Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul (27 page)

“What are you bothering Sunny with now,
maadar
? Let her be. She is our guest.” Ahmet shook his head at his mother and stood back to admire his wall.

“It is only the truth, Ahmet. Even you yourself have spoken of your fears of a return to the past. After all, why did we all agree that what we are doing here is so important? Somebody has to step into the shoes of those who we are trying to help, those who no longer have the money or the courage to stay and help the women of this country. As you have said, Ahmet, it is our duty as Afghans to keep up the battle.”

“But I worry about you,” Sunny said. “Where is your money, and your courage, going to come from?”

Ahmet dropped down onto a chair and wiped his brow. “The courage, that is easy. How can we not have the courage to do something to keep our country from losing what small gains we have made, to show those who are offended by the thought that a woman can make her own decisions and should have protection from her own family, who hear a threat in the idea that men might not control all things, that many of us want another way?”

“Why, Ahmet. You sound like a feminist if I ever heard one.” Sunny's eyes went from mother to son and back again, catching Halajan chuckling to herself behind her sleeve.

“Some are blaming the West, saying this kind of thinking is an attack on our Afghan culture,” Ahmet continued. “And we have been warned that those who continue to help women will become even more of a target than they are today, but we cannot just sit here and wait for others to tell us all how to live our lives, as has happened too many times before in our history. It's time for Afghans to be the ones to influence Afghanistan.” He stood and picked up his hammer. “So, courage? That is no problem. Now money, that is another question.”

“I still have my shop,” Rashif chimed in, “and as long as there are men who will pay to have clothes that fit, I will be able to bring some money home,
inshallah
. Although there do seem to be fewer of those kind of people these days.”

“I have hope that my efforts to raise money will someday bear fruit. And in the meantime, our friend Candace has promised to keep pulling the leg of the people she knows,” Ahmet added.

Sunny laughed. “Putting the arm on people, you mean.”

“Putting the arm on people,” Ahmet repeated slowly, looking down at his own arm in an effort to understand the phrase.

“Well, let's just hope Candace uses more than one arm to get that money. You're going to have a lot of mouths to feed around here, and I'm not so sure how you're going to do that.”

“We will be fine,” Halajan said loudly and with such certainty that they all turned their eyes to her. She placed both hands on her hips and stood tall. “Me, I'm not worried. As my old friend Rumi says:
As you start to walk out on the way, the way appears.
”

“
The mist, the fog, the sky, the earth

Inside is where I find my mirth.
”

“Bravo!” Whistles and applause rang through the rafters as the beaming woman with a single long, white braid took a slight bow and returned to her table. The barn was packed with locals, as it had been every Wednesday night for the past month or so. Weekends at the Screaming Peacock were always crowded, but Sunny had to get creative to bring in money throughout the rest of the week, as there were now so many counting on her for help. The word was out, thanks to Joe, that a huge chunk of the tasting room's profits were going to Kabul to support the shelter. But Wednesday nights were special, where not only a portion of the profit but also the full amount of what landed in the collection jar that was passed around during the evening went straight to Yazmina to feed and clothe everyone in what was becoming a very crowded household. And, much to Sunny's
surprise and delight, the people of Twimbly were turning out to be more than generous.

Tonight's poetry slam had been Joe's idea, and already Sunny had decided to make it a monthly event. At first she'd thought that bringing in speakers for discussions about current events, just as she had done at her coffeehouse in Kabul, was the way to go. But she quickly learned that the island was strictly divided along left/right–blue/red lines, and that politics was a subject best left alone. There would be no screaming matches at the Screaming Peacock, not if she could help it.

“More wine for the back table,” Joe whispered to Sunny after he invited the next wannabe poet to approach the mic. Playing waitress was definitely not Sunny's idea of a good time. She'd much prefer kicking back with the rest of them, sampling the Merlots, Cabernets and Syrahs, the Rieslings and Chardonnays that Sky had procured from vintners all around the state—winemakers who had jumped at the chance of another outlet for sales. She found herself drooling over the plates of Joe's cheese and fresh baked bread, too busy to eat until the end of the night, when they would wash glasses and count up the day's receipts. She thanked her lucky stars that Sky had agreed to ferry over from school on Wednesday nights to help, in addition to the weekends, when he was beginning to draw crowds with the passion that flowed from him into each pour, and that charming smile the kid just couldn't hold back.

However, with her swollen feet and aching back, what Sunny truly longed for was Kat's youthful energy around the place. But she had made a vow to herself not to pressure the girl. She still couldn't believe that Kat had chosen to remain behind at the coffeehouse in Kabul, although in retrospect she should have seen it coming.

