One Winter's Day

by Laura Briggs

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Fall & winter reads

Synopsis

Twenty-eight-year-old baker Ama has always followed the rules. Life is like a cake recipe - you just have to do the right things in the right order. Or so she believes.... But as Ama stocks up on cinnamon for her Christmas orders, she meets tall, dark, handsome mechanic Luke, who sets her pulse racing. Who takes her out for a ride on his motorbike and who is the first person who’s ever seen the gleam in her eye that reveals the adventurous heart she’s been trying to hide. Ama knows she and Luke can never work though. He’s too wild and impulsive for her orderly life. And he’s her strictly traditional parents’ absolute worst nightmare. She needs someone calm and sensible who shares their old-fashioned values. As snow begins to fall, Ama tries her best to put Luke out of her mind and concentrate on gingerbread and spiced muffins. But her latest commission, a towering cake for a winter wedding, just reminds her she’s lonely. Ama doesn’t want to let her parents down, and she has never broken the rules before. But does her family know best? Or should she trust her heart? The perfect feel-good winter romance for fans of Debbie Macomber, Mary Kay Andrews and Jenny Hale.

Release date: October 9, 2018

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 350

Sample

Ama sifted flour into her bowl, sending a cloud of it airborne, scented sweetly with cinnamon and cloves. Her first autumn treat of the year, from her online side business Sweetheart Treats to its latest customer—a batch of miniature spice loaves, to be decorated with an apple glaze, each one boxed as a gift for attendees of a fundraiser.

Unlike the loud atmosphere of her family’s restaurant the Tandoori Tiger, the kitchen at Wedding Belles, the Southern event planning firm where Ama now worked alongside her friends Tessa and Natalie, was quiet, except for the sound from Ama’s laptop, which was playing a DVD of Bride and Prejudice. It had just reached the wacky musical number devoted to Mr. Collins’s marital quest as Ama slipped her wet ingredients into the flour’s well.

This was the only Bollywood film that Ama truly loved—she enjoyed a few others, but she wasn’t as big a fan of them as her mother and auntie, who were positively diehard viewers. They adored the musical sequences and even liked the more outrageous stunts of the late-night Indian action flicks. Sometimes Ama would watch these with them, paging through a cookbook as she enjoyed the sound of her family’s laughter at the onscreen antics. But she wasn’t big on action films herself, and when it came to love stories, Ama had one very specific rule: the more impossible the romance the better.

That was probably why the stack of DVDs that entertained her as she stirred her latest batch of cookies for a birthday party included Serendipity, While You Were Sleeping, and a few Hallmark Christmas movies she had sneaked from her sister Rasha’s collection. Movies with mismatched protagonists and star-crossed lovers were a must for someone with Ama’s romantic ideals, and the Bollywood favorite she was watching right now was a perfect fit.

Designer cookies with a pumpkin-vanilla glaze… and was it mini chrysanthemums she was painting on them, or foxtail feathering? She searched through her sketches to refresh her memory, sliding aside her latest wedding-cake designs. There was her favorite of them all, the Birds of Paradise cake that she still hadn’t found the perfect customer to appreciate.

What about herself? Fat chance of that. Ama laughed at the idea of finding anybody to fall in love with her—unless her auntie forced on her some matrimonially desperate boy she met at the laundromat, for example. But as for love at first sight sweeping her away and making her dream of a lifelong future with someone come true… she would probably find a customer for this cake long before then.

Love at first sight. A first kiss under the stars. A glance from across the room that forms an instant connection and changes everything in the world. Ama would take any of these scenarios, or any alternative that was completely magical and spontaneous. In short, anything but a sensible match with someone carefully screened by her overly protective family. If he was on an Indian matchmaker’s dating site, if he thought you could find your lifelong mate through traditional channels of matrimonial ads, he wasn’t the boy for her.

Mr. Darcy and Lizzy’s story was onscreen again. Ama turned up the volume and propped her chin on both hands for this part, smiling as she watched. This was the only way that two unlikely matches could or should ever come together, and that’s what she loved about it.

Natalie’s black pencil brushed over her latest design sketch with quick, feathery strokes, deepening the shadows of the chocolate brown halter gown, which Natalie envisioned embroidered with a gold and green vine decorating the left half of the neck strap and bodice. Perfect for an autumn charity ball or an office Christmas formal, she thought. Now, if she could just convince someone else of that, too.

