“If you had a wife, you could have home-cooked meals at home.”
Smooth, that was his mom. “That’s rather sexist, Mom. Don’t you want me to have a nice career girl? How’s she going to come home from her nine-to-five and cook for us?”
“I’m not saying she would cook. You didn’t ever see me cooking for your father, did you? No, but I managed the chef.”
His smile was reluctant. While his father was alive, his mom had played the role of dutiful housewife, sitting at home with her Art History degree gathering dust. After his dad had died six years ago, his paternal uncles had quickly realized Shweta had a keen business mind and she’d stepped neatly into her late husband’s shoes at the family hotel conglomerate. “I don’t need a chef, and I don’t need a wife. Don’t worry about me.”
His mother gave a loud, gusty sigh. “What did you do last weekend, Naveen?”
“I worked. I had three hearings this week.”
“And what are you doing this weekend?”
“I’m working.”
“And next weekend?”
“I see your point. But I’m fine. I find time for hobbies in between the work.” I just don’t want to tell you about those hobbies, because then you’ll really get worried about me. “We’re at a busy time right now at the office.”
“Oh, I know all about that.” Her chin jutted forward. “Your grandfather used to be this busy. The office always came first.”
Naveen tried to think of his next words carefully, aware that his mom’s relationship with his grandfather was a landmine of unsaid words and resentment. Ravi had been a distant father, and he’d never quite come around on the man his daughter had married. Naveen’s grandma had kept the peace between everyone, but after she and his dad died, Ravi and Shweta had gotten entrenched in their bitterness. “I’m not him, and it’s not like I have a ton of responsibilities I’m neglecting.”
“You’re neglecting your future!”
He’d walked right into that. “Relax, Mom.”
“How am I supposed to relax? You’re hiding in that dismal office, you spend most of your spare time taking care of your grandfather, and you have no marriage prospects on the horizon. What am I supposed to tell my friends when they ask me about you?”
Naveen picked up the will he was supposed to be reading. “Who cares what they think?”
She shook her head, her hair swinging. “You don’t care because you don’t live here, Naveen. I do.”
He paused. His mother lived in a weird bubble, a Bay Area suburb that was populated by rich and powerful South Asian families, including his own aunts and uncles. Naveen’s mom was powerful, but the gossips could be vicious. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he said quietly. “I understand. You can tell them I’m making my own way in the world as a solo practitioner instead of killing myself to make someone else rich at that big law firm, and that I’m a good grandson who lovingly cares for your father—”
The door to his office was flung open without a knock. “I resent being referred to like I’m some invalid,” his grandfather announced, in his big, booming voice.
“I didn’t say that,” Naveen said calmly.
His mother rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t see her dad. “Not now, Baba.” His mother’s tone was impatient with her dad, but that was nothing new.
“Yes, now, if you’re talking about me.” Ajoba’s wheelchair whirred as he entered the cramped office. The elder man’s hair had been carefully combed, and his suit was sharp, though big on his skinny frame. His shoulders were stooped, but Ravi Ambedkar’s eyes were nearly as sharp as they had been when he’d hung his shingle out to practice law in this town, almost sixty years prior.
Naveen had always had a connection with his gruff grandfather. It had been Ravi who had coached him into law school, Ravi who had consoled him over his failed engagement, Ravi who had showed up at his doorstep nineteen months ago and bluntly told him that his drinking was out of control, and Ravi who had arranged for his rehab.
So it wasn’t a big deal for Naveen to move here to take over his grandfather’s office after his Parkinson’s diagnosis. The man had saved his life. Naveen could at least try to save the man’s legacy.
“Not everything is about you,” Shweta said, with exasperation. “I’m concerned for my youngest son, and the fact that he’s single and will be alone forever in the middle of nowhere.”
Ouch. “This isn’t the middle of nowhere. I’m in Los Angeles County, Mom.” Reluctantly, Naveen turned the phone so his mother and grandfather could see each other.
Ravi crossed his arms over his chest. “You ready for a bride now, Naveen? I can find you ten girls. Ten girls for every day of the week. You can interview them here.”
His grandfather wasn’t exaggerating. This office had been one of the first buildings on Pioneer Boulevard, a self-proclaimed Little India, and his grandpa had scratched everyone’s back in this community. If any South Asians nearby had marriageable daughters, they’d send them immediately once they found out that Naveen was on the market.
They wouldn’t be coming for him, though. They’d barely care who he was, as a person. He’d be Ravi Ambedkar’s grandson, as he was Shweta Desai’s son up north.
Or Kiran’s little brother.
Nope. At the very least, most people knew not to say his brother’s name around him anymore.
“He’s not hiring a secretary, he’s looking for a wife,” his mother snapped. “It’s quality, not quantity. Son, send me your current headshot and I’ll spread the word. You’re tall, you will have no problem.”
That assurance was more for her than him. His slightly wild past and previous far too scandalous failed engagement did hamstring him a little in the upper-crust fishbowl his mom swam in. “I’m good, thank you for both your offers.”
“Hema is eager to assist in any way she can,” his mother said.
Naveen sat back, eager to put physical distance between that idea and him. “Um, no. I definitely do not want Hema Auntie’s help.”
“She has a hundred percent success rate!”
His grandfather guffawed. “That friend of yours has failed twice with Naveen already.”
“An eventual hundred percent success rate,” his mother corrected herself.
“She never matched Naveen, so it’s at least ninety-nine percent.”
“She matched Payal.” His mother blinked, like she knew she’d uttered a name she wasn’t supposed to.
Funny how Payal’s name didn’t hurt like it used to, though. That was good. Naveen opened his mouth, but no one cared what he had to say.
“How many women is she going to bring to reject Naveen on this round?”
Naveen rolled his eyes up, to stare at the ceiling. He’d developed a thick skin early with his grandfather.
His mom had not. She gasped. “Don’t be rude to my son.”
“I’m not being rude, I’m being honest. The boy has two failed engagements under his belt already, and he’s barely in his midthirties. He needs to get it right this time or people are going to start to wonder if it’s him.”