by H. Y. Hanna
Toran made a move towards her, then checked himself. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “It wasn’t your fault, Leah. And if it comes to that, I owe you an apology too. I hurt you too. We were both played by Julia… but maybe we were both also guilty of not trusting each other enough, of being too quick to abandon hope.”
Leah nodded, looking down at the ground. There was a long, awkward silence between them. All around, people flowed past them like a river parting around a rock, chattering, laughing, looking for bargains. But Leah felt like she was trapped in a silent world with Toran, not knowing what to say next. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint, tangy scent of his aftershave. And yet she still felt like there was a gulf between them that she couldn’t bridge.
What happens now? Leah wondered. Somehow, in the rush to find him, she had thought that if she could just tell Toran the truth and they acknowledged what had happened, then everything would be okay. Everything would reset. They’d fall into each other’s arms and it would be just like how it used to be…
But now she realised that she had been naïve. The hurt of the past twelve years couldn’t be wiped away just like that. They were both different people now, with a history that couldn’t be undone. What had happened to them—even though it had been done against their will and without their knowledge—had totally changed their relationship. That innocent “first love” was lost forever and, however much she wanted to, they couldn’t return to it again.
“Are you hungry?” Toran said at last.
Leah looked up at him, searching his eyes. “A bit,” she admitted.
“There’s a great teahouse around the corner from here.” He gave a slight smile. “They do very good dim sum snacks. The last time you came to Singapore, you mentioned how much you missed them.”
Leah was surprised and touched that he remembered. “Haven’t you eaten already?” she asked.
His green eyes were amused. “As the Chinese say: ‘when you come to China, you find out how large your appetite is’. I’m sure I can make room. Besides, they also perform Chinese tea ceremonies in there—it’s quite something to watch, if you haven’t seen one.”
“I haven’t,” said Leah, her heart lifting at the expression in his eyes. “I’d love to see that.”
Toran held his hand out to her. Leah smiled and slipped her hand into his, feeling his fingers—strong, warm, and slightly callused at the tips—interlace with hers.
He pulled her towards him and she saw his green eyes darken. For a moment, his fingers tightened around hers and she felt her heart beat faster as his gaze lowered to her lips. She remembered that kiss on her villa doorstep and awareness flared through her body. Then someone jostled them and Toran pulled back. The moment was lost.
“Come on.” Keeping a strong grip on her hand, he turned and led the way.
CHAPTER 8
The teahouse was situated in a Chinese Baroque style shophouse, complete with ornamental stucco, miniature columns, and even a half-height swing door like those in a Wild West saloon. Inside, it was decorated in soothing colours of pale pistachio green and white, with dark wood furniture and framed Chinese calligraphy scrolls on the walls. Soft Chinese instrumental music played in the background, mingling with the faint clink of porcelain cups and the happy hum of conversation from several groups huddled around the tables.
Toran saw the shop owner smile as they walked in, the older man’s gaze roving appreciatively over Leah. He showed them to one of the tables in the main part of the teahouse. Toran watched indulgently as Leah pored over the menu, her eyes lighting up in delight as she recognised many of her favourite dim sum snacks. On the way here, she had put her hair up in some kind of bun, but a few tendrils had escaped and were curling in the humid heat, clinging to the nape of her neck. It was incredibly sexy. His fingers itched to reach out and touch those delicate strands, to linger over the side of her neck. He looked away and tried to focus on the menu.
They ordered several dishes: crispy prawn pancakes sprinkled with toasted sesame seeds, steamed barbecued pork buns with their unique smoky, sweet flavour, dainty spring rolls bursting with carrots, bamboo and bean sprouts, and last, but not least, the house speciality—tea eggs.
“I used to love these when I was a little girl,” said Leah, picking up one of the eggs and admiring it. The eggs had been steeped in boiling tea and spices, then carefully cracked once they were hardboiled and returned to simmer in the tea for a few more hours, with their shells still on. When they were finally peeled and served, their surfaces were stained a soft brown and covered with a delicate network of dark brown spiderweb veins, from where the tea had seeped in through the cracks in the eggshell. They looked almost too beautiful to eat.
“Yeah, I remember my mother buying these for me from a street vendor when I was a boy,” said Toran, biting into one of the tea eggs. It had a subtle, fragrant tea flavour, tinged with a salty and spicy aftertaste. It was as delicious as he remembered.
Leah gave him a wistful look. “I wish I had memories like that of my mother.” She looked away into the distance. “All I have are memories of my father sitting by himself, drinking… I always wanted to be one of those kids I saw on weekends; you know, the ones out with both their parents, at the amusement parks, the playgrounds, the zoo… I used to lie in my room and imagine all the things I could have done with my mother if she hadn’t died giving birth to me.”
The pain in her eyes touched him somewhere deep inside. Toran reached across the table and gently squeezed Leah’s hand. “It’s not quite the same, but if you like, we can do some of those things you imagined, together.” He gave a rueful smile. “Or if she were still alive, you could have done some of those things with my mother. I’m sure she would have enjoyed having someone else to nag and fuss over. She always wanted a daughter.”
“I’m sorry about their accident,” said Leah softly. “That must have been a horrible shock for you.”
