pain then, and I feel it now. What I did was wrong. I saw that right away. But you are beautiful. And I wanted you. So I kept you. Each day you came to me, I knew I should let you go. But you are beautiful, so I kept you. I love you, and I want you. But I will not hurt you. Jessica, look at me." I turned around, my face now inches from his. "You know me now, the little boy who grew up playing in the dirt. If you wish to leave me, I will not hold you. I will do whatever you wish."

I studied that face. I sat with his arms around me, his legs aside mine. The man I had married. The man who's bed I had shared for months. My man. I leaned forward and untied the niqab. Then I stood and took off my hijab and abaya. I stood before him wearing that tiny bit of silk. Then I kneeled before him.

"When Christians marry, some of the women take this vow: "I love you, and I know that you love me. Because of this I desire to be your wife. Through the pressures of the present and the uncertainties of the future I promise to be faithful to you. I will love, serve, and obey you as long as we both are alive. Christ told us that the wife must submit herself unto her husband as unto the Lord. For as Christ is the Head of his Church so is the husband head of his wife. I submit myself to you."

"You are my husband. I do love you. I will not leave you. Ever. I will serve you. I will obey you. I submit myself to you completely. All I ask is that you hold me tight, kiss me often, and please, please, please, make love to me right this minute."

He did.

Later, I lay across his chest, my arms around his neck. I held him that way all night. And sometimes I laid my head on his chest and cried. Why? I don't know. But I loved holding him, and I loved having my face in his chest, and I loved having his arms across my back holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. Then, between tears, I would say "tighter."

At dawn we could not hear a call to prayer, but he knew which way to face, and we prayed side by side. Then we went back to the bed roll and I went back to holding his neck.

"I love Elias." I whispered into his neck. "I think I always will. But you are my man. You are my husband. I love you. I want you. I will stay with you. You are my life." I waited to feel his arms tighten across my back, and when they did, I kissed his neck. "Thank you."

We wrestled in that bedroll for a while. It was time to rise. I assumed he had work to do. He needed to be many places, but I had no intention of making it easy. There is a price to be paid for being my man – my bride price. You have to hold me, and kiss me, and sometimes be late for work.

Eventually I relented. He put his shirt on. I put my abaya and hijab on over my silk. No niqab. No tears. No reasons he should not see this face, and no reason I should want anything between me and him.

We walked out of the complex and stood looking at the dawn as the driver gathered up the carpet and bedroll and put it all in the trunk.

"You lived here until college?"

"University of Iowa."

"What?"

"I was born in 1968. Oil was discovered here in 1972. It took nearly a decade to fully develop those initial fields. But by 1985 there was money, and the Emir planned our future. Lots would happen. But part of the plan was about young men. As we finished high school, we were given a test. Those who tested in the top 10% got college in the U.S. The next fifteen percent got Europe. I got the U.S. and was assigned Iowa."

"Iowa? I can't imagine anything more different from here."

"No, I loved Iowa. I could stand on one of those grass covered hills and imagine those rolling hills were rolling hills of sand and gravel. The only place I felt uncomfortable was amongst forests. I visited Wisconsin once and hated it. Give me wide open spaces."

"You would hate my home, but don't worry. This is my home now."

We got into the car. The driver took me home first. I was in no hurry to get out and Ibrahim had to wrestle me to the door. I whispered lots of things in his ear and finally let go. He went off to work, wherever that was, and I went up to my room and my bed.

Chapter 19

Saanvi's Victory Dance

Saanvi came three weeks later. Those had been good weeks. Ibrahim still had to share me with wife number one, but I got all the other nights, and they were very good nights. We were now deep into March and the temps were rising fast during the day. I always heard that the desert got cool at night. Not this one. It was still plenty warm up on that roof after evening prayers, but I went up there every night to meet my man – and to display myself in the shortest nighties I owned. He liked what he saw, and I liked the way he looked at me. Hot or not, we stood up there and necked like high school kids. Then he would lead me down to his room and we got it on. The man might be fifty, but he knew how to treat a lady. I did lots of things the rest of the day, but I did them all with a smile on my face.

The day after our three week agreement ended, he was off to Abu Dhabi on business. Somehow I had a feeling I would see Sanvi that night. So once again I was up on that hot roof, but now I was looking down and watching taxis go by. Hers arrived half an hour after evening prayers.

While she was downstairs greeting the rest of the household, I hurried back to my room and changed into the sexiest satin dress I owned. I wanted to look good for her. I even put on heels. She had said she would come for me. And I wanted this. I wanted to hear from her, to learn about Elias, but I also wanted to hold her. No question, I was smitten. I thought back to the last time she was in my bed, and I wanted it again. I wanted to see her, and touch her, and feel her. This would be our night. I sat on the edge of my bed and waited with the lights off. She made me wait nearly an hour, but finally she stepped into my room and closed the door.

"Stand." She motioned for me to stand at the side of the bed. I did. I had my hands at my sides. She would take the lead. I was older, but she was the more beautiful. She put her arms around me, hugged me, and started with those light, light kisses. She seemed to keep that up forever, but then she also started sliding my zipper down one tooth at a time while both her hands slid over my satin. Slowly she caressed my back, and then my ass. I felt myself starting to shake. Zipper down, she now slid the dress straps over my shoulders, one shoulder at a time, so slowly her hands were on my skin forever. Then she rode the dress down, over my breasts, over my hips, over my ass, before dropping it in a pile at my feet. Dress down, now the slip. One strap, one shoulder at a time, her hands on my body all the way down. My bra she unhooked one eye at a time, pausing each time, kissing me, breathing on me, her hands on me. This was foreplay at a whole new level. I had long ago stopped breathing. Eventually she slid my bra off me while leaning into my bare breasts. Panties were next. Then she went through my dresser looking for the night gown she wanted to see on me, and she dressed me in it before backing me to the bed and putting me in it. I was so ready for her.

But she kept me waiting. Now it was her turn to show that perfect body. She took off her clothing every bit as slowly as she had taken off mine. And she turned and moved so I could see all of her. She was truly beautiful, and she wanted me to see and appreciate every bit of it. Finally she slowly slipped on one of my satin nightgowns, came into bed, and immediately got on top of me. She put her legs between mine, and pushed my thighs even farther apart. Her hips slid onto mine and moved against me. Then she went for my head. She put her elbows outside my upper arms, forcing my arms to my side. She laced her fingers into my hair while she kissed me. Her control was complete.

She had me. Now what? She shook her head and did that thing with her hair. It slid down both sides of her face, sheltering us now, closing out even the little bit of light that came in through the window, closing out everything but her. I looked up into those brown eyes and waited. I would have raised my head and kissed her, but she held my head down. I would wait for her to kiss me. For her to do whatever she had planned. Feeling her on me, I think I would have waited forever, but I guessed she wanted something from me. I could only move my hands onto her back, and of course, onto her ass. I slid my hands across her and waited. Was I to say something? There was something in her face, a shape to her smile. I guessed what she wanted to talk about.

"Tell me about him."

"No." But she smiled. She wanted to talk about him, but I needed to beg first.

"Please."

Still, she made me wait. Finally, she told me what she had been dying to tell me.

"He was so mad when he left, he almost drove our car into a wall. When he got home, I thought he might beat me, and he was very rough with me, but just the way I wanted him to be. He ended up throwing me into bed and raping me, but of course that was exactly what I wanted. I made a show of crying, and it worked out perfectly. He hates you, he is sorry for how he has treated me, he treats me like a queen." As she is saying this, she is looking into my face. What does she want to see? Tears. This is all a victory dance. She got my man. She wins, now it is important that I lose. I need to show regret, better yet misery. This is one vindictive bitch.

But she is a vindictive bitch who is unbelievably beautiful, and knows a bedroom like no other woman. She holds my head, kisses me when and how she wishes, moves her hips just as much or as little as she wants, and I lie there hoping for more. As she gloats in my face I am wondering if this is the last time she will come to me, and how I can make sure it is not. My hands are free. I put them on her back and pull her to me. I want this woman. She smiles and tells me more about her man.

"He holds me all night. He won't keep his hands off me in the apartment, and in bed he is always on me."

"Do you hold him like this?"

"No. Not yet. I let him hold me. I beg him to hold me. I am a mouse. He is a lion. And when he is in me, I make him feel like he is a lion." She kisses me while she says that, maybe as a way of emphasizing the fact that she is fucking my man and telling me to my face. She has him. I don't. She will keep him. I have lost him. She will be in his bed forever. She has lots to smile about. But I haven't started crying yet. Her victory is not complete. And in the meantime, I can hold a beautiful woman.

I held her all night. Or should I say, she held me. At no time did she let go of my hair or free my legs or hips. If I started to fall asleep, she kissed me until I was awake. She didn't want me to miss a minute of her conquest. I slid my hands over her perfect ass and rocked my hips beneath her. Shall we? She just held me. She would do what she wanted to do, when she wanted to do it.

At dawn she skipped prayers and took me into the shower. She could do magic with soap. She had me against a wall, my arms around her neck, my face glued to hers, each breath a struggle.

Then it was back to bed for me – still wet. She pulled the covers up to my chin, then dried and dressed herself. She stood within inches of the bed, enjoying the look on my face as she put on each article of clothing. No one has ever put on a bra so slowly or moved in so many ways as her zipper came up.

Dressed, she climbed on top of me one more time. Her elbows holding the covers down, her hands around my face, her body lying over every inch of me. She waited until her hair was around our faces, my view only of her. She held her mouth just above mine, but didn't kiss me. Instead, she smiled, and waited. And waited. And waited. Then finally she said, in just above a whisper, "I'm pregnant." And she looked into my eyes. And waited. And waited. And saw tears. Then she left.

Chapter 20

Samosas

I didn't cry all that long. Well, not all that long considering I had just lost two lovers. Now that she was pregnant, I assumed I would never see Saanvi again. I am not a complete fool. I knew that she was just in my bed to manipulate me, but wow, it had felt so good to hold her, and so good to have her hold me. Elias was going to be putty in her hands.

As for him, yes, I should have thought of him as gone already. That door closed when I first kissed Ibrahim, had it not? Certainly when I had jumped into Ibrahim's bed. A lock went on the door when I married Ibrahim and Elias married Saanvi, right? Then there was that terrible bit of theater at the restaurant. Now his wife was pregnant. He was going to be a father. Surely that locked the door and nailed it shut besides. He was gone. He was gone. Every day took him farther away and put more between us. I needed to accept that as fact. And I did, after just a few hours of tears.

Saanvi may have taken two of my lovers with her when she walked out the door, but I still had Ibrahim. And I was lucky to have him. He was a good man. He was my man. We had just spent twenty one nights locked in each other's arms. I know I had made him late for work several times, and he let me. He was good to me. He knew how to hold me. He knew how to love me. He knew me.

It would have been real good to wipe away my tears, walk down to his room, and pull him on top of me. But he was gone for a few days – Saudi Arabia. He was going there more often. This will sounds stupid, and I guess it is, but I didn't really know what he did for a living. I was pretty sure he owned several companies, but I had never asked what those companies did. My excuse for my ignorance is obvious – I wanted our pillow talk to be about us – when we talked at all. Mostly I was grabbing him, he was grabbing me, and the nights went by pretty fast.

He was going to be gone several days. When he left, I was smug enough to think he might need the time to rest up from me. Actually, it was a wonder he didn't need more breaks to travel, since he was satisfying three women. When he got back, I would have to go back into the rotation, waiting my turn. So it would be even longer before I was looking at his ceiling again. That thought almost got me crying again, but I stopped myself. Patience, Jessica. I had a good man. And after work in Saudi, and after sliding down off Mount Layla, I was going to look pretty good to him. My time would come.

What to do while I waited? Samosas. Yes, samosas. Let me explain the fascination. I spent ten years tending bar. It was a little place where loggers came for beer after work. But since it was after work, they were also hungry. Here is where my bar had the same problem as every other little bar – no kitchen. So what possible food could we cook quickly and easily for hungry guys? Remember these are guys, so food quality is less important than quantity. Holding a chain saw at arm's length for eight or ten hours, these guys needed calories. So what did we – and every other tiny bar -- provide these guys? Really crappy pizza. It was mostly crust, often used "cheese-food product" (meaning it was only third cousin to real cheese), and had maybe six microscopically thin slices of pepperoni. Basically we were stealing their money.

Ten years I used a cheap toaster oven to heat up frozen pretend-pizzas, and ten years I wondered if there was anything else in the world that might be better, but still easy to make by a simple bartender in a simple bar. And now I thought I might have the solution to the crappy bar pizza problem – samosas. I was thinking there might be a Nobel Prize in this somewhere. I was living in the samosas capital of the world, and like Frank Sinatra used to say, if I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.

But so far, I had not made it. I had probably fried up samosas a couple dozen times already, but the best you could say about my results was that sometimes my samosas were as good as everyone else's. Unfortunately, most times they were not. I blame that on distractions – Ibrahim and Saanvi. Who can remember to pinch the dough closed when you are thinking about who you held in your arms the night before?

But one distraction was gone for good, and the other was in Saudi only to return to Amara and then Layla before my turn came again. We know that Mohammad, peace be upon him, had nine wives. Did they also improve their cooking while waiting their turn? If so, it is unlikely they spent their time trying to invent the next bar food. But I had visions of container ships filled with my samosas heading to bars across America – Mother Al-Kindi's Samosas: oh so good.

Okay, that was way over the top, but you leave a woman alone in a room long enough, and she gets wild ideas.

Time to actually get moving on this samosa project. I washed the tears off my face, put on a long cotton dress, and headed for the kitchen. The four cooks were used to me now, and I thought when the time came, they might actually help me. So maybe I should describe them and the four men who worked the yard while I am at it.

Even on my worst days, back when I was locked in my room with no hope of getting out, I knew enough to be grateful I was not born an Indian. I am not talking a U.S. Native American here, I am talking an Indian from India. Allah in his wisdom put a billion of them in one of the hottest and driest place on Earth, resulting in lots of them taking really bad jobs in other countries. Every country has jobs the locals will not do. We in the U.S. decided decades ago we would not pick our own apples or lettuce or clean chickens. Dubai gets to 120 in the summer, so you can bet locals don't do outdoor jobs, and they are not big on cooking or cleaning either. So Indians do all that.

What does that have to do with my samosas? At the moment I was smiling and staying out of the way of four Indian cooks, but I hoped they might participate in my samosa endeavor when I started to scale up to larger quantities. And the four Indian guys who did the cleaning, painting, and random yard jobs outside? They would be my focus group for quality testing. They were guys. They worked hard. They needed calories. See? I had a plan.

What I didn't have was good samosas. And this shouldn't have been so hard. Samosas had been around this region for centuries precisely because they were so easy to make. You took some dough – lots of kinds worked – and you cut it roughly into the shape of a diamond. Then you took some stuff and put it in the middle of the diamond. Fold the dough over into a triangle, cook it in vegetable oil, and you have a samosa. What could be easier?

So you can imagine my frustration as mine came out over cooked, undercooked, or tasteless. What kind of woman could not cook a samosa?

With Ibrahim gone to Saudi, and then gone to other wives, I decided enough was enough. I might be a high school dropout, but I was not stupid. I was going to make these things, and do it right. So I went down to the kitchen that morning carrying a notebook and pen. I might just be wife number three, but I was a wife, so the Indian ladies down there gave me room on one of the tables (they had three large tables for preparing food), and backed away if I reached for a utensil or an ingredient. I smiled, said "thanks" in English and Arabic, and got to work.

My plan was to go at this scientifically. We had done experiments in my sophomore biology class at Wausaukee High, and I knew the general process. In this case, I thought I had three variables to work on – the dough, the contents, and the duration of cooking. So, I worked on them one at a time, drawing a long line down my notebook and tracking each one.

First, dough. Here I should have been at my best. Frau Klemp in Bern had taught me how to make great German bread. I had at least half a dozen recipes in my head, and lots of practice. How could this not be easy? Except I was not baking this dough, I was frying it in vegetable oil. So my really exceptional German dough often just disintegrated in the oil. Nuts. I Googled dough recipes and tried four a day for the first week. Yes, I was still at it week two. Some came out soggy, some were heavy, most had no real taste. I sucked at this. I fried, cooled, tasted, and fried some more.

I was good for about three hours a day, then the heat and frustration got to me. I cleaned my area carefully so I would not create extra work (and resentment) for the workers, and then I was out of there. It was April now and getting hot. We were far enough from the Gulf that the humidity was not at its worst, but forget that "it's not the heat, it's the humidity" nonsense. Hot is hot. I left the kitchen and paced around under the tarp on the roof to work off my frustrations, until the heat got to be too much and I went down to my air conditioned room. There I analyzed my failures, planned my next attempts, and took an afternoon nap. Evenings I had dinner, said my prayers, and then went up on the roof as it cooled.

It was a full week before Ibrahim was back from Saudi. After his return, I prepped for him each night. I worked on my hair, carefully put on my makeup, slid into my shortest satin nightgown, and hoped for a few minutes with my husband. But the first few days he seemed too occupied with Amara and Layla to even come up on the roof, so it was a full ten days before I had any time with him. Lacking a man, and failing at samosas, I was a pretty frustrated lady when he finally came up on the roof. I stood and waited for him to come to me. I also thought I would let him do the talking, but the minute he put his hands on me, my mouth got going.

"I missed you." I was up on my toes with my arms around his neck. Not exactly playing hard to get.

"You heard that Saanvi is pregnant?"

"Yes, she came by to tell me."

"I heard it from Elias."

"You see him?" Somehow I had thought the restaurant meeting meant the two men would avoid each other.

"He and I work together on some water projects."

"In Saudi Arabia?"

"And here."

"Ibrahim, I don't know what your company does." I felt bad admitting that. Had I been showing a lack of interest? Did I just look stupid for not knowing? "I want you to make love to me. But I also want you to talk to me."

"Which should I do first?"

"Don't be stupid." I stepped back and pushed him towards the stairs. He smiled, and then walked across the roof. I followed, keeping one hand on his back. I don't think wives are supposed to do that, but he didn't stop me.

His bed was phenomenal. He made love to me, and held me tight. I said "tighter," and then wrapped myself around him when he did.

