Yes Is Forever

by Stella Cameron

  “Donna?”

  “I’m thinking ahead,” she said miserably. “Trying to, anyway. This…this father, Mr. Tsung, he’ll be back in three weeks, right? And you think it’s really iffy that he’ll even see me?”

  “I would say very iffy, Chic—uh—Donna. You’ll just have to prepare yourself.”

  She could imagine it. Mr. Tsung would come back from Hong Kong. She would go to see him—possibly at his home, wherever that was, or at his bank. He would be horrified. He would doubt her. He would cross-examine her. He would deny ever having known Prairie Crawford. He would call his lawyer. She would be humiliated.

  “You’re not going to cry, are you?” Bruce asked nervously.

  “No. I won’t do that to you—not after all you’ve done for me.”

  “Nonsense.” He was smiling the smile she loved. “I was glad to find him for you. What are friends for? When he comes back, we’ll go and see him. He will either want to meet you or he won’t. It’s no big deal, Donna. If he’s pleased you showed up, well, you can get acquainted—that’s what you wanted. If he wants no part of a long-lost daughter, okay, we say ‘sorry’ and bow out. You’ve lived your life so far without him, haven’t you? It isn’t as if you didn’t have great parents.”

  “Yes.” Another feeble hope surfaced. “Bruce, you said ‘we.’ You mean you’d go with me?”

  “Of course. I intend to see you through this, Donna. We go back a long way, you and me. We’re buddies, remember?”

  She sighed. She had had just about enough of being his friend and buddy.

  “Why the big sigh, honey?”

  “You mentioned my great parents,” she improvised. “Those great parents are going to take a dim view of my going ahead with this without talking it over with them first. And I wouldn’t blame them. I should have done that, Bruce.”

  “True. But it’s too late now. You think they’re not going to like it?”

  “Mom’s going to go all tight-lipped and reasonable. She does that. The madder she gets, the more reasonable she makes herself sound.”

  “And Evan, your dad?”

  “Dad usually placates her, tries to smooth things over. I’m his darling. But in this case, with another father image—I don’t know. He’s got an awful temper when he lets go. It isn’t that…it’s that now…after the fact…I’m realizing how much I dread their being hurt.”

  “We’ll have to guard against that, certainly,” Bruce agreed, but his reassurance was small comfort.

  “You know, since we’re buddies,” she said, trying not to sound sarcastic. “You could go one step farther with this fiasco.”

  “Now, it’s not a fiasco yet, Donna. What’s the step?”

  “I have a feeling that Raymond Tsung is going to tell me to get lost. I have enough pride not to want to have him do it to my face. Could you…could you contact him first? Maybe by phone or something to…to…”

  He grinned. “To see if the coast is clear? Sure. I’ll do that. Then, if we get the green light, you can come in.”

  “Thank you, Bruce,” she said fervently.

  “That leaves three weeks,” he said.

  “Three weeks for what?”

  “For you to get some Chinese culture, Donna. If Raymond is so gung ho for his ancestral beginnings that he’s leaving his family in Hong Kong for two years, what’s he going to think of a long-lost daughter who can’t use chopsticks?”

  Donna responded with a shaky laugh. “I’m going to take a crash course in chopsticks?” she asked.

  “Sort of. For the next three weeks you’ll think, eat, sleep and act Chinese. Can you do that? While I was in law school, I did a lot of work in Chinatown, and I do know something about Chinese culture, even if you don’t. And I have friends who will help fill in the gaps.”

  “Oh, Bruce, you are good.” She should stop this charade right now. She should simply confess, tell him the truth before she got them both in any deeper. He hadn’t had a chance to speak to Raymond Tsung yet.

  “Sure,” he continued enthusiastically, sliding his hands over her forearms. “I’ll even map out your program for you, how’s that? You know what? You should get a couple of those Chinese cheongsam. You know, the sheath with the high collar? I always thought that was the sexiest-looking dress ever devised.”

  Small tremors of excitement rippled through Donna’s body at the sensation of his warm hands caressing her arms. She swallowed hard. She should tell him the truth at once, push behind her the wild temptation to spend the next three weeks closely involved with him.

