Cora opens the heavy windows of the study, and the soft sweet scent of oak comes in on the breeze. She wraps a damp rag around her finger and runs it along the sills to pick up tiny pieces of grit. From here, Cora can see everything, from sunbirds perching in the trumpet trees to the curved border of rocks around the carp pond at the edge of the Lee property.
Another storm is coming. Cora knows Ma’am Elizabeth doesn’t like the house being sealed up. When she saw Cora shutting the sliding glass doors downstairs earlier, she said, “I’ll take my coffee in the garden, then.” Cora can see her stepping out barefoot to enjoy her kopi-c under the double-slatted timber roof of the pergola. The low outlying branch of the old tembusu tree jostles as a heaving gust sends its leaves fluttering to the ground. Ma’am Elizabeth once confided to Cora that she doesn’t like going out much. “I’m such a homebody,” she said. “The other retired women like their brunches at the Intercontinental and so on, but it’s so tiresome, all that dressing up and chatter.” In a button-down silk blouse and tailored loose pants, she looks very presentable for somebody who doesn’t have anywhere to go.
Who wouldn’t love to stay at home in a place like this? Cora’s own fondness for it is surprising. In her experience, many big houses feel like museums; in Dasmariñas in Manila, where she worked for the Calvert family, the homes were exaggerations in every sense. Deep private roads flanked by thickets of pruned jungle to obscure the other houses, the properties so expansive that at first Cora did not notice the cluster of squat, yero-roofed buildings scattered out in the back—guardhouse, maids’ quarters, boiler room, garage, gardening shed. But this home has a spirit that Cora attributes to Ma’am Elizabeth’s presence. Even Mr. Lee’s study would find a way to breathe without Cora tending to it. The walls are adorned with framed newspaper articles from various decades of his career: Mr. Lee grasping handfuls of coffee beans in 1993; Mr. Lee addressing employees in hairnets in one of his factories in 2005.
Cora was surprised when Ma’am Elizabeth told her that her family had objected to her marrying Mr. Lee. “My father said, ‘I didn’t educate you in London only to marry a boy who barely finished secondary school,’” she said. “They were convinced he was after our family’s wealth. He spent his whole life trying to prove to my father that he was good enough.” At this, Ma’am Elizabeth swept her hand across the living room, and Cora was not sure if this meant Mr. Lee succeeded by building this home or that he’d never managed to measure up to the family’s expectations.
The articles framed on the wall praise Mr. Lee for starting his business from scratch, but Ma’am Elizabeth confided to Cora that her family eventually helped him. Cora knows this is how it works in rich families. They go to great lengths to make sure that their daughters marry within their social milieu, but if those efforts fail, they groom the newcomer with tailored suits and a business title to elevate him to the role. Raymond’s schoolfriend Marco Vallares comes to mind. If he continues seeing that Martell heiress, then his path is certain. And when that happens, Cora hopes he remembers where he came from. She hopes he remembers Raymond. In a sea of students fresh out of private schools whose families had beachside holiday homes, Raymond and Marco had been a pair of scholarship kids working towards a better life.
The thought of Raymond and Marco fills Cora’s mouth with a bitter taste. She can’t dwell on her loss or she’ll sink into despair, especially after her brush with the police at the department store last Sunday. The overwhelming urge to flee had taken her by surprise. It felt as if Raymond himself were propelling her legs forward before she could even think, and later, when Cora had come up with an explanation for Angel and Donita, she knew they didn’t believe her. She shuts her eyes. This room suddenly feels like a reminder of everything Raymond could have had and everything he lost, from the fountain pens sitting in their leather holder to the deep red hues in the oversize mahogany desk. Raymond was going to be a lawyer. One day, he was going to work from the grandeur of a desk like this, his office a private island. He was going to, he was going, he was. The shock of every unfinished sentence rings in Cora’s ears.
Ahem.
Cora’s eyes fly open. A slender woman is standing in the doorway holding a cake box. Tucked under her other arm is a glossy black portfolio. Her charcoal-grey pencil skirt hugs her waist, and a tiny gold teardrop pendant dangles just below her sharp collarbone. “You must be Corazon,” she says, striding into the room with her hand outstretched. Cora eyes the portfolio. Has Merry Maids sent an agent to check on her letter of release? “I’m Jacqueline.”
