Mrs. Vadepalli looked comfortable with one foot tucked under her other knee on the couch. Her husband sat next to her with his head thrown back against the backrest, his long, skinny legs stretched out in front of him. They looked like they’d been in our house forever. Mom and Dad sat side by side on the love seat, looking equally relaxed. Pamma was fast asleep in the recliner.
Instead of considering all this conviviality a good thing, I had the most uncomfortable feeling in my gut.
Because of the way the furniture was placed, they all had their backs to me, all except Pamma. Perhaps because of the TV’s deafening volume, they appeared not to have heard us coming in.
I stood on the threshold in silence to see what they were watching with such rapt attention. When I realized what it was, the blood surged into my face. I could feel Roger’s presence directly behind me. He had come to a standstill, too.
There I was on the screen, a larger-than-life three-year-old, plump and brown as a roasted turkey, frolicking in the bathtub in all my naked glory. Two rubber ducks floated in the suds while I splashed water over my mother and everything else in the bathroom.
I’d forgotten that old video was still around. It was actually an old home movie that had been converted to a video after VCRs became the rage. Soon it would turn into a DVD.
I must have made a sound, because four sets of eyes abruptly turned to look at me. If it were possible to die of embarrassment I’d have been a heap of ashes. “What are you guys doing?” I managed to squeak out and glare at my parents.
Typically oblivious to my discomfort, Mom grinned. “We’re sharing some of our precious memories with Sharda and Venki, dear.”
Sharda and Venki? When had my parents gone from calling these people Mr. and Mrs. Vadepalli to using their first names? And Venki was a shortened version, sort of a nickname for the old-fashioned Venkatesh.
This visit was turning more absurd by the minute. Mom and Dad were starting to treat Bedroom Eyes’s parents like old friends. Knowing Mom was a hopeless case of sentimental mush, I pinned Dad with a blistering look. “Of all things to show people, you had to pick that video, Dad?”
Dad shrugged. “Hey, family life is pretty much the same everywhere, princess. I’m sure Sharda and Venki have similar videos of their children.”
Venki, or rather Mr. Vadepalli, removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “Not exactly like this, but very similar.”
His wife nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Venki always carried his movie camera everywhere when Renuka and Rajesh were little.”
The conversation had woken Pamma, who looked at me and smiled serenely. “Oh, you are back already?”
“Yeah, we went for a short walk before going to the movie.”
I heard an amused chuckle behind me, so I turned around to face Roger with narrowed eyes. “That’s enough out of you,” I hissed, keeping my voice to a whisper meant only for his ears.
Roger shrugged in a helpless gesture. “What did I do?”
“Come with me.” I proceeded to the living room, Roger close on my heels. He was still snickering and I subjected him to the full measure of my indignation. “Stop that.” When he raised an amused brow, I pointed a finger at him. “Just stop it.”
“Okay, but you were a cute kid.”
“Round and big-nosed with wild hair is not cute. And don’t patronize me, Roger Vadepalli.”
Throwing his hands up in mock surrender, Roger sank onto the couch. “My name is Rajesh, remember?”
“To me you’re Roger. It’s your own fault for lying about your name in the first place. Now you’re stuck with it.” His jaw tightened and I rejoiced instantly. A little revenge felt good. He was getting too cocky.
“All right, calm down. There are plenty of videos of my sister and me running around in our underwear, too. So don’t get yours in a knot.” He had the nerve to grin. “Your underwear, that is—”
“Pervert.” My embarrassment and anger started to simmer down despite his ribbing. It was probably his infectious grin that did it. I had to admit Bedroom Eyes had a way about him that made me forget why I was angry in the first place. I’d even started kidding with him—me, the levelheaded attorney.
He was right, though. So what if I was a chubby toddler? I was still big, so body fat was nothing new. In fact, now my nose and chin and eyebrows were rather nice compared to that picture on the screen. I wondered if the Vadepallis had noticed the difference in my features and whether they’d thought to ask my parents about it. If they had any social graces at all, they wouldn’t.
