Now his thoughts turned to how to explain all of this to Claire. Right now, she thought he was married. He wasn’t sure how she’d gotten that impression, but he intended to tell her the truth—the full truth. He would explain his obligations and family commitments, and he hoped she would understand. They couldn’t be friends—he knew that. There was no way that Satish could be in her presence; his desire for her was so strong that it was painful. He just hoped that she would understand and forgive him for his deplorable behavior.
The entrance to the restaurant was in his direct line of sight. He had requested this particular table from the curly-headed young waitress, and she had nodded, smiled, and led him here with several glances of concern. He was sure that he must have been a frightening sight. Was he as green as he felt?
He was wiping his damp hands on his napkin when the glass door swung open and Claire fell through, tripping on the lip that divided the restaurant from the sidewalk. He watched as she started to laugh at herself, until she looked up, caught sight of Satish, and froze. Her smile dropped, and she hiked her purse up to her shoulder and walked stiffly to the table.
“Hi, Satish,” Claire said. He leaped up from his chair and rushed around the table to pull out hers. She made a wide berth around him while keeping her eyes on the floor, which she dropped her purse to, and shrugged her jacket off her shoulders before she looked up.
He made his way back to the chair opposite and sat into her direct and challenging gaze. She didn’t look angry—just sad and determined. He started talking immediately. “I’m sorry, Claire. You have my heartfelt apology that I left Rio like that. I tried to reach you to explain, but you wouldn’t answer your phone, and then I spoke with your friend, Sally, and she requested that I stopped calling.” He held both of his damp, shaking hands in his lap, terrified that he would subconsciously reach across the table and grab one of hers.
Claire let out a short laugh.
“You’re kidding, right, Satish? She requested that you stop calling?” Claire pulled her water glass toward her and took a tiny sip. It thudded when she put it down, and water sloshed onto the table. Claire busied herself with wiping at the water with a napkin, and Satish noticed her hands shaking. He felt his stomach turn at the thought of making her so upset.
“You are married, Satish. How could you not tell me that? How could you let me fall…” She stopped wiping the table and lifted her head to stare at the wall to her right. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the tears in her loud swallow.
“Claire,” he reached across the table and gently placed his shaking fingers over hers, “I’m not married. I have never been married.” She turned sharply and looked at him, her lips curved into the beginnings of a smile. He spoke again quickly, “I have things to tell you, though. I wasn’t completely honest with you.”
He took a deep breath and told her everything. He had been betrothed since he was a child—a marriage for political purposes. He was obligated to marry his intended as part of the debt he owed to his father for his education and support thus far in his life. He had met Claire, then, though, and he had fallen in love with her. Through their conversations about Nandita, he had realized that he had a choice and that his choice mattered. So, he had kissed her—he hadn’t been able to stop himself. To kiss her before he had dealt with his obligations was wrong, however, and it had brought dishonor on her and their relationship. He had decided then and there that he would go to India and tell his father that he would not marry his intended, so that he could pursue a relationship with her. That was before Nandita, though.
Claire had listened carefully and quietly. She had waved away the waitress when she arrived for a food order. Now she sipped at her coffee and looked expectantly at Satish. “Nandita?” she asked.
Satish sighed. “Nandita ran. I don’t blame her—she had no life or opportunity over there. Our father was forcing her into a marriage with a man she had never met, and he lost his youngest daughter and an important marriage alliance—and it was my fault.”
“How?” Claire gently put down her cup and grasped his fingers in hers. Her grip was passionately firm, and he hid a grimace. “How is that your fault? How is any of this your fault? You are your own person, Satish. You are not responsible for your entire family!”
“I am, though, Claire. I am.” He placed his hand over her tiny one and leaned toward her, trying to express the importance of his words. “I am the oldest son. It was my job to dissuade Nandita from her ideas about education and love. It was my job to go to India and provide solutions to my father’s problems, because that is what he raised me to do. I failed him.
“I couldn’t fail Nandita, though, Claire. I couldn’t let my father come here and drag her back to India. You showed me that a woman deserves choices. She deserves to have an education, opportunities, and love. If my father took Nandita back to India, she would have none of those things—and she would live under a shadow of disgrace.”
“Not just women, Satish, but people. People deserve a choice,” Claire said.
He knew his reasoning didn’t sound convincing, but how else could he explain? He was stuck in his upbringing. He wanted to feel differently. He had tried to make choices for himself, and he had tried to accept that his father was nothing more than a manipulative tyrant who didn’t deserve his love or respect, but he couldn’t escape. He had obligations.
Claire pulled her hand back and her face darkened. “You’re going to marry this girl, aren’t you, Satish? You are going to marry this girl who you don’t love and don’t even know. Why? Because you are obligated? I don’t get it.” She had started to cry, now, and the next words came out in a harsh whisper as she attempted to keep her voice down. “Don’t you see how awful that is? That girl will know that you don’t love her. You are going to start a life together based on a mountain of secrets and lies. Why would you do that? Why would you do that to me?”
