Soy Sauce for Beginners Page 20

  Uncle Robert raised a hand and the room quieted down. He had more news—news that I’d already heard about: Frankie had received an offer from a top management consulting firm. She would leave for Hong Kong at the end of the month.

  Murmurs filled the room. The same people who continued to keep their distance from me streamed over to shake Frankie’s hand or give her a hug.

  “Don’t forget to come back and visit us, hor. Hong Kong isn’t that far away,” Uncle Robert said, wagging a finger at Frankie. “And thank you for all your hard work.”

  The applause started once more, and Frankie blushed. As I clapped along, an image surfaced in my mind, of the two of us in my red Jetta, driving south on 101 to LA, a half-empty bag of marshmallows between us. She was at the wheel; I was slouched in the passenger seat with my heels on the dashboard. And when the opening drum beats of our favorite Radiohead song came on the radio, we threw back our heads and belted out the words.

  That same day, Mama Poon soft-launched our soy sauce in their California stores, and Benji Rosenthal wrote to congratulate Lin’s on the enthusiastic response from customers. He had his analysts reforecast sales, and they put in a request for more bottles as soon as they could get them.

  Cal reported this news at the management team’s midweek meeting. The four of us, plus the heads of marketing and finance, were gathered in my uncle’s office.

  “Excellent news, Boy,” said Uncle Robert.

  Cal sat up straight in his chair, as though his sternum were attached to the ceiling by a piece of string.

  “I’ll get someone started on the press release right away,” said the marketing head.

  “Nice work,” I said to my cousin, who grinned back and said, “Any news to report from the premium line? Excuse me, the heritage line?”

  I looked down at my notes, pretending I hadn’t memorized what I was about to share. I told them I too had exciting news. In fact, I’d received confirmation that very morning. From the famous American talk show host herself.

  Everyone leaned in. The smirk slid off my cousin’s face.

  “Come December, our premium soy sauce will be featured in Melody’s Christmas episode as one of six gifting ideas for the season.” Fighting to maintain a steady tone, I recounted the entire story, from my initial conversation with Suzanne Silver to my meeting with the talk show host in the back of her limo. “They’ve already ordered eight hundred bottles each of premium light and dark soy sauce to hand out to the audience and crew.”

  At first no one said anything.

  Ba planted a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

  Then my uncle repeated Melody’s name. “Incredible,” he said.

  The head of finance tapped numbers into his calculator. “We’ll need to do some research to figure out the potential lift in sales. This could drive up numbers in a way we’ve never seen before.”

  “We’ll have to notify the local news outlets,” said the head of marketing, scribbling in her notebook. “This is Melody we’re talking about.”

  But Cal reminded everyone not to get overexcited. He said the finance head was right; more research needed to be done. “We don’t know how long this interest will last, and how many additional bottles we’ll actually sell.”

  I resisted the urge to tell him to stop being a sore loser. He knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. There was no better time to export our premium soy sauce to America.

  It didn’t take long for Uncle Robert and Ba to conclude that at the very least, we would have to revisit the US expansion plan.

  “We need to hold off on producing more fiberglass sauce for Mama Poon’s,” Uncle Robert said. “At least until we have a better idea of what this publicity will do for our heritage line.”

  The rest of us nodded in agreement—all except for Cal who sat completely still. “Hang on. We can’t afford to wait on this.”

  Uncle Robert began to respond, but Cal cut him off. “Why are we all rushing to make sauce the old way? Liter for liter, the fiberglass sauce is going to be twice as profitable.”

  This time Ba spoke. “We’re not rushing into anything. That’s the point, what. We need to see more analysis before we make a decision.”

  Cal slammed a palm on the desk. “This is our problem. We’re too damn slow about everything. By the time we make up our minds, the opportunity is gone.”

  “Boy,” Uncle Robert said in a voice I’d never heard before. He did not go on.

  “This is bullshit,” Cal said, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s bad enough, this ‘co–vice president’ crap.” He glared at me.

  The marketing and finance heads shifted uneasily and regarded their laps.

  Cal said, “Am I the only one who sees that Lin’s can’t survive this way?”

  Suddenly I was furious at myself for letting him bully me. I said, “You can’t throw a tantrum every time things don’t go your way. There are two of us now, so yes, it’s going to take a little more time to make decisions, but surely you’ve learned how dangerous your recklessness can be.”

  Cal’s eyes narrowed. He rose to his feet. “Do you know how many job offers I’m sitting on? I don’t have to stick around here, fighting to drag this company into the future.” He stared at my uncle, as though willing—or begging—his father to back him up.

  Uncle Robert’s face was soft and sad. He looked away and closed his eyes.

  Cal pointed right at me. His finger didn’t waver as he moved to the door. “She can’t handle this. Lin’s is never going to make it.”

  The door slammed. A pile of papers flew off the desk, and I fell to my knees to gather them, relieved to have something to do.

  By lunchtime, Cal was gone. He’d barged in Frankie’s office and taken as many boxes of documents as he could carry, as well as a hard drive’s worth of confidential files—information that had never left the family.

  “We’ll take him to court,” I said.

