Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors Page 4

  Not that he had ever said an angry word to her after Julia had violated him in every way possible because Trisha had let her. There had been no confrontation, just a slow-bleeding falling-out, aided by the monstrous demands of their work and the constant presence of a plethora of people to hide behind at family gatherings. He didn’t even seem to notice, but standing here watching him like this brought back the full force of how very much the loss still hurt.

  As if he could hear her thoughts, Yash’s eyes met Trisha’s over the bald patch of the man who had practically melted into an awestruck puddle beneath his touch. Yash was the only one of Trisha’s siblings and cousins who had inherited their grandfather’s gray eyes. A gray so unique Cosmo had felt the need to coin a term for it—Yash-Raje-Gray—in last month’s issue, the one that had featured him on a list of the country’s hottest politicians. What they didn’t know was that it was a genetic marking of their blue-blooded family, always inherited only by one child in every generation. It had skipped a generation for the first time with her father and his siblings, but it had returned with Yash. Of course it had.

  When he first spotted her, those eyes lit up, and his smile flashed wide and carefree for a full instant before disappearing again behind the memories that had built a wall between them. He pulled on his public servant’s I’m-your-man mask that Trisha hated to admit wasn’t a mask anymore, but who her brother had now become. They had both come so far from being two kids who loved sneaking out the attic window to sit up on the roof where all they could see were the hills and all they could be was who they were.

  He walked up to her and leaned in as if to give her a hug, but then she moved in the wrong direction and it all turned terribly awkward and he shook her hand instead.

  “Congratulations, Yash,” she said, fighting to channel her mother’s graceful nonchalance instead of the stiffness that gripped her.

  “How’s my favorite skull-based neurosurgeon?” Only Yash would use the exact right terminology to describe his sister’s surgical specialty.

  “Super. Destroying rogue cells across the world one skull at a time. How’s my favorite messiah of the masses?”

  He frowned at that, hurt flashing in his eyes. His mouth twitched as though he had something to say, as though he almost cared enough to say it. But then someone across the room caught his eye, someone more important than her, and he gave her an apologetic smile so practiced she wanted to punch him.

  But then he raised a finger at the person, asking for a minute, and looked at her again. “I’m glad you decided to come today, Trisha,” he said sincerely, striking her speechless with surprise. “Is everything okay?” His eyes flicked briefly to the person who was waiting for him.

  Trisha was tempted to grab his arm and apologize for missing years’ worth of his events, apologize for everything, again. She wanted to puke out all the mad highs and lows of her day at his feet the way she used to do back in school. She wanted to tell him that Julia was in town and HRH was hiding it from him. She wanted to do it so badly, she had to press a fist into her belly to hold it inside. In the end all she could say was, “Of course everything’s okay. Go.”

  He did his pat and pass-over thing and moved on with a promise to catch up soon.

  It was more than she had gotten from him in a very long time. Instead of feeling better, guilt grew spikes inside her. Before the full wallop of it overwhelmed her, she was saved by her sister’s voice.

  “Don’t you look lovely!” Nisha said as she strolled over. Finally, a family member who knew exactly what she needed to hear.

  Trisha grabbed her sister in a too-tight, too-long hug, then realized how ridiculous she was being and let her go.

  Nisha cupped her cheek—always the big sister—and studied her handiwork. “The forest green is great on you. And the ankle straps on those wedges make your legs look endless. How is it fair that you can look this hot without even trying?”

  Trisha grinned, because it was a fact universally acknowledged that she was an approval slut when it came to her family. She was about to burst forth with the story of her brilliant funding coup and Emma’s surgery when the wide doors that led to the tiered wooden deck opened and the guests started to pour out into the night for the fireworks display that was about to start. Unlike her, Nisha felt the need to greet every single person who passed by.

  “My two favorite Rajes,” a warm and familiar voice said, and both Trisha and Nisha leaned over to give Dorna Matunge a hug. Dorna was one of the first female neurosurgeons in the country and also one of the first African American physician scientists. She had retired years before Trisha joined the neurosurgery department, but she was a dear friend of HRH and Ma’s, and an early supporter of Yash Raje for Governor.