  “The museums,” he continued. “The DeYoung has a whole room of Chinese treasures—we’ll spend hours there. And I have some books. I was really into Chinese history at one time. I’ll give you a key to my place so you can go in any time you have a spare hour, even if I’m not there.”

  To be with him—in his house! Donna felt drowned in a surge of emotion. She had a sudden vision of the two of them poring over Bruce’s books, having cozy dinners in Chinatown, going on intimate little shopping tours. The fantasy shimmered like a beautiful dream—but she’d have to pass it up. Tell him. Now!

  “If Tsung rejects you as his long-lost daughter, it won’t be because you don’t know about your heritage. After all, we’ve got three whole weeks.” Bruce was laughing now, having fun. “Anything can happen in three weeks.”

  He looked so wonderful. He looked so dear. It was too much. She couldn’t resist.

  “Yes…” Her voice was unsteady. “Anything can happen. Anything at all.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FROM DAY ONE of her “Asian Appreciation Course,” as Bruce called it, Donna had a good time. She started out determined to tell him the truth at once, but made the mistake of allowing herself just one more day before facing his wrath, or whatever reaction her confession would bring.

  She granted herself the day when they were in the DeYoung museum, as Bruce escorted her leisurely through the huge collection of Asian art.

  “We may as well start at the top,” he had said, pointing out the minute carving on a statue—or perhaps he’d been explaining the symbolism of the painting on a screen. Afterward, Donna couldn’t recall the exact moment of her decision to wait before confessing the truth. He’d been so knowledgeable and funny and patient, and she had come to love him more, if that was possible, with every passing hour.

  The next evening, one more day became two more days. He came home late from the office and found her sitting on the floor of his study, surrounded by books about Chinese history. She was so absorbed that she didn’t hear him come in.

  “Hi, bookworm,” he said from the doorway, and she jumped.

  “Good grief, I didn’t hear you. What time is it?” she asked, and belatedly added, “Hi, Bruce. This is fascinating stuff. They invented the compass. Three…four thousand years ago? Imagine that?”

  “Oh yes.” He strolled into the room and went down on his knees on the floor opposite her. “They were great travelers.” He reached over and picked up another book. “I think there’s a better picture of the compass in this one. Theirs pointed south, though, instead of north. But it worked just as well as our modern one does. You haven’t got to the rockets yet, have you?”

  “Rockets? Don’t tell me the ancient Chinese had rockets.”

  “They sure did. The regular blast-off type—not so far removed from the type we have today. After all, they did invent gunpowder, you know.”

  “Yes, I did know that.”

  And as he bent studiously over the book, searching for a better picture of the compass, she thought, One more day. Just one.

  Yet another day was added while they shopped in an expensive Chinatown dress shop. I’m weak, I’m weak! she railed at herself in the dressing room while she ran her hands down her hips over smooth turquoise satin. The straight sleeveless dress had its own timeless elegance. She had to have it, even if it took her whole summer’s salary to pay for it.

  Back in the showroom, she asked Bruce, “What’
s it called again?”

  “A cheongsam,” he answered, leaning forward in his brocaded chair and flicking the long narrow skirt slightly in order to straighten the hem. “All it really means, literally, is ‘long dress.’ Foreign words always sound so exotic until you get the exact translation.”

  “Right. I remember I was so disappointed when I found out that all ‘baton’ meant in French was ‘stick.”’

  “Look in the mirror there, Donna. Move a bit to show that slit up the side. Now, wasn’t I right? Isn’t that the sexiest garment ever invented for a woman?” He gave a low whistle. It was the whistle that did it. Weak or not, she knew she had to have one more day with Bruce.

  He was so wise. He was so knowledgeable. He was so clever. He also spoke quite a bit of Cantonese, which was the dialect most Chinese-Americans in the San Francisco area seemed to speak. He was also proficient in the use of chopsticks. She tried to be an apt pupil, to follow his lead, and—most of all—to please him.