"Now talk to me. Start by telling me how much you love me, and then tell me about your work. Tell me why you go to Saudi Arabia. I don't want you there. I want you here."

"My company lays waterlines. And yes, I love you. I hold you tight because I love you."

"Tighter."

"Some day I will crush you."

"I will die happy." I kissed him, crossed my ankles, and tightened my legs around him.

"I have machines that dig trenches, trucks that haul pipe, and machines that put pipes in the ground. As the city grows, I stay busy."

"And Elias?"

"I told you we first had money in the 1970s. We built roads, we built houses, we dug wells for water. We dug the wells badly and pumped badly. By pumping the way we did, we lowered the water table and invited salt water into the ground. We hurt the aquafer. So we stopped most wells and started desalinating Gulf water for our needs."

"We had problems like that back in Wisconsin."

"There are problems like that all over the world. But if you are careful, you can still get water. You need experts."

"Elias."

"He and I put in the wells, and I pipe the water."

"And Saudi Arabia?"

"There is a city called Al Ain west of here. Still in the Emirates, but right on the edge of Oman and near Saudi Arabia. It has had fresh water wells for a thousand years. Elias and I have been digging monitoring wells to study that city and several cities in Saudi Arabia. If done carefully, we think several cities in Saudi Arabia can do as well as Al Ain."

"Don't." With one hand I grabbed his hair, and with the other I grabbed his beard. I put my eyes and inch from his. "Don't."

"What?"

"Don't go there. Don't help. Let the Saudis find their own damn water."

"This hurts. Stop it."

"No. Promise you will not do this."

"Are you crazy?" He pried my hands free of his hair and beard, but I just wrapped them around his back as tightly as I could. I clenched my legs even tighter.

"You will die there. I know it."

"Let go of me. You're being stupid."

"You know who Matteo Schweig is."

"Of course. He invented most of the water bottling equipment in the world. I think he died."

"Yes, he died. In India. In goddamn India trying to help them get water. I loved that man like no woman has ever loved a man. He was a saint. And brilliant. He was good to every person he met. He could talk about anything to anybody and make that person feel valued. And when he held me, Ibrahim, I swear I loved him completely. I loved him the way I love you."

"But..."

"No. Don't you tell me I'm being silly. I don't want to hear about logic, or odds. And for God's sake don't tell me how important this work is. I don't care. A noble dead husband is still just a dead husband. Let someone else experiment with their water, and dig their wells. Stay here and fuck me. As your wife I demand that."

Ibrahim is a smart man. He said nothing. Not then, not later that night, not in the morning. He held me, kissed me, stroked my hair, and lay close to me as I finally fell asleep. In the morning, after prayers, I went with him into his shower. I slowly soaped him, washed him over and over, put my head on his shoulder and asked again and again, "Please."

He held me. We stood together for a very long time. Then he dried himself, put on his dishdasha, and left. I turned off the water and stood naked in his shower. Finally I too got dressed, then walked down the hall to my room where I stayed for the next two days.

Chapter 21

Samosas Again

What do you do when you discover your wife is crazy? I guess there are lots of choices. Ibrahim's choice was to not travel for the next two weeks, and to go up on the roof after evening prayers each night, no matter which wife was in the rotation. He would give me time and attention before going down to his other wives. I made myself as presentable as possible. After all, even crazy ladies can be pretty. I continued to go up there with short satin nighties. I even cheated a bit, sewing the nighties tighter around me once they were on, which, trust me, is not all that easy to do.

Since I knew I sounded crackers telling him he would be killed drilling wells over there, I went with woman's option B – say nothing, but keep him home the old fashioned way – great sex. As we stood up on the roof I rubbed myself against him like cat, had my hands all over him, whispered how great he looked and how hot he made me, stood on my toes until my feet ached, and kissed him over and over. I was using everything I had in the Hot Jessica playbook.

On his part, he held me tightly, spoke to me in a soft, calming voice, told me how beautiful I was, kissed me, stroked my hair, and stayed with me for over an hour each night, even when the other wives were waiting below.

Then he left again. This time he was gone for two weeks. He didn't tell me where he had gone, and he didn't have to. If he was still somewhere in the Emirates, he would have told me. Since he hadn't, he was in Saudi. I felt like screaming. I felt like crying. I didn't do either. I made samosas.

I took my notebook down to the kitchen and turned the page. I had failed at dough. Okay, move on. These things needed a filling. The ones I had seen in stores generally had meat. Pork was out, obviously, and since there were millions of Indians in the country, some of whom were Muslim and didn't eat port, and some of whom were Hindu and didn't eat beef, the prime candidate for protein was chicken. Sheep and goats were also possibilities, but it seemed most people took the obvious route – chicken.

So I started there. Cook the chicken in the samosa? Maybe, but that seemed to complicate the matter. Could I be sure the heat had thoroughly cooked the chicken? Why not play it safe and cook the chicken first? So I did that. Now what? I could shred the chicken, grind it up, or cube it. I tried all three. I also timed myself preparing the chicken each way. Cubing took forever if I wanted to have pieces that at least vaguely resembled cubes. Shredding was fine, but my hand hurt pretty fast. What was easiest? Pull all the meat off, and then grind it up. That also made it easier to get a standard amount in the middle of the samosa.

All three approaches tasted fairly similar, which, unfortunately, was bland. I would have to work on seasonings. Yuck. This was just taking forever.

What about vegetarian? Lots of recipes mentioned potatoes. Talk about bland. Then I thought about pasties. If you are not from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (a Yooper), you may not have heard of pasties (pronounced "pass tees"). When the Finns were mining in the UP, wives made lunches of mashed potatoes, some meat, some vegies, all cooked and wrapped in dough, then wrapped in cloth so it would still be warm when men stopped for lunch. I wondered if I was not making some version of a miniature pasty.

Some times to be brilliant, you need to step back from your work. I stepped back not to be brilliant, but to be sexy. Dannah was a week away from getting married and was going out most days to use daddy's credit card on clothes. I asked if I could go with her, and we both did a mall in Dubai City. It turned out we both had the same general idea – lingerie. We hit Victoria's Secret first but there were half a dozen other stores I had never heard of, all of which were designed to provide exactly what we wanted. I am not sure which of us spent the most, but each of us bought at least one thing in each of the stores.

I for one, wanted variety. I bought long (with long slits), short (and tight), loose and flowing, and elasticized. I bought layers, with flowing silk robes over flowing skirts that barely covered my ass. I bought colors. I bought silk. I bought satin. I bought some other fabric I had never heard of, but I liked the feel of it. Maybe I was crazy, but I would be the sexiest crazy lady on my block. My debit card got me ten thin bags of personal invitation. Here I am, Ibrahim. Come and get me.

Dannah and I started our search holding up some of the more risqué items and laughing. By the third store we were holding up items and nodding. Yup, this will work just fine. He will look, he will come to me, he will dream of me, he will stay with me, he will be mine. Damn the credit card. Fill the bag, and fill my nights.

On the cab ride back home, we even talked a bit. My Arabic still sucked, but I had a few more words, and she had learned some English in college. So we got on a bit, mostly by laughing at the clothes we had bought, and the impact we expected to have on our men. It was fun sharing the ride.

Back home, it was still a week before Ibrahim would return, but I tried on several of the outfits and even wore them up on the roof a couple nights. Dannah would not wear any of her things until after her wedding, but she came up to look at my new outfits and compliment them. She was pretty confident my gift wrapping would work. Of course, an unmarried virgin wasn't exactly an expert on these things, but it was nice of her to encourage me.

Now, back to being brilliant. There were lots of things I could put in the samosas, and it appeared most would work. But that still left the problem of the dough. But here, I wondered if the Finnish wives of the UP had already solved my problem for me. Why fry? Why not bake? That's how they made pasties, and that's how I knew best to work with dough. For the next three mornings I worked on proper baking temperature and duration, but I nailed that pretty fast.

Now for my consumer testing. I made a dozen samosas with ground chicken, and another dozen with a mixture of potatoes and peas. I baked them, let them cool, and then offered them to the ladies in the kitchen. Since the bread was baked rather than fried, these samosas were much lighter in color than they were used to, but if one of the wives offered them food, they decided they should at least try it.

And, for the first time, they liked my samosas. Really. I was checking for fake reactions, and I was pretty sure they were being genuine.

Next. I had sixteen samosas left. I went out to the grounds. Wow. I hated walking out the door. How had the Emiratis lived before air conditioning? And how could these Indian workmen work now? I found them standing in the shade of the one and only tree in the yard, doing some raking. My guess is until I came along they had just been standing there, but seeing me the rakes started moving.

Anyway, I held out the plate. They hesitated, then each took one. Okay, focus group, how would you rate these new products, and would you recommend them to your friends? I held the plate, and watched while they ate. I should note that these guys were skin and bones. They got very little pay and had no money for a beer after work. They ate whatever came out of the kitchen, whenever it came out of the kitchen. So I was confident they would eat my samosas. What I wanted to see was how fast they would eat them, and if I could see any signs of enjoyment.

What I saw was four guys putting the samosas away instantly, and then looking at me and at the plate where twelve more waited. I nodded, moved the plate in their general direction, and instantly they each took another. Good. Now, what would they do without me watching? I set the plate with the remaining samosas on the gravel in front of them, and went back in the house. I don't think thirty seconds passed before one of the men brought the empty plate in to the kitchen.

So, what had I proved? Hungry men would eat my food. And, yes, I know you probably think that is a pretty low standard. But that is the standard in every working man's bar in the U.S. I was pretty confident those samosas would have been eaten just as quickly in Amberg. Where's that shipping container to get a thousand dozen over there? Okay, too much, too fast.

But now what? I could make samosas that men would eat. Next? Next I needed my husband. Don't die in Saudi, Ibrahim. I need you now more than ever.

While I waited for him, I did the easy and the obvious. I made more samosas, improved my work processes so I could make them faster, and I detailed all my production costs. Working in the bottling plant had taught me a thing or two. Next, I went out with Dannah and two of the kitchen staff to eight different stores. It took us two days. We bought samosas, we ate samosas, we analyzed samosas. Equally important, we visited four stores that sold groceries, but not samosas. Did they have other versions of fast food take out? If so, what? If not, why not? I did field research.

Finally, Ibrahim came home. And, miracle of miracles, it was my night to share his bed. I prepared myself as carefully as I ever had. No bride paid as much attention to her makeup. No TV icon spent as much time on her hair. Well, maybe they did, but I had no hairdresser to help. It was just me and a couple mirrors and a comb and hairspray. I put some effort into my mousey brown hair, and it looked as good as it ever was going to look.

Now, for the fun stuff. I had a closet full of surprises for my man. Did I go with short and clingy? Long and flowing – and cut up to here? I tried on six different night gowns, all meant to get a man's attention. In the end I went with red satin – a really short mini skirt with deep scoop neck, but covered with a long red satin gown that stayed open across the front, leaving lots to be seen, but only in glimpses. The outfit should have been called the "red tease." He would have it off me in seconds, but those would be really interesting seconds.

I waited and waited, trying to time my appearance on the roof so that he was already there, but not so late that he was already leaving. I was guessing and hoping, but I got it right. I came up the stairs, my gown flowing around me, only to find him (surprise, surprise) already there, waiting and watching the stairs for me. There was a wind up (thank you, Allah) that blew my hair behind me, and my gown back to show the tiny red satin nighty beneath. Oh, are those my legs now showing? Could that devil wind even be blowing my skirt up? Oh my. I made a pretense of holding my skirt as I slowly walked toward him. I guess my hand slipped, but then I needed that hand to wave to my beloved. And my beloved? I swear if he were older, I would be worried about a heart attack. Every dirham I had removed from my debit card was paying huge dividends. I had my husband's attention.

I walked to him, every motion poetic. Calm, poised, comfortable in my beauty. Oddly enough, I actually was. I knew I looked good, and I knew he was enjoying the Jessica show. It felt so good, I walked right up to him, put my hands on his chest, stood on my toes to kiss him, and then waited as he wrapped his arms around me. Wow, this was all going so well.

"You look beautiful." Aw shocks, sir, I bet you say that to every beauty on your roof.

"I missed you."

"I am glad to be home." He held me tighter, and I moved my hands from his chest to behind his head. I kissed him.

"I have so looked forward to this night." My hands held his neck, my hips pushed against his. I kept my mouth on his. "Hold me tighter." He did. "Please. Take me to your room." He did.

The whole time he made love to me, his eyes were on my face, as if he were studying me. I liked that. I had his attention. I moved under him, my hands looking for places to touch him, my hips rocking in a rhythm with his. We were a team. I felt so good, under him, holding him, feeling him in me. I looked back at him. Can you see how glad I am to have you with me? Can you see my love?

"Hold me, Ibrahim. Hold me." He held me, kissed me, and climaxed. I pulled myself even closer to him, wrapping my arms and legs tighter around him. My time to cling.

We stayed together like that a very long time. Eventually, though, I began to feel him relax, possibly leading to sleep. Not so fast, my Romeo. I don't care how many miles you put on today, I only get you tonight. We have a few more miles to go before we sleep.

"I know you will go back to Saudi. You know I hate that. You know I love you, and I know you love me. I want to hold you like this every night. I want to come to you on the roof every night. I want to walk towards you and know you are looking at me with love. Like tonight. I want this – go to Saudi, risk your life to get them their water, but go less often. Look at your calendar. Count the days. Then cut the days in half. Send an assistant. Send an engineer. Use email. Use images. Send up a drone. Be there as little as possible. Be here with me as much as possible. Count your days with the Saudis, and give me half."

"It is safe there, Jessica."

"I can read websites as well as you can. They are in English as well as in Arabic. The Saudis and the Iranians hate each other. The Iranians fire rockets at Riyadh."

"I don't work in Riyadh."

"Don't play with me, Ibrahim. There is a war. And, every day you are in Saudi, is a day you are not with me. Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Then be with me. I am here, not in Saudi. I share you with Layla and Amara, and now I have to share you with the goddam Saudis. Those are my nights you are giving to them. I ask you to give them fewer of my nights. Please." I was using my hands on his back, my thighs on his legs, my breasts against his chest. Feel me, Ibrahim, hear me.

"Can I tell you no?"

"If you love me, tell me yes."

"You know I love you."

"Then tell me yes. Yours is a big company, is it not? You have people to send.

"Leaders lead."

"Leaders develop their managers. Send some bright young men and watch them grow."

"I will still need to go sometimes."

"Go. But go fewer times. Be with me more times. That is what I ask."

"You promised to submit to me."

"I also promised to love you. This is me asking from love."

"Then I agree – from love." I didn't cheer – at least not out loud, but I did grab him even tighter and kiss him a huge number of times. This didn't mean he would be safe, but it did mean he would be in less danger. I couldn't do more than that, but I could do that. And my husband would be home more. Even if it was just to slide around on Mount Layla, at least I would see him on the roof before he climbed that mountain. This was good.

As for the other discussion I wanted to have, it could wait until morning.

Chapter 22

I go into Business

I was a good girl during dawn prayers, but once I got him in the shower, I made sure he knew I was glad to have him home. We had a great time in there, and he was in a great mood when one of the kitchen ladies brought up our breakfast tray. On it? Coffee, bread, rice, and two samosas – one chicken, one vegetable.

"Something new?" he asked, holding up one of the samosas.

"Do you like it?" He bit into it. I had spent three days working out the seasonings on the chicken. It looked like I had gotten it right.

"I like it. Not greasy like some. Good taste too. One of yours?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Jess, you have been working on samosas for over a month. Who were you going to surprise?"

"Okay. No surprise. But did you really like it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because I want to start a business. I want to sell Al-Kindi brand samosas."

"That would require approval of the family. Go with a brand, but call them something like 'Family Samosas.'"

"I'll work on that. But I need your help, because I am not going to sell samosas, I am going to sell samosa systems."

"Now you've lost me."

"It's Tombstone Pizza. Ever eat it in Iowa?"

"Yes, I guess. One more frozen pizza."

"It was at the end. But it started in a bar. Two brothers run a small bar and are barely making ends meet. They want to expand their business. They make a few pizzas. Customers buy them. Good. But the brothers think big. Why not sell pizzas to other bars? They would deliver. But, they discover the other bars have no way to cook the pizzas, so they won't buy them. Solution? Sell pizza ovens as well as pizzas. Five years later they have a gazillion dollars."

"Good story. I'm guessing you have a local equivalent."

"Little food stores. All the Hypermarkets have huge counters full of take-out food and multiple kinds of samosas. They don't need me. The little guys, like the guy down the street here, do. I need your contacts to find small ovens to reheat samosas, so little guys can sell them."

"I'll make some calls. But you need a partner, or do you plan on making sales calls yourself?"

"Any suggestions?"

"Pick one of my daughters. We'll keep the business in the family."

"Done." And that's how Family Samosas was born.

Was more work needed? Sure. This was a food product, so think of the obvious. How long before they go bad? How long can they stay warm in an oven before they become bricks? What licenses do we need? How do we deliver? What do we charge? You get the idea. We had a concept, and I now had professional and financial support, but we weren't ready to take our first samosas down the street yet. That would take about three more weeks.

Choosing my partner was easy – Dannah. We already had lingerie in common, why not make another connection? Actually, the real link was her grasp of some basic English, and her willingness to not laugh at my poor Arabic. And, of the four daughters lying around the house waiting for husbands, she was the only one who would speak to me.

How do I describe her? Twenty two, a week from her marriage, nice face, black hair, still fairly thin, and five four. How do I know her exact height? Because every woman in the Emirates was five four. Men here come in a variety of sizes, but women are all five four. I don't know how the genetic machine made that happen, but I swear it is true. At five seven, I was a giant here (one of many reasons I had come to love Dubai).

Dannah's marriage would have little impact on the business. After she signed the marriage contract, all the women from both families would gather in a room, sit and eat, and talk. The men would go out in their cars and be a nuisance on the highways for an evening. Then she would move to his place. She could have her own business. The business was hers, not theirs. And any profit she made was hers, not theirs. So she was happy to join with me, especially since her father would be helping out.

