In here, I could admit it. I still missed Mom so bad that it hurt. And I was terrified that Vinnie was getting married. I was ten when she went away to college. That first summer… I wouldn’t have made it without her. When she left for college, the house felt so empty with just Dad and me and Yogi. I always thought that when Vinnie finished med school I’d get her back. Then she met Manish, and now she was getting married—soon she’d be gone forever, or that’s what it felt like, anyhow.
“Hey.” Dad knocked on the window.
I rolled it down sheepishly. “Hey,” I said. “I made sure the garage door was open so I wouldn’t die from fumes.”
“Good. But do you have to sit there with the engine idling?” he asked. “I thought you cared about global warming.”
He knew very well why I camped in there once in a while. When Vinnie left, he sold his other car and made the minivan his daily driver. This is a man whose other car is a Lotus Esprit.
“I do,” I said. “Just need a minute in the van.”
He nodded. “I’m going in,” he said. “Don’t stay out here too long.”
I rolled the window up and went back to listening to NPR.
“Our guest tonight is Shoma Moorty of Namaskar,” the voice on the radio said. “Shoma, thanks for joining us today.”
“My pleasure.” The husky voice had a clipped New Delhi accent.
No way. That sounded just like Mom and Masi. What the heck was Namaskar?
“So what brought you into the wedding decorating business, Shoma?” the host asked. “And why only Indian weddings? Is there even enough business there to keep you afloat?”
“Enough business?” The rich laugh sounded familiar too. “We’re so busy, David, that I have to turn events away. I’m booked solid months in advance.”
“Really?” David asked, sounding intrigued. “I had no idea that Indian weddings were so big in New England.”
“Most Indians here like to spend on two things, David,” Shoma Moorty said with confidence. “Education and weddings. They may cut corners on everything else, but you won’t find them letting their kids take out massive student loans or have slipshod weddings. Indian weddings are big business.”
“How do you spell Namaskar?” David asked.
“N, A, M, A, S, K, A, R, Namaskar,” said Shoma. “You can find us online.”
I slid open the minivan door, turned the engine off unceremoniously, and zipped into the house.
“Dad, pen!” I said. “Write this down.”
“What?” he asked.
“N, A, M, A, S, K, A, R, Namaskar,” I chanted. “They’re a local business.”
“No need to shout,” he said. “I know how to spell Namaskar.”
He typed it onto the iPad screen. “Here it is.”
I grabbed the tablet from him and stared at the web page he’d brought up. It had a tasteful design with mango leaves, gold drapes, and a white horse wearing red wedding livery. I smiled at the image of the horse. “Jackpot.”
“What are we looking at?” Dad asked.
“Wedding decorator,” I said. “I found one.”
Dad snorted. “It’s going to cost us.”
Us? That was a change! I looked at him questioningly. Could it be that he had finally seen sense?
“I guess we’ve got to do this right,” he said gruffly.
“We do,” I said.
“I used to know a Shoma Moorty,” he said, reading over my shoulder. “When we lived in Brookline.”
“Good,” I said. “Because we need her to fit Vinnie into her booked-solid-for-months schedule.”
“We have nearly two months,” he said.
“Not enough,” I said. “Not even close to enough.”
“Speaking of Brookline,” Dad said, “they’re having the British car show this weekend. Do you want to go?”
“Do I want to go?” I said. “Do Louboutins have bright red soles?”
“Do they?” Dad looked doubtful.
I rolled my eyes at him.
“Yes, they do.”
Chapter Five
I clutched the phone.
It was time to stop staring at the computer screen and actually, like, call the number I had up on it, but I was nervous.
The average budget for a wedding in Massachusetts was $35,000, as per Shoma Moorty on NPR, and the typical desi wedding, she said, was probably triple that amount. But Dad had only approved the baseline 35,000. How was she going to take that news?
Worst case, she’d blow us off.
I had a notepad and pencil out on the coffee table. The dog had been walked and fed and given a rubber toy to chew. I dialed. The call was immediately picked up.
“Shoma Moorty here,” the voice at the other end said.
“Hi,” I said, my voice a bit shaky. I cleared my throat. “I’m calling about a wedding in August,” I said. “We need a quote for decorations.” Could she tell it was a teenager at the other end?
Apparently not.
“What’s the date?” Shoma said briskly.
“August twenty-one,” I said. “Tentatively…” They hadn’t set a date yet but I had to give her something.
“I’m sorry, I’m booked for that day,” she said. Great, the conversation hadn’t lasted even a minute and she had already panned me. “Can’t do the twenty-seventh of August either, that’s the Patel-Bernstein wedding,” she added. “How about August twenty-eighth? I’ve had a cancellation.”
“Sure!” My voice was squeaky with relief. “August twenty-eighth would be great!”
“What’s the venue?” she asked. Was she taking notes?
“We have some places in mind,” I said, fibbing freely, “but we haven’t booked a place yet.”
“Sure, sure,” she said. “Are you the bride?”
“No, the bride’s sister,” I said. Guess my grown-up act was going over pretty well.
“And your name?” she asked.
“Mini, um… Padmini Kapoor,” I said.
There was a pause at the other end. When she spoke, her voice had lost its impersonal, businesslike tone. “You’re not Megha Kapoor’s daughter, are you?” she asked.
“Um, yes,” I said. Guess Dad was right about knowing her. “Dad said you were our neighbor in Brookline, but I wasn’t sure you’d remember.” I was glad she’d made
