The Sari Shop Widow (24 page)

He couldn’t see her because he had his profile to her. Beads of perspiration rolled down his temple. His shirt was soaked and clung to his shoulder. Standing there for a second, she studied the corded muscles in his arms and legs flexing rhythmically. Such dogged concentration. Most men with a serious leg injury would have used it as an excuse to let their bodies atrophy, but not Rishi. He wouldn’t let something like a shattered knee get him down. She turned around and went on her way.

The hot shower felt wonderful, soothing the aches and pains of exercising after a long hiatus. Dried and dressed, she went out to the lobby and found Rishi seated on one of the comfortable, overstuffed chairs, legs comfortably crossed, reading the
New York Times
.

“Hello there,” he said cheerfully. “You look splendid after your workout.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she told him, secretly pleased at his appreciative expression. He was back in his signature designer wear: lightweight tan pants, cream cotton shirt, and brown loafers. His hair looked a little damp from his shower.

Why hadn’t she noticed earlier what a hunk he really was? She knew why: she was too busy looking for reasons to dislike him. Now that she’d run out of reasons, she was realizing she felt madly attracted to him. So why couldn’t she have found a happy medium between the two?

“See, wasn’t it a grand idea to get some exercise early in the morning?” he said, putting the newspaper down on the coffee table.

“I wouldn’t call it
grand
, considering I’m in pain.” She pulled a face. “I didn’t know I had so many muscles in my body.”

He stood up. “I’ll buy you breakfast. You look like you could use some nutrition. A shot of coffee will banish the pain.”

“If you’re buying, Mr. Shah, then I’ll order something big and expensive.”

“You’re on, Miss Kapadia.” He held the door open for her. “The restaurant in my hotel serves a decent breakfast buffet. Want to try that?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Outside, the clouds lingered and the temperature had risen further. It promised to be a steam-room-type day. By unspoken agreement they went to their respective cars. She got behind the wheel and followed his SUV out of the parking lot.

Inside the hotel’s restaurant, a waiter served them piping-hot coffee the minute they got seated. Anjali took a sip of hers and closed her eyes. “Mmm…I feel the aches slipping away already.”

“Good. Now for the nutrition. Come on,” he said, pushing his chair back, “let’s go find something nice and healthy at the buffet table.”

They both returned with plates loaded with food. Being a vegetarian, Anjali had fresh fruit, pancakes, and wedges of cheese, but Rishi didn’t appear to have any such restrictions. Anjali watched him tuck away eggs, ham, sausages, and toast.

She smiled at him. “Now I know why you were in such a hurry to move to a hotel.”

He looked bemused. “Why?”

“At our house it’s veggies all the time,” she replied, pointing her fork at his plate. “You’re a man who likes his meat.”

“I like meat but I enjoy vegetarian food just as much. I’m not fussy about food.”

“I’ve noticed.” He’d always had generous helpings of her mother’s cooking.

“It comes from boarding schools, traveling around the world, and growing up as a product of a mixed marriage.”

“What do you eat on a regular basis?” She speared a piece of cantaloupe and popped it into her mouth.

“You mean when I’m at my home in London or Delhi?”

“You have two homes…on different continents?” He was wealthier than she’d thought.

“London’s more my home than Delhi, but I do spend a month or two during the year there. In London it’s a townhouse but in Delhi it’s only a small bachelor flat.”

“So you cook for yourself or does the…did the lovely Samantha cook for the two of you?”

He looked vastly amused for some reason. “Samantha doesn’t know the way to the kitchen. I’m not bad at rustling up fried eggs and toast once in a while, but that’s where my talent ends.”

“So you two ate out
every
day?”

“Just about. But then, with our erratic schedules we rarely ate a meal together,” he said. “There are some places in London that serve healthy food, you see,” he added, probably because of her disdainful expression.

“I can’t imagine eating out every day. I’d be fat as a whale.” But then she recalled that she and her family did eat a lot of restaurant food before Jeevan’s arrival.