  More recently she had also become Trisha’s patient. She was wearing a black-and-gold sari and carrying it off with poise that belied her eighty-five years and the fact that she’d been fighting cancer for the past five of those. “I don’t understand why you Raje women don’t wear these beautiful saris more. Mina bought me this one from India, but if she’s not going to wear hers, I might as well steal all of them!”

  Trisha smiled. “I’d wear one if I could carry it as well as you do, Dr. Matunge,” she said worshipfully. But she couldn’t imagine wearing a sari at a dinner like this. It would feel too much like a costume outside of an Indian wedding or a Diwali celebration.

  Dorna patted her shoulder. “I’ll see you at my appointment next week.” Then she turned to Nisha. “The food was exquisite. I’m going to need the number of the chef!” And with that she followed the crowd to the patio.

  As Trisha watched her walk away, she realized with horror that being this late meant she had arrived after the caterers had cleared out the food.

  Her stomach let out a long, incredibly inelegant groan. Nisha’s eyes widened before she broke into giggles exactly the way her daughter, Mishka, did.

  It wasn’t funny. Trisha had yet to eat today. “Please tell me the food isn’t entirely gone. I think I’ll die if I don’t eat right now.”

  Nisha shook her head. “Not again. How can you wait until you’re dying of hunger before realizing you’re hungry?”

  It was annoying as hell, but Nisha was right. Trisha found it impossible to remember to eat—or do anything else—when she got lost in her work. Then when she did remember, her hunger kicked in with such force that she could scarf down an entire pizza without stopping to breathe.

  More laughter came from her sister, and no understanding whatsoever of her predicament. “Mishka is exactly like you. But she’s eight, for heaven’s sake!”

  Her niece was the world’s most perfect human, so Trisha had no problem with the comparison.

  “Did you go upstairs and see her?” her sister asked walking with her toward the kitchen.

  “Of course I did.” Trisha had made a quick detour to the upper floor after her disastrous heart-to-heart with HRH. It was a matter of habit; the first thing she always did when she came to the Anchorage was go see their oldest cousin, Esha, and their grandmother. Both Esha and Aji lived here but they never left the upper floor when outsiders were in the house because Esha couldn’t handle the stimulation. Since this was a grown-ups’ party, Mishka got to stay up there with them while the rest of the family did what it did best: awe the good citizens of California.

  When Trisha had gone up to their suite, Aji, Esha, and Mishka had been completely absorbed in their game of rummy. So Trisha had done no more than drop quick kisses on all three heads before coming back down to join the party. For years she had come and gone to the house and blocked out what had grown into the soul of the family—Yash’s political career. Being here today she wondered how she’d done it.

  “Mishka is having fun with Esha and Aji up there. Good luck taking her home tonight.”

  “I wasn’t planning on taking her home tonight.” Nisha’s eyes danced. “Neel has the day off tomorrow and I’ve been plying the good judge with fine wine all evening.” H
er smile turned so suggestive that Trisha blushed, and she remembered that her sister had promised her something!

  “Hey, I believe I was promised a butt that has to be seen to be believed!”

  DJ CAINE STOPPED short at the kitchen door. His hand stilled on the heavy, tastefully antiqued brass handle. Something about the voice on the other side locked him in place and made him smile. DJ hadn’t smiled all day.

  “I’d rather hear about the promised butt than your . . . your plans for later tonight,” the voice said. “And if you tell me he’s gone because the dress you chose for me took half an hour to put on, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands!”

  DJ couldn’t help but laugh at that. There was something about that voice, husky and sultry with an underlying lilt of sweetness. It hit him exactly the way the blast of sunshine had hit him when he’d stepped out of San Francisco airport last month. And it made the tension that had clamped his shoulders all day ease in a quick rush. He leaned his forehead into the door and listened, enjoying how completely comfortable the person was laughing at herself.

