“It’s just that—I can’t stand my stepmother,” Vir said. “I really don’t like her. And I was stuck in Mumbai living with them for ten months. I loved working with my dad, and I learned a lot—but I was sick of her. She’s one of those socialites, you know, and she dragged me around to parties like I was some kind of lapdog, and dangled me before her friends’ daughters. So I left without telling them, and for a few hours they even thought I was missing. They got mad, and I got madder. It was ridiculous. Anyway, my dad and I have made up, and they are coming to Boston in a couple weeks, and it’ll be nice if you could meet him—so, will you?”
“Fine,” I said. “But who is your dad?”
“Ramesh Mirchandani,” he said. He looked braced for impact like he had just launched a nuclear missile or something.
“Like the…” Why did the name sound familiar? “Like the… car?”
“Yeah,” Vir said. “Mirchandani Motors is the family company. My dad and his brother run it.”
I was too astounded to speak. My boyfriend’s dad was one of the Mirchandani brothers who owned Mirchandani Motors. What?
“FARM EQUIPMENT?” I said at last. “Vir!”
“Hey, we’re big in tractors too,” Vir said. “That’s how the company started. In fact, tractors are still sixty percent of the business.”
“So that’s why your mom has a Mirage?” I asked.
“It was an exhibition car,” Vir said. “Mom liked it, so Dad arranged for her to have it. They still, you know, communicate.”
“So, are you rich or something?” I asked.
“Rich is relative, but yeah,” Vir said. “My dad’s side of the family is well off, by any standards.”
“Okay,” I said. “Does that mean you don’t really want to set up a DJ business?”
“That was just so I could see more of you,” Vir said. “But I’ll do Vinnie’s wedding, of course. I promise!”
“You had better!” I said. I sat still, trying to take it in. “Vir, it might take me a while to process this!”
“Can I hold you while you do?” he asked.
“Please!” I said, and laid my spinning head on his shoulder. “You know, I may owe my Ernie Uncle an apology. I think he tried to, like, set us up, and I totally doubted his judgment.”
The surprise was that Dad knew.
“Yes, he told me that day he brought you home from the movies,” Dad said.
“When you were driving around in the Lotus?” I asked.
“That’s how it came up,” Dad said. “We were talking cars. He knows a lot about automobiles, and engineering, and he’s going to MIT. I like him. He doesn’t act entitled or anything.”
“And when exactly were you going to share this with me?” I asked.
“I thought you knew,” Dad said. “Anyway, what’s the big deal? It doesn’t change who he is otherwise.”
Chapter Twenty
I was “officially” meeting everyone at the India Day concert.
Vir’s dad, uncle, aunt, and two cousins—all the rich, successful Mirchandanis—and also the dreaded stepmum slash socialite. No pressure, right?
Seriously, what do you even wear to something like that—a party dress, an evening gown? Nothing I owned was remotely suitable, and it was too late to order online. The only thing left to do was to (a) check out the Turnabout Shop just in case someone unloaded a stunning dress in mint condition and/or (b) go shopping with my emergency fashion fund clutched in my hand.
I headed for the mall. No luck. The only possibility that I actually considered was a dress that looked like something Audrey Hepburn would have worn back in the day. But would it work for the event? I tried it on for laughs before changing back. It was fantastic! But, alas, it was also $1200! The sticker shock was still with me when I left the mall.
But I knew how to fix that.
Mum always said when you can’t buy something because it is very, very expensive, go treat yourself to something happy, and fun, and beautiful that is very, very cheap—a pretty pair of earrings, a bright scarf, or a small cup of Häagen-Dazs ice cream.
So, on the way home I stopped at the little garden shop on Route 27, and bought a gorgeous bright red geranium plant in a plastic pot. For $1.20!
“Enjoy!” the guy at the checkout said to me as I paid up.
“Thanks, I will,” I said. He was holding a sign that said HARDY MUMS. “When are the mums coming in?” I asked.
“Another couple of weeks,” he said, leaning on a rake. “They’re just about ready in the greenhouse.”
“I’ll come get some when you get them in,” I said.
“You always do,” he said.
They always came in right before school started in September. Mom used to buy a minivan-load of chrysanthemums around then. A present for the Hardy Mums, she called it, meaning mums as in mothers. And she dedicated the first day of school to transplanting the flowers into window boxes outside our house. I remember coming home from school to see her looking happy and rested and the front windows in our house full of bright blooms.
I was still smiling when I watered my bright red geranium at the kitchen sink and set it in a sunny spot on the windowsill. I could buy a thousand of these plants for the price of that dress. Imagine! That was the same price tag as that lehenga that Masi sent.
Masi’s lehenga! I had forgotten about the fabric I cut out of it. I had one quarter circle of a beautiful firoza-blue hand-embroidered silk. Maybe I could do something with it. I ran into my room and threw open my closet again.
There it was! I spread it out and considered carefully. If I used the bottom half, there would be enough fabric for a skirt—but what about the top? I pulled out my fabric basket filled with remnants from various sewing projects. I’d collected many shades of silk while I
