I walked into the shop humming a happy tune. Aunt Evelyn was at the counter arranging round sablés on a plate. The sugar crystals on the cookies glittered in the light. I made plans to sneak one into my mouth later.
“I hope you had a lovely breakfast,” she said.
“I did. Marc took me to a pancake place. You’d love it. He’ll be coming over for a late dinner sometime this week. As for the boycott, he doesn’t think his boss wrote that notice. He’s looking into who is responsible.”
“It doesn’t matter who wrote it. Girard’s name is still there.” Aunt Evelyn folded the empty bakery box and tucked it below the counter. “His sphere of influence is more than mine. He can—and will—ruin me if given the chance. I’m dealing with more forms. More red tape.”
She walked to the door, stopped, and surveyed her shop. Even in the empty store, she commanded the room. Her posture was that of a dancer: confident, powerful, and in full control. Not one tendril of hair slipped from her tidy updo. My aunt was indomitable, a resolute force.
Aunt Evelyn opened the store doors and ventured outside to draw people in. I took my place behind the sampling tray of tea. She concentrated on bringing in a small stream of patrons.
When my aunt was not attending to customers, her hand wandered to her pocket, where she kept her keys and the blue butterfly keychain. Independent of one another, they had clung to the same symbol of their shared past: Girard made it the emblem of his restaurant, she carried it with her. They wore their affections in public and in private.
No one seemed to see this but me.
It was the middle of the afternoon, and Aunt Evelyn had only issued commands related to the tea shop. She stayed on her phone when not canvassing passersby. I wanted to be supportive and offered to join her, but she declined with a smile.
“I appreciate your desire to help, but you do not speak French,” she said. “Anyway, it’s lunchtime. Stay here. I need to run a few errands and shore up more support. I’ll pick up lunch and more treats from the bakery.”
Annoyed, I swallowed my protest.
Under the impromptu house arrest, I took the opportunity to text Auntie Faye for an update. It was past midnight back home, but I figured she’d answer me when she woke. Three seconds later my phone rang. She did prefer voice to texts.
“I’m so sorry to bother you. It’s really late. Why are you still up?” I asked.
“It’s mahjong night. We have no curfew,” she declared on speakerphone. The background was filled with the noise of clacking tiles, laughter, and clinking glasses. “We have a list of exes.”
Auntie Gloria took over. “One is a movie star, and there are three models.”
“Not a movie star, a director!” Auntie Ning corrected her. “There’s a difference.”
An argument ensued, but Auntie Faye took control and possession of the phone. “Your mother says hi and she’ll call you soon, but she’s busy refereeing right now.”
I laughed. “You found his dating history, so you know who he is?”
“Girard Renaud. Restaurateur and philanthropist. No family left. Only brother died seven years ago. No marriage! Not even engagements.”
“Maybe he still loves Aunt Evelyn.”
Auntie Faye clicked her tongue. “Could be. Oh, and he still looks good. Not ugly old at all. Ning and several others have a crush. And he’s rich. Not as rich as your uncle Jimmy, but he has enough.”
Uncle James “Jimmy” Yu started in the family tea business but made his money in the stock market. His uncanny instincts were often mistaken for clairvoyance. He and Aunt Evelyn were close, and it had long been suspected that she had a tidy nest egg because of their association.
“Girard owns restaurants here,” I said. “The food is great.”
“Is Evelyn still interested?”
I wanted to answer yes, but that would leave Aunt Evelyn exposed. I refused to allow my current annoyance with her to create a mess I’d need to clean up later. Aunt Gloria once hired a singing zebra to help woo her son’s crush by crashing their romantic picnic date. If the aunties back home detected a hint of reciprocation, their heavy-handed version of meddling would ruin the tenuous situation here.
“I’m not sure. I’ll have to get back to you on that. You know what she’s like.”
“Keeps everything hidden like she’s ashamed of her feelings.” Auntie Ning took the phone and held it close to her mouth. “She needs to stop being tragic and grab that beautiful man with both arms.”
“And both legs. Climb that French tree,” Auntie Gloria yelled from the background. Her emphatic statement was received with raucous laughter.
The women were clearly enjoying their wine. Mahjong nights with the aunties lasted until the morning, a quarterly event of competition, gossip, food, and drink. They went all out with theming, choice of catering, and venue. They handed out prizes for the tournament: spa packages and designer and luxury goods. The grand prize was a tiara and a sash. Ma won a few times and pranced around the house for weeks like she was Miss World.
“Keep an eye on her and take care of her. After you leave, she’s all alone over there.” Auntie Faye sighed. “I have to go. We love you.”
“Love you all too.”
When I left, my aunt wouldn’t be alone. She would be with Girard living their happily ever after. She deserved happiness and so did he.
Aunt Evelyn returned and, without a word, placed a wrapped sandwich before me, entered the storage room, and locked the door behind her.
Thirty-Two
Auntie?” I knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”
The lock on the door clicked and she ventured out. Her creased brow and half-eaten sandwich betrayed her waning appetite. She hummed the same sad tune I recognized from that night at Le Papillon Bleu. The notes hovered in the air and reverberated within the shop like a somber chorus.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The posters are everywhere. Every person I tried to enlist to my cause had that damnable paper taped to their door or window: Jerome the butcher, and Miette, whose shoe shop I loved going into. I thought they were my friends or, at least, neutral. How can I combat this wave of prejudice?”
There wasn’t anything I could say to help. Hate was fueled by emotions; it couldn’t be reasoned with. The micro-aggressions I faced did not compare with the coordinated campaign of discrimination directed toward my aunt. She was a foreigner and was outnumbered. Our family, a source of strength through numbers and kinship, was an ocean away.
Her phone buzzed, interrupting our lost thoughts. She withdrew it from her pocket and scanned the screen, her thumb dragging across the glass. Her dark eyes looked at me, her pupils pinpricks. “That was from the fortune-teller society. They have no answers. I’m to document and keep them informed.”