The Shaadi Set-Up by Lillie Vale
Chapter 27
The next three mornings I wake with the rush of the sea in my ears and the kiss of the salt in the air. But I’m not on Rosalie anymore. I’m back in my own house that smells like the reheated idli sambar and spicy chicken Alfredo Mom brings over, and overpriced scented candles that are a pale imitation of being by the coast.
The fourth day I shake myself out of my funk long enough to return Paula Dooley’s voicemail. Miffed at being ignored, she plays hard to get until I get sick of phone tag and go over there myself with a plate of warmed-in-the-oven store-bought cookies we’ll both pretend I made from scratch.
We sit next to the window at her kitchen table with her fancy Keurig coffee and the raucous shouts of her children coming from the backyard. She glances outside, frowns, then taps the glass sharply to catch the attention of whoever is misbehaving.
“I was going to be mad at you for another day or two at least, but you caught me on my cheat day and I haven’t had sugar all week,” Paula explains as she sinks her teeth into a cookie. “So are you home now? For good?”
It’s so weird to think of this as home. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. For two short months, it felt like Bluebill Cottage was my would-be home. But now it’s just a dream I wake up from, drifting away before I can cling it tight.
“Yeah, I finished my other project,” I say, tasting sawdust. “It’s finished. All of it.”
She nods and blows on her coffee. “What happened to Scrunchie Hunk?”
“The job’s done. The house is already listed.”
She gives me an arch, amused smirk. “I meant what’s going on between you two?”
When I busy myself with a long gulp of Seattle’s Best Toasted Hazelnut that’s too scalding hot to swallow, she adds, “Things seemed pretty intense, from what I remember.”
“Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson about mixing business and pleasure.”
Paula rolls her eyes as she swishes her cup. “Rita, business should always be a pleasure. We wouldn’t be small business owners if we didn’t believe that in our hearts. We’d be back at our soul-sucking multinational marketing jobs.”
I cough on a sip. “You used to work at a—”
“In another life, when climbing the corporate ladder was all I aspired to,” she says, waving a hand. “I had a ten-year plan and everything. God, I wasted so much of my thirties. But after I met Rick and had kids, we decided he made enough money for me to pursue my dream of being a YouTuber. It took a few years but now I have my own skincare line that’s going to pay for my kids’ college.”
It’s hard not to gape at her. “You were—in your thirties—” She looks like she had her kids when she was eight. A tiny bit scandalized, I lower my voice. “Paula, how old are you?”
Her lips twitch. With an arch tone in her voice, she quips, “A lady never tells. Still on the fence about my moisturizer and serums?” Without missing a beat, she adds, “So I guess you’ll be looking for something new to start working on.” She eyes me over the rim of her cup.
She’s being more subtle than usual.
“Yes,” I say. “So I thought, if you’re still interested—”
“When can you start?”
So much for subtlety.
But it’s so familiar and so Paula that, on impulse, I reach out to touch her hand.
“I can start right now,” I tell her. “I mean, if I’m going to buy your whole line of products, I’m going to need some money coming in.”
She gives me her sunniest smile. “Good, because I know just what I want.” She pats both palms against the kitchen table. “I want that mural-style table you made for the beach house you put on your Instagram Stories. The Before and After was just phenomenal. I mean, how did you even come up with that? All those little details . . .”
I shift in my seat. She’s still talking, waxing poetic about how much she loves the trestle table, but all I can think of is that I’m leaving it behind. A piece of me. I’m leaving memories behind, moments that are precious and meaningful to no one but me and Milan.
Before being reunited with him, it was like pulling teeth to sell special pieces. In the midst of falling back in love with him, in the cocoon of that new-crush feeling, I forgot myself. Allowed myself to think that Bluebill could be mine. Ours. The place where we’d raise our children with his get-out-of-jail-free tongue and honey eyes and endearing dimpled chin.
And for the most part, I’m okay with letting go of almost everything in that house.
But not him.
And not that table.
After leaving Paula’s I get started organizing my Pinterest boards, putting together the country-chic kitchen she has in mind and creating a checklist of places where I plan to source everything from. Interior decorating comes easy the third time around.
No taped-together sheets of computer paper this time. I set out to impress with a trifold project board, layered with Polaroids of furniture and art from Lucky Dog Luke’s and other nearby antique and flea markets, wallpaper samples, fabric swatches, and 3D room renders made in SketchUp, a recent gift from Mom. Well, I call it a gift. An investment in your future is the way she put it. Dad and I have faith in you.
