One Day Like This: A feel-good summer romance Page 8

  “I knew I should have stopped by sooner,” said Natalie. “I would have brought some of my stuff over and tried sewing a dress in peace and quiet. Kandace was raging with some fabric dealer the whole time I was trying to pin one of the skirts at work earlier this morning.” She set the mail packages she had picked up at the post office on the table. “What’s in these boxes, anyway?”

  “Some office supplies,” said Tessa, opening a box on the table in the entry room, where they hoped to have a reception area after a little remodeling. “And the rest of the business cards, in case we need extra.” Their logo was printed beneath the firm’s name: the trio of bells with flowers and a fluttering ribbon at the top of the cluster. Planning Moments to Remember—Weddings, Vow Renewals, and Other Special Life Occasions was printed below it, with their office number and website. “I’m thinking of designing a web ad for some of the wedding venue sites, something using our logo, or maybe our website’s banner.”

  “Website?” said Natalie. “When did you have time to set up a website?”

  “It’s only partly set up,” admitted Tessa. “I’ve been working on it. It’s missing some details, like photos and a company email, which I’m filling in—we’ll spruce it up after our first client or two. Right now, we’re just beginning. We’re still at least a week away from hosting any paid events.” She opened her laptop on the table and clicked on the website’s address, revealing the “Coming Soon!” photo page, and the decorative home page with their new logo and name at the top.

  “A week away. That’s optimistic, Tess.”

  “Here’s where our names and bios will go. Should we have photos of ourselves?” asked Tessa. “I’m hoping to finish this part by the weekend, so send me a nice photo and some biography details you want included for yours. I’m asking Ama for the same.”

  “I don’t want my photo—” began Natalie, as a shower of dust cascaded from the ceiling above, accompanied by a tremendous thud.

  “What’s that?” Ama had just entered with a box of kitchen supplies in her arms. “Is someone upstairs?” She glanced above their heads, where the antique light fixture was shaking, little bits of plaster dislodging from around its burnished brass.

  “The contractor I hired,” said Tessa.

  “The contractor?”

  “He’s here to finish assessing what it’ll take to fix up the building,” said Tessa. “You know, a few basics. So we can have our separate offices upstairs, a decent restroom or two, a reception area by the sitting room downstairs—and, of course, he’ll install the kitchen appliances according to code so you—”

  Two more thuds followed, accompanied by the protesting squeal of wood. “Are we sure he’s not here to tear this place down?” asked Natalie.

  “Relax, I already talked to him about it. He knows we only want stuff done if it’s absolutely necessary. Plus he had great recommendations on the help site,” said Tessa. “He’s just getting a feel for the place right now so he can give us a cost estimate.”

  “I want to see the upstairs before he destroys it,” said Natalie. “Maybe I can spot my former future office among the ruins.” She began climbing the steps. “How long is the contractor going to be here?”

  “Probably not long,” said Tessa. “I told him we planned to paint really soon, and put up the new wallpaper.” She closed her laptop’s lid as more plaster dust showered down.

  * * *

  The contractor sat down with them in the future parlor, where the broken-down furniture consisted of some worn-out kitchen chairs and a folding table Tessa had borrowed from her former boss’s surplus stock. Blake was still sporting the flannel and denim look she had thought of as a handyman’s cliché when they first met, except his shirt was green this time—contrasting with the frost in his eyes, she told herself, that she’d created when she crushed his illusions about restoring the building.

  “It’s rough,” the contractor announced. Again. Tessa managed not to roll her eyes.

  “The estimate, you mean,” said Natalie, as she opened a Diet Coke.

  “Everything,” he said. “That’s what I mean.”

  “What?” said Ama with a funny smile. “It doesn’t look that bad to me. I mean, there’s a hole in the floor upstairs, and some water damage on the ceiling, but we could plaster and paint over it. It’s part of the historic charm, right? Old buildings look old.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Tessa told her. “You expect a few crumbly spots in a building this old.”