She asked good questions, like, would we actually make any money? I baked a dozen chicken samosas, and we detailed every cost, even how much salt we used. So far there was no labor expense since I was doing all the cooking, but we would need to use the kitchen cooks if the business grew. Indian cooks got paid next to nothing, but it was not nothing, and we felt it only fair to give them something for adding to their work day. Okay, what about delivery costs? The cost of making sales calls? Basically Dubai has no taxes, but we would have to pay for licenses and inspections. I also asked, would the health inspectors also expect a white envelope quietly passed to them? Dannah said "no." I hoped she was right.

Eventually we would need more equipment as the business grew, but we estimated we would make a hundred dozen samosas a day in current space with current equipment and current labor. All expenses included, we calculated a profit of ten dirham per dozen – about three bucks. Dannah could live with that number. So could I.

So we pushed on. First step? The two of us took six chicken and six vegetable samosas down to the small grocery in the village. Dannah knew the owner. We put the samosas in front of him, and asked him to try them. He tried one of each and said he liked them (what else was he going to say? The Al Kindi's were his best customers). We left the plate of samosas with him and told him he was free to sell the rest.

Day two. We walked back with another dozen. What had happened to yesterday's samosas? They had all sold within an hour. What had he charged? Three dirhams. Here was another dozen, two for him, and ten to sell, but we wanted twenty dirham for the ten he would sell. He had twenty dirham out in a heartbeat and wanted to know if we could give him more. Call that proof of concept. I had gotten two hundred thousand dirham as my bride price, and Dannah was about to get three hundred thousand (she would be first wife, but still I admit to being a bit jealous), but we both felt like doing a victory dance as we walked back home with that twenty dirham bill.

Did the business just explode from there? I wish. We could keep walking back to that store (and every other store we would sell to) every hour with fresh samosas, or we could get those small ovens. We needed those, and a license, and an inspection. That took two weeks. We were well into May before we were ready to approach other small groceries. First visit? A dozen samosas. Second visit? The warming oven and three dozen samosas. Half the places we visited said no, half said yes. Fortunately, there were a million of these places, so we got at least one "yes" a day.

When we had ten outlets, we paused. We needed to deliver. Dannah could drive (I wasn't sure of my legal status), and Ibrahim gave us one of his company cars to use. But May is hot. Really hot. Just making ten deliveries was serious work for her. As for me, thirty dozen samosas felt like more than a thousand. Kneading dough is real work, and chickens don't cook themselves, and getting meat off their bones had me up early every morning. We were making a profit, but I wasn't sure I was making minimum wage.

And we were both tired. Evenings it was too hot to go up on the roof, so on nights when it was my turn for Ibrahim, I pulled on something sexy, walked down hall to his room, and got into his bed. One night I just had gotten my arms around him when I fell asleep. Wild and crazy sex? Not happening. Most nights I stayed awake long enough to do a reasonable job in bed, but he was not getting my best efforts. Did he notice? Of course.

"Business growth is linear. Business expenses are a step function."

"What?" We had just made love, and I was hot, sweaty, and ready to sleep. I wasn't ready for a conversation, and I was a bit annoyed that he wanted to talk business. If he was going to keep me awake with talk, how about talking about how beautiful I was, and how great in bed?

"You can keep adding customers one at a time, but your expenses will jump at some points as you add equipment or add employees. Right now you need to add employees." He had his arms close around me and was looking down into my face. I had one arm sort of on the back of his head and neck, the other was lying back on a pillow. Worse, my legs were spread out, lying lifeless. Put another way, he was into me, while I was fading away. No way to hide it. I had become a bad lay.

"You are giving me business advice."

"Am I keeping you awake?"

"I should be keeping you awake. I have become a bad wife."

"Get some help with the cooking, and save some energy for me." He kissed me, and I found the energy to wrap my arms around his neck and put my legs into motion.

"Tell me more about that step function." And I got my legs really moving.

The next morning as we prepared the first deliveries, Dannah and I talked. We would start with the cooking. There were four cooks in the kitchen. We would give two of them some extra money in exchange for several more hours work. She mentioned that we could just ask them to do it as part of their job, but I wouldn't have it. I had spent too many years working minimum wage to take advantage of another woman like that.

So I would start the cooking each morning, then go out with Dannah to help with the deliveries. She would drive, I would run in and make the delivery. Deliveries done, we would go back to making one or two sales calls a day. That worked until we were up to twenty stores, at which point we were both at our limits again. I don't know how she was doing in bed with a new husband, but I knew I was shortchanging Ibrahim again. One night I was actually happy that he was traveling out of town. Not good.

We hired a delivery service. Ibrahim knew a guy. The guy had cars and Indian drivers. We interviewed several, picked one, and signed a contract. Twenty stores got deliveries, and we went back to making sales calls and satisfying our husbands.

Chapter 23

Ramadan

Through June it felt like we were back in charge of our business, and back in charge of our lives. But Ramadan was coming up. It would have significant impacts on us personally, and a huge impact on our business.

A couple basics. You probably know that during Ramadan Muslims do not eat or drink anything from dawn to dusk. Ramadan is a lunar month, and since this year it would be falling in June, it would be falling when the sun rose the earliest and set the latest – long days without food or water. And these are also hot days. In Dubai temps would regularly be in the 110 to 120 range. You want a deeply religious experience? For twenty eight straight days, go fourteen hours without food or water at those temps, and you have got it in spades.

This was my first Ramadan, so I had no idea what to expect personally. Could I really go that long without a drink? Oddly, Ibrahim assured me not only would I do it, but I would like it. We would see. As for the business, we were selling food during a time of fasting. How would that work?

My assumption was that we would basically shut down for a month. To be honest, I didn't mind that idea at all. After a grand total of two months in business, I was already ready for a vacation. But that's not how it went at all. It turns out that people still eat. They just eat at a different time.

First, they eat before dawn. I guess I should have figured that out on my own. If you can't eat after the sun comes up, you get your butt out of bed and eat before you see the sun. They call the meal "suhoor." In theory you are supposed to eat light, but if you know this is the last food for fourteen hours, maybe you take a second helping of this or that. And you certainly drink a lot.

The other aspect of all this is the impact on your sleep. You have to get up early for dawn prayers anyway, but now you are getting up before dawn prayers to eat. And if you are a woman, you are getting up even earlier to cook for suhoor. The day starts early. Besides being hungry and thirsty, I found I was tired.

What about business? Restaurants were shut down until after sunset. No lunches. In Dubai City where non-Muslims live and work, they are allowed to eat, but it is considered really bad form to eat in public. Hotel restaurants catering to tourists might even hang shades over their windows to hide the eaters from view. Out here in the country, many businesses operated on shortened hours, and our little grocery stores were generally closed until very late in the day. We were to spend most of the day praying.

Then there is sunset, and the "iftar" meal. It is now eight o'clock or so, no one has had food or drink for fourteen hours, so, they eat. Lots. But this is not just about eating. This is supposed to be a celebration (believe it or not), so families get together. Enough people come over that it reminded me of Thanksgiving, except no football on TV. People gather, talk, eat, relax. This might go on until eleven or twelve. Remember that people will be getting back up again at five to eat before dawn, and women will be up cooking at four. So I spent a lot of time sleep-deprived.

My role at home? Well, I was the only one of the three wives who knew where to find the kitchen, so I did a lot of cooking. Samosas, of course, but I helped with lots of other dishes, and baked a lot of bread. So I was up at four to cook. The dawn call to prayer was almost a relief to me since it meant breakfast (suhoor) was over. My knees hit that carpet pretty hard.

While suhoor was just the usual household, Iftar brought in the relatives. The number varied from night to night, but folks here have large families and they intermarry, so there was never a shortage of people. Women sat in one large room, men in another (don't get huffy about that. I've been to plenty of gatherings in Wisconsin where the men are the garage and the women in the kitchen.) We rolled out a long carpet on the floor, covered it with cloth, and served on that. People sat cross-legged around it.

We kitchen-folk brought around dishes for both groups, which meant we wore our abayas and hijabs. I did periodically sit and eat with the women, and they seemed friendly enough, at least to the extent of a smile and "Hello." I would sometimes respond with "salam," but then folk would assume I knew Arabic and get going pretty good before the look on my face told them I was clueless. Name the stuff in my kitchen? Sure. Understand what you are saying about your kids? Not a chance.

But I did hear Dannah talking about our business a couple times, and it appeared she was saying nice things about me. It turned out several other women had businesses, and I was given cards to visit three perfume shops and two dressmakers. All in all, I didn't mind these evenings, although I did help clean up after people left, so I was not at all unhappy if the last guests were out the door by eleven.

But enough about me and my new family. What about our business? We were cooking up tons of food, what about all the other families in Dubai? Yup. They were doing the same. Think Super Bowl Sunday. Now imagine you make Buffalo Wings. The phone never stops ringing. We were now providing samosas to thirty two little stores. Our basic order was three dozen, but we had a couple that did five and maybe eight that did four dozen.

That was then, this is now. You've got company coming over, you want to display hospitality, you cook up lots of food, but it would be so nice to have just one or two more items to put out. I wonder what they might have at the store down the street. Surprise, they have samosas! I'll take a dozen.

In the first week, virtually every store doubled their order. Then things really got wild. A nearby HyperMarket ran out of samosas. Where might they get more? Twelve frantic phone calls later, we hear from them. Ten dozen chicken, ten dozen veggie. Now, please.

Business is booming, but we are in a funny position. Besides being hungry, thirsty, and tired, Dannah and I (and every other good Muslim) really should be spending more time praying. We are not even sure if we should take all this new business, but we think we will give it a try. We start with the kitchen. The four Indian cooks are Hindu, not Muslim, so they can eat and drink and work as normal (although they know not to eat or drink in front of a Muslim, so when I turn around I see bottles and sandwiches disappear under tables). We hire all four. And we get lucky. Since the household can't eat during the day, the cooks don't have to make lunch. So they have more time to help.

We make samosas like crazy. One woman broils chickens all day. Another peels potatoes. A third works with me on the dough. The fourth mostly cleans up the mess the rest of us are making and monitors the baking.

How many samosas can we make? We don't know. We just keep making and baking. Around four the delivery man takes his first load out. He doesn't even get halfway through his route. He's back at five and we load him up again. At six we give him the last we have made – after all, we need to start cooking for our own family – and we hope for the best.

This goes on for twenty eight days. Each day we get a little better, finding quicker ways to do this or that (we got pretty rough with our chickens), but each day we also get more tired. We are all up late and then up early, and Dannah and I are not eating or drinking. I am light headed for hours at a time. When I feel I need a break, I tell the cooks I need to pray, and I hit the carpet in whatever room is closest. When my forehead hits that carpet, I feel like I could drop off to sleep, but I do manage a bit of praying, although I know I am messing up the Arabic and praying in slow motion. But it feels so good to be off my feet.

How did it go for the business? We hurt a few feelings when we came up short on a few deliveries. We were careful not to promise what we were not certain we could deliver. I am not sure "Inshallah" is supposed to be an excuse for running out of chicken or being so tired we let two dozen samosas burn, but most storekeepers accepted that. I am sure it's what they tell customers when they run out too – "Inshallah – God's will."

But mostly we did pretty well. We made a bunch of money, of course, but we accepted that was just a temporary bump in sales. And it was, but sales did not return to past levels. More people had eaten our baked samosas and liked them. And that HyperMarket kept ordering from us, and even made us a more expensive "Premier" level healthy food – baked, not fried. So we were doing fine. We kept all four cooks on even after Ramadan, and contracted for a second delivery guy. Our business was now at a whole new level.

We only had one problem – me.

Chapter 24

My Eid

Ramadan ends with a three day holiday – Eid al-Fitr. Most businesses and government offices are closed, and people get together for even bigger meals. While the previous meals were primarily family, for these final feasts friends, co-workers, even strangers are invited. Every mosque has food for the poor. This may be the one time Indian workers get enough to eat. And not only do they get food, but local men eat with them. It is one of the traditions of Islam. At our house, I can't say I was ecstatic about feeding even more people, but I did like the idea of having breakfast after dawn prayers rather than before. I loved having the extra hour to sleep.

This was supposed to be a time of charity, so I took a basket of samosas down to the mosque. The Imam thanked me – in English. I guess he had heard about me. After that it was back to the kitchen for another day of cooking, except now I was free to eat and drink while I worked. If you are wondering, by the way, did I lose any weight? I would not recommend the Ramadan diet plan. Yes, I went fourteen hours without eating, but I had plenty for breakfast and a huge meal at night. I think I lost two pounds, but I am sure that was from running around the kitchen.

Because of Eid we had calls for extra samosas, but we didn't promise anything. Basically we were at peak production. The next "step function" was going to be expensive – either an addition to this kitchen, or a whole new kitchen in a new location. I think Dannah was for the new kitchen, but I was the one in the kitchen, and I was asking myself why I would want even more work. Growing pains, I guess.

Also, the house was going to be more demanding. With Ramadan over, people would expect lunch again, so there would be more work for our four cooks. And for the next three days, the dinner crowd would be even bigger. No one in that kitchen was happy, me especially. I wanted Eid over with. If you don't enjoy Christmas you are a Grinch. I have no idea what you are if you don't enjoy Eid al-Fitr. Maybe you are just a very tired forty year old lady.

But I trooped on in that very hot kitchen. We made a million samosas, then cleaned up and started cooking for the family. How many were coming tonight? No one said. How many had been invited? No one said. Were we feeding the poor? No one said. Those of us in the kitchen just made food.

The women's dining area was fairly close to the kitchen (no surprise, right?), and we could hear people talking in there. Amara poked her head in the kitchen, smiled under her makeup, and said we could start serving. So we took food into that room, mostly trays of this and that served "family style," meaning you grabbed a bit off the serving tray near you. As the trays emptied, we brought new ones, maybe with the same food, maybe with a different dish.

The men's area was farther from the kitchen. Those of us who would serve them put on our abayas and hijabs before we took a tray in. It's June, the kitchen is hot, and I have to put on a heavy robe and head scarf before I can take food to the men. Am I in a good mood? No. But I am wife number three, so in I go with food. I find about thirty men in there, some dressed in dishdashas – locals – and almost half wearing western clothes. I am guessing most are Indians –workers or store managers. Several men are dressed well enough to be people Ibrahim might do business with. Whatever. I am not interested in studying the local culture. I want to feed these people, get them out of the house, and go to bed, with or without Ibrahim.

Back to the kitchen, load another tray, take it in to the women, kneel next to the other women, put my tray down, pick up a nearly empty tray, and head back to the kitchen. Next tray back to the men, kneel, being careful not to touch any man, put down the new tray, take the empty tray, and head back to the kitchen. Back and forth, carry, kneel, clean. An hour goes by. Several men leave. Way to go, guys. Maybe some others will get the idea.

I do sit and eat with the women for about ten minutes, and then I am back in the kitchen and carrying yet another tray in to the men. The way they are eating, you would think they had been fasting for a year. I bring in three trays, one right after the other, and then...

Elias arrives. He goes to Ibrahim and shakes hands while doing the cheek kissing thing, and he works his way down the table kissing cheeks and making small talk. Does he know every one of these men? I am frozen in place, standing with a huge pile of samosas. I am suddenly terrified I will tip it one way or another and samosas will start sliding off the pile. I have a death grip on the tray and pull it close to my body to steady it. I must have put too much chicken in these, they weigh a ton.

I need to put the tray down, and the place is obvious, yet I hesitate to do it. The men who had left, left behind empty trays. What I needed to do was to put this full tray there, and gather up the empties. There. Right there. Right there where Elias was just sitting down.

I am a grown woman. I can do this. My husband is right there at the other end of the room. I just walk over to where Elias is, kneel down, and set my tray in front of him. I can do this.

And eventually I do. I walk over, kneel down, and reach out to put this tray of samosas in the center of the serving area where Elias and others can reach. I am a bit clumsy and several samosas fall off the tray as I set it down, but no big deal. I just gather them up one at a time and carefully put them back in the pile.

And as I do so, I feel a hand on my ankle.

The appropriate thing to do at this point is obvious – stand up and walk out of the room. Simple enough. Very simple. Just get up. Stand. Walk away. Get up.

But I have made a mess of my samosas, so I need to put them right, don't I? I pick each of them up and carefully put it back in the pile, careful to make sure it will stay where I put it in the large pile on the tray. And the hand moves on my ankle. It is under my abaya. I reach for another samosa and place it back on the tray. The hand moves higher up my ankle. Its fingers surround my ankle, alternating a grip on my ankle and a caress. My breathing stops. Three more of those damn samosas are off the tray and need to be put where they belong. I gather them up one at a time. The hand slides higher. Two samosas to go. I have to reach fairly far for one of them, and the hand just touches the bottom of my thigh. I almost scream. I lower myself back onto my heels, and back onto the hand. I put the last samosa like a crown on the top of the pile. The hand slowly slides off my leg and out from under my abaya. I gather up two empty trays, stand and leave the room.

Shit. Why is he here? This is a Muslim holiday. He is a Christian. Yes, he works with Ibrahim. So what? They see each other at work all the time. That should be enough.

I go back to the kitchen. A good place for me. I take off my abaya and hijab. It's too damn hot for either. There's another tray of food to go in, but I just sit at one of the preparation tables. I am tired. Someone else can take food in. I sit and stare at the table for a while, then get up and help move food from the stove and oven to the trays. That will be my job – build the trays. There are four other women who can carry a tray in to the men or women.

I do that for another hour, and then when there is no more call for food, I spend the next two hours helping clean the kitchen. Finally the night is done and I go to bed. It is Layla's night with Ibrahim. Fine. Let him climb that mountain while I get some sleep. I have earned it. But, as you can imagine, as I lie there, one part of my body seems to be on fire. All he did was touch my ankle, for crying out loud. My ankle. Well, maybe a bit of my thigh. But that was it.

And that's all there will be. We have celebrated Eid. It's done. We had people over. We were generous to the poor. We welcomed the stranger. We were good Muslims. I was a good Muslim wife. Really I was. Almost 100% of the time.

Chapter 25

Elias

With Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr behind us, business slowed down a little, but not as much as I might have thought. Meanwhile, Dannah had gone full entrepreneur on me. She was making sales calls right and left, always proud of her results, always wanting more. Good for her. But she had sales. I had production. I was tired, the kitchen staff was tired, the kitchen was crowded and too damn hot.

