Stone, Katherine

Highland Park

Dallas, Texas

Saturday, June 5, 1993

"Stephen and I won't be getting married, after all."

Allison Parish Whitaker's stunning announcement was made with
apology to the five relatives assembled before her in the Whitaker mansion. Her
father and grandparents were here at her request—because, she'd said, she had
something important to tell them.

Every event in Allison's life was of great importance to them all.
From the moment of her birth, she'd been the center of their lives and the
focus of their fiercely protective love. They wanted only the best for her, and
what they asked in return, so little really, was that Allison not be taken from
them as her mother had.

Despite her determination to honor their simple request, in her
twenty-seven-and-a-half years, Allison had nearly died more than once.

Allison's last-minute decision not to marry was hardly a matter of
life and death. Yet in a way, to her family, it was. Stephen would be as
protective of her as they'd always been, and would love her long after they
were gone and, most importantly, he'd make no demands of her that might cause
her to die as her mother had. His brothers could add the requisite branches to
the Gentry family tree, and since Stephen himself didn't feel a strong need to
ensure his own immortality through children, he'd never ask his wife to have a
child.

The broken engagement between Allison Parish Whitaker and Stephen
Worth Gentry also meant that four of the Lone Star state's greatest fortunes
would never merge. That was of no consequence to Allison's loved ones. The
Parishes and Whitakers knew well the clichéd truth that extravagant riches
couldn't guarantee happiness.

"What happened, darling?" Pauline Whitaker broke the
shocked silence with concern. "Did Stephen—"

"No, Gran. I was the one who called it off. I told Stephen
last night."

"But why, dear?"

The question came from Douglas Whitaker, Allison's paternal
grandfather. Allison saw on his face the bewilderment they all surely felt.
From her family's perspective, Stephen would have been the ideal husband,
protective and kind.

But what about love? Allison wanted to ask. And passion? And the
sharing of dreams? Perhaps no man would ever fall in love with just plain
Allison, her heart not her fortune, but...

Allison couldn't confess to her grandfather her romantic wish to
be loved for herself, nor could she admit that Stephen had seemed more upset
about the marriage of wealth that wouldn't happen than any loss of love.

"I decided I wasn't ready to get married. I'm sorry. This is
going to be embarrassing, especially at this late date, but I just couldn't do
it."

"It's not unusual to get cold feet as the wedding
nears," Iris Parish offered. "Are you sure you want to cancel
altogether?"

"I am. It's not an impulsive decision. I'd been thinking
about it for a while, long before my publisher called."

"Your publisher?" Robert Parish smiled fondly at the
granddaughter who reminded him so much of the daughter he'd lost. "The
company wants you to do another book of photographs of Texas?"

"Another book, yes, but not of Texas."

Allison's gaze fell to her lap. Her hands were folded, ladylike as
always, but Allison knew how tightly clasped they were. As she stared at the
knotted flesh, she glimpsed the bracelet encircling her left wrist. Far from an
adornment, it was a necessity, always worn.

The message engraved in crimson on Allison's medical alert
bracelet sent a reminder of her fragility. As she read the familiar bloodred
words, another reminder danced in her mind. Canceling the Dallas
wedding-of-the-decade two weeks before she was set to walk down the aisle was
trivial compared to what she intended to do. Her family wanted what was best
for her, safest and happiest, and if that wasn't marriage to Stephen, so be it.
But what Allison planned to do in lieu of entering into safe, if loveless,
matrimony wouldn't be perceived as best.

Allison lifted her eyes. "The photographs would be of Hong
Kong."

As she'd expected, "Hong Kong" caused a fresh round of
silence. But there was another—and wholly unanticipated— consequence. All four
grandparents cast anxious glances at her father.

For as long as Allison could remember, there'd been a ritual to
these family conferences about her life. She'd state her case, and her
grandparents would gently but firmly voice their concerns, and only after all
their worries had been expressed would her father enter the fray. In Allison's
memory, neither his parents nor his in-laws had solicited his opinion until
their own arguments were exhausted—because, almost always, her father sided
with her.

But all four were looking at him now, imploring him to join what
Allison knew would be their own pleas that she not travel to Hong Kong.

Why? she wondered. Did Hong Kong have some special significance
for Garrett? Or was its meaning for him the same as it was for the rest of
them, derived merely from its geographical proximity to Vietnam?

Allison couldn't read her father's thoughts. But it was clear that
Garrett Whitaker was going to refrain from comment until everyone else was
through.

Allison waited politely for one of her grandparents to speak. When
the silence began to verge on awkwardness, she explained. "What actually
happened was that a man named James Drake called my publisher. Mr. Drake is a
real estate developer in Hong Kong, and he's building a new hotel, the Jade
Palace, and quite by chance saw a copy of
Lone Star Serenade.
He wants
me to take photographs of Hong Kong to display in his hotel. They'll be made
into murals and also published in a book."

