24 1/2 Kisses (A Bashir Family Romance) (9 page)

“You need a guide?” the young boy asked, standing outside of the hotel. He was wearing long, ragged shorts and nothing else—not even shoes—his thin, brown body indicating he was maybe 12 or 13 years old.

After returning from the hospital to check on Annika, I was relieved to find him there waiting for me.

I smiled at the boy, admiring his beautiful eyes and his long lashes—so much like Dev’s. It was one of his features that was most Indian about him.

“Yes, I am,” I answered. “You speak English very well.”

He smiled back, his white teeth gleaming in the bright morning sun.

“My name is Sai,” he said, offering his thin hand, worn and calloused from a short life-time of hard, scrappy work wherever he could find it no doubt.

We negotiated a payment—five American dollars—and he would be at my service for the day. I made a mental note to pay him much more if he made a decent effort.

I wore a long navy blue and white summer dress with an empire waist and white sandals. It was comfortable with my changing figure, and though I was four months along, under a loose short or dress, I looked practically the same. It was only naked or when I wore something skintight that the small, growing bump was noticeable.

Will he notice? Should I tell him?

Stop it, Scarlett. Find him first.

I decided I wouldn’t harass myself with anymore internal questions that couldn’t be answered. I didn’t even know if he was here.

You know. He’s here.

I leaned down to meet Sai’s eyes and make sure he understood me. “I’m looking for a house somewhere on this beach. It’s blue and white, and it has yellow shutters, around the windows. Do you know a house like that?”

He seemed to understand me perfectly. His face lit up and he grabbed my arm. “Miss, I know that house. Come with me.”

We took a cab through the heart of the town and past the market—the one Dev told me about where I could find every spice my heart desired. My eyes drank in the sea of colors and textures filling the stalls, the smells—thousands of them—invading my nose. I would have liked to shop this market with him, I quickly thought.

Will I get my chance now?

Past the market, the cab stopped at a more secluded entry to the beach, and we got out. After paying the cabbie, Sai beckoned me down the beach and I followed, trying to keep my footing in the loose, warm sand. The water was bright blue, mirroring the cloudless sky, and the sand dotted with palm trees.

Paradise.

To my right, against the backdrop of palm trees and various exotic fauna, there was a neat line of beautiful cottages and houses in bright colors. And then I saw the one I was looking for, hidden within a large lot, a long dock reaching out from it toward the water.

Sai pointed excitedly at it. Suddenly I was nervous, thinking I could be mere steps away from him.

You came this far, Scarlett. Don’t chicken out now.

I walked up to the house and knocked lightly on the blue-framed screen door. Through a window, I could see a clean, nicely furnished living room stood on the other side; a fast moving ceiling fan pushing the first page of a magazine back and forth on the coffee table.

Someone lives here.

A moment later, a tall, blonde woman and an even taller and blonder man came to the door. My heart sank.

“Yes, can we help you?” the woman, maybe 35, asked in heavily accented English. I gathered they were Swedish or Norwegian.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for someone. I thought he lived here.”

The man, about the same age as the woman, smiled and opened the screen-door. He was barefoot and wearing only board shorts. “Would you like to come in?”

I don’t know why, but I did want to come in. Perhaps I thought Dev had once lived there or that being around some Swedish people was comforting in this wild, exotic place.

“Sure, thank you.” I stepped in and they both extended their hands.

“I’m Ingrid and this is Lukas,” said the woman, smiling like she hadn’t a care in the world.

I introduced myself and we made a little small talk. Yes, they were from Stockholm and spending the winter on one of India’s warmest and most beautiful beaches. I sat down on their rattan chair and drank some mint and lemon infused water while they chatted about their fascination with India.

“Life is so stressful at home, this is the place we like to come to when it gets too much,” Lukas explained.

I thought about Dev. Is that why he begged me to come to India with him? Was the stress getting too much?

And I just ignored him, so focused on my own goals.

“I thought my friend came here to do the same thing, but I might be wrong. He described a house—just like this one. Blue and white, yellow shutters. It was dumb of me to think I would find him from paint colors.”

I noticed that Ingrid gave Lukas a curious look, then she smiled at me.

“There’s another house, just further down. It’s painted exactly like this one. Actually, I think the owner of our house copied the look.”

My stomach churned a bit. Could he be just down the beach? I put down my glass and stood up.

“Really? Can you point to it?”

We walked outside and Lukas pointed down to the end of the beach, just before it curved to the left, hiding the rest behind a clump of green foliage.

“Just around the turn, there’s the house. You can’t miss it. It’s twice as large as this one.”

I kissed him on the cheek and then Ingrid, and thanked them profusely for their kindness and hospitality. And then I walked down the beach toward the other house knowing it had to be his.

Sai was waiting for me, sitting close to the water and drawing letters in the wet sand. He stood up quickly when he saw me approach him.

“Did you find him, Miss?”

“No, Sai, it was the wrong house. But I think I know where it is. Would you like to escort me there?”

He nodded enthusiastically—no doubt wanting to earn his five dollars—and we walked down the beach toward the bend. A few minutes later, we were past it, and the house came into view.

I stopped to take it in.

It was a large English-style bungalow, probably a remnant from the colonial days, and painted in a radiant hue of blue with gleaming white trim. As promised, the shutters were golden yellow, and matched the yellow buttercups which lined the yard, nestled among several other vibrant and gorgeous varieties of flowers I didn’t recognize.

A large screened in deck, painted in a deep blue welcomed you to the front door, which was hanging open.

I could feel in my bones that this was his house.

Our house.

The one I promised him we would live in one day.

He’s here.

I told Sai to wait while I went up to check it out and he immediately found a place among the sand to sit. He seemed used to waiting.

