Yours, Eventually

by Nura Maznavi

Genres: General Fiction; Cultural Heritage; Women's Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A mesmerizing debut novel set in a tightly knit Pakistani American community where a young doctor gets an unexpected second chance with the first love she never got over when he becomes one of the most eligible bachelors in town.

The Ibrahim family is facing a crucial moment: Their patriarch just lost his fortune as the result of a Ponzi scheme, and the family is picking up the pieces. At the family’s core is Asma—successful doctor and the long-suffering middle daughter who stepped into the family center after the death of her beloved mother years ago. Despite what the prying aunties think, Asma is living the life she has always wanted, fulfilling her childhood dream of becoming a doctor . . . or so she thinks.

In walks Farooq Waheed, Asma’s college sweetheart whose proposal was cruelly rejected by Asma’s aunt and father. Now, eight years later, Farooq has made his fortune by selling his Silicon Valley startup and is widely considered one of the most eligible bachelors in California. As he enters Asma’s social orbit, she finds herself navigating a tricky landscape—her pushy sisters, gossiping aunties, and her father’s expectations—on her path to reconciling the past and winning Farooq back in the present. If there is still time. 

Yours, Eventually is a story about a young woman finding the courage to follow her heart and coming to the realization that living your life according to what other people think is no life at all.

Release date: February 18, 2025

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 400

Sample

ONE

The Qawwali singer hit the note, then held it. He sang for so long that the audience stopped breathing. Finally, he inhaled. Murmurs rose from the crowd, murmurs that turned into cheers as he started up again, this time accompanied by the twelve-piece ensemble sitting on the floor around him on a stage adorned with swaths of silver and gold fabric. On cue-or perhaps because of the enthusiasm of the musicians and the vibrato of the singer-the tiny white lights inside the lanterns strung from one end of the stage to the other began to flicker.

Asma barely noticed the lights. Or how the guests packed into the backyard of her family's Palo Alto McMansion had already lost interest in the musicians. They had turned their attention back to their plates piled high with fried appetizers swimming in pools of green and red chutney. Aunties gossiped about the latest engagements and other people's children while uncles debated foreign policy and conspiracy theories.

Asma couldn't take her eyes off her phone. Her older sister, Iman, had scheduled this party without checking the dates with her first, and Asma was on call for the hospital tonight. But instead of being an inconvenience, the prospect of being called away to work was a potential relief. Though she had grown up surrounded by this kind of money, and all the glitz, drama, and gossip that came with it, a night of accidental injuries and belligerent drunks in the emergency room was definitely more Asma's scene. She was bracing herself for intrusive questions from their guests. About her outfit, appearance, marital status-or lack thereof-and praying that she could escape to work before the onslaught.

Asma glanced up and saw her father's good friend and long-suffering accountant, Mr. Shafiq, weaving through the crowd toward her. He was dodging guests and buffet tables crowded with silver chafing dishes of meat. Lamb, beef, chicken, goat, fish-was that duck? There was much more food than they had agreed on in their meetings with the caterer. Iman must have gone back and increased the order.

"Qawwali singers? This is a retirement party, not a wedding!" Mr. Shafiq's usually slick and careful comb-over was rumpled, and there was a deep crease between his eyebrows. He passed a crumpled napkin between his hands.

"Uncle, I had no idea this would be so over-the-top."

"Asma! You said you'd handle it!"

"I said I'd try! But have you ever known anyone who can rein in my father and Iman when they get going?"

"This won't do, this just won't do." The napkin in Mr. Shafiq's hand was in damp tatters. Asma gently pried it from his clenched fist and put her hand on his arm.

"Uncle, please go and eat. There's nothing more we can do about it tonight."

Asma pushed Mr. Shafiq in the direction of the buffet. She understood his low-simmering panic about her family's finances; she shared it, in fact. Her father, Muhammad Ibrahim, was in denial and still behaving as if his rug import business were at the height of its success, when really the family was teetering on the edge of financial ruin. It had recently come to light that Mr. Ibrahim had put most of the family's money in an investment fund that turned out to be a Ponzi scheme. He'd lost nearly everything, and his only recourse now was to shut down his business and sell off its remaining assets, a move he was trying to cover with his supposed "early retirement." Now, however, it seemed his lavish retirement party might bankrupt them yet.

"What are you wearing?"

Asma turned at the sound of her younger sister's voice. Maryam was standing behind her, arms crossed, a pointed look on her face.

