She jogged over to the Mini. “Where’ve you been?” she said. “I haven’t seen you in days!”
“Wedding stuff,” I said apologetically. “It’s driving me nuts!”
“You brought Yogi-wan-Kenobi!” she said. “Want to walk with us? Wanna go walkies with Shayla Aunty?”
“With all of you?” I scanned the kids milling around her. “Is that a good idea?”
“Sure!” she said. “The more the merrier.”
I parked the car and Yogi bounded out grinning like a wolf. A couple of kids looked alarmed. “He’s friendly, see?” I put Yogi in a sit and let them pet him. He was really patient, putting up with ten hands at a time patting.
When we got to the wooded trail along the river I let him off-leash. He bounded away and raised his leg at a large pine tree. A couple of kids broke ranks to chase after him. “Timmy,” Shayla yelled, “get back here. Stay with the group.”
Yogi quickly figured out that staying a hundred feet ahead of us meant he’d be unbothered by the kids and promptly took the lead.
“So, tell me what’s up,” Shayla said. “You’ve nailed everything down yet?”
“We—are—TI—GERS!” The kids kept up the refrain as they marched.
“Nailed down?” I wailed, yelling above our background noise. “Are you kidding? I don’t even have a venue yet.”
“I thought you looked up tons of places,” Shayla said. “Is Vinnie being fussy?”
“Not really,” I said. “She wants an outdoor wedding, that’s all, and all the places in our budget have the lamest gardens.” I shook my head. “Or they’re on Cape Cod or in Western Mass or something. Nothing close!”
“What about here?” Shayla asked.
“Here?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
Shayla crossed her arms and stared me down. “I mean River Bend!”
I stared at her stupidly. “What?” I said.
“River Bend!” Shayla repeated. “Don’t you know they do weddings?”
“NO WAY!” I said. “I did NOT know that! How come it doesn’t show up on any of the wedding sites?”
“Because it’s members only,” Shayla said. “But membership at the Massachusetts Botanical Society is only ninety bucks a year. Not bad, huh? And they have different options—you can put up a tent in the gardens, or have it in the Italian Garden by the manor house. You know—the one with the big fountain? I’ve seen five weddings here since camp started!”
My heart was suddenly hammering. Yes! That felt right. River Bend was where Vinnie spent half her school years, playing soccer and field hockey and whatnot. Mom even came here for one of Vinnie’s big games. She had the biggest smile on her face as Vinnie pushed her wheelchair around the field for a lap of honor. She had on her brand-new wig, a lovely Audrey Hepburn–esque pageboy style, made of thick, beautiful hair—Vinnie’s hair. If you didn’t know that Mom had lost her hair from chemotherapy, you’d never have guessed it was a wig. Vinnie looked strangely grown-up in her new bob—she had always had hair halfway down her back before then. Afterward, she never grew it long again.
Indian men sometimes shave their head in mourning after the death of a close family member. It was almost like Vinnie kept her hair short in mourning for Mom. That’s why I was so determined not to let her trim her hair again. She had to grow it out—thick, long, and beautiful—in time for her wedding. Mom would have wanted her to.
“Do they have an indoor space?” I asked. “In case of rain?”
“I think they use the Carriage House,” Shayla said. “You know, the one where they have the Christmas tree festival.”
I remembered the space. It was a huge hall with really high vaulted ceilings. With some draping and lighting and decorations, it could be epic.
“Shayla, you’re a genius!” I said. “I’m going over there right now!”
“You’re welcome!” Shayla said.
I called for Yogi and took off down the trail in a run. Behind me I could hear the chant of the kids fade away. “Mighty, mighty TIII—GERS!”
You’d think Vinnie might have seen it in all those years she played soccer at River Bend—but no. It was so well hidden by the tall hedgerows on either side that unless you knew the way in, you’d never even guess it was there.
Chapter Nine
Venue finalized, it was time to move on to other vendors.