  Her one dismal failure—and she was ready to admit it by the next day—was in the use of chopsticks. She couldn’t seem to master them. She, who had always had such superb control of bodily muscle and movement, found these little sticks treacherous and diabolical.

  “No, no, Donna. You’re gripping them too tightly again. Loosen up, will you?” he would caution. “See. Watch my hand.” And he would lift his hand and the chopsticks would move magically between his lean fingers. “Now, watch this.” Next he would pick up a morsel of food. It stayed put. He could even pause and wave it around as he spoke and it still stayed put. He could eat big morsels and small morsels without sending them flying across the table, and his little clots of rice didn’t fall to pieces in midair the way hers did.

  “You arranged to get shatterproof rice,” she accused him once, and he traded rice with her.

  “You have better chopsticks than I have, Bruce. I think yours are—”

  “No. You said that before. And there is no such thing as double-jointed chopsticks. I have regular restaurant issue, the same as you have. Now try again. Try with that big prawn.”

  And she did try, as valiantly, as stubbornly, as gamely as she knew how. She, who could do a double back-flip without half trying, couldn’t get a drippy piece of food to her mouth without dropping it, with a splat, on the tablecloth.

  Her chopsticks seemed to have a will of their own. They projected bits and pieces of food so they landed any place but where she wanted. A snow pea flew into the rice bowl. A water chestnut leaped into her teacup.

  “They close up like scissors,” she would wail. “See, they did it again!” Donna became really embarrassed. “I do marvelous needlepoint,” she added grimly. “Did you know that? Very intricate needlepoint. I’m very good with my hands. You should see the pillow covers I made for my aunt Christine.”

  Bruce began to laugh. “I don’t understand it, Donna. You’re half-Chinese, but I don’t think you’re even going to get one chopstick right. Look, watch me again, carefully this time—”

  “One!” She seized upon the idea. “Of course, I’ll start with one and work my way up,” she said, tossing one stick aside.

  “No, Donna, no! One won’t do, and…no! Don’t hold it like a dagger, for Pete’s sake. That’s not the way. I don’t believe this.” He was leaning back in his chair laughing at her now.

  “Well, I got that piece of pork,” she said, waving the impaled chunk around in triumph and popping it into her mouth. “A person could starve at this rate,” she remarked, talking around the pork while she chewed.

  “Donna, please don’t talk with your mouth full,” Bruce said, laughter still in his voice. “And when we leave here tonight, don’t apologize again to the waiter about the spots on the tablecloth. They expect to have the cloths laundered. It’s part of the regular overhead.”

  The next day, she and Laura laughed about the debacle while they ate lunch. They’d decided to have lunch downtown together at least once a week, just for the fun of it.

  “It looked as if we’d been playing Ping-Pong with the egg rolls,” Donna said, and then fell into a pensive silence.

  “What’s the matter?” Laura asked gently after a moment.

  “I’m thinking about the message in my fortune cookie last night.”

  “What’d it say?” Laura asked, putting a pickle in her mouth. She had splurged and ordered the double burger with barbecue sauce, determined to “hang the calories.”

  “The message was, ‘be honest in all your dealings and you will go far.”’

  “You’re kidding. What did Bruce’s say? ‘Watch out, the girl across the table is putting you on’?”

  “No. I kind of wish it had. It’s got to be easier when I get this out in the open.” Donna pushed her salad aside. “Laura, I’m dying for a bite of your burger. I am fed up—no pun intended—with the food of my ancestors. I mean half my ancestors.”

  “Oh, you poor darling.” Laura laughed. “Here, you take this half. I can’t eat it all anyhow. There must be a pound of beef in here.” She gave half the burger to Donna. “Watch out, it’s messy.”

  “Oh, heaven,” Donna said, biting into it and chewing ecstatically. “This is heaven. I needed some real no-nonsense junk food.”

  “When are you going to tell Bruce?” Laura asked. “I think the longer you wait, the angrier he’s going to be.”

  “I know.” Donna became pensive again. “I think, sneaky rat that I am, that I’ll tell him tomorrow night instead of tonight.”

  “Why tomorrow night?”