Toran felt the familiar spurt of anger. “It should never have happened.”
“Did they ever catch the person responsible? It was a car accident, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but it didn’t make sense,” said Toran impatiently. “My parents were in a taxi—they were going away that weekend—and apparently the driver swerved suddenly, which caused them to go off the side of the road. My parents were in the back seat and were thrown from the car. Dad died instantly.” Toran swallowed. “Mum died later in hospital.” He shook his head. “But the thing is, no one seems to know exactly why the driver swerved.”
“Didn’t the police investigate it?”
Toran waved a dismissive hand. “They did… but that was the weekend when there was a group of people staging a protest outside Parliament House. There were fears it could turn into a riot. Most manpower was diverted there. A car skidding and crashing during heavy rain on an outer coastal road… it just wasn’t that important.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I was away overseas at the time—on assignment as a war correspondent—and they had some trouble getting in touch with me. By the time I managed to get back, the police had dropped the case. There was talk about charging the driver, but he had disappeared; they think he went across the water into Malaysia.” He clenched his hand. “I’m going to find him one of these days. Ask him myself what happened.”
“But…” Leah frowned. “I don’t understand—this all happened five years ago. Why are you raking it all up now?”
Toran leaned back in his chair. “A contact I was speaking to for another case mentioned the car accident in passing. He didn’t realise it was my parents. He said it was ‘sabo’—which is Singlish slang for sabotage. When I pressed him, he clammed up, but did mention that a man called Black Buddha might have more information.”
“Black Buddha?” Leah frowned.
“A kingpin of the Singapore underworld. I tracked him down to Geylang the other night, but I couldn’t get much out of him. Slippery character. Kept tryi
ng to suggest that it was just an unlucky accident in bad weather.”
“Toran…” Leah touched her hand to his. “Couldn’t that be just what happened? Why does there need to be another reason?”
“That’s what I used to think. But since that contact brought it up again, I’ve been thinking about it… something doesn’t add up. I tracked down the insurance report and that said my parents were thrown from the car because, unlike the driver, they weren’t wearing their seat belts. But that can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forwards. “My father was obsessive about seat belts. There was just no way that my parents would not have been wearing their seat belts when the taxi crashed.”
“But then what are you suggesting? That someone tampered with their seat belts?” Leah raised her eyebrows.
Toran shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know… but I’m going to get to the bottom of it. I know Black Buddha wasn’t telling me everything. But I think I got to him—you just have to find the right place to apply pressure. I think he’ll contact me again…”
Leah picked up a spring roll, dipped it into the saucer of soya sauce, and bit into it. She chewed thoughtfully.
“What?” asked Toran, watching her.
“Nothing…” She frowned. “Just something you said… ‘Black Buddha’… it jogged my memory. I feel like I’ve heard that name before but…” She sighed. “It’s gone.”
“It’ll probably come back to you when you least expect it.”
“Yeah, it’ll probably turn out to be the name of some fusion restaurant in London,” said Leah with a dry smile.
“Well, as long as the food’s good, we can check it out next time we’re there,” said Toran with a grin. “Come on, eat up. We’ve still got a tea ceremony to watch.”
When they finished their meal, they were escorted to seats at a corner table where an Asian girl dressed in a silk cheongsam was presiding over a bamboo tea tray, telling a small group about the importance of tea in Chinese culture.
“…like the way the French regard their wine, with great care taken over selecting, preparing and drinking, and appreciating the subtleties of aroma and flavour. And by the way, in case anyone is wondering, we never add milk or sugar to Chinese tea—it would be like adding salt to your coffee!”
There were chuckles from the group. Toran leaned close to Leah and whispered in her ear, “Don’t look so sceptical. I’ve seen ignorant Westerners do it. And then they complain that Chinese tea tastes horrible!”
His warm breath tickled her ear and sent a shiver down her spine, making it hard for Leah to concentrate on what the girl was saying. She remembered the kiss from last night. Suddenly, all she wanted was for Toran to take her home and kiss her again, maybe finish what he had started on the steps of her villa last night…
Leah jerked herself out of her thoughts and glanced at Toran. He was sitting in the chair next to hers, his tall frame relaxed as he watched the demonstration. She tilted her head. From this angle, she could see glimpses of the boy she had once fallen in love with—the keen intelligence in those brilliant green eyes, the quiet confidence and humour in his face—but now she could also see the man he had become—the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders outlined by his crisp white shirt, the strong line of his jaw that accentuated his cheekbones and the sensual, exciting curve of his mouth. She was seized by an impulse to lean over and press her lips to his, to feel that hard line change and soften…
Leah flushed slightly at the direction of her thoughts and turned away from Toran, trying to focus on what the Asian girl was saying.
“Tea-drinking plays a very important role in the social rituals of daily life.” The girl looked around the group and smiled. “For example, tea is served as a sign of respect—such as by the younger generation to their elders. Chinese society is a lot more liberal now and so you may see a boss pour tea for his employee at a restaurant—but it’s still rare on formal occasions and considered a huge honour. The bride will often serve tea to her new in-laws to symbolise that she has become part of their family And tea is also used to apologise—in Chinese culture, you make a serious apology to someone by serving them tea.”
