Page 11 of These Godly Lies
She quickly steps forward, kissing his cheek and taking it from his hands. “I’ll put it in the bedroom. How was your trip?”
Khiran glances at the stranger in his kitchen. “Apparently not as eventful as your time at home.”
Jiro looks between them, blood draining from his face. “Wait. You’remarried?”
Oh.
Anna’s lips part soundlessly. They’ve never discussed how to refer to each other—they’ve neverneededto. They’re tied together in ways that went beyond mortal ceremonies and vows.
The corner of Khiran’s mouth twitches, a suppressed smile. “What do you think?” he asks in perfect French. “Shall we admit to living in sin, or will you drag me to the nearest chapel and make an honest man out of me?”
Anna rolls her eyes, swatting his arm. “I’m a modern woman. I demand a proposal on bent knee.”
His eyes darken, the curl of his mouth turning suggestive. “You know I have no qualms kneeling for you. Shall I remind you of my devotion tonight, my love?”
Heat rushes to her cheeks. “Yes,” she blurts, fingers twisting in her apron as she wills her blood to cool. Jiro looks at her as if he’s never seen her before. “I’m married.We’remarried. Jiro, this is my husband, Khiran. Khiran, this is Jiro. He’s been helping me here around the cottage.”
“A pleasure,” Khiran says, warm enough to convince Anna that he means it. He takes a seat in his usual spot at the kitchen table,setting his attention to the parcel he’d brought with him. His long fingers work at the knot tied at the top, the fabric falling away to reveal lacquered boxes.
Anna already knows what it is. The little tradition they started centuries ago in the mountains of Genoa has continued. Whenever he returns home, it is always with some sort of food for her to try. Though sometimes he forgoes the guessing and brings her something she’s enjoyed in the past. His last trip, he had brought her feijoada—a Brazilian stew with black beans and different meats. It made her think of the day trip they made to Salvador, the way the stew felt warm and comforting in her stomach after having made the journey with his magic.
She can tell by the lacquered boxes and the shade of indigo of the fabric that today’s dish has more than likely come from Japan. He’s brought several meals from there over the last year as he carefully watched the aftermath of the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Anna has seen the images of the distinctive mushroom cloud, read the articles that headlined every major newspaper across the county.
Khiran described the horror of it, pale-faced and ashen. Of civilians dying months after the bombs dropped, plagued with strange and horrible symptoms. How the bomb sites stopped any type of life from taking root for miles. Of all of man’s weapons, Anna knows this one scares him the most.
Jiro eyes the box, a strange look of recognition and suspicion pinching his face. “Where’d you get that?”
Khiran opens the lid, tactfully ignoring the question by offering one of his own. Lined neatly inside are some fish shaped pastries. “Would you care for some?”
“That’s taiyaki.”
“It is.” Khiran’s brow ticks upward, a subtle challenge.
“Do you like taiyaki, Jiro?,” she asks, deliberately ignoring the tension between them. “I’ve never had the opportunity to try it.”
“I haven’t had it since I was a kid.” The edge in his voice, the skepticism stubbornly heating his eyes, makes it clear that hisquestions won’t be cowed by Khiran or redirected by her. “Where did you get it?”
“I had some business in Monterey.”
Anna knows the moment he says it, that it’s a lie. The answer is too fluid, too smooth, for it to be the truth. Still, paired with his easy confidence and Monterey’s history, it’s believable. Before the war, the canneries had been supplied fish and abalone from the Japanese divers and fisherman that had built their businesses there. Some of the families returned after the war, but few of them had the means to rebuild the businesses the government stole from them. The town and its fishing industry have been slowly dying ever since.
Jiro falters, grudgingly accepting Khiran’s answer. Unfortunately, he seems no closer to trusting it.
Anna closes her bedroom door, leaning back against the wood.
Dinner was an awkward affair. As was the time spent in the living room after. Jiro had been a bit prickly with her in the beginning, but it pales in comparison to the outright needling remarks he shoots at her so-called husband. Khiran takes it all in stride, but Anna catches the way his jaw flexes when Jiro finds a particularly sore spot to prod.
“So you just leave for weeks, come back for a few nights, before you leave her again?”
Anna flinches openly at the memory of it. She had thought Jiro might retreat into his defenses, particularly once Khiran’s relationship to her was clear, but instead he seems more combative. Unfortunate, since she can tell by the way Khiran sits at the edge of their bed, his hands folded between his knees and his attention solely on her, that the conversation they put off tilllateris now.
“He can’t stay,” he repeats, soft but firm. “You know he can’t.”
She studies his expression carefully. “This isn’t about what he said, right? Please don’t hold his actions tonight against him.”
Khiran frowns. “I like to believe I’m above begrudging a child for throwing a fit.” He scoffs, the sound soft in the dark. “Besides, it is apparent that he adoresyou. How he feels about me is irrelevant.”
Anna doesn’t deny it. “I care for him, too. In time, I’m certain he’ll—”
