Tulip Season by Bharti Kirchner Page A

She disclosed her fears about Kareena's safety.
    “Ransom? For real?” Veen said in a panicky voice. “Are they going to kill her?”
    They consoled each other until they reached Veen's house in Capitol Hill. After expressing appreciation for the dinner, Veen added, “I'll stop by Adi's house tomorrow. See what shitty explanation he gives me about that damn ransom note.”

FIFTEEN
    MITRA HAD DROPPED BY Soirée most nights on the off-chance that she might glimpse Kareena, with no success. She had also contacted Kareena's acquaintances, visited Kareena's acupuncturist, the gas station she frequented, the blind Thai masseuse she patronized, and her Korean hair dresser. But there was no sign as yet of what might have happened to her.
    This evening, exhausted from all the running around, Mitra stopped at Sascha's Scoop, an organic ice cream parlor in Belltown. This place, with its carved lettering in terra cotta above the entrance, had caught her attention last year; a fashionable ice cream parlor meant for young moderns. It had charmed Mitra doubly when along with her order came an ivory napkin emblazoned with the owner's motto printed in black: “Straight from our very own cows.” Like most Indians, Mitra had an abiding affection for cows. Back home, they referred to them as go-mata , cow-mother.
    Scoop was also where she'd first met Ulrich. She nurtured a tender hope of running into him here again.
    An aromatic haze of milk, sugar, berries, and nuts welcomed her. She scanned the parlor, her heart palpitating. The owner had changed the décor since her last visit. The once-white walls were now painted a smart black and they sported a collection of hand fans, made of lace and bamboo and exquisitely pleated. (Were hand fans making a come back?) She saw a few patrons scattered among the tables. No Ulrich.
    Taking her gaze away from the empty chairs, Mitra approached the counter. In a monotone, the young cashier at the register asked what she wanted. The black chalkboard on the wall bore bold artful inscriptions, seducing her with superlatives such as “moon-glow” this, “passion-struck” that, or even a “blissful-sinful” combination of items. The owner was reported to be a bearded expatriate Russian poet, who lived for vodka and verses.
    Mitra's lips were rounding to pronounce “Moon-Glow Almond Parfait,” the same concoction she'd indulged in last time, when she felt a breath on her neck. She pivoted.
    Ulrich stood there, handsome in a white sweater and a new haircut, smiling slightly. Her pulse picked up. The right words didn't form in her mouth. She'd wanted to see him, obsessively even, this past week. So why did she suddenly want to edge away, without saying a word?
    “I just called you,” Ulrich said.
    And I bet you booked a trip to Paris for us. Her cheeks tingling, she glanced at him. She had the discomfiting feeling that he was peering into her soul, seeking out any stirring of a negative reaction. “Did you leave a message?”
    A twinkle stole into his eyes. “No, I thought I might see you here.”
    “Seriously?” She didn't want him to get away lying to her, even if his German accent worked its charm on her. “You don't know where usually I hang out, do you?”
    “But it worked.”
    She looked away, focusing on nothing in particular, aware of his fibbing. So what if he did fib? Maybe she'd invested too much sentiment into one intense shared night. “Small planet, similar palette, I guess.”
    Towel in hand, the cashier leaned over the counter and wiped the milk stains from stainless steel cylinders marked “Cream,” “Low fat milk,” and “An extra ten years of life.”
    “May I help you?” the cashier repeated.
    If only he understood the torment Mitra was going through. She'd forgotten what she intended to order, but was aware that another customer, a young mother, had just entered the parlor. The mother fidgeted, a baby squirming in her arms. The baby's blueberry eyes peeked out from