by Jenny Jacobs
“Sort of like yours?” Tess asked innocently.
Greta shot her a quelling glance. She’d forgotten why she never brought Tess places. “How my bedroom is furnished is immaterial.” Tess would surely recognize the frostiness in her tone. Unfortunately, you couldn’t intimidate Tess any more than you could Ian.
“No, wait,” Ian said to Tess. “What does she have in her bedroom?”
Tess grinned, as if she were in cahoots with Ian. She was supposed to be in cahoots with Greta. What about all those years of sisterhood? The child didn’t have a loyal bone in her body. “Oh, she has her entire home office up there. Fax machine, photocopier, file cabinets — ”
Greta stepped on Tess’s toes. That surprised Tess into silence, a feat Greta rarely accomplished. “My personal situation is of no relevance to a client,” she said, making her voice especially icy but Tess just rolled her eyes.
Ian had moved closer from his respectful three paces back. Now he turned to look at Greta. “An entire office?” he said. “And you’re begrudging me a television?” His eyes danced with amusement. Her effort to sustain her icy facade crumbled in the face of the gleam in his eyes.
It wasn’t fair. She could keep herself from succumbing to the gray eyes and the commanding presence and the swaggering hips but she had no defense against a man with a sense of humor.
“Your home theater room will be just across the hall,” she said, attempting to reassert control of the situation. There was nothing remotely funny about a home entertainment system, at least in her opinion, so invoking it should prevent her from giving in to mirth. “You’ll still be able to get your fill of football.”
“Make sure there’s a nice recliner in there,” he said. “You know, Michael’s dad had a Barcalounger — ”
“Now you’re just goading me.” She put her hands on her hips and tried to give him a glare. He tried to respond. She saw the betraying twitch of his lips and she had to bite down hard to keep her own laughter from escaping. Which of them would surrender first?
“Look at this,” Tess said.
Greta glanced over at her. She had opened one of the many storage boxes piled in the unit, and was bent over it, scrounging for treasures. Tess could find treasures anywhere, although Greta sometimes disagreed with her on what, exactly, constituted a treasure. She waited a second for Tess to explain what had demanded that she interrupt a conversation with a client. Then it dawned on her. Tess never interrupted a conversation Greta was having with a client. Unless … unless Tess thought Greta was behaving less than professionally.
She couldn’t help it. The idea that Tess thought she was acting unprofessionally — Tess of all people — struck her as so ludicrous she couldn’t even protest the judgment. She burst into laughter. A moment later, Ian joined her. Tess looked from one to the other, clearly unsure what had just happened.
“Greta?”
Greta couldn’t say anything, just held up a hand, asking for patience while she laughed. Tess blinked at the scene, not joining them but obviously not certain what the appropriate response should be. After a moment, their giggles subsided and Greta dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Now you’ve made my mascara run,” she accused Ian and that sent both of them back into laughter.
When Greta had recovered herself again, she took a deep breath and turned to her sister. Tess, now sitting cross-legged on the floor, stared up at them as if they were some alien species. Lengths of batik fabric spilled out of the box she’d opened onto her lap.
“What do you think?” she asked politely, ignoring their behavior as if it had never happened. She held up a length of cloth. “Greta, this would make great curtains for the bedroom. Were you in India, Ian?”
Greta glanced at Ian, who was still smiling broadly but seemed in control of himself. She lifted a brow in his direction. What had just happened between them? Sparring with Ian wasn’t supposed to make her laugh so hard. She met his gray eyes, and when she did the gleam of amusement in them died down and something else took its place, something that slid across her skin like a caress. Heat and desire —
Tess cleared her throat. “Uh, guys?”
Greta shook herself, tearing her gaze away from Ian’s with an effort. She crossed over to where Tess was sitting and bent to pick up one of the lengths of fabric. She ran it through her fingers. The fabric was cool and smooth, colorful without being loud and distracting.
“I think — ” Tess began.
“Hush,” Greta said, knowing Tess wouldn’t be offended. When Tess was in the throes of designing fabric, she often did the same to Greta. Greta frowned at the fabric resting between her fingers, then remembered that was a bad habit and let the frown go. Ian needed a bedroom; she would give him one. His tastes ran to Asian-influenced design; she would give him that.
“I see a big platform bed in a light wood stain,” she said. Tess scrabbled for the pen and the notebook she always had on hand, and began jotting notes as Greta spoke.
“Egyptian cotton sheets and a comforter made of this material. Curtains, too, you’re right about that.” She bit her lip. That was a start. But only a start —
“But — ” Ian began.
“Hush,” Tess and Greta said simultaneously. Tess looked at Greta expectantly. In the back of her mind, Greta knew that Ian noticed how Tess was treating her like an oracle, and how amused he was by it. Her lips twitched. Perhaps she could make a living as a prophet or a guru if this design business didn’t work out. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Ian’s answering smile.
“Focus,” Tess said in a low voice. “For heaven’s sake, Greta. Pay attention.”
Greta looked back at the fabric in her hands. The rest was coming now. She could see it, a cool, light room, not too boring and restful. Just right.
