Blossom (The Blossom Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “But look how fine you turned out, Blossom!” Brock looked as if he was about to say something more and then stopped. Blossom noticed.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Actually, I have a question, but I’m not sure if it will offend you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about the way your father and grandmother speak. I wouldn’t expect them to speak perfect English. No one actually does. But, if it was so important to your grandmother to have you speak English well, then how is it that she speaks it with words missing and the order sort of backwards?”

  Blossom gathered her thoughts before responding. “Think of it this way. I was taught to speak English since I was a child, along with Cantonese. My father and grandmother learned Cantonese first. Most people speak Cantonese in Chinatown because they came from Guangdong in southern China. Other people speak Mandarin, but not many.”

  Brock nodded.

  “So, even though they’re fairly fluent in English, they speak it from the perspective of someone who speaks Cantonese. Instead of saying ‘This is my daughter,’ my father says, ‘This my daughter’ because there really isn’t a to-be verb…or is in the way they speak. Sounds academic, I know, but that’s just the way it is.”

  To Blossom, it looked like Brock was following her train of thought. “Or my grandmother might ask, ‘Fortune cookie good, no?’ We would ask, ‘Isn’t this fortune cookie good?’ My poor friend Monique learned English and Cantonese as a child. Then she learned French when she was fourteen, after her parents died. She told me there are sounds that you have to make when you speak French that our mouths and throats just aren’t trained to do, at least not very well for most people. She calls the English that the elders speak Chinglish. I’m not so sure, but—”

  Brock jumped in, “Please don’t think I was being critical. I’m just trying to get to know you and your family better.”

  “No, that’s fine, really,” said Blossom. “The best thing to remember about speaking Cantonese—or understanding it—is tones. How you say something, the pitch you use, can completely change the meaning of what you might have wanted to say. Then there’s writing!”

  Blossom explained that it was no easy task to learn to write in Cantonese, which has about 40,000 symbols, each standing for a word or word fragment. But only about 5,000 are needed to communicate well.

  “Shay shay,” replied Brock. “Did I say it correctly?”

  “You’re close. How do you think it’s spelled?”

  “Is that a trick question? I couldn’t even guess.”

  “It’s spelled xie xie. That’s how you say and spell the word thanks. And if you want to reply, you use the words bu ke qi. That’s how you say that you’re welcome…it sounds like book itchy.”

  There was a natural break in the conversation as Brock processed what he just heard.

  “So, you’re an artist. Your grandmother told me about it last night. I’ve seen a lot of artwork, but yours is…is…special and unique,” said Brock, searching for words that didn’t appear to come easily.

  “Thank you. I’ve sketched and painted for as long as I can remember. It’s just part of me.”

  As they continued to talk, Blossom learned that Brock’s mother was from a fine, upstanding Bostonian family and that his father had whisked her away to the wilds of the western frontier, much to her family’s dismay.

  Brock patted one of the boulders to his right. “I’ve done a lot of thinking with these rocks!”

  Blossom smiled.

  “What are you thinking about…right now?” asked Brock.

  “Grand Ma Maw used to tell me a story about how the leaders in China—long, long ago—treasured large rocks so much that they would send hundreds of men on expeditions for months and years, just to bring back one boulder of a particular shape. One boulder!”

  “For what?”

  “For their palace gardens!”

  He replied, “Then aren’t we lucky to have these rocks right here to enjoy, exactly where they’ve always been.”

  Blossom reached out and ran her hand along the smooth, weathered surface of a boulder.

  “Lucky, yes, we’re lucky alright.”

  Their conversation comfortably traveled among topics of significant and minor importance as the shadow of the sycamore tree shifted, exposing Brock to the full brilliance of the sun.

  “Is it getting warmer, or is it just me?”

  Blossom replied, “It’s just you. You’re in the sun now. What time is it?”

  Brock looked at his pocket watch and announced that it was 3:37. He paused for a moment and held the gold watch in his hand.

