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

by Laura Briggs

  She shouldn’t be doing this, though. What would her mother say, Ama taking off with a perfect stranger without knowing where she was going or even his name? He could be a serial killer—an abductor who used his motorcycle as bait to lure unsuspecting women into his lair.

  He pulled into the parking lot of a nearby fast food restaurant, and shut off the motor. He lifted off his helmet. “What did you think?” he asked as she removed hers.

  “I liked it,” she said. “It felt amazing.” It had felt more incredible than anything she had ever done. So much better than the time her brother talked her into riding the whip at the carnival, which had ended with Ama’s dinnertime dessert of kheer being showered on the pavement below. “No wonder you love this bike,” she said.

  “Yeah, it was more than a hobby,” he said. “I don’t do it for the money, not really.” He glanced at her. “Are you from around here?”

  Are you a serial killer? Then the answer is, I live at this restaurant, Ama thought, in a moment of silliness. “I am,” she answered instead. “My family has a restaurant downtown. Ama,” she added. “That’s my name. That was my sister-in-law back at the market. The one who talked you into giving me a ride.”

  “Luke,” he said. “And she didn’t talk me into anything. I could see the gleam in your eye. I know an adventurer at heart when I see one.”

  “I’m not a very good adventurer,” Ama confessed. “The only times I’ve gotten crazy are in the kitchen. But thanks for branching me out.” She held up the helmet. “It was fun.”

  “It’s not over yet,” he said. “Here. Let out the chinstrap a little. It won’t crush that knot in your scarf so tight under your ear this time.” Gently, he adjusted it. His fingers were almost brushing her face, and Ama felt the lightest touch of his finger against her jaw as he moved his hand aside. She liked the way it felt; a shiver traveled deep inside her for the briefest second in response.

  “All set,” he said. “Let’s go.” He put his own helmet on. “Arms around me,” he ordered.

  Ama did not giggle, although a part of her was feeling silly enough to be tempted. “Yes, sir,” she answered.

  “It’s okay to squeeze tight,” he said. “I won’t break.” He clasped her hands in front of him, fingers intermingling briefly and igniting a bundle of fireworks inside her again. “I can feel that you work with your hands,” he said. “Baker?”

  “How did you know?” She was impressed.

  “It’s not hard,” he said. “I used to live next door to a baker. She had flour under her nails, too. And the little mark on the inside of the index finger that comes from using whisks and spatulas. I know a baker’s hands when I feel them.” His hand was still covering hers, but only for a second. Ama felt that it was fine with her if it lasted for hours.

  “Amazing,” she said. “I’ve never had somebody read my profession from my hands.”

  “It happens to me a lot,” he said. “Although they usually say ‘grease monkey’ if they’re old, and ‘ew’ if they’re young, hip, and have never changed a car’s tire before.” He started the bike and they rolled out of the parking lot. Ama shut her eyes for a moment, but opened them again as Luke wove seamlessly between two lanes of traffic, turning left toward the market again. He zipped past a truck unloading bolts of Indian textiles, sari silk glinting with gold in the sunlight, and a Mexican tortilla cart being wheeled toward the alley.

  Deena was waiting for them. She hopped up and down as she spotted the bike making its way back. “Was it fun?” she asked, as Luke parked and Ama pulled off her helmet.

  “It was,” said Ama. “It was great. Luke’s a really good driver.”

  “Luke, is it?” said Deena.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand. Ama handed him back the helmet.

  “Thanks again,” she said. “It really was fun. You answered a lifelong curiosity for me.”

  “Answer one for me,” he said. “Not a lifelong one, just a little one. Give me the name of your bakery, and I’ll stop by and try some of your work.”

  The ground must be moving beneath her feet—that was the only explanation for why she was suddenly reeling inside. “I… that is… I don’t have a bakery, exactly,” she stammered. “I work for this wedding boutique—I bake their cakes and their pastries. But I…” She hesitated. “I could bring you something sometime. If you wanted to try it.”

