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Enter Indian Summer

Posted on Monday, 16 February 2004

Part 1: Lychee Hall

The sickly sweet stench of fermented fruits and rancid chicken fat hung thick in the Chinatown air; so pungent was the smell that it brought Anne Li back from her reverie. There were no castles in the air, no secret garden—only a cluttered street that stretched before Anne’s feet. Everywhere, people in blazers and leather pumps milled about the sidewalk, clutching noisy plastic bags of last-minute groceries. A pepper-red streetcar rolled swiftly down its tracks, announcing its own arrival with a piercing clink of bells. The whine of police sirens echoed from a hazy distance. Sweat, dust, refuse and a stranger’s cologne mingled in a disagreeable brew beneath the rays of the afternoon sun. It was hard to believe that summer was drawing to a close. Toronto had been muggy and scorching hot all August, and September had begun in the same sticky fashion. Meteorologists predicted another humid week to come, but this was old news that drew nothing more than a grumble and a general sigh of resignation from the city dwellers.

Anne wondered how, with the heat, the rankness of Chinatown could ever be carried away. The contrast between it and the crystalline corporate towers of Bay Street that Anne had just left behind was sharp. One world reached for the skies in youthful confidence while the other, dressed in its motley assortment of storefronts, held anxiously onto existence. Inside a few shops, Anne could see electric fans rotating furiously as children squirted each other with water guns. Anne would not have protested against a cool spray herself. Her blouse, which she had just washed and ironed the previous evening, grew on her like a second skin. She had half a mind now to abandon her interview at Lychee Hall—or Croft’s Kitchen, as it was now called.

Normally, Anne found no objections against Chinatown. It had been her abode for many years. She had once lived in a spacious walk-up apartment above Lychee Hall, the large, handsome, green-roofed restaurant that her parents owned. There, the Lis had not been short of work or love. In Anne’s childhood days, Lychee Hall had been one of the only pristine family restaurants that one could find within three blocks of Spadina Road and Baldwin Street. Its location was strategic, being neither too far from the financial district in the southeast nor the university campus to the north. Students walked in during the day with loose change jangling in their pockets, delighting in their escape from residence food. In the evening, white-collar men and women came in eagerly for an exotic taste of China. The place was always full of hustle and bustle—until the year Anne's mother died.

At fourteen, Anne grew up. No longer would her mother order the cooks about the kitchen, offer her famous fares, or win over patrons who thought that pork jelly was jelly served with pork rather than congealed blood. No more would her mother cook up a storm with her plump, juicy, braised chickens, finely roasted Peking ducks, or delectable shark fin soup. Years of reverent study had taught Anne many things about her mother's kitchen, but no amount of practice could resurrect her mother’s art. No one could sculpt carrots into dragons that leapt, danced and breathed fire out of their orange medium, nor could one quite place a finger on that special ingredient that Mrs. Li used, her well-guarded secret.

While Mrs. Li lived, neighbours had assumed that it was the rigid order and business talents of Walter Li that had brought Lychee Hall to its age of eminence; when his wife died, they realized that Lychee Hall and Mrs. Li’s fate had been intertwined. With Mrs. Li's passing went Lychee Hall's glory. The restaurant’s lively red brick front faded into the shade of dull clay. The beaming green roof with its fancy flourishes grew tacky with age. Golden words—weather-beaten—were merely tarnished brass.

All along the block, new families eager to make their own private fortunes opened up eateries, erecting neon signs that flashed loudly and crudely: Seafood, Chinese Food, Noodles, No MSG. The last always made Anne smile and shake her head. Not long ago, she had eaten at one such place with her colleagues; the noodles and fried rice that they had ordered were served drowning in soya sauce. Such was the state of things. People nowadays frequented restaurants that did not deserve to be called restaurants, serving customers brown sauce in everything and asking for heavy tips when they did nothing but hand customers the bill. Where were the dishes that tantalized the taste buds and sent waves of soothing warmth throughout the body? Where were the waiters who smiled and made sure that everything met the satisfaction of the patron? Where was the matriarch of the restaurant who chatted with each person and made sure that no one was neglected? If food was the means by which one expressed one’s affection for fellow human beings, why did these eateries put a seating limit of 1.5 hours on their storefront?

Anne's greatest dream had been to revive Lychee Hall and to bring back its former glory in memory of her mother, but no one would hear of it. Her father scoffed at the idea and dismissed it as unprofitable for the times. Her older sister, Elizabeth, sniffed and said that Anne had better concentrate on school instead. Her younger sister Mary worried about boys, friends, clothes, and fitting in. “God, why can’t we be less f-o-b?” Mary said. “Why can’t we be like my friends’ families?” Instead of snacking on shrimp and meat dumplings simmered in pure, wholesome broth, Mary was happiest munching ketchup chips and guzzling Pepsi.

Aunt Ruth, their mother's best friend, had persuaded Anne to leave well alone. “Only think of school,” Aunt Ruth had said. “Your mother's greatest wish was to have you succeed in your studies, not to take after her. She always wanted to see you lead a different life, not one behind the kitchen. You can think of other things after you have finished school and made your money.”

Aunt Ruth's advice matched that of Mrs. Song, whose bargain store had stood around the corner from Lychee Hall. “Yes, Anne,” agreed Mrs. Song as she played with a length of red silk which she was knotting into fancy ornaments. “You listen to your Aunt Ruth's word. It is wisest to follow your studies first, make money, and then think about other things.”

“But I don't want to be wealthy,” Anne had protested.

“Shh!” Mrs. Song had said gamely. “Never let your family and friends hear you say that.” Then, growing serious, the older woman had added, “It is a good life here, but not a good life to be here forever. You need to see the world.” She had gestured vaguely at the door. “You are happy in the kitchen, but here is no place for you. You can do better than to stand all day in front of heat and steam and picky customers. You are here every day; like your mother, you have grown used to the stink of frying oil and tricked yourself into thinking that it’s fresh air.”

“I thought every woman had to know how to handle the kitchen well.” Anne did not really believe this, but it was paraphrased from an idiom that she had heard often repeated.

“You are made for better things,” Mrs. Song had repeated. “You are not your mother. You cannot belong here forever.”

Now as she stood at the intersection where Lychee Hall once reigned as king, Anne reflected on the changes that time had wrought. She no longer lived upstairs with her father and sisters. Several years ago, Mary had married. Anne had also moved out. A year ago, Elizabeth had found the perfect condominium by the lakeshore, and with her handsome six-digit salary and savings, she had made their father promise to retire to his Camden Place suite.

At first, Anne thought that their father would be bored moving away from all his friends, but surprisingly, Mr. Li gave up his wok with little fuss. He talked about the chess players “down in the park” with as much enthusiasm as he once had gossiping with his neighbours. Worse still, Elizabeth had introduced him to a young widower, Mrs. Kee, whom both Anne and Mary viewed with great suspicion; they had seen enough of the woman’s maneuvers to understand their meaning. Mr. Li did not. He thought that listening to Mary would be ridiculous, and living with Anne even more so. Mary was not known for her diligence or common sense, and Anne’s flat was old, small and too unsuited to his taste.

“Please, Anne,” Elizabeth had said in her usual, matter-of-fact drawl, “It isn't that I don't want Pa to live with you, but you know how old and shabby your neighbourhood is. Don’t your rooms have terrible drafts? Pa could never climb those stairs. Wasn't there recently a homicide on your street?”

Anne had been obliged to correct Elizabeth that it had only been a break-in, and that it had taken place several blocks north of her street. Elizabeth had shrugged and said that it was all the same to her where Anne lived, but their father was not going to live there.

Mary had not objected either to her father living down by the waterfront, or with Anne. “I just don't want him above the greasy air of the restaurant.” Mary might have added as well that she did not mind where their father settled so long as it was not with her. She was “certain” that Charlie, her husband, would be uncomfortable living with his father-in-law when their downtown home was already so crowded with their little boys. Besides, Charlie's mother and two sisters lived next door, which would make things rather inconvenient. “You must know how Louisa is,” Mary had said. “She is loud-mouthed and complains constantly, but Charlie is so protective of his sister, and their mother's been spoiling her for ages. She’s forever bringing over her friends. Pa would simply hate living next door to them.” So it came to pass that Elizabeth won the battle, and Pa moved to Camden Place.

Elizabeth, in her triumph, took care of Lychee Hall. The business would be closed, the building emptied, and the space rented out to any tenant willing to take on Elizabeth’s asking price. The truth was that Walter Li’s eldest daughter found it something of an embarrassment to have her name attached to an old-fashioned, crumbling building, and she would rather make her way in the world with her name attached to money. Only one prospective tenant was willing to put in a bid, which was not surprising given the amount that Anne’s older sister had wanted for Lychee Hall. The surprise (for Anne alone) was in learning the name of the tenant: Croft. Sophia Wentworth-Croft.

