No one, that was who.
She would honor Mennah, and her new position.
She would honor him.
Closing mind and ears to anything but this high note of her self-addressed pep talk, she walked out.
Ameenah walked behind her, resplendent in her bridal matron gown, carrying Mennah who looked heartbreakingly cute in a getup made in haste to match her mother’s. Ameenah’s daughters followed, heading the procession of her ladies-in-waiting, all stunning with their glowing olive complexion and their dark hair streaming down their backs, their lithe bodies wrapped in exquisite sarilike dresses in azures and golds that complemented her gown.
The wedding was taking place in the southern gardens, where the desert and sea winds remained calm as the night deepened. She’d been informed that Farooq would be waiting for her at the southern entrance to escort her to where the ma’zoon would write el ketaab, their public marriage certificate. She’d chosen not to have a proxy, to perform the rituals herself. Shehab and Kamal were the two required witnesses again…
Agitation and anticipation congealed. Air, the world, disappeared. Farooq.
He was standing at the wide-open doors. Waiting for her. He was obscured by distance, by shadows. But she saw him, felt him with everything in her. And all she wanted was to run to him, throw herself in his arms, tell him, show him, beg him…
Thunder assailed her the moment she descended the last step. The zaffah, the traditional bridal procession, a unique, instantly recognizable rhythm belted out on doffoof, huge tambourinelike instruments, for two bars before singers joined in, chanting the praises of the bride, congratulating her on her magnificent groom and wishing her eternal happiness. And bountiful progeny.
She managed not to falter, and after making sure the blaring beat hadn’t startled Mennah, she kept walking, head held high, with quick, purposeful steps toward Farooq, who stood with his feet planted apart, his hands linked, waiting for her to have her zaffah, to come give him herself. As she couldn’t wait to do.
When only two-dozen feet remained, he moved out of the shadows. Her heart stopped.
No deceleration, no warning. It just stopped.
And she no longer needed it to beat, to push blood to her brain, to keep her legs moving. They moved on their own, powered by everything about him that demanded her, at once. Her vision didn’t dim. It remained clear and riveted on him.
If she’d thought he’d looked indescribable before, in suits, in any clothes, out of them, Farooq in traditional royal groom costume showed her what a loss for words, for thoughts, really meant.
All she could think was, he was dressed in blues and muted golds shades darker than those in her outfit. He matched her so much, she had to believe he’d done so on purpose.
Her agitation and pleasure sharpened to pain as she devoured every nuance of the heavy silk abaya as it hugged his shoulders, cascaded to his ankles, emphasizing his breadth and height. Its edges, shoulders and cuffs were heavily embroidered in gold and bronze thread and sequins in a paisley cashmere pattern. Underneath it, a striped top in the same colors buttoned down from his Adam’s apple, stretched across his chest, crisscrossed by bronze metal belts. Another six-inch belt spanned his waist, anchoring ceremonial curved dagger and sword sheathed in gold scabbards over bronze pantaloons whose looseness hid none of the potency beneath.
This was Farooq as he really was, the heir to a legacy rooted in fables, a shaper of destiny, the embodiment of the desert and the sea, the incarnation of their might and wealth, their majesty and beauty.
And he was her groom, the man who’d given her what had made life real—the agony of loving him—and what had made it worth living, her miraculous Mennah. He was the man she still loved beyond sanity or hope.
He stood there, his eyes branding her as his. As she was, had been from the first moment.
Her heart had restarted at some point, propelling her toward him faster with each beat. His hand rose, asking for hers. She ran the last few steps, flew, both hands held out, grabbed his as if afraid he’d fade away.
“Carmen.” She heard his rumble over the din, felt it in her bones, his astonishment, his possessiveness, his hunger as he crushed her hands in the assuagement of his reality.
Needing more proof, she burrowed into his side. His arm convulsed around her as the other ended the zaffah with a wave. He looked down at her, bombarding her with ferocity. She buried her face into his chest, seeking refuge from him in him.
His heart, his groan thundered below her ear. “Let’s get this done before I give in, Carmen.”
Without giving her time to wonder what he meant, he had her striding beside him on the royal-blue carpet, down the expansive path lined with stunning plant and flower arrangements ending in a dozen cream satin-covered steps. They climbed up to the kooshah, where bride and groom sit during the ceremony. Theirs was a massive gazebolike structure with clusters of exquisite Arabesque woodwork hanging from its eight corners like pendent stalactites, gilded on the outside, the color of cedar on the inside. Within its pillars was a huge curved cream-satin couch ensconcing an antique worked bronze table. The ma’zoon sat in the middle with their orfi marriage scrolls in front of him, and a book that looked like some ancient tome of prophecy open to empty pages where their destiny was still to be written.
The live music came to an end as Farooq led her to the edge of the stage and all her resolutions to be the seasoned professional boiled away. Being the designing mind behind such events was realms away from literally being centerstage in one.
Her arrhythmia somehow didn’t shake her apart as she cast her gaze around the expansive gardens, even when it took a further plunge into irregularity. The gardens were decorated in the exact way she’d imagined and told Farooq about yesterday. Hundreds of lanterns undulated in the twilight breeze between symmetrically planted palm trees. Hundreds of torches flamed on top of polished brass poles, all intertwined between two hundred tables set in a level of luxury she’d only ever dreamed of achieving in her own enterprises, occupied by people who made the world go ’round.
And they were all looking at her. In resounding silence.
Her hand squeezed Farooq’s. He squeezed back, leaned to put his lips to her ear. “Your beauty has stunned them, ya jameelati.”
Breath left her. Not at his assertion, as touched as she was by it, but at his endearment. Not because it was “my beauty,” but because she’d given up on hearing one from his lips again. It was like gulping crisp water after months in the desert.
Then he murmured, “Let’s work the crowd, ya helweti.”