North of Beautiful (21 page)

“Classical?” I asked him, lifting my eyebrows.

Neither Karin nor I missed his squeeze of my shoulder when he left to take the call outside. The door had barely swung shut when Karin demanded, “So what’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not nothing.”

“Come on, I just met him.”

“I didn’t figure him to be your type.” Her mouth pursed so sanctimoniously I almost forgot that she managed a stable of guys who were forever fawning over her.

“We’re just hanging out.” True, Jacob and I hadn’t done anything other than talk. And talk. And talk. But Erik — I hadn’t even mentioned him to Jacob yet. Or vice versa. Still, something about Karin’s implication bugged me. And then I pinpointed it. “And what exactly is my type?”

“Not him,” she said, jerking her head toward Jacob, who was pacing outside, talking on the phone.

“Why not him?”

“Because . . .”

“He doesn’t care about my face.”

She blanched guiltily, but recovered fast. “Well, yeah, because he’s got that” — she touched the smooth skin between her lip and her nose — “thing there.”

“It’s a scar.”

I looked longingly at the front door, wanting so badly to leave. But as I sat there under Karin’s gaze that judged and weighed and found me lacking, I realized I could. There was no reason to stay, no more to say. Or explain. I didn’t need to be the one who always remained at home, waited for Karin’s return, charted her progress in the land of opportunity. So I left the dregs of my coffee, left Karin at the table. I waved goodbye to her parents and slipped out of Snagtooth Coffee into a gust of fresh air and a posse of tourists. For once, I couldn’t care less that these strangers took the scenic route of my face — glissading from my temple to chin with long, lingering looks. There was Jacob, and he was waiting for me.

“Our moms have beckoned,” he said, folding his phone in half before slipping it into his pocket.

“Now what are they up to?” I asked.

“Candle-Making 101.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Unfortunately, no. Mom’s making up for lost time, learning all the crafts she’s always wanted to do.”

“My mom didn’t mention this to me.”

“They’ve been conspiring. We’re supposed to pick up my mom now. Ready?”

From behind me, I could feel Karin staring at us through the window, confused and irritated, trying to determine if I had completely lost my mind. Maybe. But I found something else instead.

“Ready,” I said and opened the door to his truck. My seat was still warm.

“You could make a killing on these in Seattle,” Norah said, examining the candles Mom had set out earlier on the kitchen island as examples. Those, Mom had made months ago in preparation for Merc’s homecoming. Vanilla scented the air thick as a bakery while the candles burned.

“On these?” Mom shook her head skeptically. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

“With the right packaging, boutiques would snatch them up. Trust me, you could price these at forty dollars apiece and they’d sell out.”

“Forty each?” Mom squeaked.

“Maybe even fifty.”

As if this were a lab class, Mom had divided the kitchen into different work stations: the display area for finished and cooling candles at the island. The microwave — which I was manning — to melt batches of soy wax. At the kitchen table, Jacob and Trevor had been put to work spooning wax flakes into Pyrex measuring cups. Originally, Norah had been in charge of pouring the melted wax into glass votives, but she hadn’t mastered the art of straightening the wicks. So Mom had reassigned her to cutting the wicks into equal seven-inch lengths.

Now, I twisted away from the microwave and saw for myself what Norah meant by the candles. They were beautiful, but naked. With the right labels, the perfect packaging, the candles could be stunning, not to mention more valuable. How come I never thought of designing professional labels for Mom? How hard would that have been?

Over at the kitchen table, Jacob encouraged Trevor, “Right on, little man” as Trevor spooned flakes messily into a glass measuring cup. They may not have looked like brothers, but you could feel their bond every time Trevor looked up at Jacob for praise. Something tightened inside me, the familiar ache for my own brothers. Maybe Mom and I should brave China. There, I could make amends with Merc.

“I don’t know,” Mom said again. Dad’s skepticism had worn away her confidence as surely as running water to rock, eroding it layer by layer until there was nothing left but sandy insecurity. She chuckled now, sounding eerily like Dad when he was denigrating an idea. “Could you even turn a profit on these?”