“You’d never be fat,” he assured her. “You have good genes. Look at your parents and your brother. They’re all slender people.”

“Genes are funny sometimes. I could easily have inherited Jeevan-kaka’s tendency for chunkiness.” She paused to look at him. “But we all noticed he’s dropped a lot of weight. Is he on some kind of diet? He eats like a bird compared with the portions he consumed the last time he was here.”

“It’s possible.”

“And what’s all the fuss about having bland food and no tea? He drank rich
chai
at least five times a day some years ago and loved hot, spicy food. Has he finally come to recognize that excesses are not good for him?”

“Maybe.” She noticed Rishi quickly changed the subject. “So, are you a good cook?” he asked her.

“Mediocre.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I did most of the cooking when I was married. Vik was a good helper, though—so intense yet funny.” Suddenly the images of her small kitchen in New York flashed before her eyes. She and Vik had some wonderful times in that kitchen, which wasn’t much bigger than a telephone booth.

Although he couldn’t cook if his life depended on it, Vik had always liked chopping and dicing and he’d taken great pride in his skills with a knife. He’d even had his own chef’s knife: a humongous, shiny-bladed thing he’d sharpened regularly, and a special peeler and grater. He’d called them his tools of the trade.

When that image of a laughing, teasing Vik arose before her, she couldn’t help the tears pooling in her eyes. It hit her like that sometimes. All of a sudden she’d recall something sweet and sentimental from her life with Vik and the emotions welled up. She tried hard to think of something else, but she couldn’t.

“Anjali?” Rishi said to her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and grabbed her napkin to dab her eyes. “I—I’ll be okay. It’s just that…”

“You still miss him.” Rishi’s eyes were warm with compassion.

Perhaps because of his sympathy, the tears only got worse instead of better. Despite her desperate attempts to stop them, they were running down her cheeks. She was making a scene, embarrassing both herself and Rishi. The people at the next table were throwing strange glances at her. “I’m sorry, Rishi.”

“Don’t be sorry.” He pulled out his key card from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Here, go upstairs to my room and pull yourself together. I’ll sign the check and come up later.”

Grateful for his solicitude, she took the key and hurried out of the restaurant, past the wide-eyed waiter and the bemused hostess who’d seated them earlier. She’d forgotten about Rishi’s room upstairs. She badly needed some privacy. The key was a godsend.

Inside his suite, she headed straight for the bathroom. It looked neat and spotless and smelled faintly of a mixture of pine cleaner and Rishi’s cologne. The stack of towels, soaps, lotions, and shampoos looked newly replenished. The king-size bed was made, too. It appeared that the maid service had been there within the last hour or so.

She studied her face in the mirror. The mascara she’d applied after her recent shower was smudged. The lipstick was gone. Her stomach was still a little queasy. What was the matter with her? Why was she so emotional all of a sudden? Was she sliding into very early menopause? It couldn’t be. Her monthly cycles arrived with near-perfect regularity. In fact, her period had started only the previous day. She still had cramps to remind her of the fact. And her body ached.

After washing her face thoroughly, she decided to leave it devoid of makeup. What the heck, she was only going to the store to work, and some of it in the dusty construction area. Going out to the kitchenette, she got a painkiller out of her purse, poured herself a glass of water, and swallowed the caplet to still the cramps and the rest of the aches.

A minute later she heard a knock on the door and went to get it. It was Rishi. He eyed her with cautious concern as he came inside and shut the door behind him. “Feeling better?”

She nodded. “I apologize for embarrassing you in front of a roomful of people.”

“You didn’t.” He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “And don’t ever apologize for having feelings.
I’m
sorry for bringing up a topic that’s upsetting to you. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. We were talking about cooking. How emotional a topic is that?” The heat from his large hands felt good on her shoulders, comforting. Who would have known that the man she’d disliked only weeks ago would be the source of so much solace?

“Would you like to rest a little or something? You can rest here by yourself and join us at the store when you feel better. I’ll tell your parents you have a headache.”

