The Art of Inheriting Secrets(32)

“My mother looked every minute of her years,” I said, “but she smoked, always. Never gave it up even when it made her a social pariah in San Francisco.”

“How long has she been gone?”

I didn’t even have to stop to calculate. “It will be six weeks on Monday.”

“Oh, dear!” She covered my hand on the table with her own. The warmth weighted me, kept me from flying away into my grief again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” I turned my hand over and gave her fingers a grateful squeeze, and as I did so, I realized I felt as comfortable in Pavi’s presence as I did in Samir’s. “And your mom has gone back to India—is that right?”

Again, a slight, startled pause, but she recovered quickly. “Samir told you that too. I’m so surprised. He doesn’t talk about her.”

“He didn’t.”

Amika and another young server, this one a boy with the long neck and big hands of a teenager, arrived with a plate of what looked like prawns and vegetables on sticks. “Paneer prawn tikka,” the boy said and eyed his boss. “With mango chutney and red onions.”

The fragrance wafted over us, spice and heat, and I couldn’t wait to try it. “Tell me about your journey,” I said as she used tongs to fill my plate. The serving dish was brass with carving on the edges, and I took out my phone. “Do you mind if I post things to Instagram?”

“No.” She laughed, nudging the low, flat bowl of chutney my way. “I seriously do not mind if one of the most respected food editors in the US Instagrams my food.”

I grinned and shot the prawns, the edge of the dish, and the pot of chutney, then leaned back to get a good shot of Pavi, who easily smiled just enough to look intriguing. I put my phone aside. “Now, tell me.”

“Wait—here comes my father. He’ll weigh in on this too.”

A tall, broad-shouldered man approached the table. His face was timeworn, with deep grooves along his mouth and a definitive stamp of sadness on his brow. He’d given his children his strong nose and wide mouth, but their eyes must have come from their mother. His were slightly hooded beneath thick, heavy brows. “Good evening,” he said in a strong British accent. “I am Harshad Malakar, and you are Lady Shaw. You look so much like your grandmother; it is as if you stepped out of a photograph.”

“So I have been hearing,” I said and started to half stand, but he waved me back into place. “I’m so happy to meet you, Mr. Malakar.”

“Please, call me Harshad.”

“Then I insist you must call me Olivia.”

“Oh, no. I could not.”

I glanced at Pavi, who ever so slightly shook her head. “Will you eat, Dad?”

“Sure, sure.” He waved a server over, asked for a place setting and tea. “How do you find us so far, Lady Shaw?”

“The town or you and your family?” I asked, a prawn between my fingers. “The town is bewildering. Somehow, your family is grounding me.”

“Ah, very good. That is because our families have known each other for many, many years, a century, perhaps.”

“Really, that long?” The prawn was perfectly cooked, the spice a masterpiece of layering. I widened my eyes at Pavi. “This is amazing.”

“Thank you.” She inclined her head. “Dad, I was just about to tell Lady—”

“Ugh! Please call me Olivia!”

She smiled. “I was just going to tell Olivia the story of the restaurant. Do you want to start?”

“No, no. You go ahead.” The girl brought his tea, and he gestured for her to bring more of the tikka, for which I was grateful. It was layered with paneer and perfectly seared onions, and I couldn’t identify all of the spices but could definitely pick out the coriander and fresh ginger.

“Dad spent his salad days in London, as you do, and met my mother at a wedding. They came back here to start a family, and he took over the takeaway from a friend of his father’s.”

“Good business,” Harshad interjected. “Always busy. People came from all around to eat at the Curry Pot.”

“It was,” Pavi agreed smoothly. “Sam and I went to university in London. I started with economics”—she gave me an amused lift of a brow—“but halfway through my third year, my roommate was a chef, and she just kept dragging me around to all these restaurants. I fell in love with food and the food scene and restaurants. All of it!”

Her father shook his head, muttering, “Threw away their educations! Both of them!” But it was an old complaint and held no heat.

Pavi gave him a pat on the hand. “My father would have liked going to university.”

The plate of tikka was picked clean. Amika arrived to take it away.

“Did you drop out of school, Pavi?”

“No. I finished my degree and dutifully went to work at a research firm.” She shook her head and, as if the memory caused discomfort still, took a sip of wine. “But I could not bear it and left after three months.” She glanced at her father. “The howling! Good lord.”

“I wanted to go to art school, and my mother wouldn’t allow it. That’s how I ended up in magazines. Funny how that goes.” I leaned in. “Did you go to culinary school?”