The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  “Just curious. Never seen them before.”

  The professor turned to the rest of the students. “Does anyone else have a question about items in the room? Desks? Blinds? Light fixtures? I mean, why spend time on a topic that will actually be on the test?”

  He cast a glance back at Taj as if to ask, Anything else, wise guy?

  Taj shook his head. “I’m fine.” He then picked up his pen and began to make notes—but they had nothing to do with intangible assets.

  E-mail Christopher, he scribbled. See if we can make whiteboards in India.

  Taj waited a few minutes after his American literature class to clarify with the TA what reading material would be covered on the test. Students from the following class were already taking their seats.

  “Taj? Taj Rowland!”

  It was a pleasant voice, a friendly voice, a female voice.

  Taj twisted around to greet Lily Evans, his old high school girlfriend. Her hair was longer, darker, more brown now than blonde, but the glow in her eyes was unmistakable.

  She held out her arms for a hug. Taj obliged.

  “It’s so great to see you,” she said. She both beamed and bubbled.

  “You, too!” he replied, and he meant it. He pushed back to get a better look. “You look great . . . really . . . fit,” he added, swallowing a smile.

  The two stepped out into the hall to avoid disturbing the gathering class. She learned that he’d loved London, that he was living at home to save money, that he was working full-time and taking a full schedule of classes, all while trying to start an import company. He learned that she was studying elementary education, that she’d decided to teach third grade, that she was living with roommates near campus, and that she volunteered at a rest home every other Saturday.

  The class Lily was supposed to be attending had already started. As it became apparent their conversation was coming to an end, she reached out warmly and held his arms, as she had done when they’d talk in high school.

  “Are you dating anyone?” she asked, watching his eyes for a reaction.

  “Well, there is Esha,” he said, not even trying to stop his upturned lips.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, it’s just . . . I’ve had a couple of blind dates lately that I can’t even begin to describe. Bottom line—no, I’m not dating anyone.”

  “Then we should go out sometime.” Her words were genuine, ­intriguing—and surprising.

  “Really?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Last time we spoke, I think you may have called me shallow.”

  Lily laughed. “I did not . . . besides, perhaps you’ve changed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. You just seem different somehow but in a good way.”

  The girl was adorable, he would give her that—too adorable. “How about Friday night?”

  “Yes, that works. It’s a date.”

  They exchanged phone numbers. He scribbled her address on the back of his class notes and zipped them safely in his pack. As she pulled open the classroom door and hurried inside, she mouthed him a message. He couldn’t hear the words, but he’d understood her perfectly. He was watching her mouth because he couldn’t get over the girl’s amazing lips.

  “See you Friday!” she said.

  Between work, school, and time studying at the library, Taj was seldom home. Since both of his parents were usually at work, he was surprised when he dropped in between classes to pick up a book and found Linda in the kitchen.

  “Taj, I have great news,” she said. “You know our new office building?”

  He nodded. She was working for Coldwell Banker now, and they’d just moved into the upper level of a two-story building on University Avenue.

  “Guess who’s moving in to take the main floor?” she asked, as if he were a game show contestant.

  “Child Protective Services?”

  “No.”

  “Youth in Asia?”

  “No.”

  “Children Against Guessing Games?” This was getting ridiculous.

  “No, Bombay House,” she answered.

  “I was just about to say that.”

  Linda was almost giddy. “It’s a new Indian restaurant, and I met the owner. He’s a nice young man, not much older than you. He’s been in school, I think in Hawaii, but he’s decided to open a restaurant here. His name is Daniel. I told him all about you coming from India, and he’s invited us to the grand opening.”

  Actually, it was good news. Taj had been searching for a good Indian restaurant since returning from London and so far, he’d been nothing but disappointed.

  “When?”

  “At the end of the month. But if you have time, drop in before. He said he’d be there and would love to meet you. I’m thinking you two will have a lot in common.”

  “Because we’re both Indian?”

  “Yes, and because . . .” She thought for a moment. “Well, yes, because you’re both Indian.”

  If the guy cooked half-decent Indian food, it was good enough for Taj.

  Bombay House was no match for London’s Royal Mumbai in atmosphere, but it held its own in the kitchen. It took only one visit with Daniel Durai, the owner, for one thing to become instantly clear: the Indian dude could cook!

  Daniel had lived in India as a child and then moved to the area with his family when his father came to earn a doctorate degree. When his father took a job teaching in Singapore, Daniel headed off to culinary school in Hawaii.

  After graduation, the next step for the Indian chef seemed obvious, and Bombay House was born. For Taj, a business student, it was the restaurant’s location that he found most curious.

  “Why open a restaurant in a town with no Indians?” he asked his new friend.

  “You’re here. I’m here. I’ll cook for the two of us.”

  “Seriously.”

  “There’s no competition. That makes my food the most delicious Indian cuisine for miles!” His grin was as wide as his face.

