More purring.
“Right.” I picture Lauren lounging in the sunroom overlooking the sea; for all I know, she and Robert will live there together happily ever after. He can’t say I never gave an inch. I’ve given him more than a mile. Perhaps this twinge, this touch of jealousy, will always plague me, but it comes less often now, and the pain is fading. Time will heal me; time and distance.
“Let it be, right?” I say to Monet. He purrs and stretches his front paws forward, rump in the air. Mary squints at me and hops onto the desk, where she can sit in state to survey her world. No bookstore is complete without literary cats.
I pull on a soft cotton sweater, new jeans, and a new pair of sneakers and brush my locks in the bathroom mirror. My hair is sleek, luxurious.
“This looking glass belonged to me,” Emily Dickinson says.
“So Auntie was right.” I smile at Emily’s austere reflection. Lately, the spirits visit me when I need them, but they don’t intrude. “I hope your afterlife is not so lonely.”
“Sometimes I engage in lively conversation with Edgar or Charles,” she says. “Jane and Beatrix visit me often.”
“And Connor?”
“He’s gone. Connor no longer needs to be here.”
“Of course.” If he were here, I would feel him.
I head downstairs to open the store. Monet and Mary pad down after me. Tony shows up in shades of pale blue and green. He wears those colors well. He picks up Mary and cradles her. She goes limp in his arms.
“I have so much good news, I can hardly contain myself,” he tells me.
“Spill!”
“I’m in love again.” His face radiates happiness.
“You deserve it. Who is he?”
“Someone I met in my writing group, in Seattle. You have to meet him.”
“I would love to. Bring him to the store.”
“He’s been helping me with my manuscript, and now I have an agent. She wants to represent my romance novel.” He puts Mary down and she trots off.
“We have to celebrate!” I grab his hands and we dance in a circle. I can hear the spirits laughing.
They help me when a mother comes in wanting a book about how to deal with a crazy teenage daughter; when a grandma looks for a potty training book; when a coin collector wants the next coin book a year in advance of the publication date. Bram Stoker whispers in my ear when a mother seeks the latest vampire novel for her daughter.
For story time I like to choose Dr. Seuss to read aloud. His spirit smiles as I act out the rhymes. My heart fills with joy as I watch the kids’ enraptured faces. But I am divided inside, part of me always watching for . . . what?
One Wednesday evening, Ma shows up for the book group. She joined a few weeks ago; she provides lively counterpoint to Virginia Langemack and Lucia Peleran.
“Sanchita called, but she hasn’t come back,” Ma says sadly. She shrugs off her coat and hangs it in the closet, then pulls the current book group selection from her purse: Gone with the Wind.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say.
“Mohan has filed for divorce. He’s already dating someone new. Can you imagine?”
Somehow, I’m not surprised. “He keeps bringing Vishnu to story time. That’s all that matters.”
Ma is already striding back toward the tea room. “Are you seeing anyone? Dating?”
“Not at the moment.”
“A very nice man will be at the Mauliks’ Saturday night—”
“Ma, stop.” My voice is gentle but firm.
She shakes her head slightly, but she doesn’t press.
Virginia Langemack arrives and engages in a heated debate with Ma about what flowers would work best along the downtown corridor.
Lucia Peleran waltzes in, something different about her, something radiant. “This is my last day at the book group,” she announces. “I’ve got news.”
“It’s a newsy kind of day,” I say.
Ma and Virginia stare at Lucia.
Lucia pantomimes a store sign. “Lucia’s Luscious Levain. Come in for your magical muffins and charmed cakes. I’m opening my very own restaurant and bakery!”
Everyone claps.
“Good for you,” I say.
“I couldn’t have done it without Julia Child. Her book is amazing. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” I say.
Julia’s hearty laugh reverberates through the rooms.
