Chapter Eleven
eleven
JULY 1975
VIVIAN and Richard got married in the backyard of one of Richard’s friends, who owned a beautiful Spanish-style house in Simi Valley with red-tiled roofs and a backyard that sloped into a vineyard. Everything around them burst with vivid, sun-drenched green. It was a cloudless day in late July and Vivian stood in front of a white trellis arch, looking up at her husband.
Her hands shook a little as she unfolded the piece of paper with her vows. She’d crafted them painstakingly in the month leading up to the wedding. Daisy had helped her. She’d helped Vivian pick out her dress, too, teaching her to discern between designer names Vivian had never heard of. Together they had settled on ivory chiffon, with cap sleeves and a lace bodice dotted with iridescent pearls leading up to a high neck, like a qipao clasp. The lace trailed like fallen leaves down her skirt, and the chiffon fanned out on the grass around her as her tulle veil fluttered in the breeze.
She was keenly aware of over a hundred guests in attendance: former directors, Richard’s friends, mostly, the cast of Song of Lovers , her family and new in-laws. Her hair was tucked up with beaded pins her aunt had given her, family heirlooms. A jade pendant settled on her sternum.
She’d spotted her aunt and uncle in the audience, along with her small group of friends, Chinatown actors who’d driven down for the occasion. Bà had flown in from Hong Kong. It had been nearly five years since Vivian had seen him, and he felt frailer in her arms than she remembered. His hair had grayed. The jade pendant was a gift from him. It was carved with 囍 , which meant “double happiness,” the symbol of a joyful marriage. May you have a good union for a hundred years,” he’d said to her in Cantonese, then Mandarin when he fastened it around her neck that morning. “May your hearts be bound forever.”
Mā had refused to come. She’d expected Vivian to return to Hong Kong eventually. To not only refuse to do so, but to marry a white American actor was seen as an intentional betrayal. It hurt Vivian to hear that her mother couldn’t understand that she had made a life here.
The guests were quiet as she carefully enunciated her vows. Somewhere in the crowd, someone blew their nose and it sounded like a duck. Vivian smiled. She knew it was Daisy, welling up with emotion and as incapable of subtlety as ever. When she was finished, she looked to Richard in front of her, his smile wide enough to reveal crinkles around his brilliant hazel eyes. The words of his vows floated over her; she could only look on in awe at her prince.
This wasn’t a small wedding, like her first, which had just been a meal in the back of a restaurant. This was an American wedding, and he was saying these words in front of everyone he knew. He was hers. And with it, his family, his good fortune—she was a part of it now, their legacies intertwined. They kissed, the guests cheered, and the live orchestra swelled with music. He held her hand tightly as they walked down an aisle lined with rose petals.
The sun dipped behind the mountains and painted everything in a golden glow. The drinks flowed and Vivian drifted away to talk to her family on the dance floor. She saw her father with her twins for the first time, and Lucille looked at Vivian with so much adoration that her heart filled almost to bursting.
Richard joined her then. He talked to her aunt and uncle, who each held one of the girls. They toasted to her and marveled at the splendor of the wedding. And as the live music kicked up, Richard led her to his family. “This is Vivian,” he exhaled happily to the line of extended family members waiting to meet her. They hugged her and fawned over her, telling her what a beautiful bride she was, what a vision she was in that dress. Some looked at her puzzlingly, as though even at her wedding, they had yet to decide whether she belonged. Richard’s mother, whom Vivian had met twice before, stepped forward and kissed her cheek.
“What are the lovely newlywed’s plans?” A man that Vivian dimly remembered as Richard’s uncle asked.
“We’re going to France for the honeymoon,” Richard said smoothly, looking over at Vivian. “And then we’re renovating the house.”
“A house?”
“That’s right. The one in Altadena. The one that used to be our family’s.”
Vivian beamed, and only when she looked away from Richard did she notice that his mother’s face had gone ashen, and his family members suddenly went unusually quiet. Vivian watched uneasily as Richard and his mother stared at each other. When the song changed, Vivian took the cue to slip away, toward the music and the food, toward her daughters.
It was only later that Richard’s mother found her again. “Champagne for the lovely bride?” she asked.
Vivian gratefully accepted.
“What a lucky man Richard is,” his mother said, looking out over the reception. Her dark, graying hair was swept up in a severe twist.
“I’m the lucky one, I’m sure,” Vivian said. “He makes me happier than anything.”
“Does he?” His mother turned back toward her. “You know, when Richard said he was marrying a Chinese woman, I wasn’t sure. But your English is excellent.”
Vivian chafed but kept a smile on her face. “Thank you. My father was an English teacher. He’s over there with the blue tie.”
“Isn’t that lovely.” Her pale eyes bored into Vivian’s. Green, with no flecks of golden brown and devoid of all warmth. Wrinkles webbed around her taut lips. She was beautiful once, Vivian could tell. Unsure where to look, she focused on the pearl necklace that framed her mother-in-law’s collarbone. “I wish my son had informed me. Then I wouldn’t seem like such a careless mother-in-law.”
