Nervous about her meeting with Michael, Zehra treated herself to a latte. Normally, the calorie count deterred her, but tonight, Friday, Zehra waited at the Caribou coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis for him. She had to admit he’d impressed her at the party, but she was still cautious. After all, this was another combination engineered by her parents. Would this one actually work out?
But the caution came from the left side of her brain, calculated from past experience. The right side instead longed for a relationship. Someone to have fun with, talk about her work, hold her, and ease the loneliness.
Northeast Minneapolis, one of the earliest areas to be settled in the city, rose up from the banks of the Mississippi River. At the highest point above the river stood the old church of Our Lady of Lourdes, topped by a steeple visible from the entire neighborhood. Jackie attended Mass there. She said the church still had a hint of its old French heritage, which reminded her of services in Vietnam.
Zehra glanced at her watch. She thought of the mountains of work waiting for her. They had less than two weeks to pull together the defense. Unfortunately, if Michael didn’t show in five minutes, she’d have to bail.
She took a deep, calming breath. At least she had a small table outside on the sidewalk of the shop. To Zehra’s left stretched a garden of peonies—red, yellow, almost purple, and shades of colors she couldn’t even name. Hanging beside her, almost touching her hair, was a pot of begonias, one of her favorite plants because they were easy to grow and produced big flowers of such lush intensity.
When she turned her head, Michael walked up to the door of the shop.
Zehra remembered dark skin, the tall, thin, athletic body that moved with an unusual grace compared to most American men. He looked European. She noticed the long nose—like hers—and the deep-set eyes that searched for her. She ran both hands through her hair to arrange it, then stood and waved. He smiled immediately and came to her.
Zehra shook his outstretched hand. It felt strong and warm.
“Hi.” He started to sit.
“Michael. Nice to see you again.” She noticed his eyes moving over her face and saw the most beautiful eyelashes she’d ever seen. Zehra felt jealous.
“Your father told me how attractive you are. He was right.”
Phony, but it was still nice to hear. “Thanks. You work with him?”
“No, but we see each other occasionally.” He wore a black cotton t-shirt made of expensive material. When he twisted around to see the menu board, the muscles in his chest bunched. “I’ll be right back. Want anything?”
After he left, Zehra thought of her “checklist” for all dates, especially those set up by her parents. Let’s see—no bad breath, good looking, not grossly overweight, seems intelligent, but is he full of himself? Check that out.
Michael returned in five minutes. “Busy tonight. Guess it’s the nice weather.” He rocked back in the chair, propping it against the brick wall behind them. “Smells good.” He turned to her. “Your work sounds interesting. Tell me about it.”
“I’m a lawyer. A public defender.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I like the courtroom. I don’t have to sit at a desk all day and read boring contracts. I work on real-life problems that affect people, like their freedom. It’s meaningful, and I feel like I do some good.” Zehra caught herself and stopped. Why was she blabbering like this?
“I don’t know much about these things. Do you have any interesting cases?” He sipped his tea.
“I told you I’m working on the murder case. The Somali boy who had his throat cut open.” She purposely emphasized the details because people seemed most interested in that part. “Maybe you saw it on the news? I’m defending the man accused of the murder. Trial is coming up soon. The FBI is also investigating. I have a contact with them and am hoping to get more info.” Zehra lowered her head and looked to the sides as if someone might hear her.
Michael frowned. “During my volunteer work, I have heard a little about the case. I don’t pay attention to the news. How can you do such difficult work?”
Her cheeks bulged, and Zehra blew out a puff of air. “It’s really tough sometimes.”
“I am curious. You said you can do some good, but how can you do good to defend a murderer?”
“Yeah, I know. I believe in the integrity of the justice system—everyone deserves a fair trial, even the guilty ones.” She drained her latte and asked him, “What volunteer work are you doing in the Somali community?”
He smiled. “It took a long time. Even though I’m Muslim, they didn’t accept me quickly. I am educated and Egyptian. Most of them are poor and are simply trying to survive in this country. I’ve gotten to know some of the leaders, and I help raise money for projects.”
“If you’re Muslim, why aren’t you at the mosque tonight?”
Michael dropped his head for a moment. “I suppose I should be, but I thought our meeting was more important.”
Unlike most of the men she’d met, this one sounded genuine and seemed really interested in something other than himself. “I want to talk about your work.”
“Not much to talk about in comparison to yours. I work in genetic engineering research. For you, it would be boring.”
“No, really, I’m interested.”
“I’m working with viruses now. Trying to see if we can find a cure for the common cold.” He laughed a little and showed pretty teeth. “It is, how do you say, ‘a long shot,’ but can you imagine the profits if we could actually figure it out? We try a variety of things, like manipulating the genes, enhancing them. And then we expose them to various antibiotics to ‘heat them up,’ to see how they react.” He paused. “That is what I’m trying to do for the good of the world.” He pronounced “s” like “sh.” His voice sounded lush to Zehra.
