The Art of Inheriting Secrets(103)

“Eventually, you’ll be called upon, but nothing for now. I just wanted to give you the good news personally.”

“Thank you. So much.”

“You’re quite welcome, my lady. Thank you for all you’re doing for us.”

I hung up and told Samir. “I doubt if I’ll get any money back, but at least they don’t get away with it.”

He high-fived me. “That’s great.”

“Now, about that chai?”

He picked up the packets and spice boxes. “How did you know the right things to buy?”

“It’s chai,” I said with a shrug, smiling over my shoulder.

“But this is my special blend, my very own. You can’t have known that.”

My sketchbooks were on the counter, and I opened one to a watercolor-and-pen sketch of his chai. “Water. Cinnamon stick, star anise, whole allspice”—I held my place with one finger—“which is a very nice touch, by the way. Whole peppercorns, cloves, cardamom pods, coriander, ginger, black tea.”

He smiled. “Well done. Where are the pots and pans?”

“Below, in that cupboard.”

As he measured spices, I was aware of a sense of deep contentment. He wore a loose shirt and sweats, his feet bare, his hair loose and tumbling. I watched him count out peppercorns and cardamom pods. “What’s the difference between black and green cardamom?” I asked.

“One is ripe?” he offered.

I laughed. “Okay, I guess I need to ask Pavi.”

“Better choice. Or look it up on Google.”

“More fun to ask Pavi. She always weaves a story around food. Did I tell you she’s writing an article for Egg and Hen?”

“No! That’s fantastic. She must be thrilled.”

“I knew she’d be a great writer, just from reading her menu. And now I see her brother has the same touch with words. Which of your parents taught you that?”

“Both of them, really, but my mother is a poet.”

The facts of her rearranged themselves. “Is she published?”

“In India. She writes in Marathi.”

“Hmm. What does she write about?”

“Nature, rain, and skies and cows.”

“Cows?”

A slight tilt of his head. “She’s fond of cows. Animals.”

As the spices simmered, he reached for my book. “This is your sketchbook?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, closing it. “My mother was the artist. I just play around.”

“May I?”

My hand covered it for a moment, while I measured my fear that he would find them primitive. “You can’t laugh.”

“I would never laugh at you. With you, but never at you.”

I lifted my hand, let him take the book and open it.

“Food! Of course.” He looked through the pages slowly. “You are not your mother,” he said easily.

“No.” I laughed and stood up to begin making the toast. I’d bought a good hearty loaf from Helen’s bakery and fresh butter from a farm stand. Slicing the bread as evenly as I could, I arranged the slices on a cookie sheet.

“You do share a sense of whimsy with her,” he commented, turning the page to show me the sketch I’d made of cakes and slices of pie in a case, with the ghostly reflection of my own face in the glass, eyes big and greedy. “I love it.”

“Thank you.” Spreading butter over the bread, I asked, “You see whimsy in my mother’s work?”

“Yes, don’t you?”

“More threat. It always seems there is something lurking. Some dark danger.”

He held my sketchbook open in his palms. “Her brother, I would guess.”

“What did he do, I wonder?”

“We’ll probably never know. And maybe that’s better.”

“Is it, though? Secrets just fester.” I opened a small box of brown sugar and sprinkled it over the butter. “I do hope you’ll feel comfortable letting out Violet and Nandini’s secret at some point.”

He looked away, ostensibly leafing through more pages. “I’m sure I will.”

“Does it embarrass you?”

His eyes flew open to meet my gaze. “No! Not even a little. I just worry about my father. He’s sixty-five years old. It might hurt him.”

“Maybe he would surprise you.” I sprinkled ground cinnamon over the bread, then opened the roasting oven and slid the tray in. “I had to Google how to do this in the AGA.”

“It’s quite the thing, isn’t it?”

“It is. For a cook, this is a dream machine. I will have to make more friends so I can have parties.”

He came over to stir the spices and bent his head to smell the brew. “Ready,” he said, and he took the pot off the burner and measured tea into it to steep. “I have friends. I’ll share them.”

Leaning on the counter, I narrowed my eyes. “Do you? I’ve never seen any evidence of that.”

“That’s because,” he said in his low voice, the smooth, seductive rumble, “I never want to see them anymore.” He settled his arms on either side of me, leaning in, pressing our bodies together. “I only want rains of kisses.” He dropped them on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, my mouth. “I’m greedy for you.”