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    Even more than the cool sanctuary of a fire temple, Adish liked coming here to pray. Unlike the cloistered, dark, exclusive cocoon of the fire temple, which only Parsis could enter, the Bhika Behram well stood in the center of a large, mosaic-tiled room that was open to the busy street. Adish loved the incongruity of being in this tranquil, airy space while all around him horns blared and vendors yelled and the Bombay office crowd moved at its usual frenetic pace. He liked concentrating on his prayers to the point of blocking out the sounds of the thriving metropolis around him. He relished the scent from the rose garlands and the rich smell of the oil lamps lit by his fellow worshippers. He enjoyed being in the company of the elderly, old-fashioned Parsi gentlemen who gathered here to pray, took pleasure in touching his forehead and saying a respectful “Sahibji” to them. It calmed him down, this place, took him away from the stress of business and family.
    And he needed to get away from family—from Laleh, specifically—for an hour or so. Even though they’d made up before going to bed, some part of him was still fuming at how badly she’d behaved at the party last night, how brazenly she’d insulted Girish, their host. Sure, she had been in pain from the dental work. Sure, she was reeling from the heartbreaking news about Armaiti. But still and all, her behavior had been inexcusable.
    T he party was so big that they had been there for an hour and still not met their hosts. “How much longer do you want to stay?” Laleh yawned. “I’m tired.”
    “Remember how willingly I went to the theater with you last week?” Adish grinned. “Did I ask to leave during the intermission?”
    “Don’t you dare compare this wretched party to that heavenly experience.”
    “Shh. Keep your voice down.” Adish tossed back the last of his scotch. “Okay. Let’s go pay our respects to Girish before we leave.”
    “You go. I can’t make any more small talk.”
    “Laleh.” Adish took her hand and discreetly pulled his wife across the room to where Girish was holding court, his entourage around him. In his beige cotton shirt and blue jeans, Girish looked more like a young, hip movie director than what he was—a prominent real estate developer who was the heir to a textile fortune. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Engineer,” he said to Laleh, after Adish introduced them. “So glad you could come.”
    “Thanks,” Laleh said. “Nice party.” Her tone was flat, noncommittal.
    Girish bowed. “We try.” He looked around. “Let me introduce you to my wife. This is my lovely Bindu.”
    At the mention of her name, Bindu turned slightly toward the Engineers, bestowed a haughty half-smile on them, and wordlessly turned back to her friends. Laleh arched an eyebrow and Girish said hastily, “Bindu’s shy around strangers.”
    “So was my puppy. But we trained her.”
    Girish went pale. “I—beg pardon? You . . . ?”
    “I’m sorry,” Laleh began. “I didn’t mean to—”
    Adish stepped in. “Lal is so crazy about that puppy,” he said smoothly. “I swear, I’ve heard her compare our children to that dog. ”
    “ We have a puppy,” Bindu said. Her voice was squeaky, childlike. “A Portuguese water dog. Just like the Obamas. Once they got one, bas, I had to have one also.” She smiled. “My father-in-law had one sent to us from America.”
    A tiny pulse beat in Laleh’s forehead. “You had a dog imported from America?”
    Adish’s head jerked up, alerted by a peculiar note in Laleh’s voice, but before he could speak, Girish did. “Papa is crazy about Bindu. I’m always telling him, Papaji, don’t spoil my wife so much.” His entourage murmured approvingly. He looked at Laleh. “My father is Motilal Chandani, you know.”
    “Yes, I know your father.”
    Girish grinned. “Everybody knows my dad.”
    Adish felt Laleh shift next to him and his heart sank. Surely Laleh wouldn’t. Girish was a new