I’m worried because I’m about to lose one major resource to finding what you have when Hema declares me unmatchable.
I’m tired of going home alone.
Am I a mess?
I really wish that cake I paid $35 for had been dairy-free.
She opened her mouth, but none of that came out, because her phone beeped, signaling another call. Not Hema, thank God. An unknown California caller, but that was common when she had her office number set up to forward during lunch. She was a senior accountant at her firm, and occasionally there were emergencies. “I have to go, I think I’m getting a work call.”
Christine nodded. She was in fashion, and very much valued a strong work ethic. “I’ll call you in the morning. We’re going to go shopping, and I want to buy a few dresses for you.”
Mira didn’t care about new clothes, but Christine would dress her whether she participated or not, and she wanted to see her friend again. “Sure. Get some rest.”
“Love you.”
“I love you, too.” Mira answered the other line, changing her tone so she sounded less like a single Pringle and more like a certified professional who could be trusted with financial data. “This is Amira Patel. Can I help you?”
There was a pause on the other end, and then a young woman spoke. “I’m looking for Mira Chaudhary?”
Mira stiffened, forgetting all about the footnote she’d just been dumped by and her dismal love life.
Mira Chaudhary.
There was a name she hadn’t heard in a while. It was a name that filled her with dread and anxiety and memories she didn’t want. “Can I ask who’s calling?”
“My name’s Aparna, I’m calling from Ambedkar Law.”
“And what is this regarding?” Her tone wasn’t well modulated now, it was sharp. She often dealt with law firms through her work, but none of them knew the name she’d left behind when she’d fled her family and Nevada at eighteen.
The woman paused, and her tone grew more somber. “This is regarding Rhea Chaudhary’s estate. Is this Mira Chaudhary?”
Mira placed the phone on her lap and pressed her hands to her warm cheeks. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I apologize for taking so long to reach you, but there was some mix-up, and it took me time to track you down. We’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” she replied automatically. “How did you find me?”
Aparna’s voice turned wry. “I have excellent investigative skills.”
She must. Mira hadn’t gone hard underground when she’d left home, but she’d been fairly determined to get away from her dad.
Aparna continued to speak. “We’d like to speak with you about your aunt’s estate. I can set up a video conference with her attorney at your convenience.”
A video conference where she stared at some man recite her aunt’s last wishes through a screen in her echoing apartment?
She squinted at her dashboard. She had a full tank and the rest of this sunny Friday off. “I’m in Los Angeles. Where are you? I can come to your office today, if her attorney has some free time.” It might prick her feelings of grief, but dealing with her aunt’s estate would be productive, at least.
And it might make her feel like she was doing something for the woman, assuaging some of her guilt. That might be nice.
“Certainly. We’ll fit you in if you can come before four. We’re in Artesia.” The woman rattled off an address, which Mira input into her phone—Artesia was far by Los Angeles standards, but Mira was no stranger to distance. “Thank you. I’ll see you in about an hour.”
Before leaving the parking garage, she flipped her mirror down and checked her reflection. Her hair was neatly twisted up and there wasn’t a strand out of place. No wrinkles dared to mar her clothes. Her lipstick was still within the lines of her lips, though she’d eaten two courses of internationally acclaimed food.
She closed her eyes for a second. In her mind, she visualized each of her emotions. Sadness, regret, loneliness, fear. They were bundles of throbbing pain wrapped in spikes. Careful of the spikes, she took each one and placed it in a jar, then stuck those jars on a high shelf, securing them in place. When she opened her eyes again, her brain was calm, ready to function. Hopefully, those feelings could stay up there long enough for her to settle her aunt’s affairs properly.
Or forever. Forever would be extremely convenient as well.
Chapter Two
I’d like to buy you a house as a wedding present.”
His attention finally caught on this otherwise mundane phone call, Naveen Desai rubbed the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his grandfather’s chair. Never mind that the old man hadn’t sat here in months now. It would always be his grandfather’s chair, just as this remained his grandfather’s scarred desk, and the sign on the door still said Ravi Ambedkar and Associates.
He fixed his phone where it was propped up on a set of legal books, so he could better see his mother’s face. “A house, eh?”
His mother made an agreeable noise. She was backlit by the massive window in her high-rise office, which offered an impressive view of San Francisco. Her hair was loose, the streaks of gray at her temple framing her elegant face. “Yes.”
“Not a condo,” he clarified. “No shared walls, no HOA.”
“A whole house.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where will the house be? We’re talking here in Artesia or Hollywood Hills or Malibu . . . ? Location makes a big difference in SoCal.”
“Whatever you want.”
“Can it have a pool?”
“Of course.”
“Four bedrooms might be nice.”
“You need some room to grow.”
“And are you going to throw in the bride, or do I have to find her myself?”
She pursed her lips. They were painted the same nude shade she’d worn since he was a kid. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“A little.” He slid over a stack of files. There was always a stack of files. His grandfather was a jack-of-all-trades kind of attorney, so on any given day, Naveen had to wrangle a kid’s immigration status, mediate squabbling couples over prenups written on napkins, or dispense precious jewelry to sobbing heirs. It was, at least, way less boring than his former Big Law job at Miller-Lane. And despite the volume way less likely to lead to him becoming a functioning alcoholic.
His mother folded her arms over her chest. Her blunt, perfectly manicured nails tapped on her arm. “Naveen. I have about had it with you.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m kind of busy right now. Are hypothetical wedding presents the only reason you called?” He flipped open a folder.
“You’re busy doing what? Driving yourself to exhaustion in exchange for being paid in biryani?”
He made a concentrated effort not to look at the minifridge in the corner. His grandfather had always had one in here. Naveen had only realized when he’d taken over the practice last year that the fridge was a necessity when you had a number of clients who brought food as payment. “You’re the one who’s always telling me to eat less takeout. I never have to worry about a home-cooked dinner.”