The Art of Inheriting Secrets(96)

When Samir arrived, I’d had a coffee and a tea and a pastry that was dry and nowhere close to Helen’s beauties, but I was calm again, the grief stuffed back into a safe place. I ached over the fresh new cut of losing the earl, but the rawness of my mother was hidden carefully away.

The rain had snarled the heavy commuter traffic, and he looked as if he’d been in traffic jams—his hair was wild from his fingers. He sank down beside me. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s ridiculous that I’m still not driving.”

“You’ve had a bit on your plate.”

“Are you hungry? Want a coffee?”

“No, thank you. It would be best if we just get back. The traffic won’t be heavy on the way back south.” He tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Pavi said to bring you to the apartment. She wants to make sure you’re fed.”

I looked away. “What about your mom?”

“She’ll be all right.” He stood, holding out a hand. “Come.”

In the car, he turned the radio to the news. “Lay back and rest while I drive.”

It didn’t take much to convince me. Within moments, I’d fallen asleep, and I didn’t awaken until he brushed his fingers over my cheek. “We’re here, Olivia.”

I straightened, blinking hard to wake myself up. For a moment I stared out at the parking lot, trying to get my bearings. The back door to Pavi’s restaurant stood open, light falling from the kitchen through the screen. I could see staff bustling about. “Maybe I should just go home and sleep,” I said, and my voice was rough.

“After dinner.” He took my hand, raised it to his mouth for a kiss, and I let my head fall backward, seeing him anew. The tenderness in his expression, the mouth that was so generous, the intelligent, starry eyes.

“Okay,” I said softly. I felt wide open and raised my hand to his jaw.

He smiled. “Let’s find you some food. I think we’re eating mulligatawny tonight.”

“One of the tenants mentioned that. I’m not sure I’ve ever had it.”

“You’re joking.”

I shook my head.

“Well, it’s quite a common dish here. Pavi has a whole little thing she wrote about it.”

The weather was clearing, and a soft, refreshing breeze washed my face as we crossed the lot. He took my hand, tightly, and bumped my shoulder with his. I laughed a little, bumped him back.

The dinner hour was in full swing in the kitchen. Pavi shouted orders to her staff, dressed tonight in an orange chef’s coat, her hair tight beneath a matching cotton scarf. She spied us and lifted a hand, and we slid sideways up the stairs to the apartment.

A scent of cumin and pepper came out of the kitchen, and I realized that it was Mrs. Malakar who was cooking. She was in the kitchen, a towel tossed over her shoulder, and she was busy at the stove when we arrived, so she didn’t halt, just called out, “Hello, hello. Your father is watching the news.” Only then did she glance over and see me. “You brought the countess?”

“Please call me Olivia,” I said, and the weariness must have sounded in my voice.

Mrs. Malakar’s face softened. “We are eating one of my husband’s favorite foods tonight.”

“Mulligatawny?” I said. Samir released me, gestured toward the doorway to the kitchen, and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ve never eaten it. What’s in it?”

“Ohh, a lot of things. Chicken, onions, apples, sweet potatoes, many spices.”

I inhaled the scent. “Can I help you in some way?”

“No, no. You sit. They told us that your friend the earl died today.”

“Oh,” I said. That explained why she was being nice, I supposed. “All right, then.”

Pavi clattered up the stairs, bringing spices from the kitchen downstairs. “I’m not going to be able to stop tonight—it’s so busy!” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You all right?”

I nodded.

“You’re not, but you need to eat and get a good sleep. Only three days to the picnic!”

“Olivia, come sit with us,” Harshad said, gesturing from the living room. I joined them, sinking down into a luxuriously lush sofa. The room was bright with paintings and colorful fabrics at the windows, and along the wall to my right were family photos. With lazy curiosity, I looked at them, easily picking out Harshad as a young man, skinny but quite dashing, with a startlingly beautiful girl at his side. She was slim but womanly, her hair a shiny black curtain over her shoulder and an expression very like her mother’s in her bold expression. I didn’t want to ask if it was her even more than I wanted to ask, but I made a mental note to ask Samir.

But Mr. Malakar must have noticed my attention. “That’s my little Sanvi,” he said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

I nodded. “It must have been disappointing that it wasn’t her bones at the house.”

Mrs. Malakar came into the room. “Come. The food is ready.”

Samir stuck by me, sitting down next to me, his knee resting against mine under the table. When I glanced at him, he winked, and I let my face relax.

Mulligatawny turned out to be a soup, or perhaps more of a stew, with chicken and carrots and chunks of apple. The broth was thick, yellow with turmeric, and delicately spiced. I tasted it, taking in the flavors, then took another slow, savoring bite. “This is wonderful,” I said. “Does Pavi use the same recipe in the restaurant?”