applied makeup could disguise. “Oh,” she said. “You made it.”
“Of course,” I said, bending down to kiss her on the cheeks. “I can only stay for a couple of hours, though. I have to go back to work.” I took the chair next to hers. My back hurt from having carried boxes of groceries earlier that morning, and I stretched my legs out and heaved a sigh of relief. A soft wind blew, rustling the leaves of the sage bushes that bordered the deck. Beyond it the lot sloped into a valley of Joshua trees, and, in the distance, giant red-rock formations. “What a great view you have here, Salma.”
She smiled. “Yes, it’s nice and clear today, too.”
Maybe it was the satisfaction in her voice that grated on my ear, or maybe it was seeing her lounging like this, but instantly I found myself thinking about Baker’s arraignment. Salma had made no effort to be in court, hadn’t rescheduled her clinic appointments, hadn’t even called me afterward to hear the details of the hearing. I was trying to think of a way to bring this up when the door slid open again and Tareq appeared, carrying a pitcher.
“I have a migraine,” my sister told him, somewhat abruptly.
Tareq didn’t reply. He stirred the lemonade with a metal spoon, bruised the mint leaves for a minute, then poured two glasses.
“The bright light can’t be good for you,” I said. “Maybe we should go inside.”
“No, I like it out here.” Turning to her husband again, she asked, “Can I get a pill?”
A raven landed near us and eyed the ground for any crumbs. Tareq waved it away. “Drink the lemonade,” he said. “It should help.”
“I’d rather have something.” Her eyes were pleading.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up.”
I didn’t know what to make of this exchange between them, or the tension that I sensed beneath their pleasantries. Why wouldn’t he give her something for her migraine? “Are you all right?” I asked her after he left.
“I’m fine,” she said.
For the first time, it occurred to me that the perfection my sister wore like an armor was starting to show some cracks. It could only be grief, I thought; grief had done this to her. All at once my irritation disappeared. I reached across the side table to touch her arm, and immediately she put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. “Oh, Salma,” I said.
“I’m fine,” she said again, and took a long sip of her lemonade. From the neighbor’s yard came the rattle of a wire fence being opened, followed by the joyful barking of a dog. “Why do you have to leave so early anyway?” she asked.
“I told you, I have to go back to work.”
“You mean the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“Nora, why are you doing this?” she asked me warily. “Mama doesn’t want to run the restaurant anymore, and she shouldn’t have to. She’s getting on in years, you know. She just wants to retire.”
“She can still retire. I can buy her share of the business so long as you keep yours.” Then, warming up to my idea, I said, “We could be partners, you and I. The Guerraoui sisters. How about that?”
“That sounds nice, but then what? Who’s going to run it?”
“You don’t think I can?”
“It’s not that. I just thought you wanted to write music.”
“I do want to write music, but I’m also not letting Baker get away with murder and I’m not giving up on Dad’s dream.”
“It was his dream, Nora, not yours. You don’t want to be living someone else’s dream, trust me.” Her voice brimmed with rage. She swiveled her legs off the ottoman and sat facing me, looking at me so intently that I thought she might grab me by the shoulders and shake me. “Look, if you’re going to do something as crazy as writing music, you might as well commit to it. Get rid of the diner and go write the best goddamn music you can.”