“Yes, I was surprised.” I describe what she looked like and then say, “I thought she would like spring flowers, like muguet or lilac.”
“She liked heavy woods? Oud?”
“No, oakmoss.”
Mom looks pensive. “Curious.”
“Aromatics too.”
“A gorgeous combination. You could do a lot with that. Rosemary and oakmoss. Perhaps pine.”
“Yeah.” I’m listening as I write down ideas. “Maybe with a touch of fruity sweetness, like raspberry.”
By the time we’re done, I’ve jotted out a few sketches as a starting point. Mom is still reading Zhengyi’s chapter, and I look over her shoulder. Besides rules for keeping the store clean and organizing stock—probably useful information, as Zhengyi was the first shopkeeper in the family—were tips on selling that were still applicable.
“‘Be present but not hovering,’” says Mom, tapping the page. “Good advice.”
“I like that she’s willing to recommend other shops, to make it look like you only want what’s best for the customer.”
“Zhengyi was a marvel.” Mom takes our empty cups and puts them into the dishwasher, then comes back to look at my notes.
“That second scent might be good for Yixiang,” she says. “You could do it when you come back home.”
Instantly, I’m on alert. “When I what?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I misspoke.”
“I live in Toronto,” I say. “I don’t have plans to leave.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Mom says. “I just thought since Rafe is back in your life and you have your moli, you might be thinking about the future.”
I get a prickly feeling when she mentions Rafe’s name, but I brush it off. “We’re only friends, and I’m not going back to Vancouver.”
“Of course.” She gives in with more grace than I expected.
As I’m thinking how nice this is, to be able to just talk to her, Mom goes to her room and comes back with a box. She places it in front of me and I recognize it from Waipo’s room.
“What’s this?” I ask.
In front of my increasingly alarmed gaze, she pulls out the redfabric tucked inside to display the low collar like she’s a host on a home shopping channel. A line of knotted-rope buttons run down the front of the garment, and the red cord of each fastening is woven around an imperial jade bead the size of a hazelnut. According to Hua Xiaoting, the jade dates back to the Song dynasty.
The robe is a magnet drawing my iron-cold hands close. A faint whiff of smoky wood rises from the fabric, which she must have scented the old-fashioned way by airing it over burning incense.
I accept the robe when my mother hands it over, her expression blank as if she understands the slightest hint of triumph will result in the robe tossed at her feet and me out of the room. The silk has the same feel as when she first draped it over my shoulders when I was twenty, a slippery lightness with disconcerting warmth. Despite the substantial ornamentation, it was like wearing a cloud. I did a twirl for the sheer pleasure of feeling it billow behind me and whisper around my legs as Waipo looked on with a proud smile.
I shove it back at her.
“Why did you bring this?”
“I thought it would inspire you,” she says.
I’m hit with a red-hot rage, made worse by how comfortable I felt fifteen minutes ago. I should have known not to let my guard down. “Can we have one night without you getting on my case about my moli?”
“You need to try.”
“I need you to leave me alone!” This is rude and I know it.
She rolls her eyes. “So dramatic, goodness. I gave you space, but now it’s time to work. You must get to the bottom of this, Luling! Don’t you want to be fixed? We need to know.”
