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  Amithi nodded. She’d been debating selling the earrings ever since her daughter said she didn’t want to wear them for her wedding. Amithi had offered to give them to her anyway, but Jayana had refused, claiming they were gaudy. She’d told her mother that, rather than jewelry she’d never wear, she’d prefer to have money to buy furniture for her and Jack’s new condo. Amithi thought of her conversation with her daughter earlier that day. She decided she would sell the earrings to the jeweler and give her daughter the money, like she wanted.

  June 20, 1968

  Last week at this time, Amithi had sat on the patio of her mother and father’s house, chattering in the humid shade with her aunties and drinking mint tea to calm the anxiety fluttering around inside her. Now she sat on an air-conditioned plane next to a man she barely knew, but for the few, short conversations they’d exchanged before the wedding, the touch of one another’s hands as they’d circled the sacred fire during their Hindu ceremony, and the shy but urgent lovemaking the night before.

  Despite the giggles and anticipation, the whole intimate episode had been over in a matter of painful, but not unpleasant, minutes. Before the wedding, Amithi’s older female friends and relatives—her “aunties”—had whispered all sorts of seduction secrets to her as they wrapped her in her beaded bridal sari and pulled the crimson folds around her slender waist. They’d made such a fuss over sex that Amithi expected it to be either miserable or spectacular. She wasn’t disappointed when it was neither. Afterward, she’d curled up like a child and slept in a fatigued haze on the flower-strewn bed until, in the blue dawn, she’d risen to check the contents of her luggage for the last time.

  Now they were flying to a place called Chicago, where Naveen, her husband—the word tumbled around inside her head like a monkey in a treetop—was pursuing his doctorate in chemical engineering. Although he was the only Indian student in his program, Naveen had assured Amithi she would feel at home in their suburban community west of the city. There was an Indian grocery store not far from their apartment, he’d told her, where he claimed they could buy ready-to-eat samosas that tasted almost as good as his mother’s. This news came as a relief to Amithi. She hated frying the triangular, potato-stuffed pastries. She always ended up spattering grease on her clothes, resulting in dark spots she couldn’t wash out.

  As Amithi peered out the rounded window at the clouds, she marveled at how everything had happened so quickly. In March, she and her younger sister, Priya, had been watching the Beatles on their family’s little television set. All anyone could talk about—from the music teacher to the man who sold savory chaat from the snack cart on the corner—was the arrival of the British rock band at an ashram in Rishikesh. No matter that it was almost five hundred kilometers away from Jaipur. That didn’t stop the entire city from gossiping about the star musicians. Amithi did not understand why these men would fly so far from home and pay money to a gray-haired man to learn to meditate—something that anyone could do for free with just a little bit of time and discipline.

  One moment, Amithi had been staring at the band members and their fair-haired wives on the black and white screen, and the next, her parents had marched into the room, turned off the set, and announced that they’d “spoken with the Singhs at the club.” The Singhs’ son was home from school in America, they’d said, and the three of them were coming over for tea that afternoon.

  Even before that day, Amithi had already heard a lot about the Singhs and their only child, Naveen. Her parents found a way to work his name and his accomplishments into even the most mundane conversations.

  “Do you like the paneer I made for this dish, love?” her mother had asked one day at the dinner table. “Mrs. Singh shared with me her method for making it. She uses lemon juice instead of whey from the last batch. It makes it a little firmer.”

  Her father had raised a piece of the white cheese to his lips. “Oh, yes, dear. Very good.”

  “Mrs. Singh says it’s her son’s favorite.”

  “Excellent taste that boy has.”

  Based on her parents’ endorsements, when Amithi finally had the opportunity to meet Naveen on that March afternoon, she’d expected to see a modern god, a gilded prince. Instead, into the sitting room walked a gangly boy with shy brown eyes and sweaty skin. Amithi had felt sorry for him for having to venture out in the heat and dust with his parents, while she’d sat in the comfort of her room, combing her black hair and selecting a perfect, sky-colored sari with her mother. The Singhs lived just a few miles away, but even a couple of minutes in the early-summer humidity were enough to soak a person’s clothes with perspiration.

