Girl Gone Viral

by Alisha Rai

  If he quits, what will you do?

  She’d find someone else trustworthy to accompany her, that wasn’t the issue. He was important to her for reasons unrelated to his job. If he were to quit over the kiss . . .

  No, she wouldn’t think about that right now. It would upset her too much, and she needed to focus on this new interesting experience.

  Jas climbed the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  It didn’t sound like Jas thought this would be interesting, but Katrina clung to her optimism. They walked inside and Katrina had to stifle another gasp. Hardeep had been wealthy, but not ostentatious, and he’d liked to frequent urban cities where homes were smaller.

  This was wild. The floors were marble shot with gold, the walls were bedecked with gold-edged frames and fancy art, the chandelier was—no surprise—gold and dripping with crystals. Double staircases stretched to the second floor.

  “You grew up here?” she asked Jas as they walked into the equally posh living room. What a puzzle he was. He dressed well, but not rich. He was subdued, not over the top. He’d grown up on a farm, but other than his penchant for gardening, he didn’t seem to care much about agriculture or rural life. How had all this come together to produce him?

  Jas surveyed the home with no expression. “Until my mom remarried, yes. It’s—”

  “My pride and joy,” Andrés boomed, entering the living room. “Jasvinder, Daisy’s in the kitchen and wishes to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure.” Andrés scowled at Jas. “By the way, did you give Bikram the shotgun from the little house? That gun belongs there, not here.”

  “What shotgun?” Katrina asked.

  “My father’s gun. It was on the mantel,” Andrés explained.

  Katrina didn’t recall seeing anything above the fireplace. She wasn’t sure what this was about exactly, but given Jas’s aversion to firearms, she could figure it out. When Jas didn’t respond, she jumped in. “I don’t like guns in the house.” Not a total lie.

  Andrés’s face relaxed. “Ah, I understand. Jasvinder, Daisy is waiting.”

  Jas gave her a questioning look and she gave him a tiny shake of her head. It was such an automatic exchange it took her a second to realize that it was even done—his checking in on her, her subtly indicating whether she needed him or not.

  How could she have potentially jeopardized this?

  Later. You will apologize to him later for it. She stuck her hand in her pocket, settling her thumb into the groove of the rock. Yes. She would apologize. It would all work out. He cared about her, and he understood her, and he would understand that she had been overcome by emotion.

  Which she had been. He never needed to know that that emotion had been overwhelming feels for him.

  “Go on,” Andrés said. “I won’t eat her.”

  “Fine.” Jas lifted the bag that contained the cobbler. “I’ll put this in the kitchen too.” He left after one more searching look.

  Katrina turned to Andrés, determined. It wasn’t imperative Jas’s family liked her. It wasn’t imperative anyone liked her.

  She did like to be liked, though, and it was easy enough to surmise where Andrés’s soft spot might lie. “This is a beautiful home.”

  Sure enough, Andrés beamed with pride. “Thank you. It was my father’s dream to own such a place. I only wish he could have lived to see it.” He gestured to a large frame over the ornate marble fireplace, containing a portrait of a young man dressed in silk, with a red turban and a thick beard.

  There were hints of Jas in his powerful frame, his dark eyes, his stern visage. “He’s very handsome. When was this painted?”

  “I had it painted, from a photograph I have of him. From right before he came to America in 1910.”

  Katrina tried to bury the wisp of longing. Her mother had been born so much later, and yet Katrina had no photographs of her from her youth like this. “Wow.”

  “You like history, yes? Come here.”

  She followed him to a large display case running the length of the room. There were framed photos, clippings, household objects, and books under the glass, each painstakingly arranged and preserved. Andrés pulled out his phone and pressed something, and dim lighting filled the case.

  She whistled, genuinely impressed. “I thought the family photos in the little house were cool, but this is like a museum.”

  “This is nothing. There’s an actual museum dedicated to Punjabi-American history in town. I’ve donated many pieces for their exhibits there.”

