The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale

Chapter 15

The noon sun beats down mercilessly as the ferry approaches Rosalie Island. Stomach still churning from the choppy waves, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been hasty in agreeing to work with Milan—again.

After I gave him my word last week, I tried not to overthink what it would mean, what it would change between us. It would be so easy to talk myself out of it if I went down that road. It’s the same reason I still haven’t updated my mom regarding Milan, because I know she’ll be so ecstatic about our extended reunion and I don’t want to validate what she pulled.

Neil and I made up the morning after our fight. He’d swung by my house with flowers, one of those big bouquets of roses that Dad gives Mom every Valentine’s Day and wedding anniversary, without even needing to be reminded by me, Mom, or Aji. I don’t know how I feel about getting roses as an apology bouquet, but if his stumbling to my door sleepy-eyed and rumple-haired was any indication, Neil woke up at the crack of dawn to go to the florist. It was touching that, for once, he didn’t care about his appearance.

I’d also figured out a way to get us to match on MyShaadi. It took some convincing, but he came back on board, full of contrition that he hadn’t been able to keep his ma an arm’s length away from his MyShaadi account. I’d made a mistake, too, banking only on the best-case scenario rather than the most likely scenario. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. All I had to do was change my wiseass answers. Last night I’d sent him the screenshots so he could update his, too. Now that our answers are the exact same, we have to match.

Una’s pulled me off the Little Shop schedule, I’ve made the last of my furniture deliveries and deposited the checks in my bank account, and I sweet-talked Mrs. Jarvis to drop in on my pups a few times a day when she gets bored with her true crime docudramas, the brain teaser workbooks Aji recently got her hooked on, and gardening.

“Yes,” she said with a peremptory sniff as she looked at Harrie. “I’ve seen how he appreciates flowers.”

I don’t take it to heart. She may act grumpy, but she always has head rubs and treats to dole out, spoiling the boys rotten.

I had plenty of time the last few days to back out of working with Milan, and now, swaying on the gangway as the ferry gently bobs beneath me, I sort of wish I had.

“You’re still looking a little green there, Rita,” says Milan, looking over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “I told you not to be on your phone if the ferry was making you sick.”

“If I’m green, it’s because of overexposure to you,” I grouse, forcing my feet to keep moving as we get off the steel gangway, which squeaks in protest beneath us.

He laughs like he doesn’t buy it for a second.

The gangway wobbles as people crowd on behind me. A metallic screech splits the air.

My stomach turns.

I press forward, hurrying to get on solid ground.

Milan gets there first. “Need a hand?” He offers me his, palm up.

Voluntarily touching him was categorically not going to happen.

“No, thank you.” I hop off, stomach settling almost at once.

Bluebill Cottage is close enough to walk, but Milan takes one look at the perspiration beaded on my forehead and the red flush on my cheeks and decides to call a taxi.

Which would be a good plan, except we get stuck at a stop sign for at least five minutes. I lean slightly to the left to peer through the front windshield. My shoulder brushes against Milan’s.

I feel his eyes on me, but I pretend it didn’t happen. “What’s going on?” I ask.

The driver, a middle-aged man with graying red whiskers, half turns to say, “Horse crossing. Hope you’re not in a rush. I don’t honk at ’em.” He glares at me in the rearview mirror as if to make sure we’re not going to complain about the fact the meter’s still running.

“It’s fine. I’m enjoying the scenery,” says Milan, a smile tugging at his lips.

I catch his eye.

I would, actually, like to get out of this hot taxi where the cheap leather is sticking wetly to the backs of my thighs and the broken air conditioner is blasting warm air right at my face. But sure, let’s be polite.

He shifts closer to me as he leans forward to look out the windshield. I can feel his heat through his short-sleeved white linen shirt. “You’ve got to see this,” he breathes as his bare knee bumps against mine.

There’s something oddly captivating about his tan knee, knobby and sprinkled with light brown hair beneath his aquamarine Bermuda shorts. Are men’s knees usually this attractive?

I rip my gaze away, hoping any blush is mistaken for heatstroke. I can’t hold back my gasp. Stocky, short-legged Banker horses, including soft, fuzzy foals sticking close to their mothers’ sides, are crossing the road in front of us. Their beautiful coats are a rich sable and almost all of them have white star markings on their foreheads.