She shook her head. “Wow.”
“I travel a lot—too much. It seems like I’m always gone.”
Zehra stole a glance at him sideways as he leaned back. He curved into the metal chair and, although relaxed, she could sense coiled energy resting in his body. She shook out her hair again. This “date” wasn’t going as planned. Zehra looked down at her watch and knew she should get back to the office. But she couldn’t move.
Michael interrupted her thoughts. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure.”
“You know I am Muslim. Do you have any trouble being with me?”
This guy looks so good to me, I wouldn’t care if he was a Confucian monk, Zehra thought. “No, it doesn’t make a difference to me. I’m half East Indian. I’m Christian, but I have a sense of what it’s like to be a little different. Even though I was born in the US, I’ve always felt just a little different from other people.”
“Yes. It is hard to explain to most Americans.”
“But things are getting better.”
“For me, one of the hardest aspects is culture. I come from Egypt, which certainly has its problems, but the American culture, with its emphasis on consuming and blatant sex, bothers me. In my culture, family and community meant everything—even if we were poor.”
Zehra nodded. “I also like to garden. It’s a passion for me. I got it from my mother—who is much better than me. Especially in Minnesota with our long winters, a garden is such a treasure.”
“Gardening? Then I have a wonderful poem for you. It is from the old mystic and poet, Rumi. I’ll quote a short part of it.” He started,
“You rave about the holy place
and say you’ve visited God’s garden
but where is your bunch of flowers?
. . . There is some merit
in the suffering you have endured
but what a pity you have not discovered
the Mecca that’s inside.”
Zehra tried to stop it, but her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t believe this guy. Was he for real? Quoting poetry about gardens? She said, “That was beautiful. It combines gardens with God and how th
ey can both be inside of us—even here in Minnesota in the winter. Thanks.” They both laughed. “My garden is my sanctuary, my refuge. I love to watch the plants come up in the spring.”
“Then I should buy you a gift.”
“Huh?”
“Around the corner there is a garden store. You know of it?”
“Never noticed it.”
“Come with me. I will buy you something special.”
They stood. As she passed in front of him, he rested his hand on the bare skin of her forearm. She couldn’t miss it. On the sidewalk, they turned left and walked a little too closely, side by side, around the corner.
Nestled into a restored brick building stood a narrow garden store. The front door was propped open with a copper watering can. The scent of new flowers and damp earth drew them inside. Zehra loved the cute tools and unusual collection of plants they offered, all of it very expensive.
“Do you like orchids?” Michael asked.
“Sure. I’ve wintered over a few in my condo.”
“Come here.” He guided her as if he’d been in the store before.
Near the back of the shop was a partially-enclosed area devoted entirely to orchids. When they stepped into the cramped space, Zehra felt moist warmth. A mister wheezed clouds in the corner behind the various pots. Other than that noise, it was quiet.
They stood before a display of the most unique orchids she’d ever seen. But then, there were probably hundreds she’d never seen. For a long time, they studied each plant, looked at it from different angles, and leaned back to get perspective. They were works of art. Finally, Michael pointed. “This one. I want you to have this one.”
Zehra moved closer to study it. She gasped.
From the clay pot, a long, narrow green stalk rose as if it were a cobra swaying to the piping rhythm of a snake charmer. At the top, it tipped over to explode into several leaves, open and vulnerable. The inner leaves formed little openings like mouths. On the bottom were blood-red “slippers.” She could almost imagine the plant breathing.
Zehra loved orchids, but at the same time, they were so creepy. She didn’t even know this man, and already he offered her a beautiful, if creepy, plant. Zehra felt dizzy, and the more she stared at the flowers, the more they seemed to sway to the sound of silent piping.
She pushed out of the room. Took a deep breath of cool air. Smelled the familiar roses next to the checkout counter.
Michael followed behind her. “I noticed you seemed to favor this one.” He set the orchid on the counter and paid quickly.
Zehra mumbled her thanks and carried it outside. She didn’t know what to think. It was different and kind of weird compared to the few $3.99 clumps of carnations other men had given her—usually as an afterthought. After all, there were roses and then there were orchids, a whole different level, if you knew anything about flowers. She decided to accept it.
“I would love to see your garden sometime,” Michael said.
“Sure . . . sure.” This was moving way out of control, too fast.
Her cell rang. It was BJ, and the other world jarred her awake.
“Hey, Z. Trying to get ahold of you for an hour.”
“I’ve been busy. What’s up?”
“I told you about that scientist that tests DNA samples? I got him to ask for the sample at the BCA and to retest it. He told me the tests run by the BCA are faked.”
“What?” She clung to the orchid, afraid she might drop it.
“Someone doctored the sample, so the BCA got a false reading.”
“So that—”
“El-Amin. They got the wrong guy.”
Chapter Twenty