Haunting Jasmine Read Online Free PDF Page A

know it didn’t?”
    I should know better than to press.
    Auntie shows me her storybook bedroom. She claims the brass double bed frame belonged to Marcel Proust, who wrote while lying down. The mattress sags in the middle—and she expects me to sleep here, beneath an elaborate spiderweb hanging from the ceiling?
    In the tiny kitchen, garlic cloves and onions hang in baskets; various colors of squash and miniature pumpkins are arranged in a bowl.
    “Plenty of vegetables for your recipes,” Auntie says.
    “I don’t usually cook, but thanks.” I have no idea what to do with raw ingredients that require preparation. I don’t have time to slice up a squash and watch it bake in the oven for an hour.
    “I hope you enjoy my humble abode.” Auntie clasps her hands to her chest, a warm smile on her face.
    “You’ll be back in no time.” I turn away from her, toward the window, to hide my worries. Across the water, majestic, snow-capped Mount Rainier rises fourteen thousand feet above the landscape. “You’ll come back to this beautiful view.”
    “Yes, isn’t it lovely?” she whispers behind me. But when I turn around, nobody is there. Auntie has already left the room.

Chapter 5
     
    I hurry along Harborside Road toward my parents’ house on Fairport Lane. In the biting wind, I pass evening walkers, joggers, and couples strolling arm in arm. They stare into each other’s eyes as if they will always remain in love.
    I hold my cell phone up at all angles. No signal. Fairport Café is closed early, too. No newspaper stand, no Wall Street Journal .
    At least I’ve escaped every foul whiff of Robert. I can keep my eye on Auntie’s musty store for a few weeks, clean up the place, no problem.
    I’m here, at my parents’ Cape Cod-style house perched on the bluff overlooking the bay. Along the walkway to the front door, my mother has planted perennials in terra-cotta pots, and as usual, the lawn is pristine, nearly unnatural in its sharp-edged neatness.
    As I raise my hand to knock, Ma opens the front door. She is compact, straight backed, her hair cropped close to her face. Ma rarely wears a sari, preferring beige slacks and printed blouses. Her skin is light, her hair squirrel brown. Warm air wafts out around her and draws me into the pink-tiled foyer. Scents of onion, cumin, and garlic drift through the air. I’m home.
    “So Auntie finally let you leave!” Ma says, hugging me.
    “She held me under siege, but I escaped.”
    “I’m glad you’re staying here instead of in that dusty old house. I don’t know how Ruma can stand the untidiness. Come in. Gita took the ferry over this morning. She’s upstairs having a shower. She’s been preparing dinner all afternoon.”
    “She’s such a chef,” I say, feeling a pang of envy somewhere behind my ribs. Gita, my dear younger sister, knows how to whip up gourmet meals. She knows how to choose the latest fashion and make it all look effortless. I, on the other hand, know how to choose blue suits and ill-fitting pumps that give me blisters. And how to get the top off a gourmet take-out container without damaging my nails.
    I peel off my outer layer, remove my shoes, and follow Ma into the living room. The furniture forms a smorgasbord of my parents’ travels—folk art from Hawaii, India, Africa.
    “I need an Internet connection,” I say, trying not to sound stressed.
    “In my study, as always.” My father shows up with a glass of whiskey in hand. Stooped and gaunt, he seems to have shrunk an inch or two since I last saw him. He has aged in his wrinkled linen pants and shirt, his gray hair mussed.
    I hug him tightly, surprised at the emotion welling inside me. I’ve missed him, too. And my e-mail. “I’ll be right back.”
    I slip down the hall to his messy study. I sign into my account and find 157 new messages since this morning. Ninety-seven are urgent.
    Three messages pop up from Robert, directing me to check my voice mail. Contingent offer on condo, below