They’re indifferent to our presence, except for one inquisitive yearling who starts to take a step in our direction before another horse gives a sharp, warning whinny. The yearling pauses, as if trying to determine if exploring is worth another scold, before hightailing it back to the herd.

“I forgot about them,” I whisper. “I remember when we were here before, I wanted to see one so badly but we never did.”

“You thought you saw one that last night on the porch before we went home,” says Milan. “And what did it turn out to be?” He’s trying not to laugh—and failing.

He’s really going to make me say it?

“A large dog,” I grumble.

Even our driver laughs. “Tourists love them, but these horses destroy a lot of other local wildlife. Most of ’em are adopted out from the Outer Banks because of overpopulation and inbreeding, which makes them our pests now.”

With that, the last horse makes its way to the other side, and the car lurches forward.

I fall against the headrest, tucking my arms close against my sides and craning my neck back until the herd disappears around the bend.

My mail app pings.

Milan glances over, but when I don’t acknowledge him—despite watching him out of the corner of my eye—he folds his arms and stares out his window.

I waver. He’s been trying to draw me into conversation ever since he picked me up this morning, but other than a few short sentences on the forty-minute ferry ride over from New Bern, I haven’t really been a stellar conversationalist. I tighten my fingers around my iPhone. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, like I’m letting him down, when all I did was agree to a business relationship.

I open my mail, expecting it to be my online bank telling me the funds from a deposited check are now available.

Sender:MyShaadi.com

Subject:Rita, you have a new match waiting for you!

Preview:Don’t let your pyaar get away, your jaan is closer than you think! Log in to your account to chat with . . .

I roll my eyes at the cheese of their message. Don’t let love get away? Who writes this stuff?

This came way faster than I expected, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I can’t stop the goofy smile from taking over my entire face.

“What are you reading?” Milan asks.

I startle. He’s studying me thoughtfully, drumming his phone against his thigh.

“Nothing, just some good news.” I carefully angle myself away from him. There’s no way he can make out anything on my screen, especially with the sun streaming in, but better safe than sorry.

He waits for me to expound. When I don’t, he goes back to whatever he’s doing with his phone. Probably answering emails and delegating paperwork on our recent sale.

I mean, his sale. I’ve seriously got to stop thinking of us as a team.

Milan out of my mind, I log in, holding my breath.

Seeing Neil’s name and picture on my dashboard is going to be so vindicating.

The Internet is slow, so it takes ages for the page to populate, thanks to the enormous graphics the site splashes all over the place.

Come on, hurry up.

I stare at the screen until my eyes water.

“We’re almost there,” says Milan.

My shoulders are tight, rigid. I force myself to relax, but I can’t. The driver takes a turn too fast and my body moves with it, bumping against the door. We must have moved just out of reach of a dead zone, because suddenly, the screen floods with color as LTE data returns.

The hope I clutched in my hand plummets toward my stomach like a rock in freefall.

No.

No no no no no.

Milan’s face is on my screen.

His frozen smile, which was just so soft when we looked at the horses, taunts me. You thought you’d seen the last of me, huh? it seems to say, smug and victorious. You thought.

There’s no way this is right.

I squint at him while trying to make it seem like I’m not squinting at him. He’s still busy with his phone, not typing anything, and not doing anything else, either.

What if he got the same email I did?

What if he’s logged in to MyShaadi right now, staring at my photo?

I’m back on the ferry again, tossed side to side, queasy as fuck.

No, my rational mind pipes up. You know Milan. If he’d matched with you for the second time, there’s no way he would keep quiet about it. He’d crow. You know he would. He’d stick his phone under your nose like an aha! moment and give you that smoldering eye thing he does.

“I see it,” says Milan.

I jerk. His voice sounds perilously close.

A second later, the taxi comes to an abrupt halt.

My phone slips, falls out of my hands, and skids under the seat in front of me.

“Fuck.” I thrust my leg forward to try and hook it back, but I can’t reach. “Um, excuse me, sir, could you pull up a little? My phone’s gone under your seat.”

The driver grunts and hits a button to stop the meter. “All right.”

While Milan hands over some bills, I frantically toe at the carpet, coming up with nothing. Frustrated tears spring to my eyes. This can’t be happening.

“Rita.” Milan tucks his wallet away. Hands now free, he reaches for my right hand. My fingers, dug into the hot seat, release in shock when he takes my hand in his. I swear I can feel the phantom memory of his distracting thumb circles.