At first Sunny had worried she'd made a mistake bringing Kat along. “What is the matter with that girl?” she had heard Ahmet comment to Yazmina a few days after they'd arrived, upon catching Kat smoking with his mother. “It is one thing that my mother cannot seem to control her habit, but this girl is young, and should know better than to be seen smoking.”

“But, Ahmet—” Sunny tried, leaping to Kat's defense.

“Do you see how rude she is, pushing her way into conversation without even stopping to say
Hello, how are you, how is your family …
”

“Come on, Ahmet. That's just the way it's done back home. We get straight to the point. To not inquire every single day about every single member of every single person's family is not considered rude in America.”

“But she is Afghan, Sunny.”

“Well technically, Ahmet, that's not the case.”

“And that hair,” he continued, ignoring Sunny's remark. “What is the meaning of turning it black and white?”

Sunny was tempted to point out how
he
would have been the one considered rude, had they been in the States, the way he had gaped at Kat at first, with that hard stare an Afghan could hold forever without turning away.

It wasn't as though Kat was totally unaware of being the misfit. She'd lived practically her whole life that way, neither this nor that, neither here nor there.

“This is the one who was teaching your sister English?” Ahmet had asked Yazmina after Kat used the Dari word
sher
, meaning lion, instead of
sheer
, for milk, when she was making a meal for Najama. She was teased for her accent. “You speak as though you have a dust storm in your mouth.” But because it was Halajan who said it, Kat responded with a laugh.
Sunny understood how Ahmet saw things. Yes, he was comfortable around foreigners and used to their ways. He had no problem with Sunny. But seeing an Afghan who didn't act like an Afghan—in his house with his family—was a whole other matter. Both of them had witnessed plenty of Afghan customers in the coffeehouse, those who had lived in the US or Europe, who returned acting as though they weren't Afghan at all, as though they didn't even know the language. Sunny saw firsthand how offensive it was to the others, those who were so proud of who they were. She got it. So she did whatever she could to try to ease the tension that drifted through the house like the scents from Bashir Hadi's kitchen. It wasn't until Sunny shared Kat's story with him that Ahmet finally softened toward the girl.

But it was Halajan who really took to Kat, and vice versa. They seemed to be kindred spirits. Sunny had taken to calling them Thelma and Louise by the end of her stay. It was Halajan who had first noticed the way the damaged, numbed girls seeking refuge behind the coffeehouse doors gravitated instantly to Kat, sensing in her something they felt in themselves. And it was Halajan who recognized how Kat so readily stepped up to the task of putting them at ease, as if she had been born for the job. And it was at Halajan's urging that Kat decided to stay and help for a while.

So, for now, Sunny would just have to suck it up and wait on all those tables and do all those dishes herself, serenaded by the sound of clinking glasses and clunky poetry.

She paused to wipe down the end of the long bar Sky had made from reclaimed oak. The place looks great, she thought, surveying the barn with a hand on one hip. Her Afghan treasures: the carved wooden tables, the thick wool rugs, the cobalt
blue dishes, the embroidered pillows—everything fit in perfectly, as though Jack had pictured all this, down to the last detail, so long ago. And yes, they were serving the wine in teacups, just as she had done in Kabul—though she had a few dozen glasses for the true oenophiles who wouldn't be caught dead tasting from the wrong stemware. And best of all was the happy peahen she'd added right alongside her huge screaming peacock on the south end of the barn, slapped up with a can of off-white paint after she'd received the news from Kabul of the bird's miraculous return. Apparently Ahmet had heard a commotion on the coffeehouse roof, and had grabbed his gun after ordering everyone to stay inside and lock the doors. Who knew, he had later said, that the thing could fly?

She thought back on the day she'd arrived on the island, and all that had happened since. Meeting Joe, and learning everything she'd learned from his wisdom and patience, inheriting a houseful of kids and surviving, the fun they'd had giving Rick a spicy taste of his own medicine, a birth in Kabul, a new life for the coffeehouse, a new life for her. She took a good look around the barn full of smiling, chattering people, many of whom she was starting to call friends, and had to laugh. Once again, it occurred to her, Jack had totally gotten his way.

And then she found herself looking forward to next year, when the very first vintage of Dashing Jack's Screaming Peacock Rosé, from the grapes that Sunny had helped pick with her own two hands, would be ready to drink. The pink juice, now matured and balanced and mellowed with time, would flow from the bottle like liquid velvet. And, Sunny hoped, the passing seasons will have worked their magic on her as well. She envisioned herself a year older, a year wiser, pouring herself a glass and then reaching for the other bottle, the one that now held Jack's ashes,
on the very top shelf of the tasting room. She'd cradle it under her arm and head out to the shady maple tree overlooking the sparkling Sound, where she'd sit and breathe in the sweet misty air, and drink to the glorious life that had brought them, and many others, so very much.

