Excerpt from In the Time of Our History by Susanne Pari, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Vivian poured a fresh cup of coffee from her thermos into her #1 Grandma mug. She'd grown old in this office, watching the Jahani soap opera, at first envious of their money and then buoyed about her own simple life as their tragedies piled up. The Revolution in Iran came first, the losses from it—notably the confiscation of the Italianate mansion whose enlarged framed photograph hung on the wall in the conference room; apparently, it had been turned into a sanitarium—and the dubious gains: men, women, and children without a country. She couldn't deny that Mr. J and his wife had risen to the occasion, helped find homes for the displaced, doctors for the traumatized. And when they came, those cousins and uncles and in-laws, it was hardest on Mitra, who was no longer the only eager disciple in the office and found her place as self-appointed apprentice to the contractors, the subs, and the architects quickly usurped by foreigners. But Vivian had to hand it to the girl; she'd found a solution, she was her father's daughter. First she went to his rival in Manhattan, Manny Hourian—"the Filthy Armenian," as Mr. J called him, though Vivian had heard only good things about the man, who wasn't an immigrant at all, and had been in the business since his grandfather started it a century before—and learned everything she could there. Then, halfway through her graduate studies in architecture, there had been a terrible fight between father and daughter, in his corner office no less, one day seventeen years ago when Vivian was out with the flu. No one heard what was said, but when the two emerged, the look of rage on his face and of determination on hers left little to the imagination: those two might never talk again. Which was exactly what had happened.

Over the years, Mitra had called Vivian once in a while from San Francisco or when she was in town visiting, and they'd chatted about this and that, mostly personal stuff like Tom and his kidney problems; in fact, it had been Mitra who urged Vivian to talk to Mr. J about helping pay for her husband's transplant. There are some things he's soft on, she'd said. Sick people is one of them. Vivian knew that Mitra had started her own design and construction business in California (forgoing graduate school), that she'd bought a little run-down house, renovated it, and sold it for a profit, only to do it again and again. She didn't know if Mitra was wealthy now—the girl wasn't the type to brag about that sort of thing—but she assumed she was doing all right.

The click of the intercom came through the phone speaker. Vivian picked up the receiver and pressed the blinking button. "Yes, Mr. J?"

"Call my wife, Vivian. Tell her I have an early-morning meeting in Manhattan and I'll be staying at the St. Regis tonight."

"Yes, Mr. J."

Vivian began dialing Mrs. J's number but decided to wait until afternoon when she knew Mrs. J would be out with Mitra; then she could leave a message on the answering machine, avoid telling the lie in real time. Unaware that her lip was curling, she wondered if her boss had found a new girl or if he was still balling the blond word-processing temp from two months before.

CHAPTER 3

It was a rare morning when Shireen did not wake to the fresh memory of her daughter's death and the death of her two grandchildren, but today she'd woken in glorious anticipation of Mitra's arrival and had not shed the usual tears. Now she was crying because of Yusef's infuriating behavior. No amount of concealer could hide the raw redness of her nose, and she had redone her mascara twice. Mitra should not see her like this. Poor Mitti; she had called and her father had probably hung up on her. It was all Shireen's fault for suggesting that Yusef sleep late this morning. Even the small goodnesses she performed seemed to end up hurting people. Olga, dear Olga, used to praise Shireen for her guilelessness—You are such a pure woman, Madame—but Shireen knew what a fine line there was between pure and stupid.

Excerpted from In the Time of Our History by Susanne Pari. Copyright © 2023 by Susanne Pari. Excerpted by permission of Kensington Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.