Allison faltered, needing a breath after her rush of words and
finding herself in a struggle for air. She was suffocating, smothered by love,
cocooned so tightly she'd never spread her wings—assuming she even
had
wings—unless
she forcefully broke free.

That was what she was doing now, an almost desperate act of
rebellion fueled by hope... and guilt. She was lucky to be so loved—but she was
suffocating.

"James Drake," Robert Parish said. "There's an
Englishman by that name, a land developer with major holdings throughout the
world."

"This is the same James Drake."

When her confirmation evoked surprise on her grandfather's
face—that a man like James Drake would have selected her to take photographs
for his new hotel—Allison felt a quiver of irritation. Despite the success of
Lone
Star Serenade,
the people who loved her viewed her photography as a charming
hobby, not a serious career.

Allison conquered her annoyance quickly. Her grandfather's
surprise was no more than she'd felt herself when she'd learned the real estate
mogul wanted
her.

Her surprise had given way to amazement when she'd spoken to James
on her private line in the mansion where she'd lived her entire life.

Her photography was far more than an imaginative interplay of
color and shape, his elegantly accented British voice insisted. She captured
"essence." That was what he wanted for his hotel, portraits of Hong
Kong that celebrated its heart, its spirit, its very soul.

James believed in her talent. He regarded her photographs as works
of art and planned to display them amid the other treasures in his hotel.
Allison could have told her grandfather the renowned developer had confidence
in her ability, even if
he
didn't. But she'd never have made such a
hurtful comment. She loved him far too much. And, although Robert Parish
mightn't consider her a gifted artist, she knew without question that he
believed her to be a priceless treasure in her own right.

A treasure who was going to Hong Kong, Allison vowed even as Iris
said, "You can't go to Hong Kong, Allison. Your doctors are here. What if
something happened? What if you needed blood?"

Allison ached at her grandmother's fear, but was startled by her
words. She hadn't expected her health to be raised. True, her doctors were in
Dallas. Also true, as they
all
knew, was that it couldn't matter less
where she was. Modern medicine had nothing to offer Allison, nor—medically—did
her family.

They'd all been tested. Their blood would be as harmful to Allison
as the blood of strangers.

"Nothing's going to happen to me, Grandmother. I'll be very
careful. I promise."

"But Hong Kong is
dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

"There are hurricanes, aren't there? Terrible ones."

"Yes, there are hurricanes," Allison replied, relieved
the discussion had shifted to one in which her assurances could be based on
fact, not merely hope. "Although in that part of the world they're called
typhoons. But Hong Kong is ready for them. Weather satellites identify the
storm while it's still at sea, and by the time it makes landfall, the boats are
in shelters and the buildings, which've been constructed to withstand
hurricane-force winds, are secure."

"You can't fully control a natural disaster," Douglas
Whitaker said. "And what about the political disasters, Allison? Remember
Tiananmen Square?"

"Of course I do. So does everyone in Hong Kong. The territory
doesn't officially revert to Chinese sovereignty until July 1997, but Governor
Patten's already working hard to institute democratic reforms. He wants to
ensure that the freedoms Hong Kong has enjoyed will continue after the
turnover."

Douglas couldn't suppress a proud smile. His granddaughter had
done her homework. "But," he said, "there's no guarantee he'll
succeed."

"No, there isn't." That was what James had told her, as well.
Despite the Joint Declaration, the future of Hong Kong was uncertain. There
could be unimaginable devastation. Which was why, the aristocratic voice had
added, his Jade Palace—and her photographs—were so important. The hotel would
symbolize the unique harmony that was Hong Kong, the improbable yet spectacular
marriage of East and West. Of mystical dragon and majestic lion. The Jade
Palace would be built to survive whatever destiny had in store for the
"Fragrant Harbour," a permanent monument to the splendor of the past.
Allison's photographs, too, would be enduring symbols—irrevocable snapshots of
history. "But Hong Kong is safe now, and it's considered by many to be the
most exciting place on earth."

"It's too far away," Pauline said.

Allison knew the distance between Dallas and Hong Kong in all the
conventional ways it could be measured: eighty-three hundred miles by air;
fourteen hours plus one day by time zone; a few seconds by phone.

The way her grandmother was measuring distance wasn't conventional
at all. It was a measurement of the heart, of an anguish that stayed unchanged.

But Gran, she wanted to cry. Hong Kong is
not
Vietnam. Yes,
at their nearest borders, the two are closer than Dallas is to New Orleans. But
Hong Kong is not Vietnam, and this is now, not twenty-eight years ago, and...
"I hope you'll all come visit me while I'm there."