“Thank you. Good day.” And I swear the man sighs at my departure.
But before I go, Lucy catches me by the wrist and squeezes my hand. “Oh, please tell me who your dressmaker is.”
“Lucy,” her husband chastises.
“House of July,” I say in a clear voice.
“House of July?” Lucy unfurls a fan. “Never heard of it.” Her fan picks up speed. If she stood on the bow, she could probably motor us to New York all by herself.
The grieving widow wishes for nothing more than to drift back into the shadows. But April is jerking her chin slightly to someplace behind me.
I sneak a look over my shoulder. The whole room has drawn closer, their gazes moving from the top of my peacock-blue toque to the bottom hem of my shimmering kimono. So, this is the moment April has been waiting for.
I remind myself to wear the dress, not the other way around, and walk in a small circle with my chin lifted, giving everyone a proper view of Mrs. Sloane’s “style.” A light applause sounds like the flap of birds taking flight.
Finally, I begin to make my way back to the Cabbage Patch. Glances trail after me, as light as balloons being dragged by the strings.
At the sight of a purple bowler traveling up the stairs, I hastily slip through the felt doors, then peer back through their oval windows.
Freshly shaven and with his chesterfield draped over his arm, Mr. Stewart crests the staircase and calls a greeting to Captain Smith. The two men shake hands, and Mr. Stewart starts talking. Whatever he says makes the captain squint and grab his elbows.
Mr. Stewart gestures as if grabbing a star out of the sky, and then uses both hands to spread an imaginary banner.
Captain Smith frowns. His eyeballs grow twitchy. He glances around, as if searching the room for answers.
I duck out of view.
I shouldn’t have made that last request for candied fruits. I overplayed my hand. Tested the limits of the captain’s generosity. Then again, I showed myself to be a difficult, hard-to-please woman of means, the type most likely to get what she wants.
I peek through the window again.
Captain Smith is talking, back in command of the situation. Mr. Stewart shakes his head. The captain must be refusing his request.
But then the captain slaps Mr. Stewart on the back. He hikes up the stairs, leaving Mr. Stewart by himself on the landing. Mr. Stewart shakes out his chesterfield and slips his arms into it, giving me a good look at his expression. My knees nearly buckle when I spot the double smile of his hat brim and face, lit by the flush of victory.
21
Dressed in sea slops, I pace Room 14, waiting for Jamie. With each step, I start to worry that I may have misread Mr. Stewart. Perhaps Captain Smith told him no, and his elated face was only a trick of the light.
The doorknob turns, and Bo steps into the room, blinking when he sees me. “You found your circus man?”
“Yes. I think we might have a shot at performing for him.”
He smiles. “I wish you luck.” Stooping, he rummages through his seabag. His hair tapers to a curve at the nape of his neck, like a hook waiting for a wriggly finger to bait it. I watch the cliffs of Dover cord under his simple jacket, knowing I misjudged him but unsure how to express my remorse.
After locating a small tin of green willow salve, he catches me watching him. I feign interest in the porthole, listening to the papery sounds of his hands as he rubs them together.
“Bo? I’m sorry, well, for presuming that you—”
“Forget it. Jamie is a good friend.” A frown puts a dent in his cheek. “But family should be together.” His gaze drifts away and floats light as a feather to the floor. “I had a brother.”
“Do you mean have? Had is for the past.”
He nods. “Past.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
The moment rolls gently along like the Titanic. He leans back against the door and switches to Cantonese so he can more easily express himself. “He was like you, a dog who nips at the heels.” He crooks an eyebrow at me. “Once we made enough money, An wanted us to return to the island where we grew up and build our own fishing boat—not a sampan, but a forty-footer, large enough to house our wives and all our sons.”
“Sounds like a good life.”
He snorts and returns to English. “You do not really think that.”
“You’re right. How do you stand living on the water?”
“I like the motion. Makes me feel I am going somewhere.”
“Aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer but instead fiddles with his ring. I realize the circle design is actually two teardrop shapes forming a perfect yin-yang symbol.
“Are those koi?” I ask. Koi represent harmony, as is created when positive energy balances negative.
He takes off his ring and hands it to me. Though I’m no expert, I can tell the artist employed a deft hand with his needle. The image is detailed enough to see fish scales.
“Where did you get it?” I slip the ring over my thumb, where it hangs loosely.
“This was An’s. I made it for him.”
“You made it?” I glance at his rough hands.
A wry smile crests his face. “Even a rock has its points. Sometimes men ask me to sketch their wives so they can remember them at sea.”
Well, I never pegged Wagtail as an artist. Imagining his strong hands creating something so tiny and perfect fills me with a giddy sense of wonder. “How did you cut the shell without breaking it?”
“Rubbed it against a stone. It takes patience, and sometimes they break. Not every shell wants to be changed.”
I can’t help thinking that we are no longer speaking of shells. I hold out the ring, feeling suddenly conscious of the shape of him in front of me, tall enough to kiss the top of my head, and broad enough to shelter me on a windy day.
He takes it back, and his fingers brush mine. My skin grows rosy. The man is hard not to stare at, with his high cheekbones, clear eyes, plus the scowling mouth, which at the moment looks strangely tender. The cabin conspires with the sea to rock us closer.
The door opens. Without turning around, Bo swings a hand back and catches the edge before it swipes us.
“Hello.” Jamie looks from Bo to me, and his eyes bend into inquisitive hooks.
“Where’ve you been?” I demand, as if I’ve been doing nothing but waiting here.
“Collecting the men.”
Olly and Wink, both looking fresh and windblown, jump up onto the top bunk. Tao and Fong slide into the bottom bunk. Opposite them, Ming Lai and Drummer, his face and clothes black with soot, fit themselves onto Bo’s bunk, while Bo seats himself on a pull-down wall chair near the door.