Vivian sensed a bit of hostility, as if she were being put to some kind of test. “You’re not—you’ve been very kind to me.”
Richard’s mother ignored this. “This house you’re renovating,” she said. “It was the house I grew up in. Richard never forgave me for selling it.”
Why did you? Vivian wanted to ask. But she held her tongue.
“But he’s headstrong. What he wants, he makes for himself. Precocious, too. The world has always been good to him. I tried to tell him, but I don’t think he understands.”
Night was settling and the overhead lights twinkled to life. A hot breeze brushed the back of Vivian’s neck. “Tell him—?”
“Just old history,” his mother said airily. “Perhaps he has more luck and fortitude than the rest of us.” She placed her cool fingers on Vivian’s arm. “Take care of my son. I know you will.” She gave a thin smile before walking back into the crowd.
After the music had died down and the champagne had run dry, after toasts were made, and Richard took Vivian’s hand and they ran down to the red Polara that waited for them in the driveway, they checked into a Malibu hotel that overlooked the coast. Richard swept her up from the car and carried her into the suite. They tipped into bed, laughing and giddy. Richard kissed her, and Vivian savored it, tasting the sour whiskey on his tongue. He pulled her to him and fumbled for the zipper on her dress. She laughed as she guided his hands away from the expensive fabric. Delicately, she unclasped the dress’s closures and stepped out of it, feeling the cooling night air on her shoulders, on her breasts, on her hips that still bore the stretch marks of childbirth. She undid her hair, and it crested around her shoulders in long, dark waves. He looked at her with eyes wide and lips parted for a moment, before he hungrily pulled her to him again.
Vivian fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and tugged it off, feeling the heat of his skin against her hands, the bulge of him straining against her. His fingers trailed down her stomach toward the heat between her legs, slowly, carefully, and she arched toward that desire, crying out when he finally touched her.
“I want to adore you like this,” he said, his voice raw. “Forever.”
He pressed a kiss above her left breast, his tongue tracing lower, circling her nipple. She gasped, her head humming with nothing but need, her body on fire. She laced her fingers through his hair, pulling him to her and crushing her lips against his, reaching for his hardness to pleasure him the way she knew how.
With a teasing, wicked smile, he gently pushed her back down onto the bed. He put his mouth to her inner thigh, and then his tongue found the center of that heat, so lightly at first, and then with more pressure. Vivian threw her head back and gave herself over to him fully.
This was everything she needed, she thought, as she trembled beneath him, dazed by his power over her, the intensity of his focus on her. Their life stretched out before them that night, their dreams, their house, their new family. What was his would be hers now, forever.
Vivian watched her husband stalk across the empty foyer. “Fuck this,” he hissed. “The pipes burst.”
“Again?” Vivian turned away from admiring the new bay windows. “I thought we just put them in.”
“They were caked with rust,” Richard said. “And they burst overnight.”
“But they’re new.”
“Supposed to be. There’s no way. New pipes don’t do that.” He ran his hands through his hair and lowered his voice. “Maybe we got scammed. I’m going to fire that contractor, I swear to God.”
Vivian reached for him. Their hands were still tanned from their honeymoon. What a Western concept; a honeymoon, as if one couldn’t be sated by that lavish wedding alone. There was a sun-drenched week in Paris and Provence. She came away draped in billowing floral dresses from charming boutiques, carrying wines and perfumes with names she couldn’t pronounce. She savored their sweet, honeyed aftertaste on her husband’s lips at night. Her husband. Her husband, who was building a house for their family. Though Vivian saw now that his jaw had tightened. His loose, collared shirt was opened at the throat and his sleeves were pushed up. His hair had become unruly in the humidity. She loved this new ruggedness. A dim desire rose inside her. “Be patient, qīn ài de.”
“We were supposed to move in by November. Now it’s looking like next year.” He was pacing now.
“We have all the time in the world,” she said soothingly.
He looked at her. The sunlight touched his eyelashes into tips of gold. His eyes softened behind his glasses. “You’re right.” He kissed her gently.
The first time Vivian set eyes on the skeleton of the sprawling house with its filthy walls and uneven patches of grass, panic hit her like cold water. But with her husband’s fervent vision, the house came to life. Old pillars were struck down and replaced with new white sandstone ones with bracketed cornices. The original concave mansard roof was maintained, with crested dormers. Paired windows were installed, with window crowns of leaves and flowers, an old French style, and ornamented keystones. The vines were cleared away. The original stone terrace was cleaned. The old, cracked fountain behind the house, which seemed to be mired in a mass of weeds that were cut away, was replaced with a new one carved out of limestone, with ridged bowls that seemed to ripple, petal-like. The tall, uneven grass was sheared and watered to become a sprawling lawn. With every decision, he asked her if she liked what he’d envisioned and what he was choosing; yes, yes , she’d responded at each turn.