Had Roger noticed? I slanted a glance at him. “Did you notice my face in the video?”
“Sure.”
“So do you see the difference now?”
He chuckled again. “You want to know if I noticed whether your daddy used his scalpel on you? The answer is yes.”
“And you have no problem with that?”
“Nope. I had a honker for a nose when I was little. I was at least sixteen before the face fit the nose.”
I frowned at him. “But you have a perfect Adonis nose.”
Roger ran his artistic fingers through his tresses and batted his eyelashes at me. “Moi, Adonis?”
I had to laugh. No wonder he was in show business. He would be perfect for the stage or the screen. I pulled out my car keys. “What kind of movie would you like to see? The theater’s going to be crowded on a Saturday evening, so we may not get tickets for exactly what we want.”
He shrugged. “I’m open to anything. You choose.”
“Tell your parents we’re going to the movies. I’ll get the car out of the garage. Meet me out front.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He rose from the couch and wandered off in the direction of the family room.
I couldn’t help but admire his body—long legs and firm, masculine muscle in all the right places. Oddball though he was, there was something dangerously attractive about Roger that left me with a funny feeling I couldn’t analyze. This was like no other bride viewing I’d ever had.
But eventually the outcome would be the same. In the end, they were all cut from the same samosa pastry cutter.
So, exactly when was Bedroom Eyes going to turn tail and run?
Chapter 5
Roger adjusted the passenger seat to accommodate his long legs, then looked about the interior of my car. “Nice wheels. But I thought you’d be driving something fancier.”
“Like what?”
“Like a luxury sedan or a sports model. You’re a successful lawyer, so I assumed you’d like the good stuff—status symbols.”
“You assumed wrong.” Roger’s comment wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before. Lots of people assumed that about me. “My dad’s the one who likes status symbols, not me, and certainly not my mother or grandmother.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you’re a snob or anything.”
“That’s okay. Others ask me that, too.” I happened to like my very boxy and very practical three-year-old black Volvo. It lent me a sense of sturdiness to go along with my square attorney image. It probably came from my need to get away from the pampered princess impression.
As I’d predicted, the movie theater was mobbed. With sixteen theaters crammed into one building, the parking lot was packed, too. I found a spot for my car in the farthest row and we were forced to walk some distance to the building. It seemed like a day for long walks. Hopefully those fat cells were melting off my hips.
We stood in a long line outside the ticket booth and Roger picked up a casual conversation with the elderly grandma type standing behind him in the line. By the time we reached the ticket window he’d managed to find out the lady’s name, how many children and grandchildren she had, that she suffered from emphysema, and that she was afraid of dying.
“Poor Mildred,” he whispered in my ear. “In spite of having five grown and married children, she lives alone. She says she’s afraid she’ll die in her sleep some day and they won’t even know until
her body is decomposed.”
I shot Roger a dubious look. “She told you all that?” He made it sound like Mildred was an old and dear friend.
“It’s preposterous that a woman her age and in her condition should be living alone and that her kids don’t care.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said before realizing it was our turn at the ticket counter.
I managed to get tickets for an Indian movie produced in the U.S. Most of the dialogue was in English, but the Hindi portions had subtitles. It turned out to be quite entertaining, with a zany mix of Hollywood and Bollywood—song, dance, love and romance without a hint of sex—not even a real mouth-to-mouth kiss.
Bedroom Eyes surprised me when he got us giant-size sodas just before the show started, and paid for them on his own, too. So he did have money on him, unlike what I’d thought earlier. He hadn’t offered to pay for the tickets. Clever, underhanded—and entirely sneaky.
The big disappointment, however, or should I say the surprise, was Bedroom Eyes’s behavior in the darkness of the theater. He was the perfect gentleman. Not once did he make an effort to touch me or whisper anything lewd in my ear.
