Chasing Fireflies (Power of the Matchmaker)

by Taylor Dean

  “I’m always here if you need me, Savannah. Please visit anytime.”

  “Thanks, Miss Li.”

  Before turning to go I add, “By the way, Mr. Zhu says hello.”

  Miss Li blinks slowly in response and turns away quickly. Do those two have a “thing” going? How cute is that?

  I run up the stairs just as fast as my legs will go. I have an hour to make myself beautiful for my first date with Paul.

  The Paul. I’ve finally found him. The search is over.

  Hmmmm . . . one more thing to mention in my email to my sisters.

  SHOCK CAN’T DESCRIBE my reaction when a limousine pulls up in front of my apartment building.

  Miss Li had told me I looked gorgeous. Then she’d held my hands in her own and quoted, “As distance tests a horse’s strength, so does time reveal a person’s real character.”

  “It’s just a first date. That’s why we’re going on a date, to get to know each other.” Liar. He’s the one. I know it. We’ve already spent three hours together under less than favorable circumstances and I learned a lot about his true nature then.

  “Have a wonderful time, Savannah. Be wise and take the time to look beyond the surface.”

  Between Miss Li and Dakota you’d think I was going on a date with a possible serial killer or something. Geez. It’s nice to know they’re concerned for me however.

  Dakota had styled my hair with a layer of soft curls gently cascading down my back and helped me choose an outfit that highlighted my slim figure.

  Hunter had whistled at me and said, “You look awesome, Savannah. Tell Mr. Brooks we are all in his debt for saving you from the big, bad elevator.”

  I told him to shut up.

  The driver gets out and opens the car door for me, taking me out of my reverie. Paul waits inside, impeccably dressed in a suit, holding a single red rose.

  My heart nearly stops in my chest.

  “Hello, Savannah. You look stunning.”

  “As do you.”

  “How’s my little trespasser today?”

  A flash of heat climbs up my cheeks. “She’s done with her life of crime.”

  He laughs. “No ill effects?”

  “No harm done. I’m good as new.”

  “It’s nice to see you when you’re not hyperventilating. It’s a much better look on you.”

  “I’m sure it’s a vast improvement.”

  A deep and hearty chuckle erupts from his chest. “I thought we’d eat at one of my favorite restaurants this evening. Sound good?”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  We drive to the Kingfisher restaurant where they serve Indian Cuisine. The wait staff all speak English, making it easy to order.

  “So, here we are, two Americans in China eating Indian food. There’s something humorous about that.” I hope I’m not chattering idiotically. My nerves are all over the place this evening and I’m battling my innate shyness. I’m trying my best to be outgoing, but it feels a little forced.

  “You speak the truth, my dear,” he says. His hand reaches out and takes mine within his warm grasp. I love the show of affection.

  His hair is slicked back on his head, with not a single strand out of place. His tie elegantly matches the silk hanky peeking out of his pocket. His clean shaven face looks as if he’d just done a quick do-over before going out. Everything about him is perfect.

  “Tell me about you, Savannah. In complete sentences this time, please.”

  I can’t suppress a smile, glad he sees humor in our frightening-to-me experience. “Let’s see . . . I’m the baby of the family, with ten years between me and my sister, Sadie. I’m the total opposite of everything a last born child typically is. The last born tends to be outgoing and an attention-seeker. They tend to have a laissez-faire attitude and lean toward being ‘free spirits.’ I’m not any of those things. I’ve gone through life hoping no one will notice me and then, admittedly, sometimes feeling sad when they don’t. I tend to disappear in big groups. I have to really assert myself in social situations, which is not always easy or natural for me.”

  Paul studies me thoughtfully. “The best kept secret in the world is . . . quiet girls are always the most interesting. There’s a lot going on behind those watchful eyes.”

  “What you see is what you get with me. I’m pretty uncomplicated. That’s one last born trait I do have.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. But I do appreciate your honesty.”

  I enjoy our casual banter, finding him easy to talk to. I feel myself calming down. “Tell me about you.”