Asma had been so convinced that she'd be called into work that she hadn't bothered to figure out an outfit until just minutes before the first guest arrived.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Asma smoothed down the fabric of her beige salwar kameez. It had seemed fine when she put it on: it was the kind of understated outfit that demonstrated her lack of interest in the latest trends, because Asma had more important things to care about. But now, standing next to her younger sister, who was wearing a bright turquoise number custom-fit to her petite frame, Asma felt dowdy and decidedly out of fashion.

Maryam responded with an eye roll.

"Where's Iman?" Asma asked, glancing around the yard. "This is not what we discussed at all."

"I don't think it's too bad," Maryam said. "Except that cow Aunty Uzma was just asking me when I'm going to have more kids. I swear, if another aunty asks me if I have good news . . ." Maryam trailed off with a threatening shake of her head, her hair, recently cut into a sharp A-line bob, catching in her gold hoop earrings. "I don't know why she's bugging me when you and Iman aren't even married."

"She hasn't found me yet." Asma checked her phone again. Nothing. Could the ER really be that slow, tonight of all nights? "Or maybe she thinks I'm a lost cause."

"Especially in that outfit," Maryam said, attention already elsewhere. "What is Hassan wearing?"

Asma was relieved that Maryam's husband was now the focus of her fashion policing. Hassan stood across the yard, deep in conversation with a group of men. He wore a well-tailored charcoal suit, his hair covered in so much gel it looked as though he had just stepped out of the shower.

"Is that a trick question?" asked Asma.

"That's not the suit I laid out for him on the bed."

"You lay his clothes out for him?"

"I told him to wear his navy suit today because he needs to wear this suit tomorrow for his new headshots."

"He can just wear it again tomorrow."

Maryam looked at Asma like she'd suggested Hassan pose nude for the portrait. "You're joking, right?"

Maryam stalked off toward her husband, narrowly missing the caterer rolling an ice sculpture of their father toward the stage. The sculpture had already started to melt, water dripping down the nose as though it were running. Perhaps for the best, Asma thought-her father was terribly self-conscious about the size of his nose. Iman trailed the caterer, clutching the pallu of her silver chiffon sari, which had once belonged to their mother. Iman looked elegant and perfectly put together, as she always did. Her long hair was pulled back into a soft chignon at the nape of her neck and her sari draped perfectly, accentuating her figure, kept in shape thanks to hours upon hours of hot yoga. Though Maryam had been the first Ibrahim daughter to marry and have children, Iman was still the clear favorite for a good match, despite her being a year shy of the dreaded thirty. She'd nearly been engaged to the son of Mr. Ibrahim's financial advisor before the Ponzi scheme revelation had severed their relationship, and she was now a prime-if somewhat aged-marriage prospect for the men of their community.

"Have you seen Rehana Aunty? I'm so pissed." Iman searched the backyard for their aunt, her thick, meticulously shaped eyebrows narrowed into a frown.

"Iman," Asma said, ignoring her question. "Did you increase the catering order? I thought we agreed you'd stick to the budget."

"You worry too much," Iman replied. "It'll pay off in exposure. Like a business expense." In the past few years, Iman had become the premier event planner in their community, and their family functions were always her signature events. But now, Asma was beginning to fear that, like their father, neither of her sisters really believed the gravity of the family's financial situation, despite the accounting books and spreadsheets that Asma and Mr. Shafiq had gone over with them several times.

"Uncle Shafiq was very concerned," Asma said, but Iman was distracted, wrapped up in some kind of drama that was unfolding in their midst.

"You know how Rehana Aunty insisted I invite Aunty Saira because we were inviting Aunty Shaheen?" She didn't wait for a response. "Well, I said fine because I just could not deal with the drama, but I was very careful to make sure they knew that Aunty Saira's daughter wasn't invited. And yet . . . here she is."

Iman motioned to a group of young women a few yards away, though Asma wasn't sure which woman was the specific target of Iman's ire. It was difficult for her to keep track of who was in or out of Iman's good graces, or the ever-evolving social dynamics that governed events like this.

"Does it matter?" Asma asked. "We have plenty of food and more than enough room."

"Of course it matters! That trick didn't invite me to her graduation party."

"That was five years ago, you need to let it go," Asma suggested, though she knew it was probably futile. As usual, the guest list for this event was less about gathering their closest family and friends than it was about payback: rewarding the loyalty of those who had invited the Ibrahims to their special occasions over the years and exacting revenge on those who hadn't.

"The nerve of her, standing there in the middle of all those aunties with her stupid fake smile-she's totally here to get rishtas, but nobody's going to marry her, she's such a skank." Iman glared at the women. "Remember that fat white guy she was hooking up with in college? I should ask her if they're still in touch!"

