The Brevity of Roses Read Online Free Page A

deep breath and regained most of her composure. “I apologize for my habit of staring. I didn’t mean to be rude. You see, I was an anthropologist, so I often observe people and try to guess their genetic ancestry.”
    “Persian,” he said.
    “Ah-h.”
    “And from your appearance, I assume your ancestors were from a country far closer to the Arctic Circle.”
    “Denmark.”
    “Ah-h,” he said and smiled at her again.
    He looked into her eyes—into her—until she began to feel she was an imposter, some distant cousin to herself. Another apology crept toward her lips: I’m sorry; I don’t seem to know who I am. But the words went unspoken. She told herself such disorientation was only the effect of too much alcohol, and yet when his lunch arrived with a bottle of bordeaux and two glasses, she did not refuse to share his wine. He would consider that rude.
    He studied her face as he tasted the wine. Never taking his eyes off her, he nodded his approval to the server, then waited until the young man left before he spoke. “You say you were an anthropologist? You look far too young to have retired.”
    “Age is not the only reason to retire.”
    “Indeed.”
    “ Esman Meredith ast ,” she said, offering her hand. When he arched a brow and a smile played at the corners of his mouth, she feared her grasp of Farsi had deteriorated to the point she had failed to even properly introduce herself.
    “I am Jalal,” he told her. Instead of shaking her hand, he clasped it in his and lowered it to the table, holding it for a few seconds before he let go to pick up his knife and fork. “I hope you will not find it rude of me to eat as we talk,” he said, “but I am starving.”
    “Not at all.” She felt so exquisitely aware of Jalal’s presence she could barely breathe. The fear he might look into her eyes again and discern this kept her from looking directly at him. Instead, she watched his hands, perfect hands, whose touch would be gentle, yet firm and oh so certain in their movements …
    Stop stop stop!
    She tasted the bordeaux. “Jalal is an interesting name. It means greatness, or something similar, does it not? Your parents must have had high hopes for you.”
    “So it would seem.”
    Despite her focus on Jalal, she had not forgotten the women at the other table. She heard their muted voices, and would like to think they shared her astonishment at this turn of events, but dared not look to see. More likely, Jalal’s move to her table would only add juice to their gossip.
    A voice in her head—it sounded like her mother’s—piped up. What on earth are you doing sitting here with a strange man who, for all you know, could be half your age? Despite her irritation at this intrusion, Meredith examined his face. There was a fine web spun at the outer corners of his eyes, and a thin, dull blade had pressed a vertical crease between his brows. When she argued that surely he was older than twenty-five, silence fell within, as it had without, and though she reasoned there ought to be some awkwardness to the silence at their table, she felt none. She took sips of his wine, allowing him a few uninterrupted moments to eat. Then, she pointed to his shoulder bag. “I’ve read that book.”
    He sneered. “Pop psychology.”
    “Yes,” she said, smiling. “I thought so too.”
    Jalal looked up from his plate. “So, Meredith, did you work in Iran?”
    She shook her head. “I visited only once. Briefly.”
    “I am surprised you learned the language for only one visit.”
    “Actually, I didn’t. Linguistics was my degree emphasis.”
    “I am impressed.”
    Embarrassed, she felt the need to explain. “I don’t speak Farsi well.”
    “I do not speak Danish at all,” he told her.
    Until she caught the quirk at the corner of his mouth, she thought he mocked her. She smiled. A man with a sense of humor always intrigued her.
    “Tell me,” he said, “how did you become interested in anthropology?”
    She opened her