One Winter’s Day: A feel-good winter romance

by Laura Briggs

  “It set him back still further,” said Deevana, as her husband shook his head sadly.

  “Sounds painful,” said Ama dutifully. She thought Tamir looked as if he was tired of hearing his various setbacks commiserated, although she couldn’t be sure.

  Their guests collected their shoes from the hall after tea was over. “It was nice to meet you, Ama,” said Deevana, who didn’t look particularly happy. That smile belonged to a woman who was desperately hoping to utter the magic word ‘wedding’ in connection with her son in the near future, Ama thought.

  “We must all have dinner together soon,” said Ranjit. “Come to our restaurant—I will feed you with the best Indian cuisine in the city. Banana leaves for everyone!”

  Stop it, Ama willed him. Tamir shook her hand.

  “It’s been nice,” he said. “I wondered if I could have your phone number? I thought maybe it would be nice to meet later on, just the two of us, to get to know each other better.”

  “What a nice idea,” said Pashma eagerly.

  “Sure,” said Ama. This was standard operating procedure between prospective matches: to have coffee and scope each other out before the parents added their stamp of approval. Sometimes it never made it that far—Narain and Deevana didn’t look ready to bless a courtship with her after today, so Tamir was only being civil to her now. The polite way out would involve deleting the digits he was now entering into his own phone as soon as he was safely outside.

  “Thank you,” he said. “It was nice meeting you.” They shook hands again. He gave her another polite smile.

  “Not a bad match for a first try,” said Ranjit, after he closed the door behind their visitors. “Polite boy, good job—how could it be better?” He clapped his hands together. “Time to get to work again. Jaidev, turn the sign back so customers can come in. We have chicken seasoned that’s ready for the fire, and tonight’s special is tandoori.” He gave Ama a smug look as he donned his apron. “Was it so bad to meet a boy after all?” he asked triumphantly. “Your father is a pretty good matchmaker, eh? A nice boy like Tamir instead of a stranger that Bendi met in the spice aisle of the grocery?”

  Ama shook her head. “He’s not going to call me, Papa.”

  “He will. You heard him. Why wouldn’t he call?” insisted Ranjit. “You’re a pretty girl, smart—we own the biggest Indian restaurant in this part of the city. What else does he want?”

  “A girl with a degree and social background more like his own?” Ama guessed.

  “This is America. You look for someone who has success here, good ties here,” said Ranjit stubbornly, as if this particular fact of immigration in modern times somehow overrode those traditional cultural and caste ties. “You have all those things. You work hard and know about business and cooking and other things that are important in a wife.”

  This from a man whose thirty-odd years in America had yet to resign him to knowledge of the plot of Star Wars, the practicality of wearing denim, or the difference between Coca-Cola and Pepsi, thought Ama.

  “She thinks every man isn’t interested,” said Pashma dismissively.

  “I think he’s perfect, Ama,” said Rasha, who still sounded thrilled at the idea of Ama’s suitor. “He’s so cute. And he’s successful. You guys will have a great time when you get together for coffee or something.”

  “I don’t think you should get your hopes up,” said Ama, shedding her hairpins and letting her hair fall freely in its usual style as she retreated to her room to be rid of the borrowed outfit’s binding wrap as quickly as possible. “He’s just being polite to get rid of a girl who was obviously not what they hoped for.” Hadn’t the rest of them seen that it was a disaster? Although, for once, she was actually grateful about her family’s ability to make a terrible first impression.

  “You’re imagining things!” scolded her auntie.

  “Trust me on this.” She knew she was right. Even if a tiny chance might exist that maybe… maybe… she could somehow be wrong if this boy was really desperate. If he really did call, what would she do? Tell him that the matchmaking thing was her father’s idea only—tell him that she wasn’t interested at all in pursuing a match through the website?

  “How can you say no to a nice boy?” said her father. “When he calls, make me happy and go, Ama. Please.” To ask and not simply state this option as fact—that meant her father really wanted her to change her mind. He had found her weak spot, and Ama felt guilty at the thought of saying no yet again.

  She sighed. “Fine,” she said. “But there’s no point, because he’s not calling.”

