by Laura Briggs
“Sure. It’s nice,” said Lyle, glancing at it briefly. “I mean, it goes with the white Christmas thing, right?”
“It’s not ‘white Christmas,’” corrected Nadia. “It’s ‘winter white.’ Lyle, please. We’ve been over this, like, a thousand times. Are you not listening to me on purpose, or is the latest shipment of yogurt so engrossing that you can’t remember anything else?”
“I’m listening. I swear. It’s just that Ma’s better at it,” said Lyle.
“Don’t you think this is a little too modern?” said Cynthia.
“Mom,” said Nadia. Warningly.
“I’ll finalize the details and have the invitations printed,” said Tessa, making a note in her planning folder. “This is the biggest step in our process, and the only detail besides the cake that we really had left to resolve before your big day.” She omitted mention of Natalie’s struggle to finish the perfect dress.
“Which invitations are the ones you’re sending?” said Cynthia. “Not the gaudy ones with the gold dove at the top, I hope.”
Only one of the mothers was present today for the cake tasting. Ama had supplied four slices of each flavor she wanted them to choose from, so Tessa took the extra one—to be sociable, she told herself. First up was the white chocolate with a delicate vanilla cream mousse.
“I think this one is really special,” said Ama. “The toasted coconut for the filling is optional, obviously, since a lot of guests don’t like it. But this is something a little different from the traditional vanilla choice for a bridal cake.”
“It’s delicious,” said Nadia. “What do you think, Lyle?”
“Not a cake person, remember?” he said. “I’m a baklava guy.”
“We could make a baklava-inspired filling for the cake,” suggested Ama. “What do you think?”
“I think it would be great, if it’s possible,” said Nadia. “Can you?”
“It’s just nuts, honey, and a few spices,” said Ama. “I’ll tweak the flavors to balance with the white chocolate’s sweetness. Or, if you choose vanilla, I can add a hint of cinnamon to the cake.”
“I think the whole idea of it is odd,” said Cynthia. “Vanilla itself is so traditional and elegant. I worry what guests will think about something so unconventional as extra spices and honey thrown in, of all flavors.”
“You worry about everything,” said Nadia. “Please, try to get over it. Lyle and I aren’t trying to recreate the classic weddings of the past. We’re creating our own traditions.” She hugged Lyle’s arm. “If he wants baklava filling, that’s what we’ll have.”
“Vanilla’s okay, too,” said Lyle. Cynthia gave her daughter a look that said see? without actually speaking. Nadia wilted, then bristled.
Hastily, Tessa cleared her throat. “I think this flavor for the groom’s cake is a winner,” she said, smiling as she accepted a plate of Ama’s dark chocolate special. “It’s rich and warm and really offsets the sweetness of the white chocolate, don’t you think?”
“I love dark chocolate,” said Nadia. “What’s the filling?”
“It’s a dark chocolate mousse blended with crushed pecans and caramel,” said Ama. “But I could make something baklava-inspired for it too.”
“Let’s try the vanilla,” coaxed Cynthia. “Now, tell me—can you put traditional roses on it, instead of this unusual pointy little snowflake thing that looks like a music staff bent out of shape?”
“Mother,” said Nadia, with partly checked fury at this insult.
“I can,” Ama answered hesitantly. “But I really think the snowflakes will impress you when you see the actual cake decoration finished. It’s completely edible except for the wire frame.”
“What happened to the bride and groom for the top?” said Cynthia. “Didn’t you get that picture I emailed you, Nadia? Of the one I saw in the bridal shop by the dry cleaner’s?”
“Yes, I did, and I wasn’t interested,” said Nadia. “I want something different.”
“I thought we were getting those shards of ice thingies,” commented Lyle, who took a single bite of the groom’s cake, then sneaked a glance out the window. “What happened to them? Those were kind of different.”
“You and your mom didn’t like the ice cake. Remember?” said Nadia, whose tone was taking on a slight edge now.
Lyle looked clueless. “Really?” he said. He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? Put ice on top, a big snowflake. Put the bride and groom too.” He laughed. “People would definitely remember that cake topper, I’ll bet.”
