Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(32)

She turned her head and nuzzled my hand.

“I miss her too. I hope I can make her proud.”

The cat mewed.

“Oh, Ma-ma, I wish you were here.”

As I fed sheets of paper into the printer, the thought of my father crept into my mind. Wherever he was, he probably didn’t know Ma-ma had died. I never truly accepted that he chose to leave us. I didn’t want to know why he left. I didn’t doubt Ma-ma’s love for him or question her unworthy choice in a husband—after all, I was its by-product. But what worried me was the fear that I’d inherited her flawed ability to choose a mate. I failed Emilio. Would I do the same to Daniel if I dared pursue anything with him?

I shook my head. I had to stop thinking this way. Failure wasn’t an option, not in love and not for the restaurant.

I printed out the business license form and placed it with the others: federal employer identification, legal building permit, seller’s permit, food handler’s permit, sign permit, health operational permit. I even printed out forms for a music license and an alcoholic beverage license—maybe I could make them fit into the budget. The folder had become bloated like an overstuffed dumpling.

I kissed the top of the cat’s head before I made my way downstairs to fill out the paperwork. I could have done it upstairs at the kitchen table but I had an ulterior motive: I wanted to lay another “trap” for a certain someone.

I decided to make Laolao’s dumpling recipe again because I already had the ingredients. The scent of Laolao’s food must have acted like culinary pheromones to lure Daniel here. Had he arrived before or after I’d fried them? I couldn’t remember. How had he smelled my cooking from so far away? There was a tap against the door. Celia stood at the doorway. She appeared refreshed, her dark curls crisper than ever and her tortoiseshell glasses glinting in the sunlight. She wore a lime green frock with a print of tiny red cherries accented by a starburst citrine brooch.

I went to the door to meet her.

“Last night was fun,” she said. “Thank you for confiding in me.” A deep blush spread across her cheeks. “I hope you know that you can trust me.”

“Of course.” I smiled. “I consider you a friend.”

“Good!” She sniffed the air. “Are you cooking something right now?”

“Not yet, but I will be.”

“I can’t wait to smell it. The best part of your laolao’s cooking—other than eating it—was the way it filled the neighborhood with such delicious scents.” Celia checked over her shoulder as the dragon hiss of a tour bus’s air brakes signaled the oncoming stampede of tourists. “My luck has turned! It’s the tour group that Old Wu promised yesterday. Oh, I really needed this! I’ll be back later.” She waved goodbye and sprinted down the street to open her gift shop, an adorable human streak of lime green and cherry red.

It was working! Laolao’s recipe had turned Celia’s luck. I couldn’t wait to check in on the rest of the neighbors later. The restaurant’s success hinged on helping them, and although my motives hadn’t been altruistic in the beginning, I now found myself wanting to engage with the people who lived nearby. Cooking for them cut away some of the veils of formality. After all, I’d been privy to their heartaches, and they knew I had lost Ma-ma. Exposure had banished the years of unfamiliarity.

I heated the oil in the wok, and waited for it to get to the right temperature before tossing in a dumpling. It sank below the bubbling surface only to rise in golden splendor when done. I fished it out and waited. Science gauged the speeds of light and sound, but what about aroma?

I ran to the front door and propped it open.

Would it work again this time?

Should I fry more dumplings?

Should I fan the wok while cooking?

I stared at my phone to check the time.

Two minutes had passed since I fried the dumpling. Soon, two had turned to five.

The idea that he could have been a food-induced hallucination took root, merely a romantic dream borne from the whispers of my heart.

Seven minutes.

He wasn’t coming.

I should be concentrating on cooking for the neighbors anyway instead of chasing an irresistible illusion.

Why did he have to be so handsome?

Just then, the bell above the door jingled.

Daniel came into the restaurant with a wonderful smile. As he made his way to the counter, I battled the rising nervousness and giddiness inside me.

Armed with his familiar leather messenger bag and a blinking assortment of gadgets, he perched upon his designated stool. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, his eyes closed as he inhaled, drawing as much of the delicious air into his lungs as he could, his rib cage expanding like a hot-air balloon. His navy tee had some sort of programming code on it, obscured by his striped overshirt.

“You do know I’m not officially open, right?”

“Then I’m coming in to get a sneak peek before everyone else. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

I smiled. “A cook always likes to hear when someone likes her food.”

“Speaking of which, I’d love more of those addictive dumplings, please. As many as you can serve. I’ve had dumplings before, but nothing like these. They’re different. Very googol.”

I didn’t understand why he compared the dumplings to a search engine, but I nodded my head anyway and pointed to the kitchen. “I’ll be back with the food.”