Dare to Love Again (The Heart of San Francisco Book #2): A Novel
Page 23
He hiked a brow, gruff manner now edged with a smile. “So, you wanna gawk or go in?”
“Ohhhh . . . ,” she whispered, clasped hands to her lips, “is this where we’re going to eat?”
“It is,” he said with a wry tilt of his mouth, prodding her in with a hand to the small of her back. Her body tingled, both from anticipation and the touch of his palm guiding her through a wooden door carved with a three-tailed dragon. “This is my friend Ming Chao’s restaurant,” he said, bending close to be heard over the magical sound of a xylophone played by an Oriental beauty with silken black hair. “Home of the best Hunan chicken in Chinatown, or anywhere else, for that matter.”
Alli’s heart pounded as she stepped in, her mouth watering immediately at the delicious smells that assailed her senses. The room had a decidedly intimate air that spread a warmth in her chest rivaling the glow of candles flickering on scarlet-clad tables. The soft murmur of conversations melded with the delicate tinkling of music to create a surreal effect that swept her a world away. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she caught her breath at the rare sight of a room crowded with well-dressed businessmen in suits and ties dining with locals attired in traditional dark, boxy garb. It was a foreign country unto itself where people of all color and class defied social convention, filling her with a sense of hope that brought a mist to her eyes.
“Mr. Nick!” A small, wiry man bounded forward with arms stretched wide, flashing a toothy smile above a wispy silver beard that trailed his chest. A waist-long silver queue bounced over one shoulder of his black tunic while loose satin trousers flared in the breeze, revealing satin slippers with wooden soles. “You away too long!”
Embracing the tiny man with a hearty hold that Alli feared might crush, Nick grinned and slapped him on the back with a force that rattled the old man’s rusty laughter. “Are you kidding? I’m still licking my wounds from the last time, when you humiliated me in mahjong.”
The man’s high-pitched giggle made Alli smile, dark eyes thinning into happy slits as his head briskly bobbed up and down, flapping the tassel of his embroidered flat cap. “Ah, but true mark of humble man you come back, yes?”
Nick’s rich laughter boomed off gold-and-scarlet water-silk-papered walls, shocking Alli when she realized she’d never heard it quite so full and so free. “For a humble man, yes. For a jaded cop from Lower Manhattan? Not so much.”
Nodding, Ming Chao took a step forward, his gaze lighting upon Alli with a secret smile. Bending at the waist, he bowed in greeting, weathered eyes shrewd in assessment. “Ah, and you Mr. Nick’s woman, yes?”
Heat scalded her face as she shook her head, unable to speak for the tongue now fused to the roof of her mouth.
Nick shored her up with a casual hand to her back. “Sorry, Chao, she’s just a friend.”
A sly smile eased across the old man’s wrinkled face as his eyes narrowed. “Ah, yes, Mr. Nick, but pretty friend, yes?”
Nick’s husky chuckle did nothing for Alli’s composure when the scoundrel’s fingers playfully nipped at her waist. “Very pretty,” he responded with a laugh that told her he was enjoying her discomfort.
“Hello, I’m Allison McClare.” She extended a hand, finally managing to speak. “It’s nice to meet you . . . Mr. Ming?” she said, not quite sure which name to use.
The warm smile on his lips withered as he stared, ignoring her hand with an arch of a silver brow. “McClare?” he repeated, gaze thinning as he slid Nick a frown.
Nick’s weary exhale blew warm against her head. “Logan McClare’s niece, but nothing like him, I assure you.” He nodded toward the back where a couple just vacated a booth. “It appears my favorite table is available, Chao, and I did promise her the best Hunan chicken in the city.”
Eyes locked on Allison with a sharp stare, Ming Chao slowly nodded, chest expanding with a heavy draw of air. “For you, Mr. Nick—anything.”
A chill slithered Alli’s spine as the old man abruptly turned to pluck silk embroidered menus from a carved mahogany table before silently leading them to a booth.
“He doesn’t like me, does he?” she whispered as Nick ushered her behind their host.
“You’re a McClare, Allison, figure it out. The name doesn’t exactly endear you to the people of Chinatown, especially to a man whose grandson was killed during a quarantine riot.”
