by Kevin Kwan
“Yes, don’t be a slowpoke! I just texted George, and he’s going to join us for lunch. I can’t wait for his reaction when he sees you again,” Rosemary added.
Too late, Lucie thought.
* “Grandmother” in Cantonese.
VI
Outlook Avenue
EAST HAMPTON, NY
Lucie emerged from her shower refreshed and with a plan in place. Anticipating that George would be downstairs by now, she would pull her wet hair up into a high ballerina bun, and then she would put on her sleeveless white jumpsuit from The Row, the one she wore to big power meetings that always made heads swivel. It would look like she hadn’t put much effort into it, and the outfit was conservative yet alluring. It would erase the hot-mess image of this morning from George’s memory forever.
She got dressed quickly, put on her favorite sandals from Capri, and ran down the stairs, slowing down only when she reached the dining room. There he was, wearing the same loose black tank over orange shorts that he had worn to yoga. It annoyed her that he didn’t even have the courtesy to change into something proper for lunch, as any other guest coming to her mother’s would have.
“Lucie! Remember Lucie?” Rosemary called out excitedly the moment she saw her.
“Of course, Mom. I already saw her this morning,” George said matter-of-factly.
“You did?” Rosemary turned to Lucie with a surprised look.
“Yep, we were at puppy yoga together.”
“Well, now that Princess Lucie is finally here, let’s mangia!” Freddie said, grabbing a serving spoon and digging into the platter of beef noodles in egg gravy.
“Freddie, remember in the Chinese custom, one must always serve the honored guest first,” Marian chided.
Freddie’s spoonful of noodles was already almost on his plate, but he smoothly pivoted toward Rosemary and deposited the food onto her plate with a flourish. “Exactly what I was gonna do, Mama.”
“Good save!” George said, winking at Freddie.
“M sai haak hei,*1 Marian. Everyone serve yourselves while it’s hot!” Rosemary said, before turning to Lucie. “Now, Lucie, you need to catch us up on the last five years since we saw you.”
“Well, I graduated from Brown—” Lucie began.
“Magna cum laude, I might add,” Marian cut in.
“—and for the past two years I’ve been working for an art consultancy.”
“The top art consultancy in world,” Marian added.
“Art consultancy—what exactly does that mean?” Rosemary asked.
“Lucie’s got the most important job in the world. She tells rich social climbers what art to buy,” Freddie said, chewing on his noodles.
“That’s not accurate at all, Freddie. I help collectors acquire and build their art collections in a meaningful way.”
“By telling them what to buy, they’ll get photos of their houses into all the right magazines, hang out with the right crowd, get into all the right clubs, so their kids can go to the right schools, work for the right companies, marry the right people, have the right sort of babies, and repeat the cycle,” Freddie added.
“That’s a very cynical view of the world, Freddie,” Lucie said.
“It’s your world, Lucie.”
“And it isn’t yours? How many eating clubs do you belong to at Princeton again?”
“Stop it, you two! Freddie’s just being a provocateur as usual. Freddie, I know you don’t care about the right crowd, but there is a right way to behave,” Marian said as she dished a couple pieces of stinky tofu onto Freddie’s plate.
“What the…” Freddie paused, holding his fork and knife in midair. He breathed in the pungent aroma of the tofu and tried to stifle a grimace.
“Just try it, Freddie. You’ll love it,” Marian said.
“I’m not sure about that,” Freddie replied, scrunching up his nose.
Marian cast Rosemary a shamed look. “I’m sorry, I raised my children too white. They don’t know how to appreciate authentic Chinese food.”
“Hiyah, you’re telling me! George refuses to eat chicken feet. Don’t worry, Freddie, you don’t have to eat my cooking. But if you want to be adventurous, try dipping the tofu in this sweet chili sauce.”
Freddie gamely dipped a piece in the sauce and put it in his mouth, his dubious expression transforming into one of delight. “For something that smells like stinky feet, it sure tastes good.”
Marian flashed him a triumphant look. “See, what did I tell you? Now, back to Lucie. Lucie’s also become an amazing artist in her own right, Rosemary. She should be selling her own work.”
“Not really,” Lucie said, a bit mortified that her mother was morphing into a braggy Asian mother right before her eyes.
Marian let out a little squeal. “Lucie, you’re forgetting the most important news. She’s engaged!”
Rosemary beamed at Lucie. “Yes, we heard. Congratulations! But where’s your ring?”
“Oh, I don’t have it on at the moment,” Lucie said a little sheepishly.
“How could she possibly wear it? It’s the size of a rhino’s testicle,” Freddie said.
“Freddie, stop!” Marian scolded, before turning to Rosemary. “It’s a beautiful ring.”
Rosemary cleared her throat. “I’m sure. I would expect nothing less from Cecil. Such a nice man. You know he helped us rent Shittinghurst.”
Lucie, Freddie, and Marian burst out laughing.
Rosemary frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Cissinghurst, Mom, Cissing,” George said patiently.
“Oh, sorry. You know English isn’t my mother tongue,” Rosemary said.
“Don’t apologize, Rosemary. Your English is perfectly good. It’s absolutely charming,” Marian said.
