Confucius Jane (9 page)

Jane didn't move as Mei set down a small plate in front of her on which a single cookie was encircled by thin orange slices. She could never bring herself to read her own fortune. How could it apply to her anyway, when she'd been the one to write it? Immediately, Min reached over to steal a cookie. Sutton looked between them, clearly puzzled, but ultimately decided against asking. As she broke the thin crust in two, Jane held her breath.
Please,
she prayed aimlessly.
Let it be something interesting and not lame.

Beside her, Min laughed. “Mine says, ‘Think outside the box and your new business venture will prosper.'” She jostled Jane's elbow. “I hope you're right about that.”

Jane heard the words, but she couldn't take her eyes off Sutton, who was slowly unfolding the narrow strip of paper. “What'd you get?” she asked, hoping Sutton couldn't hear the strain in her voice.

“‘Embrace the unexpected
.'
”

Jane breathed a sigh of relief. “Not one of my best, but it'll do.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in before Sutton's head snapped up. “Wait—you write these?”

“I do. That's why I don't eat them.”

Min elbowed her again, this time with some force. “‘Respect your elders and gain wisdom'?” She waved the fortune from her own cookie under Jane's nose. “Were you having an off day or something?”

“Maybe you should take the hint,” Jane replied, still unable to tear her gaze from Sutton's pensive expression.

“You write the fortunes in these cookies,” she said slowly. “All of them?”

“For the past six months, yes.”

“Jane's a poet,” Min chimed in. “Sometimes a decent one.”

At Sutton's questioning look, Jane shrugged. “It's true. The poet part, anyway. Fortune cookies pay the bills.”

Their conversation was cut off by everyone else wanting to share their prognostications. From the head of the table, Benny reminded them all that unless they ate the entire cookie, their fortunes wouldn't come true, and Jane was gratified to see that Sutton immediately popped the delicate shell into her mouth. Embrace the unexpected. Jane wanted to believe that meant Sutton should embrace her.

A few minutes later, Sutton pushed back her chair. “I should be going,” she announced as she turned toward Mei and Benny. “Thank you for an excellent meal and your wonderful hospitality.
Gong xi fa cai.
”

As everyone wished her well, Jane got to her feet, trying to ignore the pit that had materialized in her stomach at the thought of Sutton leaving. “I'll walk you out.”

They stepped outside, and Sutton struggled with her coat until Jane grasped both shoulders for her, holding it open. Sutton slid into the jacket, then turned to look up at her. Jane had to clench both hands into fists to stop herself from sliding her arms around Sutton's waist.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. “I had a really good time, and you were the perfect guide.”

“You were a great sport,” Jane said, watching Sutton's eyes change from light blue to gray and back again. The shifting colors reminded her of the ocean on a windy day.

Sutton's gaze darted away, then back. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

Jane wasn't quite sure what to make of her tone. Was she getting the brush-off, or was Sutton serious? At times, she was so easy to read, but this definitely wasn't one of them.

“That might be tricky, unless you're very patient,” she said, deciding to fall back on humor. “New Year only happens annually.”

Sutton nudged her with an elbow. “Oh, stop. You know what I mean.”

“Actually, I don't. But I'm up for anything.” When she searched Sutton's face and saw uncertainty there, Jane decided not to force the issue. Instead, she reached into her pocket to grab her notebook and pen.

“Here,” she said as she scribbled. “My number. In case you think of something more specific. Call or text anytime.” Sutton took the paper with a rather dubious expression, and Jane decided to quit while she was relatively ahead. “I'd better get back in there. See you around.”

Before Sutton could reply, Jane had darted back into Noodle Treasure. She stood just inside the door for a moment, savoring the aroma of rice and soy sauce mixed with the sweet scent of flour blossoms and the sharp tang of citrus. Aunt Jenny and Uncle John were laughing with Mei and Benny, and Giancarlo was in a tête-à-tête with Sue, and Carmine was playing with Hester's children, and Cornelia looked bored, and Min was still on her phone. As she dropped back into her seat, she felt a sudden rush of affection for them all.