“Hello, Miss Jacqueline, it’s nice to meet you,” Cora says, just barely containing her relief. Ma’am Elizabeth’s daughter—she can see the resemblance now. Jacqueline’s long fingers clasp hers firmly. Cora can feel the cool metal of a bulging diamond ring that looks outlandishly large on Jacqueline’s delicate frame.
“You have settled in all right?” Jacqueline says. Her eyes roam the study. She doesn’t give Cora a chance to respond. “My goodness, I haven’t been in here in ages. I can’t believe some of those old pictures are still here.” She nods at the cluster of framed family photographs that sit on the corner of the desk.
“That one is you?” Cora asks, pointing at a picture of a young couple posing in formal attire. A satin gown pools at the girl’s feet, and she is waving the end of a fur stole at the man.
“No, that’s my sister, Cecilia. Funny you should mistake us for each other. People generally don’t think we look alike.”
Another glance at the photograph reveals the differences between the sisters. Cecilia is shorter, and her curves are more pronounced. She is laughing candidly, whereas Jacqueline’s thin lips don’t look as if they move that way.
“Have you seen my mother? I brought her some breakfast,” Jacqueline says. “You’re welcome to have some as well. Almond croissants and kouign-amann from Merci Marcel. Freshly baked, but they’ll need a minute in the oven.”
“Yes, miss, I will do that,” Cora says. “Your mother is sitting outside.”
Jacqueline swivels soundlessly like a ballerina. Cora quickly finishes wiping down the desk’s surface. She is suddenly conscious of all the things that need to be done in the house to meet Jacqueline’s careful surveying. Through the open window, she can hear Jacqueline and Ma’am Elizabeth greeting each other. “You must have just walked past me,” says Ma’am Elizabeth. “Since when did you start sitting out here in the mornings?” Jacqueline asks. Cora can hear Ma’am Elizabeth explaining herself with the same line about wanting to be outdoors but not necessarily wanting to be around people. It sounds different now, like a defence.
Cora swishes the feather duster between the balustrades as she goes down the stairs. She takes the box that Jacqueline has left on the dining table and brings it to the kitchen. As she places the pastries in the toaster oven, she can hear that Jacqueline and Ma’am Elizabeth have moved into the living room. They are talking about her. They don’t say her name, but Cora hears a whispered mention of “she,” followed by “good cook” and “keeps to herself, though.” The air fills with a sweet buttery smell. She arranges the pastries on a tray and brings it out to find Ma’am Elizabeth seated next to Jacqueline and squinting at an iPad.
“I don’t see her, but it’s saying she’s online,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.
“Press the Call button,” Jacqueline says. “Honestly, FaceTime is already built into the system and it works better than Skype. I don’t know why you won’t even try it.”
“I’d rather stick to what I know.”
Jacqueline looks up at Cora as she sets the tray of pastries down on the coffee table. “Would you like tea also, ma’am? Or coffee?” Cora asks.
“I’ve already had my cup for the day, thanks,” Jacqueline says.
“Tea would be lovely, Cora. I’ll have an Earl Grey,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. Cora nods and returns to the kitchen. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she checks her phone and sees that there are messages in the chat group that she, Angel, and Donita have set up together.
Donita: What’s our group name?
Angel: We don’t need a group name for the chat. This is not a band.
Donita: Don’t be boring.
Angel: Cora, any suggestions? Don’t say “Angel, Donita, and Corazon’s Group Chat.”
Cora types: I think that is a very straightforward name. Nothing wrong with it.
Donita: Something more creative, please.
Cora: Team Girl Power?
Donita: Is this 1995?
Angel: Hahaha, oh dear, Cora. Girl Power? Really?
Cora: You young people don’t know anything about what’s important.
Angel: CORA CALLED ME YOUNG!
Donita: Okay, forget the group-chat name for now. I have asked Flor to check the ma’ams’ groups. She says there are always videos of misbehaving maids floating around on Mondays and Tuesdays, after the days off. So far, there’s nothing on us.
Angel: Please pass my thanks to her for looking out for us.
Donita: She suggests that if anything does come up, we all agree on a good excuse for running out of the store like that.