“But not in a good way, Lyle dear,” said Cynthia.
“I think Ma also saw a picture of a cute cake topper somewhere,” said Lyle thoughtfully.
Tessa had seen it via email also, and it was not an option. A bride in a short white dress and fur-trimmed go-go boots hoisted a helpless, hog-tied groom in a tuxedo into her arms. It sent the wrong message in so many ways, and would definitely seem insulting to Nadia—and as for the other one, of the cartoonish Eskimo couple with the igloo and the penguin in a bow tie, all three members of the wedding planning team had vetoed it as a possibility.
Nadia pushed back her chair. “I need to talk to you,” she said to Lyle. “Alone. For a moment.” She waited for him to shove his phone into his pocket and lay aside his cake fork.
“Now?” he said. “Sure. Okay.” They rose and left Cynthia at the table, who was tasting the vanilla slice with enthusiasm.
“Cinnamon would completely ruin the flavor,” she assured Ama, who was trying not to look hurt regarding the previous comments about her work. “What else is Nadia supposed to discuss with you today?” she continued to Tessa. “I certainly hope it’s not a conversation pushing that see-through chapel on her.”
“Actually, we need to discuss the catering menu,” said Tessa. “I’ve received the menu and the plate options to be listed in the invitations from Lyle, but I had a few thoughts about the dessert table. Namely, about an all-white buffet surrounding the cake, and some appetizers for serving before dinner.”
The ice swan would be filled with pastel-shaded frozen sorbet balls in coconut, peppermint, and vanilla, while miniature vanilla cupcakes adorned with white fondant poinsettias would be presented to one side, along with ‘winter white’ truffles coated in confectioner’s sugar or white chocolate. A white vegetable platter with tzatziki dip would circulate before dinner—a perfect complement to the Greek skewers and the marinated chicken being offered as the dinner’s main dish choices for guests.
Tessa had planned it out perfectly, and was ready to send estimates on cost and inventory to Lyle’s staff, but only after the bride and groom approved it, of course. Comments from Cynthia on this menu wouldn’t be helpful in the least, Tessa sensed.
Nadia and Lyle’s discussion had now reached earshot levels from the hall outside the parlor. “—but I need you to support me, Lyle,” Nadia was saying. “Don’t just parrot back what you think I want to hear.”
“She’s your mom, Nadia. I’m not going to tell her she’s wrong to her face,” said Lyle.
“But that’s what I need from you,” Nadia insisted. “This problem is on both sides of the fence for me.”
“Wait… Ma’s just trying to help out,” said Lyle. “I don’t get why it’s such a problem, getting all these free suggestions. You don’t have to pick any of them.”
“But I have to be the bad guy who tells them their idea isn’t going to be part of our wedding,” said Nadia.
“Ama, don’t you have some sample truffles we can try?” said Tessa brightly.
“As it happens, I do,” said the baker, quickly pulling a white confectioner’s box from beneath the rolling kitchen cart. “I confess I didn’t actually make these ones—they’re from a friend of mine who works at a candy shop and does amazing things with white chocolate.”
“More white chocolate?” said Cynthia.
The two business partners exchanged glances.
The bride and groom returned—b
ut not together, Tessa noticed. Lyle poked disinterestedly at his slice of vanilla cake, looking confused and hurt. Nadia was trying hard not to scowl.
“Nadia, you really should give this vanilla a chance,” said Cynthia. “I’m sure that little white roses would look very Christmassy or wintery, or however it is you want it. After all, they are in the bouquet you chose.”
“But I wanted the sticks covered in ice. Remember?” said Nadia frostily. “And I don’t want vanilla with roses. In fact, I want something completely new. I want a coconut cream cake because that is my favorite flavor of cake. Ever. And with a coconut filling.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “But you can’t really be serious, honey—” she began.
“Why can’t I? It’s my wedding, isn’t it?” said Nadia, her voice rising. “And Lyle doesn’t object, does he? If he does, he can tell me right now. Tell me that he wants baklava filling and cinnamon vanilla.”