 

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

S
UTTON TRACED A SUBTLE
pattern in the immaculate white tablecloth and tried to pinpoint exactly when her father had ceased to be her hero. They sat side by side at his usual table, facing the luminescent recessed pool that lent this section of The Four Seasons Restaurant an ambience both luxurious and ethereal. At each corner of the pool flowering trees reached toward the ceiling, their slender branches and pale petals illuminated by accent spotlights.

Reginald St. James, M.D., was immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit, snow-white collared shirt, and crimson tie. His hair was still as thick as it appeared in the photographs of her childhood, though it had turned entirely to silver in the intervening years. As he smiled and waved at some corporate bigwig across the room, he radiated an unshakeable confidence that befitted “America's Doctor.” He was still a heroic figure to many—from the studious young men who thought they wanted to be just like him, to the millions of women who watched his daily show and repeatedly dialed the call-in number in vain attempts to have their problems solved on air.

“So, are you getting excited? Only one month until Match Day.”

Sutton shot him a sidelong glance. “I'd prefer not to talk about it, Dad.”

“Why not? You have excellent prospects, and—”

“I don't want to jinx it.”

This was an ironclad excuse. Perhaps ironically, most surgeons were deeply superstitious. Sutton didn't count herself among them, but in this moment, expedience was more important than the truth. If she was lucky, Reginald would take her reticence at face value.

“Fine, fine. I understand. The process is anxiety-producing, even for our best and brightest.” He patted her on the back. “But you really shouldn't worry. You'll do well.”

As he sipped from his water, his eyes glazed slightly, and Sutton knew he was traveling back in memory. She breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Once he began rhapsodizing about his residency experience, he could go on for hours.

“You know, when I was sitting where you are,” he began, the way he always did, “we didn't have that fancy electronic matching system. We watched our mailboxes like hawks. I was just finishing up at Harvard at the time, and every afternoon I would…”

Only half listening to the familiar story, Sutton carefully raised a forkful of risotto to her mouth. Made with white truffles to the tune of one hundred and thirty dollars, it melted on her tongue. Savoring the bite, she had to force herself to put the fork down instead of immediately going back for more. She had only dined here a handful of times, but on each occasion the atmosphere made her extra nervous about her table manners, as though if she were to drop or spill something she would be forcibly removed from the premises.

A flash of motion drew her attention to Reginald's side of the table. He stopped speaking in midsentence and rose to greet the man now looming over them. Sutton set her napkin on the table and followed his example. These sorts of interruptions were part and parcel of lunch at The Four Seasons, where corporate moguls, Hollywood celebrities, and politicians habitually rubbed elbows.

“Hank!” Reginald clapped him on the back. “I didn't realize you were in town.”

“Just for the day.” The words carried a mild Southern drawl. When his gaze fell on Sutton, she plastered what she hoped was a pleasant smile onto her face. He extended his hand across the table.

“My daughter, Sutton,” Reginald said. “This is Henry Phillips.”

Sutton recognized the name of the CEO of one of the most powerful pharmaceutical companies in the nation. Everything about him was large—from his fleshy ears, to his protruding waistline, to the sausage-link fingers that gripped her own.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said politely.

“Sutton and I were just discussing her upcoming residency.” The paternal pride saturating Reginald's voice made the risotto curdle in her stomach.

“Exciting time—very exciting time.” Hank nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Once you've finished up, you should come and work for me.”

“Well now, look at that.” Reginald clasped her shoulder. “A job offer already.”

“I'll certainly consider it,” Sutton said, even though she would do no such thing. “Thank you.”

“Good, good.” For one fraught moment, it seemed he might kiss her hand in some misplaced approximation of chivalry. When he finally let go, she exhaled softly in relief. “Reg, I'll let you both get back to your meal. Will I see you in Washington tomorrow?”

“You will, indeed. Shall we catch up over dinner?”