I had been trying to get a response from Vinnie’s preferred caterer, Curry Cuisine, for over a week. Sondhi Jr., the dude I kept reaching, wouldn’t give me a quote without Papa’s input, and Papa seemed too busy to write up quotes.
Vinnie wanted them mainly because Manish’s mom had recommended them. They had catered Manish’s sister’s wedding. So if I could get them to return my calls, we were probably going with them—even though Sher-e-Punjab, the guy Preet had told me about, was much more reasonable.
But since Curry Cuisine was still dragging their feet, even after five messages, I decided to go over to Sher-e-Punjab. Just in case.
I knew where it was, of course. It’s the kind of place you pass before stopping at the next fancy new restaurant that has popped up on Route 9. Those fancy restaurants vanished as quickly as they appeared, but Sher-e-Punjab never changed its signage or paint or decor and yet stuck around year after year after year. It was a mystery, really, how it stayed in business.
I was surprised. It was bright and cheerful inside, in spite of the plastic flowers on the tables and the backlit Golden Temple poster on the wall—or maybe because of them. I could hear Gurbani music playing in the kitchen and voices chatting in Punjabi. There was no one in sight—I guessed they had only just opened for lunch—but the buffet was well stocked with glistening, aromatic curries that made my mouth water, not to mention warm, crusty garlic naans, fragrant rice, and heaps of red tandoori chicken. It smelled wonderful—as good as my Beeji’s kitchen, and that’s saying something.
“Hello?” I called out.
The curtain parted and a middle-aged man with a beard, a handlebar mustache, and a prosperous potbelly appeared behind the counter. He wore a Sikh turban in a delicate shade of periwinkle blue. So the picture of the Golden Temple wasn’t only for decoration. I hadn’t realized that Preet was Sikh because Rahul’s hair was short and he didn’t wear a turban.
“Yaas?” the man asked, his accent as thick and earthy as makke di roti made of the finest Punjabi corn.
“I wanted to get a quote on a catering order,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “What would you like?”
“You have a catering menu?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “We’ve been meaning to get one, but”—he shrugged helplessly—“it’s very hard to do everything.”
“I can tell you what I’d like,” I said. “We’d like to have a vegetarian meal. Rice, naan—”
He cut me off. “For how many people?” he asked.
There it was again—our stumbling block.
“About one hundred and eighty,” I said after some mental calculations. “Give or take thirty or forty people.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll have a firmer count soon,” I promised. “We’re working on it.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “No problem. You can check what you’d like on this menu?”
I grabbed the piece of paper and looked it over.
“Tussi Rahul di teacher heinna?” he asked in Punjabi, surprising me.
“Haanji,” I said automatically before switching back to English. “Rahul’s mom said you have the best Indian food in Boston.” How did he know Preet had sent me?
He chuckled. “Maybe not the best Indian food,” he said modestly. “But the best Punjabi food, we have it, yes.”
Not so self-deprecating after all.
“Preet said so many times you would come,” he added. “Unne appko describe kiya si, that’s why I could recognize you. She’s our sister, cousin sister. We give you the best food, and the best rate. Family rate.”
“Oh, thank you.” I w
as floored by his warmth after getting the runaround for days on end by that snooty Curry Cuisine. “I’m sorry I can’t order from you for the wedding, but I need catering for the mehendi also.”
I was going to give Sondhi Sr. one more day. If I didn’t hear back from him in twenty-four hours, we were booking with Sher-e-Punjab.
Vinnie was swamped, what with her orientation at the hospital, and Dad had a conference call with Intel Capital (“It’s really important, Mini!”), so I finally ended up totaling it myself.
If I included the cost per person, the waitstaff, the dosa chef, the china and linens charge, and the gratuity, we were still under $9000. It was another $1500 if we brought the guest list up to 180 people—which was the maximum number of people the Carriage House at River Bend could hold for the wedding reception.
