Kenny wasn’t one of those guys who grabbed at me. He watched me, though, from the very first time he came. Not in that creepy way, you know, when a man follows you with his eyes everywhere you go. More like he was watching to make sure I was doing all right. A girl picks up the difference quick. He was a couple of years older than me, muscular with broad shoulders and tall enough to see everything he needed even from a table in the corner. He never came in alone, but the guys he was with changed from day to day. I figured he worked construction until I asked and he told me he was a cop.

Kenny had shiny dark hair, cropped short even though almost every other man in the place had sideburns at the least, or ponytails. He never showed up in uniform, but he wore crisp new blue jeans and pullover shirts without wrinkles or advertisements. Most of our customers were beach bums, so he stood out that way, as well.

I like to thought he’d never ask me out. The strong, silent type didn’t usually spend much time looking my way. But one night after work he was waiting when I went out to the old VW I’d bought from another waitress, and he asked if I’d like something to eat. We drove in his car, an old but clean Mustang, to another place on the beach that stayed open late, and had burgers and beer and undressed each other with our eyes. He told me about his family, which was like something straight out of Father Knows Best, and I told him about mine.

He kissed me goodnight, but not one of those tongue in your tonsils kisses. A gentle kiss, like a promise we’d have time for more in the future. A year later we got married, our folks staring narrow-eyed across the aisle from each other trying to figure out exactly how this had happened. But I could have told them. Kenny was the quiet place in my life I’d never realized I needed. And I was the flash and fireworks in his.

Next: Wanda’s Story, Part Three 

My parents lived with my father’s parents in Mulund, a once sleepy suburb of Mumbai that is now exploding with construction and an influx of residents. Our house was three stories, painted pink with balconies looking over a courtyard blooming with bouganvillia and frangapani, and shaded by a gulmohar tree with its flame colored blossoms blazing in the months before the monsoon. A fountain sent a fine mist into the air, even on the hottest of days. My uncle’s family lived there, too. The house never seemed crowded to me.

My family is traditional in many ways. Both my mother and father are educated, and my brother and I were expected to become professionals. A medical or engineering degree was to be my fate, so that I would be most desirable for a good match, but in this, as in the way my marriage came about, I was a sad disappointment.

Even early in my convent school education it was clear to my teachers that art was the subject at which I excelled. When it became disappointingly clear to my parents that a position in an excellent medical school would elude me and that no bridge I designed would ever be safe to cross, they allowed me to attend the lush green campus of the Sir J.J. School of Art in Mumbai ,with it’s Victorian and Gothic inspired architecture and excellent reputation.

I had always had female friends. My closest was my cousin Padmini, the daughter of my mother’s cousin, with whom my mother had always been close. Padmini’s family was far wealthier than my own. Because our homes were far apart, when school was not in session we often spent many days at one home or the other. We were as sisters.

When we were at her home, Padmini and I were given much freedom. By the time I was in art school, though, we were ranging even farther. Padmini was never a particularly clever student, and she had not grown up to be a beautiful woman. But whatever she lacked, she made up for it by the force of her personality. When Padmini was in a room, it was difficult to notice anyone else. That is why it surprised me so when she introduced me to Darshan Tambe at an informal party of her friends, and he only had eyes for me.