Hank's jowls quivered as he nodded. “My secretary will be in touch. You both take care, now.”

As he lumbered away, Sutton sank back into her seat. “What's in Washington tomorrow?”

“Hank and I—along with a few others—have been called to testify to members of the GOP about how best to counter the Democrats' latest amendments to that ridiculous universal health care bill.”

“I see.” Yet another conversation they couldn't continue. Reginald held the notion of universal health care in contempt, while Sutton had championed the idea ever since writing a paper on the topic for a Medical Ethics course several years ago. At least their conversation hadn't turned to stem cells. Yet.

She tried a different tack. “How is Mom? She didn't sound very well when I spoke with her yesterday.”

Reginald looked up from his seafood platter. “Your mother has had a string of bad days, but that means she's due for a break soon.”

Sutton's shoulders tightened. They both knew that wasn't necessarily true. So far, her mother had exhibited a textbook case of relapse-remitting multiple sclerosis, in which “attacks” were followed by periods of remission when she was entirely symptom-free. At any point, however, her condition could worsen. Sutton didn't appreciate him blowing smoke at her, especially since she wasn't just his daughter anymore—she was also his colleague.

For years, his “impeccable bedside manner” had been praised from sea to shining sea, and Sutton could still remember a time when she had believed everything he said. Now, all she heard in his words were platitudes and oversimplifications. Maybe that was what America wanted from their doctor, but did it really do them any good? Her mother's condition was unstable. That was the truth, and to run away from it was cowardly. But if she said anything more to him right now, it would sound uncharitable, and it wouldn't do to sound uncharitable here. The Pool Room was the birthplace—and the graveyard—of society gossip. Reginald had invited her here to put her on display and to maintain his public image as a doting father. Despite her annoyance, she had no desire to sabotage him. Since coming out, she had made a conscious effort to meet him halfway whenever possible. Maybe it wasn't healthy to feel a lingering sense of guilt over being a disappointment, but she didn't have time for a therapist. Besides, once her article was published, he would be much angrier about it than about her sexual orientation.

To keep from venting her frustration, Sutton ate the last of her risotto. Within seconds, a white-clad waiter had scooped up her empty plate. Reginald sat back in his chair, patted his lean stomach, and smiled at her indulgently. She had to give him credit—despite being constantly wined and dined, he kept himself in impeccable shape. In his line of work, that was particularly important as he could be called away to perform a grueling surgery at any moment. The longest had been when she was an adolescent—a twenty-three-hour procedure to separate Siamese twins conjoined at the head. Now, with so much training behind her, Sutton felt even more awe at her father's accomplishment than she had as a girl. No matter their personal disagreements, she would always respect him as a professional.

“Reginald! And Sutton, too. How lovely to see you both!”

Sutton's musings were interrupted by the arrival of a buxom brunette whose every curve was set on display by her low-cut, sapphire dress. Diamonds sparkled at her throat, ears, and wrist. As Sutton rose to accept two enthusiastic cheek kisses, her lungs were assaulted by an overdose of spicy perfume.

“Hello, hello, Beverly.” Reginald's tone was jovial, and she turned to him with a coquettish laugh that forced Sutton to concentrate hard on not rolling her eyes.

Beverly Lloyd was the network executive who had “discovered” Reginald three years ago. Sutton had seen her on only a handful of occasions, but once would have been more than enough. Not for the first time, she wondered whether her father actually liked these people, or whether he was simply pandering to them. Either way, she wasn't impressed.

“Sutton, you look lovely. The hint of blue in that suit makes your eyes just pop!”

Somehow, Sutton didn't think Beverly was referring to the kind of ocular bulging produced by a neuroblastoma. She struggled not to smile at her own internal joke.

“Thank you. Your dress is lovely.”

Beverly preened and name-dropped an up-and-coming designer who Sutton knew for a fact had never created anything in her size. So much for that pretense. Then Beverly leaned in close.

“So, tell me. Is there a special man in your life?”