“Rita, stop,” he says gently. “You probably kicked it farther away from you. Sir, would you mind looking under your seat?”

Another grunt from the front. Then, “Got it.”

Please please please let the screen have gone black.

The man looks at me in the rearview mirror. I can see my red face staring back.

“Huh,” says the driver. “Give this to your pretty girlfriend.”

I’m too panicked to bristle. Neither of us dispute that I’m his girlfriend.

The phone is passed between the gap in the front seats.

The screen is lit up bright with MyShaadi’s colors.

Milan hands it back to me, eyes never leaving my face, not once. He doesn’t see the screen, or notice the keenly embarrassing fact that his face is on it.

I take the phone with my free hand. In a horrible twist of fate, the screen darkens the second it’s in my palm. I pull my other hand free, but my fingertips skim along the length of Milan’s, leaving trails of shooting stars rocketing up my arm.

If he’s startled, too, I don’t stick around to see it, launching myself out of the taxi before I can see the look on his face—and, more importantly, before he can catch mine.

Once outside, without the proximity to Milan, I can breathe without a rubber band around my chest. My eyes squeeze shut against the bright rays of the sun.

Something hard taps my shoulder. I almost fly out of my skin.

“You forgot your sunglasses on the seat,” says Milan.

“Thanks,” I mumble, slipping them on.

The taxi takes off as we start making our way toward the house.

There’s a wooden driftwood sign, rough at the edges like it was ripped straight from the side of a boat, sticking out of the sand. BLUEBILL COTTAGE is written in faded baby blue cursive, the first and last letters of each word made fancy with a swash.

We tramp our way up the slight incline to the front door. I can see why Milan fell so hard for its coastal charm. Cozy bi-level porches on all sides show off the scenery to the fullest, lined with potted fruit trees and tinkling wind chimes. I can’t see it from here, but I remember the veranda in back has a narrow boardwalk leading to the sea.

“Obviously needs some new paint,” I say, flicking a peeling strip of white railing.

“Saving it until the end since it’s just a superficial fix,” says Milan, unlocking the door. “The inside was where most of the money went. Do you remember that awful seventies wallpaper and the dirty wall sconces with the dead flies?” He grins when I make a face. “I gutted most everything, put in new appliances, wiring, and floorboards, and then I— Well, you’ll see.”

He holds the door open.

Once inside, it’s clear how much work has already gone into restoring Bluebill to its former glory. The hardwood floors are stained and sealed the same glossy walnut as the steps of the cantilevered staircase leading to the second floor. The foyer is open above us, two stories tall, with a Jacobean pendant light dangling from the ceiling.

Milan closes the door behind us. The air-conditioning isn’t on, so it’s a little stuffy. But we’re close enough to the water for a breeze to pass through from somewhere.

The open floor plan continues through the first floor. The living room has dramatically vaulted ceilings and sunny windows, plus a gorgeous gas fireplace surrounded by a white chimney breast that could use some color.

The oversize kitchen is ridiculously spacious, with a blue soapstone cooking island, high-end stainless steel appliances, and a ten-foot-long breakfast bar. There’s a formal all-glass dining room tucked toward the back, overlooking the beach and leading out to a covered porch for informal dining.

Everything is high quality, but plain. Unfurnished. But the bones are there.

He bites his lip. “First impression?”

He’s let me explore in silence, but there’s a shiny, expectant look in his eyes, like he’s awaiting something important. This time, the shoe’s on the other foot.

“It’s gorgeous,” I tell him honestly.

Relief breaks across his face. “No regrets then?”

“No regrets. You’ve done a fantastic job.”

He has. Gone are the musty settees and threadbare rugs that I remember always smelled wet. Gone are the mismatched yard-sale furniture and chipped ceramic shepherdesses in the dining room hutch.

The upstairs is just as improved, I discover, as I wander from room to room. The bedroom windows are bare of the heavy drapes that used to hang there, and the floral wallpaper, a sickly pink, has been replaced with a coat of white paint so fresh that it still hangs in the air.

“Check out the view,” Milan urges, nodding to the balcony.

I precede him outside. Salt air fills my lungs and I breathe it in, deep as it can go. The water below is calm, a confetti of sunlight playing across the glassy surface. While they’re slightly too far away to borrow a cup of sugar from, there are houses overlooking the sea on either side of us. With cars restricted to residents, there are no sounds of traffic to compete with the tranquility here. Rosalie is still as untouched as I remember her.

