soared in the comfort that was Uli. He was fully present. He was there only for her. Any reservation she had about him about holding a matter of importance back dissolved into nothingness.
Climbing out of bed the next morning, Mitra put on her favorite navy wool slippers that covered her feet like a blanket. Kareena had given her these slippers on her last birthday. They'd come encased in a gift box wrapped in gold paper and tied with green ribbon. Stylized letters on top of the box had proclaimed: Sabnam's Sandals.
“It's a nice little shop,” Kareena had said. “I know the owner—she was a client of mine. We still have coffee every now and then. I'd buy out her whole inventory if I could. Oh, by the way, Sabnam will take these back if they don't fit or you don't like the color.”
Sabnam—Mitra liked the music of that name.
At the kitchen table, Ulrich poured Swiss muesli into his bowl. Mitra slid a coffee mug toward him, then ran down the steps of her investigation so far into Kareena's disappearance.
“I've talked to just about everybody who knew Kareena, but not the store clerks of shops where she bought her clothes and shoes,” she said. “I want to get started on that. I'll show them a picture of her, ask if they recall her, and when was the last time they'd seen her. She was a big shopper.” She looked down at her slippers. “I'll start with a shoe store owner.”
“Plan your questions,” he replied.
“Here is one of my planned questions to you. Could you tell me when and where you met Kareena?”
Ulrich frowned at the milk carton. “You don't have whole milk? I can't stand this skim stuff.”
“Sorry, I don't. I'll put it on the shopping list.” She dropped into the other chair. “When you said you recognized Kareena, how did you recognize her? Did you know her?”
Ulrich reached out and gently traced the scar under her left eye caused by a childhood brush with a low-hanging tree branch. “Let's drop the topic, shall we? She isn't important to me. You are, sweetheart. You're more beautiful than her.” He paused. “Let's enjoy the breakfast together.”
Mitra grabbed the muesli box, thoughts fluttering around her mind. They'd had a terrific night together, but his reactions about Kareena gave her unease, as did his line: You're more beautiful than her. She didn't trust those words. Nor did she like the comparison. Mainly because he seemed to be avoiding a discussion about Kareena.
EIGHTEEN
IT HAD BEEN eleven days. Kareena—her desertion had the flawless perfection of a blank sheet of paper. Every evening, Mitra curled up with the Police Beat and neighborhood tabloids, searching for any snippet of evidence. The papers had a discount-store smell. Their greasy print stained her fingers. They made for an altogether depressing read and provided no answers. And yet, Mitra never considered giving up.
Haunted by her thoughts of Kareena, on this afternoon, Mitra went to work in her adopted grandmother's yard. She hoped that turning the soil for the flowerbed and tidying a lot choked with weeds, grass, and rocks would diminish her nightmarish concerns. The air was redolent with the faint fragrance of newly opened pear blossoms. A robin chirped from a treetop. In this perfect ambience, the long oak handle of the spade felt like an extension of her arms.
She heard the click of the back door. Glow, dressed in relaxed-fit aquamarine sweats, her rouged cheeks shining peachy-bright in the sun, approached her. “You're moving all those rocks by yourself?”
Mitra wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I'm used to it. Mother Nature willing, this garden will be ready in time for your birthday.”
Grandmother broke into a smile. Her small eyes closed, as though she were receiving a blessing. She settled into a deck chair beneath a forsythia bush. If the arthritis in her knees hadn't been acting up, she'd be on her feet, meandering around and plucking a vagrant root here, stick or pebble there, Mitra
Climbing out of bed the next morning, Mitra put on her favorite navy wool slippers that covered her feet like a blanket. Kareena had given her these slippers on her last birthday. They'd come encased in a gift box wrapped in gold paper and tied with green ribbon. Stylized letters on top of the box had proclaimed: Sabnam's Sandals.
“It's a nice little shop,” Kareena had said. “I know the owner—she was a client of mine. We still have coffee every now and then. I'd buy out her whole inventory if I could. Oh, by the way, Sabnam will take these back if they don't fit or you don't like the color.”
Sabnam—Mitra liked the music of that name.
At the kitchen table, Ulrich poured Swiss muesli into his bowl. Mitra slid a coffee mug toward him, then ran down the steps of her investigation so far into Kareena's disappearance.
“I've talked to just about everybody who knew Kareena, but not the store clerks of shops where she bought her clothes and shoes,” she said. “I want to get started on that. I'll show them a picture of her, ask if they recall her, and when was the last time they'd seen her. She was a big shopper.” She looked down at her slippers. “I'll start with a shoe store owner.”
“Plan your questions,” he replied.
“Here is one of my planned questions to you. Could you tell me when and where you met Kareena?”
Ulrich frowned at the milk carton. “You don't have whole milk? I can't stand this skim stuff.”
“Sorry, I don't. I'll put it on the shopping list.” She dropped into the other chair. “When you said you recognized Kareena, how did you recognize her? Did you know her?”
Ulrich reached out and gently traced the scar under her left eye caused by a childhood brush with a low-hanging tree branch. “Let's drop the topic, shall we? She isn't important to me. You are, sweetheart. You're more beautiful than her.” He paused. “Let's enjoy the breakfast together.”
Mitra grabbed the muesli box, thoughts fluttering around her mind. They'd had a terrific night together, but his reactions about Kareena gave her unease, as did his line: You're more beautiful than her. She didn't trust those words. Nor did she like the comparison. Mainly because he seemed to be avoiding a discussion about Kareena.
EIGHTEEN
IT HAD BEEN eleven days. Kareena—her desertion had the flawless perfection of a blank sheet of paper. Every evening, Mitra curled up with the Police Beat and neighborhood tabloids, searching for any snippet of evidence. The papers had a discount-store smell. Their greasy print stained her fingers. They made for an altogether depressing read and provided no answers. And yet, Mitra never considered giving up.
Haunted by her thoughts of Kareena, on this afternoon, Mitra went to work in her adopted grandmother's yard. She hoped that turning the soil for the flowerbed and tidying a lot choked with weeds, grass, and rocks would diminish her nightmarish concerns. The air was redolent with the faint fragrance of newly opened pear blossoms. A robin chirped from a treetop. In this perfect ambience, the long oak handle of the spade felt like an extension of her arms.
She heard the click of the back door. Glow, dressed in relaxed-fit aquamarine sweats, her rouged cheeks shining peachy-bright in the sun, approached her. “You're moving all those rocks by yourself?”
Mitra wiped the sweat from her forehead. “I'm used to it. Mother Nature willing, this garden will be ready in time for your birthday.”
Grandmother broke into a smile. Her small eyes closed, as though she were receiving a blessing. She settled into a deck chair beneath a forsythia bush. If the arthritis in her knees hadn't been acting up, she'd be on her feet, meandering around and plucking a vagrant root here, stick or pebble there, Mitra
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