Rosewater and Soda Bread Read Online Free PDF

best for you.” The train bell began to ring, followed by the whistle of an engine chugging its way into the station. Marjan turned to the sound, sadness suddenly trickling through her. Was Layla right? Was she trying to keep her from growing up?
    “You know, this is just like
Much Ado About Nothing
,” Layla said, reaching back for her knapsack. “You want me to be justlike Hero, all virginal and wimpy. You want to be just like Beatrice, not caring about dating or anything.”
    “I don't know what you're talking about, Layla.”
    “Yes, you do. You don't have a guy, and you think I shouldn't either.” Layla opened the play once again. “Have you ever fallen in love, Marjan? Was that Ali guy you talk about even real? Or did you just make him up 'cause you're too embarrassed to admit the truth?”
    “That's enough, Layla,” Marjan replied curtly, standing up. The train was pulling in, carrying the squeals and cacophony of its iron wheels. “You're stepping over the line now,” she said, feeling her face heat up. She felt just as shocked to hear her sister mention Ali's name as she had been to hear her say the word
sex
. She couldn't believe Layla had remembered about her first love, the boy she had left behind in Tehran so many years ago. They had only spoken about him once, after all.
    Marjan brought her hand up to her hot cheek. She could feel it throbbing with embarrassment. The train's carriage doors slowly opened, passengers streaming out in all their rumpled glory. Behind her, Layla remained fuming in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest.
    “So that's it, is it?” she huffed. “You're not going to do it? You're not going to write to Gloria for me?”

    ESTELLE DELMONICO'S THOUGHTS were on her doctors advice as she stared out her rain-spattered bedroom window.
    “I must insist on a change of scenery,” Dr. Parshaw had said, his chocolate eyes fluttering in that mesmerizing way that always reminded her of her late and beloved husband, Luigi.
    “This Irish damp is only going to accelerate your osteoarthritis. I know you have a niece in London, which admittedly is not much better for weather, but there is a rather reputable therapy program in Kensington that might be just the ticket. I hear their treatments are based on Ayurvedic principles.”
    Upon which Estelle explained, as extensively as she could, that she had already tried the ancient art of corresponding humors, with little positive result. It was among a list of alternative therapies she had attempted in the prior decade, including color therapy, Reiki, and an embarrassing session of colonic irrigation. Ayurvedic principles were not going to banish her arthritis, she had told her doctor, but a regime of sewing in the afternoons after a brisk morning walk would certainly ease the pain in her joints.
    And what walks! What wonderful strolls. Not only was she cultivating a set of spectacular hamstrings from her morning exercise—an important vanity for a woman of any age—but her walks about the clover fields had prompted surprising discoveries in her adopted country. She had come to find the gemlike pockets of Mayo, the silent boglands and the shimmering waterfalls that made it the mystic's home.
    Estelle had never known Ireland to hold such a multitude of diverse and magical places, for although she had been living under the gaze of its most celebrated elder, that mountain named after Patricio, her years tending the counter in Papa's Pastries had left her with little time for gallivanting.
    As far as she could see, the only upside to the needles of arthritic pain had been this traipsing of late; the disease had forced her to finally get out from her small patch of cottage comfort and get some fresh air into her joints.
    This morning's sojourn notwithstanding, of course; that adventurehad been an entirely different kettle of cod, as the Irishman liked to quote.
    What should have been a warming stroll around the western shore of Clew Bay had