Читать книгу The Sari Shop Widow - Shobhan Bantwal - Страница 9

Anjali maneuvered her compact black sedan around Oak Tree Road’s busiest intersection. Even this late on a Wednesday evening, when most of the businesses were either closed or in the process of closing, the street was thick with traffic.

Pedestrians crossed the street at leisure and she had to keep a careful eye on them. Many of them behaved as if they were still in their native India, where traffic rules were made mostly to be disregarded. Some even appeared to derive perverse joy out of thumbing their noses at pedestrian crossing signs and honking cars. The same people who were willing to obey the laws two miles outside this neighborhood seemed to lose all sense of civic awareness when they set foot in Little India.

By the time she got to New Brunswick, a mild headache was beginning to set in, probably because she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She’d lied to her parents that she was going to meet some friends for dinner.

An old Beatles tune greeted her as she entered the Rowling Rok Bar & Lounge. The air inside was warm and humid. The bitter, yeasty smell of beer and a mix of perfumes hung in the air. Wednesday was “Ladies’ Night.” Women could buy drinks for half price. The place was comfortably filled with females of various ages but very few men. The hum of chatter was loud enough to muffle the music. The giant TV screen was off.

She headed straight for the bar that Kip was tending. He grinned and waved at her, motioning to her to grab a stool at the counter. A few seconds later, he put a tall glass of rum and cola in her hand. It was the only thing she drank and he knew it well.

“Hi, Angelface. You look a bit peaked,” he said and pinched her cheek briefly. “Hungry?” He pushed a bowl of pretzels toward her. “Want Billy to fry you some mozzarella sticks?”

Shaking her head, she gratefully took a thirsty gulp of her drink along with an aspirin tablet she’d dug out of her pocketbook. Mixing aspirin, cola, and alcohol wasn’t very prudent, but she was too tired to care about prudence this evening. In about twenty minutes her headache was likely to fade away.

She observed Kip return to his task and deftly handle several orders. He was so darn good at that. She often wondered how he could remember the recipes for all those exotic cocktails and stay even-tempered on the busiest of days. He always served with a smile and a friendly word. Even the most difficult customers, including the inebriated and abusive ones, turned to putty in his large, capable hands.

Kip had a way with people. With the number of customers in the bar tonight, it didn’t seem like he’d have much time for her. Just as well, she concluded. She wasn’t in much of a social mood. Maybe she shouldn’t have come at all. Why impose her drab sentiments on Kip?

But when there was a slight lull at the bar, Kip returned to her. Twirling a lock of her long dark hair around his index finger, he tugged gently. “What’s the matter? Had a bad day?”

She took a sip from her glass and stared vacantly at the crowded display of liquor bottles on the long shelf with its mirrored backsplash. She’d come here to forget her woes, but neither the prattling crowd in the bar nor the rum in her cola had helped so far.

A drink with more punch to it would have been nice to get smashed with, but common sense told her it would solve nothing. In fact, she’d be hungover and even more miserable the next day. And facing her mom and dad’s looks of shocked disappointment at seeing her drunk would be a whole lot worse. Instead she brought her gaze back to focus on Kip. “Sorry. I’m rotten company tonight.”

“Something bothering you?”

“A little.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“It’s just some…well…family stuff. I’m not sure I should burden you with it, Kip.”

“What are friends for, babe?” He leaned forward, elbows braced on the counter, his face cupped in his hands, his eyes studying hers. “About this family stuff, let me guess. Did your old man tell you to pitch in with the housework?”

“Not even close.” Kip always teased her about what a pampered life she led.

“Um…let’s see. Your parents aren’t having another baby, are they?” His bright green eyes twinkled with suppressed humor. The fact that she had a brother nearly young enough to be her son seemed to amuse Kip.

“Not funny.” Tonight she wasn’t in a mood for Kip’s sardonic wit. His tall, athletic build and raw masculinity rarely failed to heat her blood, but at the moment she looked with little interest at the way his T-shirt stretched across his wide chest and shoulders, or the way his snug jeans hugged his slim hips and sinewy legs. “I have real problems.”

“Sorry.” His voice turned serious. “Why don’t you tell Uncle Kip? He’s got a nice big shoulder to cry on.”

After a quick survey of the room, she shook her head. “Too many people. I think I’ll just go home.” She didn’t want to yell to be heard above the buzz, despite Kip’s offer of a sympathetic ear. Just because she was feeling blue it wasn’t fair to expect him to drop everything and console her.