“Hardwood floors with layered rugs,” she said. “A window seat with hidden storage to take advantage of that bay window. Michael can build that. We’ll need to get an estimate from him. Have you got the measurements?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then the beautiful asparagus fern wallpaper we tried to convince the Dunkirks to use this spring. Is there enough closet space?”
Tess’s pen flew over her sketchbook. She paused, looked at Ian and said, “Do you have sufficient closet space?”
“Yes. But I do need a dresser for — ”
“Yes,” Tess said to Greta.
“And bookshelves,” he put in. Then, with a pointed look at Greta, he added, “I read in bed. Is reading in bed acceptable?”
“As long as you don’t stay up too late,” Greta said. “Tess, I don’t want tall bookshelves throwing off the proportions of the room, especially if we go with a platform bed.”
“Got it. Short bookshelves. Three feet?” Tess made another note in the sketchbook. “What about wall hangings to tie everything together?”
“Good idea.” Greta folded the fabric and put it back in the box.
“I have some woodblock prints we could frame for the walls,” Ian said.
Greta glanced up. Although his ideas were usually bad, that one actually appealed to her. She did not want the room overwhelmed with fabric. It needed to remain essentially masculine, or Ian wouldn’t like it.
“What do they look like?” she temporized. Ian was already going through a stack of belongings in a corner.
“Here they are.” He held up a circular tube, like the kind architects used to store blueprints. He uncapped the end and shook the parchment sheets out.
Tess scrambled to her feet and came over to help them unroll the prints. “Oh,” she said. “Look at that! How clever. Those pillars suggest a temple without having to go into a lot of detail. Is that a Thai headdress the woman is wearing?”
The prints, of greenish black ink on thick parchment, showed various people
doing various activities: playing a lyre to an audience, sitting by the edge of a pond, conversing on the steps of a temple.
“These are lovely,” Greta said. “They’ll work just fine.”
Ian nodded and rolled up the prints. She could tell he was biting his tongue. See, I do have good ideas.
“See, you do have good ideas,” she said in a soft voice, and she supposed it was an apology. He nodded but said nothing, just looking at her with a smile in his eyes.
“Which of these fabrics will be for the curtains?” Tess asked. She was back on the floor, rooting through the opened box. “The way this batik is finished, it’ll be easy to make curtains,” she went on. “At least for someone as talented as I am.”
Greta gave an inelegant snort and said, “Let’s use this for the curtains.” She indicated the chosen fabric, then pulled another length from the box and asked, “Is this material wide enough for a comforter?”
“For a queen size bed?” Tess asked doubtfully.
“Considering how talented you are,” Greta said. “I’m sure making it will be a snap.”
Tess rolled her eyes. Then she shrugged and said, “I can do a patchwork design. That way we don’t have to worry about where the seams end up. I can alternate blocks with a solid color cotton that plays up one of the colors in the batik.”
“Excellent.” Greta gave a decisive nod, then joined Tess on the floor, sitting cross-legged next to her sister though she knew the act would get her pantsuit dirty but she wanted to see what else was in the box. Tess scooted over obligingly so they could share.
“Patchwork?” Ian said, as if he might be considering making an objection, though he should have known by now that resistance was futile.
“It’ll be beautiful,” Greta said. She had no intention of getting into a debate with him. He had already won once, and that was sufficient. “Tess knows what she’s doing.”
“I never doubted it,” Ian said.
“What other treasures does he have in here?” Greta asked Tess, who had abandoned the box to start sketching pictures of the comforters and curtains in the book, as busy planning in her way as Greta was in hers.
The next length of cloth was a silvery blue cloth that looked like a river woven from thread. Or that was how Tess described it anyway when she dropped her pen to grab a fistful of it. Greta was not as fanciful, which was fortunate because someone in their partnership needed to be practical. Tess said, “That’s a perfect color for you, Greta. You’d be beautiful in that for my wedding!”
Ah, romance. “You are wedding obsessed,” Greta said, folding the fabric again and setting it aside. The blue was lovely and it certainly appealed to her more than the pink dress she was going to end up buying, but she’d already exerted as much energy in deciding what to wear for Tess’s wedding as she intended to. Her energy was going to be demanded in many other ways before Tess and Michael finally said their “I dos.” If Greta ever got married again —
Which she would never do, ever, in this lifetime. It wasn’t, to put it mildly, an experience she cared to repeat. She could not imagine any circumstances whatsoever in which it would seem like a good idea. “See that you don’t turn into a bridezilla,” she added, knowing how persistent Tess could be when she had an idea.
“Hey!” Tess objected. “I’m not obsessed. I would just like to see you wear something other than a neutral pantsuit on my big day.”
“I wear neutral pantsuits so I don’t clash with the décor,” Greta said.
“I know why you wear them,” Tess said, rolling her eyes. “I’m just saying I don’t want to see one at my wedding.” She looked up and appealed to Ian. “Isn’t that a pretty color for her?”
“She looks beautiful in anything,” he said. Greta’s head snapped up and her jaw dropped. She stared at him for a moment. The warm sensation on her skin started again. But she had been down that road before … She rearranged her expression and raised an elegant eyebrow. His remark sounded totally sincere. Paul had thought she was beautiful, too. In the beginning. She’d been suckered in before by an Army man who sounded totally sincere. She crossed her arms over her chest.