  “That’s a beautiful watch.”

  “Thanks. It was a gift from Clarissa. It’s attached to my vest with a fob made out of Clarissa’s hair.”

  “Oh, that’s her hair?”

  “She braided it. I guess it’s like a piece—actually, lots of pieces—of Clarissa are with me all the time.”

  Blossom’s heart sank. I’m sorry I asked.

  “Do you have to be home at a certain time?”

  Blossom considered how to answer the question. Depending on what I say, will I appear to be too eager: too eager to stay, too eager to leave, or just too eager?

  “We should probably get going. I still need to check in with Anna Mae to make sure we keep our story straight.”

  “Your story for who?” he asked.

  “My father and Grand Ma Maw, of course. Like you didn’t know! I don’t want to spoil this afternoon, but do you understand the risk I’m taking by being here with you?”

  As the words came out of her mouth, Blossom immediately wished she could take them back. She continued though, “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m here with you because I want to be, even need to be. I haven’t known you long, but just the same, I feel closer to you than—”

  Blossom lost her words.

  Brock caressed her hand. Then, with one flowing movement of his right arm, his fingers and palm brushed Blossom’s cheek and slid down far enough to cradle her chin.

  Blossom cast her eyes down and raised them slowly to match Brock’s in an innocent move that was not meant to be coy or flirtatious. He tilted his head to the left and leaned forward to kiss her.

  I don’t know if I’ve longed for this moment or dreaded it…or both. Do I dare kiss him? Dare! What if he finds out this is all because of a dare? What if—

  Blossom’s thoughts were instantly hijacked when Brock’s lips touched hers. Their first kiss was warm, tender and feather light. Blossom’s eyes were closed, but she saw it all in her mind, as if she was both a participant and an observer. Can this really be happening? Can anything feel better than this?

  As she inhaled deeply, she realized it could feel better, especially without her dress’s cinched-in waist and such pressure on her rib cage.

  As they kissed a second time, a sturdy breeze released some of Blossom’s hair. It taunted and teased their faces. She reached up to tuck it behind her ear but instead used the situation to explore Brock’s face. She’d studied it with her eyes plenty today. Now, her hands examined this new terrain.

  First she felt the strength of his brow. It was softer than she expected, but definitely not soft. Then her fingers traveled down his cheeks with their tiny golden freckles. His jaw was clearly defined and sunken in just enough to create highs and lows in his face. Her fingers swam through the waves of his thick hair, which ended at the nape of his neck. Blossom’s hand landed on his shoulder as they continued to kiss, then it traveled down his arm.

  Brock cautiously pulled away. He stood up and leaned against a nearby tree.

  “Brock, are you okay? I can hardly breathe. I’ll admit that I’m inexperienced, but that kiss was…um…well, it wasn’t like any other kiss I’ve ever been part of!” Blossom rose to her feet and stood close to Brock.

  “That’s good to know. And it’s a relief.” he replied.

  She initiated a third kiss, one wi
th more confidence and passion, that sent a flash of heat down and back up her tingling body. Though she was out of breath, she couldn’t help but noticed how firm, yet yielding, his lips were. Blossom sensed how the intensity of their kiss changed and was now more like two angry thunder clouds crashing together. As they kissed, his tongue tenderly followed…circled…the edges of her lips. She followed his lead and did the same in return.

  Time held its breath.

  As their hands began to move along each other’s bodies, the ground jolted. Blossom pulled away.

  The horses in the barn whinnied, and the pigeons foraging for seeds among the hay took to the air in a furious flurry, which further upset the horses. The cows made a collective clamor in the field and in the corral.

  “Well, honestly, I’ve heard about men making the ground move under a girl in a moment like this, but I never believed it. I do now. The earth actually moved for me!”

  “You’re right about the earth moving,” agreed Brock. “I felt it too. It wasn’t because of our kisses, though I’d like to take the credit. I think the ground actually moved. We just had an earthquake, or something like an earthquake.”

