On the third day, she allowed a shift in her thoughts, pondering the purpose of her resistance, her attempt to block the splendored sunshine from flooding her life. Why was she living in the past, in the future? In the present, Cyrus’s return seemed like her karmic bonus for taking care of herself, for not allowing her past to harden her heart.
She found the email, hit reply, and typed a simple Congratulations! She slept easy that night.
He asked her, via email, if he could take her out to celebrate the Atlanta deal when he visited the following week. She met him for dinner on a Thursday evening, driving straight from work to a small café in Buckhead. She had taken care that morning to wear a blue sheath dress that flattered her slim figure. She congratulated him again in person with a quick sideways hug, taking in how the white of his shirt and the deep red of his tie made his face glow, his eyes sparkle, even in the dim interior of the café. In between bites of his chicken panini sandwich, he told her he had broken up with Giana the week before. She knew she sounded dishonest when she mouthed, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I hope you are okay.”
He said he was fine, they had only dated a few weeks.
She met him for dinner each time he was in town, which was at least twice a month. They found ways to make the dinner stretch, never running out of things to share. He updated her with news on their three mutual friends. Angela had been a flight attendant for Lufthansa until she retired and married a Delhi-based pilot. Michele was a gynecologist who worked in a Bombay hospital. She had married a cardiologist across town and had two kids. James, who remained his best buddy, had taken over his father’s coffee estates after his parents’ death.
She told him what a disappointment she had been to Daddy when she joined the arts stream in college, opting to major in literature. He’d had plans for her to become the first doctor in the family. Just before she graduated with a master’s, she had applied for a sub-editor’s post at the Morning Herald on a whim, with no background or training whatsoever in journalism. She had been the first one from her class to get a job.
“I bet your daddy was finally proud of you,” he said.
“Yes, but he was also quick to add that if I had applied my gray cells a little more, I could have passed the foreign service exam.”
“That’s a typical Indian parent’s reaction. But you stood your ground to do what you loved, so you were quite the rebel.”
She had never seen herself as a rebel, and it tickled her pink that he thought of her as one.
Every waking moment, her mind hopscotched through thought after sweet thought; waiting, endlessly waiting, for their next meeting. By the end of the fall, Cyrus said he was going to be spending a considerable amount of time in Atlanta, overseeing operations of Peach Street Games. It made sense to look for an apartment, to feel at home, rather than stay cooped up in a hotel room. Tara thought he would opt to be near the trendy Buckhead nightlife or the midtown skyline, but Cyrus wanted to be close to nature. He settled for a two-bedroom, top floor, furnished apartment a few miles away from Buckhead, with a large patio that overlooked a thickly wooded park. The patio was perfect for his morning yoga sessions, and the park was ideal for his daily conversations with his inner self, he said.
In the second week of December, a little after Christmas lights began to adorn the city, he moved into Sherwood Park. After he had unpacked his suitcase and duffel bag, the first thing he wanted was a Christmas tree. Tara had bought hers, a seven-foot, Slim Arizona last December at Garden Ridge. She offered to take Cyrus to the same store where, together, they chose the tree, a red reversible skirt, strings of lights, red and silver baubles, and assorted ornaments. He picked an eye-catching five-point star of Bethlehem to top the tree from high up on a shelf. His eyes were trained to spot stars, he said, as he pressed it to his heart. She laughed and slapped him on his shoulder. But beyond his playfulness, she sensed his need to make her part of his Christian family tradition, to involve her in the unwrapping of his new life.
After their shopping expedition, Tara helped him assemble the tree, string the lights, and put up the ornaments. Cyrus heated some spiced apple cider, which they sipped out of large brown ceramic mugs as they worked. When they were done, they settled together on the sofa and looked at their creation: the ornaments, spaced out, yet glimmering delicately in the glow of the lights. The tranquil, mellifluous strains of the santoor gently filled the living room. Tara cast a glance at Cyrus’s Bose home audio system on the entertainment console.
“Pandit Shiv Kumar Sharma? What happened to the guy who insisted on playing ‘Funkytown’ every afternoon?”
He laughed. “He got lost in transition.”
“Hmm. Lost in transition. That’s clever. Yoga, meditation, santoor. It is amazing how much you have changed, Cyrus.”
He said he had learned his lessons the hard way, after the Wall Street slump depleted him completely several years earlier, and, after a particularly weary day, when he had taken a flight out of New York to San Francisco where a friend lived, minus his wife of five years. She had moved out just that morning, and he had nothing to lose, nothing to stop him from starting over.
She began her story at a tangent, telling him about the nightmares and sleep paralysis that had started when she married Sanjay. He wanted to know more, so she gave him images of her life in Atlanta to piece together like a montage. When she was done laying bare past hurts, she looked into his moist eyes and smiled. “Thankfully, it is all in the past.”
“What a crazy man.” He leaned forward and took her hand, fingers entwining with hers. “I’m so sorry you had to go through so much pain, and I admire you so much for standing up for yourself.”
She looked up into his eyes, and saw herself, shining, in the middle of two honey pools.
“I love you, Star.” His voice was soft, yet ardent. She opened her mouth to respond, but only silence flew out. She needed to tell him, she was desperate to tell him, so she lunged forward and claimed his mouth. Her eyes closed of their own accord, not seeing the emotions that passed through his face. But she felt them, in the burning of his tongue as it discovered her moist mouth, exploring new territories; in the grip of his hands that cupped her face; in his mildly cinnamon-scented breath, laden with yearning. When she finally pulled back, he ran his hand through her hair, and let her in to the thumping of his heart. She lifted her face to gaze into his eyes; wet, luminous pools in the soft glow of the Christmas tree and the fading daylight.
“You have a wonderful way of saying things,” he said. His voice was gentle, happy, still breathless.
She looked away smiling, suddenly shy. It was as if the years in between had never happened. She melted in his warmth as he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks; as his hand found the gap where her black T-shirt ended, as it explored the small of her back. He claimed her mouth again, then her long swan-like neck, catching the vibrations in her throat. His hand was climbing up her back, making her spine tingle with longing.
She arched back, pulling him down with her. They made love in the glow of the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. He kissed her shoulder afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, spent. “I love you, my precious Star,” he said tenderly. “I have loved you from the time we first met.”
“I love you too, Cyrus,” she said softly, turning to kiss the tip of his nose. She had never, ever, in her life, said those three words to anybody; not to Amma, Daddy, or Vijay. They finally came to her lips now, those three profoundly magical words.