Ian clamped his mouth shut as if he didn’t dare let another syllable escape. She supposed she should accept his compliment gracefully but she wasn’t sure she knew how.
“Aha,” Tess said, a speculative gleam in her eyes as she looked from one to the other. “But Greta would look even lovelier in this color, right?” she asked, touching the blue fabric. Greta gave her a wary look. She’d seen that gleam in Tess’s eyes before and usually it didn’t bode well for the recipient. “The fabric has given me an idea, Greta. I could make a lovely elegant sheath for you.” Tess was, of course, still talking about her wedding despite her claim that she wasn’t wedding obsessed. “I’m wearing lace and ribbons, all frou frou and furbelows, but a simple elegant sheath for you would be perfect. Forget the bridesmaids’ dresses and their dreadful necklines and bows. I can make you something gorgeous.” She said the words like a fairy godmother sprinkling magic dust and Greta had to dig her heels in hard not to believe in it.
“I don’t think — ”
“All you have to do is stand still for the fitting.”
“Ian doesn’t want — ”
“Ian, would you accept $200 for this yardage?”
“Tess, he’s a client.”
“He’s my friend,” Tess said tranquilly, despite the fact that she had complained unremittingly to Greta about his friendship. “And you’re not really treating him like your other clients, are you?”
“He is getting special consideration,” Greta said, narrowing her eyes at Tess, whom she was going to have to strangle when they got home. Michael would never forgive her for it but then without him Tess wouldn’t have become wedding-obsessed and insane. If Tess thought Greta was going to ask a favor of Ian — oh, no, that was how trouble started.
“Unless it has special meaning for you?” Tess added guiltily, looking up at Ian. “You may not want to part with it.”
“I’m happy to part with it,” Ian said. “And $200 is fine. That’s probably three times what I paid for it.”
“Get your checkbook, Greta,” Tess said happily, proving that not only Army men were masters of manipulation.
• • •
Ian noticed that Greta didn’t immediately reach for her checkbook the way she had insisted that he do so. He smiled and said, “You can credit my account.”
“Perfect,” Tess said. She folded up the sari and set it on top of her bag. “What else have you got?” she asked, reaching for another box.
“Tess — ” Greta said, a warning in her voice, but even Ian knew you couldn’t stop Tess.
He was right. Tess had already opened another box. She plunged her hands in and came up with a photo album.
Ian started at the sight. He’d forgotten that he’d packed that away.
“That looks like personal belongings,” Greta said to Tess. She gave Ian a glance out of the corner of her eye but he didn’t say anything. It was personal, certainly, but it wasn’t private. Plenty of people had looked through the photo album, just as Tess was doing now.
“Is that your dad?” Tess chewed the corner of her thumb as she looked down at the black-and-white photo. Ian knew it by heart: the faded image, the worn corners, the crease across the middle where his mother had folded it to keep it safe in her pocket on a long and harrowing flight from Southeast Asia.
“Yes,” he said, his throat a little dry, his voice cracking a bit. He cleared his throat.
Greta bent over Tess’s shoulder, her curiosity apparently overcoming her scruples. When she looked up at him, her face was composed but he could see the tears glistening in her eyes.
“He died in Vietnam,” she said, and cleared her throat, too.
“Yes,” he
said. Pasted next to the photo was a yellowing newspaper clipping that he’d lifted from the newspaper morgue when he was a kid.
“1968,” Tess said as she read the obituary. “The Tet offensive.”
She was young enough that she said the phrase hesitantly, as if it were a little unfamiliar in her mouth. She looked up. “You never knew him, did you?”
He didn’t have to answer that. All he’d ever known about his father was how impossibly young he looked in the photo and that he wore his Army uniform well.
“Your mother is beautiful,” Tess said. “Is she Vietnamese?”
“She was Thai,” Ian said. “She died when I was in high school.”
Tess gave him a considering look. Ian saw Greta pinch her shoulder and he had to smile. Tess would ask anything but Greta had more tender sensibilities.
“I take after my father,” he said, to satisfy Tess’s curiosity.
“I can see her around your eyes,” Tess said, tapping the photo of his mother. “And of course your hair is so dark. You’re not as tall as your dad, either. Ow!” This in reaction to another pinch from Greta.
“My mother didn’t know him very well,” Ian said. “So I never knew much about him. He married her, though.”
A lot of G.I.s hadn’t. Tess turned the page. On the next one, there would be the marriage license that had mattered so much to his mother, signed by the Army chaplain, witnessed by a couple of enlisted men.
Greta gave a betraying glance at the table she hated, as if she understood it better now. His mother had shaped him and he couldn’t help but be curious about — and partial to — the culture that had made her.
“How old were you when you came to the US?” Tess asked. “Do you remember much about Thailand?”
Ian shook his head. “I was about four years old. It was hard for women with biracial children in Southeast Asia then. She was able to find a missionary group affiliated with a US church to sponsor us.” That barely summarized what his mother had gone through in those days, for him, so he could have a future.
