by Laura Briggs
“What do I love best?” she said. “I like… cupcakes. They’re so cute and tiny, and can be decorated so many ways. And cookies—you can’t beat them, because almost everybody loves them. But what I love best… the best is cake. It’s a work of art, making a perfect cake. When it’s finished, you just feel so proud. It’s unique,” she added. “No two are really alike. Are motorcycles the same way? Do you feel each bike you work on or rebuild is different?”
“Of course,” he said. “Then again, they are. I don’t get that many duplicates in the shop, since I rebuild a lot of vintage ones. Just the modern ones, but they can have a lot of character, too. You see all the different dents and scratches, and all the little character details. The decals, the symbols. A lot of the detail work people ask for is unique. Like… tattoos on metal bodies,” he said, trying to explain it.
“Tattoos on metal?” said Ama, one eyebrow up.
“Expresses it better than just saying a paint job on a bike. Any canvas is art to me,” he said. He pushed up the sleeve of his coat. “This one, for example, is my souvenir from the west coast. I saw it on the designer’s board, and I couldn’t help myself.”
It was a phoenix-like bird, rising from a wisp of flame and smoke. Ama had never been wild about tattoos before, but something about this one spoke to her. It matched Luke’s personality. The way she thought about him was summarized in those ink lines, channeling that aura of freedom and personal fire. Just like the motorcycle did… or maybe it was her imagination only?
“What do the words mean?” she asked.
“It’s Spanish. It means ‘live every day,’” he answered. “I’m part Spanish on my mom’s side.”
“Really?” said Ama. “Is that why you chose this tattoo?”
“Sort of. I got it to remind me to be more in the moment. I forget sometimes that the future can’t be counted on, and it definitely can’t be predicted. So all we have is right now, this moment, the one we’re living in. You and me walking along this street—that’s as much of the future as I can really know. So I remind myself to take it in. Enjoy it. Like this,” he said, holding up the last of the dough balls from her pastry box. “It deserves to be savored and appreciated.” He popped it in his mouth.
“They’re called gulab jamun,” she reminded him.
“That’s a mouthful in itself,” he said after swallowing. “Are they your favorite Indian dessert? Or just your family’s?”
“Both,” she said. She paused to consider what she would choose as her favorite dessert of all time. Lemon cream cake? Maybe for the summertime. Chocolate fudge cookies? Lately, she had been craving a nice batch of soft, sweet ones.
“You have a little something right there,” said Luke, pointing toward the right side of his mouth.
“Right where?” Ama brushed her upper lip, feeling for a stray cilantro leaf or bit of onion from her last taco.
“Right there.” Luke’s thumb brushed the corner of her mouth. Rough, callused fingertips from physical labor, but ever so light against her skin, with a gentle pressure that made it totally unlike her imagination’s version. Shivers traveled through her, sparked by this brief touch. She was breathless to think she had only read about it in fiction before now—yet it was so real in this moment, the physical and emotional chemistry between her and another person.
The lunch crowd was gone from the Tandoori Tiger, and the evening crowd hadn’t arrived yet. Ama could see the empty dining room as she slipped through the front door and stole up the stairs. The door to Ranjit’s office was open, her father looking at inventory lists, his fingers pecking on a calculator slowly.
The step creaked beneath Ama’s foot at the very top of the stairs. Ranjit looked up from his calculations, lowering his reading glasses. “Did you have fun at your movie?” he asked her.
She balked at the thought of Deena’s excuse. “I didn’t go,” said Ama. “I went for a walk instead, since all the businesses are decorating for December.”
“Did Tamir go, too?” asked Ranjit.
“Tamir?” Ama said with confusion.
“You went with him today, didn’t you?” Ranjit looked pleased. “He called. He said he would call your phone to talk.”
She had turned off her phone after talking to Deena, of course, to keep anybody from the family away for the afternoon. “I didn’t talk to him today, Papa,” she said. “Maybe he called here by mistake?”
“He’s a nice boy,” said Pashma, who passed Ama on the stairs, a basket of laundry in her arms. “See if he put a message on your phone.”