We had two ways to go with the business. I could settle Dannah down, and we could hold at our current production level, making ourselves a premium product with a limited production level. Essentially we would tell the world – we are special, be glad if you can find us at your store. We would raise prices and put more profits in our pockets. And I could do the cooking without killing myself.

Option two – (the Dannah option) – we grow this company and sell every samosa we can.

Guess which option won? So we started looking for a new kitchen. Any building would do. We just needed some space where we could put in industrial strength kitchen appliances. In Wisconsin finding such a space would be easy. We are the land of abandoned factories, warehouses, and stores. Rent is cheap since most landlords are looking for any income at all to cover property taxes and insurance on their white elephant. Things are different in Dubai, land of the newly rich, land of a young and growing population, cheap labor, no taxes, and endless disposable income. Business plans here consisted of two sentences – "I will start a business in Dubai. I will sell lots of stuff."

You would have to be a complete moron to fail at business in Dubai, and since no businesses failed, there was no stock of available properties. This didn't hold Dannah back. She was all for building our own bakery. How many million dirhams that would be, I don't know, but she was already drawing up building plans. Me, I'm a little more risk-adverse. Being from Dubai, she had never seen a business fail. Being from Wisconsin, I had seen plenty.

We were headed to a serious disagreement when Ibrahim saved the day. He had found a moron. Several Australians, no doubt well into their second or third case of Fosters, had decided they would bring NA beer to the Mideast. Muslims couldn't drink alcohol, but surely they would like non-alcohol beer, right? They built a factory outside Dubai City, equipped it, and even turned out their first cases of beer. Then they discovered two problems. First, NA beer is not alcohol free. It has very little alcohol, but "little" is not the same as "none." So their beer was haram. Second, even if they could make it absolutely alcohol free, who did they think would want to stand around with a can in their hands when the culture really is against alcohol? Was the target market rebellious teens? I was going to join ISIS but I will buy a six pack of NA beer instead. That will really piss off dad.

Whatever their thinking, it only took them two weeks of brewing and bottling to realize they had made one or two business errors. They sold the factory to Ibrahim and went back to whatever beach in Australia they called home. Ibrahim rented part of the building to us, and we began installing our bakery equipment.

Now I have to talk about weather. Summer in Dubai sucks. Don't go there then. Ever. Our new factory was in a business area of Dubai City, near the Gulf, so we had humidity as well as temps that now stayed around 120. Being ladies, Dannah and I are both wearing dresses underneath abayas and those damn hijabs. I swear I could have taken my hijab off every five minutes and wrung it out. My head was constantly wet, and I had sweat rolling down my back. We had air conditioning in our part of the building, but we had not turned it on because we constantly had the doors open while equipment was delivered.

I spent all July walking around in that sauna of a factory. I first laid out where I would want the equipment to go. To the extent you can build an assembly line in a bakery, that was my goal. Once I knew where everything should go, I called Ibrahim who got in the electricians. He also knew where to buy the stoves and refrigerators, and when the time came, he arranged for ten men to work for us. He was my savior on this project.

Speaking of Ibrahim, yes, now our pillow talk did include business questions. I would ride home with him or Dannah or take a cab, and thank Allah for my air conditioned room. After a shower, dinner, and sunset and evening prayers, if it was my night, I would change into something nice and walk down the hall to his room. It was far too hot to go up on the roof. I got in the habit of putting on a very long satin nightgown that actually trailed on the floor behind me, and I took my time walking to his room. I might stand and say "hello" to his daughters if their door was open (He had three left (besides the twins). Two would be married in the fall. I was unclear about the third).

Then I would look in on the two wives. Layla always had her door open. I wasn't sure why. She always sat on a couch, and nearly filled it from end to end. I wondered if the piece had been braced up in some way. I said "Salam," and she just stared at me. I let her. This is what an attractive woman looks like, Layla. This is what your husband is getting tonight. I let her look and then walked down to Amara's room. If her door was open, she would smile and return my "Salam." I always wondered if she was glad to have the night off.

I knocked on Ibrahim's door and then went in. Sometimes he would be sitting at his desk. Sometimes he would already be in bed. I always went to him and kissed him. He still took his time with me, holding me, and kissing me, and saying nice things (as the Prophet, peace be upon him, recommended). I was usually the impatient one. We would lie side by side, his hands all over me, me with one hand tracing the edges of his face while the other hand worked through his hair. His hair was getting drier with age, but I still liked the feel of it. And I liked the look of him. Depending upon the light, he sometimes looked like Charlton Heston in one of those old Biblical movies where he was Moses or someone, before Heston stated making monkey movies and shilling for the NRA.

I would kiss the Biblical patriarch, put my hand on the back of his head, and then slowly roll over onto my back, pulling him with me. Then he took charge and made me very happy.

Only after we made love did we talk business. For all of July, and then into early August, it was mostly me reporting on progress. The equipment was delivered and installed. I chose very long work tables. I even bought a dough making machine to save my hands from carpal tunnel. I wanted them for Ibrahim. Sometimes I needed an electrician or another machine, and Ibrahim took care of it in the morning. I gave him kisses for thanks. I held him. He held me – tighter. I hated those summer days, but loved those summer nights.

Late August we made our first samosas. Ibrahim had helped me find ten men – Indians – to work in the bakery. They all spoke minimal English. I trained them mostly by demonstrations. My biggest fear was food contamination, so I started there, washing my own hands, and pulling on gloves. We washed very surface before starting anything. It turned out they wouldn't wear hair nets, but I could get them to wear paper hats. Fine. We wouldn't make anyone sick. Now to see if we could make good food.

I had some initial ideas for effective work flow, and I was mostly right, but after seeing them work, we made a few changes. The ten men were still less efficient than the four women I had used before, but I assumed they would get better over time, and they did.

After a week of making samosas that the men either ate or took home, I called for a health inspection. I had an envelope ready with ten thousand dirhams if needed. Ibrahim assured me it would not be, and as it turned out, he was right. They wanted me to drop the temperature in the fridge, and use a different soap in the washing machine, but otherwise, we were good to go.

The kitchen ladies back home continued to make samosas for another week while the new folks got up to speed, but we were delivering samosas out of the new bakery starting on Sunday, and by the end of that first week, we could handle all sales from there. Dannah was happy, I was happy, and I was pretty sure the ladies back home were relieved.

Thursday, after a particularly large shipment went out the door, I decided to celebrate with a cup of coffee. There was a Starbucks down the street (yes, I know, there's a Starbucks down every street on the planet), and after telling the man I had appointed foreman I would be going out for lunch, I stepped out into the heat.

Elias was waiting for me. His car was about halfway to the Starbucks. As I approached, he got out, walked around to the curb side of the car, and opened the back door. I never even hesitated. I got in. He walked around to the other side of the car, got behind the wheel, and drove off. He didn't say a word. Neither did I.

He drove for about ten minutes and then pulled into the parking lot of one of the nicer hotels. No. Not this girl. When he came around to open my door for me, I just slid over and patted the seat next to me. I wasn't leaving the car. He sat down beside me.

"I'd like to..."

"I know what you would like, but that isn't going to happen. I will sit here and talk with you if you would like, or you can take me back to my bakery."

"Let me restart the car so we have AC." He went around to the front of the car, restarted it, and then was back at my side. Close at my side.

"Can I at least kiss you?" At this point he already had his arms around me and was pulling me to his chest.

"Yes." I put my hands on his chest, leaned back in my seat, and let him kiss me. Maybe I kissed him too.

"I think we should take a room and talk." He was leaning against me, and holding me with one arm, while his other hand wandered. I let it.

"We can talk here."

"And..."

"No and. Just talk." I moved one of my hands up to the back of his head and stroked his hair. "Please, Elias. I want to talk."

"May I fondle you while you talk?" He reached way down and got his hand under the bottom of my abaya and slid it up my leg.

"Please listen to me." I put my other hand on the back of his neck, my face inches from his. He had my abaya bunched up around my waist, his hand on my thigh. But he stopped there. "I have wanted to talk to you for months. Please let me."

"All right." He kept his face opposite mine, his eyes locked on to mine.

"I need to thank you for all you did. You and your private jet rescued me time and again."

"I loved you, and I still do."

"I need to tell you something." I paused. He was still looking into my eyes. Good. "I lived in a tiny town and I thought that was all I could handle. My world was fifty miles across. I had my girls, my trailer, my Packers, and my bar. You gave me a bigger world – the river walk in Bern, Gurten, the Alps, ball gowns, a water plant to run, even Dubai. You helped me be a bigger me. I have lots of reasons to love you, and lots of reasons to thank you. I have been desperate to tell you that."

"And now?"

"I have told Ibrahim I will always love you. But I also love him, and he is my husband. I will be with him as long as we both shall live."

"My turn." He took his hand off my leg and put it by my face. "When you left me, I was so angry with myself. I had no reason to push you about children. I loved you from the minute I saw you in that stupid fishing hotel. You wore that red satin dress just off your shoulders. I wanted to pull it down, and you down, and make you my wife right then and there. Instead I talked a lot of nonsense. Time after time I talked nonsense. Why on earth did I let you go to Schweig? I had you, it was my job to keep you, and to hell with him and anyone else who wanted you."

"I wish you had. I wish I had made you keep me. But that was then. This is now. You have Saanvi, and I have Ibrahim. She is beautiful, and she will give you children. Enjoy what you have. Inshallah."

"I want you now."

"You can't have me now. This is the last time we will meet and talk. You will kiss me. You will hold me one last time, and then you will drive me back to Starbucks where I will have a very bitter cup of coffee." And mostly that's what he did. He kissed me more than once, and his hand went back onto my thigh, and he started tilting me to the side as if he might lay me right there in the back seat of his car. But in the end, I got him off me without pushing too hard or slapping his face. He drove me back to Starbucks. I had a lotto, largo, virgo, latte, something or other and went back to the bakery.

Chapter 26

Ibrahim

August slipped into September, and basically things went well. Dannah kept selling. I think she fell in love with her own success. Twenty two, newly married, co-owner of a growing business, I am sure she felt like a champion. She certainly sold like one. We were now making money hand over fist, and there seemed no end to our growth.

Now that I had a big kitchen and ten employees, I felt less stressed. I was still putting in ten hour days – seven to five – but I had opportunities to sit and relax. The guys were getting better at their jobs, and the man I had identified as foreman seemed to grow into that job too. So we could produce anything Dannah could sell. It felt good to know that I was holding up my half of the partnership.

We did have one small problem with a delivery driver who decided maybe some of the money should go into his pocket. I told Ibrahim, and the man was on the next plane to Delhi. Next morning we had another guy who was excited to work for us.

September is still hot in Dubai – another month I suggest you avoid – but after two months of 120, 110 actually felt like an improvement. And eventually we would get to November and some relief. Most days I felt comfortable leaving the bakery long enough to go down the street for coffee. I had never been in a Starbucks before. Amberg and Wausaukee might be the only two towns in the known universe without a Starbucks, but even if we had one, if you make nine dollars an hour, you don't buy five dollar coffees. Now I could afford the coffee, even the largo or Granada or whatever their weird word was for "large." I was willing to buy from them. I was not willing to learn the Starbucks language.

As you can imagine, as I walked down there, I did sometimes think about my car ride with Elias. I replayed our conversation many times. Generally I was happy with what I had said. Maybe I could have told him I hadn't left him, I had been kidnapped. He might have felt less guilty about my leaving, but why make him angry at Saanvi. She was now his wife and soon to be the mother of his child. And, what was done was done. He had her, it was a good marriage, and I had Ibrahim, a man I truly loved. Time to move on. Inshallah.

But then disaster struck. It was noon. I had just seen a major shipment go out. The new driver seemed competent, my crew was about to break for lunch. I decided it was Starbucks time. I stepped out the bakery door and had taken no more than ten steps when I saw Elias get out of his car. He stepped around to the curb and held the back door open for me. I stopped in my tracks. No. I would not get in that car. I had said what I wanted to say. We had reached closure. Enough. Whatever would happen in that car would be a new start, not an ending. So I stood, looked at him, gave a very slight shake of my head, and turned back to my bakery.

Standing by the bakery door was Ibrahim and Dannah.

I stopped again, looked at Ibrahim, and mouthed "please." I walked back to him, searching his face. What had he seen? What had he thought he had seen? It was like his face had an "off" switch. I saw nothing there. As I got closer, he pointed to his car. I got into the back seat. He slid in next to me. Dannah went into the bakery.

"We will go home now." I wasn't sure if he was telling me or the driver. I had my body turned toward him, still trying to see what he was thinking. He looked straight ahead. The driver took us home. For the entire thirty minute trip, I faced Ibrahim, waiting for some word or movement or change in his face. And for the entire thirty minute trip, he looked straight ahead. Partway home I reached out and put a hand on his arm. He made no response. It was as if it wasn't there.

Could I say something? What? In some ways it felt as if my mind was as still as his face. I had no plan, I had no ideas, I had no words. So I sat, and looked at him, and waited. When we got home, I followed him up the stairs to my room. He pointed in, so I went in. Once there, I heard the lock turn.

Now what? I hung up my abaya and hijab, and sat on my bed. Now what? I raced through millions of possibilities. He divorced me. He beat me. He forgave me. He saw that I had refused Elias and now loved me more than ever. No, it was pretty clear that was not what he had seen. Maybe he would talk to me, and let me explain. Once he knew the facts, he would love me again. Maybe he would just keep me in here forever. My first day in this room he said I would stay until Elias had a son. Maybe that was now my destiny. Maybe. There were so many maybe's.

I prayed at midafternoon, sunset and evening. After evening prayers I showered and changed into my long white satin nightgown. He might come for me. I sat on the edge of my bed and waited.

But he didn't come for me that night. Nor did he come the next night or the night after that. No one came. The door stayed locked. I had no food, but I can't say that concerned me. I had fasted during Ramadan. I could fast again. I had water. I would not die. I prayed when I heard the call to prayer. I changed clothes according to the time of day. I did my hair and put on makeup, always prepared to look my best if he came for me.

He came for me on the fourth day. I heard the lock turn. When I saw him in the doorway I immediately dropped to my knees and put my forehead on the floor. "Please."

"Sit up." I lifted my head but stayed on my knees. I had worked on my hair and makeup and had put on a silk dress with very short skirt. But when I looked up at him, I saw none of that mattered.

"The penalty for adultery used to be stoning. Now it is usually divorce." He stared down at me. I could barely see him through my tears. "He says you did nothing. I assume you say the same."

"Yes."

"But you will do something eventually. That is obvious. So here is your choice. You can live here as my wife, but you can never again leave this house. Or you can leave. If you step out of this house, I will divorce you. That is your choice today, and every day." He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and left. The door was open. I knelt there and looked at it. And slowly I felt a rush build up in my body. I could stay. I could be his wife.

I jumped up and ran after him. He was just entering his room when I reached him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and started kissing him. But he pulled my arms away.

"Not today, not this week, not this month." He put out an arm to hold me off, then went into his room and closed the door. Not today, not this week, not this month. I slowly walked back to my room. As I passed the rooms of the wives and daughters, I noticed all the doors were closed.

I walked down to the kitchen and made myself two samosas for lunch. While I put them together, I cried for the first ten minutes, but then smiled. Not this month, but next...

Chapter 27

I lose the Business

By my count, there were seventeen days left in September. Okay, that was seventeen days pretty much isolated in my room. But it was also seventeen days to work on my pitch. October 1, I would talk to him (and hopefully do much, much more), and I would win back his trust – and love. I was sure I could do that. I just needed to work out what I would say, and I had seventeen days to do that.

My first thoughts were about Elias. Ibrahim saw me back away from him, right? But did he know I had not backed away the time before? Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't. But here was a huge risk. If I pretended the first time had not happened, and someone had seen me and told him, then it was all over. One lie, especially that lie, and he would divorce me. I was sure of it. So I couldn't ignore that first visit, but how could I explain it? I needed closure? Sure, and the kisses?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized I should not go anywhere near that meeting with Elias. I should not mention Elias. This was not about Elias, it was about Ibrahim and me. So I should talk about that – our love, our future. That was the approach to take. And the approach would be... well, it would be based on my strengths – short skirts, silks, satins, and sex. Leave logic to logicians. They weren't trying to keep a husband. I was.

And I decided to cheat. I would start early. Late September was still hot, but it was not unbearable. And in the evening, the roof was not too bad. I was not sure he still went up there after evening prayers, but why not see? So I started changing into a nightgown and going up on the roof. Some nights I tried really short nighties, and some nights I went with longer, flowing nightgowns, but all were satin, and all showed lots of chest. I stood in the middle of the roof, and waited.

The first five nights I stood up there for two hours. No Ibrahim. Two of his daughters came up and stood talking under the canvas tarp. I ignored them and stood looking at the stairs. Nothing.

Day six, and he came up. I was maybe twenty feet from him. He saw me, stopped, and walked toward the edge of the roof, as if to see if anything was happening in the village. I made no move to approach him. I just stood facing him, my hands at my side, the breeze blowing my hair and moving the white satin around my thighs. He looked at me for just a moment, but then went back to looking at the village. Five minutes later he went back downstairs. But he had seen me. He had seen his wife standing, waiting for him. His beautiful wife that was open to him. Here I am. This is what you married. You can have me again, any time you want.

Three days later he was up again. This time I was standing closer to where he had stood, closer to the edge. Once again there was a breeze, and once again the silks on my thighs moved. Was he moved? I said nothing. I just stood facing him, my hands at my sides, available to him if he wished. I am yours, Ibrahim. Take me if you will.

Two days later I stood in the exact spot where he had stood on previous nights. My red satin gown covered almost nothing. I stood and waited. And he came up the stairs. He could now go to the spot he had chosen before, or he could avoid me. Avoiding would show weakness. He would not do that. Instead, thank Allah, he walked right up to me.

"I will talk to you next week."

'There is no need to talk." I put my palms on his chest and looked up at him.

He took hold of my wrists and moved my hands back to my side. But he continued to hold my wrists even after he had them there. I saw that as a good sign.

"Next week."

"Yes." Even as I said that, I leaned into him and started sliding up on my toes. My eyes stayed on his, and my lips kept getting closer.

"I said next week."

"Yes." I was now up as far as I could go on my toes, and my lips reached his. I didn't actually kiss him, but my lips met his lips.

