The Singles Table, page 5
“I just need to know you won’t be alone,” she said softly. “I got through my treatment because I kept thinking, who is going to love my boy if I’m gone?”
“Christ, Mom.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Don’t do this to me five minutes before I have to meet your biker boyfriend.”
“I want you to promise me you’ll try to find a partner,” she said. “Someone who loves you for who you are. Someone who will be there for you. Someone you can love in return.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth to protest. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re busy with work. It isn’t the right time. But I’ve found something with Rick I didn’t even know was missing, and I want that for you, too. Promise me you’ll be open to the idea, that you’ll make an effort to find someone. No more Friday nights with your mom.”
“What about Sunday dinner?” They’d always had Sunday dinner together. Even when she’d been too sick to eat, they’d spent the evening drinking sports drinks and watching old movies on TV.
“We’ll still have dinner on Sundays. That’s our time. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Even without the worried niggle at the back of his mind, Jay couldn’t deny his mother anything, and she knew it. “Fine.” He sighed. “I promise.”
The rumble of an engine echoed through the small parking lot, and a heavyset biker drove up to them on a massive Harley-Davidson touring bike complete with sixteen-inch ape-hanger handlebars.
“Seriously?” His stomach knotted with tension. “You’re going to ride on that?”
“Stop scowling,” his mother said. “I like Rick so I expect you to be polite. One day you’ll meet someone who makes your heart sing and you’ll realize that life isn’t meant to be lived alone.”
Annoyed at the concession he’d been forced to give, he folded his arms across his chest. “I like to be alone.”
“He has a daughter . . .”
“Mom . . .” Thirty-four years old, CEO of his own company, and his mother was still trying to set him up. “I’m busy building something great. The last thing I’m interested in right now is a relationship, and especially not with the daughter of a man who can’t even sit in a car.”
His mother didn’t understand that being at the top meant he could finally breathe. It meant that when the time finally came to have a family, his children would never have to wonder where their next meal would come from or where they would be sleeping at night. It meant that if someone got sick, he could pay for the best medical care. It meant security, and that was all he’d ever wanted.
“It’s not just about a relationship,” she said softly. “It’s about love.”
“I don’t need love.”
“Everyone needs love.” She leaned up to kiss his cheek. “Especially you.”
• 5 •
Compared to Zara’s previous law firms, Cruz & Lovitt was barely a blip on the Bay Area legal scene. With only two partners, three associates, and a handful of staff, the boutique personal injury firm couldn’t afford financial district rents. Instead, the partners had converted the loft of a historical residence in Lower Potrero into a unique modern office space. Zara loved the exposed brick walls and wide-plank wood floors that ran through the reception and kitchen area. Bright, airy meeting rooms had been converted from former bedrooms, and her spacious office had once been a dining room. Furnished with a large black leather couch, reclaimed-wood shelving, and a wide live-edge desk beside a huge casement window, her office would have been the envy of the city associates she’d left behind. Except for her unexpected visitor.
“Why are you sleeping on my couch?” She nudged Faroz Jalal awake. The firm’s private investigator had made himself cozy with the yellow throw and pillows she’d bought to match the Lion King musical print on her wall.
“It’s more comfortable than a cardboard box.” He yawned and rubbed a hand through hair cut military short. A former CIA operative—or so he claimed—Faroz wore combat boots buffed to a perfect shine, camo pants, and a tight gray T-shirt that clung to the planes and angles of his lean frame. He was in his late thirties and had been working with the firm for the last three years. “How did it go?”
Zara dropped her laptop case on her desk. She’d spent the morning on a movie set, and the afternoon in a tiny boardroom with her stuntman client and four sweaty insurance lawyers who didn’t seem to have heard of deodorant.
“We couldn’t come to a settlement so it looks like we’re heading for trial.” Zara grinned. There was nothing she enjoyed more than litigating a case in court. “I thought taking the insurer’s legal team to visit the movie set would make a difference. It’s one thing to read about someone jumping out of a burning helicopter; something else to see exactly how far our client fell when his safety harness snapped. But they still weren’t prepared to give us what we wanted.”