She whirled around, almost colliding with Nick. “Oh, Nick, no! It was Ming Chao’s grandson who was killed?” Pain seared at the personal connection with the spry, old man.
The hard angles of Nick’s face softened. “Yes, but Chao is a fair and courteous man who will treat you with the respect due both a lady and my friend.”
A knot jerked in her throat as she nodded, allowing Nick to seat her in the dark mahogany booth with gold embroidered cushions. With a stiff bow, Ming Chao handed her a menu and in a knee-jerk reaction, she clasped his hand with shaky fingers, unable to thwart the sting of hot tears in her eyes. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered, lips trembling, “for the loss of your grandson.”
He froze at her touch, eyes apparently glazed with shock at the boldness of her manner, and then as moisture swelled in eyes filled with pain, he nodded with an awkward pat of her hand. Pulling back, he placed Nick’s menu before him and quickly disappeared, leaving Allison to stare after him with a cramp in her chest. “Oh, Nick, I didn’t offend him, did I?”
Eyes tender, Nick assessed her with a somber look. “Normally I’d say yes, because the Chinese don’t like to be touched by strangers, but I think he was moved by your sincerity and grief, Allison . . . as was I.” With a clear gruff of his throat, he studied the menu.
She swallowed hard, picking at her nails. “Nick?”
“Yes?” He continued reading, obviously waiting for her to continue.
She peeked up beneath half-lidded lashes, desperate to understand the source of anger he and Ming Chao bore toward Uncle Logan. “Will you . . . tell me what happened? How Ming Chao’s grandson was killed?”
He glanced up, staring for several ragged beats of her heart before expelling a heavy rush of air and laying the menu down. He leaned forward to rest folded arms on the table. “Why?” he asked, gaze boring into hers as if trying to decipher the motivation of her request.
More muscles shifted in her throat as she swallowed her hesitation, determined to mend fences with a man who’d breached her own walls to become a good friend. “Because we’re friends, Nick, and my heart aches if I or my family wounded you or Ming Chao in any way.”
“You order?” A young man in a plain back tunic placed a porcelain teapot painted with scarlet dragons on their table along with matching cups. Offering a short bow, he stood before them with a question in serious brown eyes.
Nick looked up with a faint smile, shoving his menu to the edge of the table. “Yes, Ming Hai, thank you.” His eyes flicked to Alli’s. “Do you mind if I order for you?”
“Please,” she whispered, relieved when he rattled off a long list of Chinese words that somehow sounded so natural from his tongue.
With another curt bow, Ming Hai departed while Nick reached for the teapot, his casual tone at odds with the somber look in his eyes. “What happened to Ming Chao’s grandson,” he said quietly, “doesn’t make for pleasant dinner conversation, Allison, so maybe after.” He sipped his tea. “I’ll have indigestion enough with all the hot peppers Chao uses. Don’t need to add to it.”
A slow exhale breezed from her lips as she smiled with a neat fold of hands, grateful he’d sidestepped the serious question. “So . . . what exactly did you order for me, Mr. Barone—Hunan chicken seasoned with extra red pepper for all the times I’ve whacked you with my stick?”
A dangerous grin traveled his lips, causing her stomach to flutter. “And risk you throwing up on the cable car too? I doubt a green face would enhance your emerald eyes, Miss McClare, no matter how close a match.”
She laughed, feeling the tightness in her chest slowly unravel.
She arched her brows, enjoying this playful side of Nick Barone she’d only just begun to see. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Ga-roan, I’m a grown woman who revels in the thrill of the cable car, not a weak-kneed little boy likely to lose his supper.”
His smile took on a life of its own as his voice turned husky. “Oh, I’ve noticed, Miss McClare, you can bet your stick on that.”
She blinked, cheeks suddenly going head-to-head with the scarlet linens. Deflecting with a large gulp of tea, she upended the cup, loathe to put it back down and face him again.
His low chuckle taunted. “I’d go easy on that, Alli, you’ll need it later to put out the fire.”
