The Colour of Tea (37 page)

“Look at you!” Marjory squeals, grabbing both her hands. We all giggle as Rilla blushes and coyly puts her chin to her chest. The front door chimes.

“And Miss Gigi!” Marjory laughs. We wheel around as Gigi enters with the pram, Yok Lan in tow.

Gigi’s face is brighter than it has been for months, and she is wearing red, the Chinese color of luck and fortune. Her mandarin-collared blouse is paired with jeans, her hair lifted off her face. Signature dark mascara. Yok Lan has on a navy blouse in the same style and what looks like a touch of Gigi’s makeup—a flick of mascara and some lip gloss. She beams at us, one hand on her granddaughter’s shoulder and one hand on her cane. Outside the sky is already aglow with lights and low-hanging smoke that
turns green, red, orange, and yellow with the reflections of the sparks.

“Shall we go?”

*   *   *

Gigi passes Faith to me when we arrive, and I make a camp for us far enough back from the action to avoid most of the loud bangs and smoke. Foldout chairs, Faith’s pram, nappy bag and formula, snacks for everyone. Sitting with Faith in my lap, wrapped like a moth in a cocoon, I draw her hat down over her ears. She looks up and diligently suckles on my pinkie. Yok Lan sits beside us holding tea in a thermos flask, smiling. Gigi giggles like a schoolgirl at the huge bag of fireworks Marjory drags back with her. Marjory’s face is lit up with mischievousness. She doesn’t seem to care about or notice the large smudge of charcoal up her arm and a little underneath her jaw. Rilla rushes to help her, and they both end up sooty and laughing.

The first few attempts are duds. They sizzle pitifully once lit, or fly out to the water instead of up in the sky. We all laugh at the failures. Gigi claps her hands in encouragement as Marjory stands over a rocket, tongue pushed into the corner of her lips in concentration. Rilla giggles, with her hand pressed over her mouth. The tail is lit; the end wriggles and sparks.

“Stand back!” I cry out nervously, hugging Faith to my chest. She burrows into my warmth. They all take two steps backward, gazes firmly on the rocket. The flame hits a crucial point; there is an intake of breath. A whine like a boiling kettle pierces the night.

Whoosh!

It is off, propelled into the black sky, through the threads of smoke and cloud. The whine grows weaker as I get to my feet, pressing Faith to me. I place my hand over the side of her tiny head. Gigi, Marjory, and Rilla lean back, heads craning skyward,
their mouths dark Os in anticipation. There is a brief silence and then …

Bang!

An explosion of bright light, streams of champagne sparks showering from above like gold raining from the heavens. Rilla leaps into the air, Marjory high-fives Gigi, who whoops. Laughter erupts from my throat. They are dancing now, a spontaneous, wild dance, around the launching spot. Full of light and love and hope. Soot on shoes, smoke in hair, love in bellies. I can almost hear Mama yahooing.

Thick arms move around my waist, under the bundle that is Faith. There is warmth against my neck. A soft kiss. I lean back into the space between his chin and his chest.
My place.
The blanket falls away from Faith’s face, and we look down at her. She blinks back up at us, her eyes deep and brown and as clear as truth.

“Happy New Year, Grace,” Pete whispers.

Epilogue

I
look out over a yellowed yard, bordered by a low fence whose pickets need a fresh coat of paint. A tricycle rests against them. The light is the color of ripe lemons, and a rainbow-feathered bird screeches its loud good-night song. It even smells Australian—gum trees, heat, the caramel and charcoal scent of a distant barbecue. In front of me there is my desk, covered in invoices, postcards, travel plans, photos of Lillian’s new sign with Gigi standing underneath, a newspaper clipping and photo of Marjory standing among her nuns, all lined up like smiling penguins. There is an uncommon stillness in the house; I can feel peace settling into my bones. It makes me sigh. Last night, as we lay next to each other in the warm dark, Pete had whispered, “It’s a good life, isn’t it, Gracie?” and I had nodded and curled against him like a koala into its pouch. A good, sweet life. That’s for sure.