Regret was a painful stab in Satish’s chest. He brought his hands into his lap again to prevent himself from reaching out and grabbing Claire’s flailing arms to pull her to him. The hurt on her face was too much for him to bear, and he knew that he was about to do something cowardly. He went to stand.
“You sit down!” Claire hissed. She was visibly angry, now. A few of the customers glanced in their direction, but the restaurant was empty of the morning rush. It didn’t look as though Claire cared one way or the other.
“Claire, I don’t know what to do to make you understand, because I know that you never can. That’s not your fault—it’s mine. It’s best that we part, now, before we say things to each other that we don’t mean.” He reached out to Claire, but she stood, pushing her chair back with a loud scrape. Her anger was primary, but her tears gave away the struggle against her deeper emotions.
“You sit down and talk to me about this, Satish. This is ridiculous. If you leave now, I will never forgive you. You cannot do this. Do you not see how selfish this is?”
Selfish? Satish felt a flash of anger. The only selfish thing he had ever done in his life was kiss Claire, and look where that had gotten him. All his stress and anxiety joined that flash of anger, and he focused that pile of negative emotion on this moment. He could not deal with this situation a second longer—he could not stand to feel this way. He grabbed his coat.
“Goodbye, Claire.” He turned and walked out of the restaurant with Claire staring after him.
The morning had come eventually. To Satish, it seemed that several nights had passed before the light had finally crept over the sill of the sleek, marble-framed window in his bedroom. He watched the sun come up slowly, washing the room with a golden tinge and giving shape to the few tasteful decorations and clean, contemporary furnishings. A black, ceramic vase filled with green ferns replaced weekly by his housekeeper became washed with light. The dark cherry cabinet with polished stainless steel handles shimmered into recognition.
A sudden dislike for his surroundings filled Satish. They were beautiful, bu
t they were cold—devoid of personality and feeling. They had been purchased with an eye for what should have been in a successful bachelor’s apartment—purchased with a tiny voice in the back of his mind telling him that his father might one day visit, and if he did, he must see how tasteful and successful his son had become. This house wasn’t him, though.
Did he know who he was? If he were with Claire, she would help him find out. He allowed himself the guilty luxury of imagining the house they would share. It would be messy and passionate, like her. There would be crazy art on the walls, each piece with some personal connection to their life together. It would have a fireplace, there would be piles of books everywhere, and there would be fat, comfortable, shabby sofas. There would be a huge, drooling, messy dog that would drag Claire out for a walk, and he would watch from the window, laughing as she struggled to keep her footing while managing the dog’s exuberance.
He realized with a start that he was going to call in sick. He had never missed a day of work in his entire life, but today, he could not go. After yesterday’s disastrous breakfast, he had finished the day like a zombie and stayed in his office, closed off from everyone. He had canceled his meetings and hadn’t made a single phone call. He’d just sat behind his desk, watching the seconds tick away, and when the clock mercifully reached 6:00 pm, he’d reached for his keys and wallet. His wallet hadn’t been there, though—he realized he must have put it away and forgotten.
He’d mindlessly started opening and closing drawers, not really looking, until he’d forced himself to pay attention, which is when he had discovered the beautifully-wrapped package of antique silk that he had intended to give to Claire. How had he forgotten? He’d gently pulled it from the drawer, tucked it under his arm, and with his found wallet in his pocket, he’d gone home. Home had not been any more soothing, though; he had avoided Nandita all evening, claiming a headache, and now here he was after a night without one minute of sleep.
He reached for his cell phone on the bedside cabinet and sent a text to Phil to let him know he wouldn’t be in. There would be no messages from Claire, but he couldn’t help himself, and checked his texts and voicemails, anyway. There was nothing, though. The only vision he had in his head—the only vision he’d had all night—was of Claire’s face when he had left the restaurant. It was a look of disbelief, betrayal, and total sadness. He had been wrong, but he had been so angry in that moment. Everything had felt so unfair, including her anger at him and her inability to understand what he was going through. The long night of lying in the dark, seeing only her face, however, had cured him of his anger. Why should she have understood? It wasn’t her life, and it wasn’t her culture. She was right: he should have choices, and he should not be hurting her. Satish was lost in an ocean of shoulds.
He would text her and apologize. It wouldn’t mean anything and it wouldn’t change anything, but at least she would know how sorry he truly was.
Claire, my behavior was inexcusable. I am terribly sorry for the way I left. My choices, or lack thereof, may be inexcusable, also. I know that you can’t understand and I don’t blame you. I love you. Is it selfish to tell you that? Will that make it easier for you? Harder? I don’t know what to say, anymore. I don’t know who I am. I barely know how I feel. I do know how I feel about you, though. I want you to be happy. I wish you happiness.
Satish held his breath and sent the message. That was it, he had to stop. No more texts, no more thinking; he needed to get on with the life he had chosen. He would take the day off and take Nandita to schedule her summer school classes at Rutgers. He would spend the day with her and perhaps her excitement and joy would help him come to terms with the decision he had made.
