The Full Moon Bride

by Shobhan Bantwal

  During the intermission, which was customary in a three-hour-long Hindi movie, we decided to get out. Lou wanted a cup of coffee, so we found a Starbucks nearby and went in.

  We lingered for nearly an hour over Lou’s coffee and my bottled water, mostly talking about my client, Solstice.

  While we talked, it got dark outside. It was always a pleasure to talk to Lou. Since we both talked legalese, I never had to explain myself. He was an intelligent man and therefore stimulating company. But I’d had enough. Along with my head, my throat was also beginning to feel achy. “We better head back to the station,” I said. “I can catch the 6:05 train.”

  “Do you have to go so soon?” He took my hand again, but this time we were surrounded by non-Indians and nobody bothered to throw us a second glance.

  “The forecast is for snow this evening, Lou, and my cold seems to be getting worse.”

  “All right then, let’s go.” Lou looked thoroughly disappointed as he shoved his chair in. And annoyed.

  What had he expected? That we’d go spend the night somewhere together? The thought made me uncomfortable. I’d never given him any cause to think that. I had presumed this was a simple first date—get to know each other, talk, eat, and maybe take in a movie, all of which we had already done.

  Wasn’t that enough?

  Outside the train station, once again Lou stopped by the curbside directly in front of the building. The train wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes, so I requested him to park in one of the empty twenty-minutes-only slots where we could talk. “Thanks for a really nice day, Lou,” I said to him.

  “I should be the one to thank you for coming out when you have a bad cold and for showing me Little India.”

  “But you didn’t much care for it, did you?”

  “Why do you say that? I liked it. The food was pretty good, the stores were a lot of fun, and—”

  “But you don’t want to do it again,” I interrupted. At the look on his face, I chuckled. “That’s okay; I’m not offended. I can’t expect everyone to fall in love with my culture. I still like you, so don’t worry.”

  Feigning relief, Lou clutched at his chest. “Thank God! I was worried there for a moment.”

  “You’re a terrible actor.”

  “So you’re saying it’s a good thing I went into legal work and not the stage?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Lou’s eyes went from amused to intense as he continued to gaze at me. With an abrupt movement he grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me toward him. His lips descended on mine, warm, solid, challenging. “I’ve been dying to do that all afternoon,” he murmured against my lips. He tasted of coffee and mints. “Put your arms around my neck, Soorya,” he whispered.

  “You’ll catch my germs, Lou. I don’t want you getting sick.” Our bodies were awkwardly twisted over the armrest between the seats.

  “Just do it, Soorya.”

  Despite my reservations, I closed my eyes and did what he asked. For the first time in my life a man had said he couldn’t wait to hold me in his arms, to press his mouth against mine, to feel my body straining against his.

  Although Roger had told me he was interested in me, he hadn’t touched me in the real sense. So I wanted to savor this feeling of being wanted, desired, and fantasized about.

  Throwing caution to the winds, I let Lou’s tongue slide into my mouth and explore. It was a wonderful feeling that went clear through my system all the way down to my toes. I could see why my friends talked endlessly about something as primitive as kissing. It was the most intimately erotic way a man and woman could connect—short of making love.

  Lou’s hand gradually slid to my neck, down my shoulder, then shifted to cup my breast. I shivered some more, but figured it was from the cold. The sensation of being touched intimately was alien to me.

  The hot kiss lasted awhile, and I poured every bit of my emotional energy into it. His fingers kneaded and caressed my breast, and the heat of his large hand burned through the fabric. A strangely tight and tingly feeling settled in my groin. So this is what it felt like to be touched by a man. It wasn’t quite what I’d expected. It was better, and yet—He withdrew abruptly. “Sorry.”

  The disappointment was like a lead balloon: heavy, dark, and cold. I’d failed completely in the seduction department. I looked up at him. “Was it . . . that bad?”

  He shook his head. “It was that good.”

  “Couldn’t have been if you were repelled.”

  “Repelled?” He raked his fingers through his cropped hair. “Believe me, Soorya, I was far from repelled. It was great. I wanted more. A lot more.”

