“Is it so hard to remember?” she asked.
“How could I forget?” He reached out to her, paused, and then pulled back.
She whispered something in French. The softness of her tone conveyed affection that was fed by years of yearning. Her gaze never left his face.
He replied in kind. Words meant only for my aunt to hear. Girard’s deep voice conveyed a mixture of regret and anger—as if he longed for the very person he hated.
The tendrils of smoke around him dissipated as the lights overhead returned to their original brightness. The spell broken, the restaurant resumed its motion and color. My aunt lifted her hand from mine, picked up her clutch, pulled out two crisp bills, and placed them on the table.
“We’re leaving,” she said.
I bit my lower lip and followed her out of the restaurant.
* * *
* * *
An uncomfortable silence settled over us. She appeared lost in thought while I searched and failed to find the words to comfort.
“Auntie,” I said, unable to bear the silence. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
I held my tongue and tried a different tactic. “If you’re still hungry, I’d love to be introduced to the world of French takeout.”
She didn’t answer. We walked along, separated by thought. The siren pull of memories could drown the strongest swimmers and the steadiest ships. Dragged down to the ocean floor, I was still waiting for her to rise and return from what appeared to be one of her most charged memories.
“I do not live my life with regrets. This is the last I’ll speak of this.”
True to her word, Aunt Evelyn had moved on to listing menu items from the best takeout spots within two blocks. Her refusal to confide in me stung.
We decided on a gorgonzola cream pizza with fresh herbs and caramelized onions. One of our family touchstones was to eat our feelings. As I bit into the delicate, thin crust of the steaming hot slice, I was swallowing all of the questions I wanted to ask. I could only guess what my aunt was eating, perhaps those regrets she denied having.
The rich, creamy cheese and sweet onions melted on my tongue. I sought the easy comfort that food could provide, which Paris delivered in glorious Technicolor. Aunt Evelyn had already devoured three slices and was onto her fourth when my phone buzzed. It was Auntie Faye.
“Do you mind if I take this in my room?” I asked.
“Not at all,” Aunt Evelyn replied between bites.
I headed to my bedroom and closed the door. “Hi, Auntie Faye, what did you dig up?”
“Not even a ‘how are you, Auntie’?” There was a pause before she erupted in laughter. “Just kidding. Here’s what I discovered after talking to Chloe Lu. She took a language course with Evelyn in Paris. They roomed together as they were both Chinese Americans from California. Anyway, she was a naughty girl and took something from Evelyn.”
“What?” I asked.
I didn’t need to be beside her to know Auntie Faye was grinning from ear to ear. That trademark smile dripped with the smugness of knowing everyone’s business. It was her own form of clairvoyance. “Chloe saved a photo that was left behind when Evelyn moved from their apartment. Evelyn had a boyfriend! Handsome man. She always had good taste. At first I thought it was a movie star, but there was something written on the back. Not in English.”
“It’s in French.” As soon as I said it, Auntie Faye was already onto me.
“How do you know? You meet this man in Paris already? What’s his name? What does he do?” Her voice climbed to a higher pitch with each additional question. “Who is he?”
A spasm of protectiveness over Aunt Evelyn sprang out of nowhere, surprising me with a streak of loyalty I didn’t think I had, prompting me to scramble to outwit the Yu family’s seasoned inspector. “I assumed it’s French because she was in Paris. I mean, what else could it be? Dutch?”
“Ah, good point.” Auntie Faye tsked. “I’ll get the translation. I’m sending a photo of the picture now, maybe you can identify him for us.”
“I better go before Aunt Evelyn eats all of the pizza.”
“We miss you. I’ll call again soon. Bye-bye.”
My phone buzzed again with the promised photo. It was the same handsome man I’d seen in black and white at the restaurant.
By withholding information from Auntie Faye, I had made a conscious decision to choose a side. I had to find out what happened between Girard and Aunt Evelyn before the aunties did.
