by Laura Briggs
“Really, Ms. Miller, wouldn’t it be easier for your clients to go elsewhere for their special day?”
They were giving them the shove. No wonder he was content to speak with Ms. Miller, the lowly assistant, instead of demanding to speak with Blake again.
“Hold for Mr. Ellingham,” said Tessa.
“Ms. Miller—”
She gave Blake a moment to gather himself before he had to assume the role of Stefan’s assistant, a little afraid that this was too much to ask on split-second notice.
She needn’t have worried. Blake cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that you are cancelling your agreement with Mr. Groeder without so much as a ‘by your leave’?” he demanded, in exactly the sort of voice that Stefan’s assistant would employ for this indignation. “Because of a little overnight wilting? You do have other greenhouses than these four, obviously.”
“Yes, but we have a shortage of available flowers and several unhappy clients to contend with. Surely you don’t think a wedding is equal to the mayor’s holiday dinner, do you?”
“It’s my job to assume that every wedding my employer plans is equal to a mayoral dinner,” said Blake crispy. “I thought a florist’s as elite as yours would be capable of finding some way to stretch its remaining flowers to fit the bill for its clients. Mr. Groeder will be extremely disappointed if you choose to fail—and need I remind you how popular he’s growing in certain circles? How long until he’s the one planning the mayor’s dinner party?” Tessa bit her lip to hide a smile at this remark. A perfect touch by Blake’s snooty alter ego.
“But—”
“I think your floral artists can find a way to resolve this without cancellation. Find some lilies, freeze some ice, and text us when you have a presentable substitute.” He glanced at Tessa, who gave him two thumbs-ups. “Ciao.”
Tessa disconnected the call. “You really are brilliant at doing that,” she said.
“I try to practice now and then,” he answered. But not in a serious way. “You think they’ll come up with a couple of quick substitutions?”
“I don’t know if it matters,” said Tessa. “The wedding plans have hit a rough patch. There’s a chance the ceremony may not even happen.”
“They’re canceling on you?” said Blake with surprise.
She shrugged. “I won’t know for a little longer. But… the bride is pretty upset, and the groom hasn’t lifted a finger to fix the conflict, so I won’t hold my breath.”
“What about the flowers and all those wedding favors you’ve been working on?” said Blake.
“They’ll pay us for our time and expense,” said Tessa. “Maybe we can recycle a few things later. Not the flowers, though,” she said. “But at this point, it would be impossible to get back that retainer fee anyway. Frankly, given how many things went wrong for this wedding, it’s amazing the plans made it to this point.” It had been falling apart the whole time, with the three of them pasting its seams along the way.
“So what are you going to do?”
“The same thing any good wedding planner does,” said Tessa. “Be disappointed over what happened, be realistic that things go wrong sometimes, then find a new client and hope the next time will be a smooth sail to a perfect day.” She sighed.
If there was a next time, and their business wasn’t doomed to fail no matter what. Tessa did her best not to think about it this way. Cancelled orders, mixed-up shipments, last-minute changes—those weren’t signs, were they?
Nadia texted her at four. No change, she said.
Tessa read it with a sigh, then texted back, So sorry. The time to pull the plug was drawing ever nearer, and she imagined the tearful bride was probably tossing all her plans—including those squashed by the quarreling mothers—into a wastebasket at home.
Me too.
Are u ok?
Sort of. A pause after this text. No one understands. Nobody in Nadia’s world did, except maybe her closest friends—all of whom had paid deposits on their own dresses, Tessa recalled.
No friends?
They’re busy. Not speaking to my best friend now. That would be Lyle, probably. Tessa wondered if they had spoken since the big argument.
Call me if u need 2.
Another text. Are u busy?
No, Tessa texted in reply.
Can we hang out?
Poor Nadia. Seeing the members of the bridal party was probably too hard right now. She was probably feeling lonely and dejected, surrounded by souvenirs of her big day that had fallen apart. Cynthia probably had a million I told you sos cued to share the moment Nadia emerged from her apartment to face the world.