Fire? Her cup shook as it rattled into the saucer. Fire, indeed! The one in her face, the one from the chicken, and the one when he looked at her like that.
He raised his cup in a toast, a sparkle of approval in gray-green eyes that warmed her more than the tea. “To the Snob Hill princess who made a liar out of me.”
She grinned and sipped. “How so?”
The laughter in his eyes melted into a tender smile. “You’re different, Alli, a privileged woman who gives of herself to those who are not. You seem to really care about the kids at the school.” His bold gaze locked with hers, unleashing a heady swirl of heat in her belly. “You’re a very special lady, Allison, and I consider it an honor to be your friend.”
She swallowed hard, quite sure she was glowing more than the candles. “Me too, Nick.”
Ming Hai returned with heaping plates of Hunan chicken and more tea, and never had she enjoyed a meal more. Whether it was Nick’s colorful stories, the sound of his laughter when she regaled him with hers, or even the sumptuous taste of glazed chicken with scallions and red and orange peppers, never had she felt more languid and warm. She even mastered the art of eating with chopsticks, noting with satisfaction the gleam of approval in Nick Barone’s eyes.
After Ming Hai delivered a plate of orange slices and her moon cake to end their meal, Alli rested her head on the back of the booth like him, both comfortable with the silence as they listened to the music with eyes closed.
And then from across the room, a clear, sweet tone arose, and for a moment Alli thought the xylophone player had begun to sing, so plaintive was the sound. Her gaze was instantly drawn to the young musician who sat in a chair, wearing a white silk embroidered jacket and matching silk trousers. She held a stick-like fiddle against her upper thigh while she slowly grazed a bow across two vertical strings like a violin, creating a sound so melancholy, it was as if the instrument were weeping. Allison stared, mesmerized.
“It’s called an erhu,” Nick said softly, interrupting her trance. “An ancient Chinese stick fiddle that almost wails with grief, like the Chinese people when they lose one of their own.”
Her gaze returned to his, heart thudding at the emotion she saw in his eyes, as if the music mourned for him as well as Ming Chao. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, “albeit haunting.”
A trace of a smile—and yet painfully sad—shadowed his lips. “And starkly appropriate when tragedy strikes for those that you love.”
All at once he seemed so very far away, eyes in a distant stare. She longed to reach across the table and take his hand, to offer comfort for the grief she saw in his face, but knew she could not. Nick Barone was, indeed, too far away—not only in distance across the table, but in his heart, which had been barricaded as thoroughly as her own. With a gentle caress, she absorbed the warmth of her teacup instead, conveying her sorrow with a tender look.
“How much do you know about the quarantine three years ago?” he whispered.
“Not much,” she said quietly, shame warming her cheeks over how little attention she’d paid to the abuse Chinatown suffered during an outbreak of the bubonic plague. She’d been too engrossed in her own social life, school, and fancy-free trips to Europe to consider the import of these people’s lives. Fragrant steam misted her face as she took a sip of her tea, the warmth of the liquid coating a throat suddenly all too parched.
She sensed he needed to talk because he spoke in a low drone, telling her of his close friendship with Ming Chao’s son Lee during the Spanish-American War along with Ito Akira, the Japanese friend who’d taught them jiu-jitsu. The three were inseparable during the campaign, part of the tight-knit group known as Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. Nick’s voice wavered at the mention of Ming Lee’s death on San Juan Hill, only the first of Ming Chao’s many heartbreaks.
“The next year Chao lost cousins in Honolulu,” he continued, eyes fixed on the steaming cup in his hands, “when its Chinatown there was burned to the ground by city officials during a quarantine for the bubonic plague. The year after, he lost his only grandson in a racial conflict during a similar quarantine here when a Chinese laborer died of the plague.” His gaze lifted to hers, voice suddenly as hard as the bitterness in his eyes. “Without definitive proof, city officials strung rope and barbed wire around Chinatown in the dark of night, inflicting great hardship on an unsuspecting and gentle people.”