  He’ll never call, she thought. Even a desperate and dull boy would still have enough self-respect to avoid someone so clearly incompatible—and disinterested—as herself. At least she certainly hoped so, since Ama was determined never to settle for less than sheer passion and romantic sparks when it came to finding the love of her life.

  Six

  Tessa took a picture of the billboard as soon as it was pasted above the roadway. A softened photograph of a happy bride and groom hand in hand beneath a shower of confetti from smiling guests, with the Wedding Belles’ logo to one side. Let us make your special day all that it can be!

  At their headquarters on Thursday, Ama and Natalie were trying to disentangle some Christmas twinkle lights, finding a working set of cool white for the window display. “I think half of these are burnt out,” complained Natalie.

  “Try the other string. The plug looks less worn on it,” suggested Ama. “We just need a couple of working strands in Christmas colors.”

  “Any calls?” asked Tessa, closing the door behind her as she tossed the business’s mail on the entry table—all junk advertisements for high-speed internet and new cars. “Do we have a client?”

  “It’s only been four days, Tess,” said Natalie. “Are you expecting a miracle?”

  “I’m expecting someone to notice our snazzy graphics,” answered Tessa. “The magazine ad came out yesterday—we’re right next to a honeymoon airline package.”

  She unwound the scarf around her neck; at the same moment, the office phone rang. Tessa gave both her partners a triumphant glance before she hurried to the main desk and snapped it up. “Wedding Belles, this is Tessa speaking,” she said. “Certainly. Of course. Tuesday at ten? Yes, that would be fine. No, thank you.”

  Ama and Natalie exchanged glances. “Dentist changed your appointment, I take it?” said Natalie as Tessa hung up.

  “It was a client, thank you very much.” A smile crossed Tessa’s lips—she was bursting with pride, as if receiving this phone call was a personal accomplishment against the negative forces in the universe. “I told you it would pay off. The bride’s name is Nadia Emerson, and she’ll be here with the groom for the appointment.” She made a note on the calendar. “Finally, our slump is over. I told you our bad luck wouldn’t last. All we needed was a tiny push, and we’re back on track.”

  “We’ll have to tidy up the parlor,” said Ama, almost tripping over the strand of lights and their box as she kicked the holiday decoration mess into a nearby cupboard. “I should make some biscotti or cookies or something.” In the window, the only sign of the coming display was Natalie’s beautiful gown on a mannequin.

  “We’ll have to cancel the buzz saw in the next room, too,” said Natalie, as she stuffed the rest of the glittery fabric ‘snow’ into the cupboard as well. Blake’s power tools were now buzzing through a wooden board, sending one end of it to the sawdust pile on the floor. Tessa glimpsed him through the doorway. She caught herself watching as if something fascinated her about this mundane carpentry act—maybe that’s why she finished slowly closing the door between them.

  Nadia Emerson the bride was cute, smiling, and cheerful, although a tiny bit shy at times. She was a curator for a local art gallery who had met the groom when he was purchasing a canvas for his business’s decor. Next to the dark-haired girl sat the groom, a sturdily built man named Lyle Kardopolis, around thirty, with close
-cropped light brown hair. He owned a Greek restaurant across town that specialized in traditional dishes and modern fusion. Despite being engaged merely weeks, they had settled on a wedding date in December.

  “This December?” Tessa asked, surprised at the tight deadline.

  “We know it must sound crazy,” Nadia admitted, “but we both agreed we don’t want to wait for the New Year to get married.” With a slight laugh, she added, “Every other planner in town has turned us down, so you’re kind of our last chance, actually. Lyle saw your billboard and said we should give you a call before resigning ourselves to a spring wedding.”

  At the mention of their new billboard, Tessa sneaked a knowing smile in Natalie’s direction. “Well,” she told them, “I’m sure we can help you plan your special day, no matter the timetable involved. Tell us more about your ideas for it.”

  “So, we’re thinking a medium-size wedding or so,” said Nadia. “I don’t have a big family really, just average size, but there’s a lot of people I know professionally—Lyle, he knows everybody in the restaurant business, so he wants to invite them. Plus, he has a big family.”

  “Forty cousins,” said the groom’s mother. “Can you believe it?”

  Her name was Paula, and she was squeezed into the short, antiquated chair beside her son on the love seat. Bright lipstick, brightly dyed hair… Tessa could sense a future loud and overly enthusiastic champagne toast from that quarter.

  “That’s a lot of cousins,” said Natalie. “But I can sympathize. I’m Italian.”

  “Nadia has a far more… sedate… number,” said Cynthia, the bride’s mother. “I’m sure you’ll notice that her side of the list is mostly professional? Our family doesn’t like to make a scene on someone’s big day. We like to keep it quiet and sensible, the way it should be.”

  Nadia’s mother was seated to the left of the bride in an old wingback chair shoved as close as possible to her daughter. She was the complete opposite of the groom’s mother if you judged by appearances, for Cynthia wore only neutral colors in her makeup and clothing, and her hair was drawn into such a tight bun it was a wonder it hadn’t pulled itself out by the roots. She wore gloves and a hat that matched her overcoat and her sensible wool skirt and blouse, and spoke with the prim Southern drawl of a chaperone straight from the ballroom of Gone with the Wind. Give her a parasol and a wider skirt, Tessa reflected, and she would pass for a quintessential matron of the old South’s ‘ps’ and ‘qs.’

  “What’s wrong with a big family?” said Paula. “I hope these kids have a dozen in the future.”

  “I’m sure you would,” said Cynthia with a sigh.

  “Mother,” whispered Nadia warningly. She recovered herself and smiled at the planners again. “We’re planning to have the reception at Lyle’s place. The restaurant has a huge banquet room.”

  “My place is doing the catering,” said Lyle, who had been quiet until the subject of food. “Ever been there? It’s called Olive Brook—converted warehouse, little grotto in the back with patio seating?”

  “I’ve seen it before,” said Ama. “Near the old railway station, right?”

  Down in the old waterfront warehouse district, Tessa recalled a subtle, old-fashioned building with a limestone exterior, a row of high factory windows and a sign painted with graceful letters and a branch with a single olive and two leaves. It was right across from the riverfront Southern Steamboat Museum, which featured a mural-style billboard of a showboat chugging past the weeping willow-lined banks of a Mississippi River mansion, and a glimpse of an antique ship’s steering wheel and naval compass through its glass entry doors—once, Tessa had taken her mother there for a Mother’s Day outing. Now she wished they had had lunch at Lyle’s restaurant instead of the little overpriced ribs place a friend had recommended. Gyros definitely would have been better.

  “That’s me,” Lyle said. “Come by sometime, you can eat by the special rate as friends of mine—we’ve got a great chef whose antipasto platter and tzatziki mutton rolls are the best.”

  “You’re not so bad in the kitchen yourself,” said Nadia, nudging his side playfully with her elbow. Lyle’s ears turned slightly pink.

  “Yeah, well, who has time anymore, right? I got shipments, invoices, bookings—I got too much on for the kitchen these days,” he said. “I won’t even be around for half this stuff, so lucky thing that Ma’s available to help out.”

  Lucky? Tessa wasn’t sure that was the correct word, although Paula was glowing. “Isn’t he the greatest son?” she said. “Handsome, charming, a big restaurateur—the number of girls chasing him was uncountable, believe me. I never thought he’d finally settle down.”

  “When I met Nadia, I knew she was the one,” said Lyle, smiling at the girl beside him.

  “It’s not as if Nadia didn’t have her choice of suitors,” murmured Cynthia. Nadia gave her a warning look, as Lyle, unnoticing, opened one of the books on the coffee table, a picture volume entitled Unforgettable Weddings.

  “Well, she picked the best, didn’t she?” said Paula. “Lyle could have had any girl he wanted—all he had to do was snap his fingers.”

  Whatever prim little muttering came from Cynthia’s lips this time—and it sounded like ‘sausage rolls’ to Tessa—was barely a whisper on the wind, but the wedding planner’s glance nevertheless flew immediately to the former chef’s thick digits, which might be a little fleshy from too many gyros… but surely she had misheard.

  “Hey, look at that, Nadia. That’s pretty sharp, isn’t it?” Lyle was pointing to something in the book. “Maybe we can do something like it for our wedding.”

  “I like that,” said Nadia, leaning closer for a look. A fluttering sigh of distaste from Cynthia’s lips; a hardening of the eyes for Paula that reminded Tessa of a bull baited with a matador’s red cloth. They looked like two rivals and not two future in-laws helping plan the couple’s special day.

  “This is going to be trouble,” said Natalie, after the couple had set up their first appointment to discuss the wedding’s theme, then taken their leave. “Did you see the look in Nadia’s eyes every time her mom needled his mom? And he totally didn’t notice his mom’s words were an insult to Nadia, talking about all his ex-admirers.”

  “Maybe we’re misreading things,” said Tessa, as she slid her planning notebook onto her desk.

  “Trust me. I know families,” said Natalie. “This is just like my uncle Guido’s relatives. They can’t agree on the thickness of filling for cannoli, much less have a family wedding without a fight. They’re constantly swapping little insults.”

  “We’ll just ignore it,” said Tessa. “We’re supposed to be the buffer between all sides, the big negotiators and peacemakers for the wedding’s plans, right? So we’ll do our jobs extra well this time.”

  “If you say so,” said Natalie. Doubtfully.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun. We haven’t planned a wedding in weeks. This is the end of our bad luck streak, remember?” said Tessa. “We need to enjoy it.”

  “Or it’s the latest jinx in our bad luck streak,” said Natalie. “Don’t be too sure we can just brush those two off, Tess.”

  “I don’t believe in jinxes. Or in bad luck,” said Tessa. “I believe we make our own luck, and, therefore, that there’s nothing this wedding can throw at us that we can’t confidently handle.” She gathered up a stack of books from her shelf, all about winter-themed party ideas and Christmas and holiday entertaining, as well as one on innovative wedding celebrations. “Ten to one, Nadia will ask you to sew her dress. Isn’t that fantastic luck, by your standards?”

  “Fantastic luck would be if my mom stopped asking me to find Mr. Right,” said Natalie, as she added a book on classic designer gowns to Tessa’s stack. “You’re talking situations with average odds.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet him this afternoon,” teased Tessa.

  “Thanks,” said Natalie sarcastically. “Remind Ama that Friday’s takeout pizza and window dressing day, by the way
. We can use any extra help that comes our way—say, if our contractor doesn’t have big plans, he could pitch in, too.” She added this part in a slightly louder voice than the rest.

  Blake’s strong arms hoisting an artificial Christmas tree into place, and helping Tessa untangle lights in a fingers-intermingling game of Twister: that was the last thing Tessa needed or intended to picture right now, and her brain quickly searched for a distraction, like the sudden need to locate her stapler. Why did these random thoughts about the handyman keep popping up after all these weeks?

  “What do you need me to pitch into?” Blake had shut off his drill in the hall outside the office, where he was patching over an ugly light fixture removed from the wall.

  Natalie and Tessa exchanged glances. “Nothing,” they answered.

  Over a latte after her class on the fundamentals of garment embellishment, Natalie studied a technical manual on using a sewing machine’s embroidery function, forgetting momentarily about her weekend shift at the bakery, Mr. Right, or the fact that Tessa’s face turned a funny color whenever Blake the handyman’s name came up in conversation. All that mattered at this moment was figuring out how to size the pattern to fit the dress’s bodice from her sketch, since her machine was a finicky secondhand model vastly inferior to the one in Kandace’s loft.

  “Number fourteen,” called the barista. “One fresh apple muffin to go?”

  Natalie shoved her book in her bag and stepped up to the counter. “That’s me,” she said, taking the bakery sack from the employee. She turned aside, and found herself confronted not by the elderly man who had been talking loudly to his caregiver about which pastry he wanted, but a tanned, muscular blond figure holding a coffee cup. Fortunately, his coffee cup’s lid saved her hand-stitched sweater coat from ruin, which Natalie was relieved about after spending hours pleating its waist and sleeves like a poet’s jacket.