by Lillie Vale
Advance Praise for The Shaadi Set-Up
“Charming as hell and wonderfully witty, The Shaadi Set-Up had me grinning, swooning, and sweating. Watching Rita and Milan torture each other is truly delicious, and the tension between them is so thick you’d need several buzz saws to cut it. A pitch-perfect romantic comedy and a new all-time favorite.”
—Rachel Lynn Solomon, author of The Ex Talk
“The Shaadi Set-Up is my favorite ever second-chance romance. Hilarious and emotional, with characters who feel so real I didn’t want to let them go, Rita and Milan punched a hole through my heart. I can’t wait to dog-ear all my favorite passages. This is an absolute treasure of a love story.”
—Sarah Hogle, author of You Deserve Each Other and Twice Shy
“Funny, sexy, and so full of love! With hilarious and vibrant prose, memorable characters you can’t help but fall in love with, and a new twist on modern dating, this second-chance-at-love story is addictively readable. I was rooting for Rita and Milan to overcome their complicated history and find their happily ever after from the moment I met them on the page!”
—Farah Heron, author of Accidentally Engaged
“What sets The Shaadi Set-Up apart is Vale’s luscious prose and deft characterizations. A fun yet thoughtful novel that ties together love for family, friends, and the one that got away, The Shaadi Set-Up is a heartwarming debut you won’t soon forget.”
—Elizabeth Everett, author of A Lady’s Formula for Love
“YA author Vale (Small Town Hearts) makes a splash with her laugh-out-loud adult debut. . . . Vale evenly balances heart and heat, while imbuing her rom-com with cultural specificity and delicately exploring familial obligation and heartbreak. Hilarious and heartfelt, this second-chance romance proves it’s never too late to start again.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
ALSO BY LILLIE VALE
Small Town Hearts
G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Publishers Since 1838
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by Lillie Vale
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Vale, Lillie, author.
Title: The Shaadi set-up : a novel / Lillie Vale.
Description: New York : G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2021024140 (print) | LCCN 2021024141 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593328712 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593331149 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3622.A42526 S53 2021 (print) | LCC PS3622.A42526 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021024140
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021024141
Cover illustration: Alex Cabal
Book design by Ashley Tucker, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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All things work together for good.
Romans 8:28
For my mother, who helps me believe it every day without an I-told-you-so, and who has read this book more times than I can possibly count.
Contents
Cover
Advance Praise for The Shaadi Set-Up
Also by Lillie Vale
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Three Years Later: MyShaadi Success Story Testimonial
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
I drag myself on a walk around my neighborhood twice, the soup of North Carolina’s early June humidity plastering my hair to the back of my neck. Still half asleep, I let my dogs set the pace and try not to nod off behind my enormous incognito actress–style aviators that cover half my face.
Most girls would try to squeeze in a morning cuddle with their hunky boyfriends as soon as the alarm goes off, but I launched out of bed this morning before mine could hit snooze. As a holdover from his college days, Neil’s mom still calls ten minutes after his second snooze to wake him up. In the beginning, he’d ignore her second “How are you doing this morning, beta” call, but three months into our relationship, he’s comfortable enough to carry on a speakerphone conversation with his mom while he shaves and gets ready.
In almost every other respect, we’re fine. But if he just hit reject the way he used to, I wouldn’t be out here at the asscrack of the morning, wincing at the sheer audacity of the sun streaming directly into my eyeballs, despite my sunglasses.
To kill time, I pause at the bus stop and let the kids pet my French bulldog, Freddie—who pretends not to enjoy it—and my Yorkie–Jack Russell terrier mix, Harrie—who unabashedly does. I get to chatting with the Instagram-wellness-peddler-pretty-at-eight-a.m. moms who’ve seen my latest upcycled furniture drying out in my driveway.
“Rita!” a woman calls from across the street, beckoning me to join her and her friend.
It doesn’t take long before the frenemy neighbors vie for the same vintage Queen Anne dressing table, and their frenzied bids have already crossed double the asking price on Instagram.
I have to admit it’s a beautiful, if somewhat boring, piece.
I thrifted it from a local flea market last month at end of day. The price dropped because the crusty seller didn’t want to load it back up on their van. Even with its busted cabriole legs, peeling paint, and cracked mirror, it was a steal at under a Benjamin.
I would have loved to paint it a bright pop of color—hot pink, peacock green, or electric blue—but the clientele around here prefers their paintwork just like they prefer their neighbors—conservative. So refinishing to the original walnut color and painting the new legs and drawers in champagne it is.
