The Vibrant Years(20)
Being the most sought-after single lady at Shady Palms was not a trivial honor, and there really was no point squandering it.
“Beautiful Melinda might have been, but she did not have that rack.” Richard winked at Bindu over the makhani chicken she plated on rice and carried to the bistro table by the windows overlooking the gulf. She loved the openness of her condo, all the spaces running into one another.
Usually she ordered in when friends came over. But she’d had a hankering for makhani chicken, and the Indian restaurants in the area tended to add a pound of sugar to the sauce. It was a curry, not pudding, for heaven’s sake.
She could bear substandard food from other parts of the world, but for some reason paying for bad Indian food felt almost like a personal insult.
So she’d broken her own rule and cooked, but after what Richard had just said, she was starting to question the entire Richard situation. Another side effect of being in her sixties was that she found herself running out of patience in the blink of an eye. One moment, she was Bindu, here for all the absurdity in the world, with all the gentle understanding it needed. Then the next moment, she was done with anything that didn’t make sense.
Sitting down at the bistro table, she crossed her legs at the ankles and fixed Richard with an unsmiling look. “You remember the color of her dress and the size of her rack. You hopeless romantic, you!”
He laughed and kissed her cheek before sitting down to her chicken, which 100 percent objectively smelled like heaven on a plate.
The imprint of his lips was dry on her cheek, and her annoyance melted a little bit. She handed him a glass of water. The only solution for dry lips was drinking a lot of water. The man was obviously dehydrated and in need of some fatty food.
She was right—she’d outdone herself. The chicken was delicious.
She waited smugly as he took a bite, but instead of effusive raving, he went a bit red in the face.
“Wow. This has cumin in it, doesn’t it?” he said.
As quickly as she could, she dragged his plate away from him and handed him her own untouched glass of water. “Please tell me you’re not allergic to cumin.”
He stroked a finger across her cheek, the heat in his eyes making it clear that he was not dying. He was only a little red and breathing okay.
“Our generation does not have allergies,” he said with the grandiose stupidity of many an old man. “My body just doesn’t like cumin much. That’s all.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean? Why did you say you wanted to eat Indian food if your body doesn’t like cumin?” She wanted to smack him upside the head. But again, his sincerity was potent. The eagerness to please her made him look too young for his leathery skin. No wonder the man had convinced five women to marry him. “Cumin is the one spice that’s literally in ninety-nine percent of all Indian food.”
He shrugged, attempting to make his irresponsibility about his health endearing.
“How can you have lived eighty years and not have tasted Indian food?”
“I’m seventy actually.” He sounded only slightly offended. And not even a little bit remorseful about never having eaten the most delicious of earth’s cuisines.
“You write about the human condition. There is no human condition better than eating Indian food!”
He pulled the plate back, grinning at her as though she were the dish he wanted to devour. “Well, my human condition is about to expand, then, isn’t it?” He poked a fork into the chicken and rice and took a bite with all the recklessness of a man who couldn’t possibly have been celebrated across the world for his brain.
His face got redder.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Richard.” Taking the plate away, she made him another one with only rice and the koshimbir of tomatoes and cucumbers. “Let’s not challenge the most basic human condition: being alive.” She put the plate in front of him and tried not to kick him under the table when he looked relieved but too stubborn to admit it.
“This is delicious,” he said as they ate.
She wanted to call him a liar, but his eyes were shining again, and she believed him. Even though she felt sorry for anyone who’d lived a life thinking rice with cucumbers and tomatoes was delicious, no matter how well she’d seasoned the salad.
After they’d gone back for seconds and put their plates away, they filled up their wineglasses and took them to the couch.
He dropped a kiss on her cheek and thanked her again for the food. The deep satisfaction on his face warmed her heart even as her head floated with the loveliest buzz from the wine.
Do it, Bindu. How long will you wait?
When he leaned toward her again, she met him halfway and let those no-longer-as-dry lips kiss hers. The sensation made the headiness she was feeling headier.
His hand went to her cheek, stroking as he deepened the kiss, slowly, tenderly. He was very good at this. Another reason for the five wives, she supposed. He did something with his lips, and she considered marrying him herself if he’d do it again.
Who are you, Bhanu? the deeply buried voice said inside her. Who are you?
Shoving the voice away, she scooted closer, and he pulled her into his lap.
Are you sure? she wanted to ask, but she’d never been at a loss for words because of a man’s kiss, and she soaked up the feeling. He tasted of breath mints. He’d made the effort to slip one into his mouth. That made her feel somehow cared for instead of taken for granted. Plus, he was doing that thing with his lips again, and she didn’t care about anything else.