  “Water damage? Holes?” Blake said. “Those are the least of your worries. This building isn’t getting any younger. A lot of the wiring is shot, and you have a radiator system that’s practically a fire hazard unless its pipes get some attention. There are some busted windows on the top floor, ruined linoleum in the bathroom, and a couple of bad joists in the upstairs floor. You’re looking at a month’s worth of work, just to begin with those little things. And those are essential repairs, yes,” he added, with a pointed look at Tessa.

  “How much?” asked Tessa. “We’re on a budget, like I told you before. We just need the—”

  “The basics. Message received,” he finished. “But all of this is necessary, if you don’t want your building to burn down or fall down. Ideally, I would close this place up long enough to gut the upstairs walls, at least.”

  “Gut them?” repeated Tessa. “You’re kidding. They look fine.”

  “Tear out all that walnut paneling upstairs? And the antique fixtures?” echoed Ama.

  “I would salvage every piece I could, and put it back the way it was meant to be,” Blake replied, holding up his hands as if to fend off an attack. “You have my word on that. But you need new supports and new wiring. After that, you can cover the walls with the salvaged paneling and paint or paper them, as you seem so keen to do.” Here, his eye landed briefly on Tessa. “Whatever it is you want.”

  “But we need this place to be presentable really soon,” said Tessa. “I have the paint chips and the wallpaper samples ready to pick from today—I bought the primer already. I have furniture coming in next week.”

  “I can do it one wall at a time,” he said. “When I finish with one, paint it. Just don’t get too impatient—not if you want me to reinstall some of those original fixtures. I’ll have to tweak the wiring and the connectors before they’ll work. Unless you want new ones? Shiny modern gold with plain globes?” He didn’t look as if this was the reply he wanted to hear. There might even have been a touch of bitter sarcasm in his voice.

  Tessa resented the implication of his words. It’s not as if she was deliberately targeting the building’s history by making him leave the shoddy old patchwork and weird changes by its past owners.

  Besides, she liked the spiral staircase, no matter its true architectural background.

  “Can we get a second opinion?” asked Natalie, raising her hand.

  “What about the plumbing?” said Ama. “Is that any good?”

  “I took the liberty of looking at it, and I have some good news on that subject. It’s copper, original, and fairly decent,” he said. “But I have worse news about your probable kitchen space. Those outlets won’t be able to hold a fridge or stove as it stands.” He tapped the space on the building blueprint that was open on the table. “It’ll take a lot to get that room up to code.”

  “Let me guess. Roaches and rats,” groaned Natalie, whose head lolled ceilingward as she drooped in her chair. “Tessa, maybe we should—”

  “We’re not giving up this spot,” said Tessa. “It’s too late. Besides, it’s perfect. We’ll just have to work around the problems and prioritize, that’s all.”

  “Please,” said Ama to Blake. “We’re a little desperate. Just for the sake of niceness, give us some hope.”

  A pause, during which the contractor studied his list of the building’s woes and the blueprint, looking deep in thought, judging by the concentration on his face.

  “I would start with the kitchen,” he said. “Tha
t means installing the outlets for your appliances, sealing off any cracks, and taking a look at the vents. Then I could put in some stainless steel fixtures, so we can get you up to code. After that… I’d strip the walls upstairs and start with the wiring up there. Lucky for you, I’ve got some electrical experience, and a friend who’s licensed in it and works for cheap. Then I’d look at those weak joists last. Of course, I’d have to cover the walls again afterward—unless you want to do that yourselves.”

  “Not really,” said Natalie. It was obvious that she was picturing the three of them trying to lift heavy paneling into place and drive nails into it.

  He made a note with the pencil tucked behind his ear. Glancing up, he made eye contact in turn with all three hopeful expressions trained on him. “Look,” he began, in a gentler tone, “I’ll keep costs down for you as best I can. I’ve got a six-month payment plan, so you won’t have to rush to pay me.” He tapped his pencil against the list of repairs. “So what do you want to do?”

