by Laura Briggs
Dear Ama,
I told you I wanted to be a poet, and say things on paper that are hard to say in person. Probably it’s not my talent either, like playing violin or guitar isn’t. But I’m pretending for a moment that it is, because I wanted to say some things to you without using a phone or showing up at your place of work again, where words have to be short anyway.
If I look in my mind these days, a part of you occupies it. You’re planted like a flag in a sandcastle for the way you talked about loving the beach, or a postcard in my pocket from the Paris bakery you want to visit someday. Pieces of your scrapbook are pasted into mine now, even though we’ve only met a few times. I find myself thinking about you when I’m sitting alone in the shop, or working with my hands, and my mind wonders instead if you’re in a kitchen making curry or pouring batter into pans.
What I’m really trying to say is this: I like you, Ama. So much that words don’t easily express it.
You mentioned fate that day on the train. I can tell you right now that whatever fate holds in store for us, I’m glad we shared that experience, with conversations that only made sense in the moment, and pastries we tasted for just a few minutes before only the crumbs were left. That memory will make me smile years from now.
Sunset, steam rising, the quiet in the room seems expectant as I leave this line between us. That’s the only poetic line I can manage in all this, but I thought you should know what’s in my thoughts. Have a piece to keep for your life’s scrapbook, even if this letter gets lost.
Until Christmas Eve, or whenever we talk again.
Luke.
It was a love letter. Ama’s first. She folded it up carefully, as if it were valuable, and held it between the fingers of both hands. Eyes closed, she let the world reel around her in a dizzying cycle. Luke had said that he liked her. He thought about talking to her and spending time with her.
He really likes me. I didn’t imagine it, that it was more than just a chance for free pastries or to impress Deena by taking me for a ride. He really wants to see me again. This magical feeling in response to a few lines on a piece of paper—was this what love felt like? It was different from the way she felt during one of her fleeting crushes in the past, or any little romantic fantasy that she indulged now and then while watching a movie. This had symptoms like surprise, anticipation, anxiety, excitement: all powerful enough to roll the floorboards momentarily beneath her feet. A little dance of happiness wasn’t out of the question right now.
The soup pot clanging just behind her brought her back to the rock-solid earth. “What are you doing, Ama?” her mother asked.
“Nothing,” said Ama. She quickly stuffed the letter into the pocket of her zoo animal skirt with one hand, the other adjusting one of the saucepans on the shelf. “I was looking for the skillet Jaidev uses for curry.”
“It’s on the stove,” answered Pashma. She gave Ama another funny look, then carried away the pot she lifted down from the shelf.
Ama breathed a sigh of relief. Her fingers tucked the letter more securely in her pocket, feeling as if its words possessed a burning power that would shine through the fabric and reveal the truth to everybody, instead of remaining innocuously hidden. But maybe that’s because she could hear Luke’s voice reading them in her head the whole time she was dicing carrots on her cutting board, trying to look as if nothing monumental had happened to her mere seconds ago.
What if he can’t understand the past or the culture that created me? she thought. What if everyone else sees him as wrong, and only I see him as the right one? The looks on their faces at his leather jacket and rebellious t-shirt… the cool and casual attitude that was so alien to her quiet world of cupcakes and novelty-print skirts—where rebellion was forgetting her Punjabi vocabulary in a youthful bid for independence…
What if it’s too late and I’m falling in love with him already? She didn’t dare ask herself this question. Not even as her knife missed its mark while dicing and shaved her onion as thin as carbon paper.
While Ama was stranded in an island of thoughts amidst her family’s busy kitchen, and Natalie savored one last cup of tea before the view of the koi pond and moss garden, Tessa was sharing a frozen pizza and a glass of pinot across town at Nadia’s place. The young gallery curator’s apartment was understated in its decor and also a little untidy—but a number of scattered bridal magazines accounted for some of the mess, Tessa noticed. Here was a woman whose spare time had been consumed by an event now destined for the recycling bin.
