by Farah Heron
Marley laughed as she pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Reena. “You look like you’ve had a shot of collagen to your lips, and he’s wearing your lipstick.”
Reena shot a glare at Nadim, who was trying hard not to laugh while wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
“So much for a secret,” she muttered, heading into the kitchen to grab the snacks and wineglasses.
After they were settled in the living room, Reena explained: “We’re just dating. Casual. Not engaged and not telling our families.”
“Sure. Whatever. No problem,” Shayne said, dipping one of Saira’s crackers into the hummus. “Bang like bunnies, I don’t care. Marley and I saw this coming a while ago, though.”
They did? They should have done the decent thing and told Reena. “Can we not talk about our personal life right now? What are we going to do for our next video?”
“Our video.” Shayne smirked. “So now it’s our video, when before it was just yours…says the girl who didn’t want a boy toy.”
Marley frowned at Shayne. “Ignore him. Shayne’s a little salty today. Anderson dumped him. He said everything was too intense.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Shayne. That sucks.”
Shayne glared at Marley. “We are not talking about me right now. What’s the theme for the rest of the videos?”
Reena shrugged. “Round two is Farm-to-Table at Home. If we get past that one—”
“When we get past that one,” Nadim interrupted.
“Fine. When we get past that one, round three is the one at the FoodTV studios. Theme is family picnics. I think we’re supposed to be grilling for that. Then the final one, if we’re still there, is back at our home—but they send a professional camera crew. Theme is Celebrations at Home. I think with the timing they want us to do a Thanksgiving meal, but really any celebration meal would work.”
Nadim frowned. “Isn’t Thanksgiving in November?”
“That’s American Thanksgiving,” Marley explained. “In Canada, Thanksgiving is early October.”
Nadim shook his head. “You Canadians are always doing things your own way.”
Shayne nodded, clearly deep in thought. “Okay, farm-to-table…hmmm…oh, I have an idea! We could film you at a big farmers’ market or something. I hear they have them in the city now. You could pick up ingredients and bring them home and make a meal with them. We can even speak to a farmer.” He beamed with pride.
Reena raised one brow. “A farmers’ market? Really?”
“Sure! It’s original.”
Marley laughed. “Farmers’ markets are hardly original these days.”
Reena nodded. “I can pretty much guarantee that everyone will do the farmers’ market, then cook-at-home thing.”
“We need to wow them,” Nadim said, inching even closer to Reena. “What if we made your table look like a farm. You know, scarecrows and hay bales and stuff.”
“That’s terrible,” Marley said, looking around Reena’s knockoff modern furniture. “I am not putting Reena in overalls. She’s way too city.”
Reena grinned, the start of an idea forming. “What if we take this city girl to a real farm?”
Shayne cringed. “What farm? You going to drag us all to one of those U-pick places with the big MDF pumpkins with holes to stick your head in for pictures?”
Reena smirked. “Hell no. Amira’s boyfriend’s parents have a hobby farm about an hour and a half away.”
“And they’d let us film there?”
“Yeah, I think they would. They just offered me some fresh eggs and goat milk. I’ve seen pictures of the place on Amira’s social, wait.”
She queued up some pictures from Instagram of her friend feeding the chickens and goats. The spot looked utterly adorable and perfectly hipster-chic, with weathered wood animal pens, rolling hills, and straw-colored fields in the distance. Amira was, of course, feeding the chickens in a pencil skirt. A denim one, but still.
Shayne grinned. “It’s perfect. Set it up, Reena.”
Reena immediately called Amira, who promptly agreed to call the Galahads and get back to them. They didn’t have to wait long. Her phone rang a scant ten minutes later with enthusiastic affirmatives that they could borrow the farm on Saturday, a list of the vegetables in season, and a warm offer to use whatever they needed.
“Not sure any of these will work,” Reena said, looking over the list she had jotted down: potatoes, carrots, beets, and acorn squash. We already did a vegetable curry and potato bhajias.”
