The Brevity of Roses

The Brevity of Roses

a novel

by

Linda Cassidy Lewis

246-

Two-Four-Six Publishing

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 by Linda Cassidy Lewis

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author. For more information, contact [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9833365-1-8

Visit Linda Cassidy Lewis online
.

Cover design by Michelle Davidson Argyle

Also available in paperback.

The Brevity of Roses

In this contemporary tale of love, loss, and redemption, a desperate man discovers his salvation lies in an unlikely source.

Jalal Vaziri has looks, money, women—and a habit of running from reality. When he abandons Wall Street and reinvents himself as a poet in a California beach house, he’s convinced he’s only running from a father who hates him, a career mistake, and endless partying. A fresh start is all he needs. Then an intriguing woman enters his life, and he believes all his dreams are coming true. But too soon those dreams dissolve into nightmare. Jalal flees again. He’s nearing the point of no return when another woman blocks his retreat and challenges him to finally face the truth about what he’s trying to outrun.

For Allen, with love.

Thank you for wanting to make all my dreams come true.

One

JALAL PRAYED THE GROAN that woke him had been his own. He raised his head an inch off the pillow and scanned his room, confirming himself the sole occupant before lying back to stare at the ceiling. Positively the last time. No more lost weekends for him. If it had been a weekend. This could be midweek for all he knew. Getting wasted was no longer confined to particular nights—or days.

Gingerly, he maneuvered himself upright on the side of the bed. He ran a hand over his jaw, then sought a second opinion from the bathroom mirror. Stubble length indicated he might have lost only one day this time. That was one day too many. He renewed his vow and stepped under the hot shower spray.

Twenty minutes later, Jalal dressed in jeans and stepped out of his closet pulling on a tee. As his head cleared the neckband, his eyes focused on a blonde in a slinky black dress, standing in the doorway across the room. He froze. The rising fear that his blackout had progressed to hallucinations sped up his heart, slowed his breathing, and then dissipated when she spoke.

“Oh, good,” she said, “you’re finally up. I’m starved. Let’s go to Colliano’s for lunch.”

He stared dumbly at her, wracking his brain for her name. Her face was familiar. He knew her. Hell, considering she was now disentangling her underwear from his sheets, he apparently knew her intimately.

Fully dressed now, she wriggled her dress back down her thighs and smiled. “You ready?”

He had not moved, or even closed his mouth.
Krista
. Her name was Krista, and this was not her first time here, but that was all he could grasp before the fog slid back. He returned to the closet for shoes, calling to her from the safety of the ten-foot distance between them, “I am a little hazy about … last night.” She responded with a wince-inducing giggle, and then her shadow stretched across the closet floor. He picked up his Nikes and faced her.

“I’m sure you’ll remember it all when you see your living room,” she said with a smile. “You’ll want to call your cleaning service. Unless you don’t mind puke all over your sofa.”

“
What?
”

“Yeah, that bitch Carly should leave the coke alone.”

Jalal pushed past her, headed toward the damage, and stopped dead two steps into the living room. Every damned inch of the place was trashed. Even some of his books—
My books!
—lay scattered on the floor. “What the hell?” He flung his shoes across the room, but almost as quickly as his anger had flared, renewed fear doused it. Krista was wrong. Not a single minute of last night came back to him. The last he remembered, he was sitting in Zee Bar, and it was afternoon. But it might not have been yesterday afternoon. For the third time that morning, he vowed sobriety.

Jalal spun around, shoving Krista aside as he returned to the bedroom in search of his cell phone. He hoped to god he had left it there, and would not have to dig it out of that substance abuse fuckup in the living room. He struck out on the chest top and nightstand, but recognized the phone’s weight when he grabbed his slacks from the floor beside the bed. After arranging for the cleaning service—
yes, this is an emergency
—he turned to Krista again.