  Amithi and Naveen had not done much talking at that first meeting. Their parents did most of it, exchanging questions and answers about one another’s relatives—where they lived and what they did. They’d spoken of nieces with beautiful, healthy children and nephews at the top of their classes.

  In her seventeen years, Amithi had never interviewed for a job, but she imagined it would be a lot like that first meeting with Naveen’s parents.

  “And you, Amithi? What do you enjoy doing?” Mrs. Singh had asked her.

  “I like to sew and design clothing,” Amithi said.

  “She made the salwar kameez I’m wearing,” her mother bragged, running her hand over her loose blouse and pants set. “I’ve never been good with working with silk, so slippery, but Amithi makes it look easy.”

  Mrs. Singh nodded in appreciation. “It’s a good skill to have, sewing. A woman who knows how to mend can save her husband a lot of money.”

  Amithi had never mended men’s clothes before and didn’t have much interest in doing so. She preferred to sketch elaborate embroidery patterns and Hollywood-style gowns, but she kept that fact to herself. It was just a hobby, and would probably be thought silly by the Singhs.

  During that initial encounter, she hadn’t made much eye contact with Naveen. She did not want to be thought too forward. She’d snuck glances at him, though, when he reached down for his cup or to stir his tea. He was not overly handsome, she’d thought, nor was he ugly. She’d decided she was glad of that. She had always thought it would be a burden to have a husband who was prettier than she was.

  Amithi hadn’t seen Naveen again until their engagement ceremony, where they had exchanged rings while a pious pandit chanted in Sanskrit and selected a wedding date from the astrological calendar.

  Now, on the airplane, Amithi leaned back in her seat and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. In the weeks before her departure, she had spent a lot of time worrying about the flight. Now she could see that the flying part was not so bad—it was the cool, sterile space that made her feel uneasy.

  Amithi felt a warm hand on her arm, and a stewardess offered her a cup of tea. Amithi accepted but spilled a few drops onto her orange sari as she tried to take a sip.

  Naveen pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Amithi.

  “Thank you,” she said, touched by this small gesture. It meant he had noticed. “Your mother told me it was not a good idea to wear a sari on the plane, that I should have packed something more practical. But I always wear a sari for important occasions, and today is one of them.”

  “Never mind my mother,” Naveen said. “You look beautiful.”

  Amithi blushed as she dabbed at the spot, hoping it wouldn’t stain. She had purchased the sari from a stall at the bazaar near her parents’ house. On subsequent trips to the market, she had never been able to find that particular vendor’s stall again, nor had she ever seen another shade of silk in such a brilliant, sunny hue. It reminded her of the marigolds that dotted the flower beds along the pink avenues of Jaipur, the only home she’d ever known and was now leaving behind.

  Amithi looked over at Naveen, who was nodding off to sleep. She studied his hands, resting still in his lap. Despite the week of festivities in their honor, the couple had had little time to talk with one another during the continuous stream of music, praying, and arriving r
elatives. She noticed now that Naveen had slender fingers and very clean fingernails, fitting for someone whose chosen profession required precision.

  She looked down at her own hands, covered in swirls of fading henna. She touched the place between her thumb and forefinger where the mehendi artist had scrolled Naveen’s name, hidden between drawings of lotus petals and meandering vines. She wondered how long it would take for the henna to fade completely. She didn’t want it to. She feared that her connection to India, her childhood, her family would fade along with it.

  She could not let Naveen know that homesickness was already tightening her throat and chest. In the days leading up to the wedding, between the puja prayer ceremonies and elaborate meals, her aunties warned her never to complain to Naveen that she missed her family. One of the reasons the Singhs had approved of Amithi as a match for their son was her reputation for being strong, sensible, and resilient. Naveen’s doctoral program required him to work long hours in the lab, sometimes straight through the night. A needy young bride, pining away for her parents and her homeland, would not be a good partner for him.