The next afternoon, I receive my first letter from Auntie on her fragrant pink stationery:Dearest Jasmine,
Subhas and I are staying in his lovely cottage in Santiniketan (see enclosed snaps). Every morning, we walk to the university and through the nature reserve. We’ve taken the train into Calcutta—sorry, Kolkata now—to shop at the bazaars. So many relatives have been passing through to visit and congratulate us, I haven’t had time to write to you until now.
I miss the bookstore, the customers, Tony, and your ma and dad and you. But I’m happy here, thanks to Lord Ganesh. If Dickens hadn’t come to life to walk the earth for one day, and if he hadn’t tripped Subhas, then Subhas never would have fallen in front of the newspaper stand. My bookstore was featured in the Times that day.
I neglected to mention this detail. Subhas was visiting Seattle, and when he saw the article on the front page, he knew I was only a few miles away, on Shelter Island.
Thank you, Charles Dickens.
Much love,
Auntie Ruma
So Connor was not the first spirit to step outside, and perhaps he will not be the last.
A few days after Auntie’s letter arrives, I receive another, this one from Professor Avery. He now volunteers at an orphanage on the outskirts of Chennai. He fell in love with the director and married her. Together they plan to adopt orphaned girls and establish a network of orphanages. He keeps Magic in the Mango Orchards on his shelf—the book that drew him to India and changed his life.
He took a bold leap. And I have, too. I hold on to the sweet memory of Connor. I treasure the gift that he gave me—the ability to let down my guard, to let the castle walls crumble around my heart.
Chapter 45
At the height of a warm spring afternoon, I’m standing in Island Church, a magnificent historic building replete with colorful stained-glass windows. The dais is decorated with a variety of Northwest flowers in bloom.
Dilip’s mother has arrived in an expensive mauve silk sari, heavily bejeweled; his father in a tuxedo. They stand with a gaggle of relatives, chatting in animated voices.
Nearly everyone else is here—friends and family, Auntie Ruma and Uncle Subhas, Ma and Dad, the Mauliks, Tony, Virginia, Olivia, and Lucia, who emits the rich scent of chocolate chip cookies. Sanchita is conspicuously absent. She finally sent a postcard from Chennai. She took a temporary job as a pediatrician at an orphanage run by Harold Avery and his new wife. What were the chances? Perhaps she will come to her senses and return to her family soon.
For now, her children, and her parents, must go on without her. They’re all here. Uncle Benoy is talking to Dilip. No wonder Gita fell for him. He’s solid, squarely handsome, his grin infectious and endearing. He moves smoothly through the crowd, greeting the guests, making them feel at home. He’s in traditional clothes, the cream-colored, gold-embroidered churidar kurta, the perfect fiancé.
“Jasmine, you look beautiful in that sari!” He takes my hands in his and looks me up and down, smiling.
“Turquoise is my color, I guess.” I had trouble wrapping the slippery fabric around my waist—it’s been a long time since I dressed in such finery. I’m wearing only a smattering of jewelry. “Lovely day for an outdoor reception.”
He lowers his voice. “Where is Gita? She’s supposed to be here by now.”
“In the dressing room.” I nod toward the back rooms. “Ma is with her.”
He points at a chubby man dressed in white, standing near the dais. “The priest is here. We need to seat everyone and get started. What’s the holdup?”
“Gi
ve her a minute. She’ll come.”
People are taking their seats, murmuring, pointing at the elaborate floral arrangements.
Ma comes running from the back rooms, a vision in a silver sari, except for the tears streaking down her face.
Dilip pales. “What’s going on? Where’s Gita?”
Ma presses her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my, she’s got cold feet.”
I laugh. “Cold feet? Gita? You’ve got to be kidding. She would have eloped if she’d had the chance.”
Ma glares at me. “She doesn’t want to come out here. She wants to go home.”
Dilip’s lips tremble. “I’ll talk to her.”
Ma lifts a hand to stop him. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“But why not? She was all right this morning.”
People are glancing over at us. They know something is afoot.
“She’s not all right now.”