Shayne let out an excited squeal. “Potatoes! Finally! Curried shepherd’s pie!”
Reena cringed. “No fusion. We’re not colonizing our food.” She bit her lip as she racked her mind for a home-style Indian recipe that showcased these ingredients.
“Wait,” Nadim said, “didn’t you say they had eggs and goat milk, too?”
“Yes. Goats and chickens are the only animals they keep.”
He smiled. “My mother came from Zanzibar. After she died, my father used to send me by ferry from Dar es Salaam to spend weeks with her mother, my nani. He said he didn’t want me losing touch with that side of the family. Nani used to make this dish all the time—a curry with hard-boiled eggs, potatoes, and local spices. It’s a Zanzibar specialty. I’ve only ever had it there, and it totally reminds me of home.” He glanced at Reena, a wistful look in his eyes. “I remember Zanzibar always smelling like spices—it’s one of the island’s biggest exports. Anyway, Nani died when I was twelve, and I’ve barely been back there since, but…” He turned away, exhaling. “I’m sure egg curry would be spectacular with farm-fresh eggs and local potatoes.”
Reena watched him. The modest space that had been between them on the sofa had dissolved as his leg now pressed against hers. His face had slackened as he talked about his grandmother. Reena had never been to Zanzibar, but visiting the island off the coast of her parents’ hometown was on her bucket list. Pictures of spectacular sunsets over the Indian Ocean and the breathtaking old Arab architecture in Stone Town had called to her, but the way Nadim talked about Zanzibar was not someone talking about a cherished vacation spot. He was talking about home, a place with bittersweet memories and a deep sensation of belonging there.
Nadim suddenly took her hand and squeezed. Reena looked at him, wondering if her eyes betrayed the uncertainty she felt. After another squeeze, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
“We should go,” Marley said, standing. “We’re all set for Saturday. I’ll find something agrarian-chic for you two to wear. Let me know if you have any ideas.”
Immediately after Shayne and Marley were out the door, Nadim pulled Reena back on his lap and started kissing her neck. If he kept doing things like this, she would never be able to finish a thought about this “relationship,” or about her place in his life.
Later while she was in Nadim’s bed, waiting for him to finish brushing his teeth, her text tone filled the room with the rousing sound of Highland pipes.
Amira: I have been instructed to invite you and Nadim to our house Friday night to hang out with your best friends before we go to the Galahads on Saturday for your little film shoot.
Reena: I’ll have to ask Nadim. Why?
Amira: Duncan insists that he must meet the man away from the chaos at his parents’ place. You know how protective he is.
Reena: How charmingly patriarchal.
Amira: I know. His knight of the round table shtick is getting old. But come early anyway. We’ll let the boys thump their chests and assert their manliness while we catch up.
Reena smiled. Clearly Duncan wasn’t the only one who needed to meet Nadim to make sure Reena’s heart was safe. But she felt fine about their meddling. Truly. Friends who cared enough to meddle were hardly something to complain about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Reena spent the next few days shopping and researching for their video shoot at the farm. After a few phone calls to her mother and various extended family members, she had a vague re
cipe that she perfected with Nadim on Wednesday evening. The egg curry was a simple dish, but without any meat or strongly flavored vegetables, the quality of the spices became paramount. And one taste of her sample curry immediately confirmed that the trip to the store that roasted and ground their own spices had been worth it. Nadim proclaimed Reena’s curry to be better than his nani’s version, probably because of the bread she made to go with it—a large stack of parathas, heavy with ghee between flaky layers.
The next morning, Reena was on her way to a job interview when her phone rang. She hit the hands-free button on her steering wheel.
“Hello?”
“Were you planning to tell me you’ve acquired a fiancé to make maani with?”
Crap. Her brother. “Hi, Khizar! Great to hear from you! How’s Nafissa?”
