The Full Moon Bride Read online

  After another covert glance at Roger and then at my wristwatch, I figured this guy would be leaving soon. Didn’t they all? I could then change into comfortable clothes and get some research done on the Internet for one of my cases while I scratched at my hives and found some relief. After that I could curl up with a good romance novel and fantasize about having wild sex with a tall man with . . . cinnamon eyes.

  Where the heck had that X-rated thought come from? I privately scolded myself for fantasizing about a stranger named Roger. I’d just met the man, for heaven’s sake. I had to blame such uncharacteristic cogitation on my diet. The hunger pangs were making me light-headed.

  Meanwhile Mom poured coffee and Dad passed around the snacks on dainty plates with a solicitous smile on his face. Since I wasn’t supposed to speak unless spoken to, I sat with my back rigid and my eyes trained on the coffee table, as though I’d never seen it before. The itch on my neck was making me squirm. I could feel the wet spots under my arms getting larger. Twenty more minutes of this and the sweat was likely to start running down my arms.

  When would this visit end?

  “What kind of law do you practice, Soorya?” Mrs. Vadepalli’s voice seemed to reach me through a mental fog.

  I respectfully turned to face her. “Environmental law.” I made sure to look at her without letting my eyes make direct contact with hers. One did not look an elder in the eye. It was a mark of disrespect. I had it down to a science now, this business of looking at people without really looking at them.

  Mrs. Vadepalli’s arched eyebrows climbed up. “Oh, so you are like that movie heroine, Erwin Broncowitch?”

  Movie heroine? Hardly. Julia Roberts was gorgeous. Mrs. Vadepalli’s pronunciation of the protagonist’s name was atrocious, but I smiled and nodded. “Something like that.”

  I was tempted to point out that Erin Brockovich was not a lawyer, but a high school grad and single mother who just happened to work in a law office. However, condescension was another no-no during bride viewing.

  “So you fight to preserve the environment?” chimed in Mr. Vadepalli, the pockets of his cheeks filled with food.

  “Yes and no. My job is to make sure my clients don’t break environmental laws in the course of doing business. But I also see that they’re not penalized irrationally by the lawmakers. My colleagues and I work for preserving the environment but not at the cost of hindering progress.”

  “I see.” Mr. Vadepalli nodded, then frowned a little. “But is there money in that kind of law?” The old man was obviously making some hasty mental calculations about my earning potential.

  Before I could come up with a suitable reply, Dad interceded smoothly on my behalf. “Soorya works at McNamara, Simmons, Poindexter. Their primary clients are major oil companies, land developers, and manufacturers. Soorya earns well.” Dad, with his vast experience in dealing with upper-crust patients and golf partners, was a seasoned and diplomatic conversationalist. I threw him a look of warm appreciation.

  “Very good.” Mr. Vadepalli finally swallowed the wad in his mouth and took a sip of coffee. “And a law degree from Columbia, too,” he added with relish. “Very creditable.” More dollars and cents probably somersaulted across his brain.

  Pamma obliged by adding her own remarks. “Very clever she is, our Soorya. All the time top of class she was.”

  “Just like Erwin Broncowitch.” Mrs. Vadepalli appeared pleased with her analogy.

  Looking sufficiently impressed with my credentials, Mr. Vadepalli seemed to relax. But the lady continued to study my clothes and jewelry, probably assessing their worth.

  Meanwhile Roger got up and took a generous second helping of everything on the table, much to Mom and Pamma’s delight. The man seemed to have a healthy appetite and yet managed to maintain that flat belly. How did he do it?

  I wondered what Roger did for a living. My parents and Pamma weren’t asking him about it, and it wasn’t my place to bring up such a touchy subject. As usual, I had failed to pay attention to my mother’s glowing account of the man I was scheduled to meet today. I regretted it as I indulged in some mental drooling over Roger’s biceps and bedroom eyes.

  All of a sudden, Mister Bedroom Eyes spoke, startling me. “Soorya, do you like going to the movies?”

  “S-sure,” I said, blinking a little.

  “What’s your favorite kind?”