"You don't listen well." He pulled my wrists back, pulling me away from him. "Do you understand what you did?"

"I made an effort to communicate with Elias. To thank him for what he had done in the past, and to ease his pain."

"You thought about him, and you thought about yourself. You did not think about me. You shamed me." He let go of my wrists, but I made no new effort to approach him. Mentally and physically I retreated from him. I had shamed him. Shit. I don't know what bothered me the most – that I had done it, or that I had done it and not even thought about it. He was absolutely right. I had thought about Elias, and I had thought about me. I even felt good to have "settled" things with Elias, although the fact that he had come for me a second time implied things were not fully settled for Elias. But they had been settled for me. I had gotten to say some things that were important for me to say. For me. And for Ibrahim? His wife had gotten into a car with another man. How did that look anything but bad?

"I am so sorry." I bowed my head and left. There were six nights left in my exile. I did not go upstairs on any of those nights. For six days I did not think about me and what I wanted. I thought about how the world looked to him. And I saw the damage I had done. He was an important man in his country, yet his wife had been seen riding off with another man – to a hotel. The pressure on him to divorce me must have been immense. Yet he had kept me. That was love. That was strength. I had married a real man.

So for six days I knelt five times a day and prayed. Yes, I used the sura that Ibrahim had helped me learn, but I also gave thanks that I had found him, and that he was the kind of man he was. I was alone in my room for six days, but I was grateful. I smiled. I thought of many ways I could reward him for his actions, and for his character. He was my man, and I was a very lucky woman.

Then, the last day of September, I heard a knock on my door. I was getting dressed, but I thought it was one of the cooks bringing my breakfast on a tray, so I said to come in. It was Ibrahim. I was in the middle of pulling a slip over my head. I stopped, looked at him, and then started again, now going very, very slowly. Look if you wish. Enjoy this, I hope. I am your woman, and all this is yours. It has been yours before. I hope it will be yours again. I stepped over to him, hoping he would put his hands on me. He didn't.

"Dannah is running the company now."

"Yes. She will do it well. She has amazing abilities to sell our samosas. She will be in all the emirates by next year."

"She wishes to buy your half of the company."

"Of course. I am here, in your house. I am with you."

"She will pay you. She will go with you to a bank to sign and witness the papers, and for you to deposit the money. That creates a record of the transfer."

"I cannot leave the house." I stepped back from him and looked up at him.

"I permit it. She will drive you there, you will sign the papers, and she will drive you back here."

"You wish me to do this?"

"Yes."

"Then I will do it."

Dannah arrived as I finished getting dressed. She must have been waiting right outside my room. I put on a longer silk dress, then my abaya and hijab. She asked me to bring along my residency card, my passport, and my bankbook. Sitting under that bankbook was my checkbook from the Pembine Wausaukee Bank. Just to be safe, I brought that too. I followed her out to her car. We sat for a few minutes while the air conditioner brought the temperature down, and she explained what we would be doing.

If you don't mind, I will adopt my conversations with her. She was working off college English, I was working off kitchen Arabic, and both of us were punching words into the Google Translate app on our phones. So no sentence came out as smoothly as these, but this is the essence of our conversation:

"I wish to buy your half of the business. I will pay you 100,000 dirhams."

"I know you have worked hard at this business, but so have I. I want 300,000 dirhams.

"200,000"

"Done." And off we drove. We went to the bank branch where Ibrahim had opened my account and deposited my bride price. I had also been putting my share of the business profits in the account. It was getting large. With this deposit, I would have over $130,000. That gave me an idea.

At the bank we sat with a female banker. She obviously knew we were coming, and had all the papers ready for our signatures. She spoke to us in both English and Arabic. I was impressed. She explained what each form was for, showed us where to sign, and witnessed our signatures. She didn't rush any part of the process, nor did she drag it out. In the end, it took little more than thirty minutes to move the business from two owners to one.

We were done. And then I asked a favor.

"I have two daughters in the U.S. Would it be possible to transfer some of this money to an account there?"

As it turned out, it was not only possible, but there was a standard one-page form that took care of it all. I told her to transfer 400,000 dirhams, gave her a deposit slip from my checkbook as a way of getting the complete account number, signed the form, paid a fee, and within 48 hours, by the magic of international banking, my 400,000 dirham would show up in Wausaukee in the form of over $100,000. Girls, if you come up short of cash, momma is ready to help.

On the way back home, I asked Dannah how the business was doing. She said Ibrahim had loaned the business an engineer to oversee the bakery until the foreman was more experienced, but production was going well, and the engineer had praised my process flows.

And sales? She had landed six more HyperMarkets and was driving to Abu Dhabi next week to make some sales there. Orders had grown 20% in the last month.

"You should have charged me more for your half of the business," she said, as she drove.

"No. I knew how to make samosas, but you made the business through your sales work." Having patted each other on the back, we parted as friends. She dropped me at the house and went back to work.

Would I miss the business? Sure. But I would not miss the pressures. Dannah would earn every dirham she got.

Back home, I went straight to my room, hung up my abaya and hijab, and got out my phone. When I had first gotten to Dubai I had gotten a local phone and emailed my girls often, attaching pictures of our apartment and the city. That phone had been back in our apartment when I had been abducted. So I had gone months without any contact with my girls. Over the summer, as the business grew, I needed a phone, and Ibrahim had bought one for me. And, you would think, being any kind of mother, my first call on my new phone would have been to my girls. But. By now so much had happened, I was uncertain what to say. Hi, I got married the other day, but not to the guy you met. I am a Muslim now. I have a samosa business.

I probably should have just said that and got it done with. It would have confused the girls (Mom is a Muslim?), but it would have started a conversation. Eventually, over time, I could have explained everything, and the girls would have understood. I was sure of it. But. I had dithered. I had thought over and over about the best way to start such a conversation, and having spent all my time working on the best way, months had passed, making each phone call harder to make.

Now I had a new way to start – hi, thinking of you, if you need a few bucks, we now have $100,000 in the Pembine Wausaukee account. Well, I would go with some version of that, and build from there over time. I opened a Gmail account on my local phone, entered the email addresses of the girls as best as I could remember, hoping that if I got one right, one girl would contact the other. Why email? I wanted time with every word. I had so much so say, and I wanted to get at least this first attempt right. I spent two hours writing that email. What did I finally say?

HI.

I AM STILL IN DUBAI. I HAVE MARRIED A LOCAL MAN, IBRAHIM AL-KINDI. I AM NOT SURE WHEN I WILL GET BACK TO WISCONSIN. IT MAY BE A VERY LONG TIME. KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU AND MISS YOU.

TODAY I SENT SOME MONEY BACK TO MY ACCOUNT AT P-W BANK. IT SHOULD ARRIVE IN A DAY OR TWO. YOU BOTH HAVE LEGAL ACCESS TO THAT ACCOUNT. USE ANY OF THE MONEY YOU NEED.

I HAVE LOTS TO TELL YOU. LOTS HAS HAPPENED HERE, MOST OF IT GOOD. I AM DOING FINE. I CAN SHARE SOME OF THE DETAILS IN FUTURE EMAILS.

I HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU. PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE WELL.

YOUR MOTHER,

JESSICA AL-KINDI

Pretty pathetic, I know. What kind of mother has no contact with her girls for nearly ten months? Granted, some of those months I was barred from contact with anyone, and some of those months any reports from me might have sounded pretty stupid – I am married to one man, but I still dream of another. Really? Even now, I was at a point of conflict. Would Ibrahim forgive me? Was our marriage over? My life was still in transition. None of this was easy to talk about, even via email. Still, I should have emailed the girls months earlier.

And boy did they let me know that! It turned out I got Tiffany's email address correct, and she forwarded to Britney and both of them got back to me almost instantly and almost in unison, both of them essentially saying – What the hell? Do you have any idea how worried we were? We contacted the embassy. We contacted Gruber and others at your company. The embassy told us you had registered your marriage (without telling them), and Elias Gruber told us you were doing fine. You couldn't tell us?

I was embarrassed as I read their emails, but I was also proud of them. They had pursued information about me, and done it well. I had sharp daughters.

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening sending them additional emails. None were easy to write. As you can imagine, I struggled over what to tell them and what not to tell them. Each email was a struggle. But each was also a joy. I did have good news to share. I had the business story to share, and long descriptions of Ibrahim. My life was good. Tomorrow was October 1, and it would get better. It would, right?

Chapter 28

October with Ibrahim

I was pretty clear about how I should approach my evening with Ibrahim October First. I would not put on my sexiest nightgown and go as a "hottie." I had shamed him. Cheap sex was not going to get him back. Instead, I would go as a penitent. I would ask for forgiveness. But I would not ignore sex entirely. I selected my longest white satin night gown, the one that actually trailed on the floor as I walked. It wasn't quite a virgin's gown, but it did portray at least some element of innocence.

When the evening prayer ended, I started my walk to his room. No rooftop tonight, I would walk slowly down the hall for all to see. I shuffled down the hall, my head bowed. I had shamed him, I knew it, I was going to his room to ask forgiveness. Anyone seeing me in the hall would recognize my plea.

And it appeared many would see me. As I shuffled down the hall, all the doors were open. Even the twins were home from school for some reason. I did not look into rooms, my eyes stayed focused on the floor before me, but my peripheral vision had no trouble seeing open doors and female forms in each room. The twins were there, and the three unmarried daughters, and even Dannah was back. When I passed the wives' rooms, there was Layla, standing, a huge walker helping support her weight. Amara was in the final room also standing, watching me pass.

As I continued down the hall I heard noises behind me. Were the women following me? I did not turn to look. I just kept shuffling, my head bowed.

I knocked at Ibrahim's door and waited for him to tell me to enter. Then I went in. He has a suite of rooms, an office, then a bedroom and a bath. All his rooms were large. This first room, his office, was huge. It had two couches with a coffee table between them, a very large desk, several small tables, and this night, a chair at the far end of the room. Ibrahim sat in that chair. I walked to it, hearing the women of the family enter the room behind me.

I walked close to Ibrahim and said, "Please forgive me."

He said nothing. He just took my wrist and pulled me over his knees. My chest had barely landed on his knees when he started spanking me. These were huge swats, taken with a wide arc, and I screamed when the first one landed. It hurt! And they kept coming, each taking a moment to arrive. I was surprised that he would even attempt to spank me, so I immediately struggled to get up and off his knees. But he pushed me down with his other hand, holding me by the back of the neck and forcing my head almost to the floor. Meanwhile his blows continued. I reached around with my arms, trying to get his hand off my neck, or protect my backside from his blows. He just knocked my hands away and kept spanking me.

The pain was terrible, as was the humiliation. I now understood that all the females of his household had been gathered to watch this. Even the twins saw me this way – face down, rear in the air, spanked helplessly like a little child. I reached again for the hand holding my neck, but I could not pull it away, and the blows kept landing – and hurting. I was already crying from the pain. And he would not stop. He just kept swinging. Each blow was hard. They landed with huge force. My whole body jerked forward from the blow. And there seemed to be no end. He wasn't counting to ten or to any other number that I could guess at. He was spanking me and seemed prepared to keep spanking me all night.

I cried, I screamed, and finally I begged. I dropped my hands from around his wrist. I was already too weak from tears and pain to fight him. I put my hands on the floor, my head bowed almost to the carpet, and I cried and begged him to stop. "I am sorry." I said over and over. I said it loud, I said it soft, I said it in between begging him to stop. Finally I was too weak from pain to do more than whisper it. "I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

That didn't stop him. The women did. First one, then several more, then all of them asked him to stop. I even heard fat Layla ask him to stop. So he did. I heard the women leave and the door close. He let go of my neck, and I raised my head enough to slide off his knees. I buried my head in his belly and kept crying. Finally I felt one of his hands on the back of my head. At that point I knew it was over.

He said nothing. I was incapable of speech. I was still crying, and my breathing came in gulps and then desperate gasps. I kept my face in his belly and wrapped my arms around his waist. His hand stayed on the back of my head. We stayed in that position for an hour I am sure. He made no effort to move, and I was too beaten down to move. I was exhausted. I was in pain, and I was ashamed for how I had looked in front of all those women. Even the twins. How could I ever face them again? And of course, I understood that was the point of the whole public spectacle. I had shamed him. Now I understood the meaning of shame.

Eventually I stopped crying, and I was able to begin breathing normally again. I lifted my head and looked up at him. "Please forgive me." Then I slowly stood and walked back to my room.

I stayed in my room for two days, unable to face anyone in the household. Finally after noon prayers on the third day, I dressed and went up on the roof. All three unmarried daughters were up there, sitting under the canvas shade. I went to the far side of the shade and stood looking down the street. After a few minutes I turned toward the daughters. I looked at them and said "Salam." They nodded, also said "Salam," and went back to their conversation. Okay, so I was not being shunned. It was still painful for me to sit, but I found a chair near the edge of the roof, and sat down. I could be in the company of household women - not a sister, not a friend, but an acquaintance that is at least acknowledged. Given my lifelong distance from other women, I could live with that.

That night was my turn with Ibrahim. I chose to start it on the roof after evening prayers, hoping he would come up as well. I wore the same long satin nightgown. I stood in the middle of the roof and waited. He came up a few minutes later and stood by the edge of the roof, looking down at the lights of the village. Then he turned and looked at me. And waited. I walked to him, not certain what to say or what to do.

Finally I put my palms on his chest, looked up at him, and said, "I will be a good wife."

His hands went to my back and his arms closed around me. "I know you will."

We did not kiss that night. At least not until later. I followed him down to his room, and we made love. I didn't grab his hair, or wrap my legs around him. I did not cling. I caressed him with my hands and whispered how much I loved him, and I let him take me as he wished, when he wished. And when he was done I stayed close to him, with a hand always touching him. And that is how we slept.

In the morning we showered together and said the dawn prayer together, and then I went back to my room. We were not the lovers we had been before I got into Elias' car, but we had made some progress. I am a patient woman. If necessary, I would take a lifetime to rebuild that love.

As it turned out, we were mostly there, I thought, after about four weeks. I thank the roof for that. October evenings were still warm, but there was a nice breeze that blew up the valley each evening, giving us warm, dry air that felt good. While my rotation was just one night in three, and he was still taking trips, every night that he was home, he came up on the roof and we stood together. We looked at the village lights, and we looked at the stars, and soon we looked at each other. He held me, I kissed him, I rose up on my toes and wrapped my arms around his neck. Nights when his hand slid down to my ass, I knew he wanted me. Nights when I pressed my hips against his, I hoped he understood what I wanted.

It was still weeks before we talked, and the end of October before we talked in any meaningful way. He told me about a water project he was doing in Saudi. I told him what my girls were up to, back in Wisconsin. It was a short conversation, but it was important in that it was the kind of conversation husbands and wives have. It was progress.

It may be an odd sign of additional progress, but two weeks later I felt comfortable enough to argue with him. It was about Saudi of course. We were in bed. We had made love, and I was largely back to my normal role, meaning I was initiating much of what we did, playing with him, teasing him, and dressing for him. I pulled him on to me now, rather than wait for him. And I clung to him tightly when we were done. And he went to sleep when I was ready for him to go to sleep.

That night I held him on top of me, and asked him why he had been gone for a week. He started telling me about how he was needed for a new project in Saudi.

"You promised me you would go fewer times, and stay for fewer days."

"Some projects are too important for me to send junior people."

"Matteo Schweig thought water projects in India were important too. He's dead. So far they have not even put his face on a postage stamp."

"The work needs doing."

"Let the damn Saudis do it. If they have time to fight with the damn Iranians, they have time to dig their own wells."

"I agreed to do this."

"You agreed to be my husband. I want you here, not there. I want you safe, not dead. Dig your wells and lay your pipes in the Emirates."

"I will put in wells where they are needed."

"And take risks."

"And take small risks."

"And if I asked you not to go?"

"I would go anyway. You know that."

"Yes, I know that. You should know this. I will do anything for you. I will spend the rest of my life waiting for you every night on the roof, waiting for you to hold me. What do I ask in return? Come home to me."

And he did come home to me for several more weeks. Every night I had him for an hour on the roof, and every third night I had him until dawn. Every night I wore shorter night gowns or tighter nightgowns, or less coverage of my breasts. And every night he showed his appreciation. He held me – tighter.

Then the last week of November he flew to Saudi.

Chapter 29

My World Ends

November 27th I was on my knees just finishing dawn prayers when I heard a shriek. It was Amara shrieking at the top of her lungs. My heavy wooden door was closed, but I could still hear her as if she were in my room. By the time I got to my feet at least three other women were shrieking. Daughters, I guessed. I raced out of the room and started down the hall, only to find a man there. I was just wearing a short nightie, so I instinctively put my hands over my breasts and stopped moving.

"Go back to your room." He said. He pointed back, and took a step toward me.

"Who are you? What has happened?"

"I am Abdullah Al-Kindi. Go back to your room." He kept coming toward me, and I backed away until I was back in my room. He pulled the door closed and locked it.

"What has happened?" I shouted, but I could hear him walking away. Why was I locked in? What was going on? I started pounding on my door. I used the side of my fist, but it hurt, so I started looking around my room for something I could hit the door with. I found a shoe and started banging with that.

"Jessica, stop it." I listened at the door. It sounded like Dannah.

"Dannah, what is going on?"

"My father is dead. Now be quiet and pray like the rest of us." It didn't sound like the rest were praying. There was still plenty of screaming. But I went back to the corner where I prayed, faced Mecca, and put my forehead on the floor. What did I pray? Absolutely nothing. The only word that formed in my mind was "Ibrahim," and I repeated that a thousand times. Finally I just collapsed on the floor and lay there sobbing.

Over the course of that day I could hear occasional periods of screaming and crying, but gradually the house got more and more quiet. I lay on the floor for a long time, and then lay on my bed. I never got dressed that day. I cried. I prayed. I lay in my bed with a pillow over my head.

My door stayed locked. I didn't mind. Who would I talk to? What would I say? What I wanted was what I had – time by myself to mourn. When Matteo had died, I had mourned for months. I had time to sit and remember and slowly recover. Being locked in this room felt good. Would I recover? Maybe, but not for a long time. The door could stay locked for weeks or months. I was fine with that.

