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 246Publishing@gmail.com

  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 re
clining 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?”

  “Can’t I say good-bye to my brother in private without an ulterior motive?”

  “You could, but that is not why you came out here.” Azadeh, now seemingly fascinated with his right shoulder, said nothing. “All right then,” he said, “I will guess. Is it about Baba? Or Maman?” Nothing. “Is it me?” Still nothing. He studied her face. “So, what is the problem with your marriage?”

  She pounced on his last question. “Do you know something about Sam?”

  “I know you are too good for him.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Her wan smile betrayed her. “It’s nothing. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  “Aza …”

  She grabbed his collar and jerked, tilting his head down, so she could kiss his cheek. “Really. Everything’s fine. Now, go and don’t speed the whole way, okay?” She sprinted toward the house, calling over her shoulder. “I’ll phone you tomorrow night.”

  Jalal, left standing with his mouth open, blinked and climbed into the car. He had driven past the Seattle city limits before he decided he really knew nothing about Sam that Azadeh did not already know. He would hear her cause for worry eventually; she never kept her secrets from him for long. Most of the time, the sharing was mutual. The extent of his real reasons for fleeing New York was one thing he had not shared. For the last six months, he had kept his vow. There had been no more drugs, and no more blackouts because he consumed little liquor now, a lot of wine, yes, but he was sixteen the last time wine had been enough to waste him. His mind was stable now. He could think. He could write.

  He looked back on those years in New York with amazement. How he had kept his job—hell, kept his sanity—was a wonder. To have left that city whole, with published work as well, might even be miraculous. He felt shame, though. He had never held any real interest in any of the women he met there, but he had let them think he did. Would it have turned out differently, if he had met a woman he could relate to? A woman like Jocelyn. How old would she be now, forty? Forty-five, maybe. He had never been sure how old she was then. When he asked once, too old was all she said. He let it go. It did not matter. He was just past sixteen when they met in Paris. And, he had to admit, it was all because of Baba.

  His father, determined to emigrate again, to America, had wanted them all to take English lessons. This, after Jalal had spent three years perfecting his French. He could already speak some English. Enough to flirt with the American girls he met in the cafés. That first night, he slouched in his seat in the back of the classroom, wishing he could be anywhere but there with his whole family. Even Farhad, already married, had not dared to disobey Baba’s command. Only his grandfather was exempt. What little French he knew, Jalal had taught him as they read the newspapers together, a daily ritual he began at the age of six, when he learned to read. Jalal had no choice. He would attend these language classes, but not willingly.

  Then, Jocelyn walked through the door. She wrote her name on the blackboard and said, first in English, then repeated in French, “You may call me Miss Adams or Jocelyn, whichever you are comfortable with.” He would call her Jocelyn. And he would learn to speak perfect English.

  The family took their beginning English lessons on Thursday nights, but he soon discovered she taught an advanced class on Tuesdays. After that, as often as he could slip away, he attended both classes. The first Tuesday night, she looked at him in surprise when he entered, but said nothing. At the end of class, she walked to the back row where he sat. “Jalal,” she said in French, “this is an advanced class, I’m afraid you wouldn’t learn much from it.”

  He answered her in English. “I will study.”

  She turned a chair around to face his and sat down. “But you are not registered for this class,” she said, speaking carefully in English. “Do you understand?”

  “I will register,” he said. “I will pay the fee.”

  Jocelyn smiled, but shook her head. “The class is full.”

  He leaned forward and switched to French. “What does that matter? Will it be a problem for me to sit quietly here and take in what I can?” He looked into her eyes and let his smile spread like honey. She jumped up and backed away. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but she said nothing. “So,” he said, rising to his feet, “it is settled. I will see you on Thursday … and next Tuesday.”

  Only to Azadeh did he confess his plan to seduce Jocelyn. They were sitting against the chimney in the attic of the house they rented. Rain dripped from the rafters all around them, but it was the only place in the house not occupied by other family members. As often happened, their conversation had started in French, then drifted into their native Farsi.

  “But she’s old,” said Azadeh, “as old as Farhad, I would guess.”

  “I know.” Jalal grinned. “That excites me.”

  “You’re disgusting.” She turned away from him, but only for a moment. “She’s our teacher. You’ll get her in trouble.”

  “It’s only a night class, not real school, not even my school. Besides, no one will know.” He glowered at her. “Right?”

  She sighed and nodded. Seconds later, she tilted her chin up, defiant. “It doesn’t matter anyway. This is one of your fantasies. She won’t have anything to do with you,”

  “Oh, yes she will, Aza. Wait and see.”

  Following a near sleepless night in an Oregon hotel, Jalal headed south again, toward home. He crossed the California state line intending to drive to San Francisco and then follow Highway 1 down the coast, but with his mind focused elsewhere, he blew past the Bay Bridge exit. He was trying to create order from a flood of words that rose at the sight of a lone live oak a few miles back. By the time he realized Fremont was just up ahead, he had changed plans and pulled off into a travel plaza to write down the first lines of verse in his journal. When the words ran out he drove on toward San Jose to pick up the 101 there, hoping another oak would inspire the rest of the poem. He could head west at Coelho and still be home in time for tea.

  After miles with no suitable tree in sight, Jalal’s thoughts drifted again to Paris. On Thursday nights, he had behaved himself. No one could have suspected his thoughts about Jocelyn. Tuesday nights were another thing. At
first, she avoided being alone with him in the classroom, striking up a conversation with one or more students at the end of class and walking out with them. Then, one night, he insinuated himself into their discussion, and after a moment the other student excused herself. Jocelyn let him walk her home. For months after that, when he had free time, he waited at her corner, hoping she would come out. When she did, he followed her like a puppy. Jocelyn acknowledged his presence by warning him off with a glance, and he kept his distance, until one day when he followed her from the library. She stopped and turned around.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s … not proper.”

  He laughed. “This is Paris,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his arm.

  “But I am American.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are a student.”

  “Technically, I—”

  “You are a boy, Jalal.”

  He closed the distance between them in two quick steps and traced one fingertip lightly down her cheek. “You are beautiful.”

  A small whimper escaped her lips before she swatted his hand away. “Don’t.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Don’t do that.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and took a step back. “I will be seventeen in three months.”

  Jocelyn's hand flew to her mouth and she closed her eyes. “Seventeen,” she said, “oh god.” She turned and walked away.

  He fell in beside her. “What would it hurt to sit in a café with me? Just to talk.”

  “It would encourage you.” She stopped and turned to him. “And what could we possibly have to talk about?”

  He pulled a book from his satchel and held it up. “This?”