  “I rather like . . . mysteries.” In reality, I adored horror movies—the spookier the better. I had a collection of DVDs that could make the bravest man’s hair stand on end. But I didn’t want to shock these people’s delicate sensibilities by mentioning my passion for terror and gore on the screen. Even Mom would find that hard to forgive.

  Bedroom Eyes beamed at me. “Excellent. There’s a good one that just opened this week. Would you like to go see it with me?” He put his plate down and turned the brilliant smile on my parents. “Uncle, Auntie, you don’t mind, do you?”

  My stomach lurched. Was this some sort of prank? Nobody had insulted me to this degree. Overweight yes. Unattractive yes. Dark-skinned yes. But no man had made me the butt end of a cruel joke. “I beg your pardon?” My voice was cold enough to freeze a lake.

  “A movie. Didn’t you say you liked mysteries?” Roger Vadepalli’s face looked perfectly serious, and his tone sounded rational.

  “I’m not sure. I have a lot of work to catch up on this evening.”

  “Can’t you take a Saturday evening off?” Roger’s eyebrows, which were arched like his mother’s, cocked up, and his big eyes twinkled with wry amusement. He had seen right through my flimsy excuse. And he wanted me to know it.

  “Well, I suppose I could.” This was getting more awkward by the minute. All my communication skills had abandoned me for the moment. So much for being a member of the Toastmasters Club for two years.

  Sending a “help me” look to Mom across the room only got me a gentle, encouraging smile. Pamma, despite her money back-guarantee hearing aid, looked like she hadn’t heard Roger’s words or mine. Oblivious to the tension in the room, she was still chewing on her vadas, her false teeth clicking like knitting needles.

  Dad’s face split up in a satisfied grin. “Go on, you two youngsters.” He made shooing gestures at us with his big hands. “We will entertain ourselves here.”

  I glanced at Roger’s parents. Having consumed a fair amount of food, Mr. Vadepalli burped and didn’t care to excuse himself. But I seemed to be the only one disturbed by such lack of manners. Everyone else was smiling and carrying on as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

  Burping after a satisfying meal was all part of Indian social life, something I’d never accepted. In fact, Pamma always assured me burping was a way of complimenting the host on a superb meal. The Japanese believed in it, too, as Mom often reminded me.

  The Vadepallis seemed quite nonchalant about their son asking a strange woman out on a date, like they’d been through this scenario before. Exactly how many girls had Roger interviewed so far? And how many had he taken to the cinema? Was he in the habit of groping and fondling in the dark? Was that why he’d suggested a movie? If so, he could spell trouble.

  I didn’t want a strange man laying his hands on me. Although on second thought, those long, manly fingers touching me didn’t seem like such a bad notion. It could even be . . . well . . . fun.

  With some reluctance I agreed to the movie idea. What did I have to lose? Once outside the house, Bedroom Eyes was likely to show his true colors. He’d probably say he was merely going through the motions to please his parents and then tell me to my face that he wasn’t interested in me. Or, like my last suitor had done, that gutless weasel, lie to me by claiming he was gay.

  At best I’d get a free movie out of this highly contrived date with Roger—perhaps even a slice of pizza afterward. The Vadepallis appeared to be middle-class. After all, wasn’t the size of my inheritance the main reason all these so-called eligible men came to meet me?

  Bedroom Eyes couldn�
�t be any different from the rest of them.

  I trudged upstairs to my room, took off all the jewelry, the sari and its accompanying garments, and tossed them on the bed. It felt like heaven to be able to shed all those layers and stand in my underwear for a minute. I rubbed some cortisone cream over my welts.

  Then after changing into comfortable slacks and my signature baggy shirt that managed to conceal my generous hips, I repaired my makeup. Grabbing my purse, I went back downstairs.

  Pamma, dressed in her widow’s best for the occasion, white silk sari with a thin green border, threw Roger and me a suspicious look. Even if our respective parents seemed to be in favor of us going out together, Pamma was likely to frown on such nonsense. “Where are you going, Soorya?” she asked.