  “It’s wonderful you have this connection to the past that you can pass on to your community.”

  Andrés’s chest puffed out with pride. “It’s the least I can do. Our descendants should know about their forefathers, the part they played in this nation’s history.”

  She drifted down the case, curiously absorbing the seemingly mundane articles that created a life. Bills of sale for livestock, correspondence for seed and supplies. “Did your father come to the States to farm?”

  “He came here to survive. Farming was what he knew. He worked as a laborer when he first got here, earned pennies a day, until he found his own plot of land.” He pointed to another faded photo. It was the same man from the photo above the fireplace, but this time Jas’s great-grandfather was older, his face weathered. His turban and facial hair were gone, his hair cut short. The only tangible thing that remained from the large portrait above the fireplace was the iron bracelet around his wrist. “That was him in 1930. He had a couple acres by this time, worked them with his friend.” Andrés rolled his eyes. “Your late husband’s grandfather. He was younger and flightier and left, of course, after a couple years.”

  “Ah,” she said, because she wasn’t sure what to say. Hardeep had never spoken about Jas’s family with anything but fondness, but now that she thought about it, he’d mostly talked about Jas’s mother. He’d told Katrina he and Tara had been close friends in their youth, though they’d drifted apart as he made fewer visits to this part of the world, and he considered Jas one of his nephews.

  It was a little weird when she thought of the fact she’d been married to someone who was of Jas’s mother’s generation, but her relationship with Hardeep had been a special case.

  “That still upsets you, that he left? Enough that you resent his grandson?”

  “That’s not exactly why I don’t like Hardeep.”

  “Oh?”

  Much to her dismay, he didn’t elaborate on Hardeep. “Yes, I do carry some bitterness over Arora leaving my father. Farming life can be lonely, and it was lonelier then. My father couldn’t even own the land he farmed. Some of his friends put their land in the names of their citizen children, but my father felt the possibility of a family was out of reach for him.”

  “Why?”

  Andrés gave her a measuring look. “Do you know about the Immigration Act of 1917? It was also called the Asiatic Barred Zone Act.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Not many have.”

  “My mother was Thai. She didn’t care much for history, but I like to learn. It’s my history.”

  Andrés rocked back on his heels, clearly at home in professor mode. “Well, then you know that the law barred immigration from most of Asia for decades. The majority of South Asians who came to America before that were men, and California’s laws made marrying outside one’s race difficult.”

  “He did have a family, though, eventually.”

  “Aha, yes. As I mentioned, theoretically California didn’t permit mixing between the races. Theoretically.” Andrés offered her his hand, and drew her along the case. “My father was older and resigned to being alone when he met my mother at a party. She always said it was love at first sight. She was Mexican, and they feared they wouldn’t be able to marry. They took a risk, went to the courthouse, and to their great relief, all the clerk did was assess whether they were both brown.” He pointed to an ornate frame in th
e case. “I have their wedding photo enlarged in the dining room as well.”

  A little ball of emotion caught in her throat. The stern-faced man from the previous photo was no more. He was looking down at the petite woman next to him with complete adoration. She was beautiful, in a simple white dress and lace veil, her heart-shaped face lit up with possibilities. “Your parents are beautiful.”

  “They were.” His smile was tinged with sadness. “She passed away when I was young, in childbirth with my sister.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Katrina murmured. “My mother also passed when I was young.”

  Andrés patted her hand in sympathy. “It’s tragic. I was happy to have the time I did with her, and so was my father. They were an excellent example of compromise and love. My mama went to the Gurdwara. My dad went to church. Every Saturday we’d go to this restaurant in town owned by another Mexican-Punjabi family and have their signature dish, a roti quesadilla. After she died, my father took me to all those places on his own, tried to keep her spirit alive for me.”

  She smiled, wistfulness twining around her heart. Imagine, having a father like that. “Sounds like they built a good life.”

