One Good Friend Deserves Another

by Lisa Verge Higgins

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  To Caitlin, Molly, and Maeve, who fill my life with joy.

  chapter one

  There you are.” Kelly burst through the door. “Come on, Dhara. We have to get you out of here.”

  With a ringing of bangles, Dhara Pitalia turned to face one of her oldest and dearest friends. Kelly stopped before her, weaving on heels much higher than the little redhead was used to wearing. Her face, reflected in the dozens of mirrors in the vanity room, was tight with concern.

  Dhara bowed her head, feeling the slow sinking of her hopes. She supposed she deserved being ambushed in the hotel bathroom like this. She’d just assumed that Kelly would have the good sense not to pin her down today. Not while two hundred and thirty-one members of the Pitalia and Bohara clans celebrated her engagement in the banquet room down the hall.

  “I meant to tell you earlier, Kelly.” Dhara plucked at the folds of her sari. “I really did.”

  “Oh, God.” Kelly clutched Dhara’s hand, crushing a stack of rings. “We couldn’t believe it when we got the invite. We thought it was a joke. Then Wendy called the hotel and found out it wasn’t.”

  “His name,” Dhara said softly, “is Sudesh Bohara.”

  “I know. I read the placard in the hotel lobby just like everyone else.” Kelly let go of Dhara’s hand and wobbled on her heels to the door. “We can’t believe you’re being forced into marriage.”

  Dhara flinched and swayed back against the countertop. She understood Kelly’s concern, she really did. Wendy, Kelly, and Marta were part of that other world, the American world, the one she’d had one foot firmly planted in her whole life. This was why she’d dodged their emails, texts, and phone calls all week. To explain to them the painful route her heart had taken to get her here—wrapped in a silk sari, draped in gold jewelry, and about to perform an ancient Hindu engagement ceremony—would take more than a few minutes locked in a hotel bathroom.

  “Sudesh,” Dhara said, his name strange on her lips, “is the son of one of my father’s business associates.”

  “I know. I spoke to your cousin Ravi. He told me you met him only last week.”

  Dhara had met Sudesh ten days ago. She’d been seated on a couch in a pink sari in the lobby of this very hotel. She’d watched him discreetly while their parents worked out the details of the arrangement.

  She tried to gauge the kind of man he was by the way he folded his hands.

  “I want to hear the whole barbaric story, in gritty detail, over a rum and coke,” Kelly said. “But first, we have to get you out of here.”

  “But it’s almost time for the Ganesh pooja.”

  “It’s all planned. Marta is keeping an eye on the hallway so we don’t attract any attention.” Kelly squinted out the crack of the door. “She says it’s clear.”

  “After the pooja will be the exchange of rings.”

  “Then we better move fast. Wendy is already waiting in front of the hotel with the car running.”

  “If I leave before the ring ceremony, my parents will be publicly humiliated.”

  Kelly crossed the room in three quick steps. She stood so close that Dhara could smell cardamom and cloves on her breath.

  “You know I adore your parents. You know I would never do anything to hurt them. But better they be humiliated now, than you spend the rest of your life sleeping with someone you don’t love.”

  Dhara squeezed the counter until the edge bit into her palms. This was sweet, really it was. Her three best friends in the world, so concerned about her, had made arrangements to sweep her past hundreds of relatives into Wendy’s Benz. Once there, Dhara supposed Wendy would deliver her to Kelly’s nubby couch, where they would hide her from an army of Pitalias until she came to her senses and put a stop to the marriage whose future date would soon be determined by an Indian astrologer.

  “Kelly,” she said, her voice shaky. “Tell Wendy to park the car and come back to the party.”

  “Is there somewhere else you’d rather go?”

  “Back to the hall, where all of my aunts are practicing their dance moves.”

  “Wendy said you’d resist.” Kelly swiveled on a heel and began to pace. “She said this was a foolish idea. She said you’re too attached to your family to play the runaway bride. But I remember that weekend, Dhara. I remember what you promised yourself.”