Was this the same guy who’d claimed to have had a number of girlfriends? His eyes seemed glued to the screen. Once or twice I stole a peek at him, but he appeared enthralled by what was happening in the movie.
I’d never know how those slim, bony fingers would feel against my skin. But then, if he’d tried anything funny, I’d probably have smacked him and told him to keep his groping hands to himself. So his lack of interest was good for his reputation but bad for my already bruised ego. Oh well, I’d have to get over it.
Once when I sniffled during a touching scene, Roger turned to me with an understanding look, then went right back to watching the movie. I’d hoped he’d pat my hand and offer sympathy, or at least a handkerchief like they did in romance novels.
When the show ended, he turned to me with a pleased smile. “Pretty entertaining, wasn’t it? The writer’s a whiz at making up these Indo-American fusion stories. She seems to have the right touch,” he enthused.
We made our way through the darkened corridor and then out into the bright lobby. Knowing I was a bit red-eyed from the film’s emotional finale, I kept my head down. Despite my pragmatic and cynical personality, I was a sucker for a good love story and a happy ending. The hero in the movie was attractive and long-haired like Roger, making my mind spin a few fantasies around him.
And it didn’t help matters one bit when Mildred, Roger’s recently acquired friend, tapped me on the shoulder. “Your young man is so nice, dear, just like the hero in the movie.”
I thanked Mildred and kept moving despite noticing Roger’s grin at the remark. My eyes remained on the ground so Roger wouldn’t see me as a sniveling, sentimental blob of a woman. My tough image was something I worked hard at maintaining, so I kept a tight rein on my tear ducts.
Lord knows why I cared about Roger’s opinion of me. He was just another man who’d be gone from my life in the next hour or less.
It had turned dark outside except for the light coming from the lampposts, and the full moon was clearly visible in the velvety black sky—a perfect purnima moon. As we walked across the parking lot crammed with automobiles, I noticed the stars were delightfully bright on this crisp, clear, late-summer night. Hundreds of moths circled the lamps.
We got into the car and headed back home. I figured if the senior Vadepallis had gone to their hotel during our absence, like I’d hoped, then I could turn around and drop Roger off, too.
Roger once again settled back in my car and went on and on about the movie. He also told me about his role model, M. Night Shyamalan, the writer and director of the movies The Sixth Sense and The Village. “Such a talented guy. Boy, would I like to be the next Shyamalan!” he said, his expression wistful. “At least the Broadway version of him.”
“So you think you can rise to those heights in the theater industry?”
“You don’t think I have what it takes to make it to the top?” He sounded offended, but the sly smile belied it.
“It takes not just talent but mountains of hard work to get there.” Looking at his relaxed posture, I got the feeling he wasn’t quite the workaholic. How old was he? At least my age, to be considered eligible for me by my parents and his. The Indian norm was to pick a boy slightly older than the girl. At thirty-something he was still without a job or any kind of personal savings.
“I happen to have plenty of talent and capacity for work,” Roger announced with supreme male confidence. “I won an award for my play in my master’s program. I sold the rights to an off-Broadway producer.”
Sufficiently impressed, I raised my brows. “What school did you go to?”
“Yale School of Drama,” he said quietly.
Wow! An award from Yale wasn’t anything to sneeze at. He was smarter and more diligent than I’d assumed.
“Surprised?” he asked, as if reading my thoughts. “You’re not the only one with an Ivy League degree, Soorya. And my undergrad is from Johns Hopkins, by the way.”
Holy cow! This was getting more and more interesting. The man had to be a whiz to get into the Johns Hopkins pre-med program and then into Yale for his master’s. He was a madcap genius after all. “Then why are you struggling to make a living now, Roger?”
“I told you why,” he said, rolling his eyes. “My dad washed his hands of me when I decided to go into theater arts instead of med school. He grudgingly paid for school, but he won’t fund my play.”
“You’ve never worked for a salary? No savings whatsoever?”