“Maybe he wants to see you again,” suggested Ranjit.
“No, Papa, I don’t think he does,” said Ama with emphasis.
“What are you talking about? He took you to a nice restaurant, didn’t he?”
Only because the Punjabi version of McDonald’s was probably too crowded that night, she wanted to counter, unfairly. “Look, Papa, we didn’t have a very good time. We didn’t have anything in common, so we had nothing to talk about all evening.”
She had avoided describing the dinner in too much detail—especially the dull small talk that made Ama wish for the excitement of a fire alarm going off to interrupt the tedium. When she came back from the restaurant, she had made an excuse about being tired and hurried upstairs to bed to avoid questions from both a triumphant Ranjit and her aunt Bendi. Hoping that the subject of Tamir would simply go away, for instance, after he failed to ask her on a second date. But now he had called the restaurant for some reason—probably to break off any further matchmaking pursuit—and gotten her father’s hopes up once again.
“The first part of a courtship is always hard,” insisted her father. “It will be better next time. You’ll see.”
“Your father and I had nothing to say when we first met each other,” said her mother, who was folding clean towels on the hall ironing board. “We did not say two words to each other. But we were still a good match, only we needed time.”
“Time is not going to help me and Tamir,” insisted Ama.
“Give him a chance,” said Ranjit. “When he calls, talk to him. He may be calling you because he sees what I do—that you are a good choice for a nice boy who wants to be married.”
“Nice boys do not come along every day,” said Bendi, who was climbing the stairs with a second load of laundry. “Shaadi does not come to those who let good matches slip through fingers. I know.”
“Marriage isn’t everything, though, is it?” Ama replied. “Papa, honestly—”
“Ah-uhh.” He held up his hand. “Your auntie is right. Make the most of this, Ama. Here is a chance for you to have the happiness that I have, that your brother and sisters have. What could be better? When he calls, tell him you had a nice time. What could it hurt? The next time you will have plenty to say. Listen to me, because I know about these things.” He pushed his glasses into place again and tapped the keys on his calculator as if this discussion had come to an end.
“You can’t just ignore the facts, Papa,” she told him quietly. “Even if you want to, you can’t change the fact that Tamir is a terrible match for me, and there’s no way he’s going to want to marry me. You have to let go, because it’s not going to happen.”
“You know the future, do you?” said Bendi with a laugh. Ranjit waved his hand dismissively, as if the subject had come to a close already. With a sigh, Ama went off to her room, since it was pointless to argue about this any further.
“He doesn’t understand,” she said to Rasha, as she curled up on the end of her bed. “It was literally the dullest evening of my life. Even the nights I spent studying for chemistry tests were better than that date.”
“First dates are always bad,” said Rasha. “When Sanjay and I had our first date alone, we were both nervous and awkward. He even had the old ‘excuse’ routine ready, with a friend to bail him out by emergency phone call. But he took one look at me across the table, and decided that I was a girl worth spending the rest of his life with. At lea
st, that’s what he told me after we were engaged,” she said.
“You and Sanjay had talked online, though,” said Ama. “You really knew him even before you officially met as prospective matches. Even during the whole awkward family meeting, at least you knew you liked something about him already.”
“What’s not to like about Tamir? He’s nice looking, he has a great salary, and his family seems way refined compared to ours,” pointed out Rasha. “Be flattered, Ama. He’s a super great catch. The worst you have to put up with is Aunt Bendi reminding you that his complexion is ‘sooo unfortunate’ for such a nice young man. And since none of us care about stupid cultural stereotypes, it won’t matter. It’s not like Aunt Bendi will be living with you two afterwards.”
Ama giggled. “Stop,” she said. “Don’t talk about me and Tamir like we’re a future couple. I don’t want a three-year-long engagement while we get to know each other, and Papa talks about what good prospects the boy has. I don’t even want a traditional Indian wedding.”