“It’s all about sourcing the right raw materials at the best price, no different from coffee beans,” said Norah authoritatively. She picked up one of the unlit candles, held it up to the light. “Maybe in China or India.”

The microwave beeped just as Mom cried, “China!” She tempered her voice to a confiding tone, “That’s so weird. My son wants me and Terra to visit him there.”

“Really? I love China,” said Norah enthusiastically. She set the candle down and picked up her scissors to clip a few more wicks. I noticed that the uniform seven-inch lengths Mom had specified were getting progressively shorter. “Where?”

“Well, he lives in Shanghai.”

“Shanghai is one of my favorite cities. You’ll love it. When are you going?”

“Oh, I don’t know. . . .” Mom brushed her hair nervously behind her ears.

Norah snipped a piece of string decisively. “I’ll take you.”

“What?” asked Mom.

I echoed her sentiment, almost dropping the hot Pyrex measuring cup that I was removing from the microwave. “I’ve been meaning to bring Jacob back there,” said Norah, “visit his orphanage, try to track down his birth mother.”

Hastily, I set it on a hot pad and then swiveled to face Norah. As I did, I found myself searching Jacob’s grim expression.

Oblivious to Jacob’s look of horror and annoyance, Norah continued, “It’ll be fun. I’m sure I could figure out where you could buy all the materials you needed for these candles or whatever else you wanted. And then we could hit the fabric markets, have some clothes made.”

“Really?” Mom lit up, incandescent as the burning candles around us now that someone other than me would guide her. I couldn’t blame her for not trusting me. Dad was right; I spun around three times and lost all sense of direction. How could I navigate China?

“Mom,” Jacob cut in, his tone sharper than I’d ever heard him, “this isn’t even logical. It’s against the law to abandon a kid in China. So there aren’t any records at the orphanage. Zero. Zilch.”

I slanted a gaze at him. The look he returned was so forbidding, it was clear he didn’t want the trip to happen, didn’t want Mom and me to be part of any expedition to his orphanage. I didn’t blame him. A trip like that should be a private odyssey.

Obstinately, Norah asked, “When were you thinking of going?”

Neither Mom nor I had seriously considered traveling to China, but Mom now said as with the firm conviction of someone committed to an itinerary, “Spring break. That’s when Merc booked the tickets.”

“What about Dad’s wedding?” Jacob asked, his tone goading.

Norah’s face shuttered. “What about it?”

“It’s the first weekend of April, too.”

Norah glanced to see if Trevor was paying attention. But he was busy mounding mountains of wax flakes and running them over with his backhoe toy, complete with beeping sound effects. More quietly now, she told Jacob, “You can go to your father’s wedding. Really, it would be perfectly fine with me. In fact, I want you to go. We can always visit your orphanage at another time.”

Jacob stood up, shaking his head. He raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t want to go.”

Did he mean his dad’s wedding? China? Or both? It didn’t matter. Trevor glanced at him, concerned. Jacob managed a tight smile for him, ruffled Trevor’s hair, before heading toward the front door. “I’ll be back.”

Part of me wanted to go after Jacob, especially when I heard his truck start with a disgruntled roar, but if anyone needed alone time, it was him. Besides, there was my mom to contain. We couldn’t go with the Fremonts; it was that simple.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Mom said, uncertain now.

I echoed her doubt. “Yeah —”

“Lois,” Norah interrupted, her voice low, urgent. “I don’t want to be in town” — she angled a furtive look at Trevor, censored herself just in case — “then. You’d be doing me a favor by going with me.”

Mom returned to the soy wax cooling in the Pyrex cup. Slowly, she poured the wax into the waiting glass vessels, their wicks already superglued to the bottoms like the long pond-bound roots of lotus plants. Norah watched her, but I wasn’t sure how much she was paying attention. Her breathing was fast, uneven, the labored breath of the unwittingly trapped.

