Honor: A Novel(90)

Smita exhaled. “I’m still in shock. I still can’t believe Meena is dead. I keep seeing her body, hearing her gasping for breath.”

“I can imagine,” Shannon said. “It’s a terrible profession we’ve chosen in some ways.”

“In some ways,” Smita said. “But I can’t think of doing anything else for a living.”

“Me neither. Listen, I hope you don’t mind my asking. What’s going on between you and Mohan?”

“Nothing, really. I mean, I—I care about Mohan. But it’s not, you know, serious.”

“But Mohan’s pretty serious about you, Smits,” Shannon said. “He’s going to be devastated.”

“He told you this?”

“No. Not at all. Both of you have been unforgivably secretive since you’ve returned from Surat. But I see how he looks at you. And you’re going to leave Abru with him?”

Smita heard the disapproval in Shannon’s voice. She frowned. “You know, when you called me in the Maldives, I thought you were asking me to come here to help you. After your fall.”

“Smits, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that. But what’s—”

“Wait. Let me finish.” She took a deep breath. “I had vowed never to step foot into India again. Because of something that happened in my childhood. But I came, Shannon. I came because it was you. And then, everything kind of fell apart. I had no intention of hooking up with Mohan. Okay?”

“Smita. Please. I wasn’t trying to—”

She brushed aside Shannon’s apology. “What am I supposed to do?” she said. “Upend my whole life for the sake of a guy I just met? Mohan actually asked me to stay on for half a year. As if it’s that easy. What about my job? You know how hard both of us worked to get to where we are.”

“Okay, relax.” Shannon patted the edge of her bed. “Come sit next to me.”

“I’m okay.”

“Smits, don’t be an ass. Come here. I’m sorry,” Shannon said, pulling Smita toward her. “Listen, I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that—I’ve known you for a long time. Far longer than I’ve known Mohan, obviously. And you two look so suited for each other. I’ve never seen you the way you are around him.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t know how to describe it. You look—I dunno. Happy, for sure. But it’s more than that. You look . . . contented.”

“Oh, bullshit.” Smita said lightly. “You’re not used to seeing me with a brown dude, is all.”

Shannon mustered a perfunctory smile. “You know me better than that, Smits.” She paused. “Fuck. I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you, too. But I’ll see you in New York soon?”

“Not for a while. Cliff offered to fly me home and have someone take my place for a few months. But I refused. I like it here. Besides, Nan would be distraught if I took off.”

“No kidding. I think she’s, like, in love with you or something.”

“Are the two of you making fun of Nandini?” Mohan said. He was smiling as he walked toward the bedside table, carrying a large coconut, its hacked top hanging as if from a hinge. He held it against a glass and flipped it, so that the coconut water drained into the glass.

“Here you are, my dear,” he said to Shannon.

“Thanks, Mohan. You’re the best.”

“So, what trouble are you planning?” he asked.

Mohan’s playful tone reminded Smita of how he had acted around her when they’d met, before Meena had died—before they’d assumed responsibility for Abru. And before they’d made the mistake of sleeping with each other.

“Nothing,” she replied. “We’re just talking shop.”

“ ‘Talking shop,’ ” Mohan repeated. “I tell you, no one can beat you Americans when it comes to strange expressions.”

Shannon let out a yawn. “Okay, you two. You need to get going, right? I’m tired. And ready for my nap.”

Mohan glanced at the clock. “Be serious, yaar, Shannon,” he said. “It’s not even noon. How could you possibly be sleepy again?”

Smita gave Shannon a hug. “See you tomorrow?”

“That’ll be nice.”

“Ready?” Smita said, turning to Mohan.

“In a minute.” He bent to fluff Shannon’s pillow. Shannon threw Smita a bemused look. “He’ll make some lucky woman a good wife someday,” she said.

“Very funny. Okay, ciao. I have to get this one here to Zarine Auntie’s for lunch.”

“Come in, come in, come in,” Zarine Sethna said. “Please, welcome, welcome.”

“Thank you,” Smita said, suddenly shy. She stepped into a well-appointed room, filled with Chinese vases and antique furniture, and smiled at Mohan’s landlady. “Thank you for inviting me to lunch.”

“Definitely, definitely.” Zarine was a tall light-skinned woman with curly gray hair. She pushed her rimless glasses back up on her nose. “Mohan has told us so much about you.”

“Thank you.” Smita looked around. “Where’s Abru?”