Her mother frowned again, returning to her main objection. “I don’t like selling our wares to simply anyone who can afford them.”
“That will change,” Zhengyi said. She already had a name in mind: the House of Yixiang. The House of Rare Perfumes.
“Do I have an alternative?”
Zhengyi smiled. “No, Mother. None of you do.” Because she could see their future, even if her mother could only see ahead to her marriage.
16
Hua Siyu
Southern Song dynasty. Her twin sister, Pixin, created the ghost scent.
Heart note //Halt embarrassment
Base note //Civet
Dad always has his birthday dinner at the same steak house, one of those old-fashioned places with blinding-white tablecloths, dark-red velvet seats, and service bordering on obsequious. We arrive to a thoughtful smile from the hostess—always a woman and always serious, for steaks are a grim business—before heading to the back corner to Dad’s favorite table. One year, when Mom had reserved a different one, he insisted on waiting for an hour until it was free. In accusatory silence, so we all knew Mom had messed up.
The server takes our coats and my carry-on, but when he reaches for my knapsack, I clutch it so protectively he eyes it with concern.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” I say, waving across the table. We’re not much of a hugging family. “Eric, Kelsey, nice to see you. No kids tonight?”
“They’re at home with the babysitter,” says Eric. “I guess you’rethe surprise?”
“You’re late,” Dad says. “Lucy, glad you could make it, but you should have told me you were coming. This table is set for four.”
“It’s no problem at all, sir.” The server is already there with an extra table setting, followed by a woman holding a chair. In seconds, he’s made one of the long sides of the table into two spots for Mom and me. Eric looks into the distance as Kelsey motions for a top-off on her wine.
“We’ve ordered appetizers,” Dad says.
“You didn’t wait?” Mom stares at him. “Eric knew we were on our way.”
Dad shrugs and pours himself water, filling his glass and emptying the carafe. “Dinner was for seven, Meilin.”
I try not to chug the wine but have soon caught up to Kelsey. I’d forgotten the pressure of the constant low-level hostility that filled the house and followed us like a fog. Occasionally, it would lift for a meal, or a day, or sometimes a week, and they would get along well enough that it wasn’t a stretch to see how they’d fallen in love. Then one of them would make an oblique reference to an old hurt, or take offense to a phrase or gesture, and they’d be back to their cold war. When we were younger, and before they started using us as proxies, Eric and I would try to buffer each other. Those days are gone.
“Even though it’s Dad’s birthday, I brought something so you don’t feel left out, Meilin,” Kelsey chirps, handing over a small package. She always says Mom’s name asMy-leen, instead ofMay-lin. I startle at Kelsey calling my fatherDad, but no one else blinks. Mom opens the package to reveal a small bottle of oil, which she uncaps and sniffs. I twitch my nose as the harsh, cheap smell wafts over.
“Thank you,” Mom says politely.
“I knew you would like it.” Kelsey crinkles her eyes graciously over her wineglass.
“How’s Toronto, Lucy?” Dad asks as the cheese bread comes. Hepulls it toward his plate from the center of the table. Shrimp cocktails arrive for Eric and Kelsey, who begin eating without a word.
“Good. Kensington picks up with the warmer weather.”
“What’s the difference in the number of customers?” he asks.
“Oh, I don’t know exactly, but it’s significant.”
He shakes his head. “You should know, Lucy. You need to track this kind of thing if you want to be successful.”
I don’t bother telling him my sales are steady throughout the year and depend on much more than foot traffic. Dad and Eric consider themselves experts on whatever topic is at hand, speaking confidently and expecting to be unchallenged. During the pandemic, they were epidemiologists. Then economists. Now it looks like he’s a retail consultant.
The server rolls up the cart with the Caesar salad ingredients and begins to prepare it tableside. Kelsey turns to me. “Do you have those samples on you?” she asks. “The girls loved your scents. So modern. Meilin, you should think of doing more like that. It might increase your sales, you know?”
Even Eric stiffens at this, but before I can jump in—no one rags on my mother but me—Mom gives her a generous smile. “Thank you, Kelsey. I’m sure your customers are women of discerning taste.”