  “I’m going to a movie, Pamma,” I replied, trying not to be too loud, and hoping I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. Pamma’s hearing problem could be a real pain sometimes, especially when there was company around. Yelling at the top of my lungs was embarrassing. Looking at the others, I realized they were occupied with chatter and ignoring us. Anyway, satisfied with my explanation, Pamma waved us away.

  Roger and his parents were drinking more coffee. Disturbingly, Mom was dropping hints that the Vadepallis should cancel their hotel reservations and stay with us overnight. I winced inwardly at the thought of more torture. Bedroom Eyes under the same roof as me? Perhaps sleeping in our guest room in his birthday suit? Oh dear.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d assumed the Vadepallis would be polite and slip out of here with a few mumbled apologies and promises of calling back within a day or two. Then the call would come—a rejection with some cockamamie excuse tacked on, like “personalities don’t match” or “diverse interests” or “not ready for marriage just yet.” The most original pretext was the one where the guy’s father had said I was overqualified for their son—their doctor son with an MD-PhD, no less.

  And now this. Things seemed to be spinning out of control.

  With a resigned glance at the two sets of parents laughing and reminiscing about their respective hometowns in Andhra Pradesh, the Telugu state in India, I motioned to Roger that I was ready to leave. The elders were getting along beautifully, digging into each other’s ancestry and common acquaintances.

  If one came from the state of Andhra, it was inevitable that one would bump into either a relative or a relative of a relative by marriage. Between in-laws, out-laws, and everyone in between, there was generally a common thread somewhere—if only one was tenacious enough to delve deep enough to find it. Even Pamma was chuckling heartily about something. Her hearing aid seemed to be working rather well this afternoon.

  I heard Mom’s high-pitched giggle. “Oh, looks like we know many of the same people back home. Who knows, we may even have some common relations, right?”

  Mr. Vadepalli’s guffaw followed. “It’s possible. By any chance do you know the Gullapalli family from Hyderabad?”

  Pamma cackled with delight. “Gullapalli? Oh yes, I am knowing quite well.” She switched to Telugu after that.

  An uneasy sigh escaped me. I wasn’t sure if all this camaraderie meant good news or bad.

  Chapter 3

  The second shock of the day came after we stepped into the foyer, when Bedroom Eyes coolly decreed that we should forget the movies and simply go for a leisurely walk. “Let’s get to know each other a bit, shall we?” he suggested.

  I gave him a deliberately bored look. Somewhere within the next ten minutes I’d be hearing his lame excuses. How original would his lies be? He didn’t appear to be gay. He spoke like an educated man. I assumed all his male parts worked adequately, so impotence didn’t seem a likely reason. He didn’t look like a hermaphrodite like Uncle Srinath’s wife, either. And he carried himself well.

  And, oh my, when he smiled, he made my pulse take a dizzying leap.

  “If that’s what you want,” I said, putting some starch into my voice, surprised but pleased to note that my nervousness didn’t show. I seemed well in control of the situation. “There’s a park about a quarter of a mile from here. We won’t need to take the car.”

  Roger nodded. “Excellent. I like walking.”

  He’d said excellent twice in the last twenty minutes. He was either very pleased with the way things were going, or he had a limited vocabulary.

  We crossed the street and walked for a while in silence, my high-heeled sandals making a clip-clop sound on the sidewalk. It was a grand day for a stroll—temperatures in the eighties, a light breeze and the sweet, heady scent of late summer roses in the air. The neighborhood’s lush green lawns and professionally landscaped shrubberies and flower beds looked as perfect as something carved and polished and carefully painted by hand.

  Nearby someone’s automatic sprinkler system came on and droplets of water started to dance in the sunlight, making tiny rainbows as they whirled around and around, releasing the pleasant odor of damp earth. An elderly couple walked their two identical Pekingese dogs, the happy canines wearing jeweled collars. The old lady carried a discreet little pooper-scooper and a plastic bag.

  Half a block down, the aroma of someone’s backyard barbecue met us, making me think of hot dogs and burgers smothered with ketchup and mustard and onions. It always came down to food. Was I the only one, or were all dieters similarly obsessed with food?

