“The tea will compel a prophecy,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking the second rule?”
“In this case, no. We need to eradicate the stockpile. It’s not compelling when you’re running a surplus. How much of one, we’ll find out.”
Tomorrow, I’d be barraging strangers with predictions I didn’t want to dispense and for which they hadn’t asked. All the traumatic memories of my past rose to the surface: Mrs. Ferguson’s accusing and horrified glare, a broken Cynthia at her wedding, the tears in Dad’s eyes, and Marc’s face holding an expression I could only call a cocktail of shame, shock, and betrayal.
She studied my face. “Don’t look so deflated.”
I forced my mouth into a toothy smile. “I’m ready to learn even if it kills me.”
She laughed. “Good. You’ll need that attitude.”
I spoke from the heart. I was done running from my problems and resenting my helplessness. In time, and with dedication, I could be like my aunt, living a normal life, being respected by others, and making predictions with confidence.
With my aunt’s help, I, too, would master my destiny.
Eighteen
My dreams had been murky, uneasy, and surreal. Whispers from faces obscured by veils of red silk spoke a language I could not understand. I awoke discombobulated, fumbling for solid ground. After a muted breakfast of eggs and toast, we made our way downstairs as Aunt Evelyn inundated me with a topical course on the intricacies of tea blends and types. One hour before the shop opened and I still couldn’t stop my hands from shaking.
“Green, black, white, yellow teas are determined by the level of processing and the common leaf used: the Camellia sinensis. Remember, tisanes are herbal blends and are not teas. The shop sells both.”
“This is for my own personal knowledge, right? I won’t be talking much to the customers. I mean, I don’t speak the language.”
My aunt unlocked the front door of the shop. Her keys jingled on a jeweled butterfly keychain I hadn’t seen before: a Menelaus blue morpho. Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Michael had taken me to the Conservatory of Flowers in San Francisco in my early teens. We walked into a beautiful crystalline greenhouse for their butterfly exhibit. As we approached the orchids, blue butterflies appeared, dancing, and surrounding my aunt as though she were a princess in a fairy tale. She had tears in her eyes that day.
My aunt’s aesthetic had carried over from her Victorian in San Francisco to her tea shop in Paris, Promesse de Thé. Shades of lavender, rose, periwinkle, and sage matched the fresh floral arrangements of roses and peonies in the front windows. Clear glass jars lined the shelves behind the counter bearing labels of the hundreds of custom tea blends. The serenity of the interior’s ambience reminded me of Renoir’s Two Sisters (on the Terrace).
For years, my aunt had a tea shop in San Francisco’s Chinatown. We’d visit whenever Ma had a craving for good dim sum. On a recent trip, Aunt Evelyn brought us to Qiao’s Cafe, a tiny restaurant a few doors down, for the most delicious dumplings. It became popular with the cousins. Keeping a hidden gem to yourself was impossible in my family when it pertained to amazing food.
My aunt busied herself with rearranging the flowers. Before I could offer to help, she held her hand up and made a telephone gesture with the other. Seconds later, my phone rang. It was Ma. I had missed our check-in last night. Aunt Evelyn and I had decided to share a bottle of ten-year-old Loire Valley chenin blanc while rewatching Roman Holiday.
“I missed you,” Ma said. “Are you too busy with your new boyfriend?”
I lowered my voice. “That didn’t work out. He has a gambling problem.”
“Aiyah! That isn’t something you want anyway. He will break your heart and your bank account. You remember Jade’s ex-boyfriend? The one that tried to pressure her to give him money because he likes to bet on sports. Not good. You need a nice boy who will cook for you. Maybe a chef? I’ll ask Faye if she knows anyone.”
Ma had already moved on from one prospect to another without missing a breath. I knew better than to get in the way. It was clear where my stubbornness came from. A Chinese mother’s marriage intentions for her daughter were set at conception; the countdown to her betrothal commenced with her first breath. Overwhelming desire to control and to love resulted in affectionate suffocation. We children endured, only to perpetuate the process.
“No, Ma. I don’t have time for that right now.”
She let out a series of tsks. “You’re in the city of romance with beautiful people everywhere. I’m only trying to help. How are the lessons going?”