No food came for the next several days. I was fine with that too. I had fasted before. I had water and I had quiet. I had what I needed. I was on my knees praying far more than five times a day. I ignored my sura in Arabic and prayed in English, thanking Allah for the time I had had with Ibrahim, and for the quality of man he had been. I laid in my bed for many hours. I also sat in my one chair, the one by my window. The window faced the back of the house – toward the tall hill behind the house – one large mound of rock and gravel. I saw no people back there. They would all be using the front of the house. But I didn't care to see people anyway. I watched the shadows move in the gravel, the shade of the house going down and then up as the day progressed.

On the fourth day I got out my notebook. It was that silly book I had used to do my "scientific" experiments on samosas. I browsed through my records of baking lengths and chicken quantities, then tore out those pages to start anew.

I began a history of my time with Ibrahim. I wrote about that first day when he came to my door and told me to stop pounding. I can't draw, but I tried to list some of the features I had seen in him – the beard (trimmed at two inches, gray hairs in several groupings), his hawk nose, the eyebrows that had made his eyes look extra fierce that night. I copied down exactly what he had said. And then I moved on to every other meeting. I was pretty sure I recalled each one. I tried to capture what the roof had felt like as I walked to him, and what his chest had felt like as I lay my palms on it and told him I would be a good wife. Was I already telling him I would be his good wife? When had that occurred?

I wrote every day. At some point (I don't recall which day), a tray of food was brought up to me. And then it started coming every day. My door was still locked. I don't know why. I had no interest in leaving my room. I spent time on my knees, time looking out my window, time writing my memories. My days were full.

Dannah came to me one day, maybe two or three weeks after Ibrahim's death. She sat next to me on my bed and held my hand.

"There is a period of mourning. I know you are a Muslim too, and his wife, but the other wives and my brother wanted to mourn in their own way."

"You mean they don't see me as a real wife, as a real Muslim."

"Maybe if your Arabic were better..."

"Maybe. Can you tell me about my husband's death?"

"He was drilling in a village in southern Saudi Arabia, near Yemen. There were some Saudi and UAE troops in the village. The Iranians attacked."

"Is there any chance he was just taken prisoner, or went into hiding?"

"His body has been identified." Her grip on my hand got so strong at this point, I was in pain. There was more to be said about his death apparently, but she said no more, and I asked no more. She kissed me on both cheeks and left. And locked the door. What a silly thing to do. I wasn't sure I would ever leave that room again.

The fucking Saudis, and the fucking Iranians. I had told him, I had warned him, I had begged him. He wanted to bring water to a village. They wanted to kill people. One more good man killed by stupid men. Leaving behind one more widow.

I went back to writing my history of Ibrahim, describing my love for him. When had I loved him most? Had I made sure he felt those moments? My descriptions turned more to what I had done – and not done – and what I should have done. Regrets? I had so many. Too many. So I stopped and tore those pages out of my notebook. I would go back to writing about him, and about why and how I loved him.

Another week passed. One of the cooks brought me a tray of food each night after sunset prayers. She brought the food in, nodded to me, then went back out, locking my door. Some nights I ate, some nights I didn't. I spent lots of hours in my chair, and lots of hours writing in my notebook. And I prayed. Ibrahim believed there was a Heaven, and a time of judgement. I smiled when I thought of that. If ever there was a man who would ace that exam, it was Ibrahim. I prayed my thanks that I had been allowed to know him, to hold him, and to feel him holding me.

Chapter 30

Saanvi Mourns

A week or so later (my days and weeks were getting blurred), Saanvi arrived. One of the cooks let her in, then closed the door behind her, but didn't lock it. I didn't understand any of this door locking business, but like I said, I didn't really care.

Saanvi had her baby in a large basket, which she carried with one hand, while holding a large bag over her other shoulder. Baby stuff. I knew the drill. You never moved light when you had a baby. The baby was sleeping, so Saanvi said nothing, and I of course was also silent as I looked down at her new daughter. And clearly it was a daughter. There was pink everywhere.

Saanvi took off her abaya and hijab, stood with me for a moment while I looked at her baby, then set the baby and basket on the floor and pushed me into bed. She kicked off her shoes and was on top of me in an instant.

"When?" I asked in a whisper. She waited until she had herself positioned before she answered – legs between mine, her elbows just outside my arms, her fingers laced through my hair, her hair hanging down as curtains on each side of our faces.

"Almost seven weeks. At least Elias had a month with her before he died."

"Died?" We were both whispering, but how could I whisper that? I heard the baby whimper, and neither of us said a word until she quieted again.

"You didn't know? He was with Ibrahim. They worked most projects together. The same rocket got them both – and all their crew."

"I didn't know." I started crying and tried to bring one of my hands up to wipe my eyes, but Saanvi's hands were in the way. "Move your hands."

"No." She used one of her hands to wipe my tears, and then she kissed me. "We are both widows now. We will help each other." She kissed me again, and held it. She was also sliding her hips across mine. Really? She has just told me Elias is dead, and she expects me to get it on with her?

"Please get off me. I don't want to do this now."

"No." And she held my head tighter and kissed me again. I tried turning to one side to get her off me, but she twisted my head the other way. It hurt. "Hold still. Your man is gone. My man is gone. What we have is each other."

"If this is foreplay, you suck at it."

"I had almost a month to cry. So have you. Enough. We need to restart our lives."

"I'm not done crying about Ibrahim, and I have even started crying about Elias. I loved that man. You know that. Now get off me." I got my hands under her arms and tried again to push her off. She just grabbed my hair tighter. It felt like she was pulling fist-fulls out of my scalp.

"He wasn't your man to love. He was my man. And I know about you and him and the hotel."

"We never went in. We just needed to talk."

"In the back seat of his car."

"It was just talk. I needed that. I wanted to say Good-bye."

"You don't talk to my husband in the back seat of his car. Now kiss me, ask my forgiveness, and put your hands on my ass. You owe me that."

I did that, and more. We were in each other's arms for over an hour before the baby woke up. The baby was hungry and Saanvi nursed her, naked to the waist, leaning on me while I kissed her cheek and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Saanvi moved her from one breast to the other, wincing on occasion as the baby gummed her too hard. I remembered that pain. I had nursed both my girls. I loved holding them, but my nipples were always tender.

After the nursing comes the part you never see on Hallmark cards – the burping, the puking, and the inevitable shitting. Babies are a mess. Sanvi was patient through all the steps, holding her on her shoulder, gently rubbing her back while the baby cried before puking on her. When it looked like she had lost all she was going to lose through both ends, we took her into the bathroom and bathed her. Saanvi took off the last of her clothing and I washed her while she washed the baby.

"What's her name?"

"Katherine. Named for an aunt of Elias'."

"It's a good name. Katherine can be Kathy or Kate, or Kat. When she is sixteen and her personality changes every third day, she can adopt a name to fit." I finished washing Sanvi's back and leaned against it, reaching around her to touch Kate.

"You don't owe me for talking to Elias. I know I stole him from you." She was holding one hand over Kate's forehead while she washed her hair.

"I miss him." At this point I had my arms wrapped around Saanvi's middle, and my head lying against her upper back. Her skin was unbelievably smooth and soft. I kissed her back.

"Come with me to Bern, and we will find you another Elias."

"Is that where you are going?"

"Yes. The family wants me back there, me and Katherine. I inherit his apartment and all of his cash, which is massive. His stock is in some family trust, but I get the profits from it. I will live well there."

"And what will you do?"

"I will remarry. I like men. I will probably pick one of his relatives. One of his nephews danced far too close to me at the wedding reception. But I liked it. If not him, some other nephew or cousin. The family will encourage it. They will want to keep Elias' money in the family. They are like Arabs that way." She finished washing her baby, diapered and dressed her (with the usual trouble getting her head through a onesie. Can no one make clothing to deal with that?), and handed her to me.

We went back to my bed. I lay Kate by my side, gave her my finger to grab, and talked to her. Saanvi put on one of my nightgowns and got back on top of me.

"Why?" I asked. "It would be so much easier if you lay next to me."

"This is not a democracy. We are not equals in this. I started these embraces. I began making love to you. You are mine to kiss when I want, to hold when and how I want, to excite when I want. I lay on top of you so you know that. And, I do because this is what I know you want me to do. You want me to hold you. You want me to lead."

I didn't argue with her. She kissed me over and over and stroked my hair. I held Kate against my side and gave her my finger to play with. I think all three of us were happy. Maybe more than happy.

After dinner and the evening prayer, we dressed Kate up warmly (December breezes can be cool for a baby) and went up on the roof. We went to the chairs under the canvas and talked about Bern. We both loved it and were comparing various sites when Abdullah came up the stairs. Saanvi and I were wearing long satin nightgowns.

"Should we be covered?" I asked. Both our abayas were back in my room.

"No. He is the head of the household now. We are family. He can see us like this." I looked over at him. He was seeing us. Head of household or not, I felt uncomfortable being dressed this way in front of him. I slid around so that he was seeing my back. He looked down at the village for a while, then went back downstairs.

"They have locked my door since Ibrahim's death. This is my first time out of my room."

"They have no right to do that, but I would guess they want time to decide what to do about you."

"What can they do?"

"Widows have rights. Abdullah is Ibrahim's oldest son, so basically he inherits, but he has a responsibility to care for the widows and his sisters until they marry. He also has his own wife to care for. And he is young. I think twenty eight. This is all new to him. And Ibrahim was a very rich man with many businesses. His estate will be complicated."

"And under Sharia, what rights do I have?"

"Sharia works fine if you are distributing a herd of goats after a death. Ibrahim had many businesses and many contracts. It would not surprise me if he also had a will. Abdullah needs to talk to his mother, his sisters, the Imam, and lawyers to determine what to do. If you are in your room and out of the way, he doesn't have to have conversations he is not ready to have."

"I am not ready for conversations either. I am still mourning. And now I have one more man to mourn."

We went back to my room soon after that. Saanvi got Kate to sleep in her basket, and then she got on top of me and stayed there all night. She used her elbows to prop herself up enough so I could still breathe, and she laid her head facedown next to mine on the pillow. It looked uncomfortable as hell, but that is what she wanted. I spread my legs, felt her weight on my hips, and slid both hands over her back and ass. She was so perfect. I was actually the one who had trouble sleeping as I held her and felt her breath on my neck. From time to time I would kiss her cheek and wrap my arms tighter around her. She felt so good to hold.

She stayed for three more days. We prayed together, washed Kate (and each other), worked on my hair, which I hadn't even bothered to comb for nearly a month, went up on the roof in the afternoon and evening, and talked about anything and everything.

Some conversations I didn't like. When she talked about Bern and all the beautiful places, she gushed about Gurten just as I had, and about the cabin in the Alps. It turned out he had taken her there after the marriage. I pictured her in that soft bed, sinking down in that old mattress, nearly disappearing under him. I had loved that feeling. Had she? I had thought of myself as his special love, but he had done all the same things with her. It hurt to think of that.

The last day it was clear she was preparing to leave – not just the house, but Dubai. She talked about flights, she talked about weather (no silk dresses walking around Bern in December), she talked about schools for the baby. Finally she talked about me.

We were on the roof again, that final evening, sitting under the canvas tarp, passing Kate back and forth as we talked. Abdullah came up for a while. Once again we were wearing only nightgowns. He looked, then watched the stars for a while, then looked at us again. Finally he went back downstairs.

"He has a responsibility to get you remarried."

"What?"

"He has to support you, so you can keep your room and he will feed you, but the other wives will want you out, and in truth, you should remarry – all of you should. Amara is fifty, so she may decide she is too old. Layla is, well, you know. So she won't remarry. She will sit in that room until diabetes takes her. That leaves you."

"What will he do? Can he force me?"

"No, he can't force you. But he will try to arrange a good marriage. But "good" means good for the family. They think like the nobility of Europe did centuries ago – marriage equals alliance. It may involve a business deal that will not happen for five years, but he will marry you off to help that deal. What do you get? A bride price and a nice home."

I didn't pursue that topic any farther. We went to my room, Saanvi nursed Kate while I kissed her (Saanvi), we bathed Kate, and when she finally went to sleep, we got into bed – Saanvi on top as usual. She took somewhat longer to work herself into the position she wanted. She spread her legs a little farther to push mine out and give her more contact with my hips. She slid the straps of my nightgown over my shoulders and to my elbows, thereby holding my elbows in and exposing my breasts. She licked both of them, watched my nipples rise, then slipped her fingers into my hair and held her face over mine. Her hair played its usual role of isolating us from the world. In the dark I could still see her eyes, but that is all I could see, and she was all I could feel. My hands were already on her back, caressing her. Whatever she was building up for, I was ready.

"Come with me to Bern." She held her face just an inch from mine. I so wanted to kiss her. I could not move my head, so I waited for her to kiss me. Soon I hoped. And often.

"Kiss me."

"Come with me to Bern. You can live with me."

"Kiss me. Please."

"I need a nanny and a maid. I want you to be my maid." I had no trouble imagining that. I had been Elias's maid for weeks. I had cleaned that apartment and done the laundry and cooked there. I had worn a maid's uniform and walked the streets with Frau Klemp. Two maids enjoying an afternoon stroll. I would cook and clean for Saanvi, and after her new husband had gone off to work, I would get into bed with Saanvi and we would lie like this.

"Kiss me."

"Be my maid." In the evenings I would help her dress. I would help with her hair, and then sit aside her and do her makeup. While one hand worked with an eyebrow pencil, my other hand would slide down her back. I would be with her every day.

"Kiss me. Please."

"Be my maid." It would be a simple life. I had done it before. I could do it again. Over the years I would watch Kate and other children grow, and I guess I would eventually become a kind of Frau Klemp. Saanvi would wear ball gowns, and I would wear a maid's uniform.

"Kiss me."

"Be my maid."

"Yes." I watched those huge eyes and waited. Her lips stayed just above mine. She wasn't done with me yet. She hadn't gotten all she wanted. She waited. I waited. I slid my hands over her. What would I do for her kiss? I would say the word she wanted to hear. "Please. Let me be your maid." There. I said it.

She smiled, kissed me, and our deal was done. Maybe. She had me at "yes." Had she lost me at "please"? Had that been too far, as I thought of wearing a maid's uniform while I helped her on with her ball gowns? Maybe. But for that night I got to hold her, to feel her on me, to get her kisses. It was well worth saying that one word. And I did love Bern.

The next morning we washed each other in the shower and dressed each other. She nursed Katherine one more time, then left. She would be in Bern within the week. I was to settle things here and go to her as soon as I could. Her final kiss lasted a very long time.

Chapter 31

My Bride Price Rises

Abdullah wasted no time. Saanvi's cab had barely left when he had Dannah come for me.

"The Imam and lawyers have reviewed my father's will and reconciled it with Sharia Law. I have a check for you. Your inheritance. We should go to the bank, sign the papers, and deposit it. If you wish to transfer it to your daughters, you will be able to do that." So I grabbed all the bank books and ID I needed and we went. My inheritance? 412,000 dirhams – well over $100,000. I signed lots of papers, and then transferred the whole thing to the Pembine Wausaukee bank. I bet some clerk was going to have an interesting story to tell over lunch.

But the real action wasn't in the bank, it was in the car going back. Dannah, the sales wonder, was about to make her pitch.

"My father loved you, and all of us in the family are happy that you have joined us. I hope you saw that in the inheritance."

"Yes, I am very grateful." What else could I say? I really was grateful.

"We are hoping you will continue to be a part of our family, and assist our family."

"Of course I would like to help. What would you like me to do?"

"Tonight we will introduce you to a man who wishes to marry you." Okay. There's a sentence to get a girl's attention. I had already agreed to help the family. How deep a hole had I dug for myself?

"I am not ready to remarry."

"We understand. There is no rush. But we would like you to meet with this man, share a cup of coffee, and talk briefly. Maybe you will like him."

There was more in her sales pitch, but you get the general outlines. I was just going to talk, I might like him, we might marry. Help the family, have some coffee, after all, they had just given you over $100,000. No one else ever turned Dannah down. I didn't either. We worked out the schedule and the details. I got out of the cab, and Dannah went off to make her next sale.

I spent the afternoon up on the roof. December is marvelous in Dubai. That is the time to visit. Up on the roof I had light breezes, shade from the tarp, and two bars on my phone. I emailed the girls to watch for a bank transfer. They didn't know it, but gramma had just deposited enough to cover college for the grandkids.

That done, gramma thought about herself. If you are an American reading this, you are probably thinking, what's to decide? You get on a plane and go back to the good old U.S.A. You have been gone over a year, your local husband is dead, go home.

Counter argument? First, if you are from northern Wisconsin you know it's not exactly raining men. The last three great loves of my life were from Switzerland and Dubai. Expecting another great guy like them to walk into the Amberg Bar is like expecting lightning to strike a fourth time. It wasn't going to happen.

Additionally, I liked Dubai. Yes, I had only been here a little more than a year, but it had been such a full year it felt like I had been here a lifetime. I liked never seeing a snow shovel. I liked never seeing a drunk driver. I liked all the new buildings, and frankly the fact that they had gone from mudbrick homes to the tallest building in the world in just forty years seemed pretty admirable to me.

And I liked Ibrahim. He was a man. If I had been able to spend my whole life with him, I would have died already having experienced heaven. Was there another man like him looking to meet me? Maybe. It was certainly worth having a cup of coffee to find out. It was just a cup of coffee. It was just a short meeting. And, well, someone wanted me. Someone wanted me.

Dannah and Abdullah's wife Aliyah came for me just after the sunset prayer. What can I say about Aliyah? Five four, about twenty three, nice enough. She let Dannah take the lead. What did they want to work on? Both my hair and makeup. These are two newly-married women about half my age. Should I let them do a make over on me? Why not. If anyone knows what's current in Dubai... So off they go, working on me like two older sisters getting me ready for prom. They are at it for a full hour. I ignore the mirror. They will do what they will do.

Evening prayer comes, and we hit our knees for a while. Then we are up looking through my closet. They tell me in the old days (meaning four or five years ago) women never took off their abaya or hijab. These days, men want to at least get a look at a woman's hair before making a lifetime commitment. I can understand that. So we look for a dress that is modest, but still shows my virtues.