I breathe in the humid air and sink down into the chair, which makes a wooden creak. Somewhere in the debris there is a notepad. I fish it out and pluck a pen from the jasmine tea tin that now serves as a pen holder. I think of her face as I write. Fresh, free from the heavy makeup she used to wear. She still has the same defiant chin, now more confident than rebellious. A little tired around the eyes—she is a little older after all—but the very faint lines curve out and up. From smiling. She doesn’t roll her eyes
anymore. Dark and clear, they still draw you in. Her good, true self shining out of them.

Dearest Gigi,

How are you?

I’m sending some drawings for you to pin up in your apartment. There’s you and me, a pink sky (of course), and Yok Lan having a cup of tea. I’m told the others are of cakes.

I’ve been looking at my messy desk and thinking of all the things I forget to ask or tell you about when we call; I get so distracted talking about the little one. We’ve booked our flights for Chinese New Year; did I tell you that already? We’ll be there for at least four weeks, but I might extend if I don’t have any orders I should get back for. Tell Yok Lan we’re going to bring over those chocolate biscuits she likes. As many as I can fit in the suitcase! I hope you two have room in those kitchen cupboards of yours.

Business is booming here, Gigi. I wasn’t sure about it at first, squeezing it in with swimming lessons and playdates and everything else, but it seems to work. It’s just cakes after all; although they can take a while, especially when certain people want to eat the icing or make finger paintings on the wall with the batter. I’ve got an order for the opening of a new Russian restaurant on Brunswick Street. I think I’ll make dark chocolate with kirsch-spiked ganache, perhaps covered with the tiny gold stars I used for the Lam wedding. What do you think?

I got the article about Marjory and the Macau Samaritan award; Don sent it over. Doesn’t she look like a supermodel? All white teeth and legs up to her eyeballs. You must tell her to stop wearing such short skirts when she’s photographed with the nuns; I swear she is the sexiest-looking Mother Teresa I ever saw. I keep imagining Rilla off to one side, hiding behind a potted plant or something. Thrilled but embarrassed. They are changing the world together, those two, one girl at a time. When I come over, I want to see the foundation’s new space.
Perhaps we can have a little office warming? Give them my love, will you, and tell them we’ll be there soon.

Not long until another birthday party. I can’t quite believe it, can you? Four whole years since that day Rilla picked up the phone and said you’d had a girl. It makes me catch my breath to think how big four years old is when I still have that picture in my mind of a tiny baby. A tiny baby with dark eyes and a perfect mouth. It’s gone so fast. I still wish we could see you more, but we’ve got it just about right, haven’t we? That first year was the hardest. I don’t know who cried more—you or me or her. Sad tears, happy tears, grieving and accepting tears. We could have filled the Pearl Delta, couldn’t we? Thank God for baking and for Lillian’s. We all just had to get used to missing one another so much and find that balance. I’m glad we have. It feels so good to hear laughter in your voice.

She wants to know if she gets “moon bick-its” at Chinese New Year. She remembers them from the visit before last; Yok Lan was feeding her little slivers while she sat on her knee and watched the goldfish in the pond. I haven’t the heart to tell her they’re only for midautumn festival. We might have to make a special New Year
macaron
instead. Actually, I was thinking of a recipe last night. It might not be appropriate for children? Lychee flavor with champagne buttercream and a sugared violet.
L’Amour et les Amis,
Love and Friends. Just a thought …

I’d better go. I can see a small person and a tall person walking up the street. I think someone has a balloon in her hands. We can’t wait to see you. We miss you. Hope you like the drawings. We think of you every day, Mama Gi.

Your loving family,
Gracie, Pete, and Faith
X

*   *   *

I put down the pen and lay the letter over the drawings, vivid crayon in energetic swirls and stripes, wobbly lines formed into cakes and stick figures. I’ll post it tomorrow. I stand up and wave out the window. Pete sees me first. He shoots me a grin and lifts a hand. Faith looks up. Her dark hair falls back from her face, and her eyes catch mine. The smile stretches from cheek to cheek. The ribbon of the balloon is wound around her wrist. As she lets go of her daddy’s hand and runs toward the house, her balloon bobs along with her. Her laughter lifts and catches on the breeze, sounding just like Gigi’s. I press my hands against the window and watch her. She calls my name with a voice full of joy and youth.