“Mrs. Churchill, this flounder in spicy garlic sauce is amazing. I haven’t tasted anything this good since moving to New York,” George said.
Marian beamed at the compliment. “Thank you, George. It’s so easy to make, I’ll give you the recipe. It’s actually one of the few things I know how to cook, but I’m inspired to try my hand at more Chinese dishes now.”
Rosemary had brought an incredible array of fruits specially flown in for her from Asia for dessert, and as they began cutting up the Thai mangoes, Japanese white strawberries, Korean pears, and honeydew melons, Marian looked around the table happily. “It’s been years since I hosted a real Chinese lunch like this. I feel like I’m in the midst of a Wong Kar-wai film.”
Rosemary’s jaw dropped. “Waaah! You know Wong Kar-wai? I love his movies!”
“Who is this?” Freddie inquired.
“He’s a Hong Kong director, one of the great auteurs of Asian cinema,” George informed Freddie.
“Oh my goodness, I watched every one of his movies in the cinema the moment they came out in Hong Kong. I was obsessed. I wanted to be Faye Wong.” Rosemary sighed as she popped a strawberry into her mouth.
“Me too!” Marian said. “I discovered his work when I moved here to do my residency at Saint Vincent’s. I was always on call at the oddest hours, and I lived way up in Morningside Heights, so instead of trying to go home during my breaks, I would relax by going to the movies at Film Forum.”
Rosemary nodded in approval. “Days of Being Wild. I could have watched that movie a million times. Leslie Cheung was so amazing, how I miss him.*2 Which one is your favorite?”
Marian paused in the middle of sucking on a mango seed. “Oh, come on, you can’t make me choose! Chungking Express I can watch every night of the week. In the Mood for Love is an absolute masterpiece. But I have a soft spot for Fallen Angels because of Takeshi.”
Rosemary banged her hand on the table dramatically. “Oh! My! God! Takeshi! I wanted to have his babies!”
“Get in line, sister, you would have t
o fight me over him!” Marian cackled.
“Who is this?” Freddie asked again.
“Takeshi Kaneshiro! He was the star in a few of Wong Kar-wai’s movies, the dreamiest of all dreamboats.*3 Actually, don’t you think George looks quite a bit like him?” Marian raised an eyebrow.
“My George? No way! George is handsome, but not that kind of handsome!”
“Hmm…I don’t know about that,” Marian retorted.
“But Takeshi was a bad boy, a sex god! Are you saying my son looks like a sex god?” Rosemary demanded.
George squirmed in his seat. “This is getting a bit awkward…”
“No shit. I never realized Mama was a cougar.” Freddie chuckled.
Marian turned to Lucie with a smile. “Why don’t you show George your artwork?”
Lucie looked at her mom awkwardly. “Um, I’m not sure he really wants to see it now…”
“Actually, I’d love to see your work.” George jumped up from the table, eager to escape.
The two of them headed out the French doors and took the winding, moss-covered path past the pool house. As they arrived at the art studio at the bottom of the garden, Lucie paused for a moment. “You should lower your expectations. My mom was talking things up way too much.”
“I have no expectations,” George said.
Lucie slid open the barn door, revealing a room flooded with natural light from the skylights in the roof. In front of them was a five-foot-square canvas Lucie had recently finished.
“This is my latest painting, and behind here is—”
“Wait,” George said, putting a hand on her arm.
“Oh, sorry.”
George took a few paces back and contemplated the painting for a few minutes, while Lucie stood next to the canvas uncomfortably.
“Okay, ready for the next one,” he finally said.
Lucie shifted the painting aside to reveal the next canvas underneath, and after a few minutes, she brought out another and then another. As George stood in front of each painting, she wondered why he was studying the work so intently, scrutinizing every brushstroke from corner to corner. Was this all just an act of his? Was he just trying to humor her?
She studied him quietly as he studied her paintings, taking in all the changes that time had wrought—his chiseled features even more pronounced than before, his ripped triceps, the hard line of his pecs glimpsed under his loose tank top. The nut-brown tan of his youth had faded into marble white, and his lanky swimmer’s body had transformed over the years into the sculpted physique of a committed athlete. She thought for a moment how she might paint his portrait.
“How long have you been working in this style?” George asked.
“Oh…probably since my freshman year of college,” Lucie replied, a bit startled. Did he notice her staring at him?
“I really love this one,” George said, pointing to one of the smaller paintings. Lucie walked over next to him to assess the work from his vantage point. They stood there in complete silence, so silent she could hear him breathing. She could smell the dry sweat on him from this morning’s yoga, feel the heat radiating from his body. She found it unexpectedly alluring, and for a moment, as their shoulders touched, the sensation of his bare skin brushing against hers sent a faint shock wave all the way down to her toes. She stepped aside skittishly.
“Yeah, I think it’s the best of the lot.” George nodded, seemingly oblivious to what had just happened.
Recovering herself, Lucie stuttered, “It’s, um, it’s a bit unresolved, I think. It’s an unfinished work.”
“Well, how could it ever be finished? Grief never truly leaves us, does it?” George said softly.