  Amithi had nodded at her aunties’ advice but largely ignored it. Intoxicated by the scent of jasmine flowers in a garland around her neck, and blinded by the gleam of gold jewelry, she could not see the future as anything but a beautiful and unceasing adventure. And marrying Naveen was the fastest way there.

  She had not comprehended then, as she did now, on the humming plane, that she would not see her family again for a very long time. She wondered when she would next taste her mother’s roti flatbread, laugh at her sister’s jokes.

  Amithi felt a pulling sensation on her scalp. A few strands of her hair were tangled in one of the ruby earrings she’d received as a wedding gift from her mother, who had received them as a gift at her own wedding many years ago. Amithi reached up and touched the earring to free her hair from it. The precious metal, which previously had danced with light, felt cold and sharp to the touch.

  Chapter 4

  INVENTORY ITEM: suit

  APPROXIMATE DATE: 1980s

  CONDITION: excellent

  ITEM DESCRIPTION: Black skirt suit in summer-weight wool. Shoulder pads and tapered waist on jacket. Fitted skirt with back slit.

  SOURCE: former president of Madison Chamber of Commerce

  Violet

  WHEN VIOLET HAD MOVED to Madison five years earlier, she thought she’d put the worst behind her. With Bent Creek three hundred miles away and her divorce all but finalized, she thought the only thing that stood between her and her dream of running a successful vintage boutique was a little bit of start-up money and some hard work.

  She chose Madison because of its reputation as a place where being different was not only accepted but celebrated—like Austin or Portland, but with more snow in the winter. In Bent Creek, Violet had always felt like an oddball. While everyone else wore jeans and Carhartt jackets, Violet ran errands and waited tables wearing 1940s shirtdresses or tie-bottom rockabilly tops with pedal-pusher slacks. In Madison, with its experimental theater groups, unicyclists, and near-constant political protests, it was easy to express oneself without standing out too much. Violet liked that about it.

  She remembered sitting in her landlord’s wood-paneled office on the day she signed her rent-to-own lease, initialing each page, then passing it over to Ted Mortensen, the “and son” of Mortensen & Son Properties Inc. As she’d waited for Ted’s assistant to make her a copy, Violet had thought about the perfect shade of blue she’d paint the walls of the shop and the vintage gold and white chevron fabric she’d use for the dressing room curtains. She tried to picture how she’d arrange her sparse furniture in the apartment above the shop.

  Violet hadn’t expected then that she’d now be sitting in the same wood-paneled office, begging Ted to let her sign a new lease, or give her some more time to come up with a down payment to buy the building, or something, anything, to keep her from getting kicked out. Her current location was ideal for foot traffic, and for attracting the types of customers she’d come to depend on for her livelihood.

  The building she rented was just blocks from the government and office buildings on the Capitol Square, which meant that professional women and elected officials with money to spend often came into Hourglass Vintage to shop during lunch or after work. The building also sat on the fringe of the sprawling University of Wisconsin campus. This meant not only that stylish professors were regular customers, but also that the boutique enjoyed a steady influx of gently used designer garb from sorority girls who shopped in New York and L.A. with their parents’ credit cards when they went home for breaks.

  There was no other street in town that was both zoned for retail and would allow Violet to reach her broad range of customers the way she did now. Leases seldom turned over in the area, and when they did, they went for premium rent rates. In the years since she’d signed her rent-to-own agreement, real estate prices in the neighborhood had skyrocketed. Academics and young professionals had begun to snap up the sprawling old houses on surrounding blocks for inflated prices, which sent rent rates soaring. Violet had been lucky to lock in a good rate just before the market turned. If she couldn’t get Ted to honor their deal, she didn’t have a prayer for finding another space in the neighborhood within her budget.

