Epilogue Eighteen Months Later
Houston Chronicle
A Tour of Houston’s Newest Inns and B & Bs
By Lina Richards, Staff Writer
Somewhere halfway between the hustle and bustle of Houston and the overcommercialized piers and beaches of Galveston Island sits a small, unassuming, newly opened inn.
In the wake of the devastating hurricane that wiped out a good portion of this area a year and a half ago, it hasn’t been uncommon to see newly renovated houses and businesses crop up around here. But as a locally owned and operated venture, M & N’s Inn by the Bay stands apart. Its owner, Nikhil Nader-Chopra-Wright, has spent all of his adult life in this part of Houston and bought the property before the storm ever hit.
“It’s been a passion project from the beginning,” he tells me. “It’s taken a lot of work, but it’s always been a labor of love.”
As he walks me through the lobby, past the cheerful pale green sign saying, “Welcome to M & N’s,” and up the handcrafted staircase, I can see what he means. From the refinished wood floors to the minute detail in the crown molding, it’s evident that Nader-Chopra-Wright has poured a lot of himself into this place. Instead of the neutral white, gray, and beige aesthetic popular with coastal bed-and-breakfasts, he’s leaned into deep, bright colors. He explains that this was an intentional choice and that the décor in the bedrooms is heavily influenced by designs associated with the region of India his mother immigrated from.
You might recognize Nader-Chopra-Wright’s wife, Meena Nader-Chopra-Wright, from her posters, billboards, and general campaigning around town. Ms. Nader-Chopra-Wright, who insists that I call her Meena, shows me around the exterior of the property, taking me out onto the dock overlooking the bay.
“It’s a mouthful,” she says with an easy grin. “Our last name. My campaign manager even suggested I shorten it to help with name recognition, but I like it too much.” She lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “It just fits us.”
Despite having recently lost the primary election for beloved local figure Congresswoman Garcia’s former seat, Meena seems to be in high spirits. I tell her as much, and her smile doesn’t fade.
“I’d known Elizabeth Jeffries would be a formidable candidate torun against, and she was. But now that the primary is over, I’ve thrown my complete support behind her. We need someone who carries Congresswoman Garcia’s legacy forward, not someone who takes us back, and I’m proud to support Elizabeth. I know she’ll do exactly that.”
Meena’s husband joins us, mentioning that this is his favorite spot on the property. The view of the water is stunning, and he notes that guests can fish off the dock or borrow one of the inn’s canoes and explore the bay—canoes that he happened to craft himself, his wife chimes in—but the reason this is his favorite spot is because it’s the place where he proposed to his wife.
“He proposed with a pair of sneakers,” Meena says with a laugh. “Can you believe that?”
Nader-Chopra-Wright drops an arm around his wife’s shoulders, the casual affection between the pair obvious and clear. He mutters something about how he never got to propose properly thefirst time around, and when I ask what he means, he waves itoff.
“I also gave her a ring,” he says, his cheeks turning a little red. “Just to be clear.”
Meena nudges him playfully. “He did, but the sneakers were my favorite part.”
She insists that Nikhil explain the meaning behind them. He gives her a look, rubs the back of his neck, then sighs. “I’d watched this documentary following different activists running for Congress,” he says. “And one of them mentioned that she’d spent so much time campaigning door to door that she’d literally worn holes in her sneakers.” He shrugs. “So, I bought Meena a couple pairs of her favorite ones. I bought myself a couple pairs too. It was right around when she was deciding whether she’d put her name in the running, and I just wanted her to know that I was with her. That I meant it when I said I wanted to share every part of our lives with each other.”
When I ask whether Meena has any plans to run again in the future, she offers a coy smile. “I loved meeting the voters and hearing about their concerns and hopes and dreams. I still want to be a part of the community. I still want to push for meaningful change that helps people, but I don’t have to hold office to do that. And I’m pretty happy here. Working with Nikhil. Getting to meet the folks who pass through. And the ones who live in the area. But who knows what the future holds?”
It’s the kind of diplomatic, noncommittal answer I’d expect from a polished former D.C. lawyer, but I have to admit that it sounds authentic in the moment. Though I wouldn’t be surprised to see Meena announce her candidacy for something else soon.
The Nader-Chopra-Wrights turn the discussion back to some of the repairs they did after the storm, and we step off the dock, continuing the rest of the tour…
—
I scroll to the end of the article on my phone, and my head slumps back against my pillow with a sigh of relief. After a year and a half of intense, grueling work, Nikhil had launched the inn with a soft opening last month, inviting close friends and family and a few members of the press.
My parents had made it, as well as my sister and Ritu. They’d met Nikhil prior to that, of course, when all of us had taken a trip to Europe to visit Ritu during her time abroad. My parents had loved him, immediately calling him the son they’d always wanted, to which my sister and I had rolled our eyes. Light sexism aside, my parents had welcomed Nikhil with open arms, and even my sister had given him a warm reception. Or at least as warm as she could manage.
Even though we’ve grown closer recently, my sister’s prickly exterior has remained firmly intact. She hasn’t changed in that regard, but my understanding of her has. She’s soft beneath the front she presents to the world. Vulnerable and scared, just like me. Just like all of us.