Her own outfit was an advertisement for her skills both as a designer and as a seamstress: a sheer, silky peasant-style blouse with fitted wrists and open elbows and shoulder slits that let a glimpse of skin be seen. Flowers were hand-embroidered along its wide scoop collar, held closed by a couple of pearl buttons—a dressy twist with her casual suede skirt and vintage straw platform sandals with brown ankle laces. She’d tried to sell the blouse once in her former boss Kandace’s shop, but it had ended up being buried behind a line of black vinyl capes her boss had designed—deliberately hidden there, Natalie knew, behind the shop’s least successful item at the time.

At least she was getting some use out of it now—and a few compliments to boot. She reflected on this as she sipped her cappuccino in the little coffee bar close to the university where she studied part-time for her degrees in fashion design and business. This was the urban district of Bellegrove, the Southern city that managed to capture small-town heart in the historic homes and quaint little boutiques that outnumbered the modern business complexes at the heart of its business quarter. Even a modern street like this one bore hints of the city’s old-fashioned charm, from the magnolias and dogwoods on the cafe’s wall mural to the soul-food joint on the corner, and the flyers for this weekend’s ‘Merry Christmas, Baby’ blues concert in the park.

Lots of other students were at the coffee bar today—most of them younger than Natalie, who had spent her college years working in her family’s Italian bakery—and she loved the vibrant atmosphere as much as they did. Including the extremely cute teacher’s aide who had just walked in.

“Earth to Natalie. Tell me those brain cells are totally focused on the pad in front of you,” said Cal, her former coworker, who had just rejoined her with his skinny latte and a low-fat soy seaweed cookie. They’d worked together at Kandace’s Kreations—a horrible fashion boutique—until last summer, and had remained great friends.

“Ew. You’re eating that?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I’m trying to be good. I’ve been bingeing on chocolate for two weeks straight, since Kandace is working us like her personal slaves to finish autumn inventory. I have never sewn soooo many hideous orange-patched flannel shirts in all my life.” He opened a packet of sugar substitute and sprinkled it over his coffee and the dry-looking seaweed cookie, making a face as he took a bite.

“Is she that behind in production? What about the fashion show?” Natalie asked. The December fashion revue was only a few weeks away, and most of the city’s major designers wanted their creations to parade down its runway for the sheer prestige, not to mention the publicity in the local fashion journal.

“There’s no way we’ll have her winter fashions completed in time, so Kandace won’t have a thing to do except sneer at the competition,” said Cal. “But I thought maybe a certain someone might finally be contributing something?” he hinted.

Natalie closed her sketchbook. “Uh-uh,” she said. “I’ve sewn one dress for my personal collection, and that’s it. If I go, it’s strictly to network.” Her last two dresses had been wedding gowns—not her most brilliant creations, but the important part was the exposure. Her name was on the labels worn by those brides, and it was all thanks to her friend Tessa’s idea for Bellegrove’s most unconventional and unique wedding planning firm. Known as Wedding Belles, it was more or less a ‘one-stop shop’ for would-be brides, providing everything for their big day from the cake to the gown, and anything in between. It was run by three girls, three genuine artists dedicated to providing the perfect day’s most crucial pieces, as Tessa would put it. Ama handled the cakes and all things catering, Natalie designed and consulted on bridal couture, and Tessa… well, she was in charge of everything else.

“You are going, though?” persisted Cal about the fashion show. “Say yes, Nat, please. It’ll be totally unbearable if it’s just me and Tony and Celia hanging out together, commiserating about the horrors of Kandace’s Kreations.”

Until this year, Natalie had always played the part of faithful assistant to the boutique in question, accepting Kandace’s tongue-lashing with the best grace she could muster as she struggled to solve the designer’s last-minute fashion emergencies. But not anymore, and for that, Natalie was immensely thankful. No standing by and smiling—or rather, biting her tongue and trying not to roll her eyes—as Kandace savaged the more talented competition in the show or clung fawningly to the few critics who took her work seriously.

“I’ll be there, probably,” she reassured Cal. “Providing I’m not working or anything. Here—I even printed some business cards to hand out. You know, so I could look professional?”

She pulled a few from her billfold and held one out to Cal. She’d printed them herself a couple of days ago. Natalie Grenaldi. Simple, Chic, Timeless Designs. A little black pencil silhouette of a girl in a fashion gown to one side, copied from one of Natalie’s own sketches.

“Yay! You used my words for this card,” said Cal. “I’m flattered, truly. Can I keep one?”

