There is a mournful howl which drowns out the television. In the bathroom a fan has started to spin, the wind streaming through it. I rush to shut it and weight the drawstring with a glass jar full of peppercorns. When I come back to the living room, Pete looks up at me again, concerned.
“You okay, love?”
I sit down next to him. “I can’t stop thinking about Lil’s.”
“It’ll be all right,” he says hopefully.
There is the sound of a tree against a window, a tapping against glass or wood. Pete turns from me to look at the front door. His forehead is gathered in a frown.
“Was that the door?”
“Huh?”
“Is someone knocking at the door?”
“I’m not sure.”
He gets up and opens the door. Someone is framed in the doorway, small and soaked, shivering.
“Oh my God. Come in, come in, quickly,” Pete says.
When he moves out of the doorway, I can see a tiny face, white and wet. I breathe in quickly. “Rilla?”
Pete looks over to me. “Grace, grab a towel.”
I stand for a moment staring at her; she is mutely looking down at our floorboards. She has a rain jacket, but instead of covering her, it is bunched up in her hands. She is holding on to it so tightly her knuckles are pale. She coughs, and her lips are purple against her skin.
“Grace?” Pete says again.
I hurry back with a towel, and Pete wraps Rilla in it as if she were a small child just out of the bath. He looks so huge beside her; his hand is a bear’s paw against her back. He guides her to the couch and asks her to sit, which she does somewhat reluctantly. I go into the kitchen and pour a big mug of hot water, drop a tea bag into it. I can hear him saying something to her, but I don’t hear her talking back.
“It’s really dangerous,” he is saying when I put the mug in front of her. She still avoids my gaze but nods gratefully at the teacup. “What were you doing out there?”
When she doesn’t reply, he sits beside her and rubs her back with his palm, a deep wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows. I perch on the edge of the coffee table, watching her take birdlike sips of tea. She looks so cold and small I can feel tears prickling my eyes. Eventually she stops shaking, and her lips and cheeks regain their color. She lifts her head and gives me a quick look.
“Rilla, what’s going on?” I whisper.
Her lips quiver above the rim of her cup. She mumbles a reply without lifting her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, sir. I went to Lillian’s, to check …”
“You went to Lillian’s?”
“To see if everything is okay. Then the buses stopped running so I couldn’t get home. I knew you lived nearby …” Her face is apologetic.
“Oh, Rilla,” I breathe.
“There are some breaks, windows smashed. And … this.”
From beneath the towel she draws out her rain jacket, folded like a package. She unfolds it. The café sign is in pieces. There is an unexpected ache in my chest, seeing it like that. Her name, splintered into bits. I inhale sharply, and Rilla looks up at me then. Her eyes are wide.
“It’s okay, ma’am,” she says, her gaze darting between Pete and me. “It can all be fixed. Just window breaks. Some water inside, but it will be okay. Macau is a safe place, no one looting or robbing.” Her eyes are fringed with wet lashes, her forehead lined. Her solicitude makes me feel both guilty and grateful.
Rilla whispers to me again. “Ma’am? Grace? It will be okay.”
I shake my head. “I’m more worried about you, out in a typhoon like this.” I bite my lip. The wind is whistling and howling outside as I place my hand on her wet knee. “Rilla, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to call …” Pete stands, lifts the broken sign from my hands, and picks up Rilla’s empty cup. He goes into the kitchen to refill it, leaving us alone with each other. How wrong I was to think she would steal from me, or take advantage of the friendship that had been growing between us. Shame blooms inside me, and my voice shakes.
“Rilla, please, will you come back to Lillian’s? We need you so much.”
“Oh.”
“If you haven’t already found another job …?”
“No. I haven’t found another job.”
We sit in a little pocket of silence looking at each other, until she murmurs, “I think I should explain, Grace—about that morning.”
I stiffen with embarrassment as she gazes at me, eyes serious. But then Pete is back with fresh cups of tea. I’m grateful for the interruption.