“That’s it? Hi, Khizar? No ‘sorry big brother, I meant to tell you about my engagement.’”
“I’m not really engaged.”
“I figured as much. The bio on the FoodTV site says you’ve been engaged for six months, and I know that guy has only been working for Dad a month or so. What are you playing at, Reena?”
This wasn’t good. If her brother knew, who else could have seen the video? “Since when do you pay attention to the FoodTV website?”
“Nafissa is nesting. She was looking for freezer meals for after the babies are born.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary! I’m coming right after the birth—I’ll cook for you. What kind of stuff—”
“Don’t change the subject—are you and Dad’s new project manager together? Because Nafissa’s comment after seeing the video was ‘humina humina, nudge nudge wink wink.’ That’s exactly what she said.”
Reena snorted. She missed her sister-in-law. “No, we’re only pretending to be engaged for the contest. Don’t tell Mum and Dad.”
“Yeah, of course I won’t. So you’re pretending to be engaged…but you are actually nudge nudging, right? Because there was a lot of chemistry in that clip, and you don’t lie that well.”
It was really impossible to keep anything from Khizar, even with 450 kilometers between them. And she was fine with that—her brother always had her back. She wished he still lived in town.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “We’re dating. Just casually, though.”
“And Mum and Dad don’t know?”
“No, of course not. They still want me to marry him.” Her brother would understand. “Look, Khizar. Can we finish this later? I’m about to get on the highway.”
“Where you going?”
“Oh…just an off-site meeting. I’ll call you tonight.”
She disconnected the call before he could ask her about work, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her unemployed status from him. Khizar would keep her secret about the contest and fake engagement, no question, but it would be harder to get him to agree not to let the family know she was unemployed. Because he’d want to help her. He was supportive and amazing, and she was always happy to hear from him, but he was still her big brother, and also prone to meddling like the rest of the family.
The whole conversation just increased her anxiety, which was already pretty high, thanks to the job interview. If Khizar, who wasn’t at all into food, saw the video, then others could have seen it, too. Would she and Nadim have to take their fake engagement public? They hadn’t even taken their real relationship out in the world yet.
But Reena needed to put it all out of her mind for now. She was on her way to an important interview. This was the secret food-industry job that Abigail had hinted about—and Reena had full-on squealed when she heard more about it. It was for a financial analyst position at the corporate office of Top Crust, a bakery chain. Reena spent the rest of the drive practicing interview answers in her head.
After parking at the building that held a Top Crust bakery on the main floor, and their corporate offices above it, she squared her shoulders and took a cleansing breath. She’d been to the bakery many times—for a chain bakery, they produced a decent crusty loaf, if a bit overproofed. Their soups and sandwiches were tasty, too, with unique and innovative combinations. This job was perfect for her. She needed to nail this interview.
It went well at first. Angie, the director of finance, described the position, the office culture, and the expectations in a no-nonsense professional manner that Reena liked.
“So, tell me, Reena? What will set you apart from the other applicants? Why do you think you’ll fit here?”
Reena put on her best professional yet enthusiastic smile, while ignoring her elevating heart rate. This was her chance to stand out in the crowd of other applicants. “Can I be honest with you, Angie?”
“Of course.”
She swallowed. “I’m perfect for this job. I know it’s in the finance department, but I’m a firm believer that members of a team must be passionate about the product the company sells. And you won’t find anyone more passionate about the product you sell than me.”
“You’re a fan of bakeries?”
“I love bread. More than anything else. I even keep two different sourdough starters at home. Honestly, I’m obsessed. I’d love to work here to do my part in bringing great baked goods to the world.”
Angie smiled widely, nodding her head. “Leon’s going to love you.”
Reena knew Leon Bergeron was the president of Top Crust. He was a third-generation baker who’d taken his father’s small neighborhood bakery downtown and grown it to a national chain of over fifty stores. He was described as a little eccentric, but was well respected in the industry and loved by his employees.