Anne did not enter Lychee Hall right away. She stood aloof, reminiscing over happier times. She fancied that she heard Mrs. Song humming tunes in front of her bargain store while knitting, and that the smell of fried goods was actually the smell of her mother's cooking; but Mrs. Song had closed her store years ago, and Anne’s mother had long been gone. Taking a deep breath, Anne walked through the front doors of her father’s old restaurant, bracing herself for her first meeting with the new proprietor of the establishment. A rush of air conditioning greeted her.

“Good afternoon,” said the woman inside. She looked fashionable and had, in her few words, exuded an aura of grace. “May I help you?”

The woman had confused her for a patron. “No,” Anne stammered, “I'm not—” She blushed. In her momentary madness, she saw and knew the kindly smile of the stranger. “Is this Croft’s Kitchen?” Anne said in faintness. Foolish, she thought again. The sign over the door had been very legible.

What Anne had really wanted to ask was, Are you Frederick’s sister?

Part 1 (continued)

Posted on Monday, 23 February 2004

Frederick Wentworth. Anne had met him in university through Sandy Smith, her roommate. Sandy had invited friends over during Reading Week, and a campus bookstore clerk named Edward, on whom Sandy had an obvious crush, and the clerk's sociable younger brother, Frederick, had been among the partygoers. Later that night, while lending Anne a hand in the kitchen, Frederick found out that they had three classes together.

Anne had noticed him in lecture before but had not, until then, taken much interest in him. Frederick always sat in the front row in class. Anne preferred her anonymity in the third because she still remembered the jeers that people used to get in high school for sitting too close to the instructor. She soon found out that Frederick did not fit the hackneyed image of a front-row geek. He did not wear thick, plastic-rimmed glasses, carry a briefcase, or covet pocket protectors. He was attentive but he did not adulate professors. When he answered questions or posed his own, he was always thoughtful. No one ever heard him speak in pretentious run-on sentences filled with eminent names, obscure economic theories, or vague –ism’s. When chance placed Anne and Frederick in the same tutorials the next academic year, Anne began to pay serious attention to her colleague. She saw that Frederick was confident, but not brash; intelligent, but not conceited. Though Frederick looked rather common, there was something about the playful, boyish expression in his eyes that made him unforgettable. He had a strange way of being archaic without being stuffy. His politeness, steeped in old fashion, was terribly disarming. As Anne kept running into him during her dashes across campus (and the downtown campus at the University of Toronto was a very large one) she started to wonder at her luck.

No one could accuse Frederick of being smug. He was neither vain nor narcissistic, though female attendance at the university Debate Club soared because of his presence. Anne did not participate in the Debate Club. Whenever she frequented Hart House, where debates often took place, it was only to work out at the gym or to grab a bite at the cafeteria. She did not like to take a strong stance on complex issues and was of the mind that nothing could be exceedingly wrong with sitting on the fence. It simply meant that she saw an argument in all its shades and colours, and not simply in black and white. “And what could be wrong with that?” she thought.

“Nothing, except that the subject doesn’t interest you enough for you to make up your mind,” was Frederick’s response.

Anne could not bear to be accused of indifference, especially when the charge came from a person who had only just met her. She started attending campus debates. Admittedly, it took several more months before she screwed up the courage to speak, but she could not begrudge the experience. She had always been a romantic; now she felt at home among the eclectic set of idealists who heated up the forum.

In their third year, Sandy dragged both Frederick and Anne to the droll but aptly named Hart House Farm Committee. Going to Hart House Farm in the Caledon Hills every month may have meant navigation through mad urban highways and bumpy provincial roads, but the end of the journey always held the promise of a leisurely, unhurried life. For Anne, autumn in the country meant all things good: peaceful rambles along rustic terrain; breakfast of warm crêpes topped with rich, melted butter and sweet, delectable maple syrup; campfire and song; and a host of like-minded friends. While chatting with Frederick one evening over hot mugs of apple cider, Anne confessed that she loved the quiet solitude of the rural retreat. It reminded her of the magazine pictures of Prince Edward Island she used to clip out as a girl. Her desire was to visit the land of L. M. Montgomery and travel the road to Avonlea. He teasingly called her Anne Shirley, “minus the carrot hair and freckles.” Anne was surprised that “for a guy,” Frederick had even read Anne of Green Gables. It was then that Frederick informed her that he was from the island.

Perhaps the cider unwound her. Anne, who hardly traveled, asked him candidly about P.E.I. and about his early life there. Frederick was happy to tell her about the white sand beaches that lined the northern coast of his childhood home, the Elephant rocks that rose out of the western tides, the kaleidoscope show of autumnal colours, and the fresh sea air that blew in from the Gulf. Anne was carried away by his voice and his narration, and she marveled at the delight of growing up on a land cradled by the sea.

When Frederick was not near, Anne missed his dynamism—that strength of his that permeated everything associated with him. His smile was etched so well in her memory that she could still see it clearly whenever he was not present. She would miss Frederick terribly—his witty quips, his quiet laughter, his scent—the same cool fragrance as that of the mint leaves which he rubbed in her hands one sultry summer night. Sitting outside under the pale stars, Frederick made Anne know that he felt the same when she was not by his side.

In their final year, Anne's father and Aunt Ruth put an end to their tale. One night, Aunt Ruth paid an unexpected visit to Anne's flat, and met the couple under the ivy archway that led up Anne’s front walk, just as Frederick and Anne were exchanging tender partings. Anne had not mentioned Frederick to her family yet.

News of Anne's boyfriend traveled quickly through the Lis' circles and Walter Li put a stopper over the relationship. Through the persuasion of Aunt Ruth, he invited Frederick Wentworth to Lychee Hall for dinner. Mr. Li made it very clear that it would be the only time he would ever welcome Frederick. To Anne, Mr. Li said sternly that Frederick was not suitable. He was still a student. He was not even in law school yet, even if all his talk of hopes and wishes sounded wonderful. But there was more to Mr. Li’s hostility. The crux of the matter for Mr. Li was this: Frederick Wentworth was not Chinese, nor even white. Anne was simultaneously bemused by her father’s small-mindedness and disturbed by it. She did not take care to repeat the prejudices her father hurled against Frederick behind closed doors. “He isn’t what you say he is,” said Anne. “He’s from Prince Edward Island. And it doesn’t matter where he’s born or where his family roots lie—”

“I don’t care where he says he’s from,” said Mr. Li. For him, being friends “with those people” was fine, but to have his daughter marry “one of them” was completely out of the question. It was a matter of pride, of family honour, he claimed. Anne remained upset and perplexed as Mr. Li placed each objection coolly in front of her like an unclean hand of mahjong. “See these tiles, see those tiles,” Mr. Li was practically saying, “This is nothing but chicken stew.” And he wrinkled his nose as if to match the stench that emanated from his closed-minded decadence.

“Please, my dearest,” said Aunt Ruth, “Listen to your father. He only tells you this for your own good. How can you think of…? Have some pride. Do not forget your history. Never stray from your heritage.”

Anne protested. “Canada is his history, just as it is mine. If Frederick does not care about our cultural differences, why should I?”

“How can you consider that when your father only wants what is best for you? What would your mother think?”

“If she were alive, she would understand. I love Frederick and I only want him. Ma would never go against my decision.”

Aunt Ruth quickly changed her tune. “How can you be so ungrateful towards the memory of her? You cannot be happy with someone who has no job and no money. He is not Chinese, so he won’t understand how important this restaurant is to you. In his parents’ country, probably they don’t have as much respect as we have for culinary families. He would never understand your love for Lychee Hall.”

“You’re wrong. You know nothing of his parents.”

“He will tear you away from this kitchen, and you will leave and never come back."

They pressed their objections the rest of the day, the next day, and all the days after that until there was no tranquility for the young couple. At first, Frederick was patient. He never criticized Anne’s family and suffered the cold shoulder Aunt Ruth and Mr. Li gave him at Convocation without complaint. As summer passed though, he again broached the subject of their future. “Promise to be mine and you will never regret the decision,” he said. Anne could not accept him until her family learned to accept her choice. It could not be long, she tried to reason. Frederick wanted at least a sign of commitment. “You know I move to Kingston in September,” he said. “I can’t start law school without knowing your answer. Don’t leave us hanging in limbo forever.”

“Wait until I’ve won my father over,” said Anne.

“And if he refuses to be won over?”

“Then at least let me get Aunt Ruth’s blessing.”

“What happens if you can’t get that either?” Frederick pointed out that Aunt Ruth was as much against them as Anne’s father was. “When I ask for your hand, it is only because I want you. I don’t intend to marry your family as well.”

“We just need to give them time. This is all so new for them.”

“They have had almost a year to think about us.”

“Then give me time.”

Anne discovered that behind all his politeness and modesty, Frederick had a streak of pride in him too. He would not suffer the indignity of being put on hold in order to appease Anne’s father and Aunt Ruth, but most of all he could not stomach the fact that Anne had put the whims of others before her heart. “I thought you were made of something more than this,” Frederick said in bitterness. Anne accused him of being unfeeling.

“There will be others,” Aunt Ruth said, comforting her young charge when news of the break came out. “You are young, smart and pretty, and there will be many others.”