  “Sure do,” he said. “Are you busy next Saturday?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.” Surely she wouldn’t have a pressing bakery assignment that day, no matter what she’d told Tamir. “Next Saturday, I could bring something by.”

  “She’s free all day,” volunteered Deena. Ama pinched her.

  “There’s a park near the old train station switch on the east side,” he said, as he loaded his box in place again. “Ever been there? I’ll be dropping off a bike in that part of town, then I’m free for the day. We could grab some lunch, maybe hang out for a while. Say, around noon?”

  “She’d love to,” said Deena, at the same moment that Ama said, “Sure.” She gave her sister-in-law a warning look. “I’d like that,” continued Ama. “Noon sounds fine.”

  He started his bike. “Catch you then.” He smiled at her, then drove off.

  Deena hopped up and down again, squealing. “Isn’t he great?” she said. “I like him, Ama. He’s incredible. He’s your knight—exactly what you need.” She put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her. “I’m so excited for you!”

  “Don’t be too excited,” said Ama. “And don’t tell Jaidev. If the rest of the family found out, I would be in really hot water.”

  Bad enough to crush on a boy like this one, wild, impetuous, and a non-Indian to boot—worse yet, to agree to spend a day with him after she had already agreed to a date with her father’s would-be match for her. She could imagine the looks on her parents’ faces—part indignation, part betrayal for this impulsive act in the wake of such a suitable boy actually wanting to meet her—and it turned the curry inside her to a lump of ice.

  “Lips sealed. I promise.” Deena zipped her lips with two fingers, then unzipped them. “But what about the guy who asked you out tomorrow? Tamir?” she said. “How are you going to get rid of him?”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Ama. Doubtfully.

  “Fondant designs… one hundred and one unique cake toppers… where’s my book on marzipan sculpting?” Ama searched the bottom shelves of the Wedding Belles’ reference library, a big bookcase that held the overflow from their various professional spaces’ tiny shelves. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

  “So what are you going to do about your problem?” Tessa asked, arms crossed.

  Ama climbed to her feet. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “I don’t want to hurt this Tamir guy’s feelings. He seems nice… just dull. So do you think I should go on the date with him or just break it off before we have to spend the whole evening boring each other to death?”

  “Are you sure he’s going to bore you?” Tessa asked, as Ama stacked the books on the desk.

  “Let me put it this way. If every Indian family had a nerdy cousin who only talks about tech, always brings his aunties a box of sweets and a polite kiss, and always spends Friday night reading the liner notes to his latest CD from World’s Greatest Composers’ monthly release… then that’s the guy I’m agreeing to meet for dinner.”

  “You stole that from a Jhumpa Lahiri story, didn’t you?” said Tessa.

  “So what if I did?” Ama said. “It’s still true. Tess, it’s just going to end up with my family being humiliated. They actually think this nice, straight-laced boy with his proper, sophisticated parents is going to give up the search for a sedate vegetarian from Tamil Nadu—so he can date a girl whose family must seem undereducated and almost crass by his standards. Do you know what the typical clichés are about Punjabis, Tess? We’re stereotyped as the noisy, overly opinionated, overly flashy culture. If successful Punjabis were on a real
ity show, it would be the equivalent of… of Snooki and the housewives of Jersey Shore. Only less morally crude.” She searched the middle shelves for her missing book.

  “You’re exaggerating,” said Tessa. “Every culture in the world has unfair stereotypes. But you’re also the culture of rajahs and gorgeous temples, right? And besides… I’m guessing the other guy wouldn’t care either way. Probably he thinks your culture and your family is every bit as unique and fascinating as they really are to the outside world.”

  Ama blushed. “There’s… not another guy,” she said. “He’s just an interesting acquaintance. My would-be knight on a motorcycle.” She toyed with the bent spine’s edge on one of the tallest books.

  “What’s that?” A smile twitched Tessa’s lips.

  “Nothing.” Ama quickly shoved the volume back into place. “Where can that book be?” She scanned the shelves, her gaze resting on the topmost one, out of reach. “There you are,” she declared, rising up on her toes to reach it, the volume eluding the tips of her fingers.

