That’s not a direct English translation for what we are, but it’s close enough. For a thousand years, Hua women have been able to control emotions with our magical moli fragrances. My mother, for instance, has the power to lift moods. Not much, but enough to make the days of those who wear her perfumes about 10 percent happier. It’s a nice little boost, like catching the bus when it’s about to pull away in the rain or receiving an unexpected compliment. My grandmother’s moli perfume kept bad tempers in check. Mid-century women clamored for it to use on their husbands. My great-grandmother’s gift stopped heartache. Everyone desired that.
Our most guarded secret, the one known only to the top echelon of our most select clients, like Ms. Kang, is that the eldest daughter of every fifth generation has the power to summon one’s true love. It’s no small pressure to have the ability to create a perfume that will lure in the love of someone’s life, ostensibly the reason for their greatest happiness.
I am the fifth daughter.
That’s my gift.
Or it should have been.
I don’t know if it was my older brother’s silent but palpable gloating,my grandmother’s unreserved disbelief, or Mom’s grim-faced encouragement that hurt the most when Ms. Kang remained stubbornly single week after week. At least I didn’t have to worry about Dad’s reaction, because he insists the entire moli thing is superstitious bull. That stung in a different way, but it was one I was used to.
“I’m very sorry,” Ms. Kang says now. “Your grandmother was an exceptional person.”
She leans in with no more than a light hand on my shoulder to graze our cheeks together, but I stiffen despite the gentle touch. I know the scent that rises from her skin—a delicate, contradictory thing of cold incense smoke with a base of warm tonka bean. Twelve years ago, my mother had approved it with a single nod, causing the fireworks that went off in my chest to puff it out with pride.
Ms. Kang is wearing the failed moli perfume I gave her. I close my eyes, overcome by a brief dizziness.
“Luling.” My mother’s voice is sharp.
“That perfume,” I say.
Ms. Kang beams at me over her sober navy dress. “I thought you might recognize it. I only wear it on my most special occasions. It smells just as good now as the first day I put it on.”
“Like for a wedding?” I blurt out. I have to know. Ineedto know. Is it possible that my perfume worked, even after all these years? That she found true love? Surely Mom would have told me if she’d known. I force myself back to the floor because I’ve risen onto my toes.
Ms. Kang laughs. “Oh, no. No weddings for me. But I had it on when I met my daughter for the first time. I wore it the day I moved into my dream house and when I signed the incorporation papers for my business. Beautiful, lucky times.”
My heart deflates. No…that would be a slow and steady action. My chest has been stomped on. My perfume is nothing but a celebratory scent, no different from Plage or thousands of others Ms. Kang could have selected off the shelf. There’s no magic to it. There never hasbeen. I remain a flop, although it’s a good thing to have created a scent for Ms. Kang that she found meaningful. She’s kind to linger on the positives and must have found ways to enjoy life despite my inability to deliver her true love.
Mom gives me a piercing look that communicates her desire for me to get it together instead of shaming her by breaking down in front of strangers. “Scent is the strongest emotional trigger,” she says.
Ms. Kang nods. “Even in the midst of our grief, I’m connected to all of those other, more joyous moments. I should thank you, Luling. You made the olfactory accompaniment to every peak in my life.”
Except love, which is what it was meant to do. That was my purpose and my duty, and sometimes I think it’s the only reason my mother had me.
“Her grandmother expected more,” Mom says. I can feel my lips tighten. Only Mom can fit in a dig about my failure at a funeral. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of a response, and the two women move on.
I turn toward the food, grateful for a break. Instead of a long sit-down meal, my mother opted for an open buffet to cater to the mix of guests. Crustless funeral sandwiches share space with steamed dumplings plump with shrimp and dotted with bright-green chives. Candies sit in bowls. The scent of the food covers the faint smell of incense and smoke from the joss papers burned during the ceremony.
“Hello, Luling.”
My hand stills midreach for the steamed buns. The one minute,one minute, I stop scanning the room for Rafe Jin, he appears. The years have been unfairly good to him, and I take in the changes with a glance that I hope is more subtle than it probably is. As a teenager, he’d been tall and lanky, not quite sure what to do with his limbs. At thirty-two, he’s grown into his eyes and nose. His dark hair is longer and falls in tidy waves around his face.
“Rafe. It’s been a long time.” I can’t keep my eyes from drifting down to his left hand to note he’s not wearing a ring.
“Luling, dear.” Missy Jin moves her son aside to come hug me, the elegance of her gray outfit emphasized by the understated pearl jewelry decorating her ears and wrists. The Jins have always had far more money than my family, a situation that would occasionally lead my mother to comment that Missy Jin’s new car or necklace was fine for her, but a little tacky for her own taste. Despite that, they were each other’s closest friends.
“You have our deepest sympathy,” says Ms. Jin, holding my hands in hers and looking into my face. “My, you haven’t changed. You still look just like your mother.”
I’ve always liked Ms. Jin, but I haven’t spoken to her since Rafe and I… Well, there’s not really a word for what happened.Grew apartis too organic, andsplitis untrue since we weren’t together.Stopped talkingis the most accurate, but fails to encompass the depth of how I feel.
Felt. How I felt.
“I remember when your grandmother used to bring us cut fruit in the summer.” Rafe’s voice has always been quiet, and although it’s gained in resonance, his volume hasn’t changed. “In the pink bowl.”
This is an appropriate thing to say, although I hate him a bit for bringing up a shared memory when I want to forget that aweever existed. “Thank you.” My face refuses to fake a smile.
“Your mother tells me your shop is doing well,” says Ms. Jin. “How wonderful for you—although I’m sure she’d love you to come back home.”
