Wait for Me by Diana Persaud Page A

cheeks.
    “After all, he’s your guest.”
    Anjali stood and walked around to his side. Her scent overpowered the strong odor of curry. His fingers itched to stroke her thigh. Touch her hip. Pull her onto his lap and demand that she tell her parents about him.
    About them .
    She took his plate and spooned out some rice. She dipped the ladle into the bowl and added chicken, potatoes and gravy to the rice. She set the plate down gently in front of him then returned to her side of the table. She served herself then sat down.
    She toyed with her food.
    His appetite was gone, but he forced himself to eat. Focused on Anjali, his taste buds barely registered the heat and flavor of the chicken curry. It paled in comparison to what he really wanted, the sweet taste of her honey.
    “You seem more interested in my daughter than in your dinner, neighbor Tom,” Mrs. Singh said.
    Her father choked and coughed loudly. He stared at him before swinging his gaze to focus on his daughter. His fist thumped the table, making the ladle rattle.
    “What’s going on here? Beti ?” Mr. Singh demanded.
    She shoveled a spoonful of rice and curry into her mouth to keep from answering. Her mouth worked slowly, reminding him of a cow chewing its cud. The image struck him as particularly funny and he grinned.
    She would kill me if she thought I was comparing her to a cow .
    His grin faded.
    But only if she cared. What if she doesn’t care about me?
    Her father fixed his gaze on him.
    “The way you look at my daughter…is improper, Thomas.”
    Mr. Singh clenched and unclenched his fist.
    “What are your intentions toward my daughter?”
    “Daddy!”
    Her face was pale and panic filled her eyes.
    “Anjali is…unlike any woman I’ve ever known,” he answered truthfully.
    “You intend to marry her then?”
    His brain seemed frozen and he was unable to articulate an answer. Anjali made a strange choking sound. She stood so quickly, her chair fell backward. Shaking, she sputtered, “I’m not getting married! I don’t need to get married. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
    “With writing? You need a real job. One where you can meet men. Like your sister, Nandini.”
    Mrs. Singh turned to him.
    “Nandini met Dinesh through work. He’s a doctor ,” she added proudly.
    He gripped his spoon.
    “He’s a real prize,” Anjali muttered, rolling her eyes. “I don’t need a man, Ma.”
    “And how are you going to have children if you don’t get married?” Mrs. Singh asked.
    She blushed.
    “No daughter of mine is going to-” Mrs. Singh objected, her voice loud and strained.
    “I’m thinking of adopting. I already have the paperwork,” she announced.
    “Adopting?”
    Mrs. Singh sank to her chair, defeated.
    “I would prefer a grandchild of my own flesh,” Mr. Singh said. “Even if he isn’t fully Indian.”
    His throat was drier than the desert and he reached for his glass. He could feel the intense gaze of Anjali’s father, burning him as he took a sip.
    “What is your job, Thomas? Can you support a family?” Mr. Singh asked.
    “This isn’t happening,” Anjali muttered as she picked up her chair.
    “I’m a mechanic, Sir. I just bought an auto repair shop.”
    “Ninety percent of new businesses fail within the first year, Thomas.”
    “Dad, that’s not true. It’s more like fifty percent.”
    Ignoring her, Mr. Singh continued, “You should do something safe. Something that will allow you to provide for my daughter and her children.”
    “I appreciate your opinion, Sir, but this is my dream. I get to be my own boss. I get to call the shots. I’m in complete control of my life.”
    “Dream? Dream?”
    Mr. Singh laughed derisively.
    “Dreams are for children and women. Men-real men-put aside their dreams to provide for their family. If your foolish dream is more important than my daughter’s happiness, then you are not the man for her.”
    “Daddy!”
    His chair grazed the floor as he stood. Jaw