  “I got that.” Blake was behind her now, reaching easily to lift the book perched on a stack of volumes devoted to flower arrangements and designing your own invitations. “Pretty,” he said, handing it to her. Its cover was of cupcakes decorated with forest trees.

  “Thanks,” said Ama. She brushed away the sawdust, which had sprinkled on it from the contractor’s blue flannel shirt. “This is definitely the book I was looking for,” she said, flipping it open. “It has tips for sculpting everything—flowers, animals, buildings…” A page of mini vehicles including motorcycles appeared, and Ama flipped hastily ahead, as her cheeks turned rose red.

  “I liked the little London cabs on those cupcakes,” said Blake, who had caught a glimpse of the page before it was gone, as he brushed away the sawdust from her latest page, one of Noah’s Ark animals.

  “You can make anything with marzipan,” said Ama. “I should make you some cupcakes for your birthday, decorated with handyman tools.” In her mind, she was undoubtedly sculpting little hammers and drills from colored marzipan.

  “You have eight months before you need to plan for those,” said Blake. “Any more books up there that you need?”

  “No, thanks,” said Ama, who added this latest volume to her stack on the table. “That’ll do.”

  “Listen, about that old metal transom grate I took down in your office,” Blake said to Tessa. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. It was a safety hazard, so I took it down,” said Tessa.

  “You’re not throwing it away, are you?” he said. “Because if you are—”

  “I never said I was,” she protested. “I’m not that insensitive, Blake. I appreciate that it’s pretty… it’s just dangerous.”

  “But you wouldn’t let me fix it,” pointed out Blake. “It isn’t impossible to find the decorative hardware that would put it back up above the door.”

  “Would it cost more than the new one?” Tessa crossed her arms and gave him a knowing look.

  Evidence of defeat showed in Blake’s attitude. Then, almost apologetically, he began, “I know I’ve said this a million times and you’re probably sick of hearing it—” with a slight pause as Tessa rolled her eyes—“but as someone who restores old stuff for a living, I have to ask: will you ever make a decision simply for the sake of the building? Purely in the hypothetical sense, I mean.”

  “Do you know how much she paid for the billboard?” Ama asked him. “She paid for it herself, too.”

  “You leased a billboard?” he asked Tessa, amazed.

  “Don’t you ever drive down the new bypass to the business district? Then you’d know the answer,” said Tessa, whose face colored a deep scarlet.

  “Wasn’t that a little pricey?”

  “Isn’t that none of your business?” she answered.

  Tessa’s phone rang, and she dug it from beneath the jumble of items in her purse. The number on its screen belonged to Accented Creations. “This is Tessa Miller,” she said, answering it.

  “Ms. Miller.” The voice on the other end, that of the receptionist, sounded flat with disappointment. “Is Mr. Groeder’s assistant available?”

  “Umm… this is his assistant’s assistant speaking,” said Tessa. “Could I help you instead?”

  “Only if Mr. Groeder wants me to cancel his show room appointment,” sniped the receptionist. “I’m supposed to speak with the event planner himself on this matter. We’re extremely busy, and we’re going to have to cut someone from our appointment schedule, apparently.”

  Tessa covered the receiver. “It’s the florist’s,” she hissed. “They want to talk to Stefan’s assistant. It’s an emergency.”

  “I thought you gave them your number,” said Ama.

  “I know… but the receptionist just asked me for him.” She and Ama exchanged glances, then focused expectantly on Blake. “He says he’ll cancel our appointment if he doesn’t talk to someone with more authority.” Tessa wondered if the handyman would now hold her previous arguments on the subject of their building’s renovation against her.

  They waited. Blake sighed. “Hand me the phone.” He held out his hand. Clearing his throat, he lifted it to his ear, and when he spoke, it was with an affected, bossy accent. “Mr. Ellingham here. I trust I’m not speaking to anybody’s assistant, am I?”