“We start today. It’s going to be hard, but I promise I will try my best.”
“I have faith in you. Your father wants me to tell you that he misses you and that everything is being handled here. He said he’ll wait until you come home to finish watching that horror show with you. Apparently, the new season was released.”
I laughed. “Tell Dad that I miss him and I appreciate it.”
“Oh!” My mother lowered her voice. “Faye found out more information about the sale of the house. She talked to Jeannie Ching, who runs a storage and moving company. Jeannie told her that a year ago, Evelyn had started downsizing, auctioning off most of her antiques, keeping her favorite pieces in storage for Paris. She had been planning to move for over a year.”
I glanced over at my aunt, who hummed as she spritzed the roses and peonies. I waved and indicated that I was heading outside to take the rest of the call. With my aunt’s preternatural senses, it wouldn’t be a surprise if she already knew we were gossiping about her.
“Sounds like this was planned for longer than we thought,” I said.
“There is something in Paris she wants. We don’t know what it is yet, because why would she move there? It’s so far away from the family.” A note of wistfulness crept into Ma’s steady voice. “Evelyn always followed her own heart. We always knew she was different, but when we’re all together, it doesn’t seem as obvious.”
The sisterhood of aunties reeled from the loss of one of their own. The bite of betrayal slid between Ma’s words: unspoken, but as palpable as the fresh gold paint on the tea shop’s lettering above my head.
“She’ll probably still visit. You haven’t lost her.”
“It’s not the same.” Ma sighed. “All we care about is that she’s happy. Then it wouldn’t be so bad that she’s so far away. Do you know if she is?”
I peeked through the glass windows. Aunt Evelyn had moved on to setting a tea service display for samples. Her movements showcased a ballerina-like elegance I could never possess.
“I think she is. I haven’t seen any indication otherwise.”
“I better let you go. It’s your first day of lessons. Listen to your auntie and try not to argue with her. I love you and I’ll call you soon.”
“I love you, too, Ma. Send Dad my love.”
I tucked the phone into my pocket and went back inside the tea shop.
Aunt Evelyn gestured toward the tea service on the glass counter. “You’ll be offering honeyed chrysanthemum tea for sampling today.” She placed a notecard on the counter and tapped it. “It’s all here in French so you don’t need to explain.”
I swallowed, and took my place behind the counter. “I’m not expected to make small talk, right? Only compel predictions and empty the surplus.”
“Correct.” She walked to the glass door and flipped the sign. “We have work to do.”
Nineteen
A fashionable couple in their late forties came into the shop. She had copper skin and wore an ivory sweater and dark, tailored pants. Her dark hair was swept up in a colorful scarf, which complemented her gold hoop earrings and bright red clutch. Her partner sported a sharp navy suit, horn-rimmed glasses, and a trimmed beard.
I envied their easy elegance. I agonized over what to wear, but never felt my choice matched my vision. It was the same frustration I carried when I couldn’t translate my ideas to paper. My ambition never quite matched the execution.
Like the couple, my aunt’s sense of style appeared effortless. Aunt Evelyn had decided today’s dress code: lavender blouse paired with a sage-green pencil skirt. It wasn’t something I’d pick out. I tended to stay away from greens, fearing it would malign my complexion. The key was saturation: the brightness and depth of the two colors complemented my skin. The combination was beautiful and striking, and matched the overall aesthetic of the tea shop.
The pair and my aunt spoke rapid French and exchanged smiles. While my aunt offered the lady samples from three glass jars behind the counter, he walked toward me and gestured to the tea. I poured him a cup, shook my head, and pointed to the sign to indicate that I didn’t speak the language.
Before he took a sip, he thanked me in accented English.
He knew English.
My heartbeat galloped against my rib cage.
I was about to assault this poor gentleman with advice I had no desire to dispense. The need to run back to the apartment and lock the door behind me took hold. From across the shop, Aunt Evelyn leveled a steady glare in my direction. Her sixth sense was equal parts unnerving and aggravating. Like an elementary school teacher writing on the chalkboard, she had eyes at the back of her head. Punished for my perceived transgression before I had a chance to conceive it.