“Sweetheart,” began Lyle, looking totally baffled now.
“Then coconut it is,” said Nadia, crossing her arms.
“Well, this will be a disaster,” said Cynthia unhappily. “Stop being childish, Nadia.”
“I don’t think it’s childish to choose my favorite,” said Nadia. “It’s my wedding, as Lyle says.”
“Ma’s allergic to coconut, though,” pointed out Lyle.
“See?” This time, Cynthia’s triumph was verbal.
“Fine,” Nadia snapped. “Vanilla and baklava filling it is.” Before her mother could object, she silenced her with a single glance. There was something dangerous in the bride’s eye, the two uneasy planners noticed, although it escaped Lyle’s consciousness. He was picking the nuts from the groom’s cake filling and popping them in his mouth.
“Speaking of allergies, we had better omit the nuts from at least one cake flavor,” said Ama, reaching for her notepad. “Just in case any more of your guests have an issue with certain ingredients.”
“Let’s move on to the subject of the hors d’oeuvres and chocolate truffles,” suggested Tessa.
Seventeen
“Are you comfortable?” asked Tamir. “Do you want some popcorn or something?”
“No,” said Ama. “I’m fine.” She settled into her seat as the lights dimmed, tossing her cardigan and shoulder bag over the empty one beside her.
Date two was a Bollywood movie night, at the theater Tamir had told her about on their first date. The posters outside were in Hindi, featuring—Ama guessed—a film about a father with too many daughters and not enough suitable men with whom to match them.
Thank heavens it wasn’t a Punjabi film.
Why had he asked her out again? Ama asked herself this question more than she asked herself why she said yes instead of politely telling him the truth. Niceness had its limits, and she was sure that Tamir had reached his after the dull conversation they had shared over curry. She had never imagined that he was actually serious about seeing her again, especially not for an Indian film, given her lack of knowledge about them.
The film was a musical comedy about a stingy patriarch and his family, filled with Gujju stereotypes, and, as Ama feared, at least one wedding in the mix. Beside her, Tamir was doing a better job of following the story than she was—of course, having grown up in India for part of his childhood, this all made sense to him in a way it didn’t to her, except through stories and offhand comments by her parents.
“My mom loves this movie,” he said to her. “It’s her favorite, even though it’s so—” He hesitated at the end of this sentence, and Ama realized he might have been going to say ‘tacky,’ then stopped himself. Thinking, perhaps, that it bore a slight resemblance to Ama’s own family, with the loud and overemotional characters.
Tamir blushed; Ama’s face reddened, both at his embarrassment and her own. Tamir cleared his throat. “My mother really does like crazy comedies,” he said.
I’ll bet she does. Ama reached into her bag and pulled out a spicy snack mix from the Indian grocery in the neighborhood. “Have some?” she asked Tamir, after opening its crinkly cellophane top.
He glanced at it. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m not really fond of the mild ones.”
“It’s not just masala,” she said. “There’s hot peppers and ginger in the seasoning.”
He shrugged. “I’m just not a fan,” he answered.
Ama munched in silence after this—as silent as you can be while eating crunchy nuts and puffed rice in a movie theater. She studied the other patrons in the dark as her mind wandered away from a dance number devoted to the son’s courtship. This place was nearly empty on a weeknight, except for a couple in traditional Indian dress near the front row, and three giggling teens seated to her far left. This would be a great place for a criminal rendezvous Monday through Thursday, Ama thought. Nobody would be around to overhear your secrets.
“Does your mom watch Punjabi films only?” asked Tamir.
“I don’t know,” said Ama. “I don’t think so. She likes romance movies the best but she watches action ones too. A couple weeks ago she was watching one with my Aunt Bendi. The hero drove a car that leapt over an elephant pen or something like that.”
Tamir chuckled. “Sounds like a Telugu movie,” he said. “Those are so crazy, you have to laugh.”
Ama wished she could remember finding the movie funny. Then again, she had probably been reading a cookbook while watching it.