“Don’t worry, you two,” he says. “It will all be fine. You’ll both be back making macarons in no time.” He looks at Rilla. “But you’re going to have to ride this typhoon out with us. There are towels in that spare bedroom there, and Grace will lend you some clothes, right, Grace?”
I nod, my hand still on Rilla’s knee.
“Are you sure?” Rilla asks. “It would be okay?” She is looking at me.
“Of course,” I say. “Please stay.”
* * *
We are not the first to arrive at Lillian’s the next morning. Marjory is sitting on the footpath with Gigi, whose round belly swamps the lower half of her body. Around them wet debris, pieces of windowsill, and broken glass glitters like diamonds. Rilla helps to lift Gigi to her feet. Gigi groans with the weight of her belly but grins widely at Rilla and holds her hand for longer than necessary, giving it a sisterly squeeze. She is wearing a gray maternity dress over black jeans. Her face is free from makeup, bar a thick coat of mascara on her lashes.
“You’re back,” Marjory says to Rilla, smiling. “We missed you.”
“Hell, Grace. Lil’s is a wreck,” says Gigi with characteristic bluntness.
My gaze drifts over Lillian’s while I try to remind myself that we have insurance to cover repairs. Still, dread fills my throat and chest. The post for the sign is bent, the empty chains swinging drunkenly in the light breeze. The front windows are smashed, although one has stayed stubbornly within its frame. The fractured glass is broken like a starburst. A piece of window frame hangs out from its moorings, leaves caught in the deep splinters. Even from outside I can see the floor is flooded, table legs soaked. One table has fallen on its side, a deep vein of a crack through its center, and all the chairs are against the west wall. The other tables have skated into one another and are huddled in a corner. As I step closer to the door, Rilla puts her hand on my back.
“Are you all right?”
I nod, grateful that she’s here.
When I open the door, water floods out to greet me. A lost wind whistles through the café; the window in the kitchen must be broken too. I wonder about the state of the ovens, refrigerator, and storeroom. All the macarons we made. The almond flour. Glasses. Cutlery. The disconcerting smell of dampness fills the air. The others follow me in, and the four of us stand ankle-deep in water among the tables and chairs, staring around the walls. A dull sadness swells inside me.
Then there is a quick audible breath, and Gigi has her arm outstretched. “Look at that.”
We all follow her pointing finger to the wall beside the counter. There, right near the espresso machine and the cash register, is the poster that Yok Lan gave me. Frame undamaged, glass intact, it hangs straight and proud on the wall. The children still dance among the spinning flames and sparks.
Un Petit Phénix—A Little Phoenix
Cinnamon with Dark Chili Chocolate Ganache
By the end of October we will be able to remove the sandwich board at the door.
LILLIAN’S OPEN FOR TAKEAWAY COFFEE AND CAKE!
CAFÉ SOON TO REOPEN!
TYPHOON DAMAGE UNDER REPAIR!
Rilla added the exclamation marks; I think she fancies they make it look cheerful. Gigi translated it into Chinese for us. The takeaway trade has been surprisingly good, the regulars still dropping by and standing on the pavement to watch the repairs or gossip about the latest social scandal. Who slept with whom and who got drunk and fell asleep on t
he roundabout. Pete seems to have sent the word out to every secretary and personal assistant in town, as they have all been dashing over in company cars to pick up coffees and cakes for work meetings, slipping boxed chocolates into their handbags for themselves. But it’s been a trying time, with the place looking like London in the Blitz. I’ve been feeling rattled, as if the typhoon thundered through me and overturned everything inside too. My heart, my desires, my secrets, Mama. Like I have to start from scratch. I have dreams of bombs dropping, of planes crashing through glass, even of my teeth falling out. Pete brings me glasses of water when I wake up in the early morning, shaking and covered in sweat.
Gigi and Rilla try to keep me steady, acting as though nothing is different. Deciding on cake flavors, bickering like bratty sisters, chuckling and singing in the kitchen. Rilla even rallied some friends to help us clean the floors and strip out the worst damage. They all have the same coffee-colored skin and generous smile as Rilla. They laugh and work with ease, calling Gigi and me “ma’am” and Rilla “Aunty Boss.” She has been so supportive that my remorse over the way I treated her grows and grows. While I put together sandwiches and drinks for everyone, I watch her effortlessly direct the crew in her native language, like a woman who is used to both crisis and chaos. Despite everything—the wet and messy conditions, the extra hours, and the unspoken incident between us—her smile is brighter than ever. Her confidence has soared, radiating from her like a warm light.
