Behind the Curtain - Page 9

Her mom watched her soap opera on the little television on the counter while she sealed a dish with tin foil. A pot of tagine steamed on the stove.

Laila lifted a corner of the aluminum foil to see what they would grill out on the deck tonight. Despite her uncommon restless mood and desire to flee the cottage—she didn’t know where, just somewhere—her stomach rumbled with hunger. She’d spent nine summers now with her extended family in the charming beach town of Crescent Bay and knew that fantastic food was one of the many highlights of the traditional vacation. Her mom and aunties became inspired during their weeks spent on the lakeshore dunes, scheming daily to outdo each other’s cooking.

“What time will we eat?” Laila asked.

Her mother pulled her attention off her soap opera—one of many on a list of favorite American and Arab soaps, and even recently, a Telemundo sizzler. She patted the back of Laila’s hand fondly before finishing sealing the foil on the dish.

“We’ll eat when your father and uncles get here, of course,” she said, handing the dish to Laila. Laila carried the dish over to the refrigerator. During their extended summer vacation in Crescent Bay every year, only the aunties and the kids stayed on full time. Laila’s dad, Anass Barek, and her two uncles commuted back and forth from Detroit for their jobs. They would stay in Crescent Bay for the weekend before returning late Sunday night, Laila’s dad to his collision and glass repair shop, and her uncles to their jobs as line supervisors at Ford Motors.

“The girls and I were hoping to check out that music festival going on over in Crescent Bay tonight,” Laila said as she shut the fridge door, testing the waters of her mother’s response. If her mother agreed that she could go out with her cousins tonight, then her father would agree when he arrived, as well. Her father was typically more tolerant than her mother. Zara and Tahi’s parents tended to be more permissive in what they allowed their twenty-year-old daughters to do, as well, a fact that could work either in Laila’s favor or against it. Sometimes her mother was more agreeable to a venture if Zara and Tahi accompanied her. At other times, Zara and Tahi might be deemed a tad wild, at least where Laila was concerned. Even though Laila’s birthday was only eight months after Zara’s, and six months after Tahi’s, she’d somehow been labeled early on as the “young” one that everyone had to look out for. It galled Laila to no end. The fact that her mother had had some health issues after she’d given birth to Laila, and afterward could no longer have children, didn’t help in taking the obsessive, protective focus off Laila. Zara and Tahi had older and younger brothers and sisters, while Laila was an only child. The cousins’ parents were more “broken in” than Laila’s, at least in Laila’s opinion.

From experience, Laila knew that her mother tended to be a little more carefree and tolerant in Crescent Bay, however. She had her fingers crossed she’d get no argument for tonight’s plan. Her mom’s attention was already caught again by her soap opera.

“It’s Friday night. Your father is getting here for the first time this summer. Why do you have to start running around already? You’ll stay in.”

“But Zara and Tahi—”

“Those girls run wild every night. Just because they do something doesn’t mean you have to,” her mother murmured distractedly, her pretty, large brown eyes fixed on the television screen. “Crescent Bay is about relaxing and celebrating your good fortune and family, not running around to rock-and-roll parties.”

Laila started to correct her mother—the festival really did offer a diverse collection of local and regional artists: jazz, rock, R&B, pop, Irish folk music, and yes—one traditional Arab female singer. Instead, she paused to tactically regroup. For a moment, she watched the drama unfolding on the television with her mom.

“You’ll miss the last episodes of the season on your favorite Arab shows here in Crescent Bay,” she murmured. The cable here in tiny Crescent Bay didn’t pick up the Arabic-language stations they were able to get in Detroit, where Laila’s family lived. There were large, established Arab and Moroccan communities in the Detroit area. Like many of her friends, Laila straddled two cultures, existing in both. At times, she found that navigation seamless and as easy as breathing.

At other times, it could be a considerable challenge. Now that she’d turned nineteen and completed her first year of college at Wayne State University, she was finding the negotiation for her independence from her parents and close-knit family increasingly difficult. And at times, tiresome. Even though her parents had insisted she live at home while she attended college, Laila had still gotten her first taste of a wider world out there. It had lit a fire in her. She usually loved their idyllic family vacations in Crescent Bay. This year, she was uncharacteristically restless and claustrophobic.

Her mother gave her a mischievous glance. “Your cousin Zarif taught Nora and me how to

TiVo all our shows. The girls and I are going to have a marathon when we get home,” she said, referring to her sister Nora and sister-in-law Nadine.

Laila grinned. It tickled her, how Laila herself, Zara and Tahi were referred to collectively as “the girls,” and so were her mother and aunties. “You’re turning so modern, Mom. First your iPod, and now TiVo.”

“Don’t be silly. Your father only got me that iPod so that I could listen to my music while I work.”

Laila saw her “in.” Her mother loved her music even more than she loved her shows. Moroccans in general were crazy about music, and Laila and her mother were no exception.

“There’s going to be some Arab music performed at the music festival in town,” Laila said with seeming casualness as she lifted the lid on the pot on the stove and stirred the fragrant contents.

Her mother cast her an interested but wary glance. “Some shameful pop version of it, I suppose? Something like that pollution you listen to?”

“No, Mamma,” Laila assured her. “You know there are a lot of Arabs that have settled here on the shoreline. This is a traditional singer, honest.”

She held her breath while her mother studied her closely. Her mother, her khal-ti Nora, and her grandmother had always been, and still were, considered fine singers and musicians in their community. Laila had inherited their talent, although she preferred to write music and poetry versus sing.

“Well, I suppose since we have nothing special planned for tonight . . .”

“Thank you, Mamma,” Laila enthused, planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek. Her mom patted the side of her head in a warm gesture.

“We’ll be home by eleven,” Laila assured her.

“Ten o’clock,” her mother corrected, her loving, maternal gaze going instantly sharp. “And don’t you let that wild Zara keep you out a minute later. I tell you, that girl will be the death of her mother,” Amira Barek insisted. She closed her eyes and mouthed a silent, fervent prayer as to that not being the case.

“I think I’m going to go for a swim before dinner,” Laila said, easing out of the kitchen.

“Be sure to tell Zara I said ten o’clock,” her mom said distractedly, her gaze already drawn back to her soap opera.

“I will,” Laila assured her. She didn’t mention she wasn’t planning on seeing Zara until tonight at dinner. Her cousins were at the local beach, undoubtedly stirring up every male on the shoreline with their tiny bikinis, practiced flirtations and lush beauty.

Laila would swim alone at the hidden beach she’d discovered four years ago, a place she cherished as her own private secret.

Tags: Beth Kery Erotic
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