Onscreen, the stingy Gujju patriarch was tossing a servant out of the house for some minor offense. A few patrons near the back of the theater, unseen by Ama until now, were chuckling at the servant’s comic relief role. Someone in the film tumbled into a courtyard cistern.
“What’s supposed to be going on?” she whispered to Tamir.
“They just received word that a cousin brought shame to the family by getting conned out of the family fortune,” said Tamir. “This is how he always reacts to bad news.” He smiled faintly as he shook his head.
“But what happened to the son and the wedding?” Her mind must have wandered during the engagement scene—the last she had seen, a lot of aunties were dancing following the couple’s announcement.
“Oh, that’s been called off. Why did you think his mother was crying so hard in that last scene?”
“She was crying?”
From the look Tamir gave her, she realized she had been paying way too little attention to the story, since this was a big moment in the film, it would seem. “Sorry,” she said. “I have trouble following classic Bollywood storylines sometimes.”
“I thought you said you just hadn’t seen that many,” said Tamir. “But you had seen some.”
“I guess what I was actually trying to say is I’m not a really big fan of them,” confessed Ama. “Just a few here and there, like the ones I mentioned at dinner.”
“Oh.” Tamir accepted this with evident disappointment. “Do you want to leave?”
Leave and do—what? Sit awkwardly in front of coffee cups in a nearby shop? Visit a vegetarian grocery store and look at their selection of super-spicy snacks? Discuss names for the children they would definitely never have? Ama racked her brain for possibilities, and every suggestion that presented itself seemed worse than staying at the theater.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll grasp the plot if I just see a little more of it, probably.”
Tamir settled back in his seat, although he still looked doubtful regarding this outcome. Ama dug her fingers into her snack mix and popped some more rice into her mouth. Another cluster of viewers, including a smartly dressed couple in the third row, turned their heads her way, their body language expressing disapproval for the crinkle and crunch from behind them. Even Tamir looked slightly annoyed by the noise from Ama’s snack bag.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. She repressed a sigh as she tied it closed again—with another disapproving glance from the front row—and tucked it back in her bag.
“Look at this. This moment was hilarious, Nat.” Cal skipped backwa
rds on the video he had taken of the December fashion revue, which was now playing on Natalie’s television. “Truly, Sandusky must have Kandace moonlighting with him part-time to create anything that ugly.”
The model paraded down the runway in a military grunge look gone wrong—as if the bottom half of the jacket and pants had been fed through a leaf shredder, while the cap appeared burned by a chemical fire. Natalie stifled a snort of humor as the designer’s next model appeared in a ghetto-fierce mix of eighties stone wash and spray paint.
Laughing at the weird fashions onscreen had caused Natalie to miss a stitch in the gown she was sewing—since it was Nadia’s wedding dress, she quickly amended the mistake. Concentrating on the satin piled on her lap and the sketch propped as a reminder on her side table caused her to miss the next designer’s line on parade, which Cal assured her was far more chic.
“That dress will be fabulous,” said Cal, who admired Natalie’s sketch of the bridal gown. “You know, you should really launch your own line someday. Your clothes could be a runway sensation in a show like this one. If even Kandace can actually sell garments after one of these events, just think what your designs would do—the crowd would mob you for orders, probably.”
“Please.” Natalie rolled her eyes. “When would I have time to meet those demands? If the wedding boutique stays in business, I’ll have my hands full with bridal gowns alone. Which should be enough to make me happy, right?”
“But if you had your own studio, you’d probably have assistants,” hinted Cal. “I know a really talented tailor who’s totally ready to leave his boss for someone new. He works for cheap and he’s pretty talented. If I do say so myself.”
“Keep reminding me,” said Natalie archly, as she hid her smile. “I’d have to be pretty successful to actually pay you or anybody else for their work. What if the line’s a complete bust? What if my label fails completely?”
“What if a meteor hits the earth and we all die?” retorted Cal. “Those are excuses, Natalie. I think you have the talent, and you’re just stalling.”
