“He’s got to have an ordinary car, nothing fancy.” Ally scowled at the floor. “I don’t want to look like a pampered princess riding around in a limousine.”

“If you want a rust bucket, I’m fine with that.” Tom flicked through his desktop calendar. “But let’s try to hire someone before I leave on Friday. I’ll be up north for a week.”

Ally sat up straight.

“Did my travel permit come through? Can I come this time?”

“I called the Ministry of Interior, and they said your application was still being processed. Sorry, babe.”

“But we sent it in ages ago.” Ally grabbed a cushion like she was going to throttle it. “How come your permits only take a day or two to get approved?”

“Because I am embassy staff, carrying out official business.” Tom looked up from his calendar. His tone softened. “I don’t blame you for feeling frustrated. Maybe you’d be better off some place where you’re free to do your own thing.”

“We’ve only been married six months. What happened to ‘till death do us part’?”

“Plenty of embassy families live apart at times.” Tom’s freckled brow wrinkled. “Why don’t you look for an apartment in Jordan? It’s not so far away, and there’ll be other diplomat wives to keep you company.”

“Kill me now.” Ally wrapped her hands around her neck and pretended to choke. “I met a bunch of those women in Amman. I thought they’d be cool and smart. Instead, they spent the whole time comparing manicures and discussing which spa gave the best massage with Dead Sea mud. And then they complained about their nannies.”

Ally twisted her wedding ring around her finger. She didn’t doubt that Tom loved her, but she wondered if he secretly wanted her gone. Then he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about staying late at work, seven days a week, like the rest of his colleagues. At thirty-four, he was young for a deputy ambassador. He felt he had something to prove, so he worked harder, and longer hours, than everyone else.

Knuckles rapped against the door. Huda entered with a tray of coffee and water. Ally wiped her flushed, sweaty face and clambered off the bench.

“Huda, I’m glad you’re here. Please, tell me the truth.” She motioned to her long skirt and black T-shirt. “Am I dressed okay? Should I be more covered up?”

“You are dressed just fine.” Huda gestured for her to take a sip of water.

“Honestly, do I need a head scarf?”

“Of course not.” Huda patted her own hair. It was as dark and thick as Ally’s but cut short in a bob and fixed with a crispy shell of hair spray. “This is Iraq, not Saudi Arabia. No woman is forced to wear the head scarf. Here at the embassy, only one of us wears the scarf. One with. Five without.”