“Keep a dozen,” said Natalie. “Just not where Kandace can see them lying around, all right?”

“Are you still afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West?” said Cal. “You’re her ex-employee, Natalie. You don’t owe her any loyalty, so you don’t need to tiptoe past her when it comes to your career.”

“Maybe,” said Natalie vaguely. Kandace wouldn’t be understanding, to put it mildly. For all her ex-boss’s mean remarks about her designs, Kandace was more than a little bit jealous of anybody’s talent. Anybody, even a nobody whose dresses had only publicly graced herself, her family and friends, and a few bridal parties thus far.

“So, big plans for the weekend?” Cal sipped his latte, knowing for Natalie that plans meant only two things—either she was participating in one of the Grenaldis’ endless Italian traditions of family gatherings or baking for a living, or yet another of Natalie’s casual, fun, and flirtatious encounters had asked her out.

“Nothing too big,” said Natalie. “Jake and I aren’t seeing each other these days. I decided he’s more interested in sunbathing beauties on the beach than me.”

“Oooh, too bad. It’s his loss. He totally doesn’t deserve you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be a little more careful before I say yes to the next surfer. Try to avoid anybody who plans to stab my heart or my pride.” Not that Jake had been anything special, but they had dated longer than most of Natalie’s relationships lasted. She had found him fun and loved spending time with him… until he revealed the feeling was not mutual, that is. Natalie’s openness when it came to romance did not extend to being someone’s last-minute date of desperation after another girl said no.

“Someone better will come along,” said Cal sympathetically. “A girl as gorgeous as you can’t stay single. It’s a crime.” He took another bite of his soy cookie, then abandoned it. “I can’t. I just can’t,” he muttered with a sigh.

“Tell my mother that I’m a viable commodity,” said Natalie. “She thinks I’m almost over the hill, and I still haven’t found a steady boyfriend who would make a great father for her eight imaginary grandchildren.”

“Eight grandchildren?”

“She’s Italian,” said Natalie. “What can I say?” She took another sip of her coffee and flipped open her sketchbook, finding herself mulling over Cal’s hints about the December fashion revue. What would it be like to see her designs in a runway show? It would be exciting… and way braver than anything Natalie had ever done, since her first official dress sale had been this summer.

Natalie Grenaldi, fashion designer. Her own label, her own fashion house. A much bigger dream than even this first step as Natalie Grenaldi, fashion consultant and designer for the Wedding Belles.

“Plans for Thanksgiving?” asked Cal. “If you want, you can join the rest of the gang—Marcel’s making a tofu turkey and his famous cranberry stuffing, then we’re decking the halls at Sadie’s apartment with some totally kitschy holiday ornaments she bought last week at a basement sale.”

“And have my mother kill me for skipping her dinner? Not on your life.”

At the Wedding Belles’ headquarters in the historic downtown of Bellegrove, proof of success, albeit modest success, adorned its walls. Tessa had photographs from all four of their wedding clients framed as big black-and-white images in the foyer. Paolo and Molly looked joyful beneath the shower of petals from the ornate fire escape balconies above, while another smiling couple, Tim and Reese, were posed beside one of Ama’s cakes, decorated with delicate gilded candy butterflies.

An impromptu snap from their last wedding featured the newlyweds beneath a beautiful canopy of autumn leaves drifting on the wind, which Tessa had just finished hanging in the foyer. She climbed down from her ladder and inspected it with a smile of approval.

“Perfect,” she said. “Ama, move the one of Kelly and Clark a little to the left, will you? It’s a tiny bit crooked.”

Ama nudged it slightly to one side. “Better?’ she asked. “You know, I only have a couple more minutes to help before those cupcakes are ready.” She pointed to her wristwatch timer.

“I know. I’ll be done before then, I promise,” said Tessa, biting her lip. “Maybe I should have an extra one printed and framed of Kelly and Clark’s cake.”

“Maybe we should just find another client,” said Natalie wryly. She had just entered the foyer, her class satchel filled with business and fashion textbooks slung over her shoulder.

“We will,” said Tessa. “New businesses always have a tiny slump right after their initial success. It’s a proven fact. Look it up in your textbook if you don’t believe me.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. “I think we’re getting mown down by Weddings ’R’ Ours a couple of streets down,” she said gently. “They’ve got the edge right now, Tess. They plan birthday parties and retirement dinners on the side. And our word-of-mouth theory hasn’t exactly paid off with hoards of clients.”

