“Mr. Youssef. What a pleasure. How can we help you today?”
Rasul raised his eyebrows and was about to make a joke regarding Matt’s formality, since they’d met several times now and Matt had always called him Rasul, but then he spied the elderly balding man peering through the curtained door behind the register, regarding Matt and Rasul with intense interest.
Twenty bucks said that was Daddy Engleton. Or, honestly, it might be Grandpa.
Rasul filed away his ribbing and matched Matt’s tone. “It’s getting colder faster than I anticipated, and I realized today I just don’t have winter clothing enough for Copper Point. The perils of living in Los Angeles.”
“You’ve certainly come to the right place.” He raked Rasul’s body with a professional gaze. “Hmm. I’d say you were a 16 neck, 34 sleeve, 43 chest? And….” He tipped his head to the side. “32 waist, 30 inseam? How close am I?”
“Frighteningly.”
Matt winked at him. “Favorite colors?”
“Whatever looks good.” He couldn’t bring himself to say whatever Jacob would like.
“I think this burgundy sweater would do nicely, and this oatmeal-colored henley in a waffle pattern. Shall I start a fitting room for you?”
“Please.”
Rasul wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse, but he enjoyed the luxurious experience of having Matt patiently wait on him, suggesting colors and styles, dismissing one outfit but offering a replacement. By the time he was done, he had almost three hundred dollars’ worth of new duds, and he wasn’t even sorry.
“The only thing is, now my junky tennis shoes are going to show up your great clothes,” he remarked ruefully as Matt rang him up.
Matt didn’t miss a beat. “Paris Shoe Company is next door.” He passed Rasul a card from beside the register. “One of the original Copper Point stores, run by the descendants of the original family.”
Rasul took the card. “Paris, huh?”
“Copper Point was originally settled by French traders, including the Blanchetts, no relation to Cate. I believe there was a time some of their shoes came directly from Paris, hence the name. Italy and of course Asia are far more represented now.”
“I’ll check them out.” Rasul glanced at the curtain behind Matt. It was unmanned, but just in case, he lowered his voice. “Any chance I could take you out for coffee later? You and maybe Gus as well? But not Jacob.”
Matt regarded him carefully. “If you take us out for coffee, we’re going to get a text from Jacob before we so much as place our order asking what’s going on. Even as off the grid as he is, people will text him to let him know. If your goal is to talk to the two of us in private, I’ll arrange something more subdued.” He glanced at his watch. “Gus will be a bit slammed until six thirty. I’ll see when he can steal some time and let you know, but I’m betting it will be seven. We’ll meet here. Come to the back door and knock.”
“This feels very Spy vs. Spy.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. “That’s… an incredibly old reference.”
“I’m a bit retro.” He gathered up his bags. “Thanks for helping me shop, and thanks for arranging the meeting. I’ll go check out Paris now.”
He was just checking out another hundred dollars’ worth of purchases next door when his phone made its discordant clang to let him know he had a text. It was from Matt.
7 pm, back door of Engleton’s. Don’t drive. Bring snacks. Gus says they should be homemade.
Shaking his head, he punched back a laborious ok thnks and gathered his haul to take it back to his apartment.
He still hated his living quarters, but he’d grown accustomed to them as much as he suspected he ever would. Christopher, the math professor, had pointed out the best way to get rid of cooking smells was to infuse the place with his own, and thus Rasul had begun the marathon cooking adventures that had occupied his first month, sometimes in the middle of the night. His favorite thing to make right now was kimchee, because the smell lingered so long after. Indian food was another usual for the same reason, and of course Syrian. He cooked some of his grandmother’s greatest hits, kawaj and tabbouleh and, one Sunday when he was particularly lonesome and frustrated, mujaddara. He’d fed quite a bit of the leftovers to Jacob, who he’d learned would eat just about any food but resisted cooking any of it. Now that he was courting the man in earnest, he planned a far more aggressive culinary assault.
Right now, though, he needed a better lay of the land.
At six thirty he got dressed in one of the new outfits and his new pair of shoes, packed up his latest culinary adventure, and set out for Engleton’s. It was raining again, this time with a little more emphasis, but he still walked, huddling under an umbrella as he made his way down the street, passing the now familiar shops and somewhat familiar people. He was still a minor celebrity in town, but people seemed to have gotten used to him, and only regarded him with mild curiosity, as if at any moment he might do a trick and entertain them. When he got closer to the community center and library, there were more children, and several of them waved at him. He recognized a few from the bookshop, some of them having been patrons that very morning.
He wondered if he could do something at the library, something low-key. The librarian had approached him the first week he was in town, but he hadn’t wanted to draw more attention to himself then. Maybe he could lead a book club? Though if he did that, he should probably do it at the bookstore. Or should he? He’d ask Jacob.
His musings took him all the way to the clothing store, and as directed, he went around the back, shaking out his umbrella as he stood under the awning.
Gus answered his knock, his gaze falling immediately to the bag in his hand. “So you did bring snacks. And you made them?”
Rasul passed him the bag. “I had some time, yeah, so I made maneesh and baba ganoush.”
Gus made appreciative noises as he stuck his head deeper into the paper sack. “Mmm. You could give up the author gig and open a Middle Eastern restaurant. We’d make sure it was a success.”
He followed Gus into a small hallway leading into a storeroom full of hanging clothing and unopened boxes. “Funny, I never cooked much before I came here. I was always on the go. I’m into it, though, especially trying to recreate my grandmother’s recipes.”
“Well, we fully support you and volunteer as taste testers.”
Matt was already seated at a table in the middle of the storeroom, pouring out coffee from a carafe. “Come on in.” He nodded at a Keurig in the corner. “That’s my dad’s. Gus won’t let me touch it and brought us coffee from his shop.”
“Sounds good to me.” Rasul set his offerings on the table and took a cup from Matt.
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask this,” Gus said as he took a seat, “but I’ve never figured out a good way to do it, so I apologize if I mangle it. I know your family has been in the States for some time, but… do you have family still in Syria? Are they in any trouble? Ever since you came, I hear reports from there on the news and feel a bit more ill than usual.”
It had been a while since Rasul had been asked this, though he got it often in Copper Point. He took a sip of the coffee. “Some distant relations. We went there a few times when I was in high school. My dad did what he could to get people out, but with the immigration restrictions….” He shrugged against the hollow pit in his stomach. “We’ve lost contact with most of them. A few made it to Turkey, but they’re in camps. Or, they were. It’s been a while since I’ve heard anything.”