  Since the grand opening, Taj had raved about the food often enough that Lily insisted on a visit. When they dropped in on a Thursday after class, Daniel was there to greet them, as he was for all his customers.

  “Taj Rowland, my good friend. I’m guessing you’ll have the chicken coconut kurma?”

  “How often did you say you come here?” Lily asked.

  Daniel clasped his palms together and offered Lily a courteous bow. “He comes often but never with such a beautiful woman. Welcome to Bombay House.”

  “I like this place already.”

  After the pair was escorted to their table and orders were taken, Taj excused himself to wash his hands. He ambled to the back near a hallway only to be collared by a recently hung picture. There on the wall was a portrait of Daniel’s family—an Indian family.

  Taj stepped closer.

  The dark-haired girl standing to the left of Daniel and beside her parents was wearing a long, blue dress and a gold-colored blouse. She was about his age, perhaps younger, with delicate cheeks, a narrow chin, and petite fingers clutched together in front.

  Light bounced. His lips parted. His jaw lowered. His eyes blinked. She was like an Indian princess. Royalty. Deity.

  As he studied her, the clattering of dishes from the kitchen at the opposite end of the hall fell silent. The buzz that had been ringing from the ballasts in the fluorescent lights overhead turned into a musical hum—a familiar melody, but he couldn’t place the name. The sterile acoustic ceiling tile could have been clouds, the floor in the hallway a beautiful forest path.

  She was protected under glass, like a priceless museum piece, but that didn’t stop him from leaning close and touching the surface.

  Had he met her? Why did she look so familiar? Was she staring
at him, or past him?

  His heart pumped fire. His burning lungs reminded him to breathe. He glanced at his hands—they were trembling.

  “Cotton candy,” he whispered.

  He was answering his English professor from hours earlier. She had asked her students to write a descriptive paragraph about something in their life, and then, once it was written, reduce it to a single sentence. When that was complete, shorten it to a word.

  It was a ridiculous assignment, and he’d not understood it—until now.

  “I just put that up this morning,” said Daniel, startling him.

  “I can see that . . . you have sisters.” It was more statement than question.

  “Yes, I’ve told you that, haven’t I? One older and one younger. I’m the handsome one there in the middle.”

  “And your younger sister, she’s the one on the right?”

  “Yes, that’s Priya.”

  Priya. What a beautiful name.

  Taj hung on every letter. “Where is your family?” Taj asked, hoping it sounded as if he were making conversation.

  “This picture was taken in Hawaii, at my graduation when . . .”

  “No, I mean where are they now? Where do they live?”

  Daniel took a breath. “Well, . . .”

  Hurry! Speak faster!

  “ . . . they’re still in Singapore. My father teaches organizational behavior there at the university.”

  “Singapore,” Taj repeated. “How far away is Singapore?”

  “I wouldn’t walk.”

  Taj offered a courtesy smile. He turned back to the picture. Christmas . . . was that a better word? Thanksgiving . . . fireworks . . . birthday . . . heaven . . .

  “Taj?”

  Kittens . . . motorcycles . . . chocolate cake . . .

  “Hey, Taj!”

  Taj turned.

  “Are you okay?” Daniel asked.

  “Sorry. Does your family ever come to visit?”

  “It’s expensive, so not very often. Why? Would you like to meet them?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Daniel tapped on his watch. “I’d better check on your food. I think it’s about up.” He motioned toward Lily. “And you have a beautiful woman waiting.”

  He was already turning when Taj reached out. “Wait! Daniel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind giving me Priya’s phone number?”

  It was bold, even stupid.

  Daniel was a man who appreciated a good joke, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter. His head tossed from one shoulder to the other. “You’re hilarious, Taj.”

  “Don’t laugh too hard. I’m going to marry your sister.”

  It was only Taj’s unwavering gaze that wiped away Daniel’s smile. The man stepped back. It was like a broom handle had smacked him square across the face. His voice faltered.

  “You’re interested in Priya? BUT YOU’RE ON A DATE!”

  Taj let the moment hang, as if deciding which way to let it fall. When he finally grinned, Daniel slapped him on his back.

  “You got me! That was a good one! I admit it; you really had me going there!”

  Taj laughed.

  Daniel laughed.

  When Taj returned to the table, Lily asked what they’d been talking about—she had been watching him from across the restaurant. Taj changed the subject to his arriving chicken kurma. He assured her it was mouth-watering, and it must have been, because from the time the food arrived their conversation remained quiet.

  After they’d finished eating and were leaving the restaurant, Taj paused after opening her car door. He told her he’d forgotten something that he needed to ask Daniel and promised he’d be right back. He left off one minor detail: if he didn’t go back inside and speak with Daniel about Priya this instant, he was sure his chest would implode.

  He found Daniel at the cash register, though the words Taj had planned to say weren’t the same ones that came out of his mouth.

