“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