Angel: Cora . . . ?
Cora imagines for a moment typing out everything that happened to Raymond in a series of text messages. Instead, she puts the phone away and takes out the bulbous little clay teapot with its matching cinnamon-coloured cups before remembering that Ma’am Elizabeth told her she uses that one only for oolong. The clay absorbs the tea with each brewing, and over time it develops a coating that enhances the flavour of that tea. “Best not to contaminate it with any other flavours,” Ma’am Elizabeth had said. “I’ve had this one going for several years now. I was devastated when my previous one broke.” Cora reaches deep into the cupboard to find a white silver-rimmed porcelain tea set.
A smile blooms on Jacqueline’s face as she recognizes the tea set. “This one brings back memories,” she says, holding the cup up to the window where the sunlight catches the subtle silver pattern of a leaping dragon. Her delight is a relief to Cora, who immediately wonders what else in that cabinet she could bring to the front of the house. There is an antique tiffin carrier that could be displayed after a good polishing and some engraved silverware that has not seen the light of day in some time.
“You girls used to beg me to let you use this set for your games with your dolls,” Ma’am Elizabeth says as Cora pours her a cup. Swirls of steam carry the bergamot scent through the living room. The iPad begins bleeping. Ma’am Elizabeth presses a button, and a face fills the screen.
“Finally,” Jacqueline says. “People have to get to work, Cecilia.”
“Happy birthday, darling!” Ma’am Elizabeth says.
“Thanks, Mummy! Hello, Jac! Taking precious time out of our morning, are we? How much overtime did you have to do to earn us the pleasure of your company?”
“It’s called being an adult. I wouldn’t expect you to grasp such a foreign concept in your fifth year of university.”
“Sixth,” Cecilia says cheerfully. Cora steals a glimpse at the screen. Cecilia’s hair is a crown of glittery twists. In the background, there is laughter and hooting.
“Are you in a car?” Ma’am Elizabeth says, squinting.
“Chase ordered us a limo for the occasion. It’s the first of many surprises, he says.”
Ma’am Elizabeth mouths, Chase? to Jacqueline, who shrugs. “Boyfriend of the week?” She smirks.
“Jac, not all of us want to settle down and play wifey right away. How are your wedding plans going?”
“I’ve narrowed down a few dress boutiques. I think the best option is to get it tailored with Michele when I’m in Paris next month. I’ll have the bridesmaid’s dress sent to you from her New York boutique. I chose the charcoal in the end.”
“Grey bridesmaid dresses? Why? The cantaloupe was so much more fun,” Cecilia protests.
“That one was tight around the waist, Ceci. I was only thinking of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Darker colours form a better silhouette for all body shapes, not just yours,” Jacqueline says smoothly. Ma’am Elizabeth shoots her a look and puts the iPad in front of Cora. “Cecilia, you haven’t met Cora yet, have you?”
“Hello, Cora,” Cecilia says. Her glow-in-the-dark bangles clatter when she waves. Cora crouches towards the screen and waves back. “Happy birthday to you, Miss Cecilia. May God bless you with health and happiness.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia says, kissing the air. “How is life in Singapore?”
Cora isn’t sure if this question is for her or the family. After a beat, Jacqueline says, “The weather’s been atrocious lately. It’s like we’re having a midyear monsoon.”
“And New York?” Ma’am Elizabeth asks. “Your outfit suggests that it’s a warm summer.”
“Oh, that’s no indication of anything,” Jacqueline says dryly. “Since when has Cecilia considered the weather when dressing up? This is the person who wore Mummy’s fur stole to her outdoor prom in the Botanic Gardens.”
“Don’t remind me,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “If there’s one argument I would like to have again with your father, it’s why he bought me a dead fox to wrap around my shoulders for that winter trip to Shanghai.”
“You realize that no protesters would have emerged to throw red paint on you, right?” Jacqueline asks. “It was China.”
Cecilia giggles. “Yeah, Mummy, they were probably more outraged that you didn’t wear a whole polar bear.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “That poor animal.”