Twenty-Four
The problem with comforting someone who had a secret was resisting the urge to shake it out of them as you leaned in for an embrace. Despite my plying her with a robust local merlot later that night, Aunt Evelyn remained as tight-lipped as ever. She retreated to her bedroom humming a sad melody. The loneliness in those notes hovered in the air long after she had gone to bed.
I stayed up another hour researching Girard and his restaurant. Modern technology allowed me to bypass the language barrier and discover that Girard was a Parisian restaurateur who opened his first restaurant in the mid-nineties and had been successful for decades. Le Papillon Bleu was his oldest and most prized flagship. He headed the local business association and was a part of the city’s influential circle. The Parisian gossip sites, however, reveled in his social life: he’d had an assortment of beautiful women over the years, but never married.
Maybe he still loved her.
It would explain his passionate reaction to Aunt Evelyn.
The line between love and hate was often blurred. Back in college, my cousin Chester couldn’t stop complaining about an aggressive intern who worked at the same production company. He said he despised her, but by the end of summer, they were making out in the lunchroom. As Elie Wiesel had noted: “The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.”
If time was the balm to heal all wounds, their decades apart hadn’t diminished the raw, unresolved emotions between them.
My aunt stressed that I throw myself in my lessons to change my own life, but she didn’t tell me I couldn’t also add an extracurricular activity in meddling. After all, well-intentioned meddling was encoded in the Yu genes. Dabbling in matchmaking sounded more fun than seeing the future.
* * *
* * *
The next morning was like any other ordinary day, as though the incident at the restaurant had never happened. I knew better than to ask. Denial and guilt were welcome guests in almost every home. There was a reason why Auntie Faye had a thriving business in gossip.
Aunt Evelyn smiled with more effort today, as if she performed the gesture out of habit instead of sentiment. Her dark eyes remained weary. The incandescent light inside them didn’t have its usual luster.
“What are we offering as samples today?” I asked.
While humming last night’s same sorrowful tune, Aunt Evelyn opened a large glass jar from the second shelf and scooped some tea leaves into a teapot. “Ginger lavender. It’s known to be calming. My blend has powdered honey and a touch of clove and cinnamon.”
“Wasn’t honey in yesterday’s sample too?”
“It was. I found a local beekeeper at the farmers’ market who connected me to a collective of apiarists. I had a marvelous time trying out regional honey until I found the right one. After, I found a food chemist to work their scientific magic and transform it into powder.” She reached into a locked cupboard under the counter and brought out a smaller jar of what appeared to be gold dust. She scooped a spoonful into an empty teacup, poured hot water, and stirred. “Try it.”
The air bloomed with the memories of a distant meadow of wildflowers populated with busy honeybees. I took a sip and was transported to the countryside.
“To say honey is sweet,” my aunt explained, “is to ignore the complexities of its origins: the nature of the bees, the colony, the flowers they frequent. Bees turns nectar into their own brand of regional wine.”
“I’m guessing your honey supplier is a closely guarded secret, as is the name of your food scientist.”
Aunt Evelyn nodded and winked. “When I go on these discovery trips, you should come with me. I’m planning another in six months. You’ll get to see France outside of Paris.”
“It would make a perfect post-graduation trip.”
“Providing you pass.”
“Have I given you any indication that I won’t? I’m doing well, aren’t I?”
My aunt tapped the counter. “So far, but we haven’t done anything challenging yet.”
I frowned at her choice of words.
“Finish the tea,” she coaxed. “Maybe it will trigger something.”
I cradled the warm cup in my hands while Aunt Evelyn prepared the tea service for sampling. The soothing drink warmed my throat. Previous premonitions had been presaged by physical symptoms. The honey tea in my cup was almost gone, and I felt nothing.
“If this doesn’t work,” she continued, “I’ll prepare more cups for you to drink throughout the day. You should be able to narrow down location, time of day, precise details. You need the tea as a trigger, but physical prompts aren’t required for predictions.”
“What you’re saying is that I’m still riding the prophecy bike with training wheels?”