“Would you ever go to America?” My boldness paints flames on my cheeks.
He holds himself still, and I wish I could suck back the words. Then his dark eyes laugh. “You want to adopt me, too?”
“No,” I snap.
He stretches his back, his amused expression dipped in regret. “Even if I wanted to, I cannot go to America. I owe it to An.”
“What do you mean?”
“Fong celebrates his sixtieth birthday next year.” Mentioning the name of his enemy tightens his mouth. The Chinesebelieve sixty years marks the first full cycle of life. “I want to be there to remind him he has blood on his hands. Bad luck will follow him even into the next cycle.”
Ba never made it to his sixtieth birthday. And neither did Mum. “If your brother cared for you as much as you did him, I’d wager he’d not want you to waste your time as a bad omen. Fong may not be a basket of water lilies, but he’s not the one who killed your brother.” It occurs to me that Jamie does the same thing, carrying around his anger toward Ba, even though Ba didn’t kill our mum. They’re both looking behind, when what’s important is ahead.
Bo’s scowl returns, and it’s like watching a peony bud die on the vine. A coolness settles over my skin, and all my exhilaration seeps away, leaving only disappointment.
The knock onmy door comes just as I’m pulling Mrs. Sloane’s warmest socks over my feet.
“It’s April.”
She sweeps in, wearing a simple emerald sheath with a cunning slit up the side through which black lace peeks. Long black gloves cover her arms. I never pay clothes much mind, but April Hart’s clothes force you to notice them, the same as a tiger prowling down the street.
“Bedtime already?” she asks, eyeing my flannel nightgown. She strides over to the chaise longue and places her suitcase upon it.
“Early day tomorrow. Is your, er, plan working?”
She grabs my hands. “Forget the filet mignon. House of July was on the menu tonight.” With a girlish shriek, she whirls me around, spinning a laugh out of me. Then we fall upon the bed and let the ceiling spin above us.
“So your cranewaslucky.”
She lightly snorts. “Someone asked Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon her opinion of House of July, and she said it wouldn’t survive ‘past summer.’”
“So, she has wit.”
“Yes, but”—her eyes glint—“she didn’t eat a bite of her dinner. Claimed she was seasick.” April starts giggling again, and I can’t help joining in.
A trickle of longing, like a sip of lukewarm tea, runs through me. Within the span of only a few days, I’ve felt the stirrings of kinship toward two young women, both of whom can never be more than acquaintances. You can’t just climb a staircase to friendship. It doesn’t work that way. But even friendships with girls occupying the same “deck” in life as me have been elusive. I relied on Jamie more than I should have. But isn’t that the point of family? They’re supposed to be reliable.
Sobered, I stand up and shake out the rose trousers dress. “I thought of a solution that will make visits to the lavatory easier in this.”
“Oh?”
“Buttons down the front instead of down the back.” I hold up the dress so she can visualize it.
“Buttons down the front imply you can’t afford a maid.”
“What if you concealed them, the way they sometimes do with men’s shirts?”
She taps a finger against her red lips. “A hidden placket.”
“Yes.”
Removing a glove, she runs her pinky down the front of the trousers dress, as if drawing where the buttons might go. “It would take very careful cutting, and if the fabric is a print, there would be no margin for error.” She grins. “Valora, you’re making my bladder gladder. Say, you ever consider a job in haute couture? I could use a good mind like yours.”
“Thanks, but I’m auditioning for the circus tomorrow on the docking bridge. Eleven a.m.”
“I heard. But if that doesn’t work out, look up House of July when you’re in New York. There’s always more than one color that suits.” She winks.
I watch her unfold a black and yellow dress in a striking honeycomb pattern. “Why did you name your brand House of July?”