“Did I just hear you didn’t settle the case?” Tony “the Tiger” Cruz walked into the office, his lanky six-foot frame hidden beneath a slightly oversized suit, thick blond curls escaping from beneath his green Yoda beanie. A former stuntman, Tony had suffered a career-ending back injury after an accident on a movie set. A bad settlement with the studio’s insurers had led him to pursue a career as an attorney. After a few years working for the public defender’s office, he’d opened the firm with his friend Lewis Lovitt. Their clients came through Tony’s connections to the movie industry, a network of paid informants, and aggressive advertising based on a branding platform that was second to none.
“Looks like we’re going to court.” Her smile faded when Tony frowned. “Or not?”
“Not.” He turned to Faroz and lifted a brow. “Don’t you have work to do? I thought you were chasing down a lead for that banana peel slip-and-fall.”
“Report is on your desk. The plaintiff is a serial banana peel planter. Five grocery stores this month.” Faroz stood and stretched. “I guess I’ll go chase a few ambulances since a man can’t even relax for five minutes in this sweatshop.”
With a short laugh, Tony waved him out the door. “I heard there was an accident on Central Freeway. You might want to stop by.” He enjoyed playing the role of slimy PI lawyer, but he and Lewis operated an ethical firm—no ambulance chasing, crash site visiting, or trawling emergency wards. They were good employers, savvy businessmen, sharp negotiators, legal aid supporters, and fierce advocates for their clients. Zara had no qualms about recommending the firm to her friends and family.
“You don’t seem happy about taking the case to court,” Zara said after Faroz had gone.
“Trials are long, expensive, and stressful for clients.” Tony leaned against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other. “They’re also not cost-effective if we’re working on a contingency basis, and there is always a risk that the client walks away with nothing. We hired you for your court experience, but we hoped you wouldn’t have to use it.”
“So back to the settlement table?” She swallowed the fear that Tony would use this as a reason to let her go at the end of her one-year contract. After leaving her two previous positions by mutual agreement, she’d never get hired by another firm if this job didn’t work out.
“Tell Janice to book one of the meeting rooms for tomorrow morning and we’ll go over it together,” he said. “I’ve dealt with that insurance company before. They have no interest in going to court. We just need to find the right pressure points.” He adjusted the custom-designed lightsaber holstered at his side. A big Star Wars fan, he claimed the Force helped him with his most difficult cases, and with his track rate of success, his clients were inclined to agree.
“Thanks, Tony. I won’t let you down.”
“Lewis and I are taking Daniel for a drink to celebrate his recent settlement. Do you want to join us?” He checked his watch. “He should be here soon.”
Daniel King, aka Mole Boy, worked at night and slept during the day as a result of a sleep disorder that he had struggled with since he was young. Whereas other law firms had been unwilling to accommodate an associate who couldn’t work regular office hours, Lewis and Tony had jumped at the opportunity to provide twenty-four-hour service to their clients.
“I would love to, but my dad is coming to pick me up for my cousin’s sangeet in Carmel Valley.” She was grateful for the excuse. Mole Boy’s nocturnal existence meant he was socially awkward at best, and the few times they’d been out for drinks together she’d been forced to carry the conversation for both of them.
“Weddings are the best place to find clients.” Tony started for the door. “Keep a stack of cards handy in case someone falls on the dance floor or chokes on an oyster. Don’t forget to tuck one under the windshield of every car in the parking lot. Who knows what misfortune might befall someone on the way home?”
When he’d gone, she tidied her desk and sent her meeting notes to Janice to put in the file. This was so not the life she’d imagined when she’d graduated from law school with visions of meeting celebrities and doing meaningful work promoting diversity in the entertainment industry. But that path had taken her to two big-city firms that were rife with competitiveness and backstabbing. Cruz & Lovitt had offered her an alternative. Firm believers in work-life balance, and accepting of people who didn’t fit the corporate mold, Tony and Lewis had given her a chance to forge her own path in an atmosphere of mutual cooperation.