Books are such a special tool—a wonderful way to share ideas, transport people to different worlds, and provide glorious escape. But books require a team. So many people have worked tirelessly to make this book happen.

Ellen Kaye, I cannot imagine writing without you. I value our working partnership, and I love that despite being so different, we can finish each other's sentences (or at least you can finish mine). It was an honor to work with you on
The House on Carnaval Street
and now
Return to the Little Coffee Shop of Kabul
. You helped me unleash the stories that were simmering in my head, fighting to escape. We are a good team, and that is something I am so proud of. You are a great friend, and remarkable writer.

Beverley Cousins and her team at Penguin Random House Australia, you are such a joy to work with. Thank you for your enthusiasm and unflagging support, for embracing the characters and giving them the chance to experience the next phase of their lives, and for your willingness to leap fearlessly across time zones to make it all happen.

Maddie West at Little, Brown UK and Sphere Fiction, thank you for always being so encouraging and for always believing in this new book. It was so comforting to know that you were only an email away whenever I needed your support. Thank you a million times over.

Marly Rusoff, thank you for taking a risk with me twelve years ago. I know, can you believe it's been twelve years? Without you, the only stories told would have been the ones coming from behind my chair at the beauty salon. You caught the vision and believed in the outlandish “hairdresser” who said she wanted to tell stories to the world. Marly, you changed my life. I know if my mom could, she would hug you and tell you thanks for taking such good care of her daughter. You are more than an agent, you are a treasure.

Michael Radulescu (Mihai), I think if I had a brother I would want him to be just like you: smart, funny and able to work magic. I am so grateful to have found a big brother in you.

Karen Kinne, my best friend. I know I can call you any time of the day or night and shriek,
Help! I've hit a wall in the plot. I'm stuck!
And you will say,
Okay Deb, grab a glass of wine and let's dig in.
You never leave me until that wall falls down. I love your creativity, but more than that I love our long-lasting friendship.

Omer Azizi, you will rise to high places. I know that for a fact. I remember when you were only fourteen and you were my translator in the real little coffee shop of Kabul. I remember
our friend Lou telling me,
this kid will rule the world someday
. It has been a long and hard road for you and your family, but you made it. I am so proud of you Omer, and I cannot even begin to explain how instrumental you were in the research of this book. You know that I love your family, and being able to work with you on this project was a wish come true.

I always need to thank my amazing boys Noah and Zach Lentz, who had no choice other than to get on this wild ride with their mom. However, I also really want to thank their remarkable spouses Martha Villasana-Lentz and Aretha Lentz. Not only are they spectacular mothers to all my beautiful grandchildren—Sillas, Kai, Italya, Derik and Didier—but just hanging out with these fierce, intelligent and loving women is inspirational.

Denis Asahara—my crazy and wonderful life partner—what can I say other than you have incredible resilience. Ours is my longest relationship ever, and you have now entered into unchartered territory. You make me crazy and I love you with all my heart. I would say thank you for listening, but we both know you don't. Your family was such a huge inspiration for this book, and I thank you for sharing them with me.

A huge thanks to the Asahara and Miwa clan for sharing stories of the past and helping the characters become as authentic as possible. And a very special thanks to John Asahara, who was the compass in creating my favorite character of the book, Joe.

Thanks to Andy Besch, aka The Wine Guy, for sharing his expertise, and especially for going out into the fields to answer the question
What's it like, working a harvest?
Cheers.

Rick Rodriguez and Judy D'Ambrosio, your hospitality on “The Island” was incredible. I had so much fun, and loved learning the “island game” of “hide the fruit bowl”.

Humaira Ghilzai, you tantalize the taste buds with your extraordinary recipes. Thank you for sharing the flavors of Afghanistan with the world.

Eliza Ilyas, you bring graceful awareness in every step you take. You are a beautiful and cosmopolitan example of what faith and tolerance looks like.

I am always thankful for my staff at Tippy Toes. They can rival the drama of a telenovela any day of the week!

I would also like to thank all my customers at Tippy Toes, who had to listen to me drone on and on about plots and character while I did their hair. A special thanks to Ingrid Ostick and Ann Murphy.

Many thanks to Linda Bine for being a friend to a friend, and for lending her keen editorial eye to this project.

Tashakor
, thank you, Enayat Sharif for coming to my rescue with your Dari language skills.

A huge hug to Linda Crossley and Johnny Horsley, who always speak positive words into my life and show me how to reach for the stars.

And to Polly, my dear cat, who is always by my side and only a meow away.

Finally, I want to thank my readers, who responded so strongly to
The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul
and fell in love with the characters inside. And who, most importantly, asked the question
What happened next?