Even without Frederick, Anne felt torn away from Lychee Hall. Work had done it. The first couple of years after graduation, Anne had to readjust to living at home again, but she could never shake off the feeling that she was living like a leech on her father’s business as she drifted in and out of contract work. Then, Mary met and married Charlie Mui, and Anne’s prospects changed. The Uppercross, a newspaper that was only a few years old, expressed an interest in Anne's work. Charlie had read a few of her left-leaning articles and slyly submitted them to The Uppercross where he worked as a regular columnist. Much impressed, Charlie's editor had hired her. It was a foot in the door. Anne knew that if she wanted independence, she would have to give up her dreams of becoming a chef at Lychee Hall. She did. She saw a flat in an old Annex-style house near the university that was up for lease, found the rent affordable, and moved out. Away from the daily scrutiny of her father and Aunt Ruth, she learned again what it was to breathe fresh air.

When Anne first heard from Elizabeth that they were renting their building to the Canadian widow of an American philanthropist, Anne had only been mildly interested. When she heard that the widow’s name was Sophia Wentworth-Croft, she fell speechless. She knew who the woman was. Frederick’s sister was going to run a charity kitchen at Lychee Hall? Through sheer coincidence, The Uppercross wanted Anne to document the concerns of charities and hostels in the downtown core, and to surmise the effects that the upcoming provincial budget would have on the welfare state. Already, Anne had visited numerous shelters, Goodwill shops and soup kitchens. The establishment of Croft’s Kitchen, by a single, affluent Canadian woman, made for popular local news and it meant that Anne could not avoid visiting her former home also.

Anne and Sophia Croft had never met before. When Anne had known Frederick, Sophia had already married and moved to New York. The woman who stood in front of her bore a resemblance to the woman found in old newspaper photographs. Anne introduced herself nervously, and was glad to see the other woman’s face break into a warm smile.

“Ah, yes, The Uppercross,” said the woman, shaking her hand. The gold bangles on the woman’s wrist jangled in harmony. “I’m Sophia Croft. I am so glad to make your acquaintance. If you will please pardon me, I hadn’t been expecting you quite so promptly for the interview.”

Anne apologized hastily but was stopped by Sophia.

“No, no, don’t apologize. The fault is mine. I’ve never been a very punctual sort of person. Will you wait just a moment while I tidy up? Would you like anything in the mean time? How about a cup of coffee?”

“A cup of coffee would be very nice, thank you,” said Anne as calmly as she could. All the while, she could not help studying the woman’s face. Yes, the breadth of Sophia’s forehead and her mouth were very much like Frederick’s. To Anne’s embarrassment, Sophia noticed her scrutinizing gaze.

“Will that be all? Is there anything else I can get you?” She joked, “Is there something on my nose?”

Anne gave herself a mental shake. “I’m sorry—it—must be the heat outside.”

“Perhaps the air conditioning is on too high in here. I’ve been trying to get the thermostat to work properly. It seems to be broken. It’s over forty degrees outside, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t like this normally,” said Anne. “It usually gets cooler around this time of year.”

“Yes? Someone told me that Toronto’s been getting unpredictable weather the last several years. But I like the heat—I have to, since I’ve been down in the States for so many years—but I’m originally from P.E.I., and I miss the mild summers there.”

“It must be beautiful on the island.”

“It’s just the sort of beauty I like,” Sophia agreed, placing a cup of coffee in front if Anne. “Have you ever been there?”

“No, but I have heard much about it. I’ve read about the richness of the red earth, the white sand beaches, the lighthouses...”

“Yes, and the golf clubs that are just overrunning the land.”

“I’ve read about that,” said Anne. “It must be sad that the acres of natural landscape should be lifted up just to make way for a country club retreat.”

“Well, tourism is what drives the economy there.” Sophia shook her head. “It’s happening everywhere, and you’re right, it is sad. Are you sure you’ve never been there?”

While she waited for Sophia’s return, Anne looked around. The decor of the restaurant was different from what it had been. The walls were painted a warm, friendly shade of orange. Instead of the large mirrors that Mr. Li had been so fond of, Sophia had lined the walls with cross-stitch artwork and cozy quilts. One quilt looked particularly intricate. Were its borders decorated with fruit vines, or were they serpents? Anne was about to examine it more closely when she heard a sound from the back rooms. Quickly, like a guilty child, she returned to her table, pulling out her spiral notebook as though she had been studying her scribbles the whole time. Anne could hardly contain her excitement and dread. Twelve years ago, she had wanted to know more about Frederick’s sister, but things were different now. What would Sophia be like? Would she express ideas similar to those of Frederick? What would Sophia’s behaviour be if she knew about her brother’s old flame?

When Sophia returned though, it was the older woman who asked the first question. “Just now, I wondered whether I knew you from somewhere,” said Sophia pleasantly, as she pulled a chair up to the table. “Will you correct me if I’m wrong?”

Anne sat erect, cheeks flushed. Oh, she knew she should never have come. Why had she allowed her curiosity to get to the better of her?

“I’m sorry if I am mistaken,” said Sophia, “Only, you resembled… When you walked in, it felt something like déjà-vu. You looked so familiar, like an old school friend; but you’ve never been to P.E.I.”

Anne shook her head. “No, not at all.”

“Clearly I must be wrong. It would be too much of a coincidence. I felt as though I knew you from somewhere. But never mind.”

“Yes, never mind,” Anne said weakly. “Déjà-vu happens all the time.”

The interview went more smoothly than Anne could have dared to hope. There was something about listening to Sophia that Anne found entrancing. Perhaps it was the way she pronounced her words, low and soft, so like her youngest brother’s voice. In addition to that, Sophia was truly compassionate about what she was doing.

“A soup kitchen—I know that’s essentially what I’m operating here, a soup kitchen,” said Sophia. “These places always get muted recognition. People applaud you for your charity, but shake their head at the thought that it has to be in their neighbourhood. Perhaps it is odd to situate it here in the middle of Chinatown, but it isn’t that far away from the youth hostels and the shelters. I think the past decade, there has been a lot of media attention on the plight of runaways and the homeless, but not enough substantial action has taken place. The cutbacks from the province haven’t helped either. I’m really afraid to find out what this upcoming budget will mean for these people.”

“Was there any particular reason why you chose this location, other than its vacancy in the middle of Chinatown?”

“All I wanted to do was to take an old landmark and see if I couldn’t do something useful with it,” said Sophia. “I haven’t noticed anything like this in the middle of a cultural community, so it will be an interesting change. But most of all, it was just sheer luck. You see, my brother, Edward, told me all about this place, and when I got here, something about it clicked with me. I may not be of the same culture, but I felt instantly at home.”

At the end of the interview, Anne thanked Sophia for her time and Sophia answered with a smile, “The pleasure was mine. By the way, I know someone who also works at The Uppercross.”

“Do you?” Anne asked politely. “Is he a writer too?”

“No, he’s working as a consultant for the management. He’s a lawyer taking a year off from the practice.”

“I see.” She wondered who Sophia’s acquaintance was, but did not ask.

“You might actually have met him,” said Sophia. “He’s my youngest brother, just moved in from Montreal this past summer. Wanted a change of atmosphere, he said. His name is Frederick—Frederick Wentworth. Have you met him?”

The Uppercross had hired Frederick? And so, Frederick was the new colleague that Charlie and Louisa had talked about incessantly. Yes, yes, now Anne recalled it perfectly—Louisa had called him Rick—and of course, even if Louisa had called Frederick by his proper first name, it was very common—was it not?

“Yes,” said Anne. “Or, that is—No, I have not met him at work yet. I have heard Charlie—my brother-in-law—speak of him.”

“Is your brother-in-law Charlie Mui?” asked Sophia.

Anne nodded.

“He must be a very nice man. Frederick mentioned him many times to me, and always on the most positive terms.”

“Charlie's whole family is very kind. Mrs. Mui is like a mother to me, and Charlie's sisters are some of the most warmhearted people I’ve ever known.”

“Are they? My brother introduced one of the sisters to me. Her name was Louisa. Do you know her well?”

“She’s a good friend of mine.”

Sophia looked as though she wanted to ask another question, but she shook her head instead and turned to other things.

When Anne finally left, she could not help but feel guilty over Sophia’s kindness. The two women had had a good conversation, and Sophia had treated her so cordially. “If only she knew,” Anne thought to herself, “She would not be so friendly to the woman who wounded her brother.” But then, Anne realized that it was silly of her to think in such terms. Perhaps Frederick had found someone else; it had been many years since their separation. He had lived and worked in Montreal, Sophia had told her. He, unlike his brother Edward, had not been described as brooding. He even went by the shorter, snappier name Rick. Clearly, his life had gone on as it was meant to go. What happened over a decade ago was merely an aberration. It was perfectly ridiculous that Anne should still feel anything for him.

“It is as good as a faded dream now,” Anne told herself, and was comforted by the romance of those words. Overhead, the evening sky, with its tawny shades, seemed to agree with her.

Part 2: Camden Place

Posted on Sunday, 7 March 2004

“Well, Pa, it looks like Anne’s finally here.” These were the first words to greet Anne as the heavy oak door to her father’s condominium suite was opened. The speaker was no other than her lovely older sister, Elizabeth.