“Mama!”

Macarons

Macarons
are tiny French confections made from the finest almond powder, egg whites, and sugar. They have charmed Parisians and Europeans for centuries, their crisp, sweet shells sandwiched together with creamy fillings. They are infinitely more elegant than cupcakes, daintier than tarts, prettier than pastries. Charming, meringue-like buttons, full of French couture attitude. The delight is in the changing flavors, inspired by seasons, whims, or moods. They are best enjoyed over a cup of tea and a conversation filled with secrets and gossip. These sweets have a cult following, and it is easy to see why; after your first, you will be hooked …

Acknowledgments

My grateful thanks to

• the wonderful team at Scribner; especially Whitney Frick, editor and champion of this book, I so appreciate your commitment and enthusiasm. My agent, Catherine Drayton, and the good folk at Inkwell, for your support. The nurturing team at Pan Macmillan Australia who first saw potential in Grace and Lillian’s and who worked so hard and taught me so much. To Brianne Collins, for all your generosity, tact, and insight. Because of your efforts, this dream is a reality.

• food writers and bloggers whose passion provided inspiration and distraction; especially Karen Chong of
Mad Baker
and Clotilde Dusoulier of
Chocolate & Zucchini
. Personal thanks to the gifted chef Anthony Poh, for patient and gracious instruction.

• my phenomenal friends; particularly those in Macau who were my family away from family, including but not limited to Gigi Kong, Veron Mok, Peta Lewis, Amanda Quayle, Monica Ellefsen, Kylie and Chris Rogers, Helene Wong, Faith and Paul Town, Lucie and Phil Geappen. A big thankyou to Deane Lam, for local information and friendship; the errors are all mine. To the people of Macau like Fran Thomas,
Marjory Vendramini, and members of the ILCM, who try to make things a little better, thank you for your service and compassion. Warm embraces to friends in Vancouver who supported me during my juggling to get rewrites and edits complete, especially all “The Mamas.” I’ll never forget the special time and experiences we shared.
Merci beaucoup
to Rachelle Delaney and Helene Wong for assisting me with my (terrible) French and Ria Voros for kindhearted, sisterly buoying up. Faith and Lucie, all my love for cheerleading and inspiring me; Lucie, you are such a wonderful muse.

• my amazing
whanau
: Rob, Glen, Greg, and Kendall Tunnicliffe, who have believed in me and supported me,
aroha nui
and then some (always). Special thanks to Mum for all the flying, babysitting, draft reading, unconditional love and commitment; we love you, Nonna. To my Ballesty family, especially Paul and Wendy, who have welcomed and encouraged me so lovingly; I feel very blessed to be part of your tribe.

• my precious family: Wren Lillie, your mama adores you wholeheartedly, and Matthew Ballesty, my husband, true love, and best friend—thank you doesn’t do it justice. Somehow I am more me because of you. For cherishing me, having faith in me, and raising me up to the very last word, I love you very much.

About the Author

Born in New Zealand, Hannah Tunnicliffe is a self-confessed nomad. After finishing a degree in social sciences, she ventured from her homeland’s fair shores to live in Australia, England, Macau and, memorably, a camper van named Fred. A career in human resources and career development has been put on the back burner to pursue her dream of becoming a writer. She currently lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband, Matthew, and their daughter, Wren.
The Colour of Tea
is her first novel.

A Scribner Reading Group Guide

The Colour of Tea

Hannah Tunnicliffe

Lost among the bustling, foreign streets of Macau, expat Grace Miller is an outsider in a strange land. Devastated by the news of her infertility and retreating from her unraveling marriage, Grace finds solace in preparing foods from her childhood and from her time spent in Paris with her impetuous Mama. Inspired by the dazzling displays of light on the Chinese New Year, Grace makes a bold decision to open her own small café. Among the casinos,
yum cha
restaurants, and futuristic high-rise apartment complexes, Lillian’s becomes a sanctuary of
macarons
and tea where patrons come together, bridging cultural divides, to share in each other’s triumphs and pain. But Grace’s dedication to the café comes at a price—propelling her to a rediscovery of what it means to love and herself.