* * *
Lillian’s is slowly being reborn when Macau slinks into autumn, the winds cooler and nipping at bare ankles. On a morning when my nerves seem to have stopped jangling and the sky is fresh and clear, Marjory suggests creating a new macaron, to bring us some good fortune and “make lemonade out of lemons,” as she puts it. Soon enough Gigi and Rilla are in the kitchen, dark heads huddled together, discussing flavors and names and concepts while I listen and try to guide the debate. Rilla is reciting a list of suggestions.
“Chocolate?”
“Boring.”
“Strawberry?”
“Even worse.”
“Lemon?”
“Ugh. I’m so sick of lemon. It’s so … cupcake. We need something unique, more chic.” Gigi looks at the ceiling thoughtfully. “Something like … salted plum.”
Rilla bursts into laughter. “That sounds gross.”
“You have no imagination. It’s Japanese,” Gigi retorts. Her face is more drawn these days, dark circles under her eyes. She is probably exhausted from sleepless nights, the pregnancy now impossible for her to ignore. She presses down on the top of her bump and arches backward. Heartburn.
I wade into the fray. “Salted plum might be a little out there, Sorry, Gi.”
She gives me a withering look.
Pete pokes his head into the kitchen and looks to me.
“Hey.” I smile.
“Hey. I’ve got the wallpaper guy here with the samples.”
* * *
I leave the girls to their debate. Out in the café, Marjory is leaning over piles of tiny white mah-jongg tiles. Yok Lan sits opposite her and gives instructions in Cantonese. Marjory is trying her best to follow the tone of voice, hand gestures, and context, but mah-jongg is incredibly difficult to grasp, let alone in another language.
The wallpaper samples are beautiful, and this contractor speaks fluent English. He has worked with casinos all over Macau, so the quality is good. I can feel my chest relax, my shoulders loosen. I imagine the walls looking like those of a true Parisian café. Marjory comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder while I point to my final decision. Mint green with gold fleurs-de-lis; it looks like a pretty Indian sari. It will be striking with the black-and-white tiled floor. Pete moves off to one side to start negotiations on price and delivery.
“Is that the wallpaper you’ve chosen?” Marjory asks.
I nod.
“I like it. You know, I think it’s better than the old stuff.”
“I think you’re right,” I say.
Rising voices can be heard coming from the kitchen, and Marjory turns her head to look toward the door.
“I’d ask those two what they think, but Gigi is in a mood to disagree with everything and everyone. Think I’ll leave them to the macaron argument.”
Marjory laughs. “Rilla keeps her in check.”
“Rilla keeps us all in check,” I agree. “She’s been a lifesaver these last few weeks. Especially getting all her friends to help. We’d probably still be ankle-deep in water without them.”
Marjory says, “They all look up to her, what with everything she has done for them and everything she has been through. She might be tiny, but she’s a powerhouse.”
“What do you mean, ‘everything she has been through’?”
Marjory frowns. “She didn’t talk to you about Jocelyn?”
My heart sinks a little. “She tried once, but I guess we never found the right time, and we’ve been so busy …” I know this is only half true.
Marjory looks down at her shoes, perhaps sensing my embarrassment. “Well, I’ll let her explain. It’s not my place to talk about someone’s past.”
I feel that familiar knot of shame at the base of my throat. “I was wrong to doubt her, wasn’t I?”
Marjory tilts her head to one side and gives me a little smile. “It’s your café, Grace. You need to do what you think is best. You own the wins and the losses. Besides, I reckon you had a fair bit on your mind at the time.”
