had followed me down the steps and waited quietly while I absorbed the familiar environment. I heard the hum of a fast engine, and a cobalt blue convertible pulled around the corner. The sleek sports car was the exact color of his eyes.
Mr. Kadam must have arranged for the car. I rolled my eyes at his expensive taste. Mr. Kadam thought of every last detail—and he always did it in style. At least the car’s a rental, I mused.
I stowed my bags in the trunk and read the name on the back: Porsche Boxster RS 60 Spyder. I shook my head and muttered, “Holy cow, Mr. Kadam, I would have been just as happy to take the shuttle back to Salem.”
“What?” Nilima asked politely.
“Nothing. I’m just glad to be home.”
I closed the trunk and sank down into the two-toned blue and gray leather seat. We drove in silence. Nilima knew exactly where she was going, so I didn’t even bother giving her directions. I just leaned my head back and watched the sky and the green landscape zip by.
Cars full of teenage boys passed us. They whistled, admiring either Nilima’s exotic beauty and long, dark hair flying in the wind or the nice car. I’m not sure which inspired the catcalls, but I knew they weren’t for me. I wore my standard T-shirt, tennis shoes, and jeans. Wisps of my golden-brown hair tangled about my loose braid and whipped at my brown, red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked face. Older men cruised past us slowly too. They didn’t whistle, but they definitely enjoyed the view. Nilima just ignored them, and I tuned them out, thinking, I must look as awful as I feel.
When we entered downtown Salem, we passed the Marion Street Bridge that would have taken us over the Willamette River and onto Highway 22 heading for the farmlands of Monmouth and Dallas. I tried to tell Nilima she missed a turn, but she merely shrugged and said we were taking a short cut.
“Sure,” I said sarcastically, “what’s another few minutes on a trip that has lasted for days?”
Nilima tossed her beautiful hair, smiled at me, and kept driving, maneuvering into the traffic headed for South Salem. I’d never been this way before. It was definitely the long way to Dallas.
Nilima drove toward a large hill that was covered with forest. We wound our way slowly up the beautiful tree-lined road for several miles. I saw dirt roads leading into the trees. Houses poked through the forest here and there, but the area was largely untouched. I was surprised that the city hadn’t annexed it and started building there. It was quite lovely.
Slowing down, Nilima turned onto a private road and followed it even higher up the hill. Although we passed a few other winding driveways, I didn’t see any houses. At the end of the road, we stopped in front of a duplex that was nestled in the middle of the pine forest.
Both sides of the duplex were mirror images of each other. Each had two floors with a garage and a small, shared courtyard. Each had a large bay window that looked out over the trees. The wood siding was painted cedar brown and midnight green, and the roof was covered with grayish-green shingles. In a way, it resembled a ski cabin.
Nilima glided smoothly into the garage and stopped the car. “We’re home,” she announced.
“Home? What do you mean? Aren’t we going to my foster parents’ house?” I asked, even more confused than I already was.
Nilima smiled understandingly. She told me gently, “No. This is your house.”
“My house? What are you talking about? I live in Dallas. Who lives here?”
“You do. Come inside and I’ll explain.”
We walked through a laundry room into the kitchen, which was small but had lemon-yellow curtains, brand new stainless-steel appliances, and walls decorated with lemon stencils. Nilima grabbed a couple of bottles of diet cola from the fridge.
I plopped my backpack down and said, “Okay, Nilima, now tell me what’s going on.”
She ignored my question. Instead, she offered me a soda, which I declined, and then told me to follow her.
Sighing, I slipped off my tennis shoes so I wouldn’t mess up the duplex’s plush carpeting and followed her to the small but cute living room. We sat on a beautiful chestnut leather sofa. A tall library cabinet full of classic hardbound books that probably cost a fortune beckoned invitingly from the corner, while a sunny window and a large, flat-screen television mounted above