  “They did,” he said simply, and jerked his chin at another wedding portrait on the other wall. This one was of a much younger Andrés and a beautiful Punjabi woman. She was dressed in bright red. Their brown skin glowed. “They were the example I followed when I married. That’s my late Mata. We were childhood sweethearts.”

  Katrina didn’t know how much more her tender, romantic heart could take. “She’s lovely. Your family is lucky to have so many wonderful examples of love and marriages.”

  “You didn’t have such examples?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No. My mother met my dad when she was in grad school, and they got married quick. It lasted about a year, didn’t work out.” Which was a massive understatement. Since her parents had split before she was born, she didn’t know how bad it must have been, but knowing her dad . . . well. A nightmare, probably, for her mom.

  Andrés gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was for the best.” Thanks to that divorce, the first nine years of her life had been peaceful.

  She rarely got so personal with someone she’d just met, but it was remarkably easy to talk to Jas’s grandfather. He’d looked so forbidding when he’d thundered into the yard of the little house, but really he was a pussycat. Especially when it came to his family.

  So why is he so mad at Jas?

  Such a puzzle. “Thank you for giving me this history lesson.”

  “Perhaps at some point, I can take you to the museum. I know the curator well, we’ll go after hours. My family, the other families around here, we’ve all contributed to it.”

  She softened at his thoughtfulness in subtly assuring her the place would be empty. “Sounds like you have a good community.”

  “The best. Our parents and grandparents started it, digging this soil with their bare hands. They took up space for themselves, carved out a whole new place for us. We have to nourish their legacy, or no one will.” His fond smile vanished. “That’s what I’ve tried to teach my grandsons.”

  She barely heard the last part. She froze, something in the words he’d said speaking to her soul. Realization crashed down on her.

  She’d carved out a place for herself, too.

  She could stand to take up some more space, though. No, wait. Why not all the space? Yes, proactively take up space. Sit in the front seat, if she wanted to. Tap her resources to launch some sort of CafeBae counterattack instead of playing wait-and-see. Kiss Jas. Touch his eyebrows.

  All you have to do is find out if he wants that too.

  She could do that, right? The people in these photographs, they’d done way more, with way less. They’d built the nation. She could build her own life.

  A chubby woman in soft black pants and a denim shirt hustled into the room. “There you are. Andrés, are you boring this poor young woman?” She was in her mid-sixties, and had a slight Indian accent and crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Despite her casual farm wear, three gold bangles clanked on her wrist.

  “She wanted to see the family history,” Andrés said gruffly, but his eyes were kind as they rested on the woman. “This is my housekeeper, Daisy.”

  “Katrina, what a pleasure to finally meet you. Jasvinder speaks of you so highly.” Daisy took Katrina’s hands. “Would you like a hug?”

  That the older woman would ask made Katrina want one more. “Oh yes.” She stepped into the woman’s arms. Something constricted in her chest as Daisy pulled her in tight.

  It was so . . . grandmotherly.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, trying not to be a weirdo. Rhiannon’s mom mothered her, or tried to, but she had no one in her life akin to grandparents. Not even her real grandparents.

  Katrina stepped back, lest she linger in that comforting embrace too long. “I did want to see the family history,” she confirmed.

  “Well, Andrés can chatter at you about that later,” Daisy said firmly. “Jas tells me you like to cook. Would you like to come help me in the kitchen?”

  Ah. Jas had sent Daisy to rescue her, probably not realizing that she was enjoying this impromptu story time. “I would love to.”

  “Good. I sent Jas down to the chicken coop to get some eggs. I want to make a cake.”

  Andrés snorted as he followed them out. “The boy may cry if he gets his shoes dirty.”