  The three of them exchanged glances. Tessa released a deep sigh. “I guess we’ll start with the kitchen, then,” she said. Stainless steel counters wouldn’t be cheap, even if they could find a restaurant salvage warehouse. How much did it cost to rewire a kitchen?

  “I’ll go get started,” said the contractor, pushing back his chair. “I’ll grab some extra tools from my truck. Drill, hammer, saw. We’ll have to keep the power to the building shut off before I go near anything electrical. In the meantime, try not to plug in any appliances more powerful than a toaster.”

  “You have a hammer with you already,” pointed out Natalie. “Do you really need a second one?”

  “Different hammer,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Great,” groaned Natalie. “Not only will we end up tearing out more of the building than we actually keep, but we’ll be paying our repairman for the rest of our lives.”

  “Maybe it won’t be as bad as it sounds,” said Ama helpfully. “Maybe we can just avoid walking on the bad spot on the floor. That way nobody takes a shortcut to the sitting room, right?”

  “I’m glad you can laugh about this,” said Natalie. “Me, I’m not so sure I’m ready. We’d better have some good news soon, so I can feel it was worth it. At least you’re not worried about your job, whereas Kandace will probably be impossible to work for as soon as she learns about this little venture.”

  “Don’t envy me too fast,” said Ama, half-muttering.

  “It’ll be fine,” said Tessa. “I’m sure he’ll do what he says and keep the costs low. We’ll just trust that he won’t overcharge us, and that our first few clients will bring in enough money to pay for the renovations. Plus a little paint.” She reached into her bag. “Speaking of which, who wants to pick out room colors?”

  “I do,” said Ama. “Just not right now. I still have some more stuff to bring in. Think it’ll be safe here?” she asked, as the handyman entered again. He held a giant toolbox in one hand, and a Skilsaw dangled from the other one as he made his way to the kitchen.

  “He didn’t say he was remodeling the closets,” pointed out Tessa. She spread open a series of paint shade strips and a book of wallpaper samples.

  “Let me see them,” said Natalie, holding out her hands. “I need an inspiring color for my workspace. I’m thinking eggshell on the window wall, with some funky modern art-style squares of color. Sort of like a geometric mural.”

  Colors would definitely spruce things up. They would use bright colors in the sitting room and the foyer, something that suggested flowers, maybe. Lavender and rose… maybe a soft green… something resembling the old smoke-stained wallpaper’s former shade, and fresh ivory paint over the dull white wall trim. All three of them would feel better about this place’s future once a few improvements were visible, and they could open the doors for their new clients.

  A new message popped up on her phone. The front door slammed closed—not Ama returning with a box of pans, but the handyman with a coil of wire over his arm. Tessa tried to remember if his webpage mentioned an electrician’s license as she opened the text on her phone. It was from Stefan.

  We need to talk. Changed my mind. Sorry.

  About what? Tessa’s mind flew over this cryptic text. She texted her question, receiving a reply that sucked away her breath.

  The business. So sorry. Just won’t work out for me. A frowning face appeared at the end of this statement.

  What?!? Her fingers flew over the keypad.

  Sorry again. Explain later, swear. Totes busy now.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Tessa closed the message box hastily, as if that would somehow erase the conversation just cut short by Stefan, from wherever he had been this past week instead of moving his things here. Now there were only three of them to share the repair costs—and worse yet, none of them had any official reputation in the event planning world.

  Whistling to himself, the handyman strolled by with a sledgehammer over his shoulder.

  Eight

  “But why do you want to do this, Ama?” Her mother’s voice was filled with perplexity.

  “It’s only part-time right now,” said Ama reassuringly. “It’s a chance for me to help some friends and do a little extra baking. And free the restaurant kitchen from all my supplies, too.”

  She could feel her mother’s suspicion, although Pashma had not turned around while dicing beef for the curry. The free end of her mother’s cotton sari was tucked into the strap of her apron—unlike the rest of the family, her mother refused to wear Western fashions after thirty-two years in America, even for practical purposes. She was still disappointed that Ama had cut her hair short and couldn’t be depended upon to wear a sari or salwar kameez on formal occasions.

