Half an hour later, she received a call from her husband. “I can’t believe you called Scott to ask him not to marry our daughter. Tell me you didn’t do this.” Ella gasped. “Wow, word gets out fast. Honey, let me explain.” But David interjected tensely, “There is nothing to explain. What you did was wrong. Scott told Jeannette, and now she’s extremely upset. She’ll be staying with her friends for a few days. She doesn’t
want to see you right now.” He paused briefly. “And I don’t blame her.” That evening Jeannette wasn’t the only one who didn’t come home. David sent Ella a text message informing her of a sudden emergency that had arisen. There was no explanation as to the nature of the emergency. It was so unlike him and against the spirit of their marriage. He might flirt with woman after woman, could even sleep with them and spend his money on them for all she knew, but he had always come home and taken his place at the table in the evenings. No matter how deep the rift between them, she always cooked and he always ate, gladly and gratefully, whatever she put on his plate. At the end of each dinner, David never failed to thank her—a heartfelt thank-you that she always took to be a coded apology for his infidelities. She forgave him. She always did. This was the first time her husband had acted this brazen, and Ella blamed herself for the change. But then again, “guilt” was Ella Rubinstein’s middle name.
When she sat at the table with her twins, Ella’s guilt gave way to melancholy. She resisted Avi’s pleas to order pizza and Orly’s attempts not to eat anything, forcing them to munch on wild rice with green peas and roast beef with mustard glaze. And although on the surface she was the same hands-on, concerned mother, she felt a surge of despair rise in her, a sharp taste in her mouth, sour like bile. When dinner was over, Ella sat at the kitchen table on her own, finding the stillness around her heavy and unsettling. Suddenly the food she had cooked, the outcome of hours of hard work, seemed not only dull and boring but easily replaceable. She felt sorry for herself. It was a pity that, at almost forty, she hadn’t been able to make more of her life. She had so much love to give and yet no one demanding it. Her thoughts turned to Sweet Blasphemy. She was intrigued by the character of Shams of Tabriz. “It could be nice to have someone like him around,” she joked to herself. “Never a dull day with a guy like him!” And somehow the image that popped up in her mind was of a tall, dark-looking, mysterious man with leather pants, a motorcycle jacket, and black hair that fell to his shoulders, riding a shiny red HarleyDavidson with multicolored tassels hanging from the handlebars. She smiled at the image. A handsome, sexy, Sufi motorcyclist riding fast on an empty highway! Wouldn’t it be nice to get picked up while hitchhiking by a guy like that? Ella then wondered what Shams would see if he read her palm. Would he explain to her why her mind turned from time to time into a coven of dark thoughts? Or how come she felt so lonely even though she had a large, loving family? What about the colors in her aura? Were they bright and bold? Had anything in her life been bright and bold lately? Or ever? It was then and there, while sitting alone at the kitchen table with only a faint glimmer of light from the oven, that Ella realized that despite her high-flying words denying it, and despite her ability to keep a stiff upper lip, deep inside she longed for love.
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