Fu Jing had been a young Chinese girl, the daughter of immigrants who owned a laundry and lived in a crowded apartment in Chinatown when she came to work for Vivien and David in 1905. The woman who stood scowling before Vivien now, although fatter and older, was Fu Jing.
Unsure of what to say, Vivien took a step inside. She could smell garlic and ginger, smells she always associated with Fu Jing, who had often cooked dinner for Vivien and David in a wok, adding fresh gingerroot and garlic to it and stirring them together in oil over high heat. Later, as she served them their dinner, that smell lingered on her.
“Fu Jing,” Vivien managed to say.
The woman narrowed her eyes.
“I looked everywhere for you,” Vivien said, memories of those horrible days after the earthquake flooding her mind. She’d gone into the chaos of Chinatown, where Fu Jing’s family’s laundry was in ruins and panicked people fled, unable to understand her questions.
Fu Jing just shook her head. Vivien had never been able to read her expressions, and she could not do so now.
They stood together in the foyer, at the bottom of the stairs. Vivien saw that the banister with its curved railing gleamed with care, and the Oriental carpet that covered the center of each step had been well kept. The deep blues and violets on its pattern of birds and flowers had barely faded.
As Vivien stared up them, the young woman who had come to her house appeared at the top of the stairs. Today, her hair was loose, like Vivien’s. But she wore a short skirt that stopped just below her knees, a sleeveless blouse with several long necklaces, no stockings. Vivien had seen such a look in magazines recently, and didn’t like it at all. Instead of emphasizing their hips and bust, it made women look flat-chested and hipless, almost like adolescent boys.
“You came,” she said as she descended the stairs. “Thank you.”
“This was my house,” Vivien said, surprised at how small her voice sounded.
“My husband is upstairs, resting. The doctor was here a little while ago. He said the time is near.”
She motioned toward the double parlor. “Shall we sit?” she asked.
Without waiting for an answer, she continued into the room. Vivien hesitated, then followed her. The wallpaper was the same, a deep olive green with scenes from ancient Rome depicted on it in line drawings. David had found it when they went to Rome together, delighted that among the Coliseum and Pantheon were lewd pictures of couples in different sexual positions, something guests never noticed, which delighted David even more.
“Forgive me,” the woman said. “I’m Ruth. I should have introduced myself that first night at your house.”
Ruth turned to the Chinese woman hovering nearby.
“Fu Jing,” she said, “bring tea, would you?”
Fu Jing bowed slightly and walked out.
Vivien sat at the edge of a violet velvet loveseat. The one she’d had in this spot was now in Napa in her sitting room.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Ruth said. “I met my husband five years ago, when I was only nineteen. He was sophisticated. Successful. A lawyer.”
At that, Vivien sat up straighter.
“And he had an entire past that I knew nothing about,” Ruth continued. “You know how men can be, so secretive. I had to piece everything together myself, with the little bit of information he gave me from time to time. Or from what I found snooping through his belongings. That’s how I found that business card I left on your table.” Ruth’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “Maybe you think I’m just a foolish young girl, but I’ve been jealous of his past, of who he might have loved before me and what he might have done.”
“One day we were sitting here, having our afternoon tea, and he was reading the Examiner. All of a sudden, his face grew pale and he muttered, ‘By God, it’s Vivien Lowe. She’s alive after all.’ And in that instant, I thought that perhaps you were someone he had loved once, before the earthquake.”
Vivien got to her feet, certain now that David was here, upstairs.
Ruth stood too. “His life seems to be divided that way. Before and after April 18, 1906.”
“Yes,” Vivien said.
“When he got the news from the doctor, he asked me to find you. ‘She needs to write my obituary,’ he told me.”
Vivien pushed past Ruth, and almost knocked into Fu Jing in the foyer.
Fu Jing held a silver tray and tea service. Vivien didn’t have to look carefully to know that her own initials were engraved on each piece.
“Pardon me,” Vivien said as she began to climb the stairs.
“Please! He’s resting!” Ruth called to her, but Vivien didn’t stop.