“Don’t go yet. I could ask Billy to watch the bar for a few minutes,” he suggested. Despite his laid-back ways, he was a perceptive man. He must have guessed she was in genuine distress.

“Uh…if you’re sure.” Anjali slid off the stool and picked up her glass. “Shall I wait for you at the empty corner booth?”

“No, let’s go out to the patio in the back. It’s too damn hot in here.” He pressed a button on the intercom system located beneath the counter and called the guy in the kitchen. When he heard Billy’s muffled response, he said, “Can you cover for me for a little bit?”

“Yeah. Be there in a minute,” was the reply.

Meanwhile Kip went to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup.

Anjali cast an eye around the lounge. The patrons were scattered in small groups. One of the tables was occupied by what looked like young Indian women, most likely graduate students. They’d been eyeing her curiously since the moment she’d walked in. But she was used to it, that puzzled look reserved for a brown-skinned woman who walked into a bar alone and then sat on a bar stool and flirted with the bartender.

Rowling Rok wasn’t very large, but it was lucrative. From what Kip had told her, he’d inherited it from his late grandfather.

The business seemed to have worked out great for him. He had renovated the ancient bar, put in the giant television set for sports fans, and introduced live music on weekends to replace the old jukebox. Several performers including different types of amateur bands performed regularly to cater to the diverse ethnic groups that frequented his bar. He even had an Indian Bhangra group once a month. The pulsing beat of north Indian Bhangra music was perfect for fast dancing.

Billy came out of the kitchen, wiping the sweat off his brow with a napkin. Billy Rowling was a stocky blond man in his early forties, with a deceptively mean sneer on his round face. Maybe it came from having served in the Marine Corps for many years. In reality he was a sweet but reserved man. He served as short-order cook, bouncer, and substitute bartender. He was Kip’s cousin, right-hand man, friend, and business partner, all rolled into one handy package.

Billy cracked a rare smile at Anjali. “Hi, didn’t know you were here.”

Anjali returned the greeting. “Good to see you, Billy.”

“Likewise,” he said before turning to a customer claiming his attention.

Kip flipped open the hinged counter flap meant for employees to get behind the bar and pulled her in, then ushered her through the cluttered kitchen and out the back door. The aroma of mozzarella sticks and roasted peanuts followed them outside.

The rear patio was a small but neat square of concrete, enclosed by a six-foot-high brick wall. A picnic table and two benches were the only outdoor furniture. The temperature outside was refreshingly cool. Kip was right: it was too hot inside although it was only June and summer had barely begun.

They sat on a bench side by side, leaning against the edge of the table, their backs to the building. Anjali still nursed her drink while Kip sipped his coffee and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He never drank alcohol while on duty and expected his staff to do the same.

He slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. “So what’s bugging you, kid?”

She stared at the row of trash cans lined up like dark sentries standing guard against the wall and took a deep, shuddering breath. “We might lose the store, Kip.”

“Your old man’s selling the place?”

“He might be forced to,” she said. “Financial problems.”

His arm tightened around her. “How did that happen?”

“It’s been happening for a while. We’ve been expanding our inventory, hoping the increase in Indian weddings and upscale parties would mean more business, but that hasn’t happened. Sales are low. I was too careless to notice and my dad was too optimistic to take it seriously until now.”

“I thought your shop was booming. Every year there are more Indian people moving into Jersey, aren’t there? I see them everywhere.”

“That also means more competition,” she reminded him. “Other stores like ours have mushroomed. Ours was the only exclusive boutique at first, but now there are copycats within a stone’s throw. Dad says if we don’t turn a profit soon, we’ll go bankrupt.” Her voice cracked a little. The tears were hovering close to the surface.

Kip remained silent for a minute or two. “Your dad’s a smart businessman. I’m sure he’ll think of a way,” he said softly.

He sounded warm and sympathetic and Anjali instinctively leaned closer against him. Kip was right. He had a big shoulder to cry on, but she quelled the urge to burst into noisy sobs. It would ruin her makeup and make her eyes look like boiled shrimp. She knew she had a passably attractive face and nice eyes, but she just couldn’t cry prettily like some women.

Kip smelled of his usual spicy cologne and coffee and cigarette smoke—a blended scent that she’d come to like a lot. It was potent and very male. Very arousing. “Yeah, Dad thought of a way all right. It’ll kill us all.”