“Do not let Mama hear you say that,” said Rasha. “Don’t even let me hear you say that. Ama, I wanted to help you choose your sari, and put on your wedding jewelry, with some new bracelets and whatever hair ornaments your husband gifts you, and all those great traditions. Maybe talk Aunt Bendi into playing a wedding song for you on the sarangi…”
“Stop it!” Ama smacked her sister with a pillow, then flopped over on her back as Rasha laughed. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t have any of those things for my wedding—just not the way Mama and Papa imagine it being, with everything based on their ideas alone.”
Nobody understood her. After all, Rasha’s mostly arranged marriage had worked out, and so had those of her siblings. It was great for them that they’d found somebody through semi-traditional channels, but it wasn’t great for her. Couldn’t they see that she wanted something different? She dreamed of spontaneity and sudden chances. Of looking into someone’s eyes, even a perfect stranger’s, and somehow knowing in that moment that a spark was kindled that could last a lifetime, if fanned by a kiss.
Spontaneous kisses, love at first sight, unpredictable sparks—the dreams of the hopeless romantic at heart. These things just didn’t have a place in the world where Ama was expected to find her ‘suitable match’ who would fit certain standards of being a good spouse. Not perfect for her at heart, perhaps, but suitable in most respects. Not the love of her life, necessarily, but a future love of contentment and complacency after years of acceptance and compromise.
It was the more realistic picture of love and marriage in any culture, true; but not the once-in-a-lifetime romantic picture that everybody secretly dreams about, Ama believed. Taking a chance by waiting for it, to see if that impossible dream could really come true—that was something that would horrify all her relatives if she chose it.
Especially if ‘suitable matches’ like Tamir kept showing up to invite her on boring dinner dates.
“What would you do, if you were me?” she asked Natalie over the phone. She gazed through her open window at the stars, what little of them could actually be seen with the neon lights from the shop next door blinking madly in a pink-and-white haze. If you squinted, you could still see the little white diamond pinpoints in the sky, Ama believed, like a pattern on midnight blue fabric.
“Well, for starters, if I believed in true love and soulmates, I wouldn’t be me,” pointed out Natalie. “But I’m in the same boat, you know. My family still manages to pressure me sometimes on the subject of love. Believe me, I wish I had the answers, then I wouldn’t have everyone asking me when I’m finally going to settle down.”
“So we’re stuck like this, you’re saying,” clarified Ama.
“Exactly,” said Natalie.
Fifteen
“Happy birthday to me,” sighed Natalie, as she gazed at the lone chocolate-covered cream puff in the fridge. She closed the fridge door and pondered whether to watch reruns of Fixer Upper or finish studying for her upcoming test on different fabric techniques.
Sunday afternoon had been completely consumed by both running the bakery’s front counter while Maria was gone, and helping Uncle Guido crimp the edges on the tiny spinach ravioli which were now drying on racks in the bakery kitchen, alongside the spaghetti Guido had made the day before. Why he couldn’t use his own son’s restaurant to do this kind of thing, Natalie would never understand. Hundreds of tiny little pasta squares—no wonder Rob had signed up to fight pretend forest fires when he heard their uncle would be needing assistance in the kitchen.
Natalie had loved cutting the little ravioli when she was a kid, after pressing the soft shell closed around the spinach and dried cheese mound in the center. Today, maybe she would have loved it, too, except she was feeling disappointed about other things. Her plans for this evening with Chad had fallen through, thanks to a last-minute opportunity he had to instruct new rock climbers at some park halfway across the state. And with Maria gone, there was nobody to close the bakery that night but Natalie, who spent her birthday evening boxing up leftover biscotti and cannoli, and sweeping up crumbs.
“So where’s Aunt Maria?” her cousin Chrissy asked when she phoned the bakery to leave Lou a note about an upcoming anniversary in the family. “Isn’t she usually home for your birthday? I mean, your mom bakes for every occasion known to mankind.”
“Emergency,” answered Natalie. “The care facility is changing Gram to another room, so Ma’s moving all her things to the new wing. She won’t be back until tomorrow, so I’m holding the fort here.” She locked the back door to the kitchen, glancing over the racks of drying pasta, the orderly chaos of baking pans and industrial mixers.
