“Lunch should be ready in ten minutes or so,” Madeline said loudly, cutting off Asher’s angry query. “Asher, why don’t you take Laila out onto the terrace and show her the gardens down by the lake?”
Madeline cast a nervous glance between father and son. There was something in her eyes Laila recognized in that moment: a mother’s worry. Maybe Madeline Gaites-Granville would never win an award for Warmest Mother of the Year, but she was genuinely concerned about the rift between her husband and son. More than that, she did love her son fiercely, despite Asher’s doubts on that front. Asher and his father looked incredibly alike at that moment, both of their handsome faces cast in an angry, stubborn expression. Laila felt a little guilty, knowing he was holding in whatever he longed to say because she’d asked him specifically not to roughen the waters.
“I’d love to see the gardens,” Laila told Asher.
Frowning, he stood and put out his hand for her.
They reentered the French doors that led to the terrace a while later. At first, Laila thought the stunning room was empty. But then she noticed Asher’s parents standing near the Steinway in the distance.
“. . . I’m telling you, she must be a Muslim if she’s Moroccan,” Clark Gaites-Granville was saying to his wife as he pointed at his phone, as if he’d discovered some proof there and was showing her.
Laila looked up at Asher’s face and immediately knew he’d heard as well. She squeezed his hand tightly. He blinked and looked down at her. Her heart sank when she saw the fury building behind his eyes.
Asher shut the French doors loudly on purpose. Clark and Madeline both turned toward them. Laila was stunned—and a little impressed—at how cool and unruffled they were as they asked Laila and Asher about their walk, and Madeline ushered them into the dining room.
• • •
If the prelunch attempt at polite conversation was a bad dream, then luncheon itself was an all-out nightmare. The four of them sat at the most opulently set table Laila had ever seen. Asher felt so far away from her, on the opposite side of the table. She had the random impression that the distance and all the silver, crystal and china between them had been purposefully set there to separate them.
She was having trouble remembering what heavy silver fork or what spoon to use, especially when Clark was shooting questions at her from the end of the table.
“What is it that your father does for a living in Detroit, Laila?”
She paused awkwardly in the action of biting into a shrimp. “He owns an automobile collision and repair shop,” she managed to say.
“Madeline has explained to me that you’re Moroccan?”
She set the shrimp down onto her plate. “Yes, that’s right.”
“But you are a U.S. citizen?” Clark continued.
“Laila was born in the U.S.,” Asher interrupted impatiently, tossing down his silver fork onto the china. “She’s as much a U.S. citizen as you are.”
“I’ve never met a Moroccan before. I was just trying to understand,” Clark defended.
“She’s Moroccan-American, Dad. That’s not all that she is. Why are you focusing on it so much? You really need to get out of your lily-white world a little.”
“No . . . it’s okay,” Laila interrupted when Clark opened his mouth to retort angrily to his son. “I don’t mind you asking about my background. It’s only natural. I mean . . . it’s kind of mind-boggling for me to imagine what it was like for Asher to grow up here, in this spectacular place,” she said, glancing around the opulent dining room. She attempted a smile at a stunned-looking Madeline. Laila realized with a sinking feeling that his mother thought it was tactless of her to specifically point out their wealth. “Asher and I come from really different worlds. It’s going to take a little bit for us to learn about what the other one is used t
o.”
“You make it sound like that’s important,” Madeline said, leaning forward. “For you to learn about each other’s worlds.”
“We’re in love, Mom. I’d say it’s pretty damn important,” Asher stated bluntly.
The color washed out of Madeline’s face. She sat back in her chair. Laila held her breath, her gaze zooming over to Clark’s face. He didn’t look pale like Madeline did. He appeared positively ashen.
“Do I take this to mean,” he said slowly, “that Asher has met your parents?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Laila said as calmly as possible, even though it felt like an explosion was about to occur at any moment. She sent Asher a pleading glance. It was no use. She could sense the conflagration building.
“May I ask why not?” Clark asked.
She swallowed thickly and placed her hands in her lap. There would be no more attempts at eating. She didn’t think she could keep the food down.
“My parents are a little old-fashioned. Moroccans tend to be a very close-knit community, as a rule,” she tried to explain as tactfully as she could. “At least when it comes to matters of romance.”
“Are you saying that your parents wouldn’t approve of Asher?” Madeline asked, sheer disbelief spreading on her pretty face.