  “But Lynne got in the way, I suppose,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. My very first real kiss—and a dead woman had to get in the way. Talk about rotten luck.

  Without a word he leaned back, his silence confirming my words. I wanted to tell him not to look so guilty, because I had my own issues with the close encounter. For some inexplicable reason I’d been seeing Roger’s face as Lou’s tongue had touched mine, as his mouth had hungrily devoured my mouth.

  I’d had an insane desire to know what it would feel like to be held by Roger, kissed by Roger, whispered to by Roger, fondled by Roger.

  Oh God! That’s when it dawned on me. Besides the common cold, I was also suffering from a bad case of Rogeritis. Was I falling in love with that rogue? Was I sliding down that tricky hill? If I didn’t watch out, I was likely to fall hard and get hurt.

  Lou turned to me with a rueful look. “I’m sorry, babe. It’s me, not you. I promise to make it better the next time.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said, sniffling. “My cold seems to be getting worse. I couldn’t kiss and breathe at the same time.”

  “Then let’s make sure you get home to a warm bed and a hot cup of tea.”

  “You’re right.” I gave a great sigh of relief at how we’d both managed to escape embarrassment.

  After a moment of what appeared to be introspection, Lou turned to me, one arm resting on the steering wheel. “Tell me the truth, Soorya. Does it bother you that I’m a black man?”

  I shook my head. “No, Lou. I think you’re a great guy. I’m not a racist.”

  “Good. I’d like to see you again. When you’re feeling better, of course.”

  “Sure.” I blew my nose hard, further stuffing up my sinuses. Bed and a hot drink were beginning to sound better and better.

  The dashboard clock read 6:00 P.M. I unfastened my seat belt. “Time for me to go.”

  This time Lou picked up my hand and kissed the palm softly. “Take care of yourself, okay? Call me tomorrow if you can. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “Thanks, Lou.” I shut the door and stood on the sidewalk, watching him drive away, then trudged up the stairs to the platform and found a bench to sit down and wait for my train. My headache was getting worse. I felt feverish, too.

  It looked like Mom was right. I was coming down with something.

  I’d waited many long years to be asked out on a date, and when I’d finally bagged one, it had ended up being with the wrong man—wrong color, wrong race, wrong religion, wrong everything.

  The only good thing about today’s strange date was that it had made the differences between Lou and me as clear as night and day. He was never likely to be comfortable in my environment and I’d probably never fit into his. My Indian-ness was manifesting itself despite my efforts to suppress it. And Lou had turned out to be considerably more set in his ways than I’d anticipated.

  Was I doomed to be a virgin all my life? I was ready to throw my hands up in frustration and scream. If Pamma’s philosophy had any basis, my bad-bad karma was not only in full play but it had arrived with a generous dash of cynicism and dark humor. I had to have a serious talk with my grandmother about this karma business.

  Speaking of twisted karma, I had a date scheduled for tomorrow with the man who occupied my mind, but it looked like I was going to
be too ill to go. Damn it, I had been looking so forward to it, too. Roger had said he wanted to prove to me that I was attractive, that he wanted to get to know me better.

  Was he planning on kissing me like Lou had, or was he going to give me that nonsense about us being good friends? Despite my chills and achy head, I could well imagine what kissing Roger would be like. I knew it would be wonderful. I just knew it in my bones.

  The arriving train’s squealing brakes sent a sharp stab through my head. A miserable fit of shivers forced me to pull my coat closer. This was so like Amy’s mother often said, “You know why some of us miss the boat? Because when our boat comes in, we’re at the train station.”

  Such wise words. And in my case true—literally.

  Chapter 26

  I cursed that snowy Sunday the moment I woke up in the morning. I had a high temperature, and the so-called dusting of snow that had been predicted for Saturday night had ended up being nearly two inches. Imagine that in November.

  Despite my calling Roger and warning him that I was ill, he still stopped by at noon. Brave man, considering his worries about getting sick when he could least afford it.

