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The middle-aged gentleman came into the establishment in a well-pressed suit. In any other restaurant in Hong Kong, the man would have fit in, but this particular French restaurant almost exclusively served tourists who weren’t known for looking so polished. That hadn’t been the owner’s intention, though the tourists were willing to pay more than the locals. But those intentions aside, a few lines of text in a popular guidebook launched Le Château d'Harmonie into the imaginations of travelers who overlooked the local fare entirely because of the musings of a stranger who pulled together a pocket-sized book.
It was odd, really. Or so the staff of the restaurant thought as much, but it was a hard industry to survive in. It was better to simply not question the stray strokes of good fortune that fell one’s way. Or that was what their boss Alain would say. He made it something of a motto, and through the resulting repetition, the notion came to feel true. There wasn’t a reason to doubt it or him. He had spent decades in the industry before opening Le Château d'Harmonie. There was no one more knowledgeable than him.
And yet, Alain did not understand the well-dressed gentleman either. He did not understand the sight the man posed. He joined the crowd of his gawking staff, masking his own nerves. He had his own theories. None of them were particularly promising.
Immigration, he thought but didn’t say. The word was always on his tongue. It was another aspect of the industry, a stray threat, or the potential therein. That governmental department was always on the verge of sweeping in and causing havoc in its wake. They often had cause to. Many shops cut corners and hired staff without the proper paperwork. So many in fact that even those who followed every last letter in the law feared a reckoning that could completely destroy them. Bureaucracy armed itself with only the sharpest knives, aiming for the weakest parts of one’s armor.
Sometimes those points are still strong, though. Sometimes they can hold out against the onslaught. But as Alain’s eye landed on a specific woman amidst the small crowd, he couldn’t deny that his restaurant’s armor was no stronger than rice paper at its weakest points.
Normally, it was an easy thought to avoid. Alain could convince himself that while he was skirting the letter of the law, he was not violating its spirit, per say. He found himself then staring at a black bun off to his right. He could see she was just as intrigued as everyone else. Her eyes were wide. She was a moth unknowingly being pulled towards a flame.
Felicity was meant to work for him. That was what her immigration paperwork said. She did. As a nanny, the paperwork also said, which she was. But sometimes the restaurant needed her more than his child did. His wife could take their daughter, but she refused to work in the restaurant. And Felicity hardly cared. Money was money to her, but it wasn’t to everyone.
Immigration, he almost whispered to her as a warning. Get in the back, he almost added. They can’t know you’re here.
But she paid his unsaid words no mind. Instead, Felicity watched as the man read over the menu. He was somewhat handsome, she would tell her daughter in the decades that were to follow before reminding her that the suit had likely done a fair bit of the work. They were a generous garment, as she put it, and her daughter would never know what she meant. And in some ways, Felicity would never understand what she meant, though the words were her own. The suit simply let out a siren’s call. Her heart soared in her chest with each note. As unbelievable as it should have been, Felicity trusted every word. She threw herself into the song and towards the man as Alain muttered curses under her breath.
Felicity strutted up to the table, acting with the sort of precision that is required when one meets their destiny. That’s what she was doing, she believed. She could see her daughter's hair in the man’s. He wore it a bit long, but it was clean and sat in some semblance of order on his head. It wasn’t anything that couldn’t be overlooked, or Felicity would simply cut it herself, she had decided. She had decided many things in that short work. Not the least of which was that he would be in her future. Somehow.
When she reached his table, she let a smile take hold on her face and held her shoulders back. Her posture gave her an extra inch of height, but even still, she was clearly very short.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Felicity. And I’ll be your server.”
She always assumed English would work. Occasionally it didn’t.
The man set his menu down. His thin lips faintly peered out from his beard. It was a glimpse of a smirk not a smile. Felicity could tell, though the difference was slight. But there was a twinkle in the man’s eye to help confirm her suspicion. It was a faint light that shined out from his dark brown irises, highlighting the sort of warmth she didn’t often see in men’s eyes.
“That’s a beautiful name,” he said.
He looked her up and down, taking her beauty in. Her body had curves and a real presence, but it was still what so many would call thin and delicate. The strength that got her through life wasn’t obvious. She didn’t wear it outwardly. That small bit of deception gave her an advantage. It made people blunter and clearer with their intentions. It let her see who people really were once they thought they had no reason to hide the worst of themselves.
Normally, when men leered at her like that, it put her on edge. The weight of their prying eyes came, in part, from their terrible intentions, but the man before her didn’t strike her as a threat, though he was older than her. There was something about his smile and his toothless gums that assured Felicity of his inability to do her much harm. He was quite literally toothless.
“I think it is,” she agreed.
“And it suits you,” he said.
The compliment was delayed, he knew. He had set himself up for it with the remark about her name but that same beauty that had inspired the quip had stilled his tongue.
But the woman before him was truly beautiful. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, certainly more beautiful than his ex-wives or the many women he had dated over the years. From that first glance, he had fallen madly in love with her. No one else had won him over that quickly.
“Thank you,” she replied. “And your name?”
The man chuckled. It was an obvious question, the only possible next step in their conversation, and yet, he found himself unprepared for it. In the woman’s presence, he was struck by how ordinary his name was. Felicity didn’t just reference happiness or joy, the best of all human emotions. It was also a saint’s name, a saint who martyred herself. And his name was little more than a verb.
But he had to answer her. “Will,” he said. “Will Vogel.”
She nodded. “Vogel’s not a bad name.”
“I think it pairs well with Felicity,” he quickly replied.
And just like that, he spoke his next marriage into existence, Dad would say.
Or that was the story Mom and Dad told me. Neither of them ever reacted to the comment about the other women, the reference to my father’s past and the failures that he would never get over. Those details lurk beneath the surface of fairy tales, I later learned. It was the bitter after taste that flooded my mouth as I drank the milk and honey. The flavor lingered in my mind, but the details haunted my bones. But I can’t talk about those ghosts, only the myth I was fed. I still don’t know how to accept that it was a lie.