Their last official wedding had been John and Ella in the first week of October: a local apple orchard with straw bales for seats, and a weathered two-story barn rental space on the grounds for the reception, with smoked brisket, homemade rolls, and a local vineyard’s wine selection on hand. Ama had created a spice cake with caramelized apples between layers, naked sides, and simple candy-glass leaves for the top ornament. The bride had worn a plain but elegant white dress with a pink sash, her smile radiant in the large sepia-tinted photograph that hung among the display on Wedding Belles’ wall: an image of the bride walking down the autumn leaf-strewn aisle.

Since then, a handful of customers had ordered baked goods from Ama’s side of the business, including the latest batch of cupcakes for a wedding shower, and Tessa’s services had been tapped for planning a surprise last-minute engagement party for a nearby restaurant owner. But an event for all three of them? A full-size event that would help them stay competitive? Not for six weeks now. Long enough that they couldn’t help but feel a little nervous that four clients simply hadn’t been enough to put them on the map.

“I know,” said Tessa. “Relax. I have a plan.”

“A plan?” said Ama. “For getting more clients? Are we putting a trapdoor in the walkway outside?” she joked.

“No, we’re getting a billboard,” said Tessa. “Look. There’s one available on the main bypass to the heart of the business district.” She opened today’s paper to the ads section and showed them the notice: Billboard for rent, prime location, reasonable payment plan. A telephone number was printed at the bottom.

“Tess, those billboards cost a fortune,” said Natalie. “You do remember that we’re still paying off this decrepit old building, right? Which would you rather have—a nice billboard or heat in your new digs this winter?”

She was referring to Tessa’s two private rooms upstairs, where the wedding planner had taken up residence in order to concentrate all her earnings into the Wedding Belles’ headquarters and business. Even if it meant giving up her privacy and the guarantee of a washroom with running water at all times, luxuries that this building did not offer its only full-time resident.

“We won’t have to worry about either one if we don’t have more clients, right?” retorted Tessa. “I called the rental company that owns the space and it’s not that bad, Natalie. Here’s the cost proposal, and here’s the design I had in mind. I sort of doodled it last night while watching reruns of Rich Bride, Poor Bride.” She handed both women a sheet with the little sketch on it, and the quote from the billboard’s owners.

Natalie made a slight face. “I guess it could be worse,” she said. “It’s more than our advertising budget for this year, though.”

“I thought we were taking out some ads in the bridal magazines instead,” said Ama.

“Well… we will,” said Tessa. “We’ll do both. It’ll pay off in the end, you’ll see. All we need is one high-profile client to help secure our reputation in the event planning community.”

“But I thought the ad in Local Bridal Trends was really pricey,” began Natalie, who was now searching through her satchel for an older quote from her business partner.

“Let’s not worry about that right now, okay?” said Tessa. “I’ve got it under control—you just need to worry about the alterations you’re making on the wedding gown for that bride who hired you last-minute for her self-planned ceremony. And the decorating project, since we clearly need to spruce up our image a little for the holidays.”

Ama’s usual smile had dimmed a little. “Tess, I agree with Natalie,” she said. “We’re taking a big risk if we spend too much money. I mean, we are still paying our unofficial fourth partner, too.”

As if to illustrate her point came the sound of a Skilsaw buzzing to life in one of the building’s closed-off rooms. The building contractor and all-round handyman Blake Ellingham had done more than fix their building’s faulty wiring and floorboards. And though he might roll his eyes at this reference to his honorary partnership in their firm, it was more than a little true. From the beginning, Blake had been helpful, after all—even stepping into the role (albeit begrudgingly) when their fourth partner had quit, to save the Wedding Belles’ first ever paid event from turning into an utter disaster.

Although he had stuck to carpentry duties since that first wedding, it didn’t stop Tessa and the others from thinking of him as part of their creative team. And—though she would never, ever admit it aloud—it didn’t stop Tessa from thinking of him as something more than merely a hired craftsman who could leave them at any time.

“He’s not working for peanuts,” contributed Natalie. “He keeps threatening to bring in some sort of antique shelf facings to spruce up that room, whatever those are.”

Blake’s skills as a restoration contractor were at odds with both the budget and the eclectic tastes of the Wedding Belles, who were fine with the ‘un-period’ metal spiral staircase and the sunny 1940s yellow and green in the newly installed kitchen, none of which belonged to the building’s original interior.