“Beta, all ready to go?” Zara’s father walked into her office, a smile on his face. Taller than her by five inches and on the lean side because he often forgot to eat when he was painting, her dad had thick dark hair with only a hint of gray and a beard and mustache that he usually forgot to trim.
“Your receptionist, Janice, told me to come on in,” he continued without waiting for her answer. “She was busy playing Candy Crush. I told her to play the fish candy last because they will go for any remaining jellies.”
“I’m almost ready.” She tossed a few boxes of business cards in her purse, each one bearing a picture of the firm mascot, a growling tiger. Although she had some reservations about handing them out—tigers didn’t scream professional—she was prepared to do what it took to make herself invaluable to her new firm.
“What do you think of my new outfit?” He held his arms wide, showing off a burgundy Nehru vest over a yellow, floral-printed jacket and matching pants. Zara blinked rapidly, trying to figure out who had sold him such a fabulous kurta pajama and where she could buy a pair of the Kolhapuri chappals he wore on his slim feet.
“It’s fantastic. Very you.”
“You think the ladies will like it?” He turned once so she could see the colorful embroidered flowers from all angles. “I got it from that new store on El Camino Real. The one between the garden center and the tire shop. The saleslady said it was classy, masculine, but simple at the same time.”
He was so delighted with his new purchase, she had to smile. “There’s nothing simple about that outfit.”
“Simply the best.” Her father loved to quote commercial jingles when he wasn’t slaying chocolates and licorice whips in Candy Crush, banging on his drum, or painting up a storm in his canvas-strewn loft. “And look.” He turned his arms. “She said if I want to grab female attention at the sangeet, I need to roll up the sleeves of the kurta to my elbows. Show a portion of the forearms to look manlier. Women love that.”
This time she laughed. Her dad loved the company of women—all except her mom. “The outfit is perfect but this particular woman would like her dad to appear more dad-like. Maybe don’t show so much skin. Is that too much to ask?”
“Yes, because look . . .” He held out his foot. “One inch off the cuff. She said the ladies like a turn of ankle, too.”
Zara grabbed her travel bag and her lehenga choli from the cupboard. She planned to change at the venue so she didn’t arrive all creased. “What happened to that sculptor who was renting in your building? I thought you and she . . .”
Her father waved a dismissive hand. “She took up metalwork. You know what a light sleeper I am, and the loft is open to downstairs. I couldn’t sleep with the blowtorch hissing all night, so I ended it. Just in time. I heard she set her last boyfriend’s curtains on fire. Now I’m free to mix and mingle as a single, and there’s no better place to meet a special someone than at a wedding.”
“We’d better get going.” She handed him the bag. “Your lucky lady might be waiting for you.”
Weddings weren’t just a good place to find happily-ever-afters; they were also the best place to find clients. This afternoon’s sangeet was about making connections as well as doing a little recon to identify singles for the matching. She only hoped that Tarun’s irritating friend wouldn’t be there to spoil her fun. Who did he think he was, strutting around in his tight T-shirts and sexy low-riding jeans? Smug, arrogant, and entirely too cocky, he needed more than a paintball in the ass to dent that supersize ego.
She gave a snort of irritation as she followed her father out to his minivan. She preferred the company of men who were open to suggestions instead of just barking orders. Men who would ask questions instead of assuming answers. She wanted a man who could open himself up to possibilities and new experiences—a man who could understand her family’s brand of crazy . . .
Except she didn’t want a man, she reminded herself. And she especially didn’t want Jay.
• 6 •
Jay had never truly understood the concept of “running the gauntlet” until he walked into the courtyard of the Tuscan winery where Tarun’s sangeet was in full swing. Dozens of rishta aunties stood between him and the bar, heads swiveling in his direction, noses scenting his single status. To the middle-aged matchmakers, he was fresh meat, and he hadn’t taken more than a few steps before the frenzy began.
