A Wedding Invitation (26 page)

“If it’s nine, she is. She always gets there early before the store opens.”

He turns his wrist to view his watch. “It’s nine thirty.”

“She’s there, looking at the paintings and grateful for your help with making the walls look restored.”

“You think she’ll be okay?”

“My mother?” I let out a low laugh. “She always seems to land on her feet.”

“Glad I could help.”

“Me too.” I meet his eyes and am happy to see that they are still shining. “Thank you.”

“I meant to hang the paintings back on the walls.”

“Don’t worry about them. I can do it.”

He nods, then suddenly says he needs to get on the road.

My reaction is the same as it was years ago in the refugee camp, a need to protest. I start to say that I wish he could stay longer, that I’d like a refill of coffee, that I’ll miss him when he leaves, but I simply drain my coffee cup.

“I’ve got to work at the station at four this afternoon.” With a hand on the small of my back, he leans in and kisses my forehead. Then he stands, clears the table of napkins and cups, and waits for me to get up.

My knees wobble, but I manage to make my way out of the shop with him.

He hugs me before getting into his car. Without another word, he drives away.

I listen to the songbirds in the nearby oak trees, feel the joy and sorrow in my own heart, and eventually go to work.

“Ahh, Sam,” says Sanjay when he enters the boutique later in the day. “I see you have a man.”

I’m dusting while Mom attends to a tall woman with lots of tattoos on her legs. Dusting and thinking that Carson will lose interest in me. Why shouldn’t he? What does a forehead kiss signify? Was it a kiss of friendship? Was it a promise of something more?

“Sam, he is good man, no?” Sanjay lets his eyes lock with mine. His lashes are long; I bet he was teased as a child in Bombay.

Swallowing, I say, “He’s a good man.”

Sanjay’s smile captures the light from the front window. “You need a good man. What the world needs now is love sweet love.”

Sanjay then tells a story about a customer who complained that the muffin had too much chocolate in it and wanted a refund.

“How can anything have too much chocolate?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you give him a refund?”

“No, Venya would have been angry with me.” I cannot imagine an angry Venya. His wife is a tiny soft-spoken woman who wears marigold silk saris. And now with her pregnancy she might actually gain a few maternal curves.

“So what did you do?” I ask, dusting the freshly painted wall where the two pictures used to hang, my thoughts feeling affection toward Carson.

“I gave him a blueberry muffin and wished him a good day.”

Amused, I laugh.

“That is the American way, is it not?” Sanjay’s face is solemn. “Have a nice day.”

“Did you smile when you said it?”

“Yes, that is also the American way.” With a hand on the doorknob, he says, “I need to get back to the bakery. A bride and groom want a carrot cake.” Turning back to look at me, his eyes narrow. “Is this normal?”

“You mean, is it American?”

“Yes. That’s what I want to know.”

“I think that as far as weddings and cakes go, in America couples do whatever they want.”

“It does seem that way.”

“And in India?”

“We follow whatever our parents want.”

“And your parents wanted you to come to America?”

He finds the humor. “No, they protested, but Venya and I were stubborn. I better go back to the shop. The cake is going to take many hours to decorate. They want martini glasses and green olives on the top layer.”

Not sure I’ve heard Sanjay correctly, I say, “Martini glasses and olives?”

“Yes. That’s what they ordered.”

“That’s plain strange.”

“Only in America, no?”

When he exits, I hang the pictures for Mom. Just like they were before, the heavier blob of orange and pink on the left, and the lighter one with a twirl that looks like a pig’s tail on the right. Stepping back and squinting, I search for beauty in these prints. Perhaps, as I concluded earlier, the splendor is in the giver.

Mom joins me to view the paintings. “The frames are perfect.” Her face brightens. “What a nice man,” she says with emotion in her voice. I’m not sure if she’s talking about Uncle Charlie or Carson.

That evening I appreciate the air-conditioner as the outside world swelters with humidity. With a new Busboy mystery,
Armed in Amsterdam
, and my soft sofa, I curl my legs under me and start chapter one. But I don’t get far. Touching my forehead, I think of how Carson leaned in to kiss me, replaying the whole scene in my mind.

The phone rings into my thoughts and as I go to answer it, I hope it’s Carson.

A female voice responds to my hello with, “Hello? Is this Samantha Bravencourt?”

“Yes.”

“Hi! It’s Avery Jones.”

“The real Avery?” I suppress the urge to giggle. “Hi, how are you?”

“Great! I got your number from the phone book. Not too many Samantha Bravencourts in there.”

I’m tempted to tell her that there are more Avery Joneses listed in the Winston phone book than I would have ever guessed.

“I called one Samantha and I knew right off it wasn’t you. She had a real Southern accent, and I didn’t think that would be you.” Her voice bubbles, words spilling into each other as she tells me what she’s been up to. She married Perry a year ago in a Methodist church in Fort Wayne. She tells me she’s an ER nurse and that Perry’s an intern at the same hospital. They want children, a boy first, and then another boy because Perry enjoyed his brother. Then, a girl. She really wants a girl.