What do they pick? The same red, satin, off-the-shoulder, floor length dress I wore the first night I met Elias back in the fishing lodge. Of all the dresses to choose, they pick that one. I hesitate. That was my dress for Elias. Now I should wear it for another man? There are memories involved. I am hesitating, but Dannah and Aliyah are not noticing. They are holding it, expecting me to get into it. They are already discussing how off-the-shoulder the dress should be. Okay. I step into the dress and let them pull the sleeves to the level they want. High. Good. If he needs to see cleavage on the first date, I will go with contestant number two.

There's lots more for them to fuss with. Jewelry, shoes, another pass at my makeup. They seem nervous. Should I be nervous? They are smiling at me, trying to be reassuring. But if they need to be reassuring, should I be nervous? This was just a cup of coffee, right? Finally they seem finished with me. We put on our abayas and hijabs and head out into the night.

Off we go. Abdullah drives, and will wait in the car. Dannah and Aliyah will be going in with me. It turns out to be a fairly long drive, nearly to Sharjah. But the house looks pretty good. Three floors, nice entry way, a bit of architectural drama along the roof line. The place has possibilities. So we walk in feeling pretty good. The feeling doesn't last very long. A maid takes us to a large room with a pair of couches either side of a really nice coffee table. Sitting on the table is coffee service. Also nice. Where is my suitor? Nowhere.

The maid points for me to sit at the first couch. My chaperones? They are to stand. And stand. And stand. We are there for half an hour before anyone of the house appears. And it is his wife. She asks me to remove my hijab and abaya. Where am I to put them? She doesn't say. Dannah takes both and holds them while standing behind me. No one has told me the guy already has a wife. Did the others know? So I am here to be wife number two? Three? Four? I decide I will not be bothered by this. I am just here to have coffee. I do what I always do in situations like this. I sit up straight, hands in lap, head held high.

Wife number one stands opposite me, looking so intently you would think she was about to do a medical exam. Sorry, honey. You will keep your hands off. I look up at her from time to time, pay no particular attention, and look past her to the door where she has entered. Where is the big guy? Finally ten minutes go by and he appears.

Really? This is the guy? He is maybe thirty. He has a shitty beard, a double chin, and looks like he could bench press about fifty pounds. He wants a second wife? He doesn't look like he can do much with the first. What am I doing here?

He wants to talk.

"Hello."

"As Salam a lekkum."

"hal tatakalam alearabia?" I have been asked if I speak Arabic a million times, so I am ready for this one.

"muta biKh Arabi"

"Kitchen Arabic?" he laughs. "I like that. A woman should always speak kitchen Arabic. You are an American, yes?"

"Yes, but I am a legal resident of Dubai."

"Yes, you were third wife of Ibrahim Al-Kindi."

"I am proud to have been his wife. May he rest in peace. He was a great man."

"Yes." He pointed to the coffee service. "Do you mind?" I poured a tiny cup for him. He passed it back to his wife, who was standing over his right shoulder. So, I am to serve both of them. Is he looking for a wife, or a maid? If a maid, I have already had a better offer. I pour a second cup for him, and then a cup for myself. I wait for him to sip his coffee, and then I sip my own. It really sucks. No wonder Starbucks is so big over here.

He seems to have nothing more to say, so I decide maybe it is my turn.

"May I ask about your companies? What kind of work do you do?" I feel a tap on my shoulder. Either Aliyah or Dannah is concerned I have gone too far. Maybe so, but they aren't the ones marrying him, I am.

"I have a number of companies."

"And they do?"

"A number of things." Thanks, Mister Obvious. So, either he thinks I am too stupid to understand what his companies do, or he thinks it is beneath him to describe his companies, or he really doesn't know where his money comes from. I am betting all three reasons are right. Is this evening over yet?

Wife number one decides she gets to ask questions.

"I understand you have children?"

"I had two daughters many years ago. Both are grown. One is married, and I hope the other soon will be."

"Your age?"

"I am forty."

"Many women have children at that age." Okay. Now I am well past unhappy with this evening. I get the agenda. Wife number one either can't have children, or can't be bothered. So wife number two should provide. But I am forty. Why are they not talking to some twenty year old?

"You are very attractive." This from the guy. Maybe he just thought he ought to involve himself in the conversation again. What time does the flight to Chicago leave?

"Thank you." I put my coffee cup to my lips and suck out the last half ounce. Time to go.

"Do you mind standing, and turning?" He wants to see all of me? I stand, and slowly turn. This is the last he will ever see of me. He should get a good look at what a real man might have gotten – what a real man (Ibrahim) had. With my back to him, I even pull my half-sleeves down an inch or so, pulling my neckline down. There is still no cleavage, but we are now in the general vicinity of where cleavage would be if a woman wanted to share it with a man. Enjoy, weird guy.

I stay standing. I look at him. He looks at me. She looks at me. Am I on the menu for her too? I would probably be a lot more interesting than him. Finally, he nods, she nods, and my chaperones give me my abaya and hijab, and we beat feet. One of the maids makes a final effort to speak with Dannah as we leave the house, but otherwise, thank Allah, we are out of there.

We get out to the car, and I encounter an alternative reality. Dannah and Aliyah are speaking to Abdullah in Arabic, but excitement is the same in any language. They think I just hit a homerun. I look at both of them and wonder what room they have just been standing in. What room was it where they weren't offered a seat? Where they weren't offered a cup of coffee? Where not a word was spoken to them? Dannah is the daughter of Ibrahim. And you treat her like that? Aliyah is wife of the new head of the family. And you can't spare her a cup of coffee? Who the hell have we just been visiting, and how do they get away with being such class A ass-holes?

If there are answers to my questions, they will wait. We get back home, Dannah drives off to her new husband, Aliyah goes off to wherever Abdullah has put his wife, and he suggests he and I have a short talk on the roof. Fine with me. Maybe we will solve a mystery or two.

What happens on the roof? I get rich – or at least potentially rich. Abdallah has decided to start the conversation with my bride price. We are sitting at two adjacent chairs under the canvas shade. He is seated in the traditional Arab male way – both feet firmly on the ground. I am not sure how to sit. I turn to him, aware that my sleeves are still pulled lower than I would prefer. But he is family, right?

"You did very well." First, it is good to know that Abdullah's English is as good as his father's. Time in an American university? But English aside, someone is selling him rubbish. I did not do well. I was unhappy with that joker, and I am sure I showed it.

"Abdul Al Arien spent seven years in the U.S.A. getting a bachelor's degree. He loved it there. He has been looking for an American wife ever since. So he offered you 200,000 dirham as a bride price, without ever seeing you. Now that he has seen you, the bride price is 400,000."

"He took seven years to get a four year degree?"

"As a member of an important family, he had many responsibilities."

"Let me guess. He joined a fraternity."

"Please don't mock him. He is a member of an important family."

"He treated your wife and your sister badly."

"That is not what they said."

"Abdullah, would your father want you making this arrangement? Did he trust this other family?"

"It is an important family. We have done business with them in the past."

"Abdul is a fool, a weakling, and a liar. Do not trust him. Do not give me to him. Find me a real man. Give me a man with a beard and shoulders, and I will give you a partner your family can count on."

"You don't know what you are saying."

"I know exactly what I am saying. Men are men and weaklings are weaklings. Align yourself with men." At this point I took his hand. "Abdullah, I will do anything for your family, but you are making a mistake. Make your alliance elsewhere."

I stood, he stood, I kissed his cheeks. Then I hugged him. "You look like your father. You feel like your father when I touch you. You will be a great patriarch to this family. We will do whatever you ask, but take your time before you ask." I walked down to my room praying he did not push me toward the rich wimp I had met with. I would not wish to disobey Abdullah, but I could not marry a weak man.

Chapter 32

My Bride Price Rises Even Higher

I spent three days waiting. I sat in my room looking out the window. I sat on the roof looking down at the village. At night after evening prayers I changed for bed, then went up on the roof and looked at the stars. I looked, but didn't see. I was waiting, thinking about my new husband.

On the third night I was sitting on the roof staring at the stars. Abdullah came and sat next to me. I held out my hand, and he took it.

"My husband?"

"There have been no new offers, but I have had two calls from Abdul al-Arien. He believes your meeting was unfortunate. He thinks it was too short. He wishes you to join him and his wife for dinner tomorrow."

"Is this usual?"

"No. But it happens more these days. And it is wise. Who would chose a mate for life after one cup of coffee?"

"And you wish me to do this?"

"It would be discourteous to refuse. Maybe you will change your mind about him. Maybe you won't. But it would be rude not to eat dinner with him."

"Then I will do it, but please do not expect anything from this dinner. I do not think this is a good man." I stood, gave him a quick kiss on each cheek, and went to bed. Back to the home of Pudgy Abdul? I would go as a courtesy to my family only.

The next afternoon Dannah and Aliya fussed over me again. After my hair and makeup was done, they had me in four different dresses. Finally they decided I should wear a baby blue tulle evening gown, complete with petticoat to give it the bell shape. The bodice was one of the tightest and lowest cut in my wardrobe – it didn't leave much to the imagination. I wondered if I was being put on the "Sale" rack.

Pudgy's Bentley limo arrived for me just after evening prayers. It was then I discovered there would be no chaperones. I would be going alone.

"This is permitted?" I asked Aliya.

"Abdullah has given his permission." It suddenly seemed to me Islam was getting far too liberal. But I put on my abaya and wrapped my hijab carefully around my head and went out to the car. The driver opened my door for me, and I pulled all my skirts into what must have been one of the finest back seats in the world. Elias' Beemer had nothing on this car. If cars could impress me, I would have been impressed. But mostly I just sat stiffly in the huge back seat and wished the evening would go quickly.

It started well enough. As if to make amends for my treatment several nights before, this time both Pudgy and his wife Lilah were waiting for me. As a maid took my abaya and hijab, both complimented me on my appearance, and both walked with me to a smaller, more intimate room nicely decorated. It appeared this was the room where they spent their time together rather than the large formal room I had been in before. I was seeing more of their home, clearly one of the goals of the evening.

I was not expected to pour coffee this time – a maid poured for all of us, serving Pudgy first of course, and then wife number 1 and wife – maybe – number 2.

"We hoped to show you more of our home this evening, so you would better understand how you would live." Lilah pointed around the room as she spoke. I guessed she would do most of the talking tonight. It hadn't gone so well when Pudgy had tried. "We have eight rooms on this floor. Four have been decorated by local decorators, and four we have had decorated by European experts. This is one of the European rooms. We thought you might like it." Actually I did. Rather than the huge, open, white-walled spaces of the reception room, this room was painted, papered, and filled with color. Okay, good start.

We sat for about half an hour, sipping the tiny cups of coffee, the maid hovering to refill our cups as needed. I pointed out a couple things I liked, Lilah pointed out her favorites, and we had a reasonable conversation going. Pudgy? He just sat comfortably, watching us.

Next up was dinner, another pleasant surprise. Another "European" room, this one even had false beams along the ceiling. I liked it instantly – it reminded me of Elias' dining room in Bern. There were even candles. Pudgy sat at the head of the table in an ancient high backed wooden chair. Lilah sat immediately to his right with me across from her on his left. I wondered how many times and how many ways her precedence would be established over the course of the evening. But I was fine with where I sat.

Lilah was also wearing a very low-cut dress, far lower cut than I had ever seen on an Arab woman. Both of us had a fair amount of cleavage shining in the candlelight as we leaned over our soup. Pudgy looked both ways, no doubt enjoying the evening.

Dinner conversation? Pudgy was finally willing to answer my question about his businesses, but not until after he asked me about our samosa business. I didn't give him any current sales information, but I did talk about how we got started. Lilah broke in several times to tell me how clever I was. Pudgy then explained one of his companies imported a great deal of food, and he was always interested in buying local food companies. So was that where this relationship might lead? I hoped not. I thought Dannah was doing a really good job, and I hoped she got the chance to grow the company. But of course I said none of that at the table. I smiled, nodded and listened as he moved on to describe his other business interests. He was obviously rich, he was obviously successful, and he was obviously trying to impress me. Actually I saw that as a plus. He valued me enough to make an effort.

We spent about two hours on dinner, and it was beginning to get late. I wondered when we would wrap this up and get me back in the limo. But first they had more rooms to show me. We wandered the first floor, and I learned about which decorator they had used for each room. Some rooms I liked, some I didn't, but mostly I was getting tired.

But it was important we go to the third floor so they could show me my room. So, up we went. And it was an impressive room. Huge, it was filled with furniture and decorated so that every wall had multiple features. My eye was immediately drawn to the wall with three windows, all of them connected by a long window seat covered in yellow silk padding. There was also a small seating arrangement with coffee table. But the main feature was a huge four poster bed with canopy and lace curtains on each side.

As I stood staring at the bed, I heard the door close behind me, and Lilah walk right up on my ass. Pudgy stepped in front of me and took my hands. Okay, I can see where this is going. I was going to get a much closer look at the bed, as they decided to Try It Before You Buy It. My first thought was, Hell no, but then it occurred to me the person in the room who should be most ready for a trial run was me, since I might be spending the rest of my life in this room. Try It Before You Sign seemed a very reasonable response.

So I stood there while Lilah unzipped my dress. She let Pudgy take my straps down over my shoulders, and my dress dropped to the floor in a large pile. My petti coat and panties followed. Pudgy was still holding my hands, and getting an eyeful. Lilah was next to get naked, then she reached through the curtains on the bed and removed two carefully folded nightgowns. She put one on me, and the other on herself. They were identical – heavy satin, tiny straps, lots of cleavage, skirt to the floor, but slit up the side. Standing beside me, I wondered if she would have them monogrammed – Wife #1 for her, and Wife #2 for me.

As the two of us were climbing into that huge bed, Pudgy was turning off lights, and the room was virtually dark when he finally removed his shirt. Just as well. I don't think any of us wanted to see that body.

He climbed in and they made a Jessica sandwich. They must have planned this out before hand. Lilah took my right side, but before fully lying down, she arranged my right arm so my elbow was at my side and my forearm directed away from me. She then lay on my forearm, with her waist on it, so there was no pressure or pain, but I also was not going to be moving it anywhere. Pudgy did the same on my left side. The Jessica sandwich was now complete. Whatever they had planned next, I hoped it wasn't too awful because there wasn't much I was going to be able to do about it.

What came next was mostly confusion. Either they hadn't planned this part, or they hadn't agreed on it. From Lilah's side I was getting kisses, a hand in the hair moving my face toward her, and a hand on my breast. From Pudgy I got a quick kiss, then he was between my legs doing something. I felt a hand on my thigh and then a long wait until he got stiff enough so he could penetrate me. Once in me, there was some motion, some panting and sweating, and finally he accomplished what he wanted. I barely felt him, but not to be rude, I moaned a couple times and smiled and told him how good he was when he was done. That seemed to be what he wanted. He kissed me again, and rolled off me, back on to my arm. I am betting he was asleep within three minutes.

That left Lilah. She turned my head back to her, dug her fingers into my hair to keep it there (what's with all the hair pulling in this country?), and kept her mouth on mine while her other hand explored Jessica Land. She was pretty good at it, and I enjoyed it while it lasted, but then she fell asleep too.

So that was my big night of passion. I now knew what to expect from the two of them. I closed my eyes, thought briefly of better men (and women) and went to sleep.

Come morning they slept right through the dawn call to prayer – exhausted from a dose of Jessica. Eventually they woke up, and immediately started arguing. Lilah won. Pudgy was to go off to work while she and I had "girl talk." We didn't talk, but just lay together while Pudgy went off to his room. We could hear the shower, and then various doors closing as he went off. No good-bye kisses in this house.

The minute he had cleared the house, Lilah was back in action. She put one thigh between mine, reached across me with her hand to hold my hair from a fresh angle, and started sliding up and down on my thigh while kissing me. She hadn't learned how to hold hair without pulling, so that hurt, but everything else felt great. My hands were now free and they both went to her back, and then to her ass. There they stayed while Lilah entertained herself. There was a shudder when she finished, and then she went into overdrive with the kisses before exhaling deeply and sliding back onto my side and back onto my arm.

Once again she pulled my head to face her, and laid her own face nose to nose with mine. I saw deep happiness in that face.

What about "girl talk"? I waited while she caught her breath, and then I started.

"How old are you?"

"I am thirty three."

"And how long have you been married?"

"Eight years."

"And no kids."

"You can ask that after last night?" She pulled my hair a bit to emphasize her point, then released that hand and stroked my hair and breasts. "When we were first married he tried, but he was never very good, and after the first year or so he almost never came to me."

"Yet he wants a second wife."

"It is all about status, to show what a big man he is. He is so manly, one woman is not enough for him. He must have two."

"And men would believe this?"

"A few. Maybe. And you are pretty. Why not have you around?"

"And do you want a second wife?"

"I did after I saw you." Her hand was tracing my face now, as she talked. "You were so beautiful. I wanted to marry you right then and there."

"Isn't it haram?"

"Yes. I will be judged for what I want and for what I do. But I also do good things. Charity. I wish it will balance. But I do want you." And that ended conversation for a while. She was back on me, holding me, kissing me, and moving on me. And I held her too.

She was in no hurry to get off me, so I had plenty of time to think. Is this what our nights would be like? Would we be in my room or hers? Would she put me in his bed once a month? Alone, or would she join in? How would we spend our days? Of course none of these questions really mattered. The real question was this - would I ever love her? My hands seemed to love holding her, but they have a mind of their own.

Meanwhile, Lilah moved to the next item on her agenda - the shower. Two naked women, lots of soap, lots of hugging, holding, kissing, and sliding hands over each other. I did enjoy that.

Dressing came next. She had a plan. She went first, going slow and making sure I saw - and helped. She did her panties, but I was to hook the back of her bra, and then zip her dress. She had picked a silk minidress that barely covered half her thighs. She had the legs for it. Then she stepped into platform sandals that had to have five inch stilettos. They gave her an inch or two on me and also did good things for her legs. She stood and looked at me when she was done. She knew she looked good.

My turn. She chose to dress me while standing behind me. First she had me step into some silk panties. She took forever sliding them over my thighs and then over my ass. Her hands stayed on me as she adjusted them again and again, really just feeling me up through the silk. Not that I minded.

