Page 144 of Cakes for the Grump
“Actually, she mentioned she has corporate lunch coming up that she needs catered, and she?—”
“Wants Rita to do it?” Uncle guesses.
“Maybe,” says Noor, chewing the edge of her lip. “She wants Rita to create a sample menu for it, and then if her manager approves it, they’ll hire you, Rita, for the lunch.”
“So it’s not a sure thing,” I say, resolving myself to sink back into the couch.
“Well, Prabjot is optimistic! She thinks if you curate a great menu mixing traditional Punjabi food with unique modern twists, then you’ll definitely beat out the other company competing for the job. Like your Tandoori Mac N’Cheese. That’ll get them excited!”
“Okay…” I say, not hundred percent enthused, but still interested. “It won’t take me long to write up a menu. We can send it to her and see what happens.”
Kiren makes a production of examining her nails before meeting myeyes. “Not exactly. The ask is to produce a menu with some inspired gluten- and dairy-free options.”
“I don’t have any of those already developed,” I say, grabbing a pillow so I can hold on to it. “Out of curiosity, who am I competing with and when is the lunch?”
Noor names an astonishingly reputable and popular catering company.
“They’ll surely win,” I say. “And two weeks is not a long time. Especially since I have a job that starts tomorrow. In the interview, I promised I’d be okay with overtime hours for these next few months. Not that I mind, since you all know my savings have dwindled. Not working has almost drained whatever I saved up in the first place.”
Uncle gave a low whistle. “Noor. Help me to my room.”
I quickly stand. “What is it? Do you feel tired?”
He waves me away. “Don’t fuss, puth. Noor will take me.”
She does and I’m left with Kiren, who appears to be trying to solve a very complicated theorem in her mind the way her mouth has utterly pinched. But since I know her, I also know she is shoring up possible arguments that might sway me to give this catering gig a chance. It’s not that I don’t want to. Or that I’m not tempted. Even the challenge of dairy-free and gluten-free makes my hands tingle.
I just won’t have time or energy to do both. Overtime means twelve-hour shifts, and factoring in the commute, plus the visit I want to make to see my dad this week and next—it isn’t possible.
I either pick the job or this possible, potential, not-even-guaranteed chance.
Kiren straightens up, but before she can launch her reorganized offensive, Uncle walks back into the living and comes over to sit beside me. He places a wad of cash into my lap.
I gaggle.
“I believe in you,” he states as if it’s the easiest, stress-free investment he’ll ever make.
The money trembles, but that’s because my hands are shaking as I lift it. “What is this, Uncle? Where did you get this?”
“I’ve been squirreling it away until the right time. This is it.”
I try to put the money back into his hands, but he keeps them away from me. “I’m not worth the risk,” I insist. “I can’t take this. We should save it for something else!”
Uncle flicks the side of my head.“Idecide what I want to do with it. And I choose you.”
“We believe in you as well,” adds Noor.
“It’s your choice, of course,” says Kiren. “And I know this is not an international contest, but Prabjot’s firm works closely with a lot of businesses. Word-of-mouth potential is high. Catering for corporate events isn’t like owning a restaurant, but it’s a spark. If you win this contract, it could be the start…if you are willing to try again?”
Am I?
“I don’t know,” I confess honestly. When I’d pinned everything on the meal kit competition and lost, it crumpled the ground beneath my feet. Since then, I’ve been crawling forward more than walking. This data entry job—it means we can fix the toilet in our apartment, that Uncle’s medicines won’t be a problem, that I don’t have to haggle at different markets trying to get the cheapest ingredients for dinner.
It’s a break. A steady income.
“Think on it,” says Kiren.
“This cash is your money,” says Uncle. “Not mine anymore. You spend it however you like.”