  Violet leaned forward in her chair. “So tell me what’s going on, Ted,” she said. “I haven’t missed any rent payments, so why is a process server showing up at my door?”

  The fluorescent overhead lights reflected off Ted’s crew-cut hair, which appeared to have been styled with gobs of polyurethane. His tie listed to one side of his bulging belly.

  “It’s true you haven’t missed any payments,” he said. “But there’s a clause in your lease that says we can terminate the contract at any time if we opt to put the property on the market.”

  Violet made a mental note to look at her lease again or, better yet, to go over it with her friend Karen, a lawyer. “I didn’t know you were thinking of selling the building.”

  Ted turned his head toward his office window, which offered a view of the white dome of the state capitol, topped by a gold statue reminiscent of a Greek goddess.

  “I’m sure you’re aware property values have gone up in that area,” Ted said. “Which is remarkable, given that they’ve gone down almost everywhere else. So we’re better off selling our holdings in that neighborhood and reinvesting in other areas.”

  Violet cringed at hearing her shop and her home referred to as a “holding.”

  “I thought I had a right of first refusal,” she said.

  “You do,” Ted replied. “And if you can come up with the rest of the money to purchase the building at market rate, you can do so. But in the meantime, the terms of the lease allow us to actively market the building until you either exercise your right of first refusal or relinquish it.”

  “What’s market rate? I mean, what are you listing it for?” Violet asked. “Because I am interested in buying it.”

  “Just under a million.”

  Violet blinked. “I had no idea it was worth that much.”

  “The building is on the only double lot on the block, so it’s attractive to developers.”

  “There’s no way I’ll be able to get a million-dollar mortgage.”

  “Nine hundred and ninety thousand, actually,” Ted said.

  “Oh. Well in that case . . .” Violet gave him a wry half smile, even though she wanted to scream. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were putting the building up for sale instead of sending a process server to my door with eviction papers?”

  “It’s not technically an eviction yet,” Ted said. “It’s merely a notice to you that we’re exercising our right to sell the property under the lease. It will only become an eviction if you don’t move out by the end of August.”

  “Or buy the property by then,” Violet said.

  “Right.” Ted smirked, as if he knew just as well as Violet did that coming up with
a down payment and close to a million-dollar mortgage was very, very far out of her reach.

  “Can’t I just rent the property from the new owner?” Violet asked.

  “I think that’s unlikely. It’s being advertised as redevelopment property,” Ted said. “Having a retail and a residential tenant in here really limits the way we can market the property, so we’ll need you out by the end of summer anyway. Unless, of course, you want to make a deal.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Violet said.

  “We’re hoping you’ll be motivated to move out voluntarily before the end of the summer, and sign papers releasing your right of first refusal. If you do so, we can offer you a little incentive.”

  His smirk made Violet uneasy. Nonetheless, she asked, “What sort of incentive?”

  “A little start-up cash for your next location. We’d give you back your last two months of rent.”

  Violet had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Two months’ rent wasn’t nothing, but it certainly wasn’t enough to make up for the higher rent rates she’d have to pay if she moved to another building.

  “I don’t want my last two months of rent,” Violet replied. “What I want is to not have to move out of my shop and my apartment, with only a couple months’ notice. What I want is to buy the building. I thought I was on course for doing that, with the rent-to-own arrangement.”

  “Think about the offer,” Ted said. “There’s no need to decide right now. You can always come back if you change your mind.”

  “Well, in that case, I won’t be back,” Violet said.

  She muttered good-bye and left Ted’s office, realizing that the black eighties power suit she’d worn for the occasion hadn’t given her much power after all. As she walked through the reception area, her spectator pumps clicked on the marble floor. She thought she caught the receptionist giving her a sympathetic nod.

  When Violet returned to Hourglass Vintage, Betsy Barrett, her friend and longtime customer, stood waiting outside the locked shop.