Yes, Tessa texted.
Twenty
Cardboard versions of Nadia’s cake had been decorating Ama’s desk for days, but now she was packing them into a box from the hall closet. The sight of fake fondant and sugar snowflakes was turning her stomach, now that the finished creation was on hold.
Swiveling her chair around, she propped her feet on the edge of her wastebasket, piled with rejected sketches. Her phone rang, and she reached for it beneath the cover of the Winter Cakes cookbook.
Oh no. Was Tamir a glutton for punishment, that he was still calling her at this point? Ama was tempted to reject the call—better yet, to answer and ask him if he was out of his mind.
The phone kept ringing. She ignored it, and studied a recipe for making candy pearls. Now her phone beeped with its ‘text received’ signal.
It was from Tamir. Busy tonight?
Yes. That was all she typed. It looked rude, and felt the same way, but he wasn’t leaving her with much choice.
Tomorrow night?
Ama hung her head. Call me. We’ll talk.
About what a rotten couple we would make, she wanted to add.
Now her phone was ringing. “Hello?” she said, answering it.
“It’s me, Tamir.”
“I know.”
“I thought maybe you would have an evening free this week. Maybe we could go to dinner, or to a gallery.”
“Tamir, are you sure about that?” Ama stressed the “sure” in this question.
“No, not really. But I thought since you didn’t enjoy the film very much last time, maybe we should try something new.”
Completely missing the point. Ama wanted to smack her forehead against the desk—almost as much as she wanted to smack Tamir’s for being so dense. “I don’t think you had a good time, either,” she said. “Shouldn’t we just stay home?”
“Would your parents want me to come to your house? Or did you mean mine?” asked Tamir.
“Neither,” said Ama. But so faintly that she didn’t think he heard it. “I’m really busy this week, Tamir.” Did he simply not want to understand her hints? Was that the problem?
“Are you free next Thursday?” he said. “I have a business conference in the first part of the week. I’ll be back by then. We could meet and decide what to do.”
Break up with me, Tamir. Please, please break up with me, so I don’t have to tell you the truth, Ama thought desperately. What she said aloud, however, was, “I guess so.” Reluctantly, which anybody but Tamir would sense. “We can meet then.”
“I’ll see you later.” When the call disconnected, Ama’s forehead thumped down on the cover of Winter Cakes, nose pressed against its glossy cover.
“I thought you told this guy already that you didn’t want to see him,” said Natalie, curled up on her workroom sofa, the second piece of Nadia’s dress splayed across her lap. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Plans go wrong,” said Ama with a groan. “He’s really nice. He’s a nice guy. Deadly dull, but other than that, any girl would probably love to go out with him.”
“Not me,” said Natalie, snipping the thread from her needle. “But I’m probably not his type.”
“Not his parents’ type, anyway,” said Ama. “I’m not, either. He just doesn’t get it. He made a mistake, picking me from the matchmaker’s site, and he can’t
see it. Everybody else can… well, except for my parents. They can’t believe how lucky we’ve been to have a boy this wonderful show up on our doorstep.”
“Is it that you can’t look him in the eye, or that you won’t?” said Natalie.
“Does it make a difference?”
“It’s two different things,” said Natalie. “If you’re afraid, then I don’t know what to tell you. If you’re only reluctant to hurt his feelings, I have two words for you. Motorcycle. Guy.”
Ama blushed. “That’s… different,” she began. “I don’t even know if he likes me, to begin with. He might just think we’re friends.” He had never said anything to prove they weren’t, come to think of it. A motorcycle ride, lunch on a train, an impromptu pastry delivery—those weren’t actual dates.
“But you like him, and you don’t like Tamir. Until you tell Tamir, you’re stuck dating him when you want to date motorcycle guy, if he asks you out. There’s only one solution.”
