Page 6 of Hard Limits

Most of the day, Meera didn’t have a phone signal. She was living her dream in Portugal, working on a farm and planting trees in deforested areas to increase carbon uptake and encourage the return of wildlife, all while spending time with the man she loved. She also taught the occasional yoga class, plus she was learning to play the guitar. Meanwhile, I was living the life her family wanted her to have. The life they thought she had.

When she first suggested the arrangement, I thought she’d lost her mind. I’d pretend to be her while she went backpacking around Europe? That was crazy, right? But as the date of my marriage approached, the idea had become less wishful thinking and more my only chance of escape. And after the engagement party, I knew. I knew I couldn’t marry Karam Joshi. He was self-centred, opinionated, and lazy, plus his idea of a wife’s role was very different from mine. If we tied the knot, I’d become my mother, forever destined to rise at five a.m., ready to clean the house and make breakfast precisely the way my husband liked it. Basically, I’d be an unpaid housekeeper, nanny, and cook, but also be expected to keep in shape and look lovely on his arm at parties.

The day our engagement was formally announced, I’d been on my way back from the bathroom in the lavish hotel when I overheard Karam asking his father whether it would be acceptable to ask me to have a boob job before the wedding. Or should he wait until afterward? That was the moment I’d texted Meera and told her I’d do whatever it took. Whatever it took to not become Mrs. Indali Joshi.

In the end, it had been quite simple. Meera and I spent our last seven months at Harvard plotting. She and Alfie, her fiancé, planned their trip overseas while I figured out my half of the guest list for an event that was never going to happen, agreed on a venue, hired a wedding planner, and bided my time. Then, the night after my final exam, she’d cut my hair to look like hers, and I’d slipped away in the early hours with one carefully packed suitcase to catch a bus. Destination? As far from Massachusetts as possible.

I’d made it all the way to California.

Today, I took a picture of Dunnvale’s beautiful Art Deco building before I left, the outside giving no hints as to what lay beyond. Why was there no signage? Maybe the clients weren’t the only folks who liked privacy, and judging by the decor, business was booming. There was a restaurant and a spa on the first floor, Rhonda had told me as we went over the paperwork, and since it was lunchtime, she’d asked the chef to send up a few snacks. The food was as good as anything I’d eaten with Papa, and he only went to high-end establishments. One time, he’d seen a charge from McDonald’s on my credit card statement and called to lecture me on the danger of saturated fats. Did he think I wasn’t aware of that? I’d been in my second year at Harvard Medical School at the time.

Medical school. I should have been halfway through my first year of residency by now—overworked, underpaid, and enjoying my job—but Karam believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, not the hospital. Although if he tried eating my masala dosas, he might change his mind. On the plus side, at least I’d be able to treat him for food poisoning.

Was I bitter about having to abandon the career I’d worked so hard for? Of course. Who wouldn’t be? But I couldn’t change my father’s mind, and the second place he’d send the private investigators that he’d hired would be hospitals. At least there were plenty of medical facilities in the United States, so they’d take a while to not find me there. How did I know he’d hired investigators? Because the first place they’d gone had been Meera’s family home. Her mom had given the PI Meera’s number, and Meera told him that she hadn’t heard from me since I left Massachusetts, but she’d noticed me researching rental properties in New York and so maybe I’d headed there?

A sigh escaped. Life in Los Angeles was miserable, but far better than the alternative. And at least I had a temporary job now. That was how I thought of it—temporary. Braxton Vale was a rude, cocky, abrasive, pushy, hot jerk. No, no, no, not hot. Objectively handsome, possibly. Definitely not hot.

Looks didn’t matter to me anyway. If they did, I’d be marrying Karam and spending his money on expensive clothes. Oh, and cosmetic surgery, apparently. C-cups weren’t enough for him. He wanted watermelons.

Anyhow, I had a job, and if I lasted one month, I could fix my car. I missed my dented old Toyota in a way I’d never thought possible. Not only did riding the bus cost more than buying gas, but the journey to work took twice as long. Until I moved to LA, I hadn’t realised how incredibly expensive it was to be poor.

Should I add a picture to Meera’s Instagram now? I had one ready to go—a close-up of the geometric stonework above the entrance to the Dunnvale building that was pretty without giving anything away. No, better to speak with her first. While I waited, I flipped through the file Rhonda had given me. She’d called it Braxton’s Bible. Except according to page one, I wasn’t allowed to call him Braxton or Brax or anything other than Mr. Vale. He liked his coffee made with Hawaiian Kona beans and served at 140 degrees Fahrenheit, no more, no less. A note said the beans and the thermometer were in the cupboard beside the refrigerator in his kitchenette. The instructions went on and on and on… The type of car air freshener he liked (nothing pine scented), his favourite cologne (Hugo Boss), his preferred kind of underwear (briefs, not boxers, and certainly not thongs). I had to buy his freaking underwear?

Working at Dunnvale Holdings promised to be an ordeal, but if I’d known just how dramatically it would change my life, perhaps I’d have taken the bus to Santa Monica Pier, jumped off the end, and kept on swimming.

I woke with a start as Frank Sinatra sang “My Way.” The song had been Meera’s little joke because that was what we’d chosen—to do things our way. What time was it? Five in the afternoon, which meant it was…one a.m. in Portugal. Why was Meera calling me at that time?

“Hey, you’re up late.” I heard a sniffle. “Is everything okay?”

“We had a fight.”

“You and Alfie?”

“He says he’s sick of digging swales and chopping down trees.”

“What’s a swale? And I thought you were planting trees, not removing them?”

“Swales are shallow channels that help to prevent flooding. And we’re getting rid of the eucalyptus trees because they’re harmful to the environment. In springtime, we’ll replace them with native species.”

In truth, I did understand Alfie’s point, but he had volunteered to go on this trip. Enthusiastically, as I recalled. This was the first issue Meera had mentioned, so hopefully any problems would soon blow over.

“Maybe he just had a long day? What was the weather like?”

“It poured again. That’s six days in a row.”

“He’ll mellow out when the sun’s shining. Anyone would be miserable after nearly a week of rain.”

“I’m not. The swales are working so well.”

“Okay, almost anyone. You’re just weird.”

Meera didn’t argue with that. “So, you got a new job? Grandpa’s gonna be happy.”

“You’ll need to manage his expectations—I don’t think it’ll last long.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first my new boss hit me with his car…”

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