41
Claire
Maureen hadn’t stopped talking since she had arrived at the shop. She wasn’t Mousy Maureen any longer. Claire enjoyed her company, but today she craved a little quiet time to take in her surroundings and enjoy her accomplishments. It was six weeks ago today that Claire had received the final text from Satish. On that day, she had vowed that she would stop being miserable and get on with it. After all, one of her dreams was coming true, even if the other was crashing and burning and breaking her heart.
She had made herself so busy that the constant ache for Satish only descended on her at night, after she had closed her eyes against the exhaustion of the day. If she was lucky, she would tire herself out enough that she would drop off quickly, but if not, she would lie there for an hour or two, turning over every word between then, trying to figure out a way that she could have done it differently.
They had put the final touches on the shop renovation yesterday—it was beautiful. Claire’s dad had come by every day over the last six weeks and had been indispensable. He spent most of his time building the shelves and display units inside the shop. The stark white of the units looked great against the original interior brick walls and the recently-installed dark, walnut wood floors. The shelves were spilling over with Claire’s colorful silk scarves and tees, and the racks were full of her skirts and long, flowing silk dresses.
Tod had managed to find a huge, antique chandelier in eggshell white, and her dad had installed it yesterday after spending hours testing and replacing each of the dozens of tiny lights. She had found an antique fainting couch, which sat behind the thick, red velvet curtain of the large fitting room. Sally had made her a long playlist of French jazz—a sound that Claire realized fit her brand perfectly—and it played softly in the background. Behind the counter, and within view of the entire shop, was Claire’s workroom. She loved that she could work and be available for her customers at the same time, and she thought that her customers would enjoy seeing the silks come to life before their eyes.
“No China shipments coming in here,” Maureen had said.
Now it was Saturday, and her grand opening was tonight. She was full of nerves and excitement and hadn’t been able to sew a thing all day because of her shaking hands. Sally had made sure that it would be a night to remember while also having her hands full working on Tod’s studio—and what a job she was doing. She had been holding regular events at the studio, networking with other artists in the community, and generously sharing the space. The reputation of Tod’s as both the place to be and be seen was growing.
Claire watched the increase in traffic with admiration. If Sally helped her with her marketing, she wouldn’t have much to worry about—and Sally had already started. The elite of Hoboken now came to Tod’s to make sure they were on top of the next hot trends in art, which were dictated by Sally, of course. Her wit and charm had won them all over; she flirted and flattered the men without seeming obnoxious and drank wine and dished with the wives, who took one look at her and Tod together and knew immediately that she wasn’t a threat. Sally had found her calling, and she was sharing her success with her best friend.
Tonight, those wives would be at Claire’s shop. Instead of having a traditional opening with wine and cheese and a speech from Claire, however, Sally had planned something truly special. Thirty of the elite wives had gotten a VIP invitation. They would have a fashion show at the shop tonight, and the wives were to be the models. Sally had hired a stylist, a masseuse, and a make-up artist to come in and prep the ladies for the show.
Upon arrival, they would each get a luxurious white robe and a pair of fluffy slippers, as well as the required glass of champagne. After a few hours of extreme pampering, they would change into one of Claire’s creations and strut along the make-shift runway in front of the rest of the guests. A professional photographer was also on hand to take runway photos, as well as glamor shots with the red velvet curtain and fainting couch as the background. Every VIP would leave with a goody bag containing one of Claire’s glorious scarves, and they would hand-deliver framed photographs the following day.
“He seems really sad, you know.” Claire had been going through tonight’s checklist in her head, but Maureen jolted her back to the present. “Claire? I said he seems really s
ad,” Maureen repeated.
She sighed, “Sorry, Maureen, but I’m not sure I want to hear about Satish. It’s too hard.”
“Okay,” Maureen went back to practicing her surge stitching on the machine next to Claire’s and looked a little miffed. Her promotion had gone through and was everything she imagined it to be. She was crazy busy at work, but still showed up at the shop like clockwork every Saturday morning.
“It’s like my yoga,” Maureen had told her the first time she arrived. “I need to stop thinking—put me to work.”
Claire loved having Maureen around. She was flourishing in her new management position and her confidence had grown immensely. She also may have been flourishing under the admiring eye of Phil Harley, but she was mum about that. Claire, however, had heard reports of a new man: new outfits, new hair, and a very clean office space.
Maureen was a great help in the shop. She was eager to learn new things from Claire and was happy to work for free. The only issue with having her around was her daily proximity to Satish. She worked pretty closely with him now, and Claire had asked her to keep the news and gossip to herself while she struggled to get over the whole debacle. Maureen usually complied, but today, she was breaking her promise.
“I won’t say much, Claire, but don’t you think it’s weird?” Maureen stood from her machine and perched on the wide, white table. Claire was working on cutting out patterns, but she put down her scissors at Maureen’s arrival. No reason to waste an expensive bolt of silk because she was distracted.
Unraveled (Jersey Girls Book 1) Page 20
