The Colour of Tea (28 page)

As she walks back to the kitchen with the dishes, Pete raises his eyebrows. “She’s a character. Smart too.”

“You’re right; she’s a character. Does my head in sometimes, but she’s good. She’s a big help with the suppliers and our local customers.”

Pete looks around the café, and I can see he is really taking it all in. Soaking it up. I wonder what he thinks. I want to ask him, but it feels like too much, too soon. I realize I know Léon’s opinion about Lillian’s but not Pete’s.

“Where’s Rilla?” he asks.

A knot forms in my stomach, and I give the simplest explanation. The one that leaves me feeling the least guilty. “We had a kind of argument.”

“Oh.”

Gigi, who is now behind the counter at the coffee machine, shoots me one of her mutinous glances. I wonder if she can hear me. Yet again I wish for Rilla’s face. Her smile and kindness. I turn back to Pete. “So, green tea?”

“Yeah, I’ve been drinking it at work.” He shrugs. “I quite like it.”

He takes off his tie and lays it across the newspaper to his side. After unbuttoning his top button, he clears his throat and says, “I thought … I thought we could have lunch?”

I look around the quiet café. Yok Lan is in the corner by the window, nibbling a
macaron.
She sees me and grins, lifting her hand in a wave. I smile in return.

“It’s not so busy. Okay.”

Pete smiles and leans forward as if to whisper to me. The move is so intimate it’s as though I can feel the heat of his skin before he touches me. “You have something—look, I know this sounds cheesy, but you have something in your hair,” he says quietly.

“Ah,” I breathe.

He reaches toward me and smooths down a piece of my hair by my forehead, then sits back and cocks his head to one side, making sure it is fixed. Gigi arrives with a tray and puts down my coffee and Pete’s tea. She looks at the two of us, then at the baguettes, before going to talk to her grandmother.

“Just suds,” Pete explains, taking a sip of his hot tea. “Just soap suds. In your hair.”

I nod from behind my cup. This feels like a date; even my palms are sweaty.

“How’s your day been?” I ask.

“My day? Fine.” He pauses, his sandwich at his mouth. “No, actually it’s been bad. Sorry, I’m used to saying it’s been fine, but it’s been really rough.” He bites down into the sandwich while I spread a napkin over my lap.

“What’s up?”

“Economy,” he says simply.

“What about it?”

“It’s not good. Things are changing, and fast. Too fast,” he says, between mouthfuls.

“What do you think is going to happen here?”

He shakes his head slowly in response. “I’m not sure. Not sure at all.” He sighs.

We talk about it while eating our sandwiches. The share prices
for all the casinos are down, the government wants to restrict visitors from certain provinces, construction is behind schedule, and lenders are getting fractious. Pete keeps shaking his head. The industry is in a state of turmoil. They’ve been used to reliable profits and gleeful shareholders. The old saying about creating casinos in Macau was “Build it, and they will come.” Now things aren’t so certain. Pete drinks his tea, sip by slow sip.

When Yok Lan stands up to leave, she comes to put her hand on my shoulder and smile down at me. Her face is round and content, eyes half-closed like those of a meditating Buddha.

I introduce her to Pete. “This is Yok Lan. She’s Gigi’s grandmother.”

Pete says something in Cantonese. She leaves with a smile and a nod of her head.

“What did you say?”

“I said nice to meet you and see you later.”

I find myself staring at him in surprise, but he doesn’t notice; his attention is on his sandwich.

“These are really good, Grace.” The look on his face reminds me of a younger Pete. Pete with a mouthful of tomato tart.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“It’s a great café. Truly.”

I glance up at him and smile shyly. We sit together in silence as we finish eating. It is easy, gentle, not awkward.

He doesn’t kiss me when he says goodbye but puts his hand on my shoulder, like Yok Lan had. He squeezes it softly. A kind of warmth floods my body and, although I know our problems are far from mended, it feels like they could be, one day. There is apology and love in his touch; my body recognizes it.

“Have a good day.”

“You too,” I reply, still sitting. There is a stormy wind that sends the door chimes into a silvery cacophony when he opens
the door. Once he is outside, the wind picks up his hair and whips it around his face. He screws up his nose and grins ruefully; Gigi laughs at him through the glass. He lifts his hand in a wave to me, and I return it.