“You are late,” said Elizabeth as she let Anne through. “You know how Pa hates his schedule to be pushed around.” She did not really mean Pa’s schedule, but her own; the sooner they started the evening, the sooner Elizabeth could leave. She had planned to hop to the Royal Alexandra Theatre that night for the premier of a musical, and had dressed for the occasion. In her sleek, tailored black dress and stylish faux fur wrap, Elizabeth looked as though she was ready to head off to Covent Garden—but this was Toronto, not London, England. Elizabeth was also in no mood to be crossed.

“I’m sorry,” Anne replied, and regretted it. After all, she was only late because a round table discussion had run over time. Surely it was not a crime to work overtime? Anne removed her shoes and slid into the pair of soft slippers that her father had already laid out for her. Nothing vexed Mr. Li more than to have his new hardwood floor scratched by pebbles trekked in from the outside world.

“How are you, Pa?” Anne asked, walking over to where her father was seated and pecking him on the cheek.

“Doctor Wingfield is very irritating,” was Mr. Li’s response, not particularly addressing her question. “I am never seeing him again.”

“But he has always seen us since we were little,” said Anne patiently. “He is a good family physician.”

“Not good enough,” said Mr. Li. “I never want to go back to him again. You know today, I only went in for a check-up, and this no-good old woman sneezed all over me without saying sorry. And then, I went in and Dr. Wingfield didn’t even check my blood pressure.”

“But there’s nothing wrong with your blood pressure. There never has been.”

“You know nothing,” said Mr. Li in a grouchy manner. “I go in with a cold and he doesn’t check my blood pressure. What kind of doctor is that? And a strange woman’s bacteria are on my best suit because she was coughing the whole time in the waiting room.”

“Next time, don’t wear your best suit to see the doctor.” Anne suppressed the urge to grin. “You know doctors don’t have to check your blood pressure because you have a sniffle and a cough. Dr. Wingfield always says that you have the health of a robust forty-year old.”

“Like a forty-year old,” scoffed Mr. Li. “Why not thirty?”

There were many answers that Anne could have supplied to this, but she wisely bit her tongue.

“Oh, Anne, you’re only upsetting Pa,” interrupted Elizabeth. “Don’t you see how he suffers? His nose is all red and runny. Here, Kleenex, Pa.”

Mr. Li took it gratefully and blew his nose into the tissue with satisfaction.

At the dinner table, apart from the slight sniffle or two, Mr. Li listened fondly to everything that Elizabeth had to say about her work and her friends. “It was just awful,” Elizabeth said, waving her chopsticks for emphasis. “I said to Xia-uncle, ‘Don’t do it. Whatever you do, you must not go through with the sale. You had much better rent it out and collect income from that.’”

“No,” agreed Mr. Li, “Selling his store to his son-in-law would ruin the atmosphere of the neighbourhood. As if Mrs. Song moving away was not bad enough.”

“Right,” said Elizabeth. “Xia-uncle’s son-in-law is awful. I don’t know how Xia-uncle allowed his daughter to marry such a man. He’s worse than Mary’s husband.”

“Charlie is good man,” said Mr. Li.

“Yes, but the rest of Charlie’s family are so... dowdy. The sisters are the most stuck-up little things.”

“But Mary’s situation is not bad and it was a good match for everyone.”

“Oh, thank heavens; Mary at least acts her age. Not like Xia-uncle’s daughter. I can’t believe she’s actually the same age as Anne.”

Upon hearing her own name, Anne looked up. She had not even realized that she had tuned out from the conversation. “Pardon me?” she asked.

“Oh, we weren’t saying anything about you,” said Elizabeth impatiently. “We’re talking about Xia-uncle and how he’s thinking of passing his store to his son-in-law, Stephen.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. “You do remember Stephen, don’t you? He used to go to St. Michael’s Choir School. He was always coming to the restaurant. He liked me once, remember?”

He did? Anne barely recalled the boy’s face. She could not be blamed; there had been dozens of admirers vying for Elizabeth’s affection. Anne’s older sister had been reckoned a beauty throughout the high school years. The fact that Elizabeth was both an avid actress of the drama club and a member of the cheerleading squad made her popular.

There had only been one man whom Elizabeth had liked. Anne was never told the details, but she had learned enough from Aunt Ruth. She knew that Elizabeth had met him at the University of Western Ontario where she studied business and he majored in piano performance. He was reputed to be very tall and very handsome—complete with the dark hair, blue eyes and straight nose. Anne heard about the fairy-tale ending that the couple was planning, and knew how her father encouraged it. “He is her equal in mind and character,” said Mr. Li in approval. “He is also English and rich and your sister would never be in want if she married him.”

Halfway through university though, the promising young man took a year off because of a family emergency; later, this turned out to be an excuse to live abroad for a year. Flowers, then cards, gradually replaced his presence. His disappearance would become longer and more frequent. Elizabeth would call him but no replies ever came back. She waited expectantly for his return. The next two terms came and went. The date of graduation was declared. Still, no word came from the young man, though there were rumours that he had dropped out of the program, that he had been kicked out of the school, that he had even married.

Elizabeth was naturally furious, and her father was furious for her. None of the Lis had ever been tossed aside in such a manner. Elizabeth discarded every association she ever had with her boyfriend—including the ambitions that she had formed with him. She never touched anything in the kitchen of Lychee Hall, but she did throw herself blindly into the management of the restaurant. “We need greater efficiency,” Elizabeth said, analyzing every aspect of the family operation. “We need to cut back on waste and improve our profit margin.” Finally, on a dreary, late summer day some years later, just around the time when Anne herself was nursing a wounded heart, Elizabeth “got her act together.” She enrolled in school again. She took numerous courses, received licenses, entered the field of PR, then real estate, and attained social success. Not only did she excel at her job, but she also had a large pool of clients, a large network of friends, and money to change cars every year, the way celebrities changed their wardrobe. If she had been sad or bitter before, she no longer showed it. No mention of her deserter crossed her lips, and her father did not bring it up, being too pleased with Elizabeth’s rebirth. His eldest daughter was the balm of his declining years, and the bright star of his life. He did not even grumble when he gave his wok up for the lakeshore suite that she proudly bought for him.

Elizabeth also brought a companion into Mr. Li’s life. This companion came in the form of Kay Kee. Mrs. Kee was the widow who lived in the suite next door with her son. Although she had a slight overbite, was freckled and clumsy, her eyes were good and she recited stories well from the newspaper. She had a good ear, so during the days when nothing on television amused Mr. Li, he called her over to chat like old friends.

“You’d better clean up quickly after dinner,” Mr. Li said, wiping his mouth. “Mrs. Kee is coming over tonight to play chess.”

“No problem,” said Elizabeth. “Anne will do that. I would help too, but I have to deliver something to a client by nine this evening.”

“What? You have to work even at night?” exclaimed Mr. Li. “Oh, my poor daughter.”

“I don’t mind, Pa,” said Elizabeth breezily. “It’s hardly a big sacrifice.”

“I should never have given up Lychee Hall,” said Mr. Li.

“Don’t say that, Pa,” said Elizabeth. “You haven’t given it up. It’s just that for once, you’ve decided to enjoy life. You still have the title deeds and own the place.”

“But now Lychee Hall is not my restaurant anymore.”

“And no one will ever supercede you,” Elizabeth finished for him. “Have you gone back to the restaurant at all? It’s just not the same. You don’t have to worry about your reputation at all. Lychee Hall is firmly written into the history of Chinatown and no one in the neighbourhood will ever forget how glorious you and Ma were there.”

Mr. Li was pleased. “How is the new tenant?” he asked.

“She seems respectable enough,” said Elizabeth, “though I am beginning to grow a little concerned about her ability to pay rent regularly. She’s running the place like… like a soup kitchen. Can you imagine? She’s not even thinking of making a profit.”

“But that’s exactly the intention,” said Anne.

For a moment, neither Elizabeth nor Mr. Li said anything, as though they had just remembered Anne’s presence. “Well, it’s incredibly brave of Mrs. Croft to do that.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I mean, where on Earth is she drawing her funds from? How can she support herself if that’s what she is doing full time? I know she’s inherited a fortune from her late husband, but money doesn’t regenerate itself by magic. She must be investing in stocks.”

“So long as the rent is paid regularly, we have nothing to complain about,” said Anne.

“Am I hearing you correctly? You’re defending the woman.”

“Because she’s not here to defend herself. Anyway, you made the decision to rent the building to her in the first place.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I would think that she held your trust before you accepted her application over others.”

Somewhat irritated at being trumped, Elizabeth raised her chin haughtily and answered, “I haven’t forgotten that you always disapprove of my decisions.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“Your opinion has always been to oppose mine.”

“My opinion has always been formed without any reference to yours. I’m merely saying that what’s done is done. Let’s live in good faith with our decision.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Remind me to have you beatified, Saint Anne.”

“In any case,” said Anne, ignoring her sister’s sarcasm, “Sophia Croft is a person of integrity, and there is no need for us to doubt her.”