“Plus, we kind of promised him a cut of our profits,” said Ama. “Not that he’ll ever make good on that promise. Or that we’ll never again need a guy in a suit to spruce up our image, right?”

“I know all of this,” said Tessa. “Why do you guys doubt that I’m on top of the situation? It just so happens that I do have a plan to pay for all this which won’t touch our profits.”

“How?” asked Natalie.

“I’m paying for it myself,” said Tessa. “I have a job on the side, and the money I’m making will cover the billboard for a month. So there. You don’t have to worry, see? It won’t be a burden on our fragile expenses or our partnership’s budget.”

Her partners exchanged glances. “What job?” asked Ama.

Tessa’s expression became coy—or cagey—but it was impossible to tell which one. Was that a slight blush on her cheeks, or just the sunlight reflecting off her gingery-red hair?

“That’s for me to know,” she answered loftily. “Let’s just say that I’m helping out a friend on a sort of… consulting basis… and leave it at that.” She smiled. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so,” said Natalie, who still sounded a little disbelieving. “So what kind of sprucing should we begin with? A bigger autumn wedding display in the window? Christmas trees in the parlor?” She held up one end of a leaf garland sporting orange silk aspen leaves, and the dusky, speckled pinkish-red and yellow of Bradford pears. Tessa’s fall wedding vision held lots of seasonal pastel shades, from Pink Lady apples to Princess de Monaco roses mixed with soft orange, coral, and red-shaded peonies, and delicate corn husk flowers in the same shade trimming the fake two-layer wedding cake on display.

“I think we should do a white wedding for Christmas,” said Ama. “With lots of silver and maybe some graceful elements like birch trees for accents, or a big floral centerpiece with mistletoe and paperwhites. Or we could do a big red-and-green display with the classic shades.”

“You’re really getting carried away with this idea, for someone who doesn’t celebrate Christmas,” said Natalie with a grin.

“I like Christmas,” said Ama. “Gingerbread cookies and trees decorated in the stores, and all the candles and bells and snowflakes, and the really big nativity outside the cathedral. It’s my parents who stick to strictly traditional Indian holidays in the home. Me? I’m happy to celebrate both kinds.” She planted her hands on her hips as she studied the display window. “Maybe I could make a huge iced gingerbread mansion with little lights in it, and lots of sugar glitter.”

“In my house, the Christmas tree isn’t even up for discussion until after the last bit of my mom’s Thanksgiving feast has been eaten,” said Natalie. “Until then, the only decorations in my house are brown paper turkeys cut out of grocery sacks by my cousins’ kids. And those awful clay turkey place-card holders that me and Roberto made when we were in grade school.”

“I longed for paper turkeys as a kid,” said Ama enviously. “And real turkey with sage dressing. My mom always fixed bhakra curry, my dad’s favorite. Thanksgiving’s not the same when your turkey’s dressing is seasoned with turmeric and comes with rice, either.” An electronic beep trilled persistently in the room. “My cupcakes,” declared Ama, racing to the kitchen as the timer beeped. “Oh no—these are the ones for the birthday party on Saturday, and I’ve burned one batch already!”

“Are you sure you have this covered?” Natalie glanced at Tessa. “Everything?” She lifted one eyebrow, watching to see if Tessa squirmed under scrutiny.

“Of course,” Tessa answered, without any visible twinges of doubt. “You just worry about the next window display. Bring a couple of the latest wedding dresses downstairs for the new window, right?”

She moved aside the sketches on their reception desk, ones for fall weddings that had never materialized. The newest of Ama’s cake designs was festooned with glittery marzipan leaves in red and spicy orange. It was accompanied by some sketches Tessa had made of a country church decorated with the display garlands and flowers, with glittering pumpkins in shades of blue, pale orange, and rich burnt red matched with the delicate Pink Lady apples and pastel-shaded Indian corn bundles.

Natalie was adjusting the bridesmaids’ gowns on show—a few lucky finds from Natalie’s home closet of fashions past that she had tweaked to be more fashionable now—and turned one of the silk floral bouquets to a nicer angle.

“I think I have a gown that will be perfect for the Christmas one, if I finish the hem tonight,” said Natalie. “I guess we should find some fake snow or something.”

“I brought tons of old decorations from my mom’s store room,” said Tessa. “She decorated like a fiend for the holidays when she still had that big house to show off. Snowflakes, garlands, the whole collection. There’s even a tree from one of those end-of-the-year retail sales.”