“No need for that. I’m fine, really. It was just an attack of self-pity.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“You ready to head out, then?” he asked, removing his hands from her.

She nodded. “Thanks for the nice breakfast…and for the use of your suite.”

“Glad to help.” He stopped for a moment to look at her before he grabbed the doorknob.

The expression in his smoky eyes was tenderness laced with desire. Her pulse kicked up in response. That’s when she realized he spelled trouble with a capital
T.
She was in danger of falling in love with him. Was that why she’d reacted to him with such intensity the first time she’d met him? Had her subconscious known right away that he could pose a serious threat to her heart?

She’d noticed that magnetic quality about him the moment she’d laid eyes on him. Even Vik, despite his casual good looks, couldn’t have held a candle to the kind of raw male sexuality combined with smooth sophistication Rishi exuded. He had what they called a
presence
. Whenever he entered a room, people seemed to notice, like when he’d stepped into Rowling Rok the night he’d caught her kissing Kip. Lots of folks in the crowded bar, especially women, had stopped what they’d been doing to look at him.

But she couldn’t fall in love—with Rishi or anyone else. She didn’t want to love and lose again. Going through that nightmare again was just not possible.

She picked up her pocketbook. “Let’s get to the store before my folks think I passed out from exercising too much.”

Chapter 20

A
njali walked her last customer to the door, then closed and locked it. Through the glass panel she watched the woman walk to her car in the parking lot and drive away.

A jagged streak of lightning lit up the angry gray sky. The clouds had thickened in the last hour. The wind was picking up, too. The forecast storm was approaching. It had been overcast and humid all day, clearly signaling a major downpour.

This was unusual weather for October, when the trees, kissed by cool nights and sunny mornings, were cloaked in the most gorgeous shades of red, gold, and orange. The air should have been nippy by now, and the first frosts of the season should have covered the grass at dawn. Instead the day had felt more like late August.

The clap of thunder following the lightning bolt made her jump. Quickly she pulled the shade over the glass and drew in a steadying breath. Thunderstorms made her uneasy.

However, in spite of the weather it had been a good day business-wise—busy and lucrative. Sundays were usually like that, with the weekend shoppers crowding into Little India. For most
Desis
, weekends were typically reserved for setting aside the American-style business suits and donning
salwar-kameezs
or
kurtas
, putting on
bindis
and sparkling bangles, shopping in noisy Indian stores, eating super-hot curry, and dousing the heat with fresh-squeezed sugarcane juice or tangy yogurt
lassi
. A good Hindi movie with all the essential elements of high drama, gyrating dances, and music often rounded off the weekend.

The last few weeks had been crammed with even longer hours of work for Anjali and the family. But the results were worth it. The outside of the building was looking very attractive after the finishing touches had been added. The fresh coat of paint, the reworked brick accents, and the repaved parking lot were already bringing in a spate of customers. The cheerful “Grand Opening” banner announcing next weekend’s event combined with the advertising blitz helped to attract the curious.

She pulled out the folder she’d pushed underneath the counter. It contained responses to the “Help Wanted” sign she’d posted in the store’s window. A handful of young women, mostly high-school and college students, had stopped in to apply.

Amongst five applicants, only one looked promising. She was a housewife, a newlywed just arrived from India, living nearby and looking for a job within walking distance because she and her husband could afford only one car at the moment, which he used to commute to work.

Anjali had spoken to the young lady, Nilima Sethi, over the phone. She was available for full-time work and sounded enthusiastic. The interview was set for the next day.

The beauty salon staff and
mehndi
artist had already been interviewed and hired and would start work on Friday. A good part-time photographer for the bridal studio and a
mandap
and floral designer had been lined up as well.

The café was pretty much set, too. Rishi had discovered a talented chef named Anwar Ali in some obscure New York City restaurant. Besides the usual Indian fare, apparently Anwar made unusual snacks like
paneer
and lamb turnovers, sweet potato
knishes
with ginger sauce, sandwiches with
tandoori
meats and veggies, Indian vermicelli with cilantro pesto, and a long list of interesting items.