Roger exhaled slowly, thoughtfully. “I’ve saved a little from working the last few years at a community theater in Kansas City, but it’s just about enough to cover my grocery bills in a place like New York.”
“So how much money do you need to produce Bombay to Manhattan?” I regretted the question the moment it left my mouth. I didn’t want Bedroom Eyes to think I was interested in financing his project. I had absolutely no intention of getting involved with him on any level.
“Mumbai to Manhattan,” he corrected me before mentioning the dollar amount. “Around half a million dollars, and that’s a very conservative estimate.”
“Ouch, that much?”
“Have you ever thought about the cast’s salaries, the costumes, the sets, the musicians, the rent, the overhead, the sky-high insurance? It’s immense. What I quoted is the bare minimum.”
He was right. I’d never thought about most of those things whenever I’d sat in a theater and enjoyed a performance. The trust fund Dad had set up for me had that amount and much more in it, but it was still a huge sum of money Roger was talking about. And why was I thinking about my own savings? His father was a multimillionaire, probably much wealthier than my family, and Roger was quite capable of convincing his old man to cough up the money to fund his venture. His very risky venture.
The rest of the drive home was filled with Roger telling me more about his play. His voice had a deep, soothing quality, so I listened without interrupting. I realized, to my surprise, that he had done considerable research, even to the extent of talking to set designers, sound technicians, stage actors, and a variety of people connected to the professional theater business.
He’d made several trips to New York City in the past year. But still, was the play merely Roger’s unreachable dream or a tangible goal?
I wasn’t surprised when I found the white Malibu sitting in the same spot outside our driveway. The Vadepallis were still hanging around. I hit the automatic door opener and drove directly into the garage. Roger and I entered the house through the door that led into the laundry room. We walked past the washer and dryer and Mom’s super-organized shelves with the detergents, stain removers, and fabric softeners.
As we approached the kitchen, voices and the aroma of South Indian food drifted toward us. The clink of ice cubes in glasses mingled with the Telugu music playing in the backgr
ound. The elders were still at it—cozying up to each other.
Roger glanced at me. “Isn’t it nice that our parents get along so well?”
“Hmm.” Nice for Roger perhaps, but not for me. I didn’t want his parents and mine to become friends. I didn’t want to keep discovering Roger’s finer qualities, either, only to be informed later that he, although an unemployed guy, had rejected me and gone back to Kansas.
Dad’s back was to us when we entered the kitchen. He stood at the island, holding a martini glass with two pearl onions floating in its frosty depths. A tall crystal glass filled with a golden liquid that looked like scotch and soda graced Mr. Vadepalli’s hand. Ah, so the Vadepallis were drinkers. Dad could enjoy his martini without feeling guilty.
About as tall as Dad, but thin and narrow-shouldered, Mr. Vadepalli stood on the other side of the island. The men appeared to be discussing the stock market. “I’m not sure the market will go back to the nineties high for a long time, Pramod,” Mr. Vadepalli announced, looking unhappy. “I’ve lost faith in the market.”
“Tell me about it,” Dad groaned. “Even my blue chips took a nosedive. I’ll never recover the losses. I’m not putting my money into those risky sectors again.”
Two rich men discussing their portfolios, I observed with some amusement. The women were at the stove, each stirring a simmering pot and talking about something I couldn’t hear—most likely food and jewelry.
This was a typical Indian social scene: the men conversing about politics and investments over a drink, while the women cooked and chatted about the price of Basmati rice and the latest fad in saris and gold necklaces.
Pamma, who generally ate early and went to bed before nine o’clock, was at the kitchen table, eating yogurt, rice, and lime pickle. Although a large woman by Indian standards, she looked wizened and tired at eighty-four. Her white-haired bun looked even whiter in the light from the chandelier. She had already changed into a plain white cotton sari, more or less ready for bed.
I glanced around one more time. The tableau looked heart warmingly sweet and domestic.
The Full Moon Bride Page 5