Lucie froze in surprise. She knew he would be staring at her in that way of his, and she wasn’t sure how she would feel if she looked back at him. She walked up to the canvas and began to put it away.
There was a knock on the barn door as Freddie came strolling in. “Fancy a sail, George? It’s the perfect weather to take the boat out.”
“Sure,” George replied.
“Join us, Lucie?” Freddie asked.
“No, I think I’ll stay here and straighten things up a bit,” Lucie said.
“Suit yourself,” Freddie said, as he put his arm around George’s shoulders and led him out of the barn.
Lucie removed the painting from its easel and placed it in a stack. She was about to put another painting in front of it when she stopped, sank down onto the floor, and stared at the piece for a while. In the chaos of white-on-white brushstrokes, it all came flooding back for the very first time since she was eight years old…
All of a sudden, she found herself standing in the hallway of their apartment on Park Avenue as the paramedics hovered over her daddy, lying on the cold white marble floor, forcing the defibrillator against his chest.
“Stand by…one! Stay with me, there. Okay, stand by, shocking again, two!” the paramedic said calmly.
“Reggie, please don’t leave me, please God,” her mother wailed on the floor as another EMT tried to hold her back.
“Someone get the kid out of here,” another voice said.
Before Lucie knew what was happening, a man grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her up, up, and away from the hallway, away from her father forever.
Lucie lay on the floor of the barn, gazing at her painting as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She understood, for the first time, why she had bolted that afternoon in Capri when the man was having a heart attack in the piazzetta. George had been there that day. He was the only one who had witnessed her panic, her grief, as she saw that man dying, just like he was the only one who had ever looked into her paintings and saw what she saw.
*1 “No need to be polite” in Cantonese.
*2 A brilliantly talented singer, songwriter, and actor who went from being a teen heartthrob to a pop icon in Asia, Leslie starred in Wong Kar-wei’s Days of Being Wild and Ashes of Time, winning best actor awards for both performances. He committed suicide in 2003.
*3 Actually, Takeshi Kaneshiro appeared only in Wong’s Fallen Angels and Chungking Express.
VII
Ditch Plains
MONTAUK, LONG ISLAND
Every Sunday, Lucie’s ritual was to jog along the coast just as the sun was rising and end up at Ditch Plains beach, a sandy stretch where dramatic moorlands rose up close to the shoreline. She would grab a coffee from Ditch Witch—the food truck in the parking lot—and sit on the rocks watching the early-morning surfers and locals out walking their dogs. Today, she had been admiring a surfer who looked far more skilled on the waves than many of the kooks out there. As he came ashore, she realized that it was George, his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail.
Why does he have to be so damn good at everything? Lucie thought, as she decided to give a friendly wave.
George came over, unzipped the top of his wetsuit, and began toweling off his torso. “Morning,” he said, still panting a little.
“Did you catch any good waves?” Lucie made a concerted effort not to stare at the beads of water trickling down his abs.
“Nah.” George plopped himself down on the sand beside her.
“I guess compared with Bondi Beach the waves out here must be pretty pathetic.”
“Compared with just about anywhere. I needed a good swell, but beggars can’t be choosers.” George shrugged.
Lucie rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry our beach doesn’t meet your standards!”
“I never said that. You asked a question, I answered honestly.”
Ugh. Why did I overreact like that? Lucie kicked herself, as she tried to extend an olive branch. “I guess you must miss the beaches in California…”
“I didn’t actually surf much when I was up at Berkeley. No time. But I do miss the Sydney beaches, and the North Shore.”
“Oahu?”
“Yeah, we have a house there.”
“I remember your mom telling me. How often do you get back there?”
“These days about once a year if I’m lucky.”
“So why’d you move to New York in the first place? Surely you could have worked somewhere with better beaches.”
“I’ve always wanted to work with this firm. They’re committed to creating consciously designed, affordable, sustainable spaces for working-class communities. I know that’s something you might not understand.”
Lucie frowned. “Why would you say that? Because you think I only work with rich people?”
George gave a half smirk. “You said it, not me.”
“Look, many of my clients may be wealthy, but artists need to make a living. Most of the work I do is to connect collectors to young emerging artists who need all the support they can get. Especially female artists and minority artists—I’m on their side, I do everything I can to help boost their careers. I try to get their work placed with the most worthy, thoughtful collectors I know, so that hopefully their art will get the sort of notice it deserves.”
“Sorry if I misunderstood. Freddie might have given me the wrong impression at lunch the other day,” George offered contritely.
“Well, Freddie does a great job trivializing what I do. He’s such an armchair socialist. It’ll be interesting to see what he ends up doing with his life.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he benefits from all sorts of privileges I’ll never have.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s a man, for starters, and his genetic lottery numbers came in the day he was born. With his floppy Keanu Reeves hair and my dad’s features, most people don’t even realize he’s got a drop of Chinese blood in him. He’s grown up with all the privileges of being a male Churchill. This entire town caters to men like him. He’s a legacy at Princeton and he’s a shoo-in for any of the private men’s clubs he wants to join.”