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything wrong,” Dilip says. “What’s gotten into her?”
Auntie glides over in a gold sari and a neon lime sweater. “What’s the trouble here?”
We all speak at once. “Gita has cold feet.”
“Acha, happens sometimes,” Auntie says, nodding her head sideways. “Has she vomited?”
Ma gasps. “Of course not!”
“I vomited before my wedding ceremony. Nerves, you know.”
Ma wrings her hands. “She was all right when she got dressed. The sari you brought from India, so beautiful on her. And the jewelry. She was smiling—a vision. She loved the henna patterns on her hands. But at the last minute—I don’t know what has come over her. Perhaps the wedding is off!”
Dilip sways, as if he might pass out. “Off? The wedding? We’ve been planning this for months!”
“Ay, Ganesh!” Auntie says. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to marry you.”
“Get Dad,” I say, pointing to the front row.
“She doesn’t want Dad!” Ma says. “She wants to leave.”
Auntie turns to me. “Jasmine, talk to her.”
“Yes,” Ma says. “You must convince her to marry Dilip.”
“Me?” I’m not the person to convince anyone to get married.
Dilip grips my arm with surprising strength. “Please. I love her.” His gaze is intense, pained. “I love her so much.”
“Jasmine,” Ma says.
My throat goes dry. The priest steps onto the stage.
“She needs her big sister,” Auntie Ruma says. “Do what you can.”
“Please,” Dilip says.
“All right,” I say. “I’ll talk to her. But I can’t make any promises.”
Chapter 46
In the dressing room, Gita’s collapsed on the couch, curled up in the fetal position. Mottled sunlight filters in through the stained-glass window, making a pattern of watery colors on the hardwood floor. The room smells of perfume and powder and silk.
“You’ll wrinkle that lovely sari,” I say.
“I don’t care.” She sniffs, honks into a balled-up tissue. “I told Ma I can’t marry Dilip. What if he sleeps around on me? What if he cheats? What if I get pregnant and he leaves me while I’m pregnant? He wants kids and I just picture myself being left alone with them. Day in and day out—”
“Anything can happen, but you can’t think that way. You have to believe you’ll live a happy, full life. You need to embrace your future.”
She blows her nose into the tattered tissue. “What if we stop loving each other? We have to live together every day, every night, for the rest of our lives.”
“What happened to my confident little sister, the one who believes love will always carry her?”
“What if he’s not the right guy?” She rips the tissue to shreds. “What if we get married and then he finds someone else?”
I hand her a fresh tissue. “You can’t spend your life always wondering what-if. If you love him, and he loves you, that love will carry you. It has to. Otherwise, what’s the point in living?”
She sits up and blinks at me. Her eyeliner is smudged, her nose red. “I do love him. At least I think I do. I’m not sure.”
“Picture your life without him. Picture coming home and he’s not there. How do you feel?”
She closes her eyes. “I feel . . . lonely. I want to hug him and tell him about my day. I want him to hold me the way he does. He makes the best pesto. He whistles off-key in the shower.”
“Life is better with him than without him?”
“A lot better. He reminds me of what I can do, that I can make the boutique work. I can expand. I have talent. I don’t have to be a pediatrician or surgeon to make a good life.”
“He brings out the best in you.”
“Yes.”
“You love him.”
“Yes. But—”
“You know yourself better than you think. You know your heart.”
“But you thought you knew your heart, too. You thought you loved Robert, and look what happened.”
“Sometimes you have to plunge in, take the risk, grab life with both hands, even if only for a day.”
She unfolds the tissue and wraps it around her finger. “Since when did you become such an optimist?”
“Since I met a few spirits who helped me along.”
“Auntie’s spirits?”
“Maybe, and one of my own.”
She gets up and smooths down the sari. “Poor Dilip. I’ve been cruel, doing this to him.”
“He understands. He understands because he loves you.”
She glances in the mirror then takes a deep breath. “Hurry, help me fix my makeup and my hair. Everyone’s waiting for us.”