Enough to let me take a whack atyour house? I’d teased.
Her face blanched at the idea of me ripping apart her recently renovated French country–style house, replacing the soft whites, muted mauves, and cool grays with my own bold taste. Y-yes she’d managed to get out, uncertain if I was kidding but trying so hard to show her support.
Maybe we won’t ever be as in sync as Raj and Una, and maybe a day won’t ever come that Neil will be an anecdote that brought us closer together, but even if we aren’t there yet, we’re getting somewhere. And that’s the important thing, trying.
On day five, Mom stops by with Dad, Aji, and all the fixings for vegetarian tacos in tow. It’s a squeeze in my tiny house with four humans and two dogs underfoot, but the hubbub is a welcome respite from the zombie-like monotony of the last few days. Aji casts a critical eye over my somewhat untidy housekeeping but doesn’t say a word—Mom must have coached her on the way over.
While Harrie lolls on the living room rug begging for scratches and cuddles from Dad, the three generations of Chitniss women sit around my kitchen table with steaming, fragrant chai (“Made the right way,” Aji couldn’t resist pointing out) in my prettiest mugs. My latest Etsy purchase: Tuscan-yellow glazed ceramic with a honeycomb texture and a bee perched on the handle. And unless I line up some more projects and sell more of the furniture I already have, probably my last purchase for the foreseeable future.
Then we get to work: Mom mixes the taco seasoning and garam masala to marinate her homemade paneer cubes before stir-frying; Aji steals my apron to chop onion and roasted green and red bell peppers; I start the sauce, blending a huge cilantro bunch, a whole bulb of garlic, jalapeño and serrano peppers, lime juice, a hearty dollop of mayo, and cotija cheese.
Over the final whir of the blender, I call out “Who’s ready for aji verde?”
My grandmother scowls.
Dad catches my eye and winks.
The green Peruvian sauce, aji verde, is our favorite for paneer tacos: bright, tangy, and pungent. We explained the name—and the fact it’s correctly pronounced ah-hee—to Aji several times, but she constantly forgets and thinks we’re making fun of her somehow.
It’s turned into a running gag for me and Dad, but this time, Mom lightly scolds, “Not funny, you two.”
No one’s more surprised than Aji, who turns away to wipe her eyes with my pug-patterned apron when Mom’s not looking. “You put in too many spicy chili peppers, Rita,” she complains in a crotchety voice that’s at odds with the smile not quite hidden behind the fabric.
I sling my arm around her shoulder and kiss her cheek. She makes a sound at the unfamiliar gesture, then relaxes. “I love you all,” I say to the whole room.
“We love you, too,” says Dad. He gets up, brushing dog hair off his jeans, and heads over to join Mom at the stove, where she’s charring corn tortillas on the burner. Harrie whines and follows, acting like he’s starved for attention when we literally just met Luke and his pups at the dog park this morning. Freddie’s content to stay in his bed with his favorite plushy and watch us.
“Need any help, Esha?”
She’s got it, but she smiles and nods, handing him the tongs.
They stand next to each other, just like that, Mom passing him a tortilla from the packet while he turns it side to side over the burner. Two people doing the job of one. Mom puts her right arm around his waist, tips of her fingers tucked into his front pocket.
It’s a quiet gesture, so soft and so intimate that it could easily have gone unnoticed.
See?say Aji’s lofted eyebrows and pointed stare. Is this not love also?
—
“Ruthvik, why don’t you take the boys for a walk?” Mom suggests as we finish the washing up. Aji’s already left to gossip with Mrs. Jarvis about gardening and grandchildren, and Dad looks like he’s ready for a nap, so I can only assume she wants to talk to me alone.
I help her out. “Harrie could definitely burn off some of that endless energy.”
“Taking over my mother’s agenda of making me and Freddie get some exercise, huh?” Dad rises from the couch and holds his hand out for the leashes I give him. “But Freddie’s got to carry his own weight. I’m getting too old and decrepit to lift him,” he jokes.
“Nonsense, you’re in your prime,” Mom says crisply, turning off the tap and drying her hands. “And take your phone with you to count your steps.”
When he leaves, Mom fixes me with the kind of stare that only a parent can. “Now, am I finally going to get a real answer out of you as to what happened with Milan?”
I give her the same answer I gave Paula: It’s over.
“Now that,” says Mom, “I don’t believe for a minute. You both still love each other.”
There’s a sizzle of resentment under my skin. She’s never talked with me candidly about Amar, woman to woman, not even last week when she came to Bluebill, but she expects me to bare my heart just because I’m her daughter? Doesn’t it go both ways?
