Page 53

Just then, Nisa walked inside the kitchen, an impish smile on her face. Holding her hand and looking more than a little embarrassed, was Dina Haq.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lucky blinked, wondering if his thoughts had somehow conjured Dina. Judging from the shocked look on his mother’s face, he wasn’t hallucinating. Dina was really here. In his house.

“Dina?” His voice was hoarse to his ears, and he cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

She seemed unsettled by the question, panic in her eyes. “I . . . um . . . Samir sent me? He said he texted?”

He closed his eyes. Samir was up to something. He would have to remind his friend of his promise to stop interfering in his life.

Dina glanced at his mother, her smile uncertain. “Salam, Aunty. I am so sorry for intruding like this. Nisa just opened the door and—”

Her words reminded him of Nisa’s role in this farce. He fixed his niece with a stern look. “Did you open the door on your own again, baby girl?”

Nisa nodded, clearly expecting applause.

“Your mama and baba are going to be very upset,” he said. “It’s not safe. What are you supposed to do when you spot someone on the porch?”

“Tell someone and then wait,” she recited, still looking like the cat who swallowed the canary. “But you were talking with Dadi,” she said, referring to Huma, “and I wanted to talk to the pretty lady.” She batted her lashes at Lucky, who sighed deeply and scooped her up.

“Let’s go, I’m taking you down to your mom,” he said in a resigned tone. His brother and Jiya had taken up residence in the basement of the house, the same one that Lucky had renovated into a bright and spacious area with two bedrooms, a small sitting room, and one full bathroom. It wasn’t big enough for his brother’s growing family, but they seemed content there for now.

After he deposited his niece into Jiya’s arms, he made his way back to the kitchen, pausing on the stairs. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Dina was here, in his house. She had arrived because Samir had sent her. No other reason. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from the kitchen. He should rescue Dina before his mother offered to cook her breakfast and then interrogated her while she was held hostage by tea and good manners. Yet he couldn’t help a small flame of . . . something as he rejoined Dina and Huma in the kitchen. He wasn’t upset to see her. Quite the opposite, actually.

To his surprise, his mother wasn’t grilling Dina. Instead, they were talking about food. The restaurant, in fact.

“My husband had a lot of dreams,” Huma said. “He was happiest when he was working on one of his ideas. There was always a reason why his last good idea didn’t work out, of course. Things were going well at the restaurant at first, remember, Luqman?” she said, turning to him.

Lucky did, and he nodded as he rejoined them in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The restaurant had been exciting, and even he, always suspicious, had been compelled by his father’s vision. Then suddenly, the persistent cough that had dogged his father for years seemed to get worse. Within six months, Majid was having trouble speaking without dissolving into a coughing fit. Lucky had to drag him to the doctor, but no one had anticipated the devastating diagnosis: stage IV lung cancer. His father had never even smoked.

“Majid wanted to keep working in the restaurant during treatment, but he went downhill fast, within a few months,” Huma said now, as if reliving a nightmare. “By the time we thought about leaving for Canada, he was too weak to go anywhere. Plus, our health benefits in Canada had expired by then, and we would have had to pay in either country for medical expenses. It made the most sense to stay in one spot, where we were settled.” Her voice lowered. “After he died, I think it was shame that kept me here. What did we have back in Toronto? We would have returned to pitying stares from friends and family, and no money.”

Lucky laughed, the sound hollow. “So we stayed to pitying stares from strangers and no money,” he said.

There was silence in the kitchen, broken only by Dina’s quiet voice. “I’m so sorry that happened to your family, Huma Aunty.”

“Thank you, Dina beta,” Huma said. “It was Majid’s dream to open a restaurant, not mine. We are still waiting on payment for our share of the business, however.”

“Your brother-in-law hasn’t paid you yet?” Dina asked. “It’s been five years since Lucky’s father passed, right?”

Huma shook her head. “We didn’t have anything in writing. It was a family matter. My husband called his brother a week before he died, and they talked for a long time. Afterward, he told me his brother promised to take care of us and that he would keep the restaurant going as well.”

Lucky couldn’t help his derisive snort. “Some help. He stopped talking to us after the janazah,” he said, referring to the Muslim funeral service.

Dina sat up straight. “That’s a violation of your contract, even if it wasn’t written down. You could sue.”

Lucky shrugged. The memory of his uncle’s coldness still rankled all these years later. They had relied on him for help, and while he had come through with funeral arrangements and hosting the reception after the prayer at his home, he had completely shut down when Lucky tried to approach him a week later, asking about payment for their family’s share of the restaurant. Lucky had tried more than a dozen times following, until finally his uncle had stopped taking his calls, or even answering the door when he went over. “We don’t need him, or his money.”

Dina pinned him with a look, and Lucky remembered the way she would lecture him about studying harder for a test, or paying more attention in class, willing him into a better student. She was a force of nature, but she couldn’t fix this problem, he knew. It went beyond the law and lingered in the murky sidelines of promises made, and what family owed each other.

“Even if your uncle is a jerk and you never want to talk to him again, he shouldn’t get away with stealing from your family. I can write a letter if you like, and—” Dina started.

“Leave it,” Lucky said, cutting her off. “This isn’t your concern.”

His mother looked from Lucky to Dina, a worried expression on her face. “Maybe your friend is correct and we should send a letter. Perhaps Mansoor Bhai will respond to something official at least.”

Lucky was staring at Dina now. She had barged into his home without invitation or explanation, after not talking to him for six years, and after messing with his head for the past six days. He had been doing just fine without her. She had no right to interfere with his personal family business.