“Have you met her face to face? I thought that as a journalist, you would know better than to judge people before meeting them.”

“I have met her and spoken with her. I interviewed her for an article in The Uppercross.”

“There’s no use talking to you sensibly about anything,” Elizabeth answered sullenly. “All you do is bring the conversation back to what a great writer you are. Besides, it’s getting late. I have to deliver a policy to a client tonight.”

Mr. Li, who had listened to the argument in daunted silence, now broke the stillness by uttering, “Poor daughter!” (in reference to Elizabeth and her long work hours) and sighed. If it were not for Elizabeth’s history, he would have added, “You should get married.” But of course, if Elizabeth were married, he would have to settle for Anne’s company, which would just not do.

When Anne showed her sister out, she could not help asking where Elizabeth was really intending to go.

“What do you mean?” said Elizabeth, checking her own appearance in the large foyer mirror. She pulled out a bottle of lip-gloss from her purse and began to apply it with the utmost care. “I don’t know what you mean. You’ll have to speak more clearly.”

“Come on, Elizabeth—Friday night. What would you have to deliver so urgently to a client on a Friday night, dressed like this?”

Elizabeth raised a questioning eyebrow at Anne as if taking in her sister’s appearance for the first time. “Maybe you should consider going out on a Friday night. You definitely could pay a little more attention to yourself that way.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?”

“Nothing exactly, just—you should think about the clothes you put on you. All that gray doesn’t suit you. And, may I recommend that you let your hair down for once? You can be attractive if only you put in the effort.”

“I’m not talking about me,” said Anne, trying not to feel the sting. “I’m talking about your excuse for leaving like this. It’s just a little bit rude to be lying to Pa. You know he cares a great deal about you.”

“All I did was to give a very small fib. Besides, Mrs. Kee will be here to keep Pa company.”

“Do you really think that’s appropriate?”

“Don’t lecture me. Pa is not exactly an invalid and I could have told him the truth, that I’m going out to the theatre, and then going for drinks with Carter Dalrymple after, but—”

“Carter Dalrymple?” Anne said in surprise. Her sister could not possibly mean to see one of the vice-presidents of Dalrymple Communications, the son of the business mogul Donald Dalrymple. Since when had they known each other? Carter Dalrymple mingled only with the elite set, was often known in the papers for his extravagance, and envied for his life of conspicuous consumption. There was never much hope that Carter would ever learn to behave like a sensible business tycoon, but neither was there the fear that his father would cast him out of the family empire. Carter was too celebrated, too brilliant. Whereas Dalrymple the elder was sharply criticized by reporters for his acerbic and stingy ways, suave and handsome Dalrymple the younger was a beloved media darling.

“I’d appreciate it if you said nothing of the matter for now,” Elizabeth continued. “In time, I’ll tell Pa myself. For now, Carter and I are just seeing each other on the side.”

Anne did not like the sound of that. “What exactly is ‘on the side’? He’s not seeing someone else also, is he?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What do you take me for? I mean that we’re both very busy people with full-time careers.”

“Am I to expect a picture of you one of these days in the national tabloids?”

“That’s absurd,” said Elizabeth, missing the tone. “You’re just about the last person on earth who would read the tabloids. By the way, you know I’m not in it for the fame and fortune.”

Anne quoted one of her sister’s favourite phrases. “You’re just out to have a good time.”

“Right, as a matter of fact, I am. Don’t look at me like a prude. Don’t tell me you’re going to be a spoiled sport. Look, I’ll introduce you to him some time and maybe you’ll know how I feel. Does that make you feel better?”

“I’m not being a spoiled sport. I have no interest in meeting any of your Dalrymples.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I forget; you have an unresolved bias against those who are wealthy through no fault of their own.”

“That’s not true.”

“Now you definitely sound bitter, and it isn’t attractive.”

“I only want to see you happy. The only reason why I ask is because I want to know that you’re happy. Have you—”

“Well, there you have it. I am happy having his company, end of story.”

When Elizabeth tottered out, Mrs. Kee arrived, as though right on cue.

Anne cleaned up in silence, not wishing to ruin her father’s evening. What was the world coming to? Elizabeth was being courted by, or was courting, a rich playboy. Mrs. Kee was making eyes at their father; Anne would not have minded had Mrs. Kee been a little less materialistic and a little less worldly. Had Anne been bolder, she would have eagerly interrupted her father and Mrs. Kee’s tête-à-tête on many occasions, but they were speaking in Chinese, and she knew that meant that she must act invisible. Anne knew that Mrs. Kee’s company could not be good for her father. She distrusted Mrs. Kee. Who was this neighbour, after all, but a woman that Elizabeth only just met? Mrs. Kee’s son was a sullen man who rarely smiled or nodded his head when he passed one, and Mrs. Kee—well, she simpered and cooed too much.

“Ah, Mrs. Kee, you are too clumsy,” Anne heard her father say. “You know the elephant cannot cross the river. And no use moving that piece either—your horse’s feet are already blocked by my piece. Don’t you know your chess rules?”

Evidently, Mrs. Kee did not, for she laughed mechanically and apologized. “I am so tired, that is all. I was up all night. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not? You know you have to sleep nine hours every night, or else your complexion turns rough. At your age, Mrs. Kee, you have to watch out for your complexion.”

“Thank you, I know. How do you keep your skin so good, Mr. Li? You said you used to work in a kitchen but I don’t see it. Your face has no wrinkles.”

Anne bit her lower lip to prevent herself from laughing. Mrs. Kee was an awful flatterer.

“I drink swallow’s nest, that’s why, Mrs. Kee,” said Mr. Li in a matter-of-fact way. “You should try Brand’s Swallow’s Nest. It’s very good for your skin.”

“Thank you, Mr. Li. I will remember that. But call me Kay. Everyone calls me Kay. It is more fashionable than Kee tai-tai.”

“Mrs. Kee, at our age we should not care about fashion. But okay, I will call you Kay. It makes you sound younger. But remember what I said about Brands. You can also try the chicken essence. You look very tired. Chicken essence will give your face a brighter look so you can look more alert.”

“Thank you, Mr. Li.”

Anne interrupted their game only to offer Mrs. Kee some tea.

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Kee shaking her head. “Is that oolong tea? Oh, it is too strong for me. Do you have jasmine instead?”

Anne went back to the kitchen and returned with a fresh pot of jasmine tea. This she poured into a dainty cup for Mrs. Kee. Anne offered her father’s neighbour some snacks.

Mrs. Kee shook her head again. “I should not. I have eaten dinner already. Oh, you have little fried dumplings. Okay. I don’t like them too much but I should not let you spoil all that food. These dumplings should never be left cold; it would be such a waste.”

“Thank you, Anne,” said Mr. Li dismissively. “If you have to go now, you can go. I know you are very busy and get bored with us.”

“That’s not true,” Anne said, trying to hide her mortification. “I don’t mind staying a little bit longer.”

“Mrs. Kee is here. I will see you again in a few days for dim sum. You can talk to Elizabeth and arrange it with her. She knows my schedule.”

“Yes,” said Anne meekly. Still, before she left her father’s apartment, she could not help casting a suspicious look towards Mrs. Kee. Mrs. Kee was quite some years younger than her father, and utterly different from Anne’s mother. The woman always looked tired and reeked of smelling salts and ammonia. How could her father possibly have taken to Mrs. Kee? Was her company really so endearing that he would prefer to exchange silly, frivolous conversations with that woman than to spend time on better things? The thought of Mrs. Kee made her feel uneasy. Anne knew she should not be upset with her father. After all, he had suffered his own share of sorrows. He had been very fond of his wife. Furthermore, he was truly a good father towards Elizabeth. He needed friends and company more often.

It was perhaps best the way things were now. With Elizabeth and her father focused on their own lives, they at least had no time to mind hers. Anne was keenly aware that her own existence held a sort of emptiness, a void that needed filling—but with what? She had her work, and yett—! There were other things, she knew, that she had not attained that could give her far greater pleasure. She would love to fall in love again, to experience a grand passion that was different from the affection she felt for her friends or the tenderness she had for Mary’s children. What was it was that her risk-taking sister-in-law Louisa liked to say? Something about not being afraid to trip down the hill in order to enjoy the exhilaration of flying? Anne thought that it could not apply to a person as diminutive as herself but she understood what Louisa meant. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Oh, quit moralizing,” Anne scolded herself as she waited for the elevator. “There is nothing more unendurable than moralizing on a churning stomach.” She could still smell Mrs. Kee’s musk and it made her shudder.

Part 3: “I hardly recognized her again.”

Posted on Monday, 15 March 2004

Saturday night, while sorting through some bills for her father, Anne received a frantic call from Mary. It was not the sort of diversion that Anne had hoped for but nonetheless, her younger sister was a person whom one could not ignore.

“You must come over tomorrow.” Mary's wail was so loud that Anne had to hold the receiver away from her ear for a moment. “You are my only hope. Louisa has just told me that she's bringing her new colleague to dinner tomorrow night, even though she knows very well that Sundays are family nights only. You know how I hate to cook—how I can't cook—and I would simply hate to have Charlie's mother criticize me again in front of everyone. How can I ever forgive her for last Saturday, after the way she humiliated me over the red bean soup? As if I’d deliberately switch the salt and sugar. Will you please come?”