I knew exactly what was driving Norah. Frenzied activity as a matter of survival was my modus operandi, too. People may have thought I was padding my résumé, but really, wasn’t I juggling a job, doubling up on coursework, not to mention signing up for virtually any extracurricular all to keep from spending any more time at home than I had to? This trip wasn’t about taking Mom to China or even bringing Jacob to his orphanage. It was all about escaping her ex-husband’s wedding.

In her shoes, I would have done the same.

By going to China, I knew I’d be overstepping some invisible boundary between me and Jacob. Maybe he hadn’t planned on us talking to each other once he went home to Seattle. Maybe he was no different from that tourist last summer who had picked up Karin, promised to call, and never did.

That didn’t matter, couldn’t matter. Mom’s eyes sparkled, alive. I hadn’t seen her this excited about anything since before Aunt Susannah died — not even Christmas with Claudius and Merc compared to her blossoming enthusiasm.

So when Mom nodded and told Norah, “Let’s go, then,” I didn’t protest.

“I’ll clean up, Dad,” I assured him as soon as he stalked into the kitchen, his lips tightening imperceptibly at the untidy pile of cut wicks, the boxes of glass jars for the candles, Trevor’s snowdrift of wax flakes powdering the table and the floor.

“That’s okay,” he said amiably, playing the good-natured father for his audience. Norah, thankfully, was still here. He wouldn’t dare display his temper before her, not this powerful coffee buyer for a major company.

“So it looks like I’m taking your wife and daughter to China,” said Norah brightly, almost too sweetly. I heard the challenge in her words, wondered how much Mom had divulged about our family to her when I wasn’t listening. Or was off with Jacob. She continued, “You’re more than welcome to come with us.”

Dad was stuck; I could see it in the set line of his jaw. He couldn’t order Mom not to go, not with Norah around. And he would never consent to visiting China himself, not the source of his humiliation. Still, without a word from Dad, without a shift in his expression, Mom clasped her hands worriedly. I could see our China plans wasting away in the tide of Dad’s unspoken disapproval. I clamped my lips together, swallowing any antagonizing outburst I wanted to make, forced myself to straighten a line of finished candles. In the hallway hung Dad’s prized collection of antique maps. All matter of monsters on these maps of Europe, Africa, and the Americas were called upon to scare off would-be travelers. But those monsters, beastly warnings, never really roamed our lands, not the two-headed flesh-eating creatures, not the gryphons, not the sharp-toothed dragons.

I turned my back on those cautionary maps now to face Mom and reminded her softly, “You always wanted to travel.”

Mom licked her lips, parched of confidence. Dad made an impatient sound. So I told him firmly, “I’ll plan everything with Norah,” glad that Jacob’s mom nodded her assent back at me. The expression on her face stayed resolutely unfathomable, completely unobjectionable so Dad had nothing to pick apart. I continued, “And we’ll be able to see where Merc lives and where he works.” With a meaningful look at Dad, I added, “Wouldn’t it be great to see how he’s really doing?”

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.

I returned to the candles, sharing a private smile with Norah and aiming a reassuring one at Mom. Like world describers before me, those mapmakers in the seventeenth century, I had laid down my first faintly drawn border. With that one tentative mark, my world expanded by a few freeing degrees.

Part Two

Terra Incognita

Chapter eighteen

Hot Maps

THE LAST TEN WEEKS PASSED on hourglass time, each minute slipping grudgingly through the tight bottleneck of Dad’s mounting aggravation. It rankled Dad, every detail of our trip to China. So after his initial consent in front of Norah, he had become Scherezade, spinning out daily anecdotes about China, one more frightening than the next. Take the story about his acquaintance who caught some weird staph infection and almost had to have his leg lopped off. Or the kid who broke his two front teeth falling down on the Great Wall, and instead of fixing them, the dentist had yanked them out. It was no wonder that Mom’s enthusiasm for China waned the moment he knew we were going. Keeping her onboard was itself a full-time job, as I shored up the holes in her commitment made by Dad’s battering ram of grim cautionary tales.