  “Hey, I’m doing a group assignment for history on . . . Asian civilizations. My portion is actually on Singapore. What are the chances, right? Well, I was wondering, is there any way, if I wrote or called your family, maybe one of them could answer a few questions?”

  When Taj climbed into the car and Lily asked him if everything was all right, he couldn’t convince his lips to stop grinning. The sun shone brighter, the flowers grew taller, the birds chirped in stereo.

  “What a great time I had,” he said as he folded a napkin into his pocket. “The food was delicious, the atmosphere pleasant, everything was superb. But now, what I could totally go for is . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Does anyone around here sell cotton candy?”

  Chapter 27

  “Hello?” A man answered.

  “Good morning, sir. Is Priya there, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  A breath. A pause. “My name is Taj Rowland. I’m a friend of your son, Daniel.”

  Silence. A cough. “Why are you calling my daughter?”

  “I saw her picture,” Taj replied, “and I’m also Indian. I thought we might have a lot in common.”

  The receiver sucked in his words before he could snatch them back. His eyes rolled. Had he really just said, I’m Indian?

  “Are you wanting to date my daughter?” the voice inquired. “Is that what this is about?”

  Give the man a star for astuteness. “I was just hoping to speak with her, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  Taj sat, squinted. He wouldn’t have been surprised if an interrogation light suddenly clicked on.

  “As I mentioned, it’s Taj Rowland.”

  There was no hesitation. “Mr. Rowland, let me make this clear. Our family believes in arranged marriage. Do you know what that means?”

  “I’m not asking to marry your daughter . . .”

  “It means I’m asking you never to call my daughter again. Do you understand?”

  No, Taj didn’t understand. He just wanted to speak with the girl. What could be wrong with that?

  “Sir, I just want to . . .”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Rowland.”

  Click.

  Taj spoke to the phone. “Well, I’d say that went pretty well.”

  He laid the bruised and bloodied receiver back into its cradle, then slid onto the couch to ponder his next move. Music from a radio in Rux’s room was squeezing through the cracks around the door. The song was familiar.

  Taj opened the door to the hall so he could better hear the words. It was his favorite group, a song that had sold millions of copies. He could sing it in his sleep—beautiful lyrics about love and loss and sorrow and hope.

  By the time the chorus started, Taj had his next step planned.

  When people can’t find the right words to express the feelings that are pulsing through their veins, they turn to someone more qualified: a poet. It was true—Hallmark would back him up on it.

  Today, however, Taj had a better idea. He checked for his wallet, grabbed keys to the car, and headed out the door. He drove first to the mall, then to the post office.

  Instead of trying to call Priya again and risk her father’s wrath, Taj would send an innocuous gift to the girl. Who could object to that? But not just any gift.

  As he handed over his package, Taj wished the postman a very pleasant day—which it was. Taj even tried to give a tip to the man, which he refused, citing federal regulations.

  “How long will it take for the package to arrive?” Taj asked.

  “Eight to twelve days,” came the reply.

  Taj smiled. It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t pearls. It wasn’t chocolates. But in less than two weeks, if he believed the good man postmarking the box across the counter, a silk-haired, dark-eyed
goddess currently living under guard with her family in Singapore would unwrap romance. A stranger—Taj Rowland, from the United States, a man she’d never met—had just mailed her the most moving, irresistible album of love songs known to the modern world:

  Air Supply: Greatest Hits.

  Breaking up with Lily was harder the second time. This time his heart hurt.

  It was confusing. Lily was funny and gorgeous and smart. She had direction and dreams, not to mention impeccable lips, which he’d had the pleasure of kissing on several occasions. As Taj tallied her traits, his head kept asking why in the world he shouldn’t give it more time. It could all still work out.

  Then his heart piped in.

  This wasn’t about Taj. It was about Lily. It wouldn’t be right to drag it out, to hurt her worse down the road, to pretend he cared when he knew that every second he spent with her he’d be thinking about someone else.

  Just like the first breakup, Lily cried. Unlike the first breakup, Taj put his arm around her, told her how amazing she was and why. He explained, as best he could, that he didn’t want to lead her on, that she should never settle.

  His brain kept calling him stupid. He was doing this without ever knowing if anything would work out with Priya, a girl to whom he’d never spoken—who lived in Singapore, for heaven’s sake!

  “Thank you, Taj,” Lily said, “for being honest.”

  She pulled a tissue from her purse, a familiar moment. “I want you to know that I meant what I said,” she continued.

  “Which part?”

  “You still seem different to me—and I mean that in a good way. You’ve changed.”

  She dried her eyes. He gave her a hug. They parted friends. As he drove away, a familiar song was playing from the radio.

  He wasn’t sure whether to shut it off or turn up the volume.

  The encircling words wrapped around him but more like a rope than a blanket. The words of the song’s title were repeated over and over in the lyrics.

  Perhaps they chafed tonight because he sensed they were true.