  “It’s a chance for me to spread my wings,” said Ama. “Meet new people. I’ll still be making desserts for the restaurant menu, so nothing will change.” Not right now, anyway, she added mentally.

  “I don’t know,” said her mother, tossing cubes of meat into the hot skillet, where they sizzled along with some cloves of garlic. She shook her head. “There are more important things to do than bake cakes.”

  “Yes—there’s marriage,” said her brother Jaidev mockingly. “You can’t forget the age-old custom of shaadi just for the sake of having a life.” His teasing tone earned him a disapproving look from their mother.

  Marriage was the only thing on her mother’s mind, now that Ama was over twenty-five. Every eligible young Indian man in their neighborhood had been assessed and considered as a possible husband for her since she was sixteen—Ama had been dodging romantic setups for years now.

  “Maybe we should put the ad in the paper,” said her mother. “Your father thinks it’s time.”

  Ama groaned internally. “No ads,” she said. “Not in the paper, or online, either.” Matchmaking ads in Indian papers and journals had long been the favorite reading material of her mother and her aunts, and not just for entertainment. Plenty of arranged-marriage sites had caught her father’s eye over the past year, after he finally learned to surf the web. Ama now believed he had learned how in order to widen the pool of prospective sons-in-law for his daughters.

  “It’s bad enough that you’ve hinted to every boy in the community that I’m available, without bringing in strangers.” She took a bite from a mango in the fruit bowl, as her sister Rasha swatted her hand.

  “For the dessert,” she scolded.

  “Not anymore,” retorted Ama. “I’m changing that special as of now.”

  “Maybe you should think about a matchmaking website. I met Sanjay through one.” Rasha pulled an apron over her t-shirt and jeans. “I think we’re a perfect match, too.”

  Their father Ranjit entered the kitchen. “Do I smell kaara kuzhambu?” he asked, lifting the lid on a pot. “There will be a full house today. I can feel it. Lots of spiced lentils and rasam.” He put on an apron.

  “Tell Ama that you are going to put an ad in the paper for potential suitors
,” said Pashma.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary,” said Ama. “There’s still plenty of time to meet somebody. This city is full of single guys. Sooner or later, I’ll meet one. Maybe fall in love and be swept off my feet.”

  Not all of the city’s single men were Indian, of course, much less from the right background and family. That was what her parents were afraid of when it came to leaving things to chance: that Ama would fall in love with someone totally different from the rest of them, and, therefore, totally inappropriate.

  “Talk to her. She’s going to work for strangers in a bakery,” said Pashma. “She wants to meet strangers and go out into the world, she says.”

  “Ama’s not exactly leaving,” intervened Rasha, in an attempt to explain.

  Ranjit looked dumbfounded by this announcement. “What strangers?” he asked accusingly. “Strangers from nice Indian families are no good to you—but strangers from the street are acceptable?”

  Ama managed not to roll her eyes. “I just don’t want an arranged marriage,” she answered.

  “It isn’t like marrying a stranger,” said Rasha. “It’s not as if Sanjay and I never saw each other before the wedding. We were matched, we met, we dated. Now look how happy we are. And look at Nalia—she and Devar are happy, too.”

  “Why don’t you leave Ama alone? She’ll get married eventually,” said Jaidev, who finished carving the side of beef and removed his stained apron. “So she doesn’t want to meet someone right now. Big deal.”

  “She should have married Vikram,” said Ama’s aunt, piping up shrilly—Pashma’s sister, nicknamed “Bendi” for being the ultimate meddling Indian auntie when it came to everything from matchmaking and careers to choosing what side dishes should be on the menu. “He had a good job. Good prospects, nice family. A little homely, but there are worse things than a boy who isn’t handsome.”

  “Vikram didn’t even like me,” protested Ama. “We were barely friends. Neither of us was interested in the other one, I assure you. He only went out with me because you asked his mother to make him do it.”