My phone dings with a new email in between a particularly fierce volley between the always-glowing skincare ambassador and the went-vegan-for-the-likes yoga instructor who I know for a fact smuggles home Zaxby’s wings and fried chicken from Bojangles.
I don’t want to take my eyes away from the bidding war in front of me; in any case, emails are harbingers of evil, usually credit card statements or sales bots who have scraped my
email from Dharma Designs Instagram’s contact info.
Skincare Lady’s final bid takes it up to triple, well above markup, and I arrange to deliver it later this week. Shaking on the price isn’t easy, especially when I know my (um, her) dressing table is only going to be used as a prop to display her overpriced gunk for sponsored posts (I mean, she has a mini fridge just for her skincare!), but I need the money.
And secretly, I was rooting for her to come out the winner.
So I grit my teeth and take her hand, both of us pretending we don’t see last month’s chipped black polish clinging desperately to my tips.
She has a flawless gel mani. Because, of course.
Yoga Girl smiles through her teeth and says “Oh well, maybe next time!” with neighborly gusto, but her eyes are slits. I’m glad she was outbid. She always responds to my “Hey” with “Namaste” and asks if I know her Indian friends.
My email dings again.
“You sure are popular,” says Skincare Lady, who I really should call by her actual name, Paula Dooley.
Every year Paula’s brood goes door to door with glossy brochures, drumming up sales for their school fundraisers. She makes it a point to always wave and chat because I buy her kids’ seed packets every spring instead of getting them at the store for half the price. They’re too cute to turn down when they knock on my door. And though my grandmother would grumble about wasting money, when I was growing up Mom always emphasized the virtue of being neighborly.
I’m so used to ignoring the junk mail I get that I’d already forgotten about the beeps. “It’s probably just spam. Are you sure any evening this week is good to drop off the dresser?”
“Any time,” she confirms. “Listen, Rita, it’s sure hot out here. Do you want to come in for some coffee? I’ve got to clean up the kitchen because not a one of them kids knows how to put their cereal bowls in the sink. My youngest still hasn’t learned how to aim for the toilet, so you can just imagine how well he’s doing with pouring his own cereal”—she laughs—“and there’s something I’d love to talk to you about, if you’ve got a minute.”
Harrie gives a warning bark.
I back away. If it was just coffee she was offering, I’d say yes just to while away a few more minutes, but there’s no way I can afford to get suckered into buying whatever potions she has in her beauty fridge, even if they might make me look eighteen again.
“Oh, um, you know, Paula, I am all set for skincare.” With my free hand, I pat my cheek. “Got my SPF moisturizer on right now.”
“One of these days you and I are going to have a chat about what you put on your face. But no, I’m not trying to sell you my obviously superior skincare.” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “We’re looking to remodel and I want new everything for the house. I just love your style. You know, I couldn’t believe it when I found out that you renovated the Full Belly Deli, our favorite little restaurant! I told my husband I recognized their new furniture! You and your Dharma Designs are turning into quite the local celebrity,” she adds with a wink.
I hold back a snort. “Please. Half the women on this street are Internet famous. You’re, like, all over Instagram. I swear I get recommended your products every day.”
I’m not even exaggerating. Paula and her friends are all beauty, fashion, and lifestyle influencers, with follower counts high enough to be Instagram verified, whereas my furniture account, Dharma Designs, is struggling to break ten thousand.
“Anyway,” I continue. “I just gave Full Belly Deli some pointers, helped them with the conceptualization, and did a quick sketch. It didn’t even take an hour, and they’d just bought all that furniture, so.”
Her mouth drops open. “Honey, you did all that? No no no. You do not undervalue your time and knowledge by giving it away for free. You should not have to pay for your own exposure.”
I give her a tight smile. It’s easy for her to say. People like me all have to start somewhere, and sometimes that means being generous with clients to get our names out there.
Harrie, getting bored, strains against the leash. Freddie boxes him between my legs, nose to nose, with quite possibly the sternest expression a dog can wear.
“At least think about it? Cost is no object.” Her laugh tinkles. “As my husband says, ‘Happy wife, happy life!’ ”
For some reason, I can’t shake the image of her at the duck pond in the park, ripping a hunk of bread into pieces and smiling benevolently as the geese scramble over themselves to get what’s in her palm.
I stare. “You’re serious? But I’ve never done a home remodel before.”
She nods emphatically. “Yeah, but I’ve seen yours. We don’t have to talk details right now, but if it’s something you’re interested in . . . ?” Her voice goes up at the end, making it a question.
It’s tempting. Money always is, especially when you don’t have a lot of it.
But the idea of being inside her house, making decisions about all of her things, in the same place her family lives . . . It’s too much responsibility. A home has a soul of its own and it tends to the people who live there. And I wasn’t exactly someone who had a lot of experience with happy homes.
