Allure of Deceit (9 page)

Parsaa had warned his wife that the family had no claim over Komal. Sofi had little to say other than insisting that was not a reason to deny her love.

Other villagers would not approve. Parents wanted their children to know that Leila's crimes had shamed an entire family. Ostracizing the girls was the best hope for preventing a repeat of wrongdoings in the small village. Parsaa, Sofi, and the boys engaged in playful activities with Komal in the privacy of their own home. Parsaa often wondered if Sofi would love Komal as much when the girl was older.

Sofi interrupted his thoughts. “Najwa might not be a problem in a place with few families, a small home with no children,” she mused.

An idea slipped into his head. Or, perhaps that was his wife's intention.

He could take Najwa to Zahira's compound, he explained. The place was too much work for Aza and Mohan, who were getting older and should have had help long ago, and Najwa would be in a remote location with no children or young adults. Four adults could give her assignments and monitor her work. What trouble could she get into? “But only if I can assure Zahira that the girl won't steal or cause other problems.”

His wife cast a long look at her husband. None of the women of Laashekoh, including Sofi, liked Zahira well. They never offered to include her in village celebrations or activities.

“Mixing two troubles does not make a problem go away,” she said. “Najwa could drive someone mad.”

“What other options do we have?” Parsaa said. “The compound is far enough away. That would satisfy women here. Yet it's close enough for us to provide guidance and Zahira to reach out for help.”

Sofi was not convinced.

“She could leave today,” he added. “And I could still search for another home.”

There was no other option, and Sofi agreed to pack meals and Najwa's meager belongings that morning. Zahira could check the girl's burns.

“It's the best an orphan girl could hope for.” Parsaa was impatient for Laashekoh to return to normal routines.

PART 2

And spend in the way of Allah and cast not yourselves to perdition with your own hands, and do good [to others]; surely Allah loves the doers of good.

—Koran 2:195

CHAPTER 5

The table was set three days before Canadian Thanksgiving—all that was left to add was a small bouquet, candlelight, and, of course, the meal itself.

Lydia last met her daughter-in-law's parents at the memorial service that followed much too soon after the wedding. So much time had passed, but she impulsively sent an e-mail, tentatively suggesting the gathering in East Lansing, and the couple surprised her with their eagerness. They also agreed to bring photographs.

The three parents shared a bond. Lydia's only son had married an only daughter. Michael and Rose each had an independent streak, ready to separate from their parents and find a love that would rival that of their parents. Michael had once admitted to feeling like the odd man out, growing up with parents who had remained the best of friends: “It was lonely at times because both of you were so close.” He wanted nothing more than to follow his parents in finding his own best friend for sharing dreams, secrets, and love.

Sitting in a dark room, with a glass of wine, Lydia remembered so many conversations and jotted notes on what she should share. The memories were bittersweet, and the plans offered a hint of anticipation that she had once felt when waiting to join her husband at the end of the workday or receive a telephone call from her son.

Rose's parents, Rebecca and Tim, drove from Toronto to spend Monday with Lydia. The turkey was in the oven, the rest of the meal was prepared, and Lydia just had to switch on burners. The sky was perfect, the air crisp as leaves danced about the streets. Lydia had borrowed extra bikes from friends for a quick tour of campus and the small town before tackling final preparations for the meal. The streets were free of traffic, though plenty of people their age were out, taking advantage of one of the year's last golden days. Trails linked a charming campus with meadows and parks, and the couple expressed pleased surprise over the small-town atmosphere and the solid oaks, maples, hickories, and beech arching over the Red Cedar River and Grand River Avenue.

Returning home, they opened champagne and shared tasks of chopping, slicing, spreading, and mashing—and all three admitted their amazement that it wasn't so hard to talk for hours about memories of two grown children.

Rebecca mentioned that Thanksgiving was Rose's favorite holiday and Lydia smiled. “Michael's, too,” she said. “And when Rose told him it was her favorite, Michael said that was when he knew she was the one.”

Tears glistened in their eyes more than once, but there were also plenty of smiles. The dinner was perfect, delicious, the cleanup fast. Tim tended the fire. They piled photograph albums on the coffee table and took turns slowly turning pages that documented their children's lives. Most of Michael's shots were outdoors, the boy muddy, climbing trees, or organizing a group of neighborhood children for parades, alien battles, or hiking expeditions. A tiny Rose was featured in modern dance recitals, choral groups, reading competitions with a dreamy attitude that later gave way to a steely determination in graduate school.

More than once, the parents murmured how the two were a perfect couple, lucky to have met one another and enjoyed success. “We should have done this sooner.” Rebecca was abrupt, apologizing to Lydia for not extending their own invitation and not taking a more active interest in the foundation named after the couple.