  Tessa breathed a sigh of relief at the handyman’s sudden snooty attitude. Blake listened to the conversation on the other end. “The show room time?” he said. “My client’s availability, you mean?” He glanced at Tessa, who used frantic hand signals to communicate the best available date according to her appointment calendar.

  “Let me consult my assistant’s calendar. Please hold.” Blake blocked the receiver against his shoulder. “He wants to know if Thursday at ten is good,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “Ten a.m. is fine,” whispered Tessa. Blake lifted the phone.

  “That arrangement will be satisfactory,” he said. “Book that time for Mr. Groeder’s clients. Of course. Ms. Miller will be representing our firm on that day. I am far too busy. Try not to give her a difficult time, if you please.” With that, Blake hung up. “Satisfactory?” he repeated, this time to Tessa.

  “Thank you.” Tessa’s tone was meeker than before as Blake handed her the phone.

  “Brilliant,” Ama said. “Was that really you, or were you temporarily possessed by Clinton Kelly from What Not to Wear?”

  “It’s an art form,” said Blake. “I’m a man of many talents.” A light, quick wink as his eye met Tessa’s—but she was looking away now, and having trouble punching the keys to add the date to her phone’s calendar.

  “Sorry about the sawdust,” said Blake, wiping it from her screen. His fingers brushed against hers—Tessa now accidentally punched the button that deleted her app for downloading coupons. “Next time, call my phone and spare yours from construction debris.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Tessa, whose voice sounded funny. “Good idea.” She stuffed her phone in her bag again, trying not to pay any attention to her memory’s instant recollection of Blake’s phone’s ring tone. That was just one of those little details that her brain had a very bad habit of storing away for no reason.

  “The great news is, we’re in,” said Ama. “Thanks to Blake’s help, we are now booked with the premier florist for our client. Sounds like good luck to me.” She gave Tessa a smile.

  “The best,” said Tessa. Which, thank heavens, was exactly what they needed if they wanted to impress their latest clients and break their bad luck streak for good.

  Ten

  “You’re wearing that?” Her mother sounded unhappy.

  “It’s nice. It’s me,” said Ama. “If I’m going on a date with this boy, I want to look like me.” She spread her hands as if showcasing the outfit: a sequined, stretchy plum-colored skirt, a white blouse with tie sleeves, and a pair of black Mary Jane shoes with glittery kitten heels. “This is what me out o
n the town looks like.”

  Her family was decorating Christmas trees in the restaurant’s lobby. As if the Tandoori Tiger couldn’t possibly be more colorful in its decor, her father had decided that some holiday decorations would appeal to their customers. Now, there were two trees festooned with lots of purple, red, and pink lights, and decorated with tons of glittery, gold-swirled ornaments in neon colors that Ama knew Rasha must have chosen. The tree topper looked like a dome from the Taj Mahal.

  “It’s… so… understated,” said Rasha at last, while studying Ama’s outfit. “Don’t you want to make a statement? You want him to notice you, not forget you ten seconds after the date is over.”

  “This isn’t exactly camouflage,” protested Ama. “At least it’s not my zoo animal print skirt, right? No vintage print blouses or loud sneakers. Do you want him to remember me for the wrong reasons instead?”

  “Show some cleavage,” whispered Jaidev, before Deena swatted him. “Kidding,” he assured her. “Guys like the mystery, I promise.”

  “At least put on some lipstick,” said Rasha.

  “Why not borrow your sister’s blue salwar kameez?” suggested Ranjit, as he struggled to find a plug for the lights. “Do the lights blink?” he asked Jaidev, from beneath the tree’s low foliage.

  “Not blinking,” reported Jaidev. “That must have been the wrong bulb we took out.” Only half the tree was lit now, with the other half winking furiously every three seconds.

  “I’m not wearing something borrowed from another person’s wardrobe today,” said Ama. “I want to be myself, like I said, so this is it. Now, do I look nice or what?” she asked, with a smile she hoped would ease the tension over this issue.

  “Of course you do,” said Rasha. “At least it’s not your purple zebra-stripe dress.”

  “Or that terrible shirt with the buttons sewn all over it,” contributed her auntie.