“She’s beautiful,” Sarah whispered.
“That she is,” Nalini agreed.
Although both women hailed from different corners of the world with different backgrounds, religion, and life experiences, somehow they communicated without the benefit of a translator or even words. They each bowed their heads.
Sarah prayed to Mary and Jesus and Nalini to Rama and Sita. Both of them hovered their hands over the baby. When the child wrapped her tiny fists around each woman’s finger, a powerful surge flooded Sarah’s heart.
Sarah lifted her head, meeting Nalini’s eyes, knowing what the woman would say before she spoke.
“I will keep her and raise her,” Nalini announced with complete conviction. “She will be my daughter. I love her.”
“Your husband will allow this?”
“He will not agree. He will show her little kindness, but a mother’s love is strong enough to overcome any obstacle.”
“I will help you raise her. I will make sure she has a good life,” Sarah added. “I will love… I love her, too.”
“What shall we name her?” Nalini asked. Typically, a naming ceremony involved family and input from the grandparents, but in this case, Nalini’s parents were deceased as was all her family.
“What is the word for hope?”
“Asha,” Nalini explained, a genuine smile on her face. “That is a fine and fitting name.”
Sarah nodded in agreement, wiping away her tears.
For the first time in Sarah’s life, her feet felt steady on the path she’d chosen. Nalini, old and destitute, was in no position to raise a baby. Sarah, a young nun, who was not allowed to interfere, was also in no position to raise a baby. But together, they could both give the child everything she needed, everything they had to give. These two women, who would never associate with each other in any ordinary circumstance, formed more than a pact that day. They formed a connection, a friendship, and through Asha, they became family.
Chapter 7
Nick paced the room, his anxiety increasing with every step, while Shyla perched on his couch, reading his pages. Her brows knitted in stern concentration. One thing was for sure. She read at a snail’s pace, resulting in a kind of torture for him.
She put down the final page and wiped the tear before it could fall down her face.
“It’s so bad it made you cry?” Nick asked, his voice tense.
“It’s so good it made me cry.”
Nick expelled a long breath, one he’d been holding in since she’d arrived.
“I’m glad you like it. I wanted to show you a rough example of how you could write it.”
“It’s as if you were in my head. Yesterday, I gave you a brief description of the plot, but you added the emotion.”
“I tried to imagine what it must have been like for two women in that circumstance. I just colored in your outline, that’s all. I’m relieved you’re not angry.”
“Why would I be angry?”
He chuckled. “I didn’t want you to think I was trying to steal your story.”
“I would never think that. It makes sense that Sister Sarah would make the connection to Moses and Nalini to Krishna. You did some research?”
“A little in terms of the Hindu faith. I’m Catholic, so Moses is who I thought of when you told the story.”
Her lips parted slightly, as if his admission surprised her.
Nick cleared his throat. “These are just ideas. I don’t want to dampen your creativity.”
“What creativity? I have a string of events, but you made it a story. You brought it to fruition.”
“Easy Tolstoy. It’s one chapter. One chapter does not a book make.”
She leaned forward, pulling her legs under her. “I have a proposition for you.”
“That’s gotta be the scariest sentence in the English language.”
“What if we worked on this together?” she asked, arching her brow.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s your story.”
“But you’re the writer.”
“Shyla, this sounds like literary women’s fiction. That’s not my genre. In fact, I wouldn’t even read a story like this much less collaborate on one. Besides, I don’t work well with others.”
“I think we work well together. I’ll tell you the story, and you write it. Simple.”
“It’s not simple. It’s incredibly complicated.”
“Why?” she challenged.
“Well, for one thing, money.”
“Money?”
“Yes, if it gets published, how will we divide those profits? The story isn’t mine.”
“We’ll split it. Or you can take it all. I don’t care to make money on it.”
Nick laughed at her innocence. “You say it now, but I’ve seen greed firsthand. It changes people. And truthfully, I really don’t want to make a profit on this either. I wanted to give you a starting point, that’s all.”
“If neither of us is interested in making money, then why are we arguing about it?”
She had a point. He sat beside her on the couch. “Look, you can do this by yourself. I have faith in you.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’ve tried,” she said with a defeated frown.
“You can take classes. There are some great professors at NYU. I can recommend a course for you.”
“This is my last semester. It’s too late.”
“You can take online courses when you go home.”
She turned toward him. “Nick, don’t you understand we can help each other right now?”
“How so?”
“I have a story to write, but I don’t possess the skills to do it. You have the skills but no story.”
“I’m just blocked right now.”
“Yes, but obviously something in this idea spoke to you because you were able to create this,” she said, holding up the pages. “Maybe it will give you inspiration to write other things. Maybe Max Montero will start talking to you again.”
He tightened his hand around the arm of the couch, not wanting to admit she vocalized his own thoughts. “I know some other authors who write in this genre. They might be willing to work with you. I can talk to them.”
She shook her head vehemently. “I don’t feel comfortable with strangers.”
“I was a stranger, Shyla.”
“Yes, but now you’re my friend. That took a year of weather conversations to happen. I don’t have another year.”
She gathered up the pages and stood. “I should go.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not. I’m sad.