“Bring a gift. Nothing in fours.”
“We have that rule, too,” he said. “Our teacups come in sets of five. You see, Japan and China aren’t so different. Look at us, we’ve both got black hair, brown eyes, and dry ear wax—”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Parts of China and Japan even got colonized by the same country.”
Marigold frowned. “Britain?”
“Portugal,” replied Kenji, who had consistently topped her in history by an impressive three percentiles. “Egg tarts are fromPortugal. So is tempura. We both bow, we use chopsticks and eat rice—”
“Different kinds of rice.”
“—we respect our elders and take off our shoes before going in the house.”
Marigold patted his arm. “Good job, you get an A plus in cultural appreciation.”
“We’re more same than different,” Kenji insisted.
“Kenji Yamamoto, always looking on the bright side of things.” She stroked his cheek, thumbing a spot of stubble he’d missed while shaving this morning. “Maybe I want to keep you to myself for a while.”
As soon as he parked, he kissed her long and deep.
Marigold would never cease to marvel at the miracle of kissing Kenji. For someone who hadn’t touched another human being in years, the simple act of holding his hand—of feeling her skin against his—was a revelation that still sent tingles shooting up and down her spine like multiballs.
“All right, all right.” She exaggerated a sigh. “I’ll start hinting to my parents that I’ve got a boyfriend. Don’t look so smug, it’s not going to be pretty.”
“How bad can it be? I won you over, didn’t I?”
“After six years,” she reminded him.
“Every day was worth it. I love you, Mari.”
Marigold’s thoughts were restless. Countless times Kenji had told her he loved her. Not once had she said it back. It wasn’t because she didn’t feel the same way. She knew with the strength of an ionic bond that she loved him.
“Every family has its demons, but ours are a little more wicked than most,”her grandmother had said.
Marigold reminded herself that she didn’t believe in demons. Or curses.
What she did believe was that there’d be hell to pay once her parents found out about Kenji.
Marigold wore her gloves and got out of the car. Hell could wait another day.
The Legion of Honor was a neoclassical French palace in San Francisco, set in a park that overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge. Marigold was always happy to spend a day picnicking on the grounds. Today, however, Kenji had gotten them tickets for a photography exhibit.
“Have you heard of Gary Stein?” he asked as they entered the exhibition hall. “He was an ad man who worked on the Coca-Cola campaigns in the forties.” Kenji gestured at the first photograph, showing a young woman in blond victory rolls kneeling in a rose garden, holding a bottle of Coke to her cheek. “After the war he moved to Hong Kong. Thought you might like it since your parents lived there around the same time.”
“It was just my mom who lived in Hong Kong,” she murmured, more to herself than Kenji. “Dad only visited.”
Marigold surveyed the wall of vintage advertisement posters. Some of the products she recognized. Johnnie Walker, Tiffany, Marlboro. Most were for Western brands with Chinese words, only a handful of which she could read. Interspersed between the ads were black-and-white photographs of daily life in Hong Kong. Marigold stared at each one, riveted by the energy the photographer had captured. Every scene was as vivid as one of her own visions. She could almost hear the squeak of the rickshaw wheels down the crowded streets, the splash of dirty wash water the amahs tossed down the stone steps, the babble of children running their hands through baskets of apples for sale along the roadside.
“Have you been to Hong Kong?”
“Nope. We don’t have family there anymore.”
Kenji read from a placard on the wall. “Stein was known in Asia for the Peaksoy campaigns.”
“Peaksoy, the milk?”