  Dhara’s will withered. “That weekend” was such a defining moment in their friendship that all of them referred to it by no other name. It had been senior year, and the four of them had huddled together in their shared apartment—reeling from their own individual crises—resolutely making rules to forever protect their broken hearts.

  Today, she broke Rule Number One.

  Dhara took a deep breath and then gripped Kelly’s arms to try to calm her. “I’ve warned you about the masala chai. How many cups have you had?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “I am, because I know you don’t want to hear what I have to say.” She leaned in close enough for the jewel of her maang tikka to brush Kelly’s forehead. “I’m not being forced into this. I’m marrying Sudesh Bohara willingly.”

  In the silence that followed, Dhara could hear the muffled sounds of her own engagement party drifting in from the hall—the Hindi chattering of her aunts and the shouts of her cousins as the DJ played the theme song of the latest Bollywood movie. Beyond that door lay the force of Indian custom, three thousand years of ancestral tradition. Inside this room, she faced the force of one determined Vassar girl.

  “I don’t understand.” Kelly’s face paled under her freckles. “Did you fall for him? Head over heels? So quickly?”

  Dhara mustered a smile. Dear, romantic Kelly. While Dhara was in medical school, Kelly had teased her for not even noticing the fine young doctors Dhara spent her days with. Kelly knew better than anyone that she just wasn’t the type to be swept off her feet. But Dhara supposed any explanation would make more sense than the idea that she might put her whole romantic future into the hands of her religious, tradition-bound parents.

  “You swore you’d never let your parents choose your husband,” Kelly said. “We were sitting in the Shakespeare Garden. You’d just dragged me to see that Karan Johar movie about the same thing. And now, all of a sudden…” Kelly’s throat worked as she struggled to understand. “Admit it. This looks like some crazy kind of rebound.”

  Under eighteen feet of pleated sari, Dhara tensed. She dug her fingernails into Kelly’s upper arms, willing her not to bring this up. “It’s not a rebound. We’ve been apart for over a year.”

  “A year is nothing. If you include the decade you two knew each other as friends, then you were together practically forever.”

  Air hitched in Dhara’s chest. Little thick bubbles of it, clogging the bronchi, making it impossible to inhale.

  “I just can’t come up with any other reason you’d do this. It must have something to do with Cole.”

  And at the sound of his name, Dhara’s heart did a painful little roll. The cardiologist in her noted the arrhythmia, probably caused by a premature ventricular contraction overriding the sinoatrial node and compensated by a powerful subsequent
contraction.

  But the woman in her felt something different: a rushing ache, a yawning sense of loss.

  Kelly said, “It’s all right, Dhara. We all know you still love him.”

  Kelly caught the flash of pain in her friend’s kohl-rimmed eyes and found the proof she’d been searching for. Dhara was making the mistake of a lifetime. If there was one fundamental truth in the world, it was that Dhara Pitalia and Cole Jackson were truly, madly, deeply in love. When two people are in love, nothing should stand between them and happily ever after.

  Kelly needed to believe that. With a fresh shiver of nerves, she thought of the hotel key card hidden deep in her purse. She needed to believe in a perfect world, today more than ever.

  “Kelly, Kelly, you are so very sweet,” Dhara murmured. “You’re my fierce protector, come to save me.”

  “One word, and we’re out that door.”

  Kelly didn’t like the look on Dhara’s face. Her friend was smiling. The trail of tiny jewels arching above her brows glittered in the fluorescent lights. But her friend’s eyes were dry, and the expression in them apologetic.

  “You must think I’ve gone utterly mad.” Dhara lifted a length of coral chiffon, shot through with gold thread. “Here I am, dressed up like a village bride.”

  “Stop. I’ve seen you in saris before.” Kelly had spent a good number of college vacations with the Pitalia clan, when she didn’t have enough money for a bus ride back to Massachusetts. She’d attended family events dressed up in Dhara’s saris, playfully sporting a bindi though she was an unmarried woman. “You look as glamorous as Vasundhara Das in Monsoon Wedding. As glamorous as you looked at our senior formal.”