  But Ba said things were more complicated than that. He told me to think of what the media coverage would do to the family, especially Auntie Tina. Ba and I both turned to my uncle, who had yet to say a word.

  Uncle Robert let out a rueful laugh that gave me chills. He said, “How could I be so wrong?”

  “He took the files in a fit of anger. We don’t know that he’s planning to do anything with them,” my father said. “You should talk to the boy.”

  But my uncle turned his back to us. “What good would that do?”

  “Maybe I should talk to him,” I said, even though I had no idea where to begin, even though I was the reason Cal had stormed out in the first place.

  “It’s worth a try,” said Ba.

  Uncle Robert flung his hands in the air. “Be my guest,” he said, with that same bone-chilling laugh. “Be my guest.”

  17

  IN THE WEEKS AFTER LEAVING San Francisco, I only heard from Paul once, the day he received the papers from my lawyer. I let the call go to voicemail, and then listened to the message three times in a row.

  Haltingly, Paul said he would mail the papers back to me later that day. After a long pause, he said he wanted me to know that he’d moved into a studio in Oakland, and then immediately added, “I have no idea why I just told you that.” I almost smiled.

  When the honey-colored manila envelope bearing his elongated, all-caps handwriting arrived at my parents’ home, I should have been prepared. Still, I thumbed through the stack of papers, searching for errors, a small part of me hoping for a reason to send them back, to delay the process for a little bit longer. But all fourteen pages had been signed and dated.

  Paul and I had neither babies, nor pets, nor shared assets. We lived eight thousand miles apart. We were young. Later, people would tell me how lucky I was. How simple this all had been. They’d go on to recount traumatic divorces involving shell-shocked children and drained bank accounts. Paul and I should be thankful to have been spared this next level of heartbreak. With these papers, it was as if the last twelve years
had never happened, or at least ceased to matter. A clean break.

  Between the last two pages, my fingers sensed a thickness. I drew out a thin white envelope, unsealed but with the flap tucked in. Paul’s final plea? He’d always had a melodramatic streak.

  I fumbled with the flap before ripping open the envelope. It was not a letter, but a check, made out to my father, for two thousand seven hundred dollars, and a short note detailing Paul’s plan to pay off the rest of the money. In spite of it all, my heart lurched.

  The sounds of plunking piano keys lugged me away from my thoughts. Downstairs, my mother was practicing dutifully. Only she could play this piece so tentatively yet with such determination.

  And then my thoughts shaped themselves around the present moment: Were these small, daily activities—practicing piano, reading, working on her manuscript—enough to keep her occupied? Enough to make her days and months and years add up to something?

  The day before, my mother had told me that friends of hers were looking to rent out the condo their oldest son had vacated for a larger place. “Twelve hundred square feet, two bedroom two bath.” Would I be interested in taking a look?

  With all that had taken place over the past weeks, I hadn’t had time to consider moving out of my parents’ house. And then I grasped the other reason why the thought had never crossed my mind. “If it’s okay with you and Ba, I’d like to stay here for a little while.”

  Ma’s head jerked toward me. Her eyes widened. “Of course, ducky,” she said. “Stay as long as you’d like.”

  Downstairs, the plunking continued. My metronome had done nothing for her. In all likelihood she’d chucked it in the piano bench and forgotten about it. I could hear her now: “If I’d known you were going to nag me all day long, I would never have signed up for lessons.”

  I put aside the papers and went downstairs to intervene.

  18

  AND SO, ONCE AGAIN, I found myself at the gates of the Tan home.

  Judging from the line of cars stretching down the road, Kat had managed to round up the whole group despite the short notice. I wasn’t surprised.

  A few days before, I’d called to apologize for my earlier behavior, and to update her on the events of the past weeks—I wanted her to hear it all from me.

  Kat congratulated me on my decision to stay and dismissed my apology. That dinner had happened so long ago, she pointed out, and in our twenty-four-year friendship, hadn’t we been through worse?

  I wasn’t sure we had, but I agreed, relieved to have my friend back.

  “Now,” Kat said, “I don’t want to upset you, but I’m hosting a going-away party. For Frankie.”

  Before I could launch into my tirade, she went on. “Look, she did a shitty thing. I’m not trying to argue otherwise.”

  “In that case, since we’re both in agreement here, why are you throwing this party? How can you do this to me?”

  “She’s really sorry, Gretch. Trust me.”

  Of course I knew how close Kat and Frankie were. Over the past months they’d spent twice as much time together as I had with either of them. Still, at that moment, the thought of the two of them talking behind my back, confiding in each other, trading advice, was too much to handle. And so I raised my voice, spoke in hyperbole, cited betrayal and made other melodramatic accusations.

  True to form, Kat held her ground. “For God’s sake, you don’t have to hug and slobber all over each other, but at least part on decent terms. Who knows when you’ll see her again?”

  When I didn’t acquiesce, she added, “This is Singapore. Look around you. Everyone’s dated everyone else. If I stopped talking to every girl who hit on one of my ex-boyfriends, I’d have no one to talk to.”

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend,” I said quickly.

  “Even more reason to come.”

