Demon Moon

worked in the surgery, and married an immigrant.”
    “How irresponsible of him. Which was the most offensive of that vile list?”
    “The immigrant. My mother was never welcomed, nor were my brother and I. And after they were killed, my grandparents wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
    His eyes narrowed, his head tilting to the side as he studied her. “Come now, Savitri—you cannot harbor that much vitriol for two people you’d nothing to do with.”
    She smiled slightly. “I don’t think about them often; I only harbor it when I think of it. And I was probably better off for their lack of interest.”
    “I daresay.” He picked up the mango again, smelled it before setting it back down. “Castleford once mentioned that your grandfather left you a significant inheritance. Guilty conscience?”
    “I don’t think it was out of guilt or duty.”
    “Fear of being discovered a virulent xenophobe?”
    “Yes. Keeping up appearances. He always did it with money. Like when I was fourteen, Nani had had enough of his refusals to see me. So we flew to Boston, showed up at his office. She was convinced he was just grieving, and that all he’d have to do was look at me and I’d win him over. Remind him of my dad, or something. And it was pretty clear by then I’d be finishing high school early. I’d been accepted into Harvard without the pull of the family name, but I was too young to be on my own. She wouldn’t have to move away from the restaurant if they would agree to take me in—or at least keep an eye on me. And she was proud of me, so she assumed they would be, too.”
    The memory left a bitter taste on her tongue. She popped a cube of cucumber into her mouth, took a second—and kept her voice light when she finally said, “I wore one of those cute little girly dresses. Nani even put on a nice conservative suit. Chanel. And we waited in the lobby for three hours, until his secretary came down with a ten-thousand-dollar check, and let us know that if we ever needed more, he’d send it here to San Francisco.”
    “Did you need it?”
    “No. I had a lot from my parents, insurance—and Nani does well with the restaurant.”
    “Ah, don’t tell me: You were self-righteous and tore up his check? Were virtuous and gave it to charity?”
    Savi grinned. “Hardly. Nani blew it on a trip to India, and introduced me to some of her family. All very distant cousins, but they didn’t treat us like shit.”
    His laughter was low, with an edge of surprise. “How I adore your nani . That is the perfect response.”
    “Yeah.” It hadn’t made up for the humiliation Nani had gone through, sitting like discarded trash in foreign clothing, but it had given a small measure of satisfaction. “Anyway, that was the last I saw of him. I didn’t care—and we never spoke of them again until about three years ago, when family lawyers told me he was dead.”
    “And it was good riddance,” he said, still laughing softly.
    “Definitely.” She pointed with her knife. “Pick out one of those mangoes…whichever smells the best to you.”
    He closed his eyes as he inhaled each one, and she let herself examine the angle of his cheekbones, the slight hollows beneath. Chic. Gorgeous.
    Her gaze drifted down. His throat was tanned; how long would it take to fade? Eight months ago, he’d been startlingly pale.
    “Savi. Do tell me what you are thinking.”
    Of how good his skin had felt on her tongue and between her teeth. She swallowed. “That you are the only guy I know who can pull off a velvet corduroy blazer with a Nehru collar without looking as if you are trying to pull it off.”
    “Perhaps,” he said dryly, “because I am not a guy .”
    She couldn’t keep her response to a grin; she chuckled softly, shaking her head. The mango he’d chosen was cool under her fingers, and she sliced it with deft strokes. “I was also thinking that I should stop being surprised when you, Hugh, and Lilith don’t react to the idea of an arranged marriage the way I expect you to. The way most people do. Not just Americans—some Desis, too. Especially those my age.”
    “Condemning it as a barbaric practice?”
    “Or at least old-fashioned.”
    “It may be that, but I prefer to save my expressions of horror for true barbarianism: polyester, reality television, and Castleford’s wardrobe.” He shrugged. “Old-fashioned and outdated are not equivalent. I’ve known many successful arrangements of convenience, and