“Kitty called,” she guesses.
“How’d you know?”
She shakes her head. “I’m your mama,” she says. “I know. But your smile is so wide it might fall off your face.” She pats my shoulder as she walks by to the sink. “I love seeing that.”
I touch my cheek, tight with the smile.
I love it too.
Chapter Thirteen
Alice has promised she’ll take care of the evening chores, so after I finish my work for the day, I shower and get dressed in my nicest jeans, the most stylish of the mostly outdated clothes I wear. I pick a clean white button-down shirt with tiny red flowers. To me it feels elegant, but I know in the city I’ll look out of place. I shouldn’t care, but I always have. I’ve always been the one out of place here. Not many Chinese faces in this small town, in the rural areas in this part of the world. Maybe one family per town, if that. You’d think I’d be used to it. I know Mama doesn’t care much, though she doesn’t get to town all that often. She prefers the farm, says it reminds her of her home back in China, on her father’s plot of land. A lot of the Chinese greens we grow come from her family back in China. I’d like to grow more of them in the greenhouse, but we’ve focused mostly on Western fruits and vegetables, things we know will sell. But in the next year, I’d like to grow and sell gai lan. The greens are versatile, and the stalks thick, so you can chop the stalks for stir-fry or have the greens in many ways.
I take a last look in the mirror. Clean, presentable. But hardly ready to go into the city. I’ll do it, though. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other. It sounds silly saying it, thinking it, since it’s only been a few days, but still…every moment feels an eternity.
I head downstairs and pack up a selection of fruits into a cooler bag, then take a shopping bag of greens with me too. We haven’t specifically planned anything for dinner, but I don’t want to show up empty-handed. I put the food in the back of my little car, an older Ford Taurus that we use for quick jaunts, when I don’t need to use the truck. Mama waves from the porch.
“Don’t come back too early,” she calls to me.
“I won’t,” I call back as I slide into the driver’s seat.
The miles fall away as I sing along to the radio, listening to CKUA. The mix tonight is a good one, some old, some new, and I sing along to John Prine and then to David Bowie, T. Buckley, and Sarah Jane Scouten, all in a row. Singing keeps me from being nervous, at least until I hit the city limits. The traffic increases exponentially, and I have to make several turns and merges that I hate, the city drivers seeming too aggressive, too impatient. I’m sure if I drove this route every day, I’d be fine, but right now, in the thick of evening rush hour traffic, I’m starting to wish I’d held off coming to see Kitty until the weekend.
But I wouldn’t have lasted that long. At the next red light, I let my hands drop from the wheel, then flex and stretch my fingers, loosening some of the tenseness there. I’m getting closer, and soon I’ll be able to park and then relax at Kitty’s place.
I take the exit into downtown and follow Kitty’s directions, which I’ve written on a small piece of paper and stuck near the dashboard. Once I get to Tenth Avenue, the traffic slows to a crawl. That’s fine, because I’m scanning for a parking spot along the street. I see Kitty’s building at the corner, but the parking lane is packed solid. I come up to a set of lights, and I put my signal on. I’ll go around the block. Maybe something will open up. I follow the traffic, then turn again onto a one-way street, but there’s nothing here either. I continue on until the next light, turning right again. The side street has no parking either. I turn right at the corner when there’s a pause in traffic, and still, there’s nothing in front of Kitty’s building.
Once more around the block, then on the next go round I get lucky, and an SUV pulls out of a spot just in front of me. I signal and pull in quickly, giving a sigh of relief. It felt like I was going to be out there forever, circling again and again, like a hawk looking for a mouse.
As it’s after six in the evening, the sign says parking is free. One small blessing. I take my food from the back seat and lock the doors, heading into Kitty’s building. I find the directory and key in her number. Two rings, and she answers. I reply.