Anne sighed. “It's not that I don't want to help you—” But there was the charity concert at the Trinity College Chapel that she had been hoping to attend.

“But you don’t mean you’d rather go to a concert than to spend quality time with your family?”

Put in that way, Anne could hardly refuse.

“Well then, there you have it,” said Mary. “Louisa is picking up Rick, and they'll be coming around at six-thirty. We can start eating at about seven....”

The mere mention of Frederick Wentworth made Anne think of crushed mint leaves and sultry summer nights.

“You'll know what time to come over of course, right? What are you planning to cook? Anything would be fine, except that we haven't got any fish or shrimps or beef, or anything that Charlie's mother likes, in fact. So if you go by the grocery store on your way, will you pick up a few items as well? Of course I'll pay you back—you just have to remind me. Remember that I can't eat mutton, and that beef gives Louisa spots—not that they look that bad, but you know how Louisa will complain about spots—and that Charlie—”

“Can't eat anything high in cholesterol. I know.”

“Oh, thanks so much, Anne! I knew I could count on you,” Mary gushed. Then, more loudly, “See, Charlie? I told you she would do it.”

Anne knew very well what the Muis liked and disliked to eat, better than even the Muis themselves. It was Hetta, and not Louisa, who grew spots after eating beef. Louisa had no allergies to speak of. The only thing she ever complained about at the dinner table was gaining weight, and yet, she had no trouble maintaining her size 3. Anne remembered that Frederick Wentworth had always liked mutton. There was something in its rich aroma that he found savoury and enticing. But should Anne cook something that Mary hated? Would Mary not complain?

“I can't satisfy everyone.”

She fished around for recipes. In the bottom-most drawer of her filing cabinet were the three notebooks that her mother had used to record her family's favourite dishes. Anne had managed to salvage them from her father’s recycling box. When Anne's mother died, Mr. Li had no patience to learn all that his wife had known, and Elizabeth, his darling eldest child, dreamt of making money, not of becoming a chef. Had Elizabeth put her mind to it, she would have succeeded at mastering the art of Chinese cuisine, but working in front of the stove all day held no appeal for her. Anne, on the other hand, grew up watching their mother cook. Anne was much like Mrs. Li in that respect; her taste buds were sharp and her nose was keen. “Some women judge by looks,” Mrs. Li used to say proudly about their talent, “but we are more practical because we judge by our stomach. If the man can’t make sure we’re fed with the best, he will never be a good husband.”

For Anne's mother, cooking was always about art and power. In just that simple act of holding a pair of chopsticks to a wok, she wielded untold authority over the hungry. The aroma that Anne's mother concocted from the contents of her big, black wok could satisfy, as well as manipulate the unguarded. Had Anne not seen how her mother soothed her father out of anger with her perfectly fried dumplings? Anne closed her eyes. She had loved how the “stick-to-the-wok” dumplings would sizzle as they were scooped onto the china plate. How the steam twirled and danced from the treats! How the whiff of fragrant meat would make her mouth water! As a child, Anne would hold it up to the light with her chopsticks and admire its perfect, even folds, before dipping it in dark vinegar and biting into it. Crunch went the delicately fried wrapping. The vinegar would tingle her palate and the warm meat stuffing, full of juicy, tantalizing flavours, would burst in her mouth. There, on page two of one of her mother’s notebook, in her mother’s small, fine scrawl was the recipe. It seemed so easy, and yet so perplexing! Anne could imitate her mother's cooking, and everyone who tried the result proclaimed that the dish tasted as good as when Mrs. Li made them, but Anne knew otherwise. There was always something missing. Anne had been frustrated on numerous occasions because the mysterious ingredient continued to elude her.

The next afternoon, dressed as smartly as comfort would allow, Anne took her well-traveled route to the Muis, who were all delighted to see her arrive with bags of groceries on their doorsteps. Relief, perhaps, played a large role in their joy for none of them, they knew, could quite pull off a respectable, tasteful dinner party without calling a caterer. Under the pressure of time, only Anne could be trusted.

“Of course, you must know how important this evening will be,” said Mrs. Mui, helping Anne unload her bags in the kitchen. “This is the new legal—legal something-or-other—and Louisa wants to give him a good first impression. She tells me that Rick, her colleague, once lived in Toronto—went to university here, in fact—and that it's his first time back in the city since he finished his Honours B.A.”

“Is it?”

“I wonder what he’s like. Louisa says that he isn’t a handsome man but that he makes up for it with his personality.”

“She didn’t elaborate, did she?”

“Well, you know Louisa—she is very lively and she doesn’t stay long on one subject. Her attention flickers more quickly than a string of Christmas lights.”

“Liveliness of mind is not a bad thing.”

“Perhaps. At least when she does form an opinion, she sticks to it, even if her mind works too fast for me to catch up. I wonder what Rick is like.”

Anne tried to remain impassive. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Louisa is excited about tonight. I do believe she is serious about him. She can’t stop telling me about the man.”

“Oh.” Anne concentrated on opening the bag of hot peppers. Why was the knot so tight?

“Here,” said Mrs. Mui, handing her a pair of scissors, “No need to frustrate yourself with that knot. Just snip it out... Right. Now, as I was saying... What was I saying?”

“Louisa's colleague.”

“Yes, Louisa's colleague, Rick. He knew my poor son, Richard. You do remember my poor Richard?”

Anne nodded. Of course she remembered “poor Richard.” She had never met him, but had heard enough from Charlie and Louisa to ascertain his character. Richard had been a wild, party animal whom everybody derisively named “Dickie” and whom nobody in life had liked. Dickie had ruined himself quickly, but not quickly enough for people to feel sad over his demise; news of his drug overdose had been met with more embarrassment than grief. At least in death he received the warmth and fondness that in life he had never deserved.

“Poor Richard. Louisa tells me that Rick knew him briefly in Kingston.”

“Was he—Louisa’s colleague—really in Kingston?”

“He spent a few years there. That is where he earned his law degree, at Queen’s University. Apparently, he almost considered not going—not wanting his sister to pay for his tuition, or something like that—but then he won a full scholarship, and has been riding high on his luck since.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you couldn’t have.” Mrs. Mui cast Anne a bemused glance. “I don’t expect you’re acquainted with this Rick Wentworth.”

“I haven’t run into him.”

Mrs. Mui gave a heavy sigh. “I would never believe that I would ever meet another friend of poor Richard. It has been so long; I hope I will be able to speak to Rick tonight, and tell him how much I appreciate his kindness to my poor son. Every time I think about the black-haired young going to the grave before the white-haired elderly, I...”

Seeing how Mrs. Mui was overcome once again by the loss of her son, Anne suggested gently that perhaps Mrs. Mui ought to rest a little before Louisa and her colleague arrived. Mrs. Mui would not hear of it at first, not until Anne promised to call her when help was required. At last, after much insistence, Mrs. Mui was persuaded by Anne’s good sense and left the kitchen.

Anne was chopping up onions and blinking back tears when Louisa popped in to say hello. Louisa could not have chosen a worse time. Despite years of experience in cooking, Anne had never quite perfected the art of dicing onions. It was such a pity that she loved its sweet, sharp flavours.

“Mmmm, smells delicious, whatever it is you have in the oven,” Louisa chirped. She was twisting a ring around her finger. (Was it a new ring? Anne asked herself silently. No, she had seen that ring before.) “You’re really outdoing yourself again. Have I told you how glad I am that you came?”

Louisa was such an affectionate girl that Anne really could not dislike her. “Too many compliments,” Anne said, smiling a little.

“I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m just telling you the truth. You know I’m not the most generous with compliments. By the way, I missed you on Friday. I thought we were planning a night on the town. Who were you running after? Where you chasing someone I’d know?”

“I’m sorry. My meeting ran over time and I had to visit my father afterwards. I didn’t see you, or I would have explained.”

“I was only teasing you. Don’t worry, I know you’re the last woman on earth who would put her reputation on the line for a man.” Louisa raised an eyebrow mischievously. “Or have you finally decided to elope with James?”

James was the Arts Editor at The Uppercross, a harmless soul. Anne shook her head.

Louisa giggled. “Anne, you are much too serious for your own good. The look of horror on your face is just perfection. You know I was just kidding. You have to admit, however, that James is handsome, even if he is quiet. Perhaps you should give him some thought. That collection of poetry he gave you was very sweet, considering it’s only a few months late for Valentine’s Day.”

“He wasn’t giving me anything—just returning a book—and for your information, it was George Orwell, not poetry. He wanted a reference to 1984.”

“But haven’t you fallen in love with his British accent by now? Oh very well, you divine and level-headed one, I see I can’t tease a single confession out of you.” Louisa feigned a sigh. “Do you need any help at all? Do you want me to get anything? You know, take the dishes, lend you a hand, anything?”

“Dinner will take a while, but if you'd like, you can set the table—” Anne was about to continue when the presence of another figure caused her to lose her train of thought. It was him.