“I wish it were that easy,” said Ama. “Even if I tell Tamir the truth, I still can’t date Luke.” Not without sending shock waves through her parents and auntie. A perfectly good engineer tossed aside for a leather-wearing boy who probably believed in love at first sight and the magic of a first kiss, the most impractical of Ama’s dreams. Dreams her siblings and even most of her friends had foregone when choosing their own mates.
“Would your parents be that upset?” asked Natalie. “He’s not a psycho killer.”
“You don’t understand,” said Ama. “You don’t know how hard it would be for them to accept me being in love with someone who doesn’t fit the mold. Who doesn’t know our culture, our traditions… who would sweep me away anywhere in the world without a second thought about family ties.”
If only Luke had been from India… or Tamir had been more like the kind of guy she always dreamed of meeting. Ama couldn’t help wishing for an easier solution to the quandary she was facing now. As much as she wanted to find love, she also wanted her family to be happy about it when she finally did.
“Do you want to be swept away?” asked Natalie.
“Sometimes,” said Ama. She nodded. “I think about being in love with someone, and having them as my whole world. I want there to be sparks for a first kiss… one glance to be a whole language, even though we’ve only known each other for a little while. Those are things my parents can’t understand about me, even if I try to explain them. They’re just not part of the story that they’ve known in their own lives.”
“Mine had those things,” said Natalie. “And look where it got me. The same place you are, with a mother who won’t be happy until I commit myself to a nice boy and say, ‘I do.’”
Ama sat down on the sofa, moving aside the long train of lace fabric trailing across it. “I have to choose,” she said. “But it’s hard. It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
Natalie folded the garment on her lap and stuck the needle into her ladybug pincushion on the floor. “Do you have plans tonight, or do you want to grab dinner somewhere together? Not Indian or Italian food?”
“Chinese?” laughed Ama. “Soul food? The flavors of South America?”
“Chad did introduce me to an Ecuadorian place with excellent lime garlic salsa,” said Natalie. “I’ll grab my coat and scarf and we’ll choose someplace.”
The funky embroidered coat and hat that Ama had worn to work hung on the back of her office door. She grabbed them and reached for her cell phone at the same moment it beeped with a new text.
Luke’s number. Hi, stranger. How are u?
Ama’s heart was beating strangely. Hi there.
Busy?
No. Going out with a friend.
Too bad. Wanted to chat. Got time?
A little. Miss seeing u.
I won’t keep u. Have a cross-country delivery this wknd. Will u be at market Saturday of Christmas Eve?
I will.
See you then.
She closed the text window. Christmas Eve at the market with Luke—only, she would have to face her date with Tamir sooner than that. She closed her eyes and sighed.
She had to make a choice.
Ama and Natalie chose a Japanese place called the Koi Fountain, a quiet dining spot with a glass mural of Japanese goldfish swimming in clear blue waters, and tiny tearooms cordoned off with paper screens, and with window views of a moss garden. It was the first time in weeks that Ama had entered a restaurant that didn’t have the heavy scent of masala in the air, and there was no pasta on the menu, much to Natalie’s relief.
“So you’re going to choose the one you want, right?” said Natalie
“Probably?” Ama’s chopsticks picked through the tender slices of beef on her plate. The look on Natalie’s face in reply forced her to add more words. “It’s not as easy as it seems, trust me. Family pressure can be really tough to ignore. When I think about their disappointment, I feel a big lump in my throat that blocks the words I have to say to Tamir. I feel guilty that saying those things will hurt everybody in my life.”
“I’m not exactly a stranger to the feeling,” Natalie said, in a grimmer voice than usual. Her chopsticks were still wrapped in paper by her plate, her fork twirling her noodles Italian-style. “It’s just because Luke isn’t Indian, I take it?”
“It’s bigger than that,” said Ama, shaking her head. “I know they always pictured me with an Indian guy, but it’s because they want me to be with someone who can be part of my culture, and accept it for what it is. There’s an old joke about Indians marrying the family, not the person, but it’s kind of true. It’s a family experience in my culture.”