“Come up!” There’s a buzz, and I pull open the inner door, then head across a lobby with slate floors and cool gray walls to a bank of elevators. The place looks brand new, or nearly brand new. I press the button for the elevator. A minute later, the doors open, and a couple dressed in suits, one man with a carefully styled beard, the other with short, spiky hair, exit in a cloud of cologne, talking loudly. They don’t seem to see me at all. One laughs as they head outside into the evening.
I step into the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. The elevator is a fast one; my ears pop and the door is opening on to a bland gray corridor. I step out and look left and right. Neither way indicates whether it is correct, so I choose one, turning to the left. I seem to have chosen correctly, because I’m soon at 505. The door is cracked open, so I push it inward and step into a small entryway. There’s gray laminate flooring and a floor-to-ceiling mirrored closet that unkindly reflects my frazzled self back at me. I set down my bags and run a hand through my hair, though I don’t know if that helps.
“Kitty?” I call out.
Kitty appears from around the corner, and she squeals when she sees me, then rushes forward into my arms. I catch her in an embrace, walking back a step to cushion myself from her exuberance.
“Finally,” Kitty whispers against my ear. She loosens her grasp and we come face to face. “It felt like forever.”
Every stressful moment, every time around the block, falls away as I take in her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the smile on her lush lips.
“I’m here now,” I say.
Kitty takes my face in her hands, and then we’re kissing, a locking of lips that is intense, needy, desperate, as if we’ve been apart months. I don’t want to it to stop, but we eventually do come up for air. I’m not sure how much time has passed, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here, she’s here, and we’re together. Finally.
“I brought food,” I say, indicating the bags. “Fruit and greens.”
“I’ve been experimenting,” Kitty says, pulling me with her down the hall and into the kitchen. The place looks spotless, or almost. Gleaming stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, elegant white cupboards with brushed metal pulls. Like out of a magazine. I almost don’t want to touch anything for fear of leaving fingerprints.
Kitty takes the bags and plunks them on the pass-through bar. I notice my little cat sculpture sitting on the bar, overlooking the living room. I touch a finger to it, a stroke down the nose. It’s cool to the touch and smooth.
“I thought that was the best place for Heimei,” Kitty says. “She can see everything in the apartment.” She opens the bags, starts pulling out fruit. “It’s going to take us a while to eat all this,” she says.
“We don’t have to eat it all tonight. But I thought I could cook the greens for you tonight, if you want.”
“Sounds great.” Kitty hooks her fingers through my belt loops and pulls me close. It feels entirely natural to rest my hands on her shoulders. “I have chicken thawing, but no absolute plans.”
“Want me to make up something?” I ask. “I don’t get much chance to cook at home, unless I’m helping Mama with her meals.”
“She likes to cook?”
“Always. And she finds it easier to do than some of the farm chores.”
Kitty takes out the greens from the second bag, laying them on the counter. “She does seem a bit frail. How old is she?”
“In her late sixties,” I reply. “But she was born in rural China, and during that time she was growing up, there was famine. She never quite recovered from it. And girls weren’t nearly as important to the family.” I shrug. Mama’s always been matter-of-fact about her upbringing.
“How awful. I didn�
�t even realize that there had been famine.”
“Policies of the government, and some natural disasters. She told me once that she was just happy to have survived. A lot of her family didn’t. And here, she says we have so much, she never has to worry again.”
“What’s it like growing up on a farm?” Kitty asks. I take up the greens and take them to the sink, running water to rinse them. Kitty takes out a clean tea towel and I lay the cleaned greens on it.
“Mostly good,” I reply. I have to think about what I like about it. Not many people bother to ask me about myself, about the farm, and especially not Mama. “I used to complain, of course. It wasn’t very exciting. But I got to roam all over the farm and farther. And I learned a lot. My dad’s family have always been farmers, so he learned it from the best. And the land has been passed down for several generations. I think my dad’s grandfather came from Eastern Europe somewhere. Might have been Germany, or Prussia at the time. I can’t recall.”
“So your dad was white?” Kitty asked.