The happiest home I’ve had is the one I made for myself.
Even if, right at this minute, it was the one I was avoiding going back to.
“I don’t— I mean, I do product design,” I stress. “I’m not an interior decorator. I wouldn’t even know how to put up wallpaper the right way.”
“Rita, I’m talking about a big project. It’s serious money on the table. Carte blanche.”
There’s literally no good way to phrase this. I’m put on the spot, so I strive extra hard for the right words. “And I appreciate it, don’t get me wrong, but . . .”
My friends tell me it’s irrational, but I like to be sure all my furniture goes to a good home. My mom, on the other hand, thinks I should sell to whoever can pay the highest. But when I put myself into every piece, it matters where they end up.
“Summer’s my busiest time, Paula. I hit up all the flea markets and I still have spring inventory at my parents’ place that needs doing.” I lay it on thick so she backs off, but not enough to burn a bridge with a neighbor with deep pockets. “You’re so generous to give me this opportunity. But you know what? You have excellent taste, so I’m super confident that however you design your house, it’ll be beautiful. And if you need some odds and ends to round out what you buy, then I’m more than happy to show you what I have.”
Paula’s face slumps, disappointed, but quickly morphs into a preening smile.
My mom would scold me for turning down carte blanche, which is exactly why she will never, ever hear about this. We say our goodbyes and my pups and I continue on our walk, Harrie pulling ahead of Freddie, eager to get home.
It’s only just half past eight, though, so I stop for a chat with sharp-eyed old Mrs. Jarvis next door. She’s always in her front garden ready to rope passersby into conversation about her handsome single grandsons (“Hint, hint, Rita,” she says with a conspiratorial wink), The Old Farmer’s Almanac, and the latest gory true crime docudramas she’s fascinated by, in that exact order.
It’s because of her that I could even afford to live in this neighborhood for the past three years. After graduating college out west, the last thing I wanted was to reclaim my room in my parents’ house, but good luck finding a one-bed or studio apartment in my price range in a good neighborhood.
Just when I’d been about to lose my mind at Aji treating me like a teenager again because I was temporarily living at home until I found a place, Doctor Dad had come to the rescue. He’d been the one to set Mrs. Jarvis’s arm fracture after a fall, and found out she was looking to turn her Airbnb on the narrow strip of lot adjoining her own into a long-term rental property.
Every Christmas the Jarvis clan doesn’t spend here, I get cards fro
m all of her out-of-state kids, grateful that their mom has someone nearby just in case. Last year a holiday-guilted daughter even sent me a three-month wine subscription.
As we finish the update on her latest docuseries, Mrs. Jarvis none too subtly points out for the third time the creeping invasion of weeds in my front lawn. And since I can’t be sure Neil’s hung up on his mom yet, I squat by the mailbox to pluck a fistful of dandelions and some yellow flowers I think are weeds.
My rule of thumb? If I don’t remember planting them, they’re weeds. Harrie sticks close while Freddie sprawls on the drive under the shade of a flowering dogwood with his paws over his eyes, too elegant to go tromping around in dirt.
As I pick out chunks of clover in the middle of the lawn, Harrie wanders over to sniff the flower bed. I don’t glance up since he usually knows better than to go digging in there. It’s really a shame that a plant as pretty as clover is technically a weed, I muse as I rip another cluster out by the roots.
Freddie woofs, short and sharp, getting my attention. When he sees me watching, he turns his head to the right, drawing me to—
The half dug up flower bed.
My heart sinks.
Pink, white, and coral impatiens are strewn all around Harrie, petals sprinkled over his fur, broken stems everywhere. He couldn’t look prouder if he tried.
“Harrie!” I scold, pulling him away. He wags his tail, straining at the leash so he can “help” me some more. Apparently he has the same difficulty distinguishing flowers from weeds as his mom. “Thank you, Freddie, you are the very best of boys.”
I swear Harrie growls at him.
I chuck the dog poop baggy and the weeds before picking up the morning paper that I never read but subscribe to only to feel like a capital-A adult. Idling by the trash tote, I doom scroll Twitter until my energy bar dwindles from green to red like a real-life Sim.
My best friend, Rajvee, would tell me to quit dawdling. She’s always trying to get me to tackle issues head-on, forgetting that I’m the girl who took running leaps to avoid the monster under her bed while she not only made “friends” with Gladys (because what else would you call it?), but also went on midnight snack runs downstairs with her as a convenient “She did it, not me!” patsy. But she’s right; I’m not a kid anymore. Maybe it’s finally time to be fearless.