  Kelly knew the memory would hit its mark. She suppressed a stab of guilt. It was her job to make Dhara see sense by any means. That’s what friends did for each other. That’s what they’d promised, ever since that weekend.

  “Oh, Kelly, I know you believe that Cole and I belong together. A year and a half ago, I was so blind with love that I would have agreed with you.”

  “Then don’t let your parents get in the way of your happiness.”

  “It’s not about my parents. It hasn’t been for a long time.” Dhara worried her hands in the folds of her sari. “Think about it. When I finally brought Cole home to my family, I was thirty-five years old.”

  “Practically dead.”

  “You know that’s ancient for an unmarried woman in my family. You know my sisters all married before me. I could have brought home a Punjabi Sikh from Kashmir, and my parents would have showered him with flower petals. By the time I worked up the courage to introduce Cole, they welcomed him.”

  Kelly shook her head. That piece of information never did fit in. For so many years, Dhara had resisted Cole precisely because she was afraid that her family would not accept a laid-back, Ultimate-Frisbee-playing boy from Oregon as a potential husband.

  “If that were true,” Kelly murmured, “we’d be celebrating your engagement to Cole right now.”

  “It’s not that simple. Life is never that simple.”

  “It can be.” Kelly thought of the key card again. “It must be. One phone call to Cole and you know he’ll come. He’ll sweep you right away from here. It’ll be like the ending of that Mani Ratnam movie—”

  “Kelly.” Dhara ran a finger across her brow, wincing as if she had a headache. “Cole asked me to marry him last year.”

  Kelly started.

  “I should have told you. I should have told all of you.” Her chest rose and fell on a sigh. “I didn’t, for a lot of really good reasons. But mostly because when he asked me to marry him, I said no.”

  Kelly stood numb, the words bouncing off her, as incomprehensible as the Hindi growing louder from the other side of the door. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. She felt like she’d been caught by the crosscurrents at the Isle of Shoals in Gloucester Bay—a stretch of dangerous water her father never taught her how to navigate. She leaned forward, full of questions. But Dhara held up the flat of her palm, her bracelets jangling.

  “I have to go now. They’re looking for me.”

  Kelly recognized the voice of Dhara’s mother, rising in alarm in the hallway.

  “Be happy for me, Kelly.” Dhara touched her arm. “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  *

  “Are you all right, Kelly?”

  Kelly glanced up. In the mirror she watched Wendy Wainwright poke her head around the door and then sweep into the vanity room. Kelly suddenly realized that she hadn’t moved from this spot since she’d heard the jingle of Dhara’s ankle bells fade down the hall.

  “Dhara’s gone, Wendy.” Kelly bent over the sink so she could dodge Wendy’s eyes. “Somebody should go after her. We can’t let her walk out on an intervention.”

  “Yes, we can. This was a very bad, very ill-timed idea.” Wendy twisted Kelly’s hair in one hand and lifted it off the back of her neck. “Promise me you won’t pull this in September at my wedding.”

  “Why would I? You love your fiancé. You guys have been together so long it’s like you’re already married.”

  “Still. The extent to which you guys are willing to meddle makes me nervous.”

  “But Dhara and Cole belong together. I know it.”

  “You’re working yourself up. And the air-conditioning in this place stinks. Come on, run some cold water over your wrists. Just try to breathe.”

  Kelly bent more deeply over the sink. Nothing made sense anymore. Her thoughts circled and short-circuited one another like a jury-rigged motherboard. She was the wrong friend to send on this job. She understood patterns, logic, and flowcharts. Amid the complications of human relations, she was a lumbering dolt.

  Above all came this thought: If such a couple as Dhara and Cole couldn’t make it, then what possible hope did she have, with the mercurial man who’d just swept back into her life?

  “Are you coming, Kelly?”