“He’s hired someone to torch the place?” Kip turned to her with wide, stunned eyes.

“No!” She threw him a horrified frown. “How could you even think that?”

“Well, I figured—”

“You figured wrong,” she retorted, interrupting him. “My dad’s a decent and principled guy. He’d never dream of arson and insurance fraud.”

“I grew up in a rough neighborhood; my thinking’s warped.” Kip squeezed her arm. “I apologize.”

She slumped against him once again. “In some ways it’s worse than torching the place. My rich uncle, Dad’s eldest brother, is arriving next week from India to assess the situation.”

“All the way from India?”

“He’s some kind of business mastermind.”

“Well, that explains it.” Kip chuckled. “A nice, rich uncle—Daddy Warbucks, or is it Uncle Warbucks? I thought rich uncles were a cliché. Most of us don’t have one of those, you know.”

“No, some of us have rich grandfathers who hand down flourishing bars,” she mocked.

Kip’s chuckle turned into a laugh, a rich masculine sound that was both droll and seductive. “Guess I deserved that. So what can Uncle Warbucks do that your father can’t?”

“Dad thinks his brother might have some fresh ideas to save the business and even pump some money into it. Strictly a loan, of course. My uncle’s a notorious Scrooge.”

“Rich and stingy?”

“Jeevan Kapadia’s not rich; he’s loaded.”

“Is that what’s getting you down?” He ruffled her hair with his fingers.

“That and everything else. Mom’s going to be impossible to live with as long as my uncle Jeevan is here. The last time he came to stay, she nearly ended up in an institution.”

Kip let out a low whistle. “Mean son of a bitch. Want me to get rid of him for you?”

“Don’t start planting ideas in my head, Kip.”

“I have connections.”

“It sounds awfully tempting, but he’s not that bad,” she replied on a laugh, realizing she was feeling a little better. The headache was finally wearing off. Kip’s warm hand traveled from her shoulder to the nape of her neck and made firm, circular motions that she found deeply soothing. “Mmm…that feels great.” She sighed as he continued to rub and knead her skin and follow a downward path all the way to the small of her back. Kip had great hands, large and hard but not too rough. At the moment he was making her purr like a well-coddled kitten.

Suddenly her breath came to a standstill before lurching back into a jerky rhythm. His hand had circled around her rib cage and wound itself about her right breast. She turned her head and looked up at him. Sure enough, he was staring at her with a gleam in his eyes. The tiny diamond in his earlobe glinted in the muted glow cast by the streetlight beyond the wall. “You are one hell of a beautiful woman, Angelface,” he murmured.

Anjali shivered. Lord, but Kip had a way of getting her excited. With his long fingers caressing her through the thin fabric of her silk blouse and lacy bra, and the expression on his face looking like he wanted to devour her whole, it was hard not to surrender to the urge to let him have her.

So she did. Somehow she always did—despite the lectures on caution she delivered to herself time and again.

Kip had a breathless effect on her. He was different. At forty-six, a full nine years older than she, he was a suave, practiced lover who knew how to pleasure a woman while pleasing himself in the process. She’d never asked him how many women he’d slept with. As long as he wore protection, what did it matter?

He was her one outlet from long hours of work and the strict, puritanical atmosphere of her home. Her parents would never understand something like the basic, carnal needs of a young woman. All they knew was how not to talk about sex and to satisfy anything remotely sexual within the sanctity of a nice, neat marriage bed concealed behind locked doors.

And Anjali didn’t have that luxury.

She wasn’t in love with Kip, thank goodness. Her feelings for him were based on lust and genuine affection. He was a confirmed bachelor and way too independent for her to think about anything permanent with him. Besides, in her old-fashioned Gujarati environment, Kip would stick out like Mount Everest planted amidst gentle, rolling hills.

And Kip never concealed the fact that he liked women—all colors, nationalities and religious affiliations included. His only criterion seemed to be beauty. As long as he thought a woman looked good, and she was able and willing to put out, Kip was available.

How had she, a second-generation Indian-American widow raised in a conservative family, ended up with a Don Juan like Kip?

She had stepped into Rowling Rok one night with two of her girlfriends on a Ladies’ Night. She’d been wearing one of her own designs, a sleek peach silk dress that did wonders for her complexion and long dark hair.

