Page 14 of Veiled Fantasies

Soon Jill was chowing down onpilmeni, savoring memories as much as the meal. Funny how food had a way of stirring up the past. Like Easter—a gaggle of voices preparing a feast. Her mother, sister, and grandmother, all crowded in the kitchen, kneading and mixing, laughing and talking. Jill lingered over the sweet memory of her grandmother, with her clinking bracelets and sing-song voice.

“That’s why they call it Mother Russia,” murmured Svetlana, the restaurant owner, watching Jill’s expression as she relished each bite.

Jill tried to explain that she was American with very diluted Russian roots, but Svetlana dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “Blood is blood,” she insisted. “Home never gets away from you.”

Home. Where was that for her? The US? London? Nowhere? Would she ever feel at home, or would she have to ghost through kitchens the rest of her life to recapture the feeling?

“It’s perfectly safe for you to get around the city alone,” Svetlana assured her. The woman’s smiling husband—an Armenian, she said, introducing him—confirmed her opinion.

“No problem!” he agreed. He could have been the alter ego of the surly criminal on the plane, except he was all smiles, not snarls.

As the restaurant started to fill up, Jill leafed through her guide book, stealing glances at the street. Dubai’s population was predominantly foreign, the book said. The city was cosmopolitan and thoroughly versed in Western ways.

She considered her clothes. Her blouse had three-quarter length sleeves. Long enough? What about her long, fair hair? Was she presentable?

Time to find out.

She ventured outside and walked self-consciously down the wide sidewalk. Not a burqa in sight. In fact, the faces she saw were decidedly foreign. Africans, Asians, Indians, Caucasians. Men in business suits, men in khakis. Suits outnumbered robes, ten to one. Why was she so surprised? The few women out and about wore Western clothing. Pants, skirts. On the conservative side, but not Puritan. No one seemed surprised to see Jill in their midst.

Dubai really was cosmopolitan. Modern. In fact, it was a lot like some neighborhoods in London. Only much hotter. Drier. Much drier.

An amplified voice warbled over the rooftops—prayer time. Her eye picked out a minaret between buildings. She’d read about the call to prayer that was broadcast six or seven times a day. The wavering cry carried over street noise, but no one stopped to pull out a prayer rug or drop to their knees. The streets were the place of foreigners, non-believers. There was no reason to feel out of place.

Jill walked around the block and ended up back at the hotel, fanning herself with the guide book and congratulating herself on her feat. Then, she made a three block square and came back to the same place.

Nothing to it.

Finally, she took a deep breath, closed her guide book, and just walked.

She walked and walked the way she had when she first came to London and explored the city on foot. Alone, because walking wasn’t Roger’s thing. Not walking, not exploring. Not talking, not looking, not caring, not loving, not–

Not worth thinking about. She concentrated on the street stretching ahead just like she’d done on all her walks and runs after the break up.

A small glass building shimmered a few blocks away. As she drew closer, Jill was surprised to see it clearly labeled in familiar letters,Metro. She stood in front of the entrance for a long minute before pulling out her guide book. She looked up at the sign, down at her book. The Metro was clean, modern, and safe, the guide book promised.

A man held the glass door open for her. She could see an escalator beyond.

Let go, her inner voice whispered. Let go of all those unfounded fears.

She hurried in behind the man and followed him to a ticket machine. She peered over his shoulder until he pulled out a slip and was gone. She stared at the screen, expecting to see illegible scribbles. But the instructions were in Arabic and English. She fumbled with unfamiliar coins and got a half-day pass on her very first try. Deceptively easy? She kept waiting for alarms to go off.

It was two o’clock and relatively quiet, making the platform a little eerie. But the subway map on the wall was clear, listing stops with images of major attractions. Her eye caught on one, Burj Khalifa. The tallest building in the world as of not too long ago, right? As good a destination as any for the clueless wanderer. She stepped into the women-only car with a heavy step.Dubai, here I come.

* * *

By the time she made it back to the eleventh floor of the hotel, Jill’s weary feet were more than ready for a break. She knocked on the door before sliding the key card through its slot, then stepped inside, heart skipping.

Erik was sitting over his computer with a distracted expression that softened to a smile. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

It seemed their one-syllable exchanges were always followed by pregnant pauses. Could that have something to do with the fact that this guy knocked her off her feet every time she looked at him?

Nah.

She was suddenly aware of her dusty clothes, the same ones she’d been wearing since the flight.Must go shopping tomorrow. Must shower. Must—must say something!

“Um…how was your day?” she tried.

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