I am not surprised at the question. That’s usually one of the first when someone finds out about my history, my family. “Nope, not entirely. His father married a Chinese woman, my grandmother. It caused quite a bit of fuss in town, and especially in the family. But they fell in love and he had his heart set on her. He told me once that he’d seen her in the Chinese and Western food diner, bringing a bowl of soup to a customer, and he thought she was the most beautiful woman ever.”
“That’s amazing,” Kitty says. “And such a story. So romantic.” She smiles, her gaze moving off to the middle distance, probably imagining what it would have been like.
“I think his family eventually accepted her,” I say. “She wasn’t going anywhere. And he said she cared for his parents in their old age. I never met them, my great-grandparents. And my grandparents always seemed quite old. But I guess most adults do to a child.”
“I grew up in the city,” Kitty says, “daughter of two high achievers. And I have an older brother. He’s off in the army. I don’t know that they have a big love story like your grandparents.”
“Your mom never told you anything?”
Kitty shrugs. “She was always busy working. I had a nanny growing up, Helen Chadwick. She was more my mom than Mom was. And my dad’s always been busy too. But we get together for dinner now and again, in between all our crazy schedules.”
“You should ask them at the next dinner,” I say. “Maybe there is a big love story there, but they just haven’t told you.”
“Maybe,” Kitty says. “But your mom and dad…was there a story there?”
“Sort of. To improve his language skills, his mother got him to write to her aunts back in China, and word got around that he was an eligible bachelor. One of the aunties got my mother in touch with him. They wrote back and forth for a couple of years before the marriage was agreed upon and Mama immigrated. And she insisted upon keeping her maiden name, though my paternal grandparents disagreed. That’s why I’m a Shen when I should have been a Bennett.”
“She could write a book about it,” Kitty says.
“I don’t know that she would,” I reply, “but it’s a neat story. We’re still in touch with her side of the family. It helps me keep up on my language skills too. Aside from Mama, I don’t get much opportunity, after all.”
“I don’t know that I could even attempt Chinese,” Kitty says. “The sounds are so different.”
“It’s not a Western language, that’s for sure. But I could teach you a few words here and there.” I pat the greens dry. “Do you have some canola oil?”
Kitty goes to a closet and pulls open the door. It’s full of dry goods, and she takes down a bottle. “What else do you need?”
“A big pot, and we’ll boil some water, then boil the greens.” Kitty takes out a pot and fills it, then puts it on the stove. “This is gai lan,” I note, “and it’s delicious once it’s been cooked for a little while.” I go to her fridge and pull open the door, scanning the condiments. I spot the oyster sauce tucked behind a jar of mustard. “It’s very simple.” I place the oyster sauce on the counter.
“What should we do with the chicken?” Kitty says. “I was thinking some garlic and ginger, maybe a bit of soy sauce. And some hot sauce.”
“Sounds delicious. Do you have a wok?”
Kitty blushes, then pulls a nonstick wok from one of the bottom cupboards, along with a lid. “I bought this once I got home from your place. I hope it’ll do.”
I take it by the handle. Nice weight, and the nonstick is handy. “It’ll work perfectly.”
“I wasn’t sure because it wasn’t steel.”
“Steel’s good, but it has to season and cure, so nonstick is easy. We’ll sauté the chopped garlic and ginger, then sauté the chicken and toss it with the soy sauce. Greens on the side.”
Kitty pulls out her ginger and the green onions and then a cutting board from a thin cupboard near the fridge. I pull open a drawer and find her cutlery and knives. There’s a nice solid knife, and I take it out, testing the feel. It looks brand new.
“This new too?”
Kitty chuckles. “Afraid not. But I’ve hardly had time to use it.”
I take the bundle of green onions, remove the elastic bands, and trim the tips and the ends. Then I start chopping, keeping the onions nearly minced. “How come you don’t cook much? Especially since you love it?”
“I work,” she says.
“So much there’s no time for meals?” I can hardly imagine it. Even after a long day on the farm, I know that I can manage a meal.