He leaned in then, fingers gripped white on the table while his words mounted in anger. “Instead of isolating buildings in which the victim lived and worked, instead of seeking out those in which the sick man came in contact, instead of hunting the rats that carried the disease, they chose to blame all of Chinatown instead.” He eased back in his seat, the flecks of gold fire in those gray-green eyes all but searing her to the spot. “Cutting them off from the rest of the city and much-needed supplies.” A harsh bite infected his tone. “Except, of course, for enterprises owned by wealthy men like your Uncle Logan, which were conveniently exempt from the blockade.”
Alli swallowed hard, fighting the sudden prick of tears. “I’m so sorry, Nick, for all the pain Ming Chao has had, but I don’t understand why you think Uncle Logan was at fault.”
The tender smiles were suddenly nowhere in sight, vanished in the twist of a sneer. “The Board of Supervisors empowered the Board of Health to quarantine Chinatown, and your Uncle Logan is on the board, is he not?”
“Yes, but he would never do anything to hurt these people—”
He grunted. “I know better. I’ve butted heads with your uncle more than once on issues that would aid the Chinese, not the least of which was in support of his good friend, Gage.”
Allison shook her head, her own ire rising along with Nick’s. “I may not know all the details, but I do know for a fact that Uncle Logan withdrew his support from ex-governor Gage long ago, well before the plague hit the city. I’ve heard him discuss it with Mother many a time.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when Ming Hai refilled their tea, the quiet void between them as stiff as the smile on the young boy’s face. When he left, Nick focused on the orange slices, silence reigning while Alli stared at her plate. The beautiful moon cake pastry he’d ordered suddenly roiled her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” He peered up beneath a crimp of dark brows.
“Nothing,” she whispered, “I just hate to see you so angry.”
He grunted and finished off the fruit, jaw tight as he chewed and ignored her gaze.
She stared at him through a sheen of tears, this man so gruff and angry and yet so tender and kind to those he loved, and longed to know the pain he harbored inside. Pain far beyond his anger over Chao, she suspected, or Uncle Logan, or even a world where greed prevailed. She grazed an idle thumb across the smooth wood of her chopsticks. “The hurt festers deeper every day, you know,” she whispered, knowing full well of what she spoke. “When you hold on to the bitterness with both hands.”
Looking at him now, she saw the same distrust she’d harbored herself far too long, until Cassie had prompted her to pray and let the pain of
Roger Luepke go the only way that she could—through forgiveness. A forgiveness that could heal Nick’s past like it was healing her.
Her eyes softened along with her tone. “God’s called us to forgive, Nick, and none of us can truly be happy or experience His blessings until we let go of the bitterness that stands in the way.” She ducked her head, a faint smile hovering. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you peace comes through forgiveness?”
His head shot up while fire flashed in his eyes. “Yeah, my grandmother, but she died right before my uncle was murdered by rich men like Logan McClare.”
The blood froze in her veins while tears of shock pooled in her eyes. “Oh, Nick, no . . . ,” she whispered, her heart bleeding for his loss . . . but more so for the awful anger that kept him chained to the pain of his past. Swallowing hard, she tentatively reached across the table, grazing his fingers with her own. “I’m so very sorry. Please—tell me how I can help.”
A tic flickered in the stiff line of his jaw, a hard veneer settling on his features that shivered her to the bone. “Forgive me for being frank, Miss McClare, but I don’t want your help.” He shoved his plate away, the abrupt motion jarring the teapot. He reached for the bill that Ming Hai had laid at the edge of the table. “I’ve had quite enough ‘help’ from you rich types who espouse virtue and forgiveness right before you knife a guy in the back. The only help I want is your cooperation in seeing you safely home so I can wash my hands of the lot of you.”
He may as well have slapped her, given the heat stinging her cheeks. Limbs quivering, she rose, no power over the tears that slipped from her eyes. “No, please, I’ll spare you the trouble. I’m quite sure I’m safer with riffraff than a man with so little regard for me or my family.”
“Allison, wait—”
She ignored his command, shoving her plate across the table with a clatter when it careened into the pot. “Enjoy my moon cake, Mr. Barone, please. Not much harmony, I’m afraid. But the prospect of never seeing you again?” She thrust her chin high, her words as harsh as his before she spun on her heel. “Good fortune, indeed.”