Outrun the Moon(80)

“Miss Wong?” Oliver Chance appears by my side. His face is rectangular, indicating an ambitious nature, and his cheeks are smooth as carved soap from a fresh shave. “Your game is very charming. The children love you.” He speaks with the careful diction of the educated.

“Thank you.”

“Are you from Chinatown?”

My smile drops off. When a man asks if a girl is from Chinatown, he is often asking her something else. “I am not that sort.”

Oliver blushes, bringing out the green in his hazel eyes. He coughs. “Oh. I didn’t mean . . . I only meant it must have been terrible to hear about the fires.”

I nod.

“We used to take our laundry there and—er, I’m sorry. I see I have offended you again.” His forehead crinkles in consternation, and his chest caves around a sigh. “Forgive me. My grandmother says I can be as dense as a peppernut.”

“I’ve never heard of that kind of nut.”

“It’s not a nut; it’s a spice cookie. We Germans eat them at Christmastime.”

Little Bess Fordham flits between us. She brakes in front of Ah-Suk, who is watching me from a few paces away, mouth tucked into a frown.

“Two Frogs on a Stick!” Bess pleads with Ah-Suk. The man’s weighty gaze slides to Oliver before turning his attention to the girl bouncing in front of him.

Oliver hangs around like a forgotten shirt. I inhale through my nose, the way Ma taught me to receive lung energy and dispel negative emotions. This young man means no harm, even if he has dropped a few thistles down my back. I remind myself that Oliver Chance is here because he lost something—a house, or maybe loved ones.

“Is your family well?” I ask.

“Mostly. My grandfather broke his ankle, but he’s tough. He says at his age, he’s lucky he felt anything at all.” He flashes a grin.

“He sounds like a character.”

We watch the Bostons hang mason jars filled with candles on a nearby tree, making the shadows twinkle.

“What you’re doing here, it’s a cut above.” Oliver’s gaze gently probes mine. “Consider me an admirer.”

A knocking starts up, and the voices die off. Mr. Fordham is banging the spoon on Francesca’s pot. “Hear, hear! The lady said dinner is ready!” Beside him, Francesca blushes prettily. “But first, a speech?” he asks her, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Francesca shakes her head. Spotting me, she points in my direction. “This was Mercy’s idea. She is the reason we are all here together.”

All eyes converge on me. My tongue ties itself in a knot, and though I do like to be up on the deck, suddenly I’m not sure if I can captain this particular ship.

A grinning Mr. Fordham opens the painting ladder in front of me. Mr. Chance is quick to offer his hand, and up I go.

Two rungs higher, I catch a bit of the breeze. Jack would’ve loved to see the mix of faces shining up at me—black, brown, yellow, and white, in all ages and sizes. In one neighborhood where all are welcome.

We all have one feature in common: an outlook. It is forged by the memory of what we went through and shaped by the hope that we will persevere. It is as indelible as a footprint on cement.

Elodie gives me one of her smirks that says I’m a show-off, and it prompts me to words. My voice sounds too small, like the squeak of a mouse in high grass. “It may have been my idea to have this dinner, but it was through the combined efforts of the girls of St. Clare’s that we are here tonight.”

Katie, back from collecting mint and parsley with Harry, begins clapping, setting off applause.

Before the noise fades, I search the trees for something more to say, but they only wiggle their leaves. In the distance, I catch sight of a trio of Chinese. I nearly fall off the ladder, but Mr. Chance steadies me. It’s the Pangs, and behind them, two more Chinese families I don’t know. They came after all, bearing a frying pan full of Earthquake Harvest. Forty-four, and then some.

Ma, I did it. Maybe now, four will leave us alone.

They join our circle, bowing politely at everyone, and the words finally come. “We are as different as peacocks from ducks, yet a tragedy has thrown us into the same pond. We have all lost something important, and for some of us, that includes friends and family members.”

José looks up at me with a sweet, almost reverent gaze, and for a moment, I could swear it’s Jack: my reason, my own personal soup. Before the tears come and my throat closes, I look away from the boy. “We dedicate this dinner to those people. Their deaths might leave a hole in our hearts as deep as the ocean, but it is only because we are deep as the ocean, and our capacity to love is as high as the sky. The earthquake took much from us. But there is much we can take from it as well.”

The moment is full, like a glass filled to the rim that might spill if you touch it. So I step down from the ladder, and Katie and Harry tuck their warm arms into mine. Francesca begins to say grace.

While the others bend their heads, I look at a rift in the clouds, pried open by the golden hands of a setting sun. For the first time since the earthquake, a little piece of my shattered heart falls back into place, and that shard is enough for now.





37



BELLIES ARE FILLED, AND STORIES EXCHANGED. There is plenty of meat, barbecued and grilled, hearty stew fortified with creamed corn, pasta with porcini mushrooms, and creamed dandelion leaves flavored with cinnamon and topped with orange peel.