It was hardly meant to be a surprise. She had come to the Muis’ home realizing that she would see him. She had known full well that seeing him again would be painful, and that the plainly different circumstances under which they met would risk exposure of her heart. She had steeled herself against revealing any tell-tale scars. She had prepared herself all day for this moment. Yet, she felt her heart beat fast and her throat constrict upon the first glimpse of the man.

Frederick Wentworth was almost as Anne had remembered him, except his face was less delicate and his frame had broadened. Twelve years. Slowly, as Anne gathered her wits about her, random thoughts began to weave themselves together. She wanted to know if this man in the well-chosen shirt and trousers still used the same brand of aftershave, or laughed the same way—a laugh that began in the eyes and worked its way down to a lopsided grin. She wanted to know whether he still touched his finger to his lips when thinking, favour red over other colours, or cheered for the Maple Leafs who never won. What had he been doing with his life in the last twelve years? Anne wondered if Frederick ever noticed how advantageous time had been on his looks. She would not go so far as to ask whether he had forgiven her.

Louisa jumped over to her guest. “Pardon me, I've been so rude to have left you alone. How did you fend for yourself against my mother?”

“I came in full combat gear,” said Frederick without casting a single glance about him.

“And what would that be? What was your secret weapon?”

“As you say, it’s a secret.”

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, Mr. Smarty-pants,” said Louisa sweetly. “You have yet to pass the ultimate battle of ‘Meet the Muis’.”

“So long as it doesn’t involve me dressing up and crooning a Tom Jones number…”

“Ack, careful there—my mother loves Tom Jones. As you know, in this family, everything revolves around food, so prove yourself at the dinner table, and you’ll win my mother’s heart.” Louisa turned to Anne with a charming smile on her face. “Here, let me make the introductions. This is Anne Li, Charlie’s sister-in-law, who happens to be la chef extraordinaire. Anne, this is Frederick Wentworth, the new consultant hired by The Uppercross. Just call him Rick—we all do. He moved in from Montreal this past summer to grace us with his intelligence and wisdom. Of course, both of you know me—Louisa, who has no particular talent to call her own.”

In the face of disappointment, Anne chose to smile. Louisa was a rare bird who preened without shame, who always won admiration even though such pride would be insufferable if found in anyone else; yet Anne felt a little unsettled witnessing Louisa and Frederick’s absurd banter. She hoped that her discomfort did not show, and that with her watery eyes and wrinkled apron, she did not look too awful beside Louisa. It could be worse, Anne had to acknowledge. At least she was not at that moment embroiled in the heat, steam, and sweat of a good stir-fry. She washed her hands before extending her right to Louisa’s guest in cordiality. “How do you do,” she said, trying to steady her voice.

It was the wrong gesture, polite as it was meant to be. He stood, staring at her with an inscrutable expression on his face, and then, on finally perceiving her hand, took it. His hand was warm, which nearly surprised her after such a detached reception.

Louisa saw this. “Well, you do have to shake a hand when you take it. Don't crush Anne though. She still needs to finish up in here.”

Frederick cleared his throat. “Pardon me—we've met before.”

“Of course,” said Anne. That was all Frederick could say? She retracted her hand as quickly as possible, in order to hide her reluctance to do so.

“Really?” asked Louisa in curiosity. “Where?”

“At school,” both answered. Anne looked askance at Louisa’s guest.

Louisa persisted. “In college, you mean?”

Anne nodded.

“Same classes or same club?”

“A few classes,” said Frederick, just as Anne answered, “Debate club.”

“It’s good to know that there is so much history between the two of you,” Louisa joked, unaware that she had hit the mark of truth. “And here I was thinking you were simply drinking buddies, twenty-four seven.”

Anne murmured something—she hardly knew what—and Frederick likewise uttered a few generic pleasantries.

“Good, good.” Louisa patted Frederick’s arm affectionately. “You will tell me all about it, I hope. I suppose we ought to get out of Anne’s way, shouldn't we? Would you like to help me set the table in the dining room?” With a stack of china divided between them, they were gone.

It had all happened so quickly. Anne raised her hands to her face, recognizing the scent of mint as it mixed with the smell of onions and spices. The combination tickled her nose. She was only relieved that the meeting, despite its awkwardness, had not been terrible. She had feared much worse than what had passed. She had been afraid of a scene and had tried to control her feelings like a good Stoic. Neither she nor Frederick had betrayed their history and both had acted as grown, mature adults.

“That is what we should have been,” she thought. Perhaps, now that the initial meeting was over, she could continue to be one.

At dinner, nearly everyone praised Anne for her dishes. Mary’s kids finished the glazed mushrooms in a flash, and likewise, the contents of the tofu pot disappeared within five minutes of its presentation. The roasted chicken, with its spicy, crunchy skin was applauded by Charlie, who couldn't eat enough of it to satisfy his stomach, and the sautéed beef was equally commended by Louisa. Mary frowned a bit when she saw the pot of savoury mutton and bean curd sheets, but Mrs. Mui, who sat beside her, was too busy complimenting Anne on the freshness and delectable flavours of the steamed fish that Mary could not get a word in edgewise to anyone who would listen.

“Hey, Uncle Rick, you can hold chopsticks properly!” observed one of Mary's saucy sons, Wally, in the middle of the meal; the boy said it as though holding chopsticks was an innate skill exclusive to a few. “But you’re not Chinese.”

Anne blushed for the outburst of her nephew. Frederick allayed the strain. He smiled. “Oh, don’t tell me. I’ve heard that one before. A friend I once had taught me how to use chopsticks.”

“Ah, this was in Montreal?” asked Louisa. “Did you not say you lived near Chinatown when you were there?”

“No. That is, yes, I lived near Chinatown when I was in Montreal,” said Frederick, “but no, I learned to use chopsticks during my undergrad years.”

“Here? In Toronto?”

“Yes.”

“Did you go to Chinatown then?”

“Once or twice. But mostly, my friend would come over to my apartment and cook different dishes for me to sample.”

“Do you know that Anne’s father used to own a restaurant along Spadina Road?” asked Louisa. “It was called Lychee Hall. Have you heard of it?”

Anne was thankful that she was not sitting across the table from Frederick.

“Yes, I knew something of the place,” said Frederick. “I only went there once myself.”

“Oh, you should have gone more often,” said Louisa. “If you and Anne had hung out together back when you were both at U of T, I’m sure you would have gotten a few freebies from her. Anne had such a way with food; she still does.”

“The university campus is big,” Anne murmured.

At the same time, Frederick said, in a dry tone, “Ah, but then, there’s always culture shock.”

“Culture shock,” Louisa scoffed. She dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “Where there’s good food, there’s no place for it. I mean, here you are. Plus, you learned to use chopsticks, didn’t you?”

“My friend had been pretty insistent about that.”

Anne felt increasingly ill. Coming out of Frederick’s mouth, the phrase “my friend” was beginning to sound more and more like a Victorian euphemism.

“Well, whoever he was, he’s right. You miss out on too much fun that way. It’s too bad that Anne’s father no longer runs a restaurant. He rents his building out now. There’s new management there. Has anyone gone there yet?” Louisa looked around the table expectantly.

“I have. My sister runs it now,” said Frederick.

“You’re kidding! How come you never said so before?”

“There was no reason to. I wouldn’t find the occasion to bring up a topic like that out of the blue.”

“That’s so amazing,” said Louisa, shaking her head. “Isn’t it amazing? It’s such a small world. I can’t believe your sister runs Lychee Hall. Anne, what do you think of that? You just did a piece for The Uppercross about that place, didn’t you? You know, the other night, I just had a dream about Lychee Hall. Isn’t it like synchronicity or something?”

Anne swallowed, dreading the direction in which the conversation was going. Thankfully, Louisa’s sister Hetta broke in, protesting that Jungian psychoanalysis had no place at the dinner table. Mary took the opportunity to bring the conversation away from Louisa and onto the mutton. Mary’s mother-in-law claimed Frederick's attention by talking about poor Richard.

As Anne cleaned up after the meal, she heard Louisa and Frederick engage in a friendly banter on the verandah outside the kitchen. She could just make out their silhouettes against the gathering nightfall. A glint of orange flickered occasionally by Louisa’s hand—though Mrs. Mui disapproved of smoking—and at times, a merry laugh would ring out, joined by a gentler, tenor one. Anne felt curious about eavesdropping. She was relieved to know that no one else was in the kitchen with her.

“Well, what did you think?” Louisa was asking playfully. “Do you not love my family? Do you not think we are charming and old-fashioned in our traditional ways?”

“They are no different from other families.”

“Really, we must be different.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like the emphasis on ‘your ways’ and ‘my ways’.” Frederick’s tone was half light, half mocking.

“Very well, I’m sorry. What, then, without any regard to my family’s heritage, do you think of my family?”

“Is this a short-answer question, or are there multiple choices?”

“Please.” Louisa was teasing, playful. “Of course you are all politeness in refusing to say a thing against the hospitality of your kind hostess. Here is your disclaimer: don’t worry about political correctness in this house. I won't mind what it is you say. It’s only Mary who minds about everything.” (Anne could imagine Louisa rolling her eyes.)