  “Me? I grew up in a remote fishing village in Africa. My parents worked in the Peace Corps. We traveled a lot and I loved every minute of it. It was the type of childhood every kid dreams of.”

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  Huh? Puzzled, I say, “No?”

  “Nope. I grew up in Podunk, Kansas in a small town no one has ever heard of. It’s so remote no one even drives through it on their way somewhere else. We were dirt poor and every single day of my life I swore I’d leave and never look back. And I did it.”

  “Impressive.” My mind whirls from the two very different stories of his life.

  “Most people hear the Peace Corps version of my childhood. Please don’t ruin my reputation.”

  “Your secret’s safe.” I don’t understand his need to gloss over his childhood, yet I recognize his desire to forget his meager upbringing. Doesn’t he realize how remarkable a self-made man appears to the public?

  Our food arrives, the delicious smells wafting through the air and making my stomach grumble. As we eat, we each speak a little more about ourselves, getting to know one another.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters, Paul?”

  “I do. Three step brothers and one step sister.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I have no idea. We don’t keep in touch. My dad left us and remarried when I was young. He went on to have another family. I never really knew them. I’m career minded and not much of a family man.”

  I know. That’s why I’ve decided you’re the perfect Paul. Paul Ellis taught me that much.

  His cell phone rings and he takes it out of his pocket. “Excuse me, Savannah.” He punches accept. “Paul Brooks.”

  Paul sighs as he listens to the caller, his eyebrows knitting with displeasure. “No, I’d better take care of this myself. Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Duty calls?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Savannah.” He holds my hand again. “Actually, it won’t take long. You could come with me. I don’t want to cut our date short.”

  “I’d love to go with you.” I’m not ready for the evening to end either.

  The limo ride is smooth and silky, like gliding on air. We travel through the city and I have a perfect view of the lights and the hustle and bustle of people wandering here and there. It’s familiar and yet entirely foreign at the same time. It’s a glimpse of people just like myself who are busy with their lives, surviving and managing, earning and experiencing. They love, they live, and they exist. Yet their world feels alien to me. I can’t read the signs and I can’t understand the language. It makes me feel lost and a little misplaced, as if I’ve entered a dream world in which I don’t belong.

  With my arm tucked in the nook of Paul’s arm, I feel safe, however. Being with him feels like I’ve arrived at my destination, like I’m right where I’m meant to be.

  It isn’t until we pull into a warehouse district that I feel a trickle of unease. “Where are we?” I ask Paul. My stomach tenses as I wonder if my sisters had been right and I was about to be sold into some type of slavery.

  “My warehouse. We store our building supplies here. I rent out a portion of the warehouse to another company. Because of some recent vandalism, I had all the locks changed. Evidently there was a mix up and they didn’t get the correct keys. They’re a little put out and I need to smooth things over, otherwise I’d s
end someone else to handle it. I’ll give them my set of keys and replace mine with copies at the office. It’ll just be a few minutes and then we’ll be on our way.”

  I force myself to remain calm and to trust my instincts when it comes to Paul. “Okay.” The headlights of the limo shine on a group of waiting men. The driver throws the limo into park, making no move to dim his lights. It reminds me of every crime movie I’ve ever seen, so stereotypical it feels humorous.

  Yet, I don’t laugh. The men look rather . . . unsavory, certainly not like businessmen. I glance at my watch. It’s nine ‘o clock. Who does business at nine at night? Couldn’t this have waited until morning? During normal business hours?

  Paul exits the limo without hesitation. I’m nervous for him, but don’t express my misgivings.

  The men speak loudly in Mandarin, sounding upset. Paul places his hands in the air and backs up a bit as he speaks. I believe his actions are more of a physical peace offering than a sign of fear.

  Regardless, it’s at that moment I know I’m not in a place where I ought to be. A chill wanders up my spine as my heart races to epic proportions.