“The principle,” Cecilia repeats with mock solemnity. She and Jacqueline share a smirk. Watching the two sisters interact, Cora has the impression that making fun of their mother is their one commonality. Their teasing is gentle, but Ma’am Elizabeth looks hurt. She turns to Cora and says, “Will you redirect the air-con vents, please? The fan is cooling my tea too quickly.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Cora says. She unclips the remote control from its holster on the wall next to the light switch and fiddles with the settings.
“Ceci, that prom picture is still in Dad’s study,” Jacqueline says.
“Really?” Cecilia groans.
“I think it’s a lovely picture,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “You and Weston look so happy, even if it didn’t work out.”
Jacqueline smirks. “Do you think his mother has a huge blown-up version in her house? Is she still hoping it will happen?” She and Cecilia titter together.
Ma’am Elizabeth looks as if she is caught between wanting to chide her daughters for being rude and wanting this moment of harmony to last. She looks at Cora and shakes her head with exaggerated dismay. “Girls, you are not presenting yourselves in the best light,” she reminds them. “There’s no need to make fun of Fann Poh Choo. Everybody has flaws. Cora and I ran into her outside the supermarket and she asked after you, Cecilia, which was very civil, considering you broke the boy’s heart.”
“Oh, Mummy, I did him a favour!” Cecilia and Jacqueline are in hysterics now over some joke that Cora doesn’t understand. She keeps a benign smile on her face and begins to clear the plates, which are left with mounds of croissant flakes. Once in the kitchen again, she notices that her group chat has gone quiet. She types a message for Donita: Your ma’am’s son and my ma’am’s daughter used to be a couple! There is only one tick after her message, which means Donita’s phone must be off now that Mrs. Fann is home.
Angel: Eww! Raja? Who would want to date him?
Cora: Mrs. Fann’s son. Not Mrs. Vijay’s.
Angel: Okay. Makes more sense. Who broke up with who?
Cora: Girl broke up with boy.
Angel: Son must be like the mother, then. How are Ma’am Elizabeth’s daughters?
It’s hard to sum up the two girls in a text message. They take after Ma’am Elizabeth in manners—Jacqueline politely thanking Cora, and Cecilia’s smile beaming from a thousand miles away. But something is also absent. They are like the circle of kids Raymond joined after his best friend, Marco, started dating the Martell girl. Cora begins typing but she doesn’t know how to put it in a way that Angel would understand. Good manners and not spoiled exactly but . . .
She thinks. There is a breeziness that accompanies their mannerisms, a sense of lightness that comes with having little to lose. They behave like their feet have never touched the ground, Cora types.
There is that bitter taste in her mouth again. She deletes the message before sending it; she does not want to dwell.
Once Cecilia’s limo reaches its destination, Cecilia bids a hasty farewell to her mother and sister; it is drowned out by resounding cheers from her friends. All of Cora’s work for this morning is in the living room, but after she steps out of the kitchen, she pauses. Ma’am Elizabeth’s and Jacqueline’s voices have gone quieter again. This time, there is an edge to Ma’am Elizabeth’s tone that pierces through the hush they are trying to create. If Cora lingers in the kitchen, the tall antique mirrors won’t get wiped down, and the silk runners on the coffee table won’t be straightened. She returns to the living room, but she starts her tasks in the farthest corner, where she cannot be accused of eavesdropping.
Only once during the conversation do Cora’s ears perk up, and this is because Jacqueline says something about “domestic workers on Sundays.” Cora inches closer to them, worried that the video from the department store has surfaced. They are speaking in normal tones again now, and Ma’am Elizabeth is leaning back in her chair, looking more relaxed. “. . . so many of them last time that they had to start another service in addition to the one they already have,” Jacqueline is saying.
With a sigh of relief, Cora realizes that they are talking about the church. “I don’t see why they can’t worship with everyone else,” Ma’am Elizabeth replies. “Whose idea was this segregation within the church anyway?”
Cora sneaks a look at Jacqueline’s frowning face. “It was my impression that the domestic workers themselves wanted it that way. They didn’t feel comfortable worshipping with everyone else.”
“Maybe some people made them feel unwelcome,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “We know who’s responsible for creating those divisions. It wasn’t the workers.”
“You get so fired up about these things, Mum, but when it comes to actually speaking up, you don’t say anything,” Jacqueline points out.