“Sorry, I haven’t had time to clean,” said Nadia, gathering up a few torn-out pages and a couple of empty fast food cartons. “I’ve been so busy the past few weeks, trying to sort stuff out at work and for the wedding. And survive my mother’s complaints about it,” she added wryly. She stuffed her armload in a pantry cupboard, slamming the door closed before it could escape.
“You had a lot of opinions offered to you—more than you wanted, I’m sure,” said Tessa. “I can always see the stress building in a client’s eyes whenever too many people are involved.”
“Crazy eyes?” said Nadia. “Mine must have been. I must have been insane. Here I was, thinking it was supposed to be the happiest day of my life I was planning.” She pulled the pizza from the oven, fumbling with a mitt that had a hole in its finger section.
“Careful.” Quickly, Tessa rescued the pan’s opposite side, using a dish towel as a makeshift potholder. Nadia set the pan on the stove.
“Thanks,” she said. “There’s another thing I should put on my to-do list, now that I have free time. Buy new kitchen linens.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pizza cutter.
“You didn’t have crazy eyes,” said Tessa.
“What?”
“Your look. It was very normal,” said Tessa. “What went wrong isn’t your fault, Nadia. Sometimes… sometimes you need a moment to step back from a situation and figure out why part of it feels wrong. In relationships, we call it a breather. In the wedding business, we call it chocolates, wine, and maybe a couple of tranquilizers if someone hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours.”
Nadia laughed. “Do you really?”
“Not really. I just thought a joke might help.” Tessa opened the bottle of wine on the counter, making the assumption that it was sitting there for use. She poured a glass for Nadia. “Humor helps. Especially if you work in a business that takes itself too seriously on occasion.”
Humor helped Nadia, at least after they’d had a few laughs over some of the wildest ideas suggested for her wedding, especially by Paula. Between that, the pizza, and the red wine, Nadia seemed less emotionally rattled than when Tessa arrived.
Nadia took a sip from her second glass. “She called me three times every day about some part of it, my mother,” she said, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “When it wasn’t her, it was Paula. ‘Oh, look at this fun idea for the reception, where everybody does the limbo with rubber chickens.’ She wouldn’t stop, even when I told her that I had my heart set on the winter white theme. Neither of them did, except my mother was more thrilled, because it fitted her ‘simple is elegant’ mantra.”
“You needed a vacation.” Tessa’s thumb and finger stole the last pizza crumbs from her plate. “Sometimes I tell brides and grooms to just take some time away during all this. It will drive you crazy if you focus on one thing with such intensity. Believe me, I know—I do it every day. Over and over.”
“You do, don’t you?” said Nadia. “It’s just like fitting out an exhibition. You’re so in the moment for the artist’s vision… then, three weeks later, it’s on to the next artist, working with a completely different style.”
“I never thought about it, but you’re right,” said Tessa. “We’re a lot alike. Soul sisters separated at birth, maybe.” They both laughed at this joke.
Then Nadia’s laughter faded. “You know who didn’t call me during all this?” she said. “Lyle. I always wanted it to be him. I wanted him to be supportive of the fact that I
was trying to make this day about us. You know my mother hated the reception being at his restaurant?” she said to Tessa.
“Can’t say that surprises me,” said Tessa. She could imagine Cynthia wasn’t enthralled with Greek cuisine.
“I was so firm with her about that. We had a huge argument and I told her that was the final decision, because I didn’t want her to keep criticizing it and hurting Lyle’s feelings. He doesn’t realize what I’ve been going through with the two of them. That, or he just doesn’t care.” She burrowed deeper between two pillows cushioning the sofa’s arm, brooding over her wine glass.
“Maybe he was afraid,” suggested Tessa. “You have to be a little brave to be that honest with somebody.”