Dad and Vinnie would hire whatever vendor I recommended. They were just too busy to do any of the organizing themselves. I was tempted to have them check out Sher-e-Punjab. Thanks to Preet, the rate they were giving us was out of this world! But there was the whole business of the South Indian food, and the recommendation by Manish’s family… It was a lot to think about.
Also, today was the big day when I was getting my SAT results back. How I did was going to decide how I spent the rest of my summer: slogging to retake the test or finishing up planning for Vinnie’s wedding. I checked the time on my cell phone. One hour before I could log in to College Board and get my result. I covered my face with my hands and screamed silently but looked down when I felt a paw on my knee.
Chapter Ten
Yogi was right, the best place to look up my test score was outdoors walking, with just him for company.
I grabbed the leash and my car keys and headed out the door.
Just turning into the parking lot by the athletic field and seeing all the tall pine trees in the distance made me feel better.
I unclipped Yogi and he ran off ahead of me. We both knew the path well by now. First there was the gentle uphill, then a steep descent with a spectacular view of Lake Waban. Then a wooden boardwalk over wetlands, filled with rushes, ducks, and wetland birds, followed by a long, level stretch along the south side of the lake. After that we entered PRIVATE PROPERTY, where the NO TRESPASSING, DOGS MUST BE ON A LEASH signs were nailed to a gazillion trees.
I didn’t want to have to bother with holding on to Yogi, so I veered off up a hill track away from the lake. After a steep incline, it went along the spine of the hills surrounding the lake. Great view, cool breeze, no bugs, and Yogi could run free—what could be better? I could even scream out loud if I got a horrible score.
I found a cool, shaded rock to sit on. Yogi was still unleashed, but he never wandered too far from me.
I checked my phone—still half an hour to go. Better put that time to use, who knew how much time I’d have after I checked College Board. I pulled out my notebook and pencil and started to make a list.
• Date: Sunday, August 28th
• Venue: River Bend/MassBot
• Wedding decorator: Shoma Moorty of Namaskar
• Guest list: Finalize numbers, get addresses.
• Invitation cards: Have Vinnie approve design.
• Food (Indian vegetarian): Sher-e-Punjab for mehendi, Curry Cuisine for wedding
• Wedding cake: Check out the bakery recommended by Amy.
• Wedding dress: Masi
• Priest: Krishna Ji, Sherwood Temple?
• DJ/Lighting: ???
• Photography: ???
• Hotel rooms & transport to MassBot for out-of-town guests: Westbury Plaza
• Alcohol/bartender: ???
• Licenses: Wedding license, alcoholic beverage license, etc.
I went back to chewing the end of my pencil. Time to pencil in some numbers. Next to Wedding decorator: Shoma Moorty of Namaskar, I put $5000. Next to Venue: River Bend/MassBot, I put $7000. Next to Wedding dress: Masi, I put FREE. Next to Food (Indian vegetarian): Curry Cuisine for wedding… I put $10,000. I had three quotes, and two contracts signed and ready.
“Hey.” The warm voice was just next to my ear.
I dropped my notepad. I knew that voice, that accent—it was Vir.
“Hey,” I said.
“Haven’t lost your keys today, huh?” he said.
Running shorts and shirt and muddy sneakers again—and he still looked hot.
I picked up my notepad and looked away. “Not today,” I said.
“What’s that?” he said, looking over my shoulder.
“That’s private,” I said, clutching the notepad to me.
He held up both hands, laughing. “Okay!” he said, heading back to the walking trail.
Oh, no, he was going away!
It would be weird to tell him about the wedding or the SAT, but I wanted him to stay. Let’s face it, I needed distraction.
“I’m just sketching, actually.” I turned the page hurriedly to a sketch of Yogi I had done the other day.
“Wow!” he said, examining the page closely. “That’s amazing. You’re really talented!”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Are you in art school or something?” he asked.
“I wish!” I said. “I’d like to apply to design school, but I have to convince my dad it’s not for deadbeats first.”
“It’s your life,” he said. “You should apply. Totally!”
“He’s paying for college,” I said. “He wants to make sure I manage to get skills I can earn a living with.”