Leah felt Toran’s shoulder touch hers. Unconsciously, she leaned into him, enjoying the solid warmth of his body. She caught the faint scent of his aftershave again, mingled with the smell of soap and something undefinably male. Her skin tingled where her bare arm touched his. She didn’t know what was happening, but suddenly, it felt like all her senses had a heightened awareness of him.
In front of them, the Asian girl gestured to the tea tray which held a variety of teapots and porcelain cups, as well as a jar of wooden implements. “And now I will demonstrate how we brew tea in a traditional Gongfu Cha Dao ceremony. This is used mainly for oolong teas and black teas because it uses a Yixing clay pot.” She held up a tiny, doll-like brown teapot. “This method of brewing is too hot for green teas, which needs the water to be only about 70º Celsius or 158º degrees Fahrenheit—otherwise it ruins the taste of the tea.”
“Shit, I’ve just been pouring boiling water on mine whenever I make green tea,” murmured Leah.
She heard Toran laugh softly next to her, then his left hand slid up her back and cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin absently. Oh my God, thought Leah, closing her eyes for a moment as a shiver of pleasure coursed through her body. The slightly roughened skin on the pad of his thumb caressed the side of her neck, bringing a wave of goosebumps up her back and across her scalp. She inhaled sharply and shifted. Toran turned his head at the sudden motion and their eyes met in an electric moment. Leah felt his fingers tighten around her neck as his eyes changed from emerald to deep olive and his gaze dropped to her lips. Yes, she thought wildly. Kiss me. Kiss me now.
Someone cleared their throat. They both looked up. It was the man next to them as he offered them a small porcelain bowl filled with black tea leaves. The group had obviously been passing it around for everyone to appreciate the fragrance. The others were waiting and looking at them. Leah blushed as Toran took the bowl from the man. He gave it a cursory sniff, then held it out to Leah, who leaned in and inhaled obediently. The tea leaves had a pleasant, almost honey-like aroma.
“This is a tea from Taiwan, called ‘Oriental Beauty’,” said the Asian girl. “It is one of the most popular oolong teas because of its sweet and fruity flavour.”
Toran handed the bowl of leaves back to the man and leaned close to Leah. “Later,” he growled in a low voice so full of promise that Leah felt heat lick in her belly. She smiled at him and resolutely turned back to watch the demo.
The Asian girl had been pouring boiling water over the teapot and cups to rinse and warm them. Now, she retrieved the bowl of tea leaves and used a small wooden spatula to spoon some tea into the little Yixing teapot.
“This stage is called ‘the black dragon enters the palace’,” said the Asian girl, smiling. She poured hot water into the pot, filling it to overflowing before placing the lid firmly on top. Then she picked it up and emptied the teapot carelessly over the cups. Leah leaned forwards in surprise as—instead of serving the cups of tea—the girl proceeded to tip them all over and throw the tea out.
“What’s she doing?” whispered Leah.
“That’s the first brewing,” explained Toran. “You never drink the first infusion—it’s just done to wash the leaves of any dust and other contaminants. Watch what she’s doing now.”
The girl refilled the teapot with fresh hot water and let it steep for several seconds. Then this time, she poured the tea carefully into the cups in a circular motion. One by one, the girl offered a dainty cup to each of the group around the table. Leah remembered to use both hands as she reached out and accepted her cup. It was funny—despite the many years away from Singapore, the little rules of Chinese etiquette were coming back to her naturally. She raised the cup to her lips and paused to inhale the fragrant aroma before taking her first si
p. It had a mellow, sweet aftertaste.
“It’s lovely,” she said with some surprise. “Not bitter the way Chinese tea tastes sometimes.”
Toran sipped his own cup. “I don’t think Chinese tea should ever be bitter if it’s good quality and has been brewed right.”
The Asian girl made another infusion and they all drank another cup, this time a bit stronger. Then the girl began talking about the different types of tea used.
“…there are several types of tea: green tea, oolong tea, black tea, white tea, fermented pu-erh tea, and flower tea, such as the popular jasmine and chrysanthemum…”
“Come on,” muttered Toran, grasping Leah’s arm and pulling her gently to her feet. “I think we can continue appreciating tea at my place.”
There was no doubting the intent in his green eyes and Leah felt her heart rate begin to speed up again.
“Wait, what about Angela?” she asked, pulling back. “Won’t she be there?”
Toran shook his head. “She wasn’t there when I got up this morning. She left a small thank you note. I think she’s decided to go back home.”
The taxi ride back to his apartment was a sweet torture of anticipation. When they finally stepped into the lift, Leah barely had time to turn around before Toran had her up against the inner wall, his mouth ravaging hers. He captured one of her wrists, holding it above her head, while his other hand slid down the length of her body, encircling her waist and pulling her possessively to him. Leah arched unconsciously against him, revelling in the feel of his hard body against hers.
Dimly, she heard a soft ping and then the swish of the lift doors closing, followed by the hum of machinery as they ascended. Leah laughed against his mouth and Toran pulled back slightly, a smile in his green eyes.
“What is it?”