“Right. I forgot about that,” said Chrissy. “So… are you seeing whatshisname tonight?” she asked teasingly. “Kimmie called and said he’s extremely hot.”
“I’ll bet Rob called and told you he looked like a toad,” said Natalie, shoving the flour canister back into place.
“By the way, you didn’t answer my question. Is Mr. Hottie taking you out to dinner?”
“Not tonight,” answered Natalie. “Tuesday. He wants to take me to this new Mongolian place that opened downtown. He has a friend working in the kitchen who swears it’ll be the hottest place in town.”
“Exciting. Tell me all about it afterwards,” said Chrissy.
Natalie left the boxes of extra pastry on her mom’s table, where she found a note scribbled to her on her mom’s grocery pad. Sorry about your birthday, baby. I didn’t have time to bake, so I left a little something here for your sweet tooth. I’ll make it up to you next week. Love, Ma.
There was a sad little frowny face drawn next to the line about her birthday. Natalie opened the fridge and discovered the cream puff on the plate, one with a fancy drizzle of white chocolate over its milk chocolate glaze.
It wasn’t her mom’s work—it was obviously purchased from a different bakery, probably one of Rob’s firehouse snack leftovers that her mom had confiscated on Natalie’s behalf. It looked like the ones from Sugar Connection, the corner convenience store bakery where Rob bought greasy gas station-style food like corn dogs, pizza by the slice, and buffalo-style popcorn chicken to feed his never-ending appetite.
The pastry looked a little dry beneath the plastic cling wrap. Since it wasn’t up to Icing Italia’s standards, Natalie left it be.
She opened a plastic container of her mother’s leftover lasagna, then opened her textbook on the table and flipped to the latest chapter her professor had advised reading before his lecture. Advanced silk-weaving methods—dry stuff for anybody who wasn’t a diehard seamstress like herself. Propped next to it was her phone, since Chad had promised to text her tonight, and her mom would probably call with an update on her grandmother’s new room.
The origins of silk have roots in myth and in history. Beginning with the discovery of the silk worm’s properties in Asia during the… Natalie turned the page, jotting notes in its margins, her mind on Nadia’s dress and not
on the silk worm’s humble career beginnings. What should a snow princess wear? The fabric Nadia had chosen was pale white satin… she had a picture of some really nice beaded bodice work in one of her scrapbooks, although that seemed pretty conventional and not unique to Nadia herself. So what would be?
Ice princesses wear tiaras that look like Ama’s modern cake topper. Natalie’s lips quirked into a smile. She heard the sound of the front door bell before she could finish this thought. Rob had forgotten his keys again, apparently.
“You should really keep a spare under one of those fake rocks,” she said loudly as she unlatched the door. On the other side of it stood Brayden.
Brayden, in what Natalie suspected was the tuxedo he wore to Chrissy’s wedding a couple of years ago, holding a plastic dessert carrier. He gave Natalie a smile.
“Mom sent you a birthday card.” He took an envelope from his pocket and held it up.
She rested one hand on her hip and sighed. “What are you doing here, Brayden?” she said. “I thought you understood that I had plans for tonight.” No plans had actually materialized, but she was deep in study for her next exam, right?
His humble smile twitched itself into place in response to Natalie’s typical rejection of him. “Even if you’re going to say no to me, don’t say no to the cake,” he said. “Death by chocolate with dark chocolate frosting.”
“A cake?” She raised one eyebrow. “You brought me a cake. Just because you thought I needed extra chocolate?”
“I knew your mom was busy today,” he said. “You know you can’t have a birthday without chocolate cake.”
“How did you know she didn’t bake me one yesterday?” said Natalie.
“I read it on Facebook,” said Brayden. “Your mom posted about it on her wall.”
He was friends with her mom on Facebook? That was enough to kill whatever tiny part of Natalie hadn’t dismissed Brayden as boyfriend material, although she still couldn’t bring herself to close the door in his face.