For now, they were living in a rented house two miles away. Vivian was between films, and so she stayed at home with her daughters. In the evenings she and Richard would bring them to the new house to see the day’s work. In the twilight she stood on the stone steps as they ran around the freshly mowed grounds. They chased each other until their legs were tired, and still there was more land to run on. On the drives back to their rental house at night, Richard would let down the roof of the Polara so they could all feel like they were flying through the hazy California dusk. The girls always screamed with delight and threw their small hands in the air.
Her husband obsessed over the exterior of the house and structural parts of the interior. He spent days poring over choices and made sure that the foyer was constructed with ivory granite and the doors made of glazed mahogany and the walls paneled with walnut and redwood. But the decorative choices were hers. In her mind she conjured up the palaces of Versailles and Yí Hé Yuán, the Summer Palace. She would imitate their opulence. She could imagine it now: the panels of the walls lined with silk screens and scrolls of brush paintings, shelves of delicate porcelain bowls. Chinese books on the library shelves alongside the English.
This would be a home where she could raise her daughters right. She would make sure they learned Mandarin and developed palates that yearned for light winter melon soups and dumplings. They would have rooms to play in and separate rooms to study in. Richard would take them to see great films. They would spend winters skiing in the mountains and summers swimming at the beach. They would get to go to college, each of them. But they wouldn’t have it easy all the time, either, Vivian thought. She wouldn’t allow her children to grow up soft. They would learn how to 吃苦 , to take in hardships. But they would have every privilege that they could be given. Vivian would make sure of it.
One early evening, right after her daughters went to bed, she looked out the window of their rented house, over the rolling hills and winding roads, up in the direction of the new house. Richard offered her a glass of wine. As the stars rose overhead, his hands curled around her waist.
“I’ve been thinking about that fountain,” she said. “I think I want a new garden. Around that fountain.” She’d seen the gardens of Versailles on her honeymoon, and she couldn’t help wondering what they could do here in California.
“Seems like there used to be one.” Richard kissed her shoulder. “Tell me what you want and we’ll build it.”
“Hmmm,” Vivian exhaled, resting her head against his chest. “I want roses.”
“What else?”
“And…” Vivian sighed as he brushed another kiss against the nape of her neck, and for a moment her thoughts dissolved. “ 茶花 . And honeysuckle. And… lilies.”
“So we will,” Richard agreed. “We’ll have them all. I want it to be your paradise.” And this time he tipped her jaw up toward his, as his hips pressed her against the edge of the countertop. Yet, as she flung her arms around his neck, a dark fear echoed in the corner of her mind— what if he leaves too? But when she looked into the face of this man who wanted to build her a house, a garden— she saw a devotion that her ex-husband could never have summoned, that wouldn’t have interested him, even if he could have. She and Richard were meant to find each other. She could have happiness again. This was the new spring of her life.
They moved in February when the pipes were finally fixed, the final coats of paint were dry, the paneling installed, and the crown molding connected from room to room. It was impressive and elegant, but sometimes Vivian caught herself wondering if it was almost too spacious. Why had she agreed to so many bathrooms? Her voice and footsteps echoed off the walls eerily when she was alone. But she told herself it would be different once they had picked out all the furniture, and she set her mind to perusing velvet chaise lounges and ornate dressers.
A month in, she woke in the middle of the night in discomfort. She was pregnant again, expecting a child in three months. She walked across the room to open the window, hoping for a breeze. The curtains billowed softly around her and the air chilled her enough that her arms prickled with goose bumps. From the bed, her husband sighed in his sleep, and when she got back in, he curled his arms around her. She kissed his forehead and stretched her limbs out, feeling like she was swathed in an ocean of silk.
The next time Vivian’s eyes opened, she was alone.
She sat up. Her heart beat wildly. She looked around for her husband, but he was nowhere to be seen. He left , Vivian thought, with a familiar lurch of panic.
“Richard?”
There was no answer, and suddenly the room was unbearably hot. The curtains hung limp; the air reeked of rust. Sweat trickled down her temples, and the sheets around her were soaked.
“ 天啊 ,” she whispered. “It’s so —”
She looked down and screamed.
She scrambled back, trying to throw off the sheets, but they were sticky, saturated with blood. It pooled on the floor next to the bed. Gasping, she realized the scent of rust was filling her throat until she was certain she would choke on it. She could only watch, dazed, as blood poured from a gaping wound in her stomach.
The next time Vivian’s eyes opened, her skin was slick with sweat. She shot up in bed and pulled cool air into her lungs. The windows were open. The curtains drifted gently. Her husband was by her side, his arms stretched out. She clutched her stomach protectively.
Vivian’s shoulders sagged with relief. A low pressure mounted behind her eyes, and she closed them tightly.
It was a nightmare; that was all it was.
Richard mumbled her name in his sleep.
“Sorry,” she whispered, settling against him again. She welled with love for him in that moment; she kissed his hand that draped over her collarbone and felt her mind quiet.