  “Well, either way, I’ll never forget that kiss, ever.”

  “Neither will I. Every time I see you now, I’ll think about kissing you…every…time.”

  Blossom raised her right hand to cover her feverish cheeks.

  He removed his pocketknife and started carving an X on the trunk of the nearest sycamore tree.

  “What are you doing?” asked Blossom.

  “Marking the spot—like on a pirate map—with an X.”

  “The spot?”

  Brock answered, “The spot of our first kiss, our first earthmoving kiss! Now we’ll always know where it happened.”

  Blossom smiled as she ran her fingertips over the freshly carved X. She looked into Brock’s eyes and whispered, “Always.”

  Chapter 12

  East Wind Blows At The Mahjong Table

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 3:40 p.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  Taking time for herself was not something Grand Ma Maw was very good at. She put others first, herself last. She didn’t begrudge anyone for it or complain about it. While many elderly women resigned themselves to being the honored one at the dinner table or having others seek their advice on matters ranging from tea service to burial traditions, Grand Ma Maw was as active and as vibrant a woman as her worn-out body permitted.

  Her one indulgence was the game mahjong. When she, Chang and infant Blossom arrived in Chinatown, she befriended several other women who were looking for a social outlet and a trusted pipeline of information to share about their tight-knit community.

  For a time, they played pai gow. Then they experimented with fan-tan. But it was mahjong that stuck with the women, and the women stuck together with it.

  There was no set day or specific time each week to play. They liked it that way. Games were quickly initiated with a brisk phone call. The games were played based on the acquisition of some red-hot gossip or an actual event in Chinatown.

  The agreed-to rule was that no rumors about any of the four women or their families would be discussed at the table. That was forbidden territory not to be entered. And up to this point, the agreement had not yet been broken.

  In a city in which everyone talked and was talked about, Chinatown still had its secrets, despite the most vigilant eyes and ears.

  Grand Ma Maw’s group included Grand Auntie Lim Kee, Berty Chin and Dulcie Chow.

  Today, Dulcie arranged the game to share news about a new girl at a bordello on Duncombe Alley and what she purchased at her husband’s medicine store.

  The other three players soon arrived at Dulcie’s home, which was spacious and well appointed due to her husband’s retail success.

  The women took their usual places at the square table. Proving that people come in all shapes and sizes, the table of four was a mixed bag. Grand Ma Maw was small and delicate. Her hearty appetite, firm views and loud pronouncements made her seem bigger than she was.

  Grand Ma Maw looked to her right and made a quick study of Grand Auntie Lim Kee. She was taller and thinner than the others. She was also the oldest, and it showed. She was married to a short, petite merchant. They made such an odd-looking couple. In her youth, Grand Auntie Lim Kee had been “as enchanting as cherry blossoms in a spring breeze, but she was as barren as the Gobi Desert in August.” That’s how Grand Ma Maw described her to Blossom as soon as she was old enough to understand the word barren. All beauty, but no babies, Grand Ma Maw thought. She was given the courtesy title of Grand Auntie by Blossom and many other children in Chinatown.

  Across the table, Grand Ma Maw noted how Berty Chin was getting balder by the day, her thinning hair a sign of the worrying and stress that consumed her life. After decades in a marriage that was a rickety bridge, her husband died twelve years ago. Since then, she took in boarders for income.

  “How are the many, many men in your life, Berty?” asked Grand Ma Maw.

  “They just bed renters. Nothing more. Nothing less. They either at work, eating in restaurant, or doing nasty things I not wish to discuss.” Berty slowly turned her head side to side. “But money good. So many shifts and jobs they work, my beds rarely cool off. Someone always sleeping in them, always.”

  To Grand Ma Maw’s left sat Dulcie Chow. She getting rounder and rounder. Her love of food and her disdain for physical activity of any sort resulted in her body looking to Grand Ma Maw like overgrown melons that were stacked on one another with the largest in the middle. Her husband owned three stores—a meat market, a vegetable stand and a Chinese medicine shop. He adored her and provided her with a life of comfort and inactivity, much to the envy of Grand Ma Maw.

