A little ball of emotion caught in her throat. The stern-faced man from the previous photo was no more. He was looking down at the petite woman next to him with complete adoration. She was beautiful, in a simple white dress and lace veil, her heart-shaped face lit up with possibilities. “Your parents are beautiful.”
“They were.” His smile was tinged with sadness. “She passed away when I was young, in childbirth with my sister.”
“I’m so sorry,” Katrina murmured. “My mother also passed when I was young.”
Andrés patted her hand in sympathy. “It’s tragic. I was happy to have the time I did with her, and so was my father. They were an excellent example of compromise and love. My mama went to the Gurdwara. My dad went to church. Every Saturday we’d go to this restaurant in town owned by another Mexican-Punjabi family and have their signature dish, a roti quesadilla. After she died, my father took me to all those places on his own, tried to keep her spirit alive for me.”
She smiled, wistfulness twining around her heart. Imagine, having a father like that. “Sounds like they built a good life.”
“They did,” he said simply, and jerked his chin at another wedding portrait on the other wall. This one was of a much younger Andrés and a beautiful Punjabi woman. She was dressed in bright red. Their brown skin glowed. “They were the example I followed when I married. That’s my late Mata. We were childhood sweethearts.”
Katrina didn’t know how much more her tender, romantic heart could take. “She’s lovely. Your family is lucky to have so many wonderful examples of love and marriages.”
“You didn’t have such examples?”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No. My mother met my dad when she was in grad school, and they got married quick. It lasted about a year, didn’t work out.” Which was a massive understatement. Since her parents had split before she was born, she didn’t know how bad it must have been, but knowing her dad . . . well. A nightmare, probably, for her mom.
Andrés gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It was for the best.” Thanks to that divorce, the first nine years of her life had been peaceful.
She rarely got so personal with someone she’d just met, but it was remarkably easy to talk to Jas’s grandfather. He’d looked so forbidding when he’d thundered into the yard of the little house, but really he was a pussycat. Especially when it came to his family.
So why is he so mad at Jas?
Such a puzzle. “Thank you for giving me this history lesson.”
“Perhaps at some point, I can take you to the museum. I know the curator well, we’ll go after hours. My family, the other families around here, we’ve all contributed to it.”
She softened at his thoughtfulness in subtly assuring her the place would be empty. “Sounds like you have a good community.”
“The best. Our parents and grandparents started it, digging this soil with their bare hands. They took up space for themselves, carved out a whole new place for us. We have to nourish their legacy, or no one will.” His fond smile vanished. “That’s what I’ve tried to teach my grandsons.”
She barely heard the last part. She froze, something in the words he’d said speaking to her soul. Realization crashed down on her.
She’d carved out a place for herself, too.
She could stand to take up some more space, though. No, wait. Why not all the space? Yes, proactively take up space. Sit in the front seat, if she wanted to. Tap her resources to launch some sort of CafeBae counterattack instead of playing wait-and-see. Kiss Jas. Touch his eyebrows.
All you have to do is find out if he wants that too.
She could do that, right? The people in these photographs, they’d done way more, with way less. They’d built the nation. She could build her own life.
A chubby woman in soft black pants and a denim shirt hustled into the room. “There you are. Andrés, are you boring this poor young woman?” She was in her mid-sixties, and had a slight Indian accent and crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Despite her casual farm wear, three gold bangles clanked on her wrist.
“She wanted to see the family history,” Andrés said gruffly, but his eyes were kind as they rested on the woman. “This is my housekeeper, Daisy.”
“Katrina, what a pleasure to finally meet you. Jasvinder speaks of you so highly.” Daisy took Katrina’s hands. “Would you like a hug?”
That the older woman would ask made Katrina want one more. “Oh yes.” She stepped into the woman’s arms. Something constricted in her chest as Daisy pulled her in tight.
It was so . . . grandmotherly.
She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, trying not to be a weirdo. Rhiannon’s mom mothered her, or tried to, but she had no one in her life akin to grandparents. Not even her real grandparents.
Katrina stepped back, lest she linger in that comforting embrace too long. “I did want to see the family history,” she confirmed.
“Well, Andrés can chatter at you about that later,” Daisy said firmly. “Jas tells me you like to cook. Would you like to come help me in the kitchen?”
Ah. Jas had sent Daisy to rescue her, probably not realizing that she was enjoying this impromptu story time. “I would love to.”
“Good. I sent Jas down to the chicken coop to get some eggs. I want to make a cake.”
Andrés snorted as he followed them out. “The boy may cry if he gets his shoes dirty.”
“Don’t you make fun of Jasvinder, I see you polishing your shoes at night,” Daisy said archly to her boss. “Jas grew up gathering eggs, it’s a skill you never quite lose. Thank you for bringing that cobbler over, Katrina. It smells delicious. Jasvinder couldn’t stop telling me about what an excellent chef you are.” Her dark gaze was smiling but speculative, and Katrina wasn’t entirely sure what she was speculating about.
“Oh no. I’m not a chef. I just like to cook for people.”
“A chef is anyone who cooks,” Daisy said. “We serve langar at the Gurdwara, a free meal for anyone who wishes it. That’s what I tell all the sweet young people who volunteer to help cook, that they are all chefs.”
Providing a meal to nourish anyone who needed it? Sounded like Katrina’s dream. “That’s fantastic. I like that.”
“It is, isn’t it? Come now. It’s time for something other than these stuffy history lessons.”
“Excuse me,” Andrés huffed behind them. “I can hear you.”
Daisy patted Katrina’s hand but spoke to her employer. “I know.”
JAS’S GAZE KEPT slipping to Katrina. She was too quiet, but her eyes were alert. He wished he’d been seated next to her, but Andrés had helped her to the chair closest to him.
“Pass me the salt?”
Jas handed his brother the saltshaker. Bikram had joined them for dinner, which Jas had learned was a nightly thing. His brother’s skin glowed with health, and his body was relaxed. He and their grandfather had spent most of the meal so far chatting easily about the day’s work. They were so alike in their pleasure in this place, so in sync, one would never realize that they weren’t related by blood.