“Uh, tall. He was very tall, in fact. Do you know him?”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“Well, there was a man in a suit.”

“Did he have thick glasses?” demanded Huda.

“He did, yes.” She eyed Huda curiously. “Who is he?”

“No one. Forget it.”

Huda stared at her with eyes wide as a lake, but Ally had the feeling she wasn’t seeing her at all, that she was picturing some other time and place. Ally felt a pang of sympathy. She’d thought she was the one with secrets, but she’d begun to realize everyone had secrets here, enough to drown in.

“Can I help?” she offered. “We can look for Khalid together.”

“No, better I go alone.”

“Don’t feel too bad.” Ally gave Huda’s hand a brief squeeze. “When I was a teenager, kids cut school to go shoplifting or smoke cigarettes. At least Khalid’s going to the mosque.”

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 21

Rania sat at the bar in the Alwiyah Club’s restaurant. The high-pitched laughter of children splashing about in the pool drifted through the open windows, along with the thwack of balls on the tennis courts. Rania checked her watch anxiously. She’d promised to bring Hanan to the club, but soon she’d have to return to the hospital and relieve her cousin, sitting watch at her mother’s bedside.

A plump woman strolled past the bar, licking an enormous ice cream cone.

“How is your diet progressing, Amal?” chimed the woman’s whip-thin companion. “Is this another of your miracle regimes, where you can have all the ice cream and sugar you want, as long as you eat nothing but grapefruit on Wednesdays?”

“You should try a little more sugar, sister-in-law,” she replied. “Perhaps it will help with your bitterness.”

The skinny woman snorted and turned to leave.

“Rania?” she exclaimed. “Is it you?”

“Miriam Pachachi?” Rania’s eyes widened. “It’s been a long time. Too long.”

“So long, you probably thought I’d died,” she chuckled.

“No such luck,” snapped the plump woman, and sashayed away.

Miriam rolled her eyes.

“Please, join me for a few minutes.” Rania gestured to the bar-stool beside her. “Tell me, are you still sculpting?”

The two women talked art and traded gossip, while nearby a plump waiter attempted to impress a table of young women snacking on french fries and falafels.

“Your drinks, mademoiselles,” he declared, dispensing frosty glasses of mango and pineapple juice with a theatrical bow so low it split the rear of his tuxedo pants, like a polyester sea parting before Moses.

Rania and Miriam battled to hide their mirth.

“It’s times like these,” said Rania, “when I wish the club still served alcohol. A sight like that deserves to be toasted with a champagne cocktail.”