Hooked By The Hijabi

Nineteen

Delilah Estate

Southern Westchester, NY

My parents agreed to make the trip. 

The property is expansive, no doubt. We've been rolling by its spearheaded metal fence until we finally arrive in front of a set of imposing, latticework gates. Nat and Tan have both texted they're arrival. I'm the last.

Prepare to be blown away, Nat had warned me in our trio group chat.

Casa de Delilah. The resident name in italics is backlit against a slab of concrete lodged into the ground like an oversized tombstone.

I'm agape as the gates swing inward by itself, like black wings spreading out. Dad steers the car onto a glossy cobblestone driveway manned by perfectly-spaced, uplit palm trees. The house we approach is no house. It is an honest-to-God Mediterranean style villa. The façade is all sandstone walls and ivory columns; russet tiles on slanted and conical roofs; turrets, balconies and framed windows. 

I stare curiously out the window at my side at the uniformed men standing sentinel as our SUV crawls to a stop in the drive-through portico. And then I'm taken by surprise as four of them peel away from the group to get the car doors for us.

 With one hand behind their backs, they greet us "Welcome," while holding the door open.

A valet service, I realize when Dad hands the car keys to the guy who got his door.

The steps leading up to the Moorish front doors are low and convenient to climb on heels. One of the two buzz-cut and suit-clad men in Comms headsets standing sentry admit us inside.

We cross the threshold and emerge into a sprawling foyer. My eyes greedily gulp in the details. The interior boasts a carefully curated color scheme of neutrals and minimal furnishings. Spotlights draw focus on artistic pieces. A grand staircase with swirly wrought iron balusters, wood-accent handrail and marble steps curves up and converges with the second floor balcony.

We are escorted to a gathering room where the party is already in full swing. A few sets of curious eyes fall our way.

Lucky for us, Mr. Ayman Zaber has been standing close by as if to welcome any incoming guests. He's the picture of an aristocrat. Crisp tux and posh caramel brown loafers. Sleek salt-and-pepper hair and a van dyke beard accentuate a sharp cut face. Silver Aviator glasses rest high up on his patrician nose; Yusha's gun-metal grey eyes twinkling amiably from behind them. Fast forward Yusha in two decades, the thought flashes through my mind.

"Assalamu Alaikum! I hope you had a pleasant trip." Mr Zaber says and shakes Dad's hand exuberantly. He then guides us toward a beverage bar that's set up in a corner. "Please, what can I get you? There's plenty to choose from." He indicates to the chalkboard menu. "It's all halal."

Next to the bar, a snack station has been set up. Artfully crafted food on china and multi-tier trays.

After my parents receive their drinks, Mr Zaber offers to introduce them to some other guests. I take my mocktail and then join Tan and Nat. The familiar company in the unfamiliar place helps me feel more in my elements.

"This place is huge!" Nat mutters to me, slipping an arm around my waist in a friendly half-embrace sort of way. Her dusty pink, tulle dress reminds me of cotton candy and evening clouds after a summer rain. Her hijab wearing skills are developing. Right now, the white chiffon she has chosen is secured nicely against her head and draped modestly over her chest, with the extra left hanging behind her.

Tan is a tomboy like me and would normally sling an arm over my shoulder in non-formal circumstances. Now, she clinks her own glass of fruit juice to mine. She's killing it in a two-piece abaya; a teal-blue, silk cardigan over a brocade inner styled like the Chinese traditional gown.