“Are you sure you’re not Italian?” joked Natalie. “Okay, it’s not quite like that for me. But it feels like it, sometimes.”
“At least you have privacy to explore relationships that might be doomed,” said Ama. “If I dated someone who didn’t get how my family thinks… who didn’t understand them, or couldn’t find a way to fit in with them… that would be devastating to my parents. It would really hurt them. I know it, and when I think about someone like Luke maybe saying or doing the wrong thing, I turn into a coward. He doesn’t live in a world where you have to be near your family, or be part of their lives all the time. He doesn’t have a family unit, he travels and lives wherever he wants.”
Natalie lost interest in trying her soup after a fish head with an eye floated to the top from beneath a cucumber slice. “My ma has no clue why I wouldn’t want to inflict all my relatives on every boyfriend I date,” she answered. “Like every guy who ever meets me can’t wait to find out I have an annoying brother and a weird uncle.”
“The thing is,” said Ama, “what my parents want for me isn’t that different from what I want. A decent, kind, good-hearted person who respects me. They want me to be happy, and to care about the person I’m with—only difference really is how we think it should happen. They don’t want me to leave it to chance, to risk maybe ending up alone.”
This was the real problem—wanting the same thing, but wanting it in different ways. She knew they loved her, and wanted the best for her. They just didn’t want to take the chance that her choices could hurt her.
“Lots of people who hold out end up alone,” said Natalie. She would be one of them, she reflected, if nobody irresistible came along to change her mind at some point—since Chad probably wasn’t going to slip a real diamond ring on her finger at the end of the holidays. Too picky, her mom would forever claim afterwards. And maybe she was, but that was her business alone.
“They could be right, and I could wait too long,” said Ama. “But… I like the romance of waiting. That’s the part that they don’t understand. I don’t want a safety net, a suitable boy who will ‘do’ because he’s nice and he fits in. I want to take a chance… even if that chance means I end up making a hard choice.”
It’s not that she wanted to make one, but she wanted them to see she had a right to do it. Right now, she couldn’t see herself compromising b
y settling for the first prospective guy who came along, not when the world seemed big and there might be a person in it who caused undeniable electricity to pass through her every time he so much as brushed her hand. She wanted it to be magic, not a match made by a checklist’s columns, no matter to whom the list belonged.
“Or no choice at all,” said Natalie cryptically, but with a smile as she finished off her last sushi roll.
The scent of yellow turmeric was heavy in the Tandoori Tiger from her mother seasoning the rice on the stove for the second wave of dinnertime customers. Ama tucked her leftover sushi rolls in the fridge, then tied on an apron, preparing to help dice meat for curry, and mince vegetables for her father’s secret recipe for stuffed veal rolls in garlic sauce.
Nikil was here, having a friendly argument with Rasha over a recent food delivery, while Bendi was doing her best as usual to add confusion to the discussion. Ranjit was pounding his cutlets to the thinnest layer possible, humming some song under his breath from one of her brother’s contemporary pop CDs as he lightly sprinkled the meat with seasoning.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “Somebody left this for you earlier,” Jaidev said quietly, coming out of the storeroom with a bag of rice under his arm. From his tone, Ama knew who that ‘someone’ must be as he slipped an envelope into her hand. “I found it taped to the door when I opened the restaurant this afternoon.”
He had tucked it out of sight before anyone else could see it, Ama surmised. She was grateful for this thoughtfulness on her brother’s part as she retreated a little behind the shelf of pots and pans and lifted the flap. The light was bad in this part of the kitchen thanks to a burnt-out bulb in the lamp above, but she could still read the contents in the shadows of the vast soup and rice pots behind her.
She unfolded the slip of paper inside, finding a letter written by hand. It was her first glimpse of Luke’s handwriting: quick, looping letters traveling in uneven lines across the paper like a highway’s meandering borders. The top of the paper was ripped, where it had clearly been pulled free of a desk scratch pad, the bottom of Luke’s business name and logo still clinging in ink remnants to the jagged edges.