“Our president is very involved in hiring at the corporate level. He normally conducts second interviews himself. Do you mind if I see if he’s available now? Save us all some time later?”
Reena couldn’t hold back her smile. This interview was going well. Very well. “Of course!”
Angie returned a mere minute later, her face betraying exasperation and amusement. “I should have known…He’s at the bakery. His favorite club has booked the back room. Leon always finds a reason to be there when the NLBACC are in. Anyway, he’d like us to meet him there. Do you mind?”
“NL…what?”
“Just a book club. Shall we?”
The warm, familiar scent of bread baking as they entered the bakery felt so…perfect that Reena’s knees nearly gave out. This could be her workplace. Well, not precisely, but workplace adjacent. She imagined a company discount for bread and soup instead of the practical separates at Railside Clothing. She imagined corporate meetings surrounded by baguettes and brioche. It had never occurred to Reena to work in the food-services industry, but her skin pebbled with longing now.
After warmly greeting the woman behind the counter, Angie told Reena to order whatever she liked, and Reena chose an apricot brioche tart.
“Leon’s in the back,” the woman at the counter told them as she handed Reena a plate. “He’s waiting near the door for them to finish up.”
Angie smiled as she led Reena into the rear of the café.
Leon Bergeron looked as expected, a distinguished older gentleman with sharp intelligence behind gray eyes.
“You must be Reena,” he said, standing to shake her hand as they approached the table. “Welcome to my little bakery. Angie tells me you impressed her with your finance jargon and that you will impress me with your love of bread.” Releasing her hand, he indicated toward a nearby chair. “Have a seat and tell me your thoughts on my shop, here. We’ve just finished an overhaul and will roll out this new look in other locations in the new year.”
The conversation flowed easily as Leon told her about the history of the company, the changes he had made since inheriting it from his father, and the direction he hoped to take the business in the future.
“We’re growing faster than I ever intended. I wanted to maintain that feeling of a neighborhood bakery, but these guys”—he nodded toward Angie—“have managed the impossible. I still feel conne
cted to my customers and to my staff. It’s supposed to be about the bread, not about the market share, right, Reena?”
That led to a long discussion about the types of bread Top Crust produced and Leon’s focus on producing a quality product over cost-cutting or profit margins.
Reena could have talked bread with this man all afternoon. At one point, she forgot he had the power to make or break her prospective career. Well, not really. While the front of her mind talked proofing rooms and dough hydration, the back of her mind set off mental fireworks in celebration. This job was in the bag, and it seemed utterly perfect for her.
“Ooh,” Angie said, turning toward the heavy wood door behind their table. “Looks like the women are done. You couldn’t convince them to let you join them today, Leon?”
He chuckled, standing. “I think I’m wearing them down, though. Won’t be long before I’m an official member of the NLBACC instead of just their sponsor and travel manager.”
What was this NL…whatever group about? Why would a book club need a travel manager? Reena opened her mouth to ask, when Angie smiled at Reena. “We book out the back room here, and this ladies’ group has been renting it for almost five years.”
“I’ve been angling for an invite into their club practically since day one,” Leon added.
She turned to the door, expecting to see immaculate, desperate housewife-types emerging.
But that’s not who exited the back room. The first woman moved slowly, a bright blue wheeled walker supporting her steps. The next woman had a cane.
“Olive!” Leon said, moving to greet the leader. She had to be at least eighty—easily a decade or two older than Leon himself. The other women after Olive ranged in age from fifties to eighties, some with mobility aides, all with wide smiles. Laughing and turning to each other, and joking with Leon, they were clearly a sharp-witted group. And they were completely not what Reena expected.
“And there’s Vanna,” Leon said, kissing the cheek of a woman with dyed violet hair and round glasses. “Who won?”
Vanna slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “No one wins in a book club.” She laughed until she noticed Reena. “Reena! Look at you! You girls have grown up so beautiful. Are you here to pick up your mother?”