I can hear Pete discussing the job with the contractor. How many days? How much labor? We both look over at him, and he, obviously sensing our gaze, gives us a thumbs-up behind his back. Then he shakes the man’s hand, and the contractor leaves, setting the new bell above the door ringing. I’m getting used to this new relationship between us. Not fixed, but not completely broken either. We are being kind to each other again. We are being friends.
Pete comes toward us. “Well, he says he can get it done in two days. Ten percent off if you’ll make lunch for him and another bloke.” Pete shows me the quote. I smile.
“No kidding. I’ll give them coffees and breakfasts too for that price.” I give his arm a gentle squeeze in thanks.
Something crashes in the kitchen, and all of us, including Yok Lan, look up. The door swings open, and Gigi storms out. Her weight is the only thing slowing her down. Rilla follows. I look to Yok Lan, but she just shrugs and goes back to reading her Chinese newspaper.
“What was that?”
Rilla sighs and holds out her hand. In her palm is a mobile phone in pieces. Pieces of the plastic studded with diamanté stickers. I turn to head after Gigi, but Rilla grips my arm to hold me back.
“Just let her go. It’s that boyfriend. He called and they had another fight.”
We all watch Gigi waddling down the street as fast as she can.
“That guy sounds like a loser,” Marjory says, shaking her head.
“Oh, he is a loser. A no-good daddy,” Rilla agrees.
“Poor Gigi.”
“She hasn’t got long now,” I murmur.
The air stills and returns to calm. The scent of cool breeze and almond flour drifts around us.
Rilla takes a breath and smiles. “Well, we came up with a new macaron.” Her dark eyes are shining in her small, round face.
“You finally agreed?”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “It’s a good one too.”
Un Petit Phénix is born as Lillian’s is resurrected, even more beautiful than before, with new wallpaper, new windows, and repaired chairs. It is a cinnamon macaron, pressed together with dark chili chocolate ganache. The result is surprisingly delicious—spicy, sweet, lingering long in your mouth, like a bowl of Aztec hot chocolate. It tastes best with a shot of the blackest coffee.
* * *
The following week I wake up too early, dreams of Mama and Paris still clotted thick in my dozy mind. Pete has moved back into the master bedroom but sleeps close to the edge of the bed, respectfully distant.
I reach out to put my hand against his back as if to steady myself. It moves with his breath, in and out, like cool waves against a shore. I shut my eyes, willing myself to drift back to sleep, but there is a pulsing, pulling ache in the lower part of my belly. I lay a hand on it. Lights travel across the ceiling, a sign of cars already driving on the roads. I wish to hear the sound of a bird, celebrating a new day. Instead there are just car horns and roller doors screaming open in their tracks.
I get up to go the bathroom; perhaps something I ate hasn’t agreed with me. Pete groans and stirs in the bedroom.
There is a shift between my legs; I tentatively spread them to look down into the toilet bowl. A stain spreads. Blood meets the water, curling like paint dropped from a brush. I stare down at it, blinking sleep from my eyes. The water slowly turns pink and then red.
Pete calls, “Are you all right in there?”
At the back of the cupboard is an old box of tampons, four left. I insert one and stand at the sink. The doctor said I still might have a period or two with my condition. Not so many as to get my hopes up. Just the body’s last-ditch efforts, the final few words at a retirement party. My reflection stares back at me, my vision suddenly clear and sharp. I look older without makeup, two or three silvery strands in my red hair, face pale and drawn. There is dry skin on my cheeks, lines radiating from my eyes. I breathe out a sigh of surrender. It leaves my body in a long, warm stream of air.
“Gracie?” Pete opens the door.
The evidence is still in the toilet bowl, and he sees it. He looks back to me.
“The doctor said it can happen,” I say softly.
He takes my hand and squeezes it. His eyes are sad.
I pull him in closer, lean into his chest, which smells of sleep and freshly cut timber. He wraps his arms around me. It is a relief to be in his embrace, like all the pieces of myself are slowly coming together, and I don’t feel as rattled as I have since the typhoon. It feels like I can breathe again. I put my lips near his neck and sigh.
“I missed you,” I whisper, just realizing it myself. He glances down at me and then back over to the toilet, his face falling a little.
The Colour of Tea Page 22