Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(53)

Trisha was the only one of the children who seemed drawn to the ethereal presence of the long-held Indian classical notes that were a constant in their home. One of the maestros was constantly playing around Ma and Aji. Tabla, sitar, sarangi, the flute—some combination of vocals with these instruments followed the two women everywhere they went.

To this day Trisha remembered the sound of Amonkar’s voice that evening. Even more clearly, she remembered how the music had felt inside her, how it had bloomed outward until it wrapped her in its folds. The near-acrobatic ragas had spun tales and gathered into emotions Trisha had no names for. It had felt as though she were unraveling into the air around her.

A sold-out audience at the Orpheum Theatre had become tied into one consciousness by the magic of that voice and the emotions it harnessed. It had continued to vibrate inside Trisha and called her back to it again and again for months after. Now that magical pull was alive inside her again.

The yearning for those flavors she had tasted yesterday was constant. Constant.

After DJ had left, Trisha had brought Nisha to her condo. Miraculously enough, they had managed to get around the Neel problem. Nisha had called him apologetically with a story about how she couldn’t take him to the airport because Trisha was having “one of her meltdowns” over being kicked off a surgery team, which by the way had never ever happened in Trisha’s life. Neel being Neel had insisted that Nisha stay with Trisha until she was better. Then Nisha had topped it off with a dramatically whispered “And Trisha absolutely does not want anyone in the family to know.” This was a stroke of genius, because if “some drama with the sisters” wasn’t enough to keep Neel off their case then a “Raje family secret” certainly was. He and Mishka were on their way to London now.

Once she’d settled Nisha in, Trisha had walked to her favorite bakery around the corner and bought their favorite blueberry and chocolate chip muffins—the combination was a specialty the bakery was renowned for and it had been Trisha’s staple pick-me-up for years. The pathetic substitute for her cravings had tasted like cardboard in her mouth.

When Nisha had asked her about the tasting, she had blathered like an idiot for an hour, trying to describe each flavor.

“He is a pretty amazing chef, isn’t he?” her sister had said, a little too smugly. “Yay Ashna for bringing him to us!”

A sharp twinge of something panicky hit Trisha at the thought of him and Ashna together. But she remembered how insistent Ashna had been that they were just friends, and it settled the feeling a little. Then the fact that she needed to settle the feeling in the first place made fresh panic spring up again.

For a moment there she had almost lost him. Nisha, Ashna, and Ma would have taken turns killing her if DJ had walked off the job. The man’s ability to endear himself to her family was astonishing.

A violent sob snapped Trisha out of her reverie. Nisha sprang up to sitting and started gasping for air. Her face was flushed and glistening with tears. Trisha sat up, her own heart beating hard.

Nisha started patting the mattress, her hands feeling for something, gouging desperately at the sheets beneath her, all of her trembling, a horrid sniffling hiccuping out of her.

“Nisha, sweetheart. It’s okay.” Trisha grabbed her sister’s hands, trying to still the panic in them, trying to be gentle, trying to be firm. “Nisha, stop. Look at me.”

Nisha’s wild eyes met hers.

Holding her gaze, she secured her sister’s hands with one hand, then ran her other hand over the sheets under Nisha. They weren’t wet. Looking away from Nisha’s terrified eyes she threw a glance at her own hand. No blood. Without letting her relief show, she met Nisha’s eyes again. “Everything is all right.”

Nisha’s breath slowed. She nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. A sheen of sweat glistened across her brow and upper lip.

Trisha pulled her close and reached for the remote on the nightstand. “Chopped?” she asked, leaning back into the headboard and tucking her sister into her side.

The TV buzzed to life across from them.

Nisha snuggled into her, still trembling a little, and wiped her cheeks as discreetly as she could.

No one would ever see Nisha like this again. Trisha wouldn’t let anyone. Her sister was the strongest, most put-together person Trisha knew and for years she had let herself be a mess for everyone to see because she had wanted those babies so much. If Nisha believed keeping her pregnancy secret gave her a better chance, Trisha would do anything to make it so. If she needed to go through this horror of hoping and waiting again privately, then Trisha would make that happen. She would do anything to give her sister that.

I will do anything to make sure that the only family I have left on this earth does not leave me.

Not for the first time, the idea of Emma refusing surgery made Trisha sick to her stomach. The pain in DJ’s eyes had been so immediate, so uncontainable, she had the unbearable urge to know why Emma was all he had left on this earth. Never in her life had she had such a raging need to know what her patient’s life outside of her illness was like. It was usually something she avoided thinking about at all costs.

Looks like we’re stuck together for the sake of our sisters. That wasn’t what the chef on Chopped was saying, but that’s what she heard him say. The chef on Chopped looked nothing like DJ—no smoothly shaved head, no undulating biceps, no deep dimple in his stubborn chin, no innate gentleness when he interacted with people, no fierce purpose for the sister he loved, and most certainly no ruthless provocation in his eyes for Trisha.