Chapter Twelve
Twelve
A banner adorned with marigolds welcomes me when I walk inside the swanky Baudelaire Country Club. I give my name and identification to the check-in clerk. Genevieve really doesn’t need to be here. Unlike a hotel, where there could be a million different access points, there’s only one way in tonight, and it’s through metal detectors and a gate that’s opened and closed by black-garbed guards who won’t let you through without both photo identification and a signed nondisclosure agreement promising you won’t share any media of the event online.
You really don’t want to head home? I text Genevieve. It’s as secure as can be here.
I’m all set, she replies. For all the security they have inside, they have no one out here, do they? Have fun. I’m catching up on podcasts.
My heart swells, touched by Genevieve’s kindness. There’s no point protesting. Once Genevieve makes up her mind, there’s no changing it.
I hardly recognize the interior when I step into the main hall. Flowers in mehndi colors of red, yellow, and orange overflow on the stage, the tables, and the windows. A cushioned dais rests atop a stage adorned in yet more florals. The back windows overlook the golf course, which features exotic plants imported from around the world. The bride and groom probably already took their photos out there—a separate and pricey add-on to the wedding packages at this place—not that they’d have blinked at the expense. I know they’ve flown in Chef Zardar from Islamabad for this plated affair. Already, I can smell the buttery scent of naans going into the tandoori grills they had built on-site. This place is famous for not allowing outside chefs, but everyone has a price. I feel a wistful tug—I wish I’d let Azar come. Sure, it was a pity offer, but Mr. Foodie would have died over the eats here.
Darcy hurries toward me. Her blond hair falls soft against her shoulder. Her cheeks are flushed pink. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe I’m this late. Traffic was a complete nightmare.”
“Don’t worry about it. I just got here too,” I tell her. “Looks like it’s a slow start to the festivities anyhow.”
She adjusts the straps of her dress—then eyes me. “You look a bit flustered yourself.”
“Had a bit of a scare earlier.” I recount the run-in at Khala’s home, and how Genevieve’s parked outside the country club as we speak.
“Good on her,” she says.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I tell her. “I know this is out of the way for you.”
“It’ll be nice to see Lena off.” She looks around wistfully. “I forgot how beautiful this venue is. You know it’s one hundred grand just to reserve the space? Not to mention the photos in the garden. The food. Décor.”
“The Georgian Terrace will be just as wonderful,” I assure her. “I personally like it better.”
“We’ll see if that’s still on,” she says with a sigh. “They announced another round of layoffs at Samir’s work last week.”
“Again?” I grimace.
“Just as we were getting ready to put down the second half of the deposit.”
“Oh, Darcy, that’s unbelievably stressful.”
“I’ve crunched the numbers a million different ways, but if he loses his job, there aren’t enough corners in the world I can cut to make it happen on my income. Samir suggested we push the wedding date out and regroup, but we already sent out save the date cards. The thought of postponing…” She bites her lip. “I told him, we’ll just go simpler. Maybe we can shoot for the Springmont Club or something. Won’t be as nice, but what can we do?”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” I pat her arm. “No matter what, though, the wedding isn’t the most important thing, it’s the marriage. Who you’re marrying matters more than where you get married. You and Samir are riding high on that count.”
“Well, that’s definitely true.” Glancing around, she sighs again. “There’s no competing with weddings like these for mere mortals like us anyhow. Lena’s coming in tonight on a gold-plated gondola carried by her cousins. Tanvir’s arriving on a white horse.”
“At least he gets an animal arrival at one of the events. I talked to the wedding planner yesterday to see if she’d had any luck on moving the needle, but she told me the venue isn’t budging. Not that I blame them.”
“Yikes.” She winces. “How’s he taking it?”
“I spoke to him this morning, and he’s bummed, but he promised he’s letting it go.”
“Even without the elephant, you know this whole weeklong event has got to cost somewhere in the seven figures. Samir’s mom? She doesn’t even want to throw us a basic mehndi. I begged her to reconsider, but no luck.”
“You want a mehndi?”
“I know, I know. My sister said the same thing.” She gives me a sheepish look. “But what girl doesn’t want her wedding to go on and on and on for days?”
“Y’all do have a rehearsal dinner. So technically that’s two days.”
“Boring.” She rolls her eyes. “Desi culture is the best for a reason.”
As someone who works for our agency, she knows desi culture, but the parts she’s complimenting right now are the parts everyone can see. The clothing. The decorations. The food and cultural rites of marriage. But desi culture goes deeper than that. It’s not just the sapphire-encrusted necklaces or the Bollywood music the deejay is blasting from the corner of the room. It’s caring for your elders, as I look out for my khala. It’s the quiet considerations for those you love, for better and worse—sometimes even at the expense of oneself—that I associate most with my own heritage. But I can’t blame Darcy for reducing it to what the eye can behold—what you do see is beautiful.
“It’s clear his mother hates me,” Darcy continues. “His older sister had all the works, and they covered every last cent. I know in-laws don’t always love their daughters-in-law, but I’ve been trying so hard. Samir says they’ll come around…. Here’s hoping, I guess.”
Poor Darcy. Intercultural marriages can be fraught, but knowing that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
“Even the grumpiest in-laws would come around to you.” I put an arm around her. “Especially when they realize you’re basically a desi girl underneath it all. And I can throw you a mehndi. I have that curated list of henna artists too. It won’t be…” I wave a hand at the hall. “It won’t be this, but it could be nice?”