  As soon as he saw me huddled under a blanket with a red nose and a feverish glaze in my eyes, he knew our date had gone down the toilet.

  But he gave me a box of sugar-free white chocolates. How thoughtful! I felt guilty for standing him up. When I apologized, he dismissed it. “Don’t be silly. We can do it as soon as you’re feeling better.”

  But all was not lost. Mom, God bless her generous heart, invited Roger to join us for lunch. And Roger, being the adaptable sort, accepted. So the five of us ate at the kitchen table. Although mine was a bowl of vegetable soup while the rest of them feasted on pesarattu—thin, crisp crepes made from a batter of ground mung beans and served with a pungent chutney, the meal was still pleasant.

  Roger spent the afternoon with us, watching a movie on DVD with Dad and Mom and chatting for a while. Despite my lying on the couch and dozing on and off, I liked having him there, listening to his deep voice. It made the afternoon go fast. Too fast.

  Later, after Roger left, I called Lou to give him an update on my condition. He sounded contrite. “I shouldn’t have forced you to come out and meet me. This is all my fault.” I told him it was a virus and it would have made me ill no matter how much I’d coddled myself.

  After that Sunday lunch, Roger sent me a few brief e-mails and managed to keep me informed of his progress with the play. He again extended an invitation to attend the rehearsals if I wanted to. I kept away from them because I didn’t want to spoil my viewing the finished product on a real stage.

  There was no mention of another date, though. That troubled me. By the time the winter holidays arrived, he still hadn’t bothered to reschedule the date we’d missed because of my unfortunate bout of flu.

  Mom invited Roger, Krishna, and Carol to Christmas dinner. In recent years, although we still put up the Christmas tree, we’d given up the gift exchange thing. I had lost interest in that part of the holiday after my teenage years were gone. Now it was just a pleasant and festive meal with family.

  Roger appeared thrilled at being included in a family gathering once again. Krishna and Carol were still acting like hormone bitten adolescents and Pamma continued to eye them with mild repugnance. I was happy to hear from Carol that Krishna was still talking about the two of them getting married.

  Roger surprised me when he took me aside after dinner to have a quick word. “Soorya, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch since Thanksgiving,” he whispered. “I haven’t forgotten our date. It’s just that everything’s been very hectic.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Roger,” I assured him, relieved that he remembered it after all. “Your premiere is right around the corner and things are bound to be chaotic.”

  He threw me an appreciative look. “Thanks for understanding. Between rehearsals and stage sets and musical scores and lighting equipment, and three of our cast members getting sick, I’m happy to grab about four hours of sleep each night. But after the opening, I promise I’ll call you.”

  “No problem.” He was working impossibly long hours, poor man. I’d be a total bitch if I didn’t comprehend something as simple as deadlines and dedication to one’s work.

  Between Christmas and the middle of January, Roger called me twice, once to wish me happy new year and another time to chat, but he seemed to be in a rush. Opening night was coming up soon and I could sense the tension in his voice. I wished I could help him in some way, but I didn’t know how.

  It didn’t come as a surprise when all of us received an invitation to preview night. Even Krishna and Carol were invited. Mom still hadn’t mentioned Carol to Krishna’s parents. By this time Dad had decreed that Mom should not get involved. It was Krishna’s affair and it was his responsibility to tell his parents.

  On a freezing Friday night, at the end of January, we all got dressed to attend the preview. Thank goodness there was no snowstorm in the forecast to ruin the occasion.

  My excitement mounted as I put on my silvery gray pantsuit and coordinating oxidized silver jewelry I’d bought in Rajasthan two years ago.

  I hoped the theater looked perfect. This was the night the media would be present, looking at everything with razor-sharp eyes and ears, mentally writing their reviews even as they sat silently in the hushed darkness of the theater.

  When I’d first met Roger, I hadn’t given two hoots about his venture, but now I felt differently. Slowly it had become very personal. Now I was both thrilled and afraid for him.

  Roger had called the previous night to make sure we were all attending. His parents, sister, and brother-in-law were flying in from Kansas City. Several of his friends from out of town were expected to attend, too. I hoped his father would give him a break for a change, even if the show flopped.