When she’d gone up to the bar for a refill, Kip had flirted wildly with her. “So, are you an angel descended from heaven or am I dreaming?” he’d asked with a wicked glint of humor in his eyes. They were a rich shade of green she’d never seen before.

“I’m very human, thank you,” she’d replied warily, despite the heady feeling of being thoroughly surveyed by a pair of sexy, roving eyes that had turned warm with appreciation, like liquid emeralds.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”

“Why do you want to know?” she’d challenged him, trying to put as much starch into her voice as possible. She wasn’t about to give her name or anything else to a flirtatious wolf with the most beautifully sculpted body and an incredible smile.

He had chuckled, the sound making Anjali want to reach across the counter and touch his face to see if it was as delightfully raspy as it looked with its late-evening shadow. “I make it my business to find out who comes into my lair.”

There, she was right: he was a wicked wolf. “So you own this…lair?” She’d pretended to throw a casually critical glance around the room. Although she’d liked the warm, polished oak paneling, the friendly atmosphere, the framed prints of the Jersey coast, and the cozy lighting, she’d managed to appear indifferent.

“Yeah, I’m Kip Rowling, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok,” he’d replied and put his hand forward for a handshake.

There was no way to avoid a friendly gesture like that. So with her slim hand placed in his large, hard grasp, she’d aimed a hesitant smile at him. “I’m Anjali Kapadia. Nice to meet you, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok.”

He’d pretended to clutch his heart and gasp, making her giggle. “An-ja-li? As in An-gel-face? I knew it. I knew you were an angel from heaven.”

After the introduction he’d invited her to sit at the bar stool instead of returning immediately to her table and they’d talked for several minutes. He was a delectable surprise, a much-needed one after a very long dry spell with no men and no amusement in her life. Despite her efforts to keep a rein on her emotions, she’d lost a bit of her heart to Kip that night. And given him her cell phone number.

Following the entertaining chatter with Kip, she’d returned to her table, only to be teased mercilessly by her friends about the cute bartender with the kissable mouth and gorgeous eyes. Then, surprisingly, Kip had called her the following week and invited her to his bar once again for drinks. Within a short time she’d found herself visiting him at least twice a week after work.

She always told her parents she was going out with her girlfriends, and they didn’t seem to mind as long as she got home by midnight and was at the store before ten o’clock the next morning. They were naïve enough to believe she was merely enjoying the company of other single women.

Within months of getting to know Kip, Anjali had wound up in his bed. And she wasn’t surprised at all. Kip was that kind of guy—all masculine charm, hard muscle, and the sexual finesse of a male courtesan. He could seduce a woman with a mere lift of an eyebrow.

The first time it had happened she’d been drinking too much. It wasn’t a legitimate excuse but she liked to think it was. It was a lapse in judgment—and it happened more often than her conscience was comfortable with.

Now, as always, Kip led her upstairs to his apartment. It was no more than a small office with an adjoining bedroom and bath—his home away from home. It was a place to do his bookkeeping, to rest, to unwind. His love nest.

At first she’d felt awkward and embarrassed about sleeping with a man who had no sense of morality. He’d made no promises to her and never tried to hide the fact that the comfortable, king-sized bed in that room saw plenty of action. But then she’d realized she was no better, especially when compared with other Desi women her own age.

Some thirty minutes later, feeling somewhat less stressed and wearing the glow of recent sex—scorching, toe-tingling, mind-numbing sex—she kissed Kip good-bye. “Thanks, I feel a lot better.”

He chuckled. “My pleasure, Angelface.”

She descended the stairs and went around the side of the building to the parking lot. As always, after one of her trysts with Kip, she felt a deep sense of shame and guilt sweep over her. She was a sensible businesswoman raised in an orthodox Hindu household, and yet it seemed like she was seeking out cheap thrills.

What was the matter with her? Was it only loneliness that goaded her into a secret liaison with a man like Kip? Or was she a nymphomaniac? How did other women cope with what she was going through?

If she paid heed to her parents’ advice and married a decent man, she could have all the sex she wanted and put an end to the loneliness. She could have love and warmth and a sense of belonging. And yet, lifelong commitment was not what she wanted at this time. Face it, Anjali, she told herself. You’re different from other Indian women. You’re free-spirited and your libido is a tad too active. Learn to live with it.

Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she turned on the ignition. At the moment there were more pressing things to worry about than her seemingly out-of-control libido.

A large asteroid named Jeevan was hurtling toward the United States. And she had to brace herself for the impact.