“I am sorry, Krista. I cannot take you to lunch, but I will call you a taxi.” He flipped open his phone again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her foot stomp and knew she wanted him to look up so he would see her pout. He chose not to give her that satisfaction. Memories of her had begun to seep through. Krista was rich. Krista was spoiled. Krista was not used to being denied. When he hit the call button, she spun away leaving a string of obscenities trailing behind her. Seconds later, she slammed his apartment door for the last time.

The next day, he changed his cell number and called a moving company. Within a week, he had stored everything he owned, except some clothes, books, and his journals. He bought a car and set off driving west. If The Fates had any mercy, the biggest mistakes of his life lay behind him in New York City.

Now, six months later, Jalal stood in his parents’ Seattle living room. His California home, a sixteen-hour drive away, was far enough that he could avoid frequent visits, but close enough for his mother to guilt him into an occasional one. Each time he hoped for some sign of understanding from his father. Each time he left disappointed. Nothing good would come from hating his father, yet, as Jalal gazed at him across the living room, that knowledge did nothing to loosen the cords of hurt and resentment knotted in his gut. Baba had made clear his disapproval. Cruelly so. He would never back down, not even if poetry circles should one day revere the name Jalal Vaziri, because such admiration would not make him a wealthy man. Money was king to Baba. Money was god. And Jalal remained an infidel.

“Jalal,” said his father, “tell your brother how you made such a good deal on your house.”

“Navid knows, Baba. I told him and Farhad yesterday.”

“Your mother is anxious to see it. Maybe you will invite us down soon?”

Jalal only nodded and pushed away from the wall he leaned against. “I need to get on the road now.”

“Wait,” said Azadeh. “Maman wants to send some food with you.”

“Yes,” he whispered, “because God knows there are no restaurants along the thousand miles of road between here and my house.”

Azadeh flashed him the fiercest look she could manage. “Don’t be a brat.”

Aza was the daughter most like their mother, and rose quickest to her defense. His defense too. He knew she would act as his advocate in whatever discussion his father and brother would have about him after he left. Not that it would do any good. And not that she would ever relay such conversations verbatim. Whenever he asked, she would only brush aside his question, asserting he was crazy to see himself as the family outcast. Equally adamant, he declared her blind to his status.

Jalal always kept up appearances, and a dutiful son would never show disrespect by leaving his father’s home without a proper farewell. He crossed the room to Baba, who, like a king on a reclining leather throne, rose to exchange the customary kisses on each cheek. Jalal avoided his father’s eyes until Baba’s hand lingered too long on his shoulder.

“Do not be a stranger,” Baba said.

Maman’s voice behind Jalal interrupted the moment. He turned toward her, but his father’s words followed him, an invisible tether between them. Often, in farewell to visitors, he had heard Baba say,
Do not be a stranger to my home
. But never to close family, and never only,
Do not be a stranger
.

Maman’s hand touched Jalal’s cheek, demanding his full attention. “If you did not insist on driving,” she said, “you could visit us more often.”

Navid snorted in derision. If Farhad had been there, he would have reacted the same. Jalal’s brothers had razzed him about buying a car to drive across country from New York to avoid flying. They thought him weak for holding onto his childhood fear, which he viewed as insult added to injury. Their merciless taunting after he vomited from the turbulence during their flight from Beirut to Paris had birthed his phobia. Since then, only his love of international travel made him enter an airport. He kissed his mother and took the basket she offered. “I will call you when I get home.”

“No,
azizam
.” She wagged a finger at him. “You will call me when you get home, but you must also call me tonight when you stop to sleep.”

A protest parted his lips before affection sealed them and he smiled at her. “Yes, Maman.” He bent his head to kiss the top of hers, and with a last good-bye to all, moved toward the door where Azadeh stood with his duffle bag in hand.

“I’ll walk you out,” she said.

On the porch, he traded the basket for the bag and led the way to his car. After he stowed the duffle and food in the car, he stood beside the open door. “Do you have a problem, Aza?”