He escorted her to the street and hailed a cab.
“I don’t want you to pay for my cabs anymore, Nick.”
“I worry about you walking home.”
“I’ll take a cab if it makes you feel better, but I can afford it.”
He shoved his hands in his pocket, fighting the urge to argue with her.
“Are you going to stop coming now?” He cursed the pathetic nature of his question, but the time he spent with Shyla was both precious and precarious. He didn’t want it to end.
A cab stopped, and he held the door open for her.
Her lips quirked in a half-smile. “Of course not, I’m your delivery girl.”
He tilted her chin toward his face. “You know what I mean.”
“Nick, I’ll invite myself to dinner as long as you let me in.” She smiled wider, just enough for the dimple to make an appearance. God, he loved the dimple. “I understand why you don’t want to work on this with me, but it doesn’t change the fact we’re friends.” She moved to get in the cab, but paused, her eyes level with his chest. “My time with you is the best time of my day.”
He swallowed, replaying the sentence in his head. “Me too, Shyla.”
“Be safe, Nick.”
* * * *
That night, Nick Dorsey paced so much he could have created a groove in the floor. The girl brought laughter into his quiet, lonely life. He missed her when she was gone. And yes, he was attracted to her, but he was careful to cloak those feelings around her. He craved her friendship most of all.
The next night she showed up complete with juice boxes and sandwiches.
Nick took the food and set it down. Then he led her to the couch. His digital tape recorder lay on the coffee table in front of her.
“I don’t understand,” she said, studying the device.
He remained standing. “Here are the rules. We do this until one of us no longer wants to. You tell me the story, and we write it together. If I determine it’s good enough, I’ll share it with my agent. If it’s published, you’ll get the lion’s share of the profits, and I’ll take a five percent cut.”
“Only five percent?”
“Consider it my editing fee.”
“But you’re doing more than editing. You’re writing it. Surely, you deserve more.”
“It’s all I want. Those are my rules. Do you have anything to add?”
“It’s a very generous offer. One I can’t pay you back for. Thank you.” The girl didn’t understand. She was already paying him back. Or rather, she was bringing him back.
She stood and walked toward him. He staggered back, unprepared when she threw her arms around his neck. She didn’t let go, tightening her hug. Nick closed his eyes, took in her scent, and embraced her. He felt the curves of her body under the thick material of her clothes. His own body reacted.
Shit.
He backed away clumsily before she could decipher the non-verbal communication. He took the seat opposite the sofa and placed his notepad over his lap. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
He turned on the recorder. She sat with her legs beneath her.
“This is so I can remember without taking notes.”
She nodded and leaned down until her mouth was inches from the device.
He laughed. “It’ll pick up your voice. You don’t have to do that.”
She sat back. “Oh, okay.”
He punctured the top of the juice box. She did the same with hers. They didn’t cement the decision with a contract or a handshake. Instead, they toasted with colorful cardboard boxes.
“Before we start, I wanted to ask if you have a title?”
“Not yet.”
“Sometimes it’s better to let it come to you as the story unfolds.”
She cleared her throat and continued the story. He hung onto her every word, wrapped in the trance of her rich, seductive voice.
Chapter 8
Asha’s story
Sarah loved the child as if she were her own flesh and blood. Asha grew up headstrong and compassionate just like the two women who raised her. In the village, it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to turn up pregnant and have a child without the other villagers knowing beforehand. So no one questioned Nalini’s new baby. Truthfully, the birth of a girl was a rather unremarkable event and often yielded more sympathies than celebrations.
Sister Sarah was disappointed how true Nalini’s prediction was. Depal never loved the child and barely accepted her, but he allowed his wife the indulgence of keeping the baby and supported the secret of the child’s origins. Sister Sarah helped Asha as much as she could. She swore the translator to secrecy. She allowed Nalini to bring the baby to work where the two women often cooed over her. Sarah spent every free moment with Asha, humming hymns and reading from scripture.
Unbeknownst to anyone, Sarah also had a proclivity for non-secular texts and often read those to Shyla, too. The infant grew surrounded by the sounds of the Gita songs Nalini sang in the morning, the biblical stories Sarah told in the afternoons, and the occasional passage penned by the sisters Brontë.
Sarah, the youngest of eight children, grew up in a strict Catholic home on the outskirts of Manitoba. Her mother planted the seeds of faith and service at an early age. Sarah questioned if being a nun was God’s true plan for her, but she acquiesced to her mother’s wishes. In truth, she yearned for adventure and the chance to do good works in the world. When the opportunity arose to teach in a third world country, Sarah took it willingly. The plan was to set up the school and stay for a year or two until she was relieved of her duties, but now Sarah knew she’d never leave—not when she had a baby to take care of. Never had she felt so certain she was in the right place. Never had she believed in her mother’s dream as she did now.
Both women agreed never to divulge the way the baby came into their lives…not even to the child. They didn’t want the girl to feel unwanted. “God has a plan for you, child,” Sarah often told baby Asha.
When Asha was sick, Sarah brought her difficult-to-obtain western medications. When Asha needed clothes, Sarah purchased them so Nalini wouldn’t have to ask her husband. When the child cried during the day, Sarah rocked her.
At night, Nalini carried the child to her home. In the small hut, she nursed Asha and told her of the great Hindu parables. Ironically, the stories contained very similar morals as Sarah’s.
Depal often grumbled about the child, openly calling her a burden, but his wife quieted him. “If she is a burden, then she is my burden,” she said to her husband. Depal resented the girl. He was old, his muscles hurt, and the last thing he wanted was another mouth to feed. She stole away what little they had, but his main concern was the cost of the dowry he’d have to pay when she was of marriageable age.
When Asha turned five, she attended the missionary school as a student. The other children made fun of her because of Sister Sarah’s special interest, but Asha held her head up high. She felt lucky, proud, and even a little vain the pretty nun favored her.
Nalini agreed to stay later than the other maids. In those hours, she sat on the floor in the corner of the school building running her fingers over her Mala, a necklace similar to a Catholic rosary, while Sister Sarah tutored the child in more advanced subjects.
“The girl is fair skinned