“I’ll go sort through piles, I guess,” said Natalie. “Let’s change the display over Thanksgiving weekend, okay? I know you might be busy, but I don’t want Ma force-feeding me leftovers while chiding me for not having made fruit buns or spice cookies or something for the big dinner. If Ama doesn’t have big holiday plans, that is.”

“Second-generation Indian-American in a traditional family, remember?” Ama called from the direction of the kitchen, where the clatter of pans suggested her cupcakes were ready to emerge from the oven for the cooling period.

“Stuff’s in the sitting room,” said Tessa, as she gathered up the hammer and picture hooks she had been using for the foyer’s new art. Natalie pushed open the door to the closed-off room at the same time as the handyman opened it.

“Why is there a Christmas tree in my workspace?” Blake asked. A pair of safety glasses was propped on his head, holding back his unruly cinnamon-brown mane of hair. Sawdust and bits of rotted wood decorated the shoulders and sleeves of his worn blue flannel shirt. At the sight of him, Tessa turned quickly on her heel and began stowing away the picture-hanging supplies as if they were unsightly clutter.

“No reason,” answered Tessa over her shoulder. “It’ll be gone in another week. Just throw a plastic tarp over it if it’s in the way.”

“So long as you don’t mind wood rot and fiberglass in your Christmas decor,” said Blake. “I have to take the whole windowsill and surround out today, because two guys from the crew I’m working with volunteered to haul off the grisly remains.”

“Is that the crew from the old bank building with the storm damage?” asked Natalie.

“My paying gig, you mean. How nice of you to remember,” said Blake. “Yes, it is. And they’ve offered to bring the new one. If you sign the purchase receipt, so I can go pick it up from the yard. You’re signing it, right?” He glanced from Natalie to Tessa, as if to emphasize his hint. “We have a deal.”

“Right. Our deal,” said Tessa. “I’ll sign away, I promise.”

“Good. It’ll be here by Wednesday,” he said. “I’ll have your wall back together by Thanksgiving, scout’s honor.” He started to leave, then paused. “Is that my hammer?” he asked. Tessa hid it behind her back.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.” Blake looked unconvinced before he retreated into the sitting room again.

Natalie raised one eyebrow. “Can we afford whatever that window thing costs?” she asked.

Tessa sighed. “It’s that, or pay him money out of guilt,” she said. “Which do you think pinches our bank account less?”

“So long as he doesn’t make me paint over my wall mural, I’m happy,” answered Natalie.

Four dozen vanilla cupcakes, frosted with swirling icing, gold-glittered, each decorated with a single gold candy fleur-de-lis on top, were nestled in bakery boxes for delivery to the wedding-shower client by Ama herself early Saturday morning. That was after she stopped by the baking supply shop to pick out some new round gold sprinkles and some edible glitter, both for dusting some red-and-orange winterberry clusters she was making with colored white chocolate beads and dark chocolate stems.

Meanwhile, Ama’s latest customer’s order—cupcakes from Sweetheart Treats—was cooling at the family restaurant’s kitchen today, rather than at the Wedding Belles HQ. These were big red velvet ones waiting for spiced cream cheese icing and the aforementioned winterberries; three dozen in total to be served at a women’s luncheon at the Dogwood Tearoom the day after tomorrow. Ama was hoping to find something new to add an extra kick to the frosting, as somehow cinnamon didn’t seem quite special enough for this batch.

Lately, she had been spending her Saturdays off from Wedding Belles in the new ethnic market at the south end of town, where her family’s favorite Indian vendors had moved to set up shop near some Thai stands, some Taiwanese and Chinese spice stalls, and a host of other new flavors that Ama hadn’t yet experienced in the world of cuisine. Her brother loved to branch out when it came to flavors—not that the Tandoori Tiger’s menu often reflected this—and Ama herself was always on the lookout for something unique for her baked goods. Plus, she loved the excitement of the new location, full of new scents, diverse faces, and the electricity of cultures blending and melding in one location.

Today’s dessert selection at the Tandoori Tiger was one of her father’s favorites: an Americanized version of banana halva, which was served with an additional sweet sauce of melted butter or ghee and a little dusting of cinnamon across the top. She garnished it with a side of bananas in a brown sugar glaze, which seemed a little excessive in her opinion, but her father loved excesses. “Americans like it sweet,” he always insisted—and that was one thi