*   *   *

That night the rain gives the windows a hammering. I shouldn’t stand so close, but I’m so restless I am pacing. I keep ending up next to the windows trying to see out, feeling like a caged lion. Pete is in front of the television. The wind is so strong the trees down our street are bent into arches. It rumbles and roars ominously; I can feel it thumping violently when I press my palm against the glass. This is no regular typhoon.

“Hey … umm …”

“Yeah. I’ll stand back,” I reply before he can ask.

He knows I am worried about Lillian’s, and I’m sure he is nervous about his own construction site. His eyes fix on mine, and he gives me a reassuring smile. The last storm hadn’t inflicted too much damage, but this typhoon is much worse. There are motorcycles toppled from their parked positions and strewn along the sidewalks; the streets are empty of cars. It’s eerie and January-cold.

The weather report comes on, and Pete turns up the volume.
“In Hong Kong over one hundred flights were either canceled or delayed today due to Typhoon Hagupit and amber rain warnings. Scaffolding damage and flash flooding have been among the worst consequences of the typhoon which swept through the region this afternoon …”

There is a mournful howl which drowns out the television. In the bathroom a fan has started to spin, the wind streaming through it. I rush to shut it and weight the drawstring with a glass jar full of peppercorns. When I come back to the living room, Pete looks up at me again, concerned.

“You okay, love?”

I sit down next to him. “I can’t stop thinking about Lil’s.”

“It’ll be all right,” he says hopefully.

There is the sound of a tree against a window, a tapping against glass or wood. Pete turns from me to look at the front door. His forehead is gathered in a frown.

“Was that the door?”

“Huh?”

“Is someone knocking at the door?”

“I’m not sure.”

He gets up and opens the door. Someone is framed in the doorway, small and soaked, shivering.

“Oh my God. Come in, come in, quickly,” Pete says.

When he moves out of the doorway, I can see a tiny face, white and wet. I breathe in quickly. “Rilla?”

Pete looks over to me. “Grace, grab a towel.”

I stand for a moment staring at her; she is mutely looking down at our floorboards. She has a rain jacket, but instead of covering her, it is bunched up in her hands. She is holding on to it so tightly her knuckles are pale. She coughs, and her lips are purple against her skin.

“Grace?” Pete says again.

I hurry back with a towel, and Pete wraps Rilla in it as if she were a small child just out of the bath. He looks so huge beside her; his hand is a bear’s paw against her back. He guides her to the couch and asks her to sit, which she does somewhat reluctantly. I go into the kitchen and pour a big mug of hot water, drop a tea bag into it. I can hear him saying something to her, but I don’t hear her talking back.

“It’s really dangerous,” he is saying when I put the mug in front of her. She still avoids my gaze but nods gratefully at the teacup. “What were you doing out there?”

When she doesn’t reply, he sits beside her and rubs her back with his palm, a deep wrinkle of concern between his eyebrows. I perch on the edge of the coffee table, watching her take birdlike sips of tea. She looks so cold and small I can feel tears prickling my eyes. Eventually she stops shaking, and her lips and cheeks regain their color. She lifts her head and gives me a quick look.

“Rilla, what’s going on?” I whisper.

Her lips quiver above the rim of her cup. She mumbles a reply without lifting her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, sir. I went to Lillian’s, to check …”

“You went to Lillian’s?”

“To see if everything is okay. Then the buses stopped running so I couldn’t get home. I knew you lived nearby …” Her face is apologetic.

“Oh, Rilla,” I breathe.

“There are some breaks, windows smashed. And … this.”

From beneath the towel she draws out her rain jacket, folded like a package. She unfolds it. The café sign is in pieces. There is an unexpected ache in my chest, seeing it like that. Her name, splintered into bits. I inhale sharply, and Rilla looks up at me then. Her eyes are wide.

“It’s okay, ma’am,” she says, her gaze darting between Pete and me. “It can all be fixed. Just window breaks. Some water inside, but it will be okay. Macau is a safe place, no one looting or robbing.” Her eyes are fringed with wet lashes, her forehead lined. Her solicitude makes me feel both guilty and grateful.

Rilla whispers to me again. “Ma’am? Grace? It will be okay.”

I shake my head. “I’m more worried about you, out in a typhoon like this.” I bite my lip. The wind is whistling and howling outside as I place my hand on her wet knee. “Rilla, I’m so sorry. I’ve been trying to call …” Pete stands, lifts the broken sign from my hands,
and picks up Rilla’s empty cup. He goes into the kitchen to refill it, leaving us alone with each other. How wrong I was to think she would steal from me, or take advantage of the friendship that had been growing between us. Shame blooms inside me, and my voice shakes.