I reach for my phone again, rereading the article. I can’t wait for Nikhil to wake up so he can see this. We’ve both been on pins and needles this past month, repeatedly refreshing the same search terms in Google, waiting to see our first review, and though I’d had high hopes, this article has far exceeded my expectations. It’s an absolute rave.
“Good morning,” a gruff voice says into my ear. Warm, firm lips coast over my cheekbone, and even now, after hundreds of mornings together, this is still my favorite way to wake up.
I turn in to him, the news I was going to share temporarily forgotten.
The daylight filtering in through the window casts his skin in a golden glow. He’s wearing his beard slightly longer these days, and I run my fingers over it, over his jaw. I always expect it to feel coarser than it is, but it’s so soft.
The corners of his mouth tilt up.
“You’re supposed to say ‘good morning’ back, you know. That’s considered polite.”
I shush him by pressing my lips against his, and he laughs against my mouth. I absorb the sound, and we don’t say much of anything for a while. Our hands and mouths roam until my phone falls to the floor with a loud thwack and I break away to grab it.
Nikhil grins as I return to him. “Well, that works too,” he says. “Feel free to skip the ‘good mornings’ from here on out.”
I roll my eyes, swiping across my screen, returning to the article.
Nikhil reaches for me again, his arm around my waist, his beard tickling the side of my neck, but I don’t let myself get distracted this time.
“Soo,” I say, teasing out the vowel. “Our first review is in.”
To my surprise, Nikhil doesn’t perk up or scramble for the phone to see it. He just pulls me closer.
“I know,” he says, nuzzling into me. “I got up in the middle of the night to get some water, and I saw it.”
I twist around to face him. “You read it already?”
“Yeah.”
“The article? From the Houston Chronicle ?”
“Yeah,” he says nonchalantly. “It was pretty good.”
“ Pretty good? They loved it, Nikhil! It was incredible.”
“I guess. But it wasn’t my favorite review.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “There’s another one?”
He nods solemnly, taking my phone from me. He fiddles with it for a couple seconds, then hands it back.
I scroll past the “Google Reviews” banner to the lone entry beneath it. Five stars. And just a handful of words that make me burst into laughter.
This place is out of this world. —Alan M.
I glance at Nikhil and his smile is so wide and mischievous and beaming, I laugh again.
“I guess Alan would know,” I tell him. “After all, he’s been to space.”
“Has he?” Nikhil says, his voice thick with affected shock. “He’s never mentioned that before.”
I smack him lightly across the chest, and he catches my hand. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something else, when my phone buzzes, Alexa’s name flashing across the top.
I’d been shocked when Alexa, the political strategist Shake had introduced me to, had responded to my “thank you for meeting with me” email with two curt, ominous words: “let’s talk.” The next day, she’d informed me, in her classic, no-nonsense way, that she wanted to run my campaign. I’d been floored and overjoyed, and somehow, just four days later, she’d helped me file all the necessary paperwork.
It had been a whirlwind. The whole race had been. Completely exhausting, but exhilarating. I’d loved so much about it. Campaigning. Meeting people. Hearing the needs of the community and the people who live here, with a special ear toward the people this state so often forgets or flat-out ignores or actively harms. People in vulnerable circumstances who need support and care and kindness and deserve to experience all of that with dignity. Even though I’d lost, and that loss had been brutal, every moment still felt worthwhile.
Nikhil’s silent as I read the latest text from Alexa. He doesn’t say anything until I lift my head, meeting his gaze.
“Still thinking about it?” he asks, brushing a piece of my hair over my shoulder. There’s no judgment or pressure or expectation in his voice or expression, but I’m pretty sure I know which way he’s leaning.
A couple years ago, I never would have considered running forcity council. I was laser-focused on a path to Congress, and a municipal-level seat wouldn’t have been on my radar, but now…I don’t feel that same pressure I once did. That desire to climb and reach and strive for something prestigious. Something that shows or convinces someone else I’ve “made it.” That’s not what’s pushing me anymore.
I could serve the community in this role. I could help people, the way I’ve always wanted. It’s not the lack of prestige or a lack of purpose that’s holding me back.
I rest my hand on the slightly rounder than usual curve of my stomach, and Nikhil clocks the movement.
His eyes soften. “I want to tell you that this shouldn’t be a factor,” he says quietly. “That you shouldn’t have to consider this when making your decision, but I know the reality. That there will be additional hurdles now. New obstacles you’ll have to overcome. And I know last time was hard enough as it was, but…you know what you want, Meena. You do. And whatever you want, it’s what I want too.”
I watch him for a long moment, but where I expect there to be conflict, I see only certainty. Resolve. And when I look inward, it’s what I feel too.
“Let’s do it,” I say, smiling at the joy on Nikhil’s face when the words register. “We’ll make it work. Right?”
“Yes,” he says. “We will. Come hell or high water.” And I reach for him, kissing him hard and fast and true.
The two of us—no, the three of us—are going to be okay. Honestly, I think we already are.