  DJ was almost afraid to push the door open and see what she looked like. A strange kind of anticipation bubbled inside him. It had been so long since he’d felt anything but a gnawing sadness that he indulged himself by standing there and soaking it in. Just for a few seconds before he got his arse back to work.

  “There you are, boss,” Rajesh said behind him and DJ spun around with a little prayer that his assistant didn’t come bearing bad news. “The timer on the soufflés just went off and I’m not risking my job by—”

  DJ sprinted past Rajesh and was at the ovens before the kid could finish that thought.

  A chef never runs in the kitchen, Andre had taught him. Never ever. The soft scrape of Andre’s French r’s sounded in DJ’s head as he skidded to a stop in front of the ovens. He took a moment to allow his hands to steady before pulling the water bath lined with soufflé ramekins out. Plump and perfect. He held his breath, counting the seconds to see if they’d hold. He had yet to sink a soufflé. But every single time he made them, the experience shaved a bloody month off his life.

  Leaning over the tray he inhaled deeply, letting the steam-laden aroma flood all the way through him. The soft green clouds edged with the most delicate golden crusts smelled as perfect as they looked. Pistachio with a hint of saffron. Was there even such a thing as a hint of saffron? It was the loudest understated spice, like a soft-spoken person you couldn’t stop listening to. Like the hidden lilts inside a well-held aria. Like the beauty within making what someone looked like on the outside meaningless, slowly, one encounter at a time. No matter how subtle you tried to make it, saffron always shone through, it became the soul of your preparation.

  He nodded at Rajesh, who stood at the ready with the cashews DJ had candied to perfection with butter and brown sugar. He started to arrange three at the center of each ramekin in a clover of paisleys, then tucked a sugarwork swirl next to it to top things off just so.

  “Have you seen the maal here, boss?” Rajesh said, pulling DJ out of his plating reverie.

  Based on the glint in his assistant’s kohl-lined eyes, DJ was quite certain he wasn’t talking about the soufflé. Not that Rajesh talked about much other than women. DJ just wished he would stop calling them things like “packages” and “freight.” He’d asked him not to often enough, but Rajesh was twenty-one and blessed with the thick skin of the truly obnoxious. He was determinedly impervious to criticism.

  “Have you ever seen Indian chicks so fancy? Strutting about as if they’re goris? Soft like rasgullas, hot like halwa!” He wiggled his eyebrows lecherously.

  Good thing that plating the soufflés required the lightest touch and all his focus, because that meant DJ could block Rajesh out.

  That didn’t stop Rajesh from blathering on. “Usually, I keep away from Indian chicks. Too much emotional drama. But doing these would be like drinking desi booze from fancy English crystal.” He made a sipping sound. “What say, boss?”

  DJ straightened up. “How about we stay out of our client’s guests’ knickers and focus on work, what say you, boss?” he snapped and Rajesh looked appalled at the idea of staying out of anyone’s knickers.

  DJ reminded himself that he needed an assistant and he could only afford this one because he worked for room and board. Add to that the whole moral obligation to Rajesh’s grandmother for her saving-his-life thing and DJ was well and truly stuck with him. The man was competent enough. And uncouth as he was, DJ couldn’t exactly set every wanker straight, now could he?

  However, DJ could not afford to have Rajesh go anywhere near the client’s guests.

  The fact that DJ had this job was nothing short of a miracle. A miracle called Ashna Raje. Ashna was one of the few friends DJ had in this world, and she’d proven that when it came to friends, quality mattered vastly more than quantity. Man, had she come through for him. First by getting his little sister in to see her cousin, who was some sort of genius surgeon at Stanford. That would have been above and beyond on its own, but then she had gotten him this gig with her aunt, Mina Raje.

  He pulled out his phone and quickly checked to make sure he didn’t have any new messages from Emma. She had seen her surgeon today, but she was refusing to tell him what had happened over the phone. He felt horrible about not being at the hospital when she got the scan results, but without this job, there would be no money to pay for the scans or the surgery that was his little sister’s only hope.

