24 Hours in Italy

Prologue

[NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Please note this isn't the final proofread version, so there may be little errors! The full published e-book and print version of 24 Hours in Italy will be in bookstores on July 18th, and you can preorder your copy at the link in my profile!]

M

Four months after Mira and Jake's twenty-four hours in Paris

On the other side of the Atlantic, far removed from the cobblestoned charm of Paris and the beginnings of a romance with Jake Lewis that had started that summer, Mira Attwal leaned over the stove in the kitchen of her childhood home, inhaling the scent of cardamom pods intermingled with black tea leaves and cane sugar. She used one hand to hold back her long black hair, keeping it from dropping into the piping hot liquid.

Being back in Upstate New York and living at home wasn't where Mira had expected to be at age thirty-five, but she also hadn't expected life's recent (and major) curveball.

The distinctive aroma now rose from the saucepan one wisp of steam at a time, bringing her back to her South Asian roots. As the water came to a boil she stirred in the milk. Within seconds the concoction turned beige—another perfect pot of cha.

More than a decade ago, the term chai had been the beverage buzzword in Western culture, and the apparent misspelling had confounded Mira. She later realized that chai was the Hindi term, a mostly unfamiliar language to her, since she'd only heard her parents speak English or Punjabi growing up. And different kinds of Punjabi. There was annoyed Punjabi—when Mira's attempts at making roti turned out sticky and misshapen, vexed Punjabi—when Mira revealed she had no interest in becoming a doctor, and finally, scary Punjabi—when, several months ago, Mira broke off her engagement with her perfect-on-paper Indian fiancé, Dev.

But one consistent fact across this range of Punjabi? The word for tea in her home was always cha.

As Mira watched the cha begin to simmer, her mind tugged at memories of growing up dumb and numb to Indian culture. She'd picked up the pace in recent years, but was leagues behind the South Asian teens of today's TikTok, with their proud knowledge of Sikh gurus and Hindu deities (whereas she'd spent her formative years building a shrine to Madonna).

"Are you burning it?"

The annoyed English with a Punjabi accent was soon followed by the shuffled steps of her approach.

Mother.

Mira's mom was short in stature but a looming figure nonetheless; a queen among minions with standards as high as the Chrysler Building. Which was why, most of the time, Mira felt herself falling short—especially after the broken engagement, when her parents had iced her out completely.

Until recently, when everything had changed.

Now it was a comfort to be in this kitchen, which despite its recent renovation still felt like the home she remembered, from the same vinyl placemats that were easier to clean than the nicer cloth alternatives, to the faded floral curtains her mother had refused to part with.

Mira's mother leaned over the stove in full inspection mode. Her graying hair was as sleek as ever, tightly wound into a perfect bun that made her almond-shaped eyes and sharp nose—both of which Mira had inherited—the central focus. "It's done," she simply said.

"I'll take it outside to Dad."

"It's getting cold now. Tell him to come inside."

Mira stole a glance out the kitchen window. Outside, the last orange leaves struggled to hang on to the otherwise naked branches of the oak tree. "He has his coat," Mira insisted. "And the doctor said he needs fresh air."