  “Because tonight we’re going running in Golden Gate Park.”

  Laura paused, her hamburger in midair. “Bruce is going running? Good grief…but I’ve missed something important, haven’t I? When you come out of your burger trance, will you explain what I’m missing?”

  “Sorry. I got carried away.” Donna wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I can’t say when I’ve enjoyed anything this much. The point is, tonight when I’m running, I’ll be wearing a sloppy sweat suit. Tomorrow night I’m wearing my turquoise cheongsam. Somehow I think I’ll be more appealing in the cheongsam, don’t you think?”

  “Donna, you wretch. Bruce simply hasn’t a chance against such conniving. That is a lovely dress. Donna, what’s the matter? I didn’t mean really conniving—” Laura reached over impulsively and touched Donna’s arm.

  Donna blinked rapidly. “Sorry. Dumb to get all teary. Your words hit home, that’s all. I’m having an acute attack of guilt complicated by terminal remorse, I think. If only he wasn’t so nice, so kind, so—”

  “It’s because he’s all those things that you fell in love with him, Donna,” Laura said softly. “If he was a loser you wouldn’t have looked at him twice.”

  “But I am…I have been…conniving, Laura. I deliberately roped him into this run in the park tonight. Do you know why?”

  “Because you’re athletic and like to run, of course.”

  “No. Because yesterday Bruce said one of the most wonderful things about me was my vitality, my energy. See? So I immediately hook him into a situation where I can be energetic and vital. I’m rotten. Utterly rotten.”

  “No! I don’t accept that,” Laura said. “If you were really conniving and rotten you’d never tell him the truth, and you’re going to.”

  “Right! Tomorrow night I tell him.” Immediately she really wanted to do it, to get it over with.

  She was less eager to clear her conscience when the next opportunity arose, and she was somewhat glad that Bruce was late arriving home the next evening.

  Whatever his differences with Mark, he certainly did work hard. He had called, knowing she’d be at his house waiting. She had another half hour to kill. He was cutting it pretty fine for their dinner reservation, since he still had to dress.

  Donna paced the lower rooms of the house as she rehearsed her opening gambit. “Bruce, let’s wait a minute. I have something important to tell you.” No, that sounded too grim, as if she were about to inform him
of a catastrophe. “Bruce, there’s something I think I should mention.” No, that sounded as if she might be going to tell him his shirttail was out or his socks didn’t match. “Bruce, there’s a little matter we ought to discuss.” That sounded better. But “discuss?” Yes, that was okay. “Bruce, we still have a couple of minutes. I’d like to briefly discuss a little matter with you.” That sounded pretty good.

  She paused in front of the white mantel and ran her fingers across its smooth edge. She loved this house, which was a good thing, because she planned to spend the rest of her life in it.

  Donna turned, and glanced back at the polished floor in the hallway and the old-fashioned flowered rug in the living room. Rose vines with blurred cabbage roses twined all over it in a never-ending tangle. Across from her stood the stately white damask-and-fruitwood sofa. Stately or not, it was marvelously comfortable, with its down-filled seat and back cushions. Flanking the fireplace was Bruce’s concession to true Victorianism, two pale green velvet chairs with high curved backs, the gentleman’s chair with arms, and the lady’s chair with just a suggestion of arms near the seat, to accommodate the ladies’ skirts of the time.

  “Bruce, we still have a couple of minutes. I’d like to discuss a little matter with you.” Well, that’s got to go when we’re married, Donna vowed perversely. She was looking at a three-panel Chinese screen in the corner. It depicted two men, swathed in swirling silk and dust, fighting to the death, their faces pallid, grotesque masks. Unless, of course, the screen was dear to Bruce’s heart for some sentimental reason. Then she’d just have to learn to live with it.

  Maybe she could put her problem in the form of a question: “Could we briefly discuss a little matter?” That sounded even better. She jumped as the front door slammed.

  “Hi, Donna! You here?” Bruce charged into the room. “Wow! The dress looks great!” He paused, dropping his briefcase on the floor and staring at her. “You’re a knockout. But I guess you’ve been told that before.”