Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune(35)

I hoped her news involved more good fortune.

My happiness, unadulterated, rose above the clouds of my grief like the sun emerging after a thunderstorm. It was a perfect day. I only wished Ma-ma were here with me. She could have at least gotten a scandalous giggle watching the Chius’ peep show from the window. Oh, how I missed her.

I headed back out to drop by Older Shen’s bookstore. There was a sign on the door saying, “Closed for repairs.” I peeked inside. He was perched on a ladder, fixing one of the cracked ceiling tiles. Drop cloths covered the bookshelves while boxes of new fluorescent tubes littered the floor.

I tapped the glass and waved.

He waved back, gesturing for me to come inside.

The floor was a land mine of loose parts, discarded cardboard, Bubble Wrap, and assorted tools. I tiptoed around a box of ceiling tiles to get a closer look. The strong smell of fresh paint dominated the space. A calming turquoise hue supplanted the eggshell on the walls. Three plastic-covered club chairs and an area rug had replaced the unused bookcases—a reading corner.

The bookstore was undergoing a renaissance.

“Mr. Shen, how are you?”

“Great. Do you like the new wall color?” He set down his screwdriver. “Maybe I should go bolder with teal or scarlet.”

“No, no. This is perfect. Very soothing and conducive to reading.”

Older Shen adjusted his collar. “I want to have local authors come in. Get more kids and families in here. That reminds me—the children’s section needs to expand too.”

The revitalization had also affected his wardrobe. He wore a sharp, peacock blue jacket with a black silk shirt over dark denim jeans.

“I love the changes you’re making. It will be great for business,” I said.

“I hope so,” he replied. “I love books. The business is much tougher now than it was when my grandfather ran the store. I’m going to adapt and not let it die out.”

I smiled.

I had helped him find his voice. This was the Older Shen who’d been hidden underneath the candied ginger and pistachio shells for all these years. He had found his courage, his boldness. Perhaps I really had fulfilled all of the conditions and could move ahead with my plans. Then the neighborhood, including my restaurant, would be saved from the real estate vultures who wanted to gentrify it.

The neighbors could have left at any time if they had wanted to, but roots ran deep. Because they’d stayed, their situations had grown more dire. If I had been in their shoes, I guiltily realized, I would have sold and run. “Why did you stay?”

“My family had always been here. My parents and their parents were a part of the business association. They taught us how important it is to be a part of the community. Guang and I are the only ones left: our cousins have all moved out to the suburbs to expand their families.”

“I thought you were like Celia, that you liked running the store.”

“I did. I’m starting to remember why I chose the bookstore in the first place.” Shen picked up his screwdriver again. “Oh, I’ve also started doing something I’ve always wanted to do for years.”

“What is it?”

“Ballroom dancing,” he said, smiling.

The thought of Older Shen practicing the Viennese waltz or Argentine tango made me happy. With its romanticism, passion, and nobility, it was a pursuit worthy of him. I hoped I would get a chance to watch him in full regalia, twirling a partner in a frothy confection of sequins and silk.

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Shen.”

He blushed. “Are you ready to open the restaurant?”

“Not yet, but I’m working toward it.”

“Good, because a new restaurant will do wonders for the neighborhood—especially if the chef is a Tan. You cook as well as your grandmother did.”

Older Shen’s compliment touched me. Warmth flooded my cheeks, and my vision clouded with unshed tears.

“Really?” I whispered.

He nodded. “It’s in your blood.”

It was. I was a Tan woman. My grandmother and my mother were strong. Their strength was mine.



* * *





?With evening approaching, I grabbed my purse and headed to the market again for fresh fish. Celia was expecting a wonderful dinner, and I knew exactly what to cook for her. I picked out a fat red snapper whose crystalline scales rivaled the trendiest pieces in the jewelry district in SoMa. As I walked home, I heard the underlying sound of the erhu embedded in the soundscape of the busy intersection. I checked in the usual places, but Mr. Kuk Wah was nowhere to be found. I wanted to look for him, but I knew if I lingered too long, Celia’s special dinner would suffer.

I returned upstairs to cook, bypassing the restaurant; perhaps because this was my own dish and not Laolao’s. I was preparing inihaw isda, a recipe I had first tasted in Manila over an open fire pit.

My fingers caught the deep nick in the lower corners of the wooden cutting block. It was made by Ma-ma’s cleaver when she’d sliced a stubborn piece of beef tendon. Though my mother was gone from this world, it gave me comfort that her presence lingered in every spice and utensil.

I reached for the two beefsteak tomatoes in the grocery bag. The shade of their skins bore a hint of orange, indicating the firmness of the juicy flesh within. My sharp blade sliced into the fruit: dripping, sticky, dotted with the jeweled seeds inside. I cut the flesh into tiny cubes as the scent of sunshine and vines filled the air. I transferred the tomatoes to a ceramic bowl before rinsing the board and knife clean.