I relaxed in the safety of the hotel’s rooftop garden. The dinner reception in the grand ballroom wouldn’t begin for another hour. Uncle Michael and Jack kept me company. Jack, introduced to the family earlier this morning, had been swarmed with affection. The escape twenty floors up was for our mutual benefit.
“Brace yourself,” Uncle Michael warned, breaking the silence. “Your mother mentioned to me that she has a prospect in mind.”
I winced. My fingers pinched a piece of the embroidered lavender skirt of my cocktail dress. Feeling the fine needlework’s bumps and ridges soothed my elevated nerves. “He’s probably already here. Ma always comes prepared.”
Jack added, “Weddings are always the breeding ground for setups.”
“Cynthia betrayed me. She told me she was going to be the lone old maid to take the pressure off the rest of us. Then she met Edwin. Now Johnny . . . Everyone agreed he would never get married.”
The cousins and I had formed a union where we used our collective bargaining power to negotiate with our parents. Traditions, and which to follow, became the common talking points, while the most intense debates revolved around marriage. As heated as these discussions became, I was grateful that our parents were more reasonable than my grandparents had been with them. Later generations benefited from the earlier generations in America who fomented the seed of rebellion and the integration of Western values.
“Johnny’s prophecy should have stayed hidden,” I groused.
Uncle Michael raised a brow. “Really?”
“No,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen Johnny this happy and I can’t help but share in his joy. I just wish it didn’t involve unpleasant consequences on my end. It’s stirring up the aunties into a froth. My mother doesn’t need more ammunition. I want to date, but I don’t want it to be the precursor to an arranged marriage.”
“I thought you’re fourth-generation Chinese,” Jack said.
“I am, but the whole tiger parenting instinct is hard coded in their genes.” I rubbed my temples. “I know they mean well. A relationship is just not possible until I get this prediction thing under control.”
“I have to admit, it’s an interesting ability, or burden in your case,” Jack said.
“It’s got its downsides.”
He stood beside my uncle in a complementary navy suit. Jack reminded me of a rugged Pierce Brosnan. Uncle Michael wore charcoal gray with a gold tie. They could be on the cover of any men’s fashion magazine. Jack brought his camera equipment and worked the wedding, his gift to the couple. This was his rare break, and I suffered a twinge of guilt for having complained so much.
Before I could apologize, Jack glanced over his shoulder to see the elevators opening. “The women are coming.”
He and Uncle Michael moved in unison to head off the pack of aunties, herding them back into the elevator and disappearing behind closing doors. It was a reenactment worthy of the battle of Thermopylae. I was touched by their sacrifice.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and attempted to let the tension roll off my shoulders. Prophecies accompanied an assortment of drinks I imbibed or that I saw in the cups of others. I avoided tea because it was the most powerful stimulant. Drinking it resulted in vivid visions that even the aunties cautioned against.
I glanced down at my watch. Ten more minutes until I had to make my appearance downstairs. The sky above was a riotous blaze of pinks, purples, blues, and oranges with nary a cloud to mar it. It was worthy of Monet’s Parliament at Sunset. The cool breeze teased the tips of my wavy, dark hair. It was such a beautiful evening to waste on worries I had no control over.
The elevator bell dinged.
I turned around, hoping to see the return of my favorite uncle and his boyfriend.
Aunt Evelyn stepped out from the silver doors, and her dark eyes focused on me. Dressed in a long pastel blue sheath dress and beaded jacket, her long hair swept up to showcase a pair of diamond pendant earrings, she approached me with her high heels clicking against the marble floor.
“Hello, Vanessa.” Aunt Evelyn greeted me with a genuine smile.
Uncle Michael must have sent her to see me. “Hi,” I said. “How have you been?”
We both leaned in for a quick embrace and kiss on the cheek. She smelled of freshly cut peonies and vanilla. In her early fifties, she was still one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She epitomized elegance and class and never allowed her abilities to see the future to hinder her successes or her life. I envied her.
“Busy. We’re opening a new tea shop in Paris soon,” she replied. “Well done in predicting Johnny’s engagement.”
I swallowed what I wanted to say: that I had no control over any of it and giving me credit was akin to thanking an automatic door for opening and closing. “He’s happy, and Andria is as well. I’m glad it wasn’t someone dying or getting into an accident.”
Aunt Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t always jump to the worst conclusions. Only thinking of the negative causes more of it to happen.”
“Just wishing for good predictions hasn’t worked.” The effort in maintaining the smile I’d plastered on my lips increased.
“You can’t talk about something you know nothing about, Vanessa. You haven’t bothered to listen to anything I’ve tried to teach you over all these years. The art of prophecy has specific rules.”
“The only rule I’m interested in is one that rids it from my life.”
She looked at me with kindness. She always did.
Once my gift manifested, I was Aunt Evelyn’s project. I spent weekends at her Victorian in San Francisco. We had the loveliest of afternoon teas in her sunroom, nibbling on matcha mochi, colorful macarons, and egg tarts from a Portuguese bakery nearby. We drank glasses of iced lavender tea lemonade and talked about family history. The idyllic joy vanished when she told me I couldn’t avoid this power. The arguments started and never abated, an ouroboros of persistent tension.
“I wish you were more receptive. These rules are meant to be followed, and you might be more adept at handling your gift had you taken my advice. If anything, you’re more closed-minded now than when you were younger.”
“Aunt Evelyn, please don’t start.”
She took a deep breath and offered her hand. “Let’s go downstairs. I hear Edwin’s parents flew the chef and his crew in from Kowloon. His restaurant is famous and was featured in a foodie documentary. The dinner should be spectacular.”
I accepted her olive branch and we headed to the elevator, hand in hand.
* * *
* * *
The wedding banquet was traditionally Chinese with ten courses of the finest ingredients served alongside gossip and business proposals. After all, this was foremost a merging of the Yus and Ngos.