  Hope was something that hadn’t exactly been abundant these past few months. Not until this surgeon he’d never met had come along. It had been three months since Emma had collapsed while teaching at the nursing home where she worked as the resident art therapist. The monster headaches had turned out to be a tumor in her brain that was so unfortunately located that the doctors had labelled it inoperable and given her six months to live.

  Emma being Emma, she had only told him after the doctors had declared that she was terminal. Up until then she’d faced everything alone. The day she had called him, DJ had quit his job at Andre’s. Two days later he had subleased his Paris flat and flown to San Francisco to find his little sister shrunken to half her size, one of her eyes a strange new light brown, unable to walk in a straight line.

  She had learned how to walk holding his hand. He had taught her how to ride a bike, bought her her first sketchbook and box of paints. He had painted her little hand with a rainbow of colors and shown her how to stamp it on the paper, to transform it into peacocks and Christmas trees and daisies.

  And she was alone right now in a hospital with information that would decide the course of their lives.

  He looked at the time. It would be a few hours before he could get to the hospital. Until then he couldn’t let himself think about anything but dessert, which was all he had left to do. He quickly squeezed his fingers into his eyes and scrubbed them on his smock. He could not lose Emma. She was all he had.

  “I mean it, Rajesh. Clients and their guests are strictly off-limits.”

  The tosser winked at him. “Our client is that ancient Bollywood star. I’m most certainly not bonking that. Although have you seen the baps on the ol—”

  “All right! I think these look about ready to go into the cooler for a bit. Do the honors, won’t you? I need to get my caramel started.” He turned away briskly, and luckily the man got to work. A world-class wanker he may be, but he understood how crucial it was for them to make a success out of this dinner. Without DJ’s help Rajesh would have to return to London, where, by all accounts, a number of boots were waiting to connect with his dangly bits.

  As for DJ, he didn’t have the option to fail. Not with Emma’s treatment hanging in the balance. He had saved every penny he could while working with Andre. Paris was not a cheap place to live, but he didn’t have to live on avenue Montaigne like the other chefs in Andre’s crew. Growing up the way they had in London, in an attic flat in Rajesh’s grandmother’s Southall house, mean
t a Porte de La Villette studio had felt almost luxurious. As for being ridiculed by his peers, so long as they couldn’t ridicule his work, nothing else mattered.

  Turned out it was a good thing he hadn’t picked up expensive habits, because after paying Emma’s astronomical medical bills and the deposit on his Palo Alto flat, all his savings were gone. He was as dead broke as he had been the day their mother died leaving them orphaned.

  The good news was that he wasn’t sixteen anymore and he had this, his art. His food. And if this dinner continued to go the way it was going, if Mrs. Raje stood by her word and gave DJ the contract for her son’s fund-raising dinner next month based on tonight’s success . . . well, then they’d be fine.

  Mrs. Raje had been more than impressed thus far. Everything from the steamed momos to the dum biryani had turned out just so. The mayor of San Francisco had even asked to speak to DJ after tasting the California blue crab with bitter coconut cream and tucked DJ’s card into his wallet.

  Only dessert remained, and dessert was DJ’s crowning glory, his true love. With sugar he could make love to taste buds, make adult humans sob.

  The reason Mina Raje had given him, a foreigner and a newbie, a shot at tonight was his Arabica bean gelato with dark caramel. DJ had created the dessert for her after spending a week researching her. Not just her favorite restaurants, but where she shopped, how she wore her clothes, what made her laugh, even the perfume she wore and how much. The taste buds drew from who you were. How you reacted to taste as a sense was a culmination of how you processed the world, the most primal form of how you interacted with your environment.

  It was DJ’s greatest strength and weakness, needing to know what exact note of flavor unfurled a person. His need to find that chord and strum it was bone deep. It was why he had dreamed of being a private chef from the day he had walked into culinary school. After ten years of working at Andre’s, unable to cut the cord of financial security a paycheck provided, here he was, pushed—no, tossed out on his bum—into his dream by the threat of losing the only person in the world who meant anything.