Anne heard Frederick mention her name and for a moment, her heart leapt to her throat. “Well, how about her?” said Frederick. “Does she always cook for your family? Is that what she does?”

“Oh, we’ve been inviting her over on Sundays since she started living on her own. She’s like a part of the family really. Anne’s a darling and the dearest friend I’ve ever had, but I must say she is unusual... I don't think she's ever happy except in the kitchen. Very quaint. She works at The Uppercross too, you know.”

“She does?”

“Didn’t you know? I’m sure I mentioned it before. Surely you’ve come across some of her stories before. Hmm? No, she’s not a regular columnist. She turned down the offer for that, though it would have been very good pay. She’s more interested in writing the big stories—you know, like those occasional ‘investigative journalism’ series that every newspaper loves to run?” Louisa paused. “She’s so into the welfare state debate—almost a socialist, as Charlie would say. Any day now, we expect her to announce her membership in the Communist Party.”

“Being concerned about social welfare is a far cry from being a socialist or a communist.”

“You’re probably right. I never cared for those distinctions anyway... Hey, didn't you say that you went to college with her? What was she like back then? Did you know her well before?”

“What do you mean?”

“You must think something of Anne. Is she the same? How well did you know her? I mean, you said you had a few classes with her, and that you were both in the debate club. She was really smart in school, wasn’t she?”

“She aimed for essay prizes but was rather quiet about it.”

“Was she like one of those silently ambitious types?”

“I don’t know. I really didn’t know her as well as I thought…” Frederick cleared his throat. “The campus was big and it was easy to know someone one year and forget them the next.”

“Which is why I never wanted to go to that school. If only we’d been at Western together, we would have had a blast. But then you would’ve been several years ahead of me.” Louisa paused. “So did you remember Anne at all before you saw her tonight?”

“The last time I saw her was during my last year in Toronto. That’s a long time ago.”

“Oh, yeah, that was eons ago,” Louisa said sarcastically. “Well? Do tell me what you thought.”

“She's altered. I hardly recognized her again.”

Anne looked up and was relieved to see that she was still alone in the kitchen. Frederick thought that she was altered! That she was unrecognizable! Well, she could hardly admit to being twenty-two anymore; but had the years really been so unkind to her as to make her an entirely different woman?

“I will admit that she should do something with herself,” said Louisa in a lowered voice. “Do you know that she used to be really pretty? I mean, of course she still is, but she doesn’t do anything for it. She just dismisses any suggestions I give her. There was a time when Charlie was head-over-heels for her.”

Anne felt heat creeping up from her neck. She could not hear what Frederick said.

“It all happened before Mary,” said Louisa. “...Why not? Her Aunt Ruth was against it. The woman made no secret of the fact that she thought Charlie wasn’t good enough for her dear Anne. If I were truly in love, nothing that others said would ever persuade me to give up the person I loved.”

Anne cringed. She knew what Frederick must think of her now—that she was a spineless little creature, too weak and cowardly to know her own heart, having been twice persuaded out of relationships by a meddlesome friend.

“Those are merely fine words unless they’re followed up with true resolve.”

“But I am resolved. I’m a woman of great determination. I couldn’t possibly stand for the interference of others. My mother used to always say that I had so much backbone, I should have gone into politics.”

“People should always stick to their purpose,” Anne heard Frederick say in a tone of warm approval. “I respect those who stay true to their ideals. In the game of politics, law, and life, it’s the same. Only those willing to sacrifice a little effort for their principles can gain the admiration of their followers and enemies. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

To have heard such a speech and not be permitted to answer to it! Anne felt such desire to voice her response but the conversation was not hers to claim, Frederick’s passionate words not meant for her ears. Anne was curious to find out how Louisa would respond. A little while later, she heard Louisa say,

“In the end, things worked out for Charlie, although I always wish that my brother had married Anne instead of Mary. You know, Anne doesn't have Mary's bad temper—she’s more patient than anyone I know—plus she can really cook. Didn't you think so tonight?”

Frederick's answer was inaudible.

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion, but I thought it was simply flawless,” Louisa declared.

Unable to attend any more, Anne turned the kitchen tap on at its fullest, drowning out the duo’s voices.

“Oh, you're not going already, are you?” Louisa exclaimed when Anne entered the living room later that night. “Don't leave yet. We've hardly started the evening.”

“It’s past nine-thirty. I have some things to finish up for tomorrow,” Anne fibbed.

“Already?” said Louisa. “But never mind about that; it’s not Monday yet. Remember what your Sunday school teacher used to say—you need your day of rest. Stay a bit.”

Not wishing to cause a scene, Anne obliged and walked to an empty seat that was luckily quite far from Frederick Wentworth. Conscious of the gulf between them, she sat down with far greater ease than she had hitherto displayed all evening. She did not say much at first, only listened to the conversations around her. Charlie and Mary were busy contesting something hotly with each other, while Hetta, Louisa, and Mrs. Mui listened in rapture to Frederick's story about his growing up on Prince Edward Island. Frederick scoffed playfully at Louisa’s supposition that the island was all potatoes, farmland and Green Gables. Anne remembered how Frederick had once teased her in just the same way, when Anne had been no more informed about the province than Louisa was. Anne, too, had been eager to drink in the novelty of Frederick's experiences, and like Louisa, she had wanted to learn more.

“Well, I can't think of any other stories,” said Frederick at last. “What about you? One of you must be able to tell me something interesting about Toronto that I don't already know.”

Louisa and her sister Hetta barely gave each other the turn to speak, and Anne watched as Frederick gamely laughed along with them. The girls promised to bring him on a tour of the city before the weather became seasonal. Upon the discovery that Frederick was renting a house by the Scarborough Bluffs, Anne’s felt a current run through her. The Bluffs—how well she remembered the Canada Day she had spent there on the beach with him. Louisa’s delighted voice broke into her thoughts though. Louisa wanted to bring him down to the lake some time, as Frederick had mentioned sailing with great fondness. When all conversation was exhausted, Louisa suggested that they play some music. “Do you sing, Rick?” she asked, lifting the piano cover. She sang and accompanied herself on the instrument, much to the admiration of everyone in the room.

“I don't know that song,” Frederick answered when she had finished. “But you sing quite well.”

“You don’t mean to say that you really don't know?” Louisa sounded incredulous. She named the movie from which the song had come. Still, Frederick shook his head.

“Well, that's surprising,” said Louisa. “Anne, do you know the song?”

Anne shook her head, puzzled by the sudden deference.

“You don't?” Louisa's eyes grew large. “Don't either of you watch movies or listen to music? It was number one on the charts for ages and the movie was the most tragic love story in decades.”

“I don't watch movies for their theme songs,” said Frederick. “I'm sure that if you played something traditional like ‘The Ash Grove,’ though, I would recognize it.”

Anne's heart skipped a beat. She could not forget that particular tune so easily. It was one that Frederick used to whistle all the time.

Louisa wrinkled her fine nose. “‘The Ash Grove’?” she repeated without comprehension.

Anne listened silently as Frederick Wentworth now played the melody. Apart from noting the sparks of flirtation, Anne had seen no signs of true attachment between Frederick and Louisa all evening; but she knew that what was not there must eventually be realized. Frederick was standing by Louisa now, leaning his face over the pretty young woman’s shoulder. Anne watched, as the dull, mute pang of solitude struck her inside. She did not know afterwards how she managed to compose herself. Her thought was only this: that Louisa with her beauty, youth, and buoyancy was everything.

“What do you think of them?” Mrs. Mui whispered to Anne, filling the place beside her. “Do you think Rick is a good thing for Louisa?”

“It’s rather up to Louisa to decide, isn’t it?” Anne whispered back.

“I’d be happy to see her settle down.”

“She is young still. She’s just starting a career.”

“Frederick may be quite a few years older than Louisa, but Mr. Mui and I are nine years apart and have always understood each other.”

The pair was still playing the piano when Anne made her excuses to Mrs. Mui to slip away. At the front door, Anne's rambunctious nephews—heartened by their meal and staying up past their bedtime—decided that it would be fun to jump on their favourite aunt while her back was turned towards them. One, two, they leapt onto the unsuspecting woman, causing Anne to cry out in surprise. She entreated the boys to get off but they would not until they were suddenly lifted from her. Looking up, she was startled to see that it was Frederick who had come to her rescue. She had not even been aware that he had stopped playing the piano. Frederick uttered nothing, though for a moment, as he held one boy in each arm, he looked as though he meant to ask her whether she was all right. The boys squirmed free and scurried upstairs, taunting “Uncle Rick” to play hide-and-seek with them. Shaking his head, Frederick helped Anne put on her jacket but he would not allow her to thank him.

“Don’t mention it,” he said curtly.

Anne was disappointed. Frederick may have gotten over the past enough to lend her his assistance as circumstances required, but that was nothing beyond common civility. After the pain she had caused him, she could hardly presume to think that he would accept her friendship. She ought to have known better than to expect more.