I am not sure she had ever held another woman's breast before. I had worn a push-up bra and she carefully put my breasts in the cups, then slowly hooked up the back. Once again she spent a long time on adjustments. I didn't rush her.

I stepped into my petticoat next, and once again she was in no hurry. Nor was I.

Since I already had the petticoat on, she probably should have pulled my gown over my head, but she was determined to have me step into it. That required some work to get it up over the petticoat, but she was patient. Once again she spent a lot of time fitting the dress on my hips, hers hands all over the place. The bodice was really tight and she took her time pulling it over my breasts. More adjustments there. Many more. The dress had spaghetti straps, but she decided not to raise these over my shoulders, but to leave them hanging loose over my arms. Nice touch.

Done dressing me, she wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and kissed my shoulders and neck. I wondered if I was her dress up doll. Would she have me change outfits several times a day? Would I mind? No. Eventually I turned, kissed her, wrapped my hands in the silk at her ass, and waited for her next move.

It was in her bedroom. Here I was disappointed. I assumed her room would be even nicer than mine. But it was pretty similar. It had the multiple windows and window seats, the huge canopy bed, and a large seating arrangement, but she had gone with the local color scheme - white on white on white. The only additional feature to the room was a huge dressing table with mirrors along the top and huge full-length mirrors on each end. This lady liked to look at herself. She also had an unlimited cosmetics budget. Any cosmetic available to a woman was somewhere on that table.

We sat at her makeup table to do each other's hair and face. I liked her hair. It was parted in the middle and curled over her forehead, then shaped nicely around her face. I combed it and brushed it maybe somewhat longer than needed. She had padded stools for us to sit on as we did each other's makeup. I didn't like what she had done to her eyebrows, so I worked mostly on them, while she wrapped both arms around the small of my back and held me tightly to her, our faces just inches apart. When it was her turn to do my face, my hands ended up in the silks on her thighs. She interrupted her work to kiss me as she felt what I was doing.

We sat looking at each other for a while. In some ways, this was the moment of truth. We had been about as intimate as two women can be. We were in the privacy of her room. Together. Touching. Looking at each other. Would we be lovers? We were holding each other. Our hips side to side, but our chests together. We kissed. We fondled. We obviously excited each other. But. Would we love each other?

I clearly saw desire in her eyes. What was I to her? A friend, a lover, a companion in a loveless marriage? Divorce was out for her. And she could not bring in a man. But she could bring in a woman. She would have someone to talk with, to hold at night, to bring some passion. I felt her hands at my back, and her breasts pressed to mine. She wanted me.

What did I want? I wanted Ibrahim. I wanted a fifty year old man with a hawk nose and eyes that held me. I wanted my palms on his chest, my feet on their toes, my mouth reaching up to him. What I had here was a weak man and a woman in need. I kissed her, and held her. I looked into her eyes. I saw need. I saw desire. Would I ever see love? I looked close. I slid my hands over her body. I kissed her again. And I looked again. What did I want to see? A smile would have been nice. A tilt of the head. Maybe some words. Some intimation of a link. I kissed her again. I waited. I watched. And then I felt myself easing away.

The moment done, we went down to breakfast in the dining room. We sat opposite each other and smiled through the eggs and turkey bacon. But it was also a bit awkward. It seemed we had already run out of things to say to each other.

"I think this is my favorite room." I said, to finally break the silence.

"We had hoped we might host dinner parties here. Maybe with foreign guests."

"Yes, I think they would feel comfortable in here. Especially the wives."

"Maybe we could form a women's group."

"A book club might work." And we were off on a brief discussion of books we had read and wanted to read. It was a bond of sorts. I guess we both discovered that neither of us read much.

Breakfast passed, and with it the stress of finding things to say, finding connections, searching for some link between us. And now it was time for me to leave. I had already stayed far longer than I thought would be acceptable to my family. I mentioned the need to leave, and Lilah nodded. I had the sense she had done whatever she had intended. The to-do list was completed. She had checked the boxes.

Well, there was one final act. We walked to the room where my abaya was hung. Once there, she made her final pitch. She pushed me against a wall, got her hands tangled in my hair, and held my face inches from her while her hips pressed against me. Her face was just inches from mine. There was a fierceness in her now.

"The marriage contract will arrive tomorrow. Sign it and marry me."

"Him."

"You know what I mean. You will sign his contract, but you will sleep with me. You will be my wife."

"I need to consider it."

"Consider this. He is from an important family. If you refuse him, no man will make an offer for fear of offense. Your choice is to stay in that home, a widow, alone, or to be my wife." The offer has become a threat. Her hands control my head and her words are meant to show her real control. She will have me. As she tells me this she is staring into my eyes looking for my reaction. I don't know what she sees, but after a long time studying me, she takes her hands out of my hair, and takes my hands. Her face is completely changed now. I see a softness.

"Tell me now what you told Ibrahim. Tell me what Christian women tell their men at marriage."

I waited longer than she might have liked, but then I said them.

"I love you, and I know that you love me. Because of this I desire to be your wife. Through the pressures of the present and the uncertainties of the future I promise to be faithful to you. I will love, serve, and obey you as long as we both are alive. Christ told us that the wife must submit herself unto her husband as unto the Lord. For as Christ is the Head of his Church so is the husband head of his wife. I submit myself to you."

She smiled, kissed me, and put her hands back in my hair. She moved my head several times as she found the best ways to kiss me.

"Submit to me, Jessica. Obey me. Be my wife." She continued to hold my head and kiss me, her hips and breasts tight against me. I wondered how it would have been if she had just wrapped her arms around my shoulders and held me the way I liked rather than trying to control me. Maybe a smile. Maybe the simple words, "I love you."

But her final words were "Marry me." A command.

I wish they had been "I love you, please marry me." Or, "Marry me, I promise to be good to you." Or, "Marry me, we will have a good life together." Or even "This was fun. Let's go shopping together next week." I waited for her to say any of those things. I waited for her to let go of my hair. I waited for tenderness. I even kissed her one more time. But she had nothing more to say.

She did not seem to expect an answer from me. I guess she assumed I would sign the contract. We got my clothes out of the closet, me putting on my abaya while she tied my hijab around my head. There was a final kiss, then I put on my niqab and walked out to the Bentley.

I used the long drive home to think back over the visit – the dinner, the bedroom scenes, the time with Lilah. Clearly Pudgy would be a non-factor. He would leave us alone. I would be married to Lilah in all but name. And she? I felt some pity for her situation, and I did have moments when I enjoyed holding her, but was this how I would spend the remainder of my life? Over all I felt some lust, some annoyance, some boredom. What I didn't feel was the one thing I needed to feel \- love.

That night I sat again on the rooftop wearing a long nightgown. Abdullah came to me. When he sat down I offered my hand, and he took it.

"He now offers a bride price of 800,000 dirhams. You impressed him last evening." I looked at him to see if he was being ironic about "last evening." Surely he had been told I had not arrived home until morning. If he was upset about my spending the night, I didn't see it. I think I was disappointed.

I thought seriously about the money. It was roughly a quarter million dollars. For that money, all my grandchildren (and I hoped there would be many) could go to college. But I would never see my grandchildren, and gramma would spend the rest of her life on her back between two people she didn't love.

"Would it cause the family trouble if I refused?"

"His family is important. Our family is already connected in many ways. This would just have been one more connection."

"You are telling me the whole truth?"

"Yes. Truly you can refuse if you wish."

"Will there be other men for me?"

"That would be unlikely. It is known you have been seeing this man. Another man might worry if he took you from him."

"That is true, but I think there might also be more. I know I am forty. I know I was with Ibrahim for almost a year and gave him no child. I know I speak Arabic badly."

"Jessica, you are a beautiful woman, and smart. A man may come along, but he may not. You have an offer of marriage now. Will you take it?"

"No."

"I respect your decision. I will tell him." He stood to go. I stood with him and put my hands on his shoulders. He looked so much like his father, his beard cut the same way, his hair the same length, the same hawk nose. Even his voice sounded the same.

"Abdullah, thank you." And I kissed him. He was so much like his father. I stood and looked at him. He looked at me. I leaned forward to kiss him one more time – one time too many – but he turned and walked away. I stayed on the roof for several hours more, looking at the stars, then walked back to my room, tears rolling down my face.

Chapter 33

Time to Go

For the next three or four days I essentially did nothing. I had three possible paths. I could stay right where I was. I was entitled, and I felt welcome. I could go to Bern and be a maid and a bed mate. Or I could go back to Amberg. Only an idiot would go back to Amberg, but I knew that is the choice I would make. I was just stalling. Stalling and saying good-bye. I loved Dubai. When Elias had first told me about coming here I had hated the idea. I only came to be with him. Now he was gone, Ibrahim was gone, and soon Dubai would be gone.

Amberg. Really? And in December, the furnace in my trailer running constantly to keep the temperature anywhere reasonable. Amberg. I really was a fool.

My fourth day of wearing beautiful clothes and sitting in warm sunshine while reconciling myself to the lunacy of Amberg, Dannah stopped to see me.

"I hear things didn't go so well the other night."

"I was married to your father. Very few men could measure up to him."

"And now?"

"I will leave."

"Are you sure you will not stay? As a widow, you have that right. And I could use help in the bakery."

"My daughters are in Wisconsin. I should be with them."

"You won't be going to Bern?"

"No." I looked at her, wondering what she might be thinking.

"You were such good friends, I thought you might want to see her." She was struggling with her college English, but she was also struggling to find the best words for a relationship that made her uncomfortable. I appreciated the effort.

"It is right for her to be with her new family in Bern, and it is right for me to be with my family in Wisconsin." That answer seemed to settle the matter. She smiled and promised to arrange everything as thanks for my help with the bakery.

Three days later she was back with a business class ticket to the U.S.

My packing was fairly easy. I had a million gowns. Which ones were I likely to wear in Amberg? Very few. Ball gowns and evening gowns and all kinds of silks went into boxes. DHL would ship them. I could wait. It's not like the opera season was about to begin there. That left about two suitcases worth of clothes. I could walk those through an airport easily enough.

Money? Dannah and I went to my bank one last time. I had dirhams equivalent to about forty thousand dollars – too much to walk through customs, so we just did a bank transfer. One sheet of paper, one signature, and money moved. Nothing to it.

The night before my flight Abdullah and Aliyah had a final dinner for me. All the women in the family attended. Well, almost. Layla was said to be ill. But Amara was there, and all the daughters, even the twins, and some cousins and nieces I had not even met before. We ate and talked. Mostly they talked. But I got a few comments in. There were lots of samosas as a gesture of respect. I hate to say it, but none of the samosas were as good as the ones I made, so I was kind of pleased.

The evening ended with lots of hugs and final good byes. The twins had been away at school for months, so I was most happy to see them and spend a few minutes with them. What do you say at a time like this? My, how you have grown. You are both so beautiful. Please stay in touch. I love you both. It was not enough to say, of course, but there are times when all we have are a few words, a few hugs, and hopes that connections are strong enough to last.

That last night I spend hours up on the roof, staring at the stars and wondering if Abdullah might come up for a hug. But it was just me up there. Just as well. He looked too much like his father.

Dannah and Aliya took me and my bags to the airport the next morning. There were more hugs at the check in counter, but then it was just me. Just me. I waved, they waved, and it was over. Just me. I showed papers to security, they let me pass, and I was completely separated from my family.

Anything interesting in the airport? Yes. U.S. Customs now does its screening in Dubai rather than Chicago. I guess if there are bad guys, you want to find them before they got to your shores, not after. So I had to show my passport and my bags. Suddenly two very nice – but very serious – men wanted me to go with them to a special room. I was wearing an abaya and hijab, so my first thought was – they hate Muslims. But of course half the women in the Dubai Airport were dressed like me. No, the problem was me – not my religion.

They had a very real problem – there was no record of my passport being used upon entry into the country.

"I arrived by private plane from Switzerland. I was using my Swiss passport."

"Why would you have a Swiss passport?"

"My Swiss fiancée got it for me."

"He is Mr. Al-Kindi?"

"No, he is – was – Elias Gruber. I arrived with him but married Ibrahim Al-Kindi." This resulted in stares from both men and the clerk who also occupied that office. I can't say they were hostile stares, but any of the warm – we are just doing a simple check – vibes were gone. There was a long pause, and then one of the men wanted to know when I had arrived in Dubai."

"I am pretty sure it was October 21 of last year. My daughter was married October 18th in Green Bay. Elias and I flew out the following Monday. No wait, that was when we flew to Bern. And we flew over night, so it might have been the 22nd when we arrived there. But I am really sure about leaving on the 18th, since it was a Packer bye-week, which meant Tiffany was able to rent a reception hall in Lambeau Field. It was really nice – up on the top level with all the club boxes." I went on with a description of the wedding and the reception, but the atmosphere in the room was now completely different.

"Mam, it's okay." One of the men interrupted me. "If you know what a bye-week is and how Lambeau Field is configured, the chances of you being a terrorist just dropped to zero." They helped me gather my papers, stamped my passport, and walked me through to the other side.

As for the flight, thank God/Allah for Business Class. Dubai to Chicago is a fifteen hour non-stop flight. In my pre-Muslim days I would have soaked up a fair amount of free wine to anesthetize myself for the trip. Being a good Muslim, I watched the movies on my little screen, ate four meals, and slept a few hours. Eventually I got there.

Transfer to Green Bay was simple enough, except when I got off the plane, I was in Green Bay. In December. Even with my hijab and abaya pulled tight, I was frozen the instant I stepped off the plane. I had emailed flight information, so there waiting for me was Tiffany and new husband Ben, and Britney and Billy.

I spent three nights with Tiffany and Ben. Conversations from my end were simple and enjoyable. Tiffany was obviously pregnant. So I could ask when she would deliver, what her doctor was saying, when her shower was, what more she would do in the baby's room (which was where I was sleeping), etc. I had it great – all the questions a gramma could and would ask.

Tiff got the tough part. Muslim? Praying? Food? What about Mr. Gruber? Why Mr. Al-Kindi? Samosas? Where did the $200,000 come from? Was it legal? Ben and Britney were around for some of the discussion over dinners, but there were moments when Tiff saw me praying on the floor, or wrapping my face before going out, and it was just her and me. I knew she was really trying to understand, but all this was pretty new, and I was not always the most lucid. I think the best response I ever made was to hug her and say, "We will have the rest of our lives to talk through all of this. I promise I am not going anywhere ever again."

I did go to stores. I needed wool skirts, a heavy winter coat, a thick scarf to use as a hijab, and boots – thick, warm, calf-high boots. I still found myself shivering as if I had never experienced cold before, but the new clothes helped. The new clothes were also my new approach to my religion. I would not wear an abaya. A robe dragging on the ground made no sense in northern Wisconsin. A long coat, long skirts, and heavy sweaters would preserve my modesty just as they protected the modesty of every woman in the state. My unique addition would be the scarf – the hijab. It was warm, and it was a reminder of my religion and my husband. My daughters seemed to scowl every time I put it on, but I was not going to give it up.

After three days I got into my Toyota and drove up to my trailer. Tiffany had kept my car in good shape and I felt instantly happy when I got behind the wheel. It was a great car. It was my car. I turned the key and it started.

My trailer was buried under snow like every winter. I pulled my snow shovel from behind the porch, shoveled a small area for my car and a narrow path to my door, and I was in full winter form. Inside I checked to see if all the appliances worked, but the girls had assured me they had visited at least once a month, and everything was fine. I cranked the heat up to seventy five (I could afford the warmth), unpacked my suitcases, and walked around my trailer just getting used to it again. Had I seen grander palaces in the last year? Yes. But this palace was mine. I shed layers of clothes as the temperature rose, feeling better about the world with each layer I removed.

For fun, I paid my bills. And it really was fun. I emptied my mail box, added recent mail to the pile Tiffany had left on my kitchen table, pulled out my check book, and had a great time. The girls had kept me current on all my accounts, so there were no threatening letters, but there were this month's bills. I loved looking at them. The Pembine Wausaukee Bank statements told me I had $211,465.47. There would be more when my final international transfer hit. So what could I do but smile when I wrote the $89 check for the electric bill and the $115 bill for the most recent propane fill. As for the car, I could think of no reason to continue paying twenty two percent interest on the loan. I called, got the pay-off amount, and wrote the check, knowing it would make no real dent in my bank balance. I knew being rich would be fun. I had no idea it would be this much fun.

What next? Down to Wausaukee to load up on groceries and mail my payments. Then back to Amberg and a short visit to the Amberg Bar. As luck would have it, Clark was there. I took the bar stool next to his and ordered a Coke.

"You missed two Packer seasons." He was facing the TV, but he turned his head long enough to look me over.

"Not true. I saw the first five games of the last season, and I am back for the final game of this season and the play offs.

"They have to beat the Bears Sunday to make the playoffs."

"Please. Playing the Bears is like having a bye-week."

"True." Long pause. "I hear you were busy in Sand Land."

"Yes. Some of it was good. Some of it was awful. But a lot happened."

"I'm not sure how folks are going to react to the new hair cover."

"Clark, I am trailer trash. They will react the same way they did when I was growing up, and when I started dropping babies in high school. They will cluck their tongues and roll their eyes, but mostly they will ignore me and go on with their own lives."

"Yeah. Probably."

"So, on a completely different subject, do you know what a samosa is?"

"It's some kind of umbrella drink, right?"

"Not even close. Some afternoon I want to sit down with you and talk about a business proposal."

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction. But that is no excuse for sloppiness. I have included references to a religion not my own. I have read the Quran in English and found other sources to help me understand. I also recently spent a year teaching in Oman, so I have been through the cycles of that religion and observed daily life. But I may well have misunderstood much of what I was seeing. So I apologize in advance for errors included in this book.

I also want to highlight some elements in this "fiction" that are actually true. You can visit Oman or Dubai and still see the mud brick homes people lived in just forty years ago. To go from those homes to where they are now, including the world's tallest building, really is admirable. And as for the top ten percent of boys going to college in the U.S., that was the practice in Oman. Most of those boys went from studying under kerosene lamps in mudbrick rooms, to studying in the leading universities in our country. Some went on the earn Ph.D.s and returned to Oman to assume significant leadership positions. I am proud to call two of those men friends.