“Mom, it’s my life.”
“And you’re my daughter,” she counters. “You’re my life.”
“Why does my second chance matter to you so much?”
She blinks at the edge in my voice. “What do you mean?” she asks carefully.
“Is it because you still wish you had a second chance with Amar?”
Her lips part. I’ve shocked her, I can tell. It’s the first time I’ve used his name in front of her. The second time I’ve said it out loud ever. Since I was a teen, I’ve always sensed that this one word would shell-shock a room more than an f-bomb.
Finally, Mom swallows. “Sweetheart, no, is that what you think?” Her eyes grow glassy. “Oh, baby, yes, I champion you and Milan. But not because I want a second chance.”
“Then why—”
“Because I had my second chance already with your dad. Amar might have been my first love, but your dad is my last.”
For the first time, the silence between us doesn’t have a single ghost.
“Rita,” says Mom, opening her arms. It’s only then that I realize I’m crying.
—
On day six, after finalizing the plans for Paula’s remodel and working my way through the last complimentary deluxe skincare samples she sent me home with, I make up my mind.
I’m going to engage my best friend in crime.
—
“Rita, would you please hurry up? Please don’t tell me you’re chickening out when we’re already here.” Raj shivers in her striped sweater minidress and black-cat tights when the Rosalie Island wind picks up. “It doesn’t look like any of the lights are on inside. It’s a quick in and out, you said. You still want to get your table back, right?”
It’s the first week of September and the listing has been live for a while, so if I’m really doing this, I need to do it now. I swallow hard.
I still have the key, so sneaking back inside Bluebill Cottage isn’t technically a break-in. Although it certainly seemed like a much better idea before we were standing outside of it. I’d expected to feel a sense of rightness once we were finally here, but the second mini rental van I notice parked in the driveway is all kinds of wrong.
The house was just listed. How could he have sold it already?
Even worse, without even telling me?
“Oh my god, it’s cold out here,” Raj whines, stamping her feet. “Can you have your quarter-life crisis after we get inside?”
Leave it to her to make me face my demons head-on. Grimly, I set my shoulders.
We’ve already spent a ridiculous amount of time pro-and-conning this: last night during Girl’s Night (a misnomer, really, what with Harrie and Freddie cuddled up with us through tipsy-on-tequila-and-making-fun-of-hot-rom-com-leads-for-not-realizing-what-they-had-when-they-had-it and then despondent-on-tequila-and-wishing-the-rom-com-leads-would-just-kiss-already); the whole drive and ferry ride over to Rosalie Island; the last ten minutes in my moving van; plus, the last five minutes we’ve been hovering on the porch.
In any case, I trusted Raj to keep track of the pros and cons on her notes app, and her typing devolved from full, coherent sentences to drunken keyboard smashing. Since multiple variations of “jahsdfhjan” doesn’t count as a con, the pros have it.
Time to steal my table back.
The second I take the plunge and turn the key in the lock, everything comes rushing back.
Along with every reason this is a bad idea.
But Raj pushes in before I can chicken out, making a big show of rubbing her arms and chattering her teeth. “Finally. I thought we were going to leave without the criminal activity you promised me and I was not looking forward to that.”
I hide my wince. I regret enticing her with crime so, so much. “It’s not criminal,” I protest. “It’s . . . liberating the dining table that Milan only paid cost of materials for, so as long as I replace it with the identical table from Second Chance Shores tomorrow when the store opens, all I’m really taking back is my labor. Plus, I have”—I dangle the key between us—“this. So it’s not a break in.”
“In other words, we’re here to be gay and do crimes,” says Raj. “I wish I’d worn more black. We’re like the younger, sexier cast of Ocean’s 8.” She pauses. “Wait, no, I take it back. No one is sexier than Cate Blanchett.”
I groan because I’m definitely an Anne Hathaway girl, but we can argue about who does slick heists better when we aren’t currently trespassing. Regardless of my justifications, I really don’t want to get caught out here by Milan or anyone else.
“Come on, let’s grab my table,” I say.
I’d called earlier today to ask the store owner to reserve the matching table for Bluebill Cottage and that I’d pay cash—the last of my cash, thoroughly blowing this month’s budget—when I picked it up tonight on the way to the house. But just like the changing of the ferry times, the store had also reduced their open hours for the low season.
The owner had forgotten to mention that, but because she had customers waiting in line, she also forgot her usual nosing around in what I and “my handsome young man” were up to these days in “our” new house. She’s seen us together so many times and seems to ship us, so telling her there is no Rita-and-Milan anymore is a conversation I don’t want to have.
