“Well, if you’re going to put it like that,” she said, teasing to keep things light, but he wouldn’t let her.
“I am, because it is true. As I said on the plane, you might have had your reasons and convictions for keeping yourself a relative secret from the world for this long, but you’re going to have to be brave enough to set them down if you want to do the thing you said you want to do, that I believe you want to do. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Don’t let self-doubt sabotage you now that you’re here. Unless you are ashamed of being a woman,” he added the last to his little speech as if the idea had only just now occurred to him.
“Of course I’m not,” Rita sputtered. “I’m extremely proud to be a woman, especially in my field.”
“Your field? So it’s being a mechanic, then?”
Rita snorted. “There’s nothing else I’ve ever wanted to be. Absolutely nothing. But the field doesn’t feel the same way about women in the ranks.”
He waved her words away. “You’ve so far surpassed the skill and reach of all of the good old boys that that reality, unjust as it may be, is no longer an excuse. If you’re not afraid and ashamed, then I can see no reason why you would hesitate to own who you are on the world stage. Evolution is the constant process of releasing that which no longer serves you. Anonymity was merely a tool to make your way to a place of real power. Now that you’ve arrived at the threshold, you can’t let fear and old habits keep you from walking through the door.”
Unable to think of anything to say to him, Rita smiled, knowing the expression was flat because she didn’t particularly feel like smiling, and Jag frowned in response, but Rafida chose that moment to enter with their dinner service, saving her from having to say more on the subject.
The table was soon filled with platters of succulent seasoned and grilled meats and vegetables served over flavorful steaming rice, bowls of delicious slow-cooked porridges seasoned with freshly ground herbs and spices, and a large tray of fresh-baked flatbreads, as well as dishes overflowing with dates, homemade yogurt topped with honey and sesame seeds, fresh sliced fruit, deep-fried dough balls liberally sweetened with date syrup, and a large, condensation-dripping pitcher of water infused with mint and honey.
How Rafida and her family managed to find the time to care for and run Jag’s large palace as well as do the cooking for three meals a day—as she had been since Rita’s arrival—was beyond Rita’s comprehension.
Of course, much to the dismay of her mother, the greater bulk of domesticity was beyond Rita’s comprehension. It had been one of the things that had made negotiating a marriage arrangement for her initially difficult.
Sure, she was smart, but mothers wanted to know their sons and grandchildren weren’t going to starve. It was just another one of the reasons the offer from Rashad’s family had been so warmly received by Rita’s.
They hadn’t needed a girl who could cook, just one who could become a doctor.
But Rita had just never been able to find the same kind of passion for putting together a meal or healing a wound as she had for building an engine, and it showed—even if she hadn’t known about the doctor part back then.
“It’s love that makes the work fulfilling, dulali,” her mother had assured her. “I was just like you as a young woman, never interested in the housework or cooking. But then you and your sister came, and it all changed. When you have children, you will see. You will want to feed them.”
But children had not featured prominently in her future visions then. And now they did so even less.
Though her current business-arrangement marriage was something different, normal arranged matches were still common in her community, even among American Bengalis.
Like Rita and Jag, her parents had only met for the first time on the day they were married, but practices had changed since then.
When it was clear that Rita would be on a successful and advanced track educationally, her parents were approached with match offers. Realizing the time had come whether they were ready or not, they officially began the process with the caveat that no marriage could take place before she had graduated from college.
The process was eventually settled with Rita engaged to a fellow Bengali-American young man from a family of doctors.
Because Rita had been so young, still just seventeen at the time, she and Rashad had been granted six years to finish their undergraduate educations and date and get to know each other before they were to be married. And Rita would go so far as to say she had become comfortable with Rashad. He was smart and nonthreatening and made easy small talk.
But then she had gone and unwittingly violated the terms of their arrangement, causing her family to lose face and her to be disowned. So here she was, instead, eating a delicious meal that she had not prepared in a business-arrangement marriage with a handsome prince and no prospect of change.
Which was exactly what she wanted.
In fact, her only regret was not realizing for so long that her parents’ love and approval had hinged so strongly on that of her future in-laws.
That would have been nice to know way back in the beginning.
Fortunately, things with Jag had been spelled out from the start.
“You’ve gone quiet again,” Jag noted, bringing her back into the present moment once more.
“Just enjoying the delicious meal,” she lied, smiling and hoping he didn’t look past her explanation.
Of course, taking in the fascinating lines and planes of the Prince, noting the curves of his lips and the barely restrained electric power in his gaze, it wasn’t long before there were no more morose thoughts to hide.
“Rafida does not disappoint,” he said.
Rita agreed. “She does not. She made the most deliciousbalaleetthis morning,” she said, grasping at the straw of chatting about food.