“Like what?” Vir asked.
“You know—engineering, medicine, law.” I counted them off on my fingers. “The usual things you’re allowed to do if you’re Indian.”
Vir laughed. “But you’ve clearly got talent.” He turned a page to another sketch. “That’s awesome!” He flipped another page. “What’s that?”
I snatched back the notepad. “Nothing!”
“It said ‘Wedding checklist’!” He looked surprised. “What does that mean?”
“It means that it’s a checklist for a wedding,” I said. He wasn’t the only one who could be sarcastic.
“Aren’t you a bit young for that?” he said.
“Vinnie’s wedding,” I explained. “My sister?”
“Your sister’s wedding!” he said. “Of course. How come she isn’t planning it, then?”
“She’s starting residency on July first,” I told him. “In Chicago. And her fiancé is a second-year resident. They don’t have the time to plan it, so I’m helping out.”
“So big sis got into medicine, huh?” he said. “Is that why you’re not applying to design school?”
“I never said I’m not applying,” I said.
“Okay, I’m confused.…”
“It kind of depends”—I checked my phone. Yikes, my test score had been out for fifteen minutes already!—“on what I get on my SAT.”
“Oh, when do you find out what you scored?”
“Right now.” I took a deep breath. “They just released the score, but I haven’t looked… yet.”
“Aah,” he said. “Nervous?”
I nodded.
“It will be fine,” he said. “Really! Just look, okay? Do you want me to go?”
“No!”
“No?”
“I’m going to sign in,” I said. “But I’m terrified to look. Can you… check it for me? If it’s over 1490, give me a thumbs-up, if it’s below, a thumbs-down.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being below 1490!”
“My sister scored 1590, for context.…”
“Damn. What a beast!”
“Yeah. But I’m not anywhere near her level. Okay, I’m logging in.…” I handed him my phone. “Check!”
He took my phone without a word, his face serious. I stared at him as he tapped through the screen.
“Sooo?”
He broke into a sudden smile and held his hand up for a high five. “Sorry, thumbs-up, right?” He gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “
It’s 1510! Look!”
“I scored over 1500?” I grabbed the phone and checked for myself. It was true. “Yes! Thank goodness! I’m so happy!”
We grinned at each other.
“Congratulations.” He held out his hand and pumped mine in a handshake. “Well done you!”
“Thanks, and what is it with you and handshakes? Honestly?”
“School culture?” he said. “Speaking of which, where do you go?”
“Westbury High,” I said. “And you?”
“Nowhere,” he said. What? I must have looked confused because he added, “I took a gap year. After being stuck on a boarding school campus in the Thar Desert it was nice to have a break, you know?”
“Cool,” I said. “What did you do?”
“Worked in Mumbai for ten months,” he said. “And traveled—Australia, Singapore, UK…”
“That explains the British accent.” I nodded wisely.
“Very funny!” he said. “The British accent is from living in England. I grew up there. Lived in other places since, but it kind of stuck.”
“So, are you going to school in the US?” I asked. If not, he’d be leaving soon.…
“Yes,” he said. “Starting in fall.”
“At Fellsway?” I asked.
“Yeah, right!” he said. “No way I’d go there!”
“It’s officially coed!” I said. “I’ve read their prospectus!”
“Any college where my mum is dean is not for me,” he said. “Ever!”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“MIT,” he said.
“Impressive,” I said. “Wait, so what did you get on your SAT?”
“Same as your sister.” He grinned. “Also 1590. Weird, right?”
“Now who’s a beast?” I said. “And after telling me not to stick to the doctor/lawyer/engineer mantra, you want to be an engineer?”
“Why not?” he said. “It is what I want. That’s what matters!”
Shayla was right about him being smart as well as cute. He had that casual aura of self-assurance that comes from having it all.
“I guess!” I said. “Congratulations. It’s really hard to get into MIT. What’s their acceptance rate? Like nine percent or something?”
Sister of the Bollywood Bride Page 7