But if my plan works . . . we won’t be apart for long. Hopefully, anyway. Fingers crossed.
Raj is right, though. There’s not a single sign of anyone living in the house. That moving truck outside could be here for any number of reasons. It doesn’t have to mean someone bought Bluebill.
So the plan is still the same. Spend the night here and say my last goodbye, swap the tables tomorrow when the store opens, and then mosey back to Goldsboro with the only souvenir of the last two months on Rosalie Island that would, with any luck, get Milan to chase after me.
I’m not letting him go without a fight. I’m making the first move, showing him I won’t pretend the last three months never happened. I won’t make the mistake of waiting, waiting, waiting like he accused me of doing.
But if he wants me, he has to prove it, too.
While I stand in the living room, taking it all in for the last time—the blue fireplace tiles we’d argued about, the couch where we’d kissed (and more), the bookshelves where we’d had an almost—Raj pipes, “Gotta pee!” and jets.
And by that, I mean she goes upstairs to pee even though there’s a downstairs bathroom right there, probably as a ruse to test out each bed like she’s looking for a pea. She rejoins me at least ten minutes and five Milan memories later, as though she’d been right behind me all along.
Honestly, she could have just said she wanted to snoop.
“Did you know,” she says conversationally, flinging herself onto the couch, “that when it comes to toilet paper, Milan is an under?”
“What? I put them over so you could see the pretty pattern.” When he cleaned the bathroom he must have put it the way he wanted it. Typical. “Did you fix it?”
She makes a rude snorting noise. “Of course. Who do you take me for?”
Thank god for Raj. I take back every mean thought I had about her tipsy-typing skills.
Without skipping a beat she hauls a bag of Little Shop donuts from her vegan-leather purse. “Dinner first? I need sustenance before I do any manual labor.” She holds out a chocolate icing donut with a gummy worm on it to entice me. “You know, I could have cashed in a girlfriend favor for this and asked Luke to come over and help us.”
At least one of us is getting somewhere with a significant other.
I gesture for her to move her legs so I can sit. I pluck off the gummy worm to eat first. “So we’re officially at the calling-each-other-for-big-favors phase of the relationship?”
She gets a glint in her eye. “Let’s just say he owes me.”
“Ew, Rajvee!” I mimic in an Alexis Rose voice that sends her into peals of giggles.
“It’s not a sexy thing!” she insists. “He crowned that awful rooster on our mantelpiece and Mom adored it. It’s an official part of the family. I tried to move it somewhere less conspicuous and Mom moved it back, but not before I freaked out that it was some kind of haunted doll I couldn’t get rid of like in that Goosebumps movie we watched at my house when we were kids? Luke even threatened to ‘find’ its matching mate for her.”
“Must be serious if there are threats involved,” I tease.
Raj cheerfully takes a big chomp of her donut and throws her legs over my lap to stretch out. “I was kidding. I wouldn’t make him come all the way over here just to help steal.”
“We aren’t—”
“Oh, sorry. Liberating,” Raj says with an exaggerated drawl.
The second we finish eating, I get her off the couch. “So you grab the far end and we’ll get her out of here,” I say as we enter the dining room. “Milan and I did it with no problem.”
It’s hard saying his name, but it’s nothing compared to the shock waves that hit me when we reach the dining room.
“Oh, fuck,” whispers Raj.
I move too quickly on jellied legs, almost weaving. The table, or what remains of it, is bare. Back to its natural wood. No hint of the mural I’d painted. Not a fleck of blue water or a strip of sand. I run my hands over the smooth, almost soft, legs, disbelieving.
I taught him too well.
“I don’t understand,” I say, staring at the table like I’m deciphering a clue.
I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. My head pounds.
He sanded it down.
He SANDED it down.
He sanded it DOWN.
What happens next is a blur. Raj’s arms are around my shoulders, pulling me up. She’s trying to get me to walk, to leave the room. She’s repeating my name, insistently at first, then crooning. Somehow she coaxes me back to the living room. Sits me down on the couch.
“That rat bastard!” seethes Raj.
I don’t want to be here. Not on the couch, not in this room.
Not in this house.
I ache to demolish every single memory associated with this place that healed my heart before it broke it again.
If only I could take a sledgehammer to the day I showed him how to use the sander.
I wish I’d taken Paula up on the offer she made at the beginning of summer so Rosalie Island and Milan never happened at all.
I need to get out of here.