  “Don’t you make fun of Jasvinder, I see you polishing your shoes at night,” Daisy said archly to her boss. “Jas grew up gathering eggs, it’s a skill you never quite lose. Thank you for bringing that cobbler over, Katrina. It smells delicious. Jasvinder couldn’t stop telling me about what an excellent chef you are.” Her dark gaze was smiling but speculative, and Katrina wasn’t entirely sure what she was speculating about.

  “Oh no. I’m not a chef. I just like to cook for people.”

  “A chef is anyone who cooks,” Daisy said. “We serve langar at the Gurdwara, a free meal for anyone who wishes it. That’s what I tell all the sweet young people who volunteer to help cook, that they are all chefs.”

  Providing a meal to nourish anyone who needed it? Sounded like Katrina’s dream. “That’s fantastic. I like that.”

  “It is, isn’t it? Come now. It’s time for something other than these stuffy history lessons.”

  “Excuse me,” Andrés huffed behind them. “I can hear you.”

  Daisy patted Katrina’s hand but spoke to her employer. “I know.”

  JAS’S GAZE KEPT slipping to Katrina. She was too quiet, but her eyes were alert. He wished he’d been seated next to her, but Andrés had helped her to the chair closest to him.

  “Pass me the salt?”

  Jas handed his brother the saltshaker. Bikram had joined them for dinner, which Jas had learned was a nightly thing. His brother’s skin glowed with health, and his body was relaxed. He and their grandfather had spent most of the meal so far chatting easily about the day’s work. They were so alike in their pleasure in this place, so in sync, one would never realize that they weren’t related by blood.

  Andrés leaned back and gave Jas a narrow look. Jas braced himself. He didn’t think Andrés would start anything with Katrina at the table, but he’d learned long ago never to count on his grandfather doing the expected. “I showed Katrina the family photos in the living room. She enjoyed seeing them all.”

  “She liked them, or you lectured her until she was bored into a stupor?” Bikram teased.

  If Jas had teased his grandfather like that, he would have gotten a snarl, but Andrés only rolled his eyes at his step-grandson.

  Katrina smiled. “I did enjoy it. I don’t have anything like that documenting my family.”

  Daisy helped herself to more potatoes. She’d worked for the family for almost twenty years and had always eaten with them. “No photos, no records?”

&
nbsp; Katrina shook her head. “No. I was an only child and my mom died when I was nine. I don’t know my extended family on her side.”

  “And your father?”

  Jas cleared his throat and tried to catch the housekeeper’s eye. This was smacking of a gentle interrogation, a motherly prying, possibly since his own meddling mother wasn’t in town and present at the table. Daisy purposefully ignored him.

  Katrina lifted a shoulder. “No, we’re not close.”

  “It happens that way sometimes,” Daisy said comfortingly. “Do you want some more rotis?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Please, you barely ate.”

  “I’m truly stuffed.”

  “Welcome to my house,” Jas couldn’t help but say. “Daisy loves to make sure we eat until we burst.”

  Katrina shot him a small grin, and it distracted him so much he almost missed the clatter of Daisy dropping her spoon on her plate. “Excuse me,” she said, and sniffed. Her eyes were bright. “I’m so glad you brought Katrina here, dear. To your house. Will you be bringing her to the parade as well?”

  “No.”

  Daisy’s face fell, and his grandpa scowled.

  Great. It had been a peaceful dinner for as long as it lasted.

  Katrina placed her napkin next to her plate. Daisy was right, she really hadn’t eaten much, just pushed her food around her plate to make it seem like she had. If she wasn’t careful, Daisy would grab her utensil and start making airplane noises. The woman was serious about making sure her charges were well-fed. “What parade?” Katrina asked.

  Daisy leaned forward. “Every year we have a festival and parade here in town. It used to be a local event, but now tens of thousands of Sikhs come from all over the world. This year, Andrés is being honored for his charitable work and contributions to the community. It’s in a couple weeks. We would love for you to come.”

  “Congratulations, Andrés. Unfortunately, I’ll probably be back home by then.”

  “You are coming, at least,” Andrés said to Jas.