everything,” he says. “Neither do mothers.”
“Mine do!”
His laughter has a bitter edge. “Wake up, there’s a world out there, and you gotta live in it. Not with your whole family.”
“Family is the most important thing in the world,” I say, and that’s when the room goes dark. The whir of the coffee machine stops abruptly, there’s a popping sound in a back room, and somebody says, “Oh, shit.”
“What’s going on?” I say, then notice that although the sun is setting, there are no lights anywhere on the street.
“The power’s out!” a woman says.
People are talking excitedly and in that instant, Nick moves close to me and his lips brush mine in the darkness. Or am I imagining things? I’m mesmerized, points of crazy electricity buzzing in my mind, short-circuiting every thread of thought. I can’t see a thing, and then Nick is lifting me to my feet, his arms on mine, taking my elbow. The smell of him is so close, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying scent all his own, a mixture of soap and evergreen.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” His hand is on my waist as he steers me to the door and then back to the car.
Fifteen
M onday morning at the shop, I can’t dispel the feeling of Nick’s lips brushing mine. On the way home from Port Gamble, we chatted about superficial subjects, while the kiss hovered like a secret balloon between us. And what of Pooja? Ma said that she went through with the wedding rehearsal but wept while repeating her vows.
Today Pooja arrives at work in cotton shirt and jeans, surrounded by quiet contemplation. I want to ask all sorts of questions, and I finally corner her in the office as she’s coming out of the bathroom. “So spill, Pooja. What’s up?”
“I’ve been accepted to the University in San Francisco. I’m going.”
“Pooja, that’s fabulous. But what about Dipak?”
“We discussed everything—and oh, Lakshmi, he must really love me.” She breaks into a smile. “He’s going to join me when he finishes his studies here. We’ll be apart for only a few months.”
I rest my hands on her shoulders. “I knew all would work out for the best.” A soft cloud of promise floats up from her.
“What about you, Lakshmi? You went off with that cute driver—what did you two do? Did you, you know—”
“Pooja, it was nothing like that. I agreed to go to Nick’s sister’s birthday party Saturday night. I promised to help her try on saris.”
“Oh, you’ll have fun. He’s picking you up?”
I nod, dismissing my interlude with him as temporary insanity. This Saturday will be a job, all business. But the week shuffles by so slowly. Asha does not return, but she yells orders over the phone, keeping us busy. Ma prepares for her weekend playing bridge with her good friend, Sonia, in Kent. We’ll close the shop early Saturday, and she’ll spend the night at Sonia’s and return Sunday.
My Thursday lunch with Nisha and Mitra takes forever to arrive. Nisha’s in a soft black suit, her hair done up in a bun.
Decked out in a loud orange sweater and a tight black skirt, Mitra chews her salad with gusto. “Are you ready to meet Mr. Ravi?” she asks me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I think of the brief messages I’ve traded with Ravi Ganguli all week. I’m getting to know him from a distance, email by email, photo by photo. He already feels like a friend.
“How’s the big Bollywood wedding coming along?” Nisha asks.
I stir my lemonade with a straw. “Asha’s demanding. I got to see her on the set. She wasn’t actually filming. They do a lot of waiting around, preparing the set, and there are way more people involved than I ever imagined.”
“I read in Star magazine that her marriage to Vijay was arranged,” Nisha said. “They’re deeply in love. She expounds upon the virtues of arranged marriages. See, they do work. Mine worked, and Asha’s happy. So I hope you’re not getting cold feet.”
“I don’t have
“Mine do!”
His laughter has a bitter edge. “Wake up, there’s a world out there, and you gotta live in it. Not with your whole family.”
“Family is the most important thing in the world,” I say, and that’s when the room goes dark. The whir of the coffee machine stops abruptly, there’s a popping sound in a back room, and somebody says, “Oh, shit.”
“What’s going on?” I say, then notice that although the sun is setting, there are no lights anywhere on the street.
“The power’s out!” a woman says.
People are talking excitedly and in that instant, Nick moves close to me and his lips brush mine in the darkness. Or am I imagining things? I’m mesmerized, points of crazy electricity buzzing in my mind, short-circuiting every thread of thought. I can’t see a thing, and then Nick is lifting me to my feet, his arms on mine, taking my elbow. The smell of him is so close, the scent of his aftershave and an underlying scent all his own, a mixture of soap and evergreen.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” His hand is on my waist as he steers me to the door and then back to the car.
Fifteen
M onday morning at the shop, I can’t dispel the feeling of Nick’s lips brushing mine. On the way home from Port Gamble, we chatted about superficial subjects, while the kiss hovered like a secret balloon between us. And what of Pooja? Ma said that she went through with the wedding rehearsal but wept while repeating her vows.
Today Pooja arrives at work in cotton shirt and jeans, surrounded by quiet contemplation. I want to ask all sorts of questions, and I finally corner her in the office as she’s coming out of the bathroom. “So spill, Pooja. What’s up?”
“I’ve been accepted to the University in San Francisco. I’m going.”
“Pooja, that’s fabulous. But what about Dipak?”
“We discussed everything—and oh, Lakshmi, he must really love me.” She breaks into a smile. “He’s going to join me when he finishes his studies here. We’ll be apart for only a few months.”
I rest my hands on her shoulders. “I knew all would work out for the best.” A soft cloud of promise floats up from her.
“What about you, Lakshmi? You went off with that cute driver—what did you two do? Did you, you know—”
“Pooja, it was nothing like that. I agreed to go to Nick’s sister’s birthday party Saturday night. I promised to help her try on saris.”
“Oh, you’ll have fun. He’s picking you up?”
I nod, dismissing my interlude with him as temporary insanity. This Saturday will be a job, all business. But the week shuffles by so slowly. Asha does not return, but she yells orders over the phone, keeping us busy. Ma prepares for her weekend playing bridge with her good friend, Sonia, in Kent. We’ll close the shop early Saturday, and she’ll spend the night at Sonia’s and return Sunday.
My Thursday lunch with Nisha and Mitra takes forever to arrive. Nisha’s in a soft black suit, her hair done up in a bun.
Decked out in a loud orange sweater and a tight black skirt, Mitra chews her salad with gusto. “Are you ready to meet Mr. Ravi?” she asks me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I think of the brief messages I’ve traded with Ravi Ganguli all week. I’m getting to know him from a distance, email by email, photo by photo. He already feels like a friend.
“How’s the big Bollywood wedding coming along?” Nisha asks.
I stir my lemonade with a straw. “Asha’s demanding. I got to see her on the set. She wasn’t actually filming. They do a lot of waiting around, preparing the set, and there are way more people involved than I ever imagined.”
“I read in Star magazine that her marriage to Vijay was arranged,” Nisha said. “They’re deeply in love. She expounds upon the virtues of arranged marriages. See, they do work. Mine worked, and Asha’s happy. So I hope you’re not getting cold feet.”
“I don’t have
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