“What are your intentions?”
“Have you met my niece? She was former Miss Pakistan.”
“What are you looking for? Tall girl? Smart girl? I have all girls.”
“What job do you do? How much money do you earn?”
If Tarun hadn’t been a close friend, Jay would have turned around and walked back through the ivy-covered bower to the parking lot. No one would mark his absence. A sangeet was a celebration of food and dance, and a chance for the families to get to know each other before the formal wedding reception the next day. Jay usually put in an appearance for the meal and left when the dancing started. He had spent years cultivating the image of a successful CEO. He wasn’t about to ruin it by burning up the dance floor with his jalwas.
“Stay on target, Dayal,” he muttered as momentum propelled him forward across the manicured lawn and through the maze of matchmaking aunties. He spotted Tarun inside the restored open-front stone hacienda and changed course, biting back the feeling of doom.
Get a grip. They’re just middle-aged ladies. They can’t hurt—
“Who do we have here?” Three aunties accosted him only steps away from the door.
“He’s Padma Dayal’s son.” The tallest of the three women checked her phone, without waiting for an introduction. She wore a bright blue sari edged in gold, her dark hair twisted in an elegant bun. “Age thirty-four, single, ex–air force, now CEO of a security company. His shoe size is twelve and he enjoys sports, race cars, and Italian food.”
Jay startled at the accurate description. “Do I know you?”
“Mehar Patel.” She gestured to her companions. “My cousin Bushra, and my sister Lakshmi.”
“I saw him at a sports bar on the weekend,” Bushra said, smoothing down her green and orange salwar suit. “I was in the neighborhood with the son of a friend and we thought we’d drop in on Zara.”
“You made a match already?” Mehar gasped.
“He wasn’t Zara’s type.” Bushra sighed. “No man is her type. I don’t think we’ll ever find her a match.”
No surprise there. Zara had, after all, shot him with her paintball gun only shortly after they’d met. Still, he found it hard to believe that someone as vibrant and spirited as her was single. He filed that information away for later consideration.
Small and neat, and dressed in a yellow sari edged in silver ribbon, Lakshmi studied him intently. “There’s a darkness around him.”
“Don’t mind her.” Mehar patted his arm. “She’s the family astrologer. She sees things. Very useful when we’re trying to make a match. Not so useful if you’re trying to decide what to eat for Sunday dinner.”
“I told you not to get the fish at the market,” Lakshmi muttered. “That bout of food poisoning was totally avoidable.”
“You told me to be wary of fins,” Mehar snapped. “I thought you meant people from Finland.”
“If you’ll excuse me . . .” Jay edged away as they continued to bicker.
“Jungle cats can see through the dark,” Lakshmi called out to him. “Don’t forget.”
After making a quick escape, he joined Tarun, Maria, and Rishi at the bar. He ordered a scotch and soda to settle his nerves and shared the details of his close encounter with the aunties.
“I’m not going to miss those days.” Tarun clinked glasses with Jay and Rishi. “I’m done being hunted as prey.”
“Have you forgotten that Zara introduced us?” Maria gave him a nudge. “She’s like a junior auntie-in-training. If not for her, you’d still be hiding behind potted plants.”
Tarun’s whole body stiffened. “It was just one time and I’d dropped something under the leaves.”
Jay searched the crowd, only half listening as they told the story about how Zara had brought them together. She had to be here. He’d felt a ripple of excitement run through the crowd, a current of energy heading his way.
“Sorry. Oof. Was that your toe?” Zara’s voice carried from the doorway, sending an unexpected thrill of anticipation shooting through Jay’s veins. She didn’t travel a straight path, but was constantly in motion, hugging one person, kissing the next, spinning around to greet some tall blond dude as she swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Vibrant. Alive. In a way he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