Our arms brush as he comes to stand closer. “Before we got on the ferry, you got kind of quiet. Were you thinking about your parents’ old house in New Bern?”

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you, Rita,” he says, low and gravelly.

I swallow. “I can’t believe you remember. I don’t think I mentioned it more than a couple of times.” When he opens his mouth, I sigh and say, “Please don’t say something corny like ‘I remember everything about you.’ You can’t reuse the same line back to back.”

His lips quirk. “Okay, I won’t.”

Despite myself, I smile. “I wondered if we’d pass it on the way to the ferry parking lot. I hadn’t even thought about it consciously until we passed the WELCOME TO NEW BERN sign. Then I remembered the house Mom and Dad bought to flip. They used to watch all those DIY shows on television. That’s how Dad got into woodworking.”

Milan’s smile feels like a call for more information, so I find myself saying, “I used to beg them to let me paint, but they wouldn’t budge because Mom thought eight was too young to do it right. I would read Mom’s House Beautiful magazines in the car every time we went there, until I’d get carsick and she’d take it away.”

Little did she know that Dad had tossed me a wink and a package of grid paper in the back seat so I could play architect and interior designer, long before my days playing TheSims.

“How long has it been since they sold it?” asks Milan.

Sixteen years.

They bought it when I was eight, sold it a little after my tenth birthday.

I’d thought the second house was supposed to be a family project, but it just seemed to drive Mom and Dad apart. Most of my childhood, I’d wanted to see them laugh and giggle and kiss when I wasn’t looking, and sometimes even if I was. To hold hands when they watched romantic movies. To swat each other’s bums when they cooked in the kitchen the way I’d seen my friends’ parents do.

To say “I love you” to each other and not just to me.

I didn’t understand why my parents didn’t act in love. Why fixing the New Bern house made them fight and shout at me to leave the room, when my gentle father never raised his voice, not even in the heat of a football game.

It was only sometime in middle school when I started to join Mom and Aji in watching Bollywood movies that I understood what an arranged marriage was.

“What kind of marriage did you have?” I remember asking, pressing the mute button on the remote during a song-and-dance number. “What happened if you fell in love with someone you wanted to marry?”

Mom reached for another kachori from the coffee table and popped it in her mouth whole. She wouldn’t talk with her mouth full, so I stared imploringly at Aji.

“My parents told me no love match,” my grandmother said, wagging her finger. “Not in my day. They wanted a same-caste marriage with in-laws that they knew and trusted would treat me well. Shared values are important.”

I’d frowned, not liking the lecturing tone this conversation had taken.

Aji paused, looking at Mom, who wasn’t looking at her. “But even with an arranged marriage, love can follow. From both sides.”

That seemed encouraging. Had love followed my parents?

I waited for Mom’s reassurance, but she quietly sipped her tea.

“Rita, rewind. I want to listen to the song,” said Aji, voice a little cranky, except for the fact she took my hand in hers. She hadn’t done that for years, not since I was young enough to sit on her lap. “Eat a kachori,” she urged. “Enough questions.”

By this time, Aji was already living half the year with us. We never talked about it—and I wasn’t supposed to know, or remember—but there was one month Mom moved out and lived in New Bern, in the house she and Dad had given up on.

We’ve never talked about her leaving. Or about why she came back.

The house was just sold one day and that was that.

“Rita?” Milan’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

“What? Oh, sorry.” I shake the cobwebs out of my mind. “It’s been sixteen years. I think they bought the house because they were trying to repair their marriage.” My voice drops. “It took them a while to realize that broken things always leave a crack.”

We fall silent. Not an awkward silence, but the companionable kind where you don’t have to say anything and that’s just fine. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ve already said too much that I can’t take back. The seconds pass with only the calls of the birds overhead and the gentle ebbs of the sea below.

“Hey, Rita.” Milan points left of us, grinning. “This is the exact spot we stood in when you said you saw a wild Banker horse.”

I follow his finger. “I really did think I saw one! It was dark!”

He presses his lips together, but his mouth gives a telltale wobble.

“You’re laughing at me,” I accuse, but I can’t stop smiling.

“Far from it,” he says, still unable to keep a straight face.

I roll my eyes. “You’re incorrigible. Come on, let’s make a list of everything that needs to be done to get this place ready to sell.”