Twenty-Four
The problem with comforting someone who had a secret was resisting the urge to shake it out of them as you leaned in for an embrace. Despite my plying her with a robust local merlot later that night, Aunt Evelyn remained as tight-lipped as ever. She retreated to her bedroom humming a sad melody. The loneliness in those notes hovered in the air long after she had gone to bed.
I stayed up another hour researching Girard and his restaurant. Modern technology allowed me to bypass the language barrier and discover that Girard was a Parisian restaurateur who opened his first restaurant in the mid-nineties and had been successful for decades. Le Papillon Bleu was his oldest and most prized flagship. He headed the local business association and was a part of the city’s influential circle. The Parisian gossip sites, however, reveled in his social life: he’d had an assortment of beautiful women over the years, but never married.
Maybe he still loved her.
It would explain his passionate reaction to Aunt Evelyn.
The line between love and hate was often blurred. Back in college, my cousin Chester couldn’t stop complaining about an aggressive intern who worked at the same production company. He said he despised her, but by the end of summer, they were making out in the lunchroom. As Elie Wiesel had noted: “The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference.”
If time was the balm to heal all wounds, their decades apart hadn’t diminished the raw, unresolved emotions between them.
My aunt stressed that I throw myself in my lessons to change my own life, but she didn’t tell me I couldn’t also add an extracurricular activity in meddling. After all, well-intentioned meddling was encoded in the Yu genes. Dabbling in matchmaking sounded more fun than seeing the future.
The next morning was like any other ordinary day, as though the incident at the restaurant had never happened. I knew better than to ask. Denial and guilt were welcome guests in almost every home. There was a reason why Auntie Faye had a thriving business in gossip.
Aunt Evelyn smiled with more effort today, as if she performed the gesture out of habit instead of sentiment. Her dark eyes remained weary. The incandescent light inside them didn’t have its usual luster.
“What are we offering as samples today?” I asked.
While humming last night’s same sorrowful tune, Aunt Evelyn opened a large glass jar from the second shelf and scooped some tea leaves into a teapot. “Ginger lavender. It’s known to be calming. My blend has powdered honey and a touch of clove and cinnamon.”
“Wasn’t honey in yesterday’s sample too?”
“It was. I found a local beekeeper at the farmers’ market who connected me to a collective of apiarists. I had a marvelous time trying out regional honey until I found the right one. After, I found a food chemist to work their scientific magic and transform it into powder.” She reached into a locked cupboard under the counter and brought out a smaller jar of what appeared to be gold dust. She scooped a spoonful into an empty teacup, poured hot water, and stirred. “Try it.”
The air bloomed with the memories of a distant meadow of wildflowers populated with busy honeybees. I took a sip and was transported to the countryside.
“To say honey is sweet,” my aunt explained, “is to ignore the complexities of its origins: the nature of the bees, the colony, the flowers they frequent. Bees turns nectar into their own brand of regional wine.”
“I’m guessing your honey supplier is a closely guarded secret, as is the name of your food scientist.”
Aunt Evelyn nodded and winked. “When I go on these discovery trips, you should come with me. I’m planning another in six months. You’ll get to see France outside of Paris.”
“It would make a perfect post-graduation trip.”
“Providing you pass.”
“Have I given you any indication that I won’t? I’m doing well, aren’t I?”
My aunt tapped the counter. “So far, but we haven’t done anything challenging yet.”
I frowned at her choice of words.
“Finish the tea,” she coaxed. “Maybe it will trigger something.”
I cradled the warm cup in my hands while Aunt Evelyn prepared the tea service for sampling. The soothing drink warmed my throat. Previous premonitions had been presaged by physical symptoms. The honey tea in my cup was almost gone, and I felt nothing.
“If this doesn’t work,” she continued, “I’ll prepare more cups for you to drink throughout the day. You should be able to narrow down location, time of day, precise details. You need the tea as a trigger, but physical prompts aren’t required for predictions.”
“What you’re saying is that I’m still riding the prophecy bike with training wheels?”
“In a way, yes. I’m worried we won’t have enough time to get you where you need to be. We may need to increase your workload.”
I was hoping for some crumbs of praise at my progress. I’d done everything she’d asked of me. Aunt Evelyn’s exacting standards were high, yet I believed I could meet them.
“Vanessa, it’s not that I’m not pleased with what you’ve done, but I don’t want you to become complacent or unrealistic. While you’ve improved, it isn’t where you need to be. Your next goal is to be able to deliver prophecies without a physical trigger.”
I set down my empty teacup. “I’ve never done that before. A first time for everything, right?”
“The tea is a crutch. The sooner you’re rid of it, the more powerful your gift will become.” She moved the tea service closer to the register. “You won’t be doing the samples today. Instead, you’ll assist me as needed. Oh, before I forget. Can you drop by Ines’s bakery right now to pick up more cookies? This way, we’ll have them ready, and if we run out, you can get more when you get lunch.”
“Will do. I’ll be back soon.”
Mornings in the neighborhood were accompanied by a steady rhythm of traffic and curious tourists. I appreciated Aunt Evelyn’s choice of location. Surrounded by beautiful shops, cafés, bakeries, and patisseries, the tea shop’s immediate neighbors were an upscale furniture designer and an antique shop.
Antiquing was a classic aunties pastime and one of Ma’s hobbies. Many weekend afternoons were spent at various rummage sales in the suburbs, out-of-the-way country stores, hole-in-the-wall spots, or posh establishments in the city. They only entered the expensive boutiques for fact-finding. Each auntie hunted for specific items, and they were helpful to one another unless it involved a long-running rivalry like that between Auntie Gloria and Auntie Ning. Auntie Faye, for example, searched for vintage costume jewelry, which sometimes overlapped with Auntie Madeline’s collection of antique brooches. Auntie Suzanne brought home rare Royal Doulton teacups, while Auntie Annette and Auntie Lulu loved royal memorabilia. The twins, Bea and Belle, competed for rare editions of classic novels.
Above all, the aunties preferred the challenge of a great find at a bargain price. Bragging was done afterward at their favorite noodle shops and dim sum haunts.
As I approached the bakery, I saw Ines filling one of the baskets with brioche. Luc walked in holding a heavy crate and made his delivery. The connection between the two was apparent even from a distance. After he left, Luc took a last, lingering peek at Ines through the window.
There must be a way to get them together. Paris was the city of love, yet it seemed to need a little help.