Her eyes glisten. “Are you serious?”
“Let’s call it maid of honor duties. My aunt’s backyard would be the perfect venue, don’t you think? We could put up a colorful tent and lights. It will look beautiful.”
“Nura, you’re the best.” She gives me a hug.
An assortment of appetizers is placed on our table. Keema patties. Crispy samosas. Chicken kebab skewers.
I check my watch. “There is one part of desi culture you can’t possibly love. We do not know how to start an event on time.”
“Knowing Lena, this was always going to be a delayed affair,” says Darcy. “But yes…it’s getting late, isn’t it?”
Judging from the restlessness among the guests, we’re not the only ones wondering. I check the time and feel my anxiety rising, remembering the last wedding I attended where things began to run late and a disaster followed.
Scanning the space, I spot the bride’s mother. Raheema is chatting animatedly with the caterer. Lena’s fine, I tell myself. All is well.
I refresh my email. There’s a message from Logan Wilson.
Hey, Nura. I’ll be back in town tomorrow. Could I interest you in lunch?—Logan
“Unbelievable.” I show Darcy the email.
“He’s a dog with a bone, isn’t he?” she says.
“I need to get him an electric collar so he’ll stay far away from me. When does this become harassment? Are we already there?”
“He’s just eager for his clickbait article.”
“Except…he already has a story with Avani’s wedding.”
“I doubt she’s cooperating.”
“He doesn’t need her to cooperate. Just presenting the facts about what happened, that a wedding I facilitated fell apart, would be enough to fuel gossip and speculation until the end of time. I can’t imagine the impact for our agency.” I purse my lips. “Maybe I should talk to him.”
Darcy stares at me like I’ve sprouted antlers. “Hi, I’m Darcy, and what have you done with my friend Nura?”
“If he’s going to publish a negative story, I should get the counternarrative out too.”
“With Logan?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. We just need our side of things out there.”
“It would be nice to set the record straight. Remember the viral tabloid piece that said Piyar was a front for a high-powered escort service? We really should have gone after them.”
“The curiosity from the press isn’t going to let up. It’s like Borzu said, Logan is a well-respected journalist. Any accusation he posts will be taken seriously.”
“Want me to check if The New York Times is still interested in that puff piece?”
“That would be perfect.”
A door swings open in the distance. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafts into the ballroom. Darcy tilts her head and eyes me.
“It must be strange to attend weddings without Azar,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Happy to be here tonight with you .”
“I checked out Zayna’s profile this afternoon,” Darcy says. “She posts nonstop, doesn’t she?”
“Darcy!”
“Social media is the only acceptable form of stalking. I got curious after we ran into her.” She hesitates. “You doing okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You and Azar are close….”
“Fine, I guess I’m nervous. Azar and me—we’ve known each other most of our lives. Even if Zayna genuinely loved me, how many people would be cool with our friendship?”
“She’ll have to accept you come with the package.”
“I don’t think it works that way. It’s early still, but they seem serious. I get the feeling our days as friends are numbered.”
“I can’t see Azar sacrificing his friendship with you for anyone. She’ll get over whatever hang-up she has.”
I think of our last wedding together. His fitted black sherwani. His dimpled smile. The shiver that ran through me when he playfully kissed my hand. If I were Zayna, I would not approve of me.
“Hope she’s good enough for him,” I say instead.
“We can look into that, can’t we?”
“Good idea.”
“Like you haven’t already started?”
“I haven’t!” I protest. “But okay, yes—I’ve been meaning to.”
“A quick skeleton-in-the-closet scan is what a good friend would do, anyway.”
Darcy’s right. I’ll make peace with this shift soon enough, but she does need to be good enough for Azar. That’s non-negotiable. I clear my throat, eager to change the topic.
“How’s the honeymoon planning going?” I immediately regret my question when I see her grimace.
“That’s up in the air. I’m exploring a plan B. Something local and less pricey. There’s a cute bed-and-breakfast in Savannah that I think could work. Low-key honeymoons are catching on these days. You know, for all their extravagance with the wedding, Lena and Tanvir are honeymooning at a resort off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. It’s two grand a night for the penthouse suite, but I was sure they’d end up in Bali for a month.”
Lena and Tanvir. I glance around. People are checking their phones. The hushed murmurs are growing louder. I turn to Darcy. “I’m sure she’s just gotten tied up in a dress snafu or something, but can you text Lena to make sure she’s all right?”
“Sure.” She pulls out her phone.
I tap my feet and try to wish away the whisper of dread crawling up my spine. That it’s happening again. Someone slipped in. Left a note. Something’s wrong.
“The text isn’t going through.” Darcy frowns. “Let me call her.” She holds the phone to her ear. Shakes her head. “Straight to voicemail.”
“I need to find Raheema.”
I’m about to seek her out when I hear a commotion behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a glint of metal. Handcuffs. Police officers hurry inside. They brush past me.
Heart pounding, I trail behind them. Raheema and her husband are inside a room off to the side. They’re holding hands. Raheema is trembling. There is no bride here. No groom.
I feel sick. Two weddings sabotaged in a matter of weeks. Whatever was done this time had been enough to prompt the parents to call the police. Raheema spots me. Tearfully, she waves me in.
“I don’t understand.” Her voice trembles. She clutches my arm. “How is this happening?”
I start to tell her that whatever note she found is likely forged, but she speaks first.
“Tanvir and Lena are missing.”