Chapter 47
After the ceremony, everyone gathers under tents in Fairport Park for the reception. A warm wind blows in across the sea. A band plays softly, and people mill about, chatting, drinking, eating, dancing, and congratulating the happy couple. I’ve never seen Ma so thrilled. While Gita is talking to friends, Dilip sidles over to whisper his thanks. “I don’t know how you did it—”
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “Gita made her own decision. She loves you.”
“Thank you anyway.” He rushes off to capture his bride for a dance.
I stand on the sidelines, near the snack table, sipping wine. A couple of men ask me to dance, but I decline. I’ll just stand here and get pleasantly drunk.
There’s a slight disturbance in the air next to me.
“Excuse me.” The voice is rough-edged, arresting. Someone reaches past me to put an empty wineglass on the table.
I step aside, and I’m staring up into the deep blue eyes of a broad-shouldered man in khaki slacks, white dress shirt, open windbreaker, his dark hair combed back. His face is rugged, his skin tanned from the outdoors. He exudes powerful masculinity that stops the blood in my veins. He’s not dressed for a wedding, but somehow, it doesn’t matter.
“You’re Jasmine, right?”
“Right,” I say, nearly speechless. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been watching you. I have to admit, I asked your lovely sister, Gita, about you. Beauty must run in the family.”
A subsonic wave rushes through me. I nearly drop my wineglass. “You’re bold, aren’t you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Giles. Steve Giles.” He reaches out to shake my hand. His fingers are warm, firm, and rough. “Your sister made you sound intriguing.”
I pull my hand away, the imprint of his fingers on mine. “Oh? What did she say?”
“She said you have a special talent for finding the right books for people. I’m looking for a guide to the less-traveled hiking trails on the island.” He rubs his forefinger across his eyebrow in a gesture so familiar, my throat constricts.
“I’m sure I have what you’re looking for.”
“I’m sure you do.” He’s watching me intently, studying me. He gives off a wild scent of the outdoors—at once familiar, yet new and different.
“So, uh, how do you know Gita?
” I say.
“She hired me to do some work on her boutique. We knocked out a wall to make the place bigger.”
“Oh, you did! In Seattle?”
“Now I’ve got work on the island. I’m a general contractor.”
“You’re knocking out more walls?”
“I specialize in historical renovation and restoration.”
“So you’re renovating something here?”
“Fairport Bed and Breakfast. Quite a project. We match historical details, replace the window sashes, that kind of thing.”
“Sounds like intricate work.”
“Come by sometime. I’ll show you.” His smile transports me.
“Maybe you could . . . give me some ideas for renovating the bookstore. It’s an old Victorian, a historic landmark.”
“It’s what I love to do.” His eyes are clear blue, leading into forever. “When should I come by?” He steps closer, his outdoor scent, of wood and the wilderness, wafting over me.
“Come by? Um . . .”
“How about right now, after the reception?”
“Right now?” I step back. Connor’s voice echoes in my head. Don’t turn away from happiness. “Okay, sure. That would be nice.” I’m blushing.
Steve is still watching me closely. “Want to dance?”
The band is playing a slow song, “Stay with Me.”
“I haven’t danced in a long time. I’m not sure I remember how. I’ll probably trip over my feet—”
“Sometimes you have to take a risk, grab life with both hands, even if—”
“—only for a day?” I gaze into his eyes, and every molecule of my being becomes luminescent.
“I was going to say, grab life with both hands, even if you look like a fool.”
I laugh. Inside me, a trapped butterfly has just fluttered free. “All right, Mr. Steve Giles. I will dance with you.”
“That’s more like it.” He puts my glass on the table, takes my hands, and leads me onto the floor. He wraps his arms around my waist, and I lean against him. I can feel his muscles, his strong heartbeat. Everyone else falls away, and we move in perfect synchronicity, just the two of us, dancing and swaying, as if we have always been together.
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