Nadia sighed. “I didn’t even have the chance to try on my fully finished wedding dress,” she said. “Can you sell it for me?” she looked at Tessa. “Can Natalie just… sell it? No, wait—wait, maybe I don’t want—I don’t know.” She set her glass on the coffee table and buried her face in one of the cushions.
Tessa set aside her own glass and rubbed her client’s shoulder sympathetically. “You can still try it on,” she answered. “Natalie will do whatever you want. You still need time to think about all of this, so don’t rush yourself into making decisions.”
“Can you unmake the biggest decision of your life in ten minutes?” said Nadia tearfully. “I did. And, of course, the only person who’s going to clean it up is me.” She wiped away a few tears. “Lyle hasn’t even cancelled the booking at the restaurant. Or the band.”
“Don’t worry about the band,” said Tessa, who possessed inside knowledge on this subject. “I’ll help you take care of all those details.” Undoing everything she’d worked hard to achieve in the face of the jinx, she thought gloomily.
A handful of gravel struck the window. Nadia sat up. “What was that?”
“A bird, maybe?”
Another shower against the panes. Nadia drew herself to her feet and crept toward the window, with Tessa behind her. Two stories below, they could see Lyle standing there, in an overcoat and scarf.
“He couldn’t call?” said Nadia sarcastically.
“You turned your phone off, actually,” said Tessa. “While the pizza was heating up.”
Nadia’s sigh was one of frustration as she opened the window and leaned outside. “What do you want?” she called below.
“I want to talk to you,” he called back. “Can I come up?”
“I’m busy, Lyle,” she said. “This really isn’t a good time. Not after everything that’s happened.”
“Please, Nadia,” he said. “Give me a chance. Honest. Just—a few words, and I’ll leave if you want me to. But don’t leave us like this, please.”
Tessa glanced at the bride-to-be, who looked torn between sticking to her resolve and giving in to the man she still loved. “You could hear him out,” she suggested. “I can stay in case you need moral support, if you want.”
Nadia nodded. She leaned over the sill. “All right,” she called reluctantly. “You can come up. But only for a few minutes.” She closed the window and crossed the room to press the buzzer for the front door. “This is a mistake, probably,” she muttered. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Tess.”
“One step at a time,” said Tessa, who tried not to look too obvious or expectant as she perched on the edge of the sofa arm. Lyle knocked on the door. Nadia hesitated before answering it.
“What is it?” she said, sounding tired. “It’s been a really long day, Lyle, and I have a lot to do, so let’s just get this over with.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to get it over with. Nadia, I love you. You know that, don’t you? I didn’t want to break up with you, I wanted to marry you.”
“Please… let’s do this some other time,” said Nadia, who looked tearful again. “Just go home, Lyle.” She started to close the door, but he stopped her.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe you were right about me not helping you keep the peace and all that. Maybe our moms were kind of running things, and I was pretending that it wasn’t all that bad. But I can change that. I can be better, Nadia. Please, just give me the chance.”
Nadia’s gaze was trained on the floor. “Those are only words, Lyle,” she said. “I know you want to mean them, but… I don’t know if I can believe you. I don’t know if I can trust you.” She met his gaze now, her eyes filled with regret.
“Would it help if I said I booked a ride for after the wedding?” he asked.
“What?” said Nadia in shock.
“What?” echoed Tessa nearly simultaneously—although hers was with a scheduler’s panic.
“One sleigh and two reindeer to pick us up at that glass wedding chapel, and take us to my car,” he said.
“Reindeer?” said Tessa.
Lyle looked at her. “Yeah,” he said. “I know a guy who knows a guy. He’s got a friend who has a Scandinavian lodge in Vermont.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I called him up and rented one of his sleighs with a driver for the afternoon. They have little wheels on the sleigh, so even if it doesn’t snow, we can still go in it.”
“A sleigh and reindeer from Vermont? Lyle—that must be costing you a fortune,” said Nadia. “It’s only ten minutes from the church to the parking.”
