Page 50 of The Art of Taking Second Chances

Tara’s shy eyes lowered to her plate. What was she playing at?

“I’m sorry too,” I said to no one in particular.

“The food is amazing, Aunty,” Tara said.

“Thank you. Durga is a very good cook.”

When Durgaben came in with a basket of warm, buttered naan, Mom introduced Tara to her. Tara detected her accent and spoke to her in Gujarati. Durgaben’s eyes lit up and her smile widened as they exchanged a few sentences.

“The food is absolutely wonderful,” Tara said in English. “Reminds me of home.”

“Yes, Durgaben is super talented,” I chimed in. Durgaben blushed slightly from all the attention.

“Thank you,” she muttered, and shuffled back out.

“Aarti, your nail color is so trendy,” Tara said. “I can never find such fun colors to suit my skin tone.”

“Oh, thank you,” Aarti gushed. “I’ll give you the name of a brand I like. It’s got a lot of great colors for Indian skin tones.”

“That would be amazing!” Tara showed her fingers to Aarti. “Look at this drab color I have on.” I thought the color was just fine, but Aarti disagreed.

“You’re right.” She frowned. “It clashes with your undertones.”

Whatever that meant.

“So have you two picked out what you’re wearing for the engagement?” Tara asked Aarti.

She was determined to avoid me and was doing a fantastic job.

“Ah, I wish!” Aarti blew out a sigh. “I can’t even get him to talk about a date.”

“Western or Indian?”

“Most likely, Indian.” Aarti squeezed my hand. “What do you think, Sameer? It will look glamorous, won’t it?”

“Sameer, you’re not eating,” Amar said. I shot him a fierce look, and he grinned back.

“What’s the matter, beta?” Mom quickly turned to me. “Is the food not to your liking today?”

“Everything is perfect, Ma,” I said with all the calm I could muster.

All through dinner, Tara continued to bond with Aarti. When she and Amar recounted some outrageous stories from their college days—I was conveniently excluded—even Dad managed a few chuckles. Aarti was having a splendid time. She had decided that Tara was smart and funny. By the time Durgaben brought out bowls of deliciously cold kheer, flavored with cardamom and saffron, Aarti was regaling us with wild stories from her college days. Everyone seemed to be enjoying a perfect evening. Except me. I was seething with unresolved emotions.

The moment we returned to the living room, Dad poured himself another drink. Mom sighed. Clearly she’d lost count of how many he’d had that day.

But I had other things on my mind. A worry about Tara, for starters. I pulled Amar aside. “It’s late, and Tara will insist on taking a cab back. Ask her to stay the night. It’s the weekend anyway. She doesn’t have to go in to work tomorrow.”

He frowned as he worked to gauge the intent behind my suggestion.

“I can offer to drop her back, but we both know she’ll refuse. Adamantly.”

That convinced him. “Tara, it’s getting late. Maybe you should stay here tonight? We have spare rooms, right, Chachi?”

“Oh, of course!” Mom said. “I’ll ask Durga to make a fresh bed.”

“I’ll do it, Ma,” I said. “Durgaben must be tired.”

Mom graced me with a smile.

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