“Rilla, please, will you come back to Lillian’s? We need you so much.”

“Oh.”

“If you haven’t already found another job …?”

“No. I haven’t found another job.”

We sit in a little pocket of silence looking at each other, until she murmurs, “I think I should explain, Grace—about that morning.”

I stiffen with embarrassment as she gazes at me, eyes serious. But then Pete is back with fresh cups of tea. I’m grateful for the interruption.

“Don’t worry, you two,” he says. “It will all be fine. You’ll both be back making
macarons
in no time.” He looks at Rilla. “But you’re going to have to ride this typhoon out with us. There are towels in that spare bedroom there, and Grace will lend you some clothes, right, Grace?”

I nod, my hand still on Rilla’s knee.

“Are you sure?” Rilla asks. “It would be okay?” She is looking at me.

“Of course,” I say. “Please stay.”

*   *   *

We are not the first to arrive at Lillian’s the next morning. Marjory is sitting on the footpath with Gigi, whose round belly swamps the lower half of her body. Around them wet debris, pieces of windowsill, and broken glass glitters like diamonds. Rilla helps to lift Gigi to her feet. Gigi groans with the weight of her belly but
grins widely at Rilla and holds her hand for longer than necessary, giving it a sisterly squeeze. She is wearing a gray maternity dress over black jeans. Her face is free from makeup, bar a thick coat of mascara on her lashes.

“You’re back,” Marjory says to Rilla, smiling. “We missed you.”

“Hell, Grace. Lil’s is a wreck,” says Gigi with characteristic bluntness.

My gaze drifts over Lillian’s while I try to remind myself that we have insurance to cover repairs. Still, dread fills my throat and chest. The post for the sign is bent, the empty chains swinging drunkenly in the light breeze. The front windows are smashed, although one has stayed stubbornly within its frame. The fractured glass is broken like a starburst. A piece of window frame hangs out from its moorings, leaves caught in the deep splinters. Even from outside I can see the floor is flooded, table legs soaked. One table has fallen on its side, a deep vein of a crack through its center, and all the chairs are against the west wall. The other tables have skated into one another and are huddled in a corner. As I step closer to the door, Rilla puts her hand on my back.

“Are you all right?”

I nod, grateful that she’s here.

When I open the door, water floods out to greet me. A lost wind whistles through the café; the window in the kitchen must be broken too. I wonder about the state of the ovens, refrigerator, and storeroom. All the
macarons
we made. The almond flour. Glasses. Cutlery. The disconcerting smell of dampness fills the air. The others follow me in, and the four of us stand ankle-deep in water among the tables and chairs, staring around the walls. A dull sadness swells inside me.

Then there is a quick audible breath, and Gigi has her arm outstretched. “Look at that.”

We all follow her pointing finger to the wall beside the counter. There, right near the espresso machine and the cash register, is the poster that Yok Lan gave me. Frame undamaged, glass intact, it hangs straight and proud on the wall. The children still dance among the spinning flames and sparks.

Un Petit Phénix—A Little Phoenix

Cinnamon with Dark Chili Chocolate Ganache

B
y the end of October we will be able to remove the sandwich board at the door.

LILLIAN’S OPEN FOR TAKEAWAY COFFEE AND CAKE!

CAFÉ SOON TO REOPEN!

TYPHOON DAMAGE UNDER REPAIR!

Rilla added the exclamation marks; I think she fancies they make it look cheerful. Gigi translated it into Chinese for us. The takeaway trade has been surprisingly good, the regulars still dropping by and standing on the pavement to watch the repairs or gossip about the latest social scandal. Who slept with whom and who got drunk and fell asleep on the roundabout. Pete seems to have sent the word out to every secretary and personal assistant in town, as they have all been dashing over in company cars to pick up coffees and cakes for work meetings, slipping boxed chocolates into their handbags for themselves. But it’s been a trying time, with the place looking like London in the Blitz. I’ve been feeling rattled, as if the typhoon thundered through me and overturned everything inside too. My heart, my desires, my secrets, Mama.
Like I have to start from scratch. I have dreams of bombs dropping, of planes crashing through glass, even of my teeth falling out. Pete brings me glasses of water when I wake up in the early morning, shaking and covered in sweat.