“We’ll take the long way,” he said. “I don’t care about cost anyway. I care about making you happy. You want a winter-themed wedding, that’s what I want you to have. It doesn’t matter what cake your mom wants or what music my mom wants… what matters is you and me, like you said. I’ll help you fix the rest of this wedding, promise. I’ll be there for you, Nadia, no matter what.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Christmas ornament—a bundle of pale green silk mistletoe leaves tied with a red ribbon. A glittery crystal snowflake dangled from the center of the bow. “What do you say?” he asked Nadia. “Will you still be my winter bride, Nadia Emerson?”
Nadia blinked back tears. “I will,” she said. She put her arms around Lyle’s neck, the groom now holding her tight.
“Forgive me?” he asked softly.
She nodded, her face buried against his shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” she said. “That’s all.”
Neither of them was paying any attention to Tessa, who had become invisible in the room as she silently celebrated the look of happiness on the couple’s faces now that their wedding was happening again. She made plans to slip away as quietly and politely as possible—when their embrace wasn’t blocking the doorway, for instance.
No more unhappiness, no more cancellations. And no more bad luck curse for the Wedding Belles, either.
Twenty-One
Thursday evening in the city square—the shopping traffic was thick, and the holiday atmosphere permeated the air along with the scent of hot chestnuts and pretzels and coffee, and the sound of a Salvation Army band playing for donations. A little crowd was gathered there, and around all the window displays of mechanized North Pole workshops, sugar plum fairies, and chic merchandise in a winter wonderland of fake snow and glitter that reminded Ama of Nadia and Lyle’s wedding theme.
She passed the green-and-red Christmas trees at the plaza entrance, their branches trimmed with twinkle lights and silver garlands. She searched the faces in the crowd until she spotted Tamir waiting on a nearby bench, a city guide in hand.
As always, he was overdressed for their outing, even with a knitted sleeveless pullover dressing down his pinstripe shirt beneath the coat he adjusted, tucking his wool scarf inside its collar. Ama glanced down at the skirt that covered her winter tights—printed with kittens and candy canes—then drew a deep breath and crossed the plaza.
He saw her approaching and rose to his feet with a polite smile. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Tamir.” Should they shake hands? Hug? Definitely not the latter, because Ama felt as if it would wrinkle Tamir’s neatly pressed exterior. They stood there awkwardly, hands in their pockets against
the night’s cold.
“I thought we might choose something from this,” he said, glancing at the guide under his arm. “There are some nice art shows listed for this month in the west end. The new Sixth Street Gallery has an exhibition of modern murals inspired by tapestries from Mumbai.”
“It sounds pretty, but…” began Ama. Her smile was weak, at best, at the idea of pretending to admire abstract art in the form of wall rugs.
“We could have coffee somewhere if you like, before or after. I think there’s a place near the gallery…” Tamir flipped through the pages of his guide, pushing his eyeglasses in place again. “Maybe I should try searching on my phone.” He closed the book and pulled out his cell phone instead, searching the directory as he turned to go.
“Wait,” said Ama. She didn’t follow him, but remained in place while Tamir took a few steps forward, before he realized she wasn’t coming. “Tamir, I have to say something.”
“What is it?” he asked, puzzled.
“Tamir, I… I don’t want to go out with you anymore.” The deep breath in Ama’s lungs escaped her with these words. “I’m sorry. But this isn’t working. I don’t think either of us are happy, and I don’t think either of us are going to be, so long as we keep spending time together.”
Her words trembled a little bit, but they still emerged. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes yet—what if this hurt him? What if it felt like rejection, even if she wasn’t the real girl of his dreams?
Tamir was perfectly still. He glanced at the lights on the Christmas trees, drawing a slow, ragged breath.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Ama softly. “You’re a nice guy, and you’ve been really kind to me. But I’m not interested in dating you. This whole—arrangement—was really my father’s idea, and I never wanted to do it.”