"Iman!" Asma admonished, but it was too late-Iman was already headed in their direction.

Asma wondered how much damage control she'd have to do with their guests after the party. Perhaps packing up what was sure to be tons of leftover meat for any offended parties would be a sufficient peace offering.

Asma felt her phone, tucked into her pocket, vibrate. Finally! A text from the hospital.

She read the message eagerly, hoping she was being summoned so she could leave. But, to her disappointment, it was just a question about a patient's medicine dosage that only required a text reply.

"Excuse me, excuse me, dear friends."

Mr. Ibrahim was standing on the stage, tapping the microphone. He was wearing a spotless cream sherwani that contrasted spectacularly with the mop of hair on his head, an unsubtle jet black that could only come from a box. He beamed at the guests and pulled his glasses down on his nose in a way Asma knew he thought looked professorial and made his nose look smaller. At the sound of his voice, the crowd filtered out from the house and across the backyard to congregate near the stage. Mr. Ibrahim waited until he held their undivided attention.

"My dear, honored guests. Thank you so much for joining me on this auspicious occasion." Mr. Ibrahim loved the limelight, the captive audience of all the important need-to-know people of the community. "I hope you've all had enough to eat."

Mr. Ibrahim gestured to the buffet stations and paused-a beat too long, thought Asma-until the guests had turned to admire the spread.

"When I started my company, I had no idea that it would grow to be such an esteemed, respected, and profitable enterprise. I have enjoyed the hard work of bringing our beautiful Pakistani carpets into the homes of so many."

Asma, who knew the truth, suppressed an eye roll: her father hated to work.

Mr. Ibrahim was used to a life of luxury and ample wealth. Born into a rich Pakistani family, he had immigrated to the United States almost thirty years earlier, bringing with him the capital to start an American branch of his family's rug export business. The company's wild success, and sterling reputation as an ethical business whose gorgeous, intricately designed, and handcrafted rugs were made from naturally sourced materials, had little to do with Mr. Ibrahim. It had all been thanks to the shrewd fiscal management and innate business instincts of the company's behind-the-scenes CFO, Mrs. Ibrahim.

Asma suppressed a grimace as Mr. Ibrahim took the credit for her mother's success in front of all of these people. After Mrs. Ibrahim's death, when Asma was just fourteen, the company had coasted by for years on its early gains-that is, until Mr. Ibrahim decided to take its financial matters into his own hands. And all it took was one terrible investment, supported by a man he trusted like family, to bring it all down around them. But their guests knew nothing of the family's financial situation, or the fact that they were about to rent out this very McMansion to stay afloat; the crowd looked adoringly at Mr. Ibrahim as he gave his "retirement" speech.

"I'm looking forward to starting this new chapter of my life and spending more time with my family," Mr. Ibrahim continued. "But it's on occasions such as these that the absence of my beloved wife is felt most greatly." His voice broke slightly. "May Allah continue to shower his blessings on her."

Asma flinched at the mention of her mother while the crowd whispered ameens and InshAllahs. In the chaos of figuring out the details of the company's loss and decisions related to their finances, Asma had been careful to avoid thinking too much about her mother. What she would have thought about this premature retirement, renting out the house, moving-Asma's inability to keep things together. Asma saw her father's sister, Rehana, just offstage, draw the edge of her dupatta to her eye. Aunty must be thinking about her mother too. Rehana had moved to the U.S. over two decades earlier after the death of her husband, and she and Asma's mother had quickly become inseparable. Asma felt a kinship with Rehana at moments like these, when it seemed that Rehana still felt Mrs. Ibrahim's loss just as acutely as Asma did.

"She would've been so grateful. There are so many of you to thank. I start first with my dear sister, Rehana."

Rehana nodded with a strained smile.

"And my beautiful daughters. My eldest, Iman. She put this wonderful party together. Such taste, such vision. No expense spared."

Iman waved to the crowd like a beauty pageant contestant perched atop a convertible in a small-town parade.

"And of course Asma and Maryam. I think you all know my youngest, Maryam, is married to Doctor Hassan Qureishi." Mr. Ibrahim lingered on the word doctor for so long that no one would have guessed that Hassan was only a dentist. "Maryam's given me the best retirement present any man could ask for: two grandsons!"

The audience laughed. Maryam beamed at her father. Next to her, Hassan looked embarrassed. Their sons, at Iman's insistence, were out of sight, parked in the guest room with pizza and iPads.