Kitty shrugs. “A lot of days, I’m not home until nine, sometimes later.”
I stop what I’m doing. I know I must look surprised, maybe even horrified. Kitty seems suddenly shy, looking away, taking the ginger out of its paper bag.
“I want to make partner,” she says. “It’s expected to have a heavy workload.”
I finish with the onions and push them to the side of the cutting board, then set the knife down. Kitty still isn’t really looking at me. I reach for her hand, curl my fingers around hers. She looks at me then.
“That’s a lot of work,” I remark. “I hope you’re getting enough rest, and enough free time.”
Kitty squeezes my hand. “Cindy makes sure I don’t work too hard,” she says. With her free hand, she pulls out her phone and brings up her calendar, showing me the dates. The first thing I notice is that her weekdays are packed solid. I doubt she even has a spare moment in there to eat lunch, much less take a break.
“That’s a lot.”
“My weekends are free, though,” she says, and I notice that they are indeed free. Small white blocks of space in that sea of color. I’m relieved to see those spaces. More than I’d expected. Seeing all those colors, all those days full, made me wonder when I’d see Kitty, if at all. She has rearranged her schedule for me. Coming from someone as busy as she is, that sort of step is flattering, and surprising.
“I know how we can fill them,” Kitty says. She tugs me closer, and my heartbeat quickens. She brushes her lips over mine.
“I have an idea too,” I reply. Then her hand is on my cheek, and my eyes are closing, and her mouth is on mine, and I forget that we’re in her kitchen.
Chapter Fourteen
I want to cook, but with Lucy standing there, looking so delectable, and having missed her so much over the past few days, cooking can wait. Her mouth is mine and she’s hot against me. Her arms come around my neck, and I have a feeling we’re not going to get to dinner for a while yet.
My knees are weak when we finally part, both of us breathing heavily.
My stomach growls. Then so does Lucy’s. She laughs, resting her head on my shoulder. “Rain check for later?” she asks.
My stomach growls again. “I think so.” We’re still reluctant to part. I take out a second cutting board and knife, and take the chicken thighs out of their packaging. “How do you want these cut?”
“D
iced in larger cubes, or pieces, just not too big,” Lucy says. “They’ll need to cook quickly in the wok.”
I get to work. Standing next to her, our elbows brushing now and again, the scent of ginger and onions rising in the air…it feels right. Our time in the kitchen is a bit like a dance as we move around, getting ingredients ready, the oil in the wok, the bamboo wood utensil, turning on the stove burner. I watch as Lucy watches the oil in the wok.
“Once it shimmers, it’s hot enough,” she says. She takes the cutting board with ginger and onions and scrapes the contents into the oil. There’s a sizzle and a pop and the sharp scents rise in the air. It smells amazing.
“Do you have any sesame oil?” Lucy asks. “It’d go great on the chicken before we toss it in.”
I go to the pantry and do the bottle shuffle, finding the small bottle of sesame oil I think I’ve used maybe twice in the last six months. I hope it’s still good. I open it and sniff a bit. It doesn’t smell rancid. “How’s this?” I hold it out to Lucy. She’d probably know better than I do. I’ve cooked for years, but I feel out of practice. It’s been so long since I’ve made a proper meal, aside from helping her mother that one night.
“Still good,” Lucy says. “Chicken in a bowl and tossed with the oil, then we’ll get that in the wok.” She stirs the onions and ginger while I do as asked.
“Ready?”
“Let ’er rip,” Lucy says, and I dump the chicken into the wok. There’s another sizzle, and Lucy stirs a bit, making sure the chicken is well spread out.
The water in the larger pot is boiling.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Slice the ends off the gai lan, and then plop them in the pot,” Lucy says. “It won’t take too long for them to cook. They’ll get nice and tender.”
My stomach growls again. “It won’t be too soon.”
“I know what you mean.” Lucy leans over to me, and I meet her with a kiss. “We need to do this way more often.”
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