“I have no interest in participating in Rising Star Church activities these days. Not since the leadership’s focus shifted away from community service. It used to be about helping the needy, and now all I see is a lot of people helping themselves.”
“I only mentioned Rising Star because I’ve been coordinating the wedding plans and I had to jump through so many hoops this time. They’ve added even more administrative levels and committees.”
“And that’s why I won’t get involved,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “You think I want to cross Fann Poh Choo? She’s vying for some high position.”
“She adores you, though,” Jacqueline says. “She would listen to you, and then maybe she wouldn’t be following along with this new initiative they’re being so hush-hush about, whatever it is.”
“Probably another letter-writing campaign. They’re all about writing letters about the latest moral outrage,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “I remember how they celebrated when they managed to pressure the government to cancel that Swedish heavy metal band’s performance here. A win against sin, they called it in the newsletter. I wonder what it is this time.”
“You could find out if you participated in some social activities,” Jacqueline reminds her. “And maybe if you left the house once in a while, you’d also see the great opportunities out there for Lee’s Kopi.”
Ma’am Elizabeth stands up so abruptly that Cora feels her own head spinning. Jacqueline sighs and picks up her purse. “I’m just saying you should think about it. It’s the most sensible step, and it will bring the business into the twenty-first century.”
“Thanks, Jacqueline, but after three decades, I’ve done enough thinking about the family business. Lee’s Kopi will stay exactly where it is. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
Jacqueline opens her mouth to protest, but her lips quickly come together again. Seeing the disappointment on her face, Cora realizes that Jacqueline came to make a business proposal, not to visit her mother. The black portfolio sits between them on the coffee table. Ma’am Elizabeth gives it a pointed look, and with a resigned sigh, Jacqueline picks it up.
“I’m happy to discuss wedding plans with you, Jacqueline. If you still want me to call Mr. Khosla at the Raffles Hotel, he’ll be happy to organize a food tasting. Or the organizers at Capella? Antonia Sutanto was raving about the luxury-resort atmosphere at a wedding she attended there last year. She said it felt like being in Bali without the hassle of having to travel. We could make an occasion of it, try out a few places.”
“We’ve already decided on the Fullerton Bay Hotel,” Jacqueline says haughtily.
Ma’am Elizabeth looks crestfallen as Jacqueline gathers her things and heads to the door. Cora can feel the sting of Jacqueline’s rejection. She is surprised at the rage she feels towards Raymond, fresh as it was on the day he didn’t return her calls when she needed him to give her a lift home on his moped from Dasmariñas. There was a driver strike in response to the government’s plans to phase out old jeepneys, and the highway was clogged with taxis. She didn’t get through to him and ended up staying overnight in the Calverts’ maids’ quarters. The next morning, when Raymond called her back, she was so spitting mad that she didn’t answer the phone. It was better that he didn’t hear what she had to say to him: You’re spending so much time with those rich kids, you’re forgetting where you came from.
But then, hadn’t it been Cora’s dream to remove Raymond from his origins? To help him escape a legacy of poverty and alcoholism—wasn’t that the whole point? She recognized the hypocrisy in her own anger towards him. When he told her he was thinking about joining a volunteer programme to travel to rural provinces to teach students, Cora balked and told him that she had not spent her life cleaning other people’s homes just so he could be a do-gooder. “If you’re so free, you’re not studying hard enough,” Cora said, echoing the words she had heard her Singaporean employers telling their kids in the past. “Do an internship that will lead to a job. Surely one of your new friends can connect you to somebody.”
Alone now, Ma’am Elizabeth is quiet in her chair, lost in her thoughts. Cora can’t tell her one thing about Raymond without revealing everything else, but she wishes she could reassure Ma’am Elizabeth somehow. Whatever choices her daughters make, wealth will cushion them and turn any failed ventures into opportunities. Cecilia can afford to delay completing her degree—it’s an adventurous detour that precedes the next stage of her life. And Jacqueline is alive. The chance of her being hunted and killed like Raymond is so unlikely in the world of the Lees that Cora could almost laugh at the absurdity.
There is a click and a shudder before the automatic gates draw slowly outward to make way for Jacqueline’s exit. As quietly as it arrived, her car purrs into gear and glides out of the driveway.