  I prayed hard that it wouldn’t flop. It couldn’t.

  Dad looked important in a charcoal Armani suit. Mom looked elegant in a pink Dharmavaram sari accessorized with pearls at her throat and ears. And Pamma was dressed in a soft, white tussore silk and matching shawl for the occasion. We bundled ourselves in our most fashionable winter coats. Dad drove us into Manhattan in Mom’s Honda.

  Outside the theater, I read the billboard—Mumbai to Manhattan in lights, along with Roger’s name. The sign was almost exactly as I’d imagined it, except, to my surprise, the name said Rajesh Vadepalli and not Roger. He had decided to use his real name.

  Inside the theater, tense anticipation was in the air, or perhaps I felt that way because my nerves were taut. There had been much pre-opening hype generated by the marketing and public relations firm Roger had hired. The public’s expectations were probably high.

  At the champagne reception for attendees in the lobby, I took only one small sip to wish Roger good luck. I caught scraps of conversation in passing, and all of them centered on Roger—they made him sound like some mysterious character. To keep the mystery element alive, Roger was curiously absent—probably another ploy recommended by the publicity folks.

  The playbill was a glossy work of art with colorful graphics and Roger’s and each cast member’s photograph airbrushed to perfection. I could see what Roger had meant when he’d described the effort that went into designing it.

  We located the Vadepallis. Roger’s dad looked distinguished in a dark suit. He greeted Dad like a long-lost friend. “Pramod, good to see you.”

  Dad slapped him on the shoulder. “Likewise, Venki.” Dad looked around the crowded room. “Quite an impressive gathering.”

  Mr. Vadepalli nodded and took a sip of his champagne, looking like the father of the groom on the wedding day—edgy and impatient. I was glad he had come to attend Roger’s opening and that he’d been reasonably supportive of Roger’s project in recent weeks. It meant so much to Roger.

  Mrs. Vadepalli was dressed in a turquoise chiffon sari and lots of gold jewelry. She reminded me of the doll that sat atop the fir
eplace mantel in our family room. The red lipstick was brighter than ever and her diamond earrings sparkled under the chandelier’s lights.

  She hugged Mom, Pamma, and me by turns. “I am so happy that you could come. This is so exciting.” She looked more nervous than her husband.

  It was Roger’s sister, Renuka, who filled me with both admiration and envy. She shook my hand warmly when we were introduced. “Pleasure to meet you, Soorya. I’ve heard so much about you from Rajesh.”

  “You have?” I asked with a quizzical smile. “Good things, I hope?”

  “Everything he’s said about you is fabulous.”

  Insanely pleased to hear that, I grinned back at her. She was an attractive, willowy woman. The resemblance between her and Roger was strong—the arched brows, the narrow nose, the long and lean body.

  She had on a burgundy silk jacket layered over a black turtleneck sweater. A narrow, calf-length black skirt and black jewel embellished shoes made her look cool and stylish. Small diamond earrings and a diamond pin completed the ensemble. Her dark, glossy hair fell well below her shoulders.

  Renuka could have been a fashion model, but I doubted that her parents would’ve let her, especially with their attitude to Roger’s career.

  Roger had mentioned that Renuka was a systems analyst and worked in the IT industry—a sensible and practical career lauded by their father. The Vadepallis had lucked out with their children—they’d produced two good-looking and bright kids. Renuka’s husband, Uday, on the other hand, was rather plain, but he was a friendly sort with a sparkling sense of humor. And I, of all people, had no right to call anyone plain.

  We chatted for a while, the conversation mostly about their eventful trip from Kansas City, plagued by snowstorms in the Midwest and delayed flights.

  Krishna and Carol showed up a while later. Carol greeted us with warm hugs—like family.

  I noticed Pamma’s expression. It looked like she’d come to terms with the fact that her great-nephew would most likely marry a non-Indian woman. I wasn’t sure if Pamma had been told that Carol was a divorcée and had a young son.