Free Rosewater and Soda Bread by Marsha Mehran Page B

the priest had said, “it was the English who wanted to claim her, Queen Victoria herself sending in her fancy envoy. But it was to the Shrine that the Pope made his visit in the year 1979, not to the throne of England. It was on Knock that he bestowed his Golden Rose—on the Irish!”
    Bahar returned her gaze to the message, feeling a shiver of pleasure run up her spine.
    Ask and you shall receive, seek and you shall find
…
    She sighed. The delicate calligraphy was imprinted on her mind, words learned by a heart growing more constant with every passing hour. That muscle would soon be as strong as her slender but powerful arms.
    Like she had done with the good old radishes, Bahar Amin-pour would soon carve out her own rosy little spot.
    The time was just about right, she told herself. Not yet, but soon enough.

    “ONE CHEESE AND HERB PLATE with
barbari
bread; two
abgushts
and a plate of angelica fava beans. Mains: chicken kebabs for two, lamb and cherry rice, and a yogurt and cucumber dip, no bread, to go. That's for Maeve Cleary She's on another diet.”
    Layla swung backward into the kitchen with a tray of empty plates. She left them on the sink counter and turned to Bahar. “What's that you're reading?” She walked over to the kitchen table. “A note from your lover?”
    Bahar scowled. She slipped the laminated card back into her apron pocket and pulled her hand out just as fast.
    “Give me your pen,” she said, thrusting out her empty palm.
    “Why?”
    “I'll take over the orders. You can stay here with those instruments of torture.” She pointed to the three stockpots simmering on the green stove.
    Layla shook her head. “No way. Deal was I do the front of house, you do the food. For once.”
    “That was before Marjan was gone for three hours. Where is she anyway? You'd think she'd have the courtesy to call.”
    Bahar moved toward her younger sister with a determined gleam in her eye. She reached for the pen behind Layla's ear, but not before Layla pulled it out.
    “I don't know where she is, but I'm doing the orders,” Layla said, waving the pen above her head.
    At five foot two, Bahar had little hope of reaching it without jumping, risking her dignity in the process.
    She clapped her hands in frustration. “As your elder, I demand you give me that pen! Now, Layla!”
    “Uh-uh. Malachy goes back tomorrow—it's the only time I get to see him all day. I won't be stuck in this kitchen just because you're afraid of a little stove.”
    “Don't tell me your boyfriend's out there again. Doesn't he—”
    The wall phone shrilled. Both sisters reached for it, Bahar securing the cherry red receiver with a smug smile. Her smile soon turned, a deep frown hollowing out her brow. “What do you mean you're staying? What happened?”
    Layla nudged her ear into the other side of the receiver, and both listened as Marjan told them of her plans to stay the rest of the afternoon at Estelle's. By the time Bahar hung the phone back up in its cradle, her frown was a triangle strung from her temples.
    She stared at the floor for a moment. “I don't like the way her voice sounded,” she finally said. “She's hiding something.”
    Layla shrugged. “That's just you being paranoid. Mrs. D's hands are acting up again. That's why she wasn't at the Bonfire last night. She shouldn't be up alone in the cottage anyway.”
    She handed the pen to her sister. “I'll look after the poor
abgusht
. Tell Malachy to come back and keep me company.”
    Bahar took the pen and stuck it in her apron pocket. She was about to voice her opposition when her fingers brushed against the laminated card.
    All at once her shoulders relaxed, her worry lifting like an eddy of dust; the card's message of love was as instantaneous as a shush, as peaceful as Gabriel's breath on a long-fevered brow.

    “THE DAMAGE IS MODERATE, but I won't know more until we get her into the examination.” Dr. Parshaw peeled the latex gloves off his steady hands and