Lydia understood the reticence and shook her head. “There is no need for an apology. We needed time.” She did not bring up her failure to invite them to participate in the foundation or her resentment. Rebecca and Tim still had each other while she was completely alone. She gently steered the subject in another direction. “I was surprised that Michael and Rose had thought so far ahead about starting such an organization.”

Rebecca and Tim glanced at each other. Tim spoke up. “We were surprised, too, considering Rose's research—on cultural and social capitalism and abuses of modern charity. She was not keen on charities as a mechanism for funding education, health, and other needed programs.”

Lydia studied Rose's parents. “But I thought the foundation must have been her idea.”

“Not at all,” Tim said, with a rueful laugh. “That would have been a sudden turnaround from her graduate work.” Rose had studied philosophy and economics, he explained, and that involved a cross-country comparison of charitable giving versus government spending and efficiency. The origin of the word
forgiving
was
giving
, and she traced how charitable practices over the years implied that recipients were wrongdoers who were weak and deserved no control. “She was adamant that basic obligations like education and health belonged to the government.”

“We did not want to interfere,” Rebecca interrupted. “We read that the foundation was Michael and Rose's idea, but often wondered just how and when the idea started.”

Lydia ran her hand along the edge of a photo—Michael standing alongside his old car with his best friend and waving to the camera. She regretted not including Rose's parents in the planning for the foundation, not asking them about what they knew. “I would have agreed with her.” She sighed. “The two of them handed over a mission statement for a foundation to Michael's attorney a few days before the wedding. The paperwork was not finalized, but the attorney said it was clearly their intention.”

She paused. “Henry said I didn't have to go through with it. I didn't want to run a foundation, but I had to respect their intentions.”

Tim closed his eyes, and Rebecca reached for Lydia's hand. “It was Michael's fortune, and we had assumed that the foundation was Michael's idea or yours. But then we found a letter among Rose's belongings only a few weeks ago.”

Lydia was curious. Her investigators had been on site when the couple's belongings were separated, packed, and sent to each set of parents—along with a thorough inventory of all belongings. The investigators had examined computers, clothing, jewelry, books, kitchen equipment, furniture, and more.

“I couldn't bear to go through the boxes for months,” Lydia admitted. “It was too painful.”

“But we didn't find the note there.” Rebecca offered an understanding smile. “It was in a pocket of a jacket that Rose left at our house just before the wedding. We left that jacket in the front closet.” Her voice broke. “As if she were still at home.”

“For months, we didn't think to go through the pockets.” Tim pulled out a folder from the stack of albums, extracted a letter on notebook paper, and handed it over to Lydia.

Tim shook his head. “We almost didn't show you. Didn't want to think about the two of them quarreling before the wedding.”

The writing was tiny and neat. The lines of the notebook paper were narrowly spaced. Lydia was sure the page matched the notebook paper that Michael had used for the mission statement. According to the attorney and the staff at Photizonet, the paper had not come from company office supplies. But a few coworkers pointed out that Michael often carried around his own personal notebook, jotting down ideas or working out problems.

The investigators had gone through the couple's belongings so carefully and specifically searched for such a notebook, but the one with narrow lines was not found. The investigators suggested that Michael had used scrap paper. Or the notebook had been tossed in a cleaning frenzy before the wedding.

Lydia wondered what else had not been found.

She couldn't speak, and Rose's parents shifted, uncomfortable over Lydia's long silence. “The note probably does not mean much,” Rebecca offered. “They were happy, wonderful together, and neither one knew what real quarreling meant.”

Tim asked if Lydia had ideas about who the P in the note might be. “I'm guessing it might be Michael's best man at the wedding. Paul Reichart?”

“Maybe,” Lydia murmured. “I don't know. It's a lovely note.”

Tim put his hand out, and she returned the note reluctantly. Lydia wondered if Rose's parents had ever suspected that something other than random terrorism had been behind the deaths, if they had organized their own investigation.

They asked no more questions about Paul and continued turning the loosened, yellowed pages of old photo albums. Lydia could not stop thinking about the note—it was more distracting than suspicious. Yet she no longer felt like talking and wanted to be alone.

Not long afterward, Rose's parents bid farewell, ready to leave together for their hotel room and an early start back to Toronto. Another get-together was promised.

Alone, Lydia could not sleep. Sitting in the darkness of her living room, she reflected on her detailed conversations with Paul before and after the memorial service. She had wanted to hear everything Michael had said to his friend during those final weeks. Paul never mentioned conversations about a prenuptial agreement or plans for a foundation. He certainly did not mention the couple quarreling.

She still remembered the call from Paul after he had heard television reports about plans for the foundation. He asked if the reports were true. By then, she had memorized her son's scrawled mission statement, framed and hanging on her office wall: