Stone, Katherine (15 page)

Juliana didn't break the tradition established by Vivian, nor did
she forget it. Somehow, despite her grief, she created beautiful bouquets of
peach blossoms, jonquils and chrysanthemums.

Juliana would never know if the flowers were enough. The Kitchen
God was only halfway to heaven when the magistrate made his ruling. Vivian's
will was null and void. Her entire fortune went to her deceased husband's
relatives.

***

"Miss Kwan."

Juliana instantly recognized Miles Burton's voice. His portrait of
her as an unscrupulous seductress had convinced the magistrate to rule against
her. At a time when Hong Kong would be celebrating family, feasting, friends,
she and her infant daughter would have no home, no money, no food.

The magistrate's ruling was only ten minutes old, but already
Juliana was staggering, her legs as wobbly as when the child of the sea walked
for the first time on land. She was in foreign territory once again, dizzy and
off balance, and now the man whose clever words had been as devastating as the
long-ago typhoon was calling to her.

Juliana clutched her month-old baby daughter even closer and kept
walking. Miles Burton moved in front of her, blocking her path, looming above
her as ominously as the black mountains of China loomed over Hong Kong.

"I'm not your enemy, Miss Kwan. The magistrates of Hong Kong
are legally obliged to follow the principles of common law. Even if you'd been
represented by the best barrister in the colony—even if you'd been represented
by me—Vivian Jong's family would have won."

"It's not what Vivian wanted. You know that, don't you?"

"Perhaps I do. Which is why, Juliana, I want to offer my
help."

Juliana was so stunned by his offer she didn't notice he'd
addressed her by her first name—or that his voice had changed when he did.

"Never," she told him. "Never will I accept your
help."

***

Never, never,
never.
The vow echoed in her starving brain
as her feet betrayed her, walking toward his office on Wyndham Street. It had
been four weeks and she was still unsteady—now because of starvation.

February had been unseasonably cold. It was astonishing that she'd
lasted this long in the elements. She'd managed to make a little money by
selling the few garments she'd been allowed to keep. The amount she received
for her dresses was trivial compared to their worth, but it was enough to buy
warm clothes and blankets for Maylene.

They slept outside, finding shelter in alleyways, and by day
Juliana searched for work. But no one wanted to hire a new mother whose main
concern was her baby. What attention would she pay to her job? Would she even
be able to relinquish the grasp of her child long enough to do the work?

Sweatshops were for those willing to work endless hours in cramped
conditions without complaint. Many saw in Juliana that she was potentially such
an employee. If it weren't for the child, they would have hired her
immediately. As it was, no one offered her a job, not in four weeks of
searching.

It had been a long time since Juliana had been warm, and longer
since she'd eaten. But it wasn't for herself that she made the journey to Miles
Burton's law office on Wyndham Street. It was for Maylene.

She'd managed to keep her daughter warm and fed and dry. Though
Juliana didn't eat, there was milk for Maylene. The extra pounds carried during
pregnancy were converted to food for her baby, and when those pounds were gone
her body scavenged its own tissue. Every cell in Juliana's body gave of itself,
all it could, for her daughter. But soon there'd be nothing left.

For the very survival of the Daughter of Greatest Love, Juliana
needed Miles Burton's help.

***

"Miss Kwan. You've come."

"Yes."

"You've lost weight. You're very thin."

He was appraising her, as if trying to deciding whether he found
her more alluring plump or gaunt. Juliana felt his intimate inspection and
fought a quiver of panic.

"This is the weight I prefer, Mr. Burton. I've worked hard to
lose the pounds I gained during my pregnancy."

"There's no point in offering you scones and tea?"

"None." The gentle shake of her head caused waves of
dizziness. She needed to eat again, and she would for Maylene, but there were
words to say, quickly, before her starving mind forgot what she'd rehearsed.
"I'm here to accept your offer of help. I'd like to borrow some
money."

"Borrow?"

"Yes. I'd pay it back, of course, with interest, and if my
business does well, I'm prepared to share its profits with you."
"What business, Juliana?"

"I wish to resume my career as a dressmaker. I'm hoping some
of Vivian's clients will be willing to have me design their clothes."
Juliana hadn't approached any of Vivian's clients yet. She couldn't stand
beneath the porticoes of their expensive homes rain-drenched and starving. The
elegant women of Hong Kong had to be courted properly, through letters of
inquiry written on fine linen. Juliana needed an address, a phone, and fabric,
sequins, needles, thread.

As Miles Burton smiled, Juliana's heart, already galloping from
starvation, raced with hope. He thought her plan foolish, perhaps, but he
was
going to help.

"I'm afraid you misunderstood my offer. I'm not interested in
an investment opportunity, Juliana. I'm interested in a mistress."

It wasn't an indecent proposal, not in Hong Kong in 1966. Wealthy
Englishmen frequently had Chinese mistresses. It was a socially acceptable
arrangement that worked well for all concerned—the man, his mistress and the
aristocratic wife whose marriage was based on pedigree, not passion.

"It would only be for nine months," the barrister
elaborated. "After that, I'm returning to England, permanently. Until
then, and for four months after I leave, I'll provide you with a comfortable
two-bedroom flat, plus food and clothing, and as long as it doesn't interfere
with your availability to me and the costs are reasonable, I'll help you with
your business."

Juliana's racing heart stopped. In another moment she would die.

But she couldn't die. She had to make milk for her baby.

Juliana was in a foreign land, but she understood the language
Miles Burton spoke.

He was asking her to sell her soul.

"Are these terms acceptable to you, Juliana?"

No! Never!
Yes.
Her heart was beating again, calmly now,
resigned to its fate. Yes, for my daughter, I will sell my soul.

A moment later Juliana heard herself answer his question.
"Not entirely."

"Oh?" he asked with mild interest. This was expected.
The mistress always countered with
her
terms, the jewels she wanted, the
gowns she'd require, her weekly pampering at Hong Kong's finest salons.
"What else would you like?"

"A full British passport for my daughter."

"Just for her? Not for yourself as well?"

"No, just for her." Juliana knew she'd never leave Hong
Kong. It was her home, where she'd fallen in love....

She couldn't think about Garrett, couldn't remind herself that if
he had any idea of her plight he'd send her a fortune. She merely needed to
pick up the phone.

But what price would the fates demand if she did? Maylene's life?
Allison's?

***

The two-bedroom apartment was luxurious, and she and Maylene were
safe and warm, and Juliana told herself she was very lucky. Miles Burton didn't
hurt her. His sexual tastes were neither perverted nor cruel. He even scheduled
his visits when Maylene was asleep.

It was all terribly civilized.

But... her body had been a gift of love to Garrett, and after he
left, it belonged to their daughter. No one else should ever have known its
intimate secrets.

Juliana didn't hate Miles. How could she? He'd saved her
daughter's life. The price she'd had to pay was very great— and very
small—because Maylene was everything.

On the eve of his return to England, Miles gave her the agreed-upon
British passport for Maylene. He also reminded her that she and Maylene could
remain in the apartment for four more months.

Juliana declined to do so. Her business was doing well enough for
them to survive, and she was desperate to move with her daughter to a place
untainted by the remembrance of what she'd done.

***

Long before she was old enough to form a conscious memory, Maylene
knew her mother's love. It was a knowledge of the senses, and of the heart.

"I love you, May-May," was a constant chorus, and when
Maylene was old enough to ask about her father, the first words from Juliana's
lips were, "He loves you, too."

"Where is he?"

"In heaven. We can't see him, my love, but he's with us
always."

Maylene loved hearing about her father. Her mother's face lighted
with such happiness when she spoke of him. And, so that he'd be as real as
possible to her, Juliana told Maylene his name.

Garrett Whitaker was British, Juliana said—lied. He'd returned to
England shortly after they met. But he'd been on his way back to Hong Kong, to
be with them forever, when he died. Maylene knew the romantic places of her
parents' love. When she and Juliana went to Victoria Peak, to that special
place on the Hong Kong Trail, or rode the Star ferries to Kowloon, Maylene felt
his presence. And, Maylene believed, whenever she and her mother strolled the
streets of Hong Kong—and Juliana held one hand—her father held the other.

As Maylene grew, she needed her father's invisible presence ever
more. She was living proof of his love. But, except at home, the gifts he'd
given her were ridiculed. Her classmates were especially cruel. Maylene's
mother was a whore and her father a drunken sailor.

Maylene's anguish was less for herself than for the parents whose
love was being degraded. "He was British," she countered. "And
he
loved
us!" But that only shifted the slurs against her mother
from sailor's whore to Englishman's mistress. And, Maylene learned, it didn't
change who
she
was. Her blood was impure—which apparently gave everyone
the right to try to make her feel ashamed.

It didn't matter. She knew she was the Daughter of Greatest
Love....

***

"You lied to me!"
Fortune
magazine shook in
Maylene's hands. "This is him, isn't it? My father."

Juliana looked from her daughter's ravaged face to the photograph
Maylene waved. At any other time she would have been overjoyed to see his
beloved face. But now... "Yes. He's your father. May-May, let me
explain—"

"There's no need! It's all here in the article. He was a Navy
pilot in Vietnam, one of the thousands of sailors who came to Hong Kong in
search of whores."

"No.
It wasn't like that."

"Really? I think it was
exactly
like that—exactly what
everyone's been saying all along."

"Everyone? What do you mean?"

"Everyone.
I'm an outcast, Mother, a
hated half-breed." Maylene saw her mother's startled expression. "You
have no idea, do you? Of course not.
Your
eyes aren't green.
Your
blood
is pure."

"Oh, my darling," Juliana whispered. "You're so
beautiful. You look like your father, remember?"

"I don't
want
to look like my father, not anymore!
Don't you see, Mother? I
hate
the way I look!"

"Oh, May-May. I love you so much, and so does he, and you
have friends—"

"I
don't
have friends. I've only pretended so you
wouldn't worry about me. Do you want to know what I do after school? I swim
until I can't swim any more, then I go to bookstores. I read about other
places—anywhere but Hong Kong—and look at pictures in magazines and dream about
getting away. That's how I discovered this article about my supposedly dead father."

"Please, my love, let me tell you the truth."

"The truth, Mother? How would I know?"

"Please, Maylene. Let me explain."

Maylene appeared fearful of learning any more truths, and even
when she finally nodded, the resigned gesture made her willingness seem more
destructive than hopeful, as if it would give her more reasons to hate herself.

Juliana didn't speak of Vivian's will, their month of homelessness
or Miles Burton. She told Maylene of her love for Garrett, and her certainty
that six days were all they were ever meant to have, and the tragedies that had
befallen Blake and Vivian during those days, and Allison's birth and Beth's
death, and Vivian's death, too, eight days after she'd made her final,
forbidden call.

"You believe it was destiny for you to spend your lives
apart? That's
delusional,
Mother, a romanticized notion of star-crossed
lovers. It wasn't destiny that kept you apart, it was
choice.
He chose
not to be with you—with us!—because for him there was never any love at
all."