Then I walked up the stairs trying to calm myself in case he was home. When I made it to the porch, I knocked on the door frame since the door was open, but I knew no one was home as soon as I glanced inside. Nothing was on—the numerous fans turned off—and there was an emptiness and a stillness in the air, a lack of energy within the walls.

After a minute, I decided to go inside.

The livingroom was clean and sparse—Dev’s style—and held no clue about the occupant. I noticed the view of the Indian Ocean through the large windows was breathtaking. It was a view I could stare at for hours, with my tea and a book, or with my laptop, glancing up from my writing periodically to gain inspiration from the tranquil blue waves and the seagulls dipping and diving into the water.

I made my way into an impressive kitchen, with all the top-of-the-line appliances, a cook’s dream. Spacious and full of light, I looked for some hint of Dev in there, but found nothing.

It occurred to me that I could in the wrong house again—and trespassing. But I kept going.

Down the hall I found a bedroom with an equally breathtaking view of the ocean. A queen bed was centered in the room so that its occupant had a perfect line of view out the window. Simple white washed wood furniture against the cream colored walls made the space feel airy and light.

I almost jumped when I saw a guitar next to the bed—
his
guitar. And on the bedside table, his books, Plato, Voltaire, Sufi Poetry, a few in Hindi that I couldn’t read, and then one that looked different. It was dark brown and opened to a page bearing his handwriting. It was a journal.

Did I dare look at it? I told myself I must…so I could finally confirm I had found him. I picked up the journal and sat on the bed. I was feeling light-headed and I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten all morning.

I trudged on nonetheless.

The journal was opened to his last entry—made the evening before.

I feel cold, cold like the winter.

But she is my sun, my summer.

My warmth.

How I ache for her.

Was he writing about me? Am I his summer? I turned to a random page. It was an entry dated three months before.

I wonder if I have made a mistake leaving, but then I think about the happiness she might have with someone else—happiness she could never have with me—and I know this is for the best. I am simply not worthy of her.

Not worthy? Is that why he left?

I was desperate to read more. In this journal were the answers to all my mountains of questions. It was like crawling inside his head and having a good look around.

But before I could read more, I heard someone walk into the house.

For a brief moment I was tempted to hide—or run out of the house. But instead, I froze in place, my heart attempting to beat its way out of my chest.

He came quickly into the bedroom, dressed only in long swimtrunks, his hair wet from the ocean, a navy blue beach towel in his hand. When he saw me sitting on his bed, his private journal in my grasp, he stopped dead in his tracks.

In our shared silence as he adjusted to the realization I was there, I had a moment to take him in. His hair was longer, as if he hadn’t cut it since New York, and there were dark curls framing his face, which was shadowed by the beginnings of a beard—maybe five days of growth. He looked tanner and leaner, still well-muscled but in a more organic way, like the muscles on someone who surfs rather than lifts weights.

When he said nothing, I decided to stand up and put his journal back on the table.

“I’m sorry for reading that. I know it was personal.”

He found his voice, but his face still wore a mask of shock.

“You’re here.”

Silence. For a few beats, we simply said nothing, but looked at each other like the other was a ghost.

“I thought you might be here,” I said, feeling faint again. I steadied myself against the bed.

“You found me,” he replied, his voice low, and tinged with emotion.

I kept talking like a fool.

“Annika is here, too. But she broke her ankle. So, that’s why it’s just me. But your parents are worried sick about you. They really miss you.”

He walked over to me and set the towel down on the bed behind me, his arm nearly touching mine.

So close to me…

“And you? Did you miss me?”

I could see the pain and the loneliness in his eyes. Could he see the same in mine?

Now was my chance. The words I had longed to say tumbled out.

“I never should have left you. I should have stayed in New York and married you. I was young and foolish, but I loved you desperately. I’ve always loved you.”

The tears fell down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop them if I tried. He moved his hand to my face and carefully and tenderly wiped them away.

“I should have told you more—about my father and the banking scandal—but I didn’t want to burden you, but at the same time I needed you so desperately, it was killing me,” he explained.

I could see a weight lift from us both.

He smiled broadly and carefully touched my arm. “Are we the biggest fools in the history of fools, Scarlett?”

“Yes, we are.”

He pulled me into his arms, the smell of the ocean on his skin, and whispered in my ear.

“Marry me now. There’s never been anyone else but you. You have to trust that.”

I looked in eyes. “I do.”

“And the other gentleman, Scarlett. The one you kissed. Does he know you’re here?”

Eric?
I supposed he deserved an answer.

“It’s always been you, Dev…and now we’ve wasted all this time, and we could have been together. How can you love someone so stupid and stubborn?”

He interrupted my rant with a kiss, deep and long, filled with the passion of lovers reunited after being painfully separated from each other. There was no pain, no resentment or bitterness in his kiss.

Just love.

And I was drunk on it.

So much so, I did start to feel faint. I grabbed at his arm to steady myself.

“My love, are you alright?”

I shut my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing.

“I think I’m hungry and I’m really hot in here.”

He sat me down on the bed and turned on a ceiling fan. The air felt heavenly against my face. A minute later, he brought me a cup of juice and some toast with butter and jam.

“Here, eat this. I can make you some eggs if you like.”

“No, this is perfect, thanks. Besides, you can’t cook.”

“I can. I can make eggs now.”

“Impressive.”

He sat on the bed next to me and I told him about Annika and her ankle, and how the entire world was blowing up in his wake back in the states.

“I planned to call my mother. I just wasn’t ready yet. I was hoping to find myself a bit out here.”

“And did I ruin that for you?” I truly wanted to know.

He brushed a loose curl back from my face. The Indian humidity had forced me to abandon my straight locks.

“I think…you saved me, my love.”