Queen of Dreams Read Online Free PDF

watch, a truck drives up. Men start unloading tables and chairs, crates of various sizes. One of the women from inside steps out to supervise. She’s tall and willowy, with arresting cheekbones and frost-gold hair, and the olive uniform fits her like it had been tailored for her. Which of course it wasn’t, because—it comes to me suddenly—it’s standard issue for the fifty-five thousand employees who work for Java nationwide.
    “That’s right,” Belle says with grim satisfaction. “There was an article about them in BusinessWeek last month, remember? I read parts of it to you.” She recites, “ ‘Java is the fastest-growing café chain in the country, notorious for its policy of opening new stores in the vicinity of existing coffee shops and luring away their customers with low-priced specials and freebies. Within three years of its inception, it has captured sixty-seven percent of the U.S. market. “That’s nothing,” claims CEO Jeff Norfolk with characteristic modesty. “We’re aiming for one hundred percent.” ’ ”
    Belle has this dubious talent for perfect recall. I, on the other hand, believe in forgetting unpleasant facts as soon as possible. The more you think of them, I’ve told her, the more psychic power they suck from you, and the stronger they grow.
    But even I can’t be an ostrich about this situation.
    “We might as well throw in the towel right now,” Belle says gloomily. “Sell before we’re forced out of business. Seven years of backbreaking, heart’s-blood toil down the drain, but I guess that’s how it goes.”
    I consider reminding Belle that we’ve only had the Chai House for five years, then think better of it. Besides, she’s right about the toil.
    “I guess I could always go back to Turlock,” Belle continues. “Help Mom and Dad with the produce store. They’ll be happy enough. They never were convinced that living in the Bay Area was good for me. They’ll probably arrange my marriage to one of those upright young Indian farmers they buy their supplies from. They’re always trying to get me to meet them—”
    “Let’s not get all worked up.”
    “I can just see myself ten years from now, shrouded in fat and a polyester salwaar kameez, a passel of snot-nosed brats hanging onto my dupatta, rolling out makkhi ki rotis for all my in-laws—”
    “Belle, you don’t know how to make roti—or any Indian food, for that matter. And I’ve never seen you wearing anything remotely resembling a salwaar kameez—”
    “Exactly,” Belle says. Then she bursts into tears.
    “Calm down!” I say sternly, but I can see that under all the theatrics this time Belle is really worried. The Chai House means even more to her than it does to me. She was the one who dreamed it into being. I remember the day when she came over to my house—I’d still been married then—waving a stack of sheets excitedly. She’d gone over the ideas while I nursed Jona. Cocooned in domestic bliss, I’d been doubtful. I had my hands full taking care of a husband and baby, I told her, not to mention my art. I didn’t need the hassle of trying to manage a business on top of that. But she’d kept at me. Think how much fun it would be, not having to work for anyone else. I’ve always wanted that. She’d cajoled her parents into letting her have the money they’d been saving for her wedding to use as a down payment for the store. They gave it—but with great reluctance. They didn’t quite believe that Belle (or I) had enough business sense to keep from going under. Even now, when they call us, there’s apprehension in their voices as they ask how we’re doing. Maybe that’s why Belle works so hard, to prove them wrong.
    Sonny wasn’t too happy either. He didn’t want me starting something that would require so much of my attention when Jona was still a baby. I’d expected my parents (my mother, really; my father rarely expressed his opinions on matters pertaining to my life) to support