  After a bit of back and forth discussion, a large man holds out his hand and Paul gives him what I presume to be keys. I remind myself that sometimes the nuances of another language can sound angry or upset when it isn’t the message they intend to convey. I’m sure that’s the case now. Paul nods a few times and returns to the limo. He pats the roof of the car, letting the driver know we can leave.

  He sits close to me and says, “Sorry about that. Everything’s taken care of.”

  In silence, we drive away. Finally, I ask, “So, all is well?”

  “Absolutely. I’m sorry we were interrupted.”

  Is he glossing things over? Has he just been in a potentially life threatening situation? Has he placed me in danger by bringing me with him?

  This is China. Business practices are different here. I’m letting my imagination run away with me and I feel silly.

  Paul places his arm around me. “Now, where were we?”

  My apprehension vanishes. This is Paul. The man I’ve searched for “far and wide.” Fate has brought us together. The happenstance of our meeting can’t be argued.

  We are meant to be.

  Next, he takes me to another fancy restaurant where we sit under a crystal chandelier and eat “Sweetheart Cake.” It’s a thin cake made with wintermelon, almond paste, sesame, and several spices I can’t name.

  “There’s a legend behind this cake.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. It’s about a very poor couple who love each other very much. The husband’s father becomes very ill and they spend all of their money on medicine to make him better, but there’s no change. The wife sells herself into slavery to earn the money to take care of her ailing father-in-law. When the husband learns what his wife has done, he makes cakes filled with wintermelon and almond and sells them on the street until he has enough money to buy her back. Hence, the Sweetheart Cake.”

  “I like that,” I whisper.

  “Me too.”

  “I want that kind of love.”

  “And you shall have it, Savannah Tate.”

  With him? This almost seems too good to be true.

  “I know we only just met, but I like you, Savannah. Can we do this again?”

  “Yes,” I answer, feeling satisfied with life.

  The limo ride home is entirely too short. Paul wraps his arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. Before I exit, he kisses me lightly, not too much, and not too little.

  The perfect goodnight kiss.

  Chapter Nine

  September

  “SO, WHAT ARE we supposed to do?” I ask as I study the assortment of ingredients covering the table.

  “You add what you would like to the boiling pot of water and let it simmer. Sky’s the limit. Every Hot Pot is different,” explains Julian. He isn’t wearing his backwards baseball cap today. His hair is combed back on his head while rebellious strays manage to fall forward. It gives him a rakish appearance.

  It’s Hot Pot night at Burger, Burger. The American table is clearly at a loss.

  “C’mon guys, Hot Pot is not so much a dish in China as it is a social function. Have fun with it.” Julian is dressed just as casually as he had been the first few times I’d met him and for some reason he’s also just as disconcerting. I can’t pinpoint why. Something about his blue-eyed stare.

  I look around our table. We’ve been eating at Burger, Burger every night, but Hot Pot night has taken us all by surprise. Our group definitely needs a social night to bring us a little closer. Instead of enthusiasm at the thought of Hot Pot, we all look rather dubious, like someone just asked us to eat fish heads or something—which isn’t out of the realm of possibilities in China.

  A huge pot of boiling water sits on a hot plate in the middle of the table, surrounded by bowls of various types of noodles; udon noodles, rice noodles, egg noodles, and yam noodles. There’s also sliced mushrooms, bell pepper, carrots, white onions, green onions, celery, water chestnuts, bean sprouts, raw ginger, watercress, bok choy, tomatoes, wintermelon, lotus root, and spinach. Thinly sliced chicken, beef, and lamb grace the table. There’s also shrimp—eyes and antennas thankfully removed—fish balls, and even tofu puffs. Several types of seasonings and oils, placed in condiment cups, dot the table; soy sauce, sesame oil, and oddly enough, egg yolk. There’s also chili powder, ginger, onion powder, salt and pepper, and of course, cayenne pepper and red pepper flakes.

  “Help us, Julian. We don’t know what to do. It’ll end up being awful,” Stacy tells him with a flirty pout.

  “Let’s just add a little of everything and see what happens,” Hunter suggests.