I watch robins in the scarlet crepe myrtle outside the window. I try to push aside the feeling of hurt that expands inside my chest. Avery got married and she didn’t invite me.

“My cousin just had twin girls. Now that would be fun.” Her light tone continues as she tells about the twins. I have never understood why anyone who has spent any amount of time with an infant would wish for twins.

“And how are you?”

Looking around my apartment, I answer, “Fine, fine. Yeah, I’m doing well.”

“Where do you work now?”

“My mom’s clothing store. She opened it just after I returned from the Philippines.” And before she was diagnosed with breast cancer, I almost add, but I don’t. I consider telling her about Taylor, knowing she would appreciate the funny story about how I thought I was going to her wedding and met him there. I consider telling her about Carson. But I don’t.

“I’ve got some guy friends,” I say and again wonder what the kiss from Carson meant. A forehead kiss is only a kiss of friendship, is it not? “No one special,” I tell her.

“You’ll meet someone.”

Eager to change the subject, I ask, “Do you still eat Twizzlers?”

“All the time.”

When we end the call, I laugh. Then I laugh because it’s funny to hear myself laugh in the darkness of my apartment. If I hadn’t gone to the other Avery’s wedding and reception, where would I be now?

A professor once told our history class that if you changed one thing in the course of your day, your day would end up differently. He explained with an example. “Say I would have left the house on time to get to work. I would have stopped for coffee on the way. But because I was running late, I didn’t stop. Since I didn’t have my morning coffee, I needed a cup and was dragging by noon. So after my last class, I went to the break room to get a fresh cup. I never went to the break room at noon; I was usually in my office eating a bag of Fritos and grading papers. In the break room stood a most beautiful girl. She was the sister of my colleague down the hall, and she was visiting him and attending his classes just for fun. Now, if I hadn’t missed my coffee that morning, I would have had no reason to enter the break room and I then never would have met Julie.”

“So did you ask her out?” a kid with thick glasses in the front row asked.

“Many times,” our professor said. “And then she became my wife.”

thirty-five

S
earching for a missing person is even harder than searching for a missing cat. Of course, Carson reminds me that Lien’s mother is not missing. Hiding, perhaps.

“Why do you use the word ‘hiding’?” I ask.

“Didn’t you hear the story?”

Again I realize that I have not been told everything.

We’re seated in Dovie’s kitchen. She asked me to come down for a butterfly release, wanting me to take pictures. I told her that anyone can take pictures of the event, but she insisted that I was the one with the creative eye and good camera. “Besides,” she added, “we are making pound cake, using one of Uncle Charlie’s recipes he brought over from France when he was stationed there. You’ll love it.”

I stocked up on film, packed my camera bag and a suitcase, and filled my Honda with gas for the southbound trip.

After an afternoon of capturing butterflies creatively, I enjoyed the dinner of omelets and hash browns Beanie had waiting for us. We ate and talked, and right at dessert time, Carson appeared. I knew Dovie had been on the phone with him, enticing him with the promise of homemade pound cake with fresh whipped cream.

After he arrived, Pearl, Dovie, and Beanie left us alone in the kitchen with the ticking of the wall clock.

Carson rests his arms on the kitchen table and explains. “Lien’s mom was with the American soldier until after Lien’s birth. Then he went back to the U.S. She was shunned. She couldn’t handle the shame. Her parents told her to give up her baby. Actually, Lien was almost four at the time. Lien’s mom then decided to give Lien to her relatives.”

A pain in my left temple causes my eye to pulsate.

“Thuy, Lien’s biological mom, had a hard life in Saigon. After she made sure that Lien could be taken care of by the couple that was much more financially stable, she went to her hometown in the country to be with her parents. She wanted to pretend she was a single woman again and tried to live as normally as possible. But her past reputation caught up with her. Locals wrote nasty slurs on the wall of her parents’ house. One man tormented her in the marketplace.”

“Why?”

“I thought you—”

I stop him right there. “I am tired of you thinking that I know everything.”

His mouth droops; his eyes lose some of their color. “I was actually going to say that I thought you possibly didn’t know about that story.”

“Oh.” Coughing, I look away.

“Sam, don’t be angry.”

My face feels warm. “Why not?”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He sighs. Cupping my hand in his, he says, “I am on your side.”

I want to pull my hand away. I want to stand up and leave like I did a few times in the refugee camp.

“We seem to apologize a lot to each other.”

I nod. “I have this problem with flying off the handle.” Looking at him, I add, “And so do you.” At one time, my words would have been delivered with a fierce blow, and Carson would have retaliated with the same force. But we are older now; the years have softened our attitudes.

“I just want to know all there is to know about the Hongs and Lien. I don’t want you to call me unintelligent.” I do not meet his eyes.