Haunting Jasmine

“
Haunting Jasmine
is the kind of book that makes me remember all the reasons I love to read. Anjali Banerjee writes in luminous prose about the deepest secrets of a woman’s heart. With a freshness of voice and a playfulness of the imagination, she brings her quirky characters to life. The gorgeous and multilayered language illuminates a story that will haunt the reader long after the final page is turned.”

—Susan Wiggs,
New York Times
bestselling author

Jasmine, come home …

I take a deep breath and drag my suitcase up the narrow steps to the back door, which is now the main entrance to the bookstore. A well-worn path leads around the house to the ornate front door facing the waterfront, recalling a bygone era when important guests arrived by sea.

As I push open the back door, soft voices float toward me. The words coalesce, then change their minds and drift away. Inside the foyer, I’m submerged in dimness, save the faint orange glow from a Tiffany lamp. The heavy door slams behind me, shutting out the world… The air hangs heavy with expectation.

Jasmine, you’re finally here,
the house seems to say…

Further praise for Anjali Banerjee and her novels:

“Fresh and highly entertaining. I loved every word.”

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips
, New York Times
bestselling author

“A masala-scented
Like Water for Chocolate
.”

—
San Francisco Chronicle

“Delectable… recounted with hilarity and warmth.”

—
The Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“This book has a romantic, magical quality.”

—
Booklist

“Fascinating, insightful, and delightful. The descriptions shimmer and sparkle. I intend to rush out and buy a copy for every woman I know.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author

“The author’s hip-hot style combines breezy storytelling, wry humor, and just enough poignant sauce in a romantic comedy equal to
Bend It Like Beckham
.”

—
The Seattle Times

“A
Bridget Jones’s Diary
meets
Monsoon Wedding
-style escapade.”

—
Publishers Weekly

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY
^®is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / February 2011

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Banerjee, Anjali.

Haunting Jasmine / Anjali Banerjee.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-47853-0

1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 3. Islands—

Fiction. 4. Puget Sound Region (Wash.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.A6355H38 2011

813’.6—dc22

2010023024

http://us.penguingroup.com

In memory of my friend Keith Curtiss

acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to the following people: my agent, Kevan Lyon, for her support and wisdom, and her colleague Jill Marsal. My editor, Wendy McCurdy, for her brilliance. Her highly competent assistant, Katherine Pelz, and the talented people at Berkley who have worked diligently on behalf of this book: art director Annette Fiore, copywriter Jim Poling, managing editor Jessica McDonnell, and copyeditor Sheila Moody. The esteemed Leslie Gelbman, president and publisher of Berkley Books. My fabulous critique group—Susan Wiggs, Elsa Watson, Kate Breslin, Suzanne Selfors, Sheila Rabe, Carol Cassella. The amazing Michael Hauge, for helping me find the story. Nathan Burgoine, for generously sharing his experiences as a bookseller. Rebecca Guthrie and everyone at Bethel Avenue Book Company. Lyn Playle, for the tour of the Walker-Ames Mansion, on which Auntie’s Bookstore was loosely based. Stephanie Lile, for great talks while walking. The Brainstormers, including but not limited to: Gwynn Rogers, Pat Stricklin, Carol Caldwell, Carol Wissmann, Terrel Hoffman, Jan Symonds, Sandi Hill, Dee Marie, Theo Gustafson, Penny Percenti, Elizabeth Corcoran Murray, Soudabeh Pourarien, and all the Friday Teasters. Anita LaRae, for her insight. Susan Neal, for great ideas. Karen Brown, Kristin von Kreisler, Michael Donnelly, Sherill Leonardi, Casandra Firman, and Skip Morris, for perceptive reads of early chapters. Carol Ann Morris, for performing photo magic. Lois Faye Dyer, Rose Marie Harris, Julie Hughes, Renee Breaux. Claire Tomalin’s book
Jane Austen: A Life
for details about Jane Austen. Last but never least, my family: my parents, Randy, Daniela, my siblings, nieces and nephews; Mom and family in Texas. My cat companions, and my husband, Joseph, as always.

Chapter 1

I didn’t see this turn of events coming, or going. My ex-husband, Rob, used his charm like a weapon, and ultimately he didn’t care whose heart he broke—or whose life he ruined. Neither did he care whose bed he woke up in. My mother would say,
Well, Jasmine, that’s an American penis for you. You should’ve married a Bengali. Faithful, good, and true to his culture.
Her words conjure an image of the royal Bengali penis decked out in a traditional
churidar kurta
, its head peeking from the gold-embroidered white silk
kurta
at our traditional Indian wedding. But my mother won’t get her wish—I won’t marry again.

Now that the divorce is final, I need a break from L.A., from the errant ex-husband whom I once thought was perfect. I’m alone on the ferry to Shelter Island, a green dot of rain-soaked darkness in the middle of Puget Sound. Out on the boat’s breezeway, the wind whips my hair, reminding me that I’m still alive, that I can still feel the cold. Robert’s number pops up on my cell phone screen—the green digits that I have come to loathe. I ignore the call and send him into the barren wasteland of Voice Mail. Let him deal with the real estate agent and the vultures descending on the condo. I’ve made my temporary escape into solitude.

As we approach the island, the eastern shoreline emerges from a wall of fog. Madrone and fir trees tumble down to wild rocky beaches; forested hillsides rise into pewter skies; and the town of Fairport hugs the harbor in a density of antique buildings and twinkling lights. My heartbeat thuds. What am I doing here? Soon the moss will grow between my fingers, in the creases of my nose, and in the pockets of my thin raincoat, where I keep Auntie’s letter, her urgent request that summoned me home.

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