  Julian sighs, pulls up a chair to the round table, and places it right next to me. Why does my stomach do a cartwheel at his close proximity? Scratch that, a gymnastics routine is going on in there. I need to remind my unfaithful stomach that we are in love with the one and only Paul.

  “Okay, try this. You go around the table and each person chooses an ingredient to add. When you add the ingredient, you have to say something about yourself.” Julian turns toward me. “You go first, Savannah.”

  I find myself face to face with Julian and for just a moment too long, we simply look at one another. My eyes wander his face, pausing on his full lips, and then traveling back up to his eyes. I can’t look in his eyes for very long, so I settle on his nose. My speech teacher told me it’s a trick people use to give the appearance of looking someone directly in the eyes without having to actually do so. It seems to work.

  His longish hair and trimmed beard give him an enticing rebel appearance. And I am enticed. He smiles as if he knows I’m studying his features and I quickly turn away from him. I’m not sure why, but Julian makes me feel flustered. From here on out, I decide to think of him as Mr. Pow Pow. The name Mr. Pow Pow brings on an image of an old medicine man with leathery skin. The name Julian brings on an image of a suave man with eyes too blue for his own good. A man who seems able to see past my magic cloak. His gaze makes me feel noticed and I don’t want to be seen. In particular by him.

  “Okay.” Knowing onion will add flavor, I dump in a few handfuls. “I hate elevators.”

  Everyone at the table laughs except Mr. Pow Pow. Looking confused, he asks, “Why’s that?”

  “Savannah got stuck in an elevator the other day and landed herself a date with a handsome American.” Stacy is awfully quick to announce my dating status.

  Does she still view me as competition? I detect a bitter note in her words and wonder why Stacy acts so prickly all the time.

  “It wasn’t fun. She was stuck in the hot elevator for three hours.” Dakota quickly defends me and I love her for it.

  “Three hours?” Mr. Pow Pow says. “In that case, I’d hate elevators too.” He doesn’t comment about my date.

  Hunter is up next. He tosses in the entire bowl of beef. The resulting a
roma makes my unfaithful stomach growl. Maybe this Hot Pot idea isn’t so bad after all. “I love the food in China,” he declares, popping a water chestnut in his mouth.

  Dakota throws all the carrots into the pot. Leave it to the Americans to turn an Asian dish into beef stew. “I hate being a redhead.”

  “Stop it, you’re gorgeous,” I tell her and everyone voices their agreement. Dakota has no idea how pretty she is. Her deep red hair only adds to her beauty.

  Stacy stares at the ingredients as if they’re poison. “I don’t know what to add. Which one should I choose, Julian? You’re the chef. Tell me what will taste good.”

  “That’s the fun of Hot Pot. Surprise us,” Julian counters.

  Stacy adds the celery with a frown on her face.

  Yep, beef stew in the making.

  “I miss my dog, Corki. She’s a little Pomeranian and she’s my baby. I hope my mom’s taking good care of her.” Stacy’s voice cracks on her last words.

  Everyone oooohs and aaaaahs at her sentiment. It looks like Stacy has a heart after all.

  After whispering with her husband, Lori adds the mushrooms. “I love Jason,” she announces amidst giggles. She kisses him on the lips several times and everyone averts their eyes.

  “Make it stop,” I hear Julian . . . Mr. Pow Pow whisper under his breath.

  I hide a smile.

  Jason adds the rice noodles and announces, “If I were a glass, I would want Lori to be the water.” The giggles and kisses that ensue are downright nauseating.

  No one knows how to respond to his declaration—so no one does. The table remains awkwardly silent.

  Again, under his breath, Mr. Pow Pow says, “Some things can’t be unseen.” Then out loud, “All right, then. Let’s get this party started.” He adds the water chestnuts and a generous heap of red pepper flakes. “Pow!” Everyone claps for him as he says, “Now we’re talking.” He adds a few more seasonings, stirs the pot, and tastes it. “All right, everyone have a bowl of your creation.”

  We each ladle a little into our bowls and it’s surprisingly good.