  Wendy let go of Kelly’s hair. As she twisted her string of pearls, Wendy waited for an answer to a question Kelly hadn’t heard.

  “Ahh …”

  “No way, Kell,” Wendy interjected. “We might not approve of this engagement, but it’d be disrespectful to leave before the ceremony. Afterward, you can tell me and Marta exactly what happened.” A line appeared between Wendy’s brows. “In the meantime, we have to get back to the hall.”

  Kelly realized she’d been asked to join the party again. She also realized, as a redhead with a frightening tendency to faint in the heat, that she had a legitimate excuse to delay.

  “It’s like Bombay in that hall.” Kelly flattened the wet palms of her hands against her cheeks. “You and Marta go on ahead. I’ve got to cool off. I’ll catch up later.”

  Wendy’s gaze narrowed, but then she nodded and headed out. As soon as the ladies’ room door squealed shut, Kelly slipped into the other room and made a beeline to a stall. She locked the door and leaned up against it. Blindly she tucked her hand in the pocket of her purse and clutched the hotel key card so hard that the edges dug into her palm.

  She was free now. Free to dance with Dhara’s flirtatious cousin Ravi, free to stuff herself with tandoori chicken, free to join in the line dance from last week’s showing of My Name Is Khan at the Bombay Cinema.

  Free to go to him.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Her rational mind—the one that served her so well in the IT department where she worked—was screaming. She knew she shouldn’t do this here, not now. It was dangerous. It was too soon to take the risk. If Wendy, Marta, or Dhara caught her with him, the intervention to follow wouldn’t be a gentle version of lock-the-bride-in-the-bathroom. It’d be a full-blown screaming match that wouldn’t end well.

  Trey.

  The edges of the card cut more deeply into her hand. Who was she kidding? She’d known she would go to him. She’d known the minute he’d slipped the key card in her pocket.

  Kelly tucked her clutch under her arm and exited the bathr
oom. As she passed by the open doors of the banquet room, still throbbing with music, she caught a glimpse of Marta and Wendy but she didn’t pause. She reached the main lobby and walked to the bank of elevators, pressed the UP button, and darted inside the first open one. The last thing Kelly saw as the elevator doors closed was the young clerk behind the reservation counter bobbing to the Bollywood beat.

  The eighth floor was blessedly empty. She slipped down a corridor and found the room. She ran the card through the slot and watched the light turn green. Just then, the door opened under her hand.

  There he was, his brown eyes bright with mischief.

  Tall, mussed, and shirtless.

  And once again she was struck by the fact that she, little Kelly Palazzo from the North Shore, who spent every summer of her teenage years in rubber boots on a fish-​stinking trawler, was an object of affection for this Princeton-​educated scion of an old family whose smile stole her capacity to breathe.

  Trey hauled her into his arms. “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry I was delayed.” Kelly dug her fingers into his shoulders. He smelled like clean, powdered starch. “I couldn’t get away from your sister.”

  “Where’s Kelly?”

  Wendy glanced around the hotel lobby, now swarming with guests saying good-bye. Mrs. Pitalia beamed beside her daughter. Even Mr. Pitalia—normally a quiet man who preferred the comfort of his own den—stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking, a beatific smile on his face. In this swirling, chaotic crowd of mostly dark-haired Pitalias and Boharas, redheaded Kelly should be easy to spot.

  “I haven’t seen her since she disappeared into the ladies’ room with Dhara.” Marta scrolled through her email as she slipped a wireless headset in her ear. “Maybe she left without us.”

  “She wouldn’t have gone without telling me.” Wendy worried her pearls with her fingers. “She never got a chance to tell us what happened in there.”

  “Poor kid. With this mess with Dhara and Cole, I guess she figures she lost her matchmaker magic.” Marta dropped her phone into her purse and glanced up the street in search of a cab. “Hey, maybe she just bumped into Ravi—he’s an engineer, right? They’re probably so absorbed talking about the latest Star Trek movie that they forgot there was a party. Here’s your car.”