  I could feel Roger’s eyes on me and as a result I nearly tripped over the concrete sidewalk a couple of times. Gallantly he reached out and steadied me by grabbing my elbow. I felt like a graceless baby elephant. Generally I walked with a purposeful stride and plenty of confidence. I rarely stumbled. But then I never got to walk alongside a gorgeous sample of the male of the species either.

  To make matters worse, Mr. Shah, an Indian businessman who lived in the neighborhood, was just stepping out of his convertible BMW. It was a great day to ride with the top down, but his comb-over had a windblown look, with a few long, scanty locks spilling onto one shoulder, revealing the entire top of his gleaming head. Comb-overs weren’t meant to go with wind and speed. I knew he would give us an enthusiastic greeting.

  Sure enough, he lifted an arm and waved at me from across the street. “Hellooo, Sooryaaa, hellooo!”

  I waved back. “Hello, Uncle Shah.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the splashing sound of more water sprinklers.

  “Long time no see.” Shah took off his sunglasses. “Been out of town or what?”

  “I’ve been busy,” I yelled, embarrassment making my face and neck feel hot. This walk with Roger was turning out to be quite an experience.

  “Daddy and Mummy doing okay?” Mr. Shah asked.

  “They’re fine, thank you.”

  A couple of women taking a power walk were staring at us for disturbing the peace in this tranquil neighborhood. Loud conversations on street corners were not considered polite in refined communities.

  Besides, dark-skinned folks were still eyed with some wariness in primarily Caucasian neighborhoods—especially after the 9/11 disaster. It was best not to invite unnecessary attention to ourselves. I began to walk faster to get away from Shah.

  However, I noticed Shah keenly eyeing Roger. Oh great! Now Shah would spread it around that Soorya Giri had a boyfriend. Short of placing a bulletin in the India Association’s newsletter, he’d do everything in his power to broadcast the news.

  Next thing there’d be phone calls asking my mother whether I was engaged—at last. Every Indian family in the neighborhood knew about my parents’ frantic efforts to get me hitched. Many of them kept my mother informed about some eligible Indian guy or other.

  Even our non-Indian friends and neighbors were getting involved in the matter. Old Mrs. Singleton had suggested a motel owner with one eye. I had nothing against that, except he was only five feet two inches tall and weighed about one hundred pounds.

  Dad’s golf buddy, Simon Stokes, had found an Indian student at a community college for me, a guy who pumped gas for a living. Th
at wasn’t what bothered me. It was his illegal alien status that irked me.

  The last one, suggested by none other than Mr. Shah, really took the cake—he was a fifty-three-year-old Indian widower with three kids. Apparently he owned a lucrative chain of fast food restaurants and the poor man was lonely.

  Mr. Shah had helpfully added, “Soorya will be a good companion for him and in other respects also—she is young and healthy and he is missing some necessary things in life.” The implication was that a younger woman would likely give the middle-aged man’s starved libido a badly needed workout.

  All those friendly suggestions were meant well, but remaining single was beginning to look more and more attractive.

  Mom’s little blue book was brimming with names, addresses, and phone numbers. “Getting the Giri girl married” had become a mission for our relatives, friends, acquaintances, and neighbors.

  After we’d made it past Shah’s elaborate Tudor-style home, Roger broke his silence to make a polite comment. “Nice neighborhood you have here. Some beautiful houses.” I guessed he didn’t know what else to say. Besides, the homes in the area were rather nice. And why not? They were mostly custom-built, and maintained by professional landscapers, housekeepers, cooks, and maids.

  “Yes, it is rather lovely,” I said. Not being used to much exercise other than walking the block and a half from the subway station to my office, my legs were beginning to get tired as we continued to saunter. I breathed a sigh of relief when the park came into view.

  The place looked a bit crowded because of the ideal weather. But maybe that was a good thing. Surrounded by lots of people meant less opportunity for private and intimate conversation. I wasn’t sure what to say to the enigmatic Roger, although his nearness was disturbingly pleasant. His cologne was cool and citrusy, like a shady orange grove on a blistering summer afternoon.