  As I walked down the driveway, laughter rose from inside the house. A vigorous masculine laugh stood out—a laugh that could have belonged to James. I’d assumed he would be here. I’d even looked forward to showing him I could be civil. Right then, however, my instincts took over. I turned and ran to the gate, and when a taxi passed I almost flagged it down.

  Two houses down, the taxi came to a stop. Terrence stepped out before helping Cindy to her feet. They called my name and waved, and Cindy said they were late because she’d barely been able to fit through the front door—what was my excuse? Her cheeks were flushed and her forehead glistened, but her smile was radiant.

  “I had some things to take care of,” I said, as Terrence elbowed Cindy in the ribs.

  “Ow,” she cried, before a look of recognition passed over her. “Oh, gosh,” she said, stumbling over an apology while Terrence buried his face in his hands.

  A second later, she elbowed Terrence back.

  “Ow,” he said, which made me laugh. And then he joined in, and Cindy giggled along.

  Inside the house, the atmosphere was mellow, relaxed, unlike Kat’s regular parties. People curled up on the circular couch with oversized tumblers of red wine. They lounged in deck chairs by the pool. The guest of honor stood with her elbows on the bar, swigging a Tiger beer as she chatted with Kat and Ming. Her one-time fling was all the way on the other end of the room with his friend Pierre and a girl with a pixie haircut.

  When I came in the door, all eyes darted to me at the same moment. I squared my shoulders and strode through the room, and a downbeat later, conversations resumed, but still I felt them watching for my next move.

  Cindy was waylaid by a girl who pressed her palms to her belly as if she were blessing the unborn child. A group of guys out on the patio called for Terrence to come over and help them resolve a bet. And then I was alone.

  There was no point in prolonging the inevitable. I marched over to Kat, Ming, and Frankie, and interrupted their conversation, hugging the first two before gingerly putting my arms around Frankie.

  She said, “I’m glad you came.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” I said, which drew an approving smile from Kat.

  Kat reached for a wine glass, filled it almost to the brim with sauvignon blanc, and carefully slid it over to me. She made up an excuse to leave, and nudged her husband to join her.

  I took a long, tart, too-cold drink. “Maybe we should go outside?”

  Frankie and I went out by the pool, but after she slapped at a mosquito for the third time, we retreated to the kitchen, where the only other person in the room was the maid, frying samosas in a large deep pan. Together Frankie and I watched the girl shuttle her samosas from pan to paper towel to serving platter.

  The maid finished stacking the samosas and offered the platter to Frankie and me. I shook my head, and was taken aback when Frankie reached for one; I’d grown accustomed to her declining most everything.

  Platter in hand, the maid went out to the living room.

  “I know,” Frankie said, catching my look. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  I denied that the thought had even occurred to me.

  She attempted to bite into the samosa, then gave up and thrust the whole thing in her mouth, dropping her jaw and panting to cool the piping-hot triangle. When she finished chewing, she said glumly, “I’m so afraid that everything will go back to the way it was before.”

  I knew she wasn’t simply referring to her weight, but I automatically started to tell her that one samosa wouldn’t make a difference.

  She sucked the grease off her fingers. “You don’t get it. I’ve never been as happy as I am here in Singapore.”

  All at once the kitchen smells were suffocating. My stomach churned. “Frankie, you don’t have to go.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  “You can find another job here. I’m sure my father and uncle will help.”

  She balled up her napkin in her fist with surprising force. “I’m about to start a great job. I’m not going to turn it down now. And who knows? Maybe I’ll love Hong Kong, too.”

  If I’d followed Frankie’s
lead and told her all I knew of Hong Kong, our conversation might have taken a lighter, more optimistic turn. Instead I made myself ask the question on my mind. “Are you leaving because of me?”

  She gave me a long look. “I have to take responsibility for my actions.”

  “I’m not mad anymore,” I said, and knew it was the truth.

  Frankie’s face crumpled, and I feared she’d start to cry, but then she said, “For once the guy I was attracted to actually liked me back. I know how stupid and trivial it sounds, but for me it felt monumental. I’m sorry I let that cloud my judgment. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  I wanted to reach out and touch my friend’s cheek. “I accept your apology.”

  These past months, I’d watched Frankie slip effortlessly into her new Singaporean life. She’d cultivated an uncomplicated love for my homeland, embracing her freedom and independence the way I had in America, the way I was incapable of doing here.

  Now, however, I saw that I’d let my envy blind me. Nothing had been easy for Frankie. She’d had to work for everything she’d earned: the respect of my father and uncle, the trust of her co-workers, the affection of her new friends. By being courageous and persistent, she’d built the foundation for her life here in Singapore, only to have to move to Hong Kong and start over again, and all on her own, because her family had never nurtured and supported her the way mine had. Through her time here, Frankie had illuminated everything I’d given up by coming back to Singapore. Now, I finally saw what I had gained.

  “I wish I could have done more to help,” I said.

  Her brow relaxed. “You found me a job, introduced me to your family and friends—you’ve done more than enough.”

  It was kind of her to say so, but we both knew it wasn’t true. I’d been petty and jealous, wrapped in the cocoon of my problems, unable to see beyond my pain.