Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Page A

beautiful,” Marjan said, her heart leaping into her throat. He had a way of catching her unaware, she had noticed. She wasn't entirely sure she didn't like it.
    “Busy day?” he asked, moving around to face her.
    Marjan nodded, swallowing. “Packed for lunch and tea. I haven't had time to catch my breath.” She looked at the iron doorstop, suddenly too self-conscious to lean down to move it.
    “No better time to catch it, then. Especially with this wonderful turf-filled air around us.” He smiled, inhaling deeply. “A turf fire supersedes a log one any day, don't you think?”
    “Yes,” said Marjan, taken aback by his comment. “Yes, I do.” He seemed to read her mind as well.
    “Elemental. Do you know what I mean?”
    “The fire?”
    “Exactly,” Julian replied. “The fire. A piece of turf comes from the ground, mulched sediment thousands of years old, then gets fed into the air to settle once more. That's what I call a full cycle.” He crossed his arms and took a few moments to observe the darkening sky, giving Marjan ripe opportunity to look at him.
    He had changed slightly since the last time she had seen him, she realized. He seemed more relaxed, somehow less constrained by the London he had left behind.
    Even his clothes had taken a Mayo turn: instead of his usualblazer, he was wearing a weathered jacket and an old cable sweater, work boots and a pair of roughened jeans. It was the first time she had seen him so casual, so rugged and handsome. He looked good in denim, she thought, feeling that tingle again.
    Easy, girl, she chided herself silently, a little shocked by her thoughts. She hadn't felt anything remotely similar in a very long time. She cleared her throat. “How's the Wilton Inn working out? Are you enjoying your stay there?”
    “It'll do for the moment. It's not my final destination.” Julian pointed to the elms bordering Fadden's Field. “My family's estate is beyond the woods there,” he said. “Muir Hall. It's been around for over two hundred years. I'm renovating it, actually.”
    “Oh, I didn't realize,” replied Marjan, then remembered the gossip Bahar had overheard. “Is the field part of the property?”
    “It used to be. Now it belongs to the county.” Julian paused, staring thoughtfully at the field. Then he looked at her again.
    The dark green hunting jacket he was wearing matched his eyes, Marjan noticed, as her heart started in on its now familiar jig. Ali had green eyes too, though his were lighter, with inner golden flecks.
    “I was down for lunchtime yesterday, but your sister, is it? She said you were out on business.”
    “It's been a crazy few days,” admitted Marjan. If only he knew how crazy.
    Julian shook his head. “I'm amazed at the work you take on,” he said. “All by yourself.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The restaurant, for one. It's a serious venture, a great business success. And we're not talking about in the middle of Soho London. Here, in the lonesome West of Ireland.” He looked at her with admiration. “Not many can claim that kind of victory.”
    “Well, I didn't do it alone. I have my sisters. And some greatfriends who made it possible. Without them, none of this could have happened.”
    She looked up at the little stone building with its purple shutters with fondness.
    “Friends and relatives aside, I know you are still the one that makes it all happen inside that bit of a kitchen. You could bottle up that magic of yours and make a fortune, Miss Aminpour.” Julian ran his hands over the wooden shutters, stopping midway. “May I call you Marjan?”
    “Of course.” Marjan paused. “Julian.”
    “Well, Marjan. I know it's not drizzling in any sense of the word, but I was hoping to take that rain check after all. How about a pint next door?”
    Marjan stared at the pub's glowing windows. Paddy McGuire's was filling up with its usual crowd of weekday locals. It was the first evening she had had free all week, in a couple of