The Art of Inheriting Secrets(31)

I had been living in jeans and sweaters (jumpers, I reminded myself) since I arrived. From the closet, I pulled out the single dress I’d brought, a simple black jersey with a deep V-neck, long sleeves, and an empire waist. The hem and sleeves were embroidered ever so slightly with turquoise and silver thread. The best part was that I could look halfway decent in it even if I was twenty pounds over the weight I should be—which was probably not far off, considering how long I’d been unable to exercise.

Checking my reflection in the long mirror behind the door, I was happy to see that it still fit. It draped my too-generous behind with some kindness, but the low neck was almost scandalous. I tugged the two sides of the V closer together, and it seemed okay, but just in case, I draped a bright scarf in abstract splashes of turquoise and navy around my neck. Didn’t want to stir the gossips my first evening out.

With a swath of bright-red lipstick, I felt ready to meet the world. Standing back from the narrow mirror, I approved my reflection—a countess, I told the woman in the mirror, and she gave me a nod. This was what this countess looked like. It would have to do.

Rain was spitting as I walked to the market square and Coriander. Again, it was quite busy, most of the tables full even on a Tuesday night. Evocative fingers of spice hung in the air, waving me inside.

It was larger than it looked from outside, and the space had been divided into more intimate sections with screens printed with peacocks.

A young woman approached. “Hello. You must be Lady Shaw.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Amika. Pavi gave specific instructions for your service tonight. If you would follow me.”

She led me through the restaurant, and I could feel eyes on me, hear slight whispers as I passed. I channeled my mother and pretended I didn’t notice. I did notice the family-style service, the tasteful tableware, the flowers tucked into glass vases.

At the back of the restaurant were three alcoves set on a ledge a foot higher than the rest of the floor. Intimate, for lovers or a small party of friends, which was exactly what two of them held. The last was empty, and of course, it was meant for me. As I settled, pleased to have the view over the restaurant, Amika said, “Pavi will be out momentarily. Can I bring you a glass of wine?”

“Yes, that would be wonderful. Did she tell you what it should be, by any chance?”

She smiled. “Yes, ma’am, she did.” With a little bow, she headed for the kitchen.

A second later, Pavi hurried out, dressed in chef’s whites with a turquoise apron, her hair caught back from her face beneath a tight scarf. “Hello! I’m so happy to see you!” she cried, taking my hands as she stepped into the booth. “Everything is ready. I just have to slip out of these clothes, and I’ll be right with you.”

“Wonderful.”

Again she squeezed my hands, bringing an aura of warmth and welcome to the space. “I’ll be right back.”

The wine arrived, and I took a sip—a pretty, pale rosé, ordinarily only served in the summertime in California, but I could immediately understand how it might be brilliant with Indian spices. I swirled and tasted, and it was light and dry and fruity. It was also the first glass of wine I’d had in weeks, and it hit my tongue like a dance troupe, tapping all my taste buds, waking me up.

Pavi appeared, hair smoothed into a bun, wearing a simple floral dress with a floaty skirt and flat shoes. “How is the wine?”

I laughed. “Amazing.”

“My father is going to join us, too, if you don’t mind. He’s been a bit agitated about it all day, so I think he’s a little shy.” Her eyes glittered, exactly the same way her brother’s did, and I felt a pang. “He’ll probably be overly formal at first, but he’ll warm up.”

“It sounds like he knew my mother and grandmother. I’m really excited to talk to him.”

“How did you know that?”

“Samir told me.”

For the space of a breath, so short a moment that I almost could not say for sure that it happened, she paused. “Have you become friends?” She broke a piece of popadam and swirled it in a tiny crystal dish of mint-coriander chutney.

“Yes, a little.” I decided to confront the subtext head-on. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, no! I’m sorry. He tends to be a bit of a loner—that’s all.” Her smile was generous. “I’m the more outgoing of the pair of us.” She plucked up a small dish of riata and set it down in front of me. “Try this one. I’ve been perfecting it. Coriander.” Her smile flashed. “Naturally.”

I smiled and did as I was told. The riata struck my tongue, filled my mouth with crisp and cool, sharp and soft. “Marvelous,” I said. “I could eat it by the spoonful.”

She nodded.

“Is Samir the oldest?” I dipped another piece of popadam in the mint coriander. “This is always my favorite,” I commented. “And this one is delicious.”

“Yes, he’s my older brother by three years. I’ve just turned thirty.”

A ping like a thorn stuck in my throat. That meant Samir was only thirty-three. I was thirty-nine, forty this summer. Reaching for my wine, I managed a half smile. “Honestly, I thought you were about twenty-three. I’d kill for your skin.”

“Genetic.” She shrugged. “My mother looks forty, and she’s over sixty.”