  Their game always began the same way, with the selection of the dealer. Grand Ma Maw looked down at the tiles’ colorful images that included combinations of circles, bamboo, and Chinese characters and numbers, along with the four winds and eight flowers. She and her three lady friends referred to the flower tiles as “blossoms” in honor of Blossom.

  Dulcie poured the tea. Much to Grand Ma Maw’s delight, she won the dice competition and was the first dealer. The game progressed in her favor. She was feeling lucky as tiles and turns moved around the table. She was in possession of three of the flower tiles that represented the seasons. She was missing the winter tile. She had the spring flower tile in her hand when a wave of dizziness swirled in her head. She noticed that they all were looking at each other with scrunched up faces.

  “You feel that?” asked Dulcie uneasily.

  “Yes, you too?” replied Grand Ma Maw.

  The three-story building gently swayed as the women looked around the room. There was a sudden bump against the building that Berty said felt a lot like when one of her “fat-as-an-oxen” renters has been pushed out of bed and onto the floor so that the next renter could rest.

  Grand Ma Maw noticed the ripples of motion in her tea cup. “Earth moves. Earth Dragon upset,” she said matter-of-factly.

  She accidently dropped her spring-flower tile onto the table.

  “Bad sign you drop your blossom,” announced Dulcie.

  “No sign at all. My Blossom fine!” Grand Ma Maw replied with an uncharacteristic edge that did not escape the ears of her friends.

  Dulcie pointed her index finger at the tile on the table while saying, “That blossom. Not your Blossom.”

  The heads of the women bobbed up and down. Grand Ma Maw quickly realized that her comment and reaction had sent a signal, a loud and clear signal that the three women would be following up with their gossip sources around town. Her stomach ached as she realized that the seeds of suspicion were planted in fertile soil, and she planted them.

  Blossom, you on watch now! Grand Ma Maw knew that any misstep by her granddaughter could trigger a wildfire. Whatever you doing Blossom—and whoever you doing it with—please be good girl.

  C
hapter 13

  Sixpence For Good Luck

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 3:48 p.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  “Thank you so much for having me for tea today, Mrs. St. Clair,” said Clarissa as she was greeted by Brock’s mother in the parlor. Clarissa rose from one of the many chairs in the room.

  The overabundance of chairs was as an ostentatious show of wealth. It was a sign of good fortune and a display of good manners. Since it was considered rude for a man to offer his seat to a woman because the cushion might still be warm, having the extra chairs resulted in there always being a fresh seat available when ladies entered the room.

  A few minutes earlier, a maid greeted Clarissa at the door since it was the butler’s day off. She escorted Clarissa to the parlor, a formality that was no longer necessary for someone who was about to join the family. To pass the time, Clarissa scanned the names on the calling cards that had gathered on an ornate silver tray on a nearby table. One of them, from Mrs. Phillip Stanton, was edged in black, signifying that she was in mourning. She picked it up just before Mrs. St. Clair entered the room.

  “Goodness, you should not have been made to wait here. I’ll speak to the staff about how you’re to be received in the future.” She noticed the sad look on Clarissa’s face. “Oh, yes, you knew that Gladys Stanton lost her son to the fevers, didn’t you? The poor dear—” She looked down to the floor and collected herself. “Come, let’s go into the conservatory. The flowers open in the afternoon sun. That will cheer us up,” said Mrs. St. Clair as she led Clarissa to the glass-enclosed garden room.

  Clarissa noticed how her soon-to-be mother-in-law’s dress made a scratching sound with each step. Clarissa thought the cream-colored lace overlay made the stiff taupe-silk dress look elegant. Faye would probably think it looked like an oversized doily, she thought. Clarissa quickly cleared Faye from her mind.