The Girl Who Wrote in Silk (3 page)

Olivia nodded, but her expression clearly showed she wasn’t convinced. Then, like the levelheaded big sister she was, she simply shrugged. “Well, you don’t have to decide right this minute. Let’s check out the rest of the house.”

Agreeing, Inara turned to the CD player on the counter and hit the Play button. Neither of them expected the screaming guitars of classic Aerosmith to fill the house, which made them stare at each other in shock before dissolving into laughter so deep Inara’s stomach was aching by the time they recovered enough to get to work. With a swipe at a tear, she pulled the notebook she’d been using to list repairs out of her back pocket and shook her head. Aerosmith. Man, she missed Dahlia.

Notepads in hand and dancing to the music, they took stock of the little house and met back in the kitchen an hour later, both starving.

“I guess we should drive into town for lunch,” Olivia muttered as she stared into the empty refrigerator. “Some neighbor must have cleaned this out after Dahlia died.”

Inara stuck her head into the pantry. Peanuts, packets of oatmeal, olive oil, balsamic vinegar. “How do saltine crackers and tea sound?”

“Good enough for now,” Olivia answered, reaching for the teapot and filling it at the sink.

With their feet up on chairs, they sat at the round kitchen table and dug into the crackers.

“I could live here and hire crews to get the manor in shape,” Inara mused.

Olivia narrowed her eyes. “You’re really considering this, aren’t you? What about Starbucks?”

She’d be crazy to turn Starbucks down. The job was exactly what she’d been working so hard for in school over the last seven years.

But not once in all those years, and not even when she’d gotten the job offer, had Inara felt this alive and full of ideas of what might be. Not until she set foot on the estate again had she realized she’d been asleep all these years. Only in coming here had she woken up. She didn’t want to go to sleep again. “I don’t think I’ve really thought about what I want for a long time,” she finally answered, unsure of what to say.

“But now you want to open a bed-and-breakfast?”

“No.” A bubbling feeling started in her gut and made her sit up straighter as a vision filled her mind. “Not a bed-and-breakfast. A boutique hotel. I could make this
the
vacation destination for the entire Pacific Northwest.”

Olivia was nodding and seemed to be considering. Then, over the music still coming from the CD player, they heard a distinctive ringtone coming from upstairs. Olivia jumped up. “Dang, I must have left my phone in Dahlia’s room.” She took off at a run up the stairs but didn’t make it past the first step when her toe caught on the curling carpet runner. She fell hard, her shins banging the edge of the next step. “Ow!”

Inara jumped up. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

Olivia twisted around so she was sitting on the stairs, her hands holding her injured shins and her eyes shooting daggers at her sister. “If you’re going to live here, you need to take care of that death trap.”

Inara had been hovering over her sister, inspecting her bruises, but now she fell still and met her sister’s gaze. “You think I should do it?” They both knew she wasn’t referring to fixing the carpet runner.

Olivia grabbed Inara’s hand and squeezed. “I think you should do whatever will make you happy. You never liked coffee much anyway.” She paused, then cleared her throat as she released Inara’s hand and went back to rubbing her shin. “It won’t be easy convincing Dad, though. He seemed thrilled to think we could all forget about this place for good.”

Inara nodded, instantly sobering. “I know.” She didn’t want to think about that right now. She scowled at the curling carpet runner. “I really should do something about that.”

As Olivia continued upstairs to retrieve her phone, Inara grabbed hold of the curled-up corner and tugged with all her strength. With only one side still secured to the bottom step, it didn’t take much to free the carpet. The portion of the step beneath the carpet was made of a golden hardwood, marred with what looked like years of scuffs and scratches.

She shifted her hold and gave another tug on the runner. The second tread gave her more trouble. She straddled the step with one foot braced on the bottom step and the other on the third and gave a hard yank on the carpet just as Olivia came back down the steps. The runner gave just enough to encourage her to keep trying.

“I’ll find a claw hammer,” Olivia offered, stepping around her.

Not wanting to wait, Inara gathered her strength and pulled again. This time the carpet jerked loose with a popping sound. When she looked down, she saw it wasn’t only the runner that had come free. In her hands she held the entire stair tread, still connected to the carpet. Where the second step should be was nothing but a dark hole.

“Should’ve waited.” Olivia turned back to the cabinet and her hunt for a hammer.

Sighing, Inara started to replace the tread, intending to leave the runner for someone else to deal with, when something in the hole caught her eye. “There’s something in there.”

“Probably a mouse nest.”

Inara shivered at the thought. “Forget the hammer. I need a flashlight. And rubber gloves.” No way was she going to stick her bare hands into a mouse hole. Olivia returned a moment later with both, which she silently handed to Inara with a “you’re crazy” look toward the hole.

Inara slipped on the gloves, then braced her knees on the bottom step and pointed the flashlight into the hole.

Under a coating of dirt and cobwebs and, yes, mouse droppings—yuck—lay a bundle of some sort. Definitely man-made. Not rodent.

But the mouse responsible for the droppings could still be there.

Afraid to reach in, yet unable to walk away from the hidden bundle without knowing what it was, Inara held her breath and slowly reached inside the hole with a gloved hand.

The bundle felt soft. And surprisingly lightweight.

“What is it?” She could feel Olivia breathing on the back of her head.

“Watch out.” Quickly Inara grabbed the bundle and pulled it from its hiding place. Then, still thinking of mice, she held it away from her body and turned toward the table as Olivia dropped the stair tread back into place with a bang.

With her free hand Inara grabbed a stack of newspapers from the basket on the counter and spread them over the kitchen table before setting the filthy bundle on top.

Whatever was inside had been wrapped in a cloth and tied with brown twine. The whole thing was square-shaped and no bigger than a cantaloupe. She reached for the twine and tugged. It slipped out of her gloved fingers without budging loose from its knot.

“Here.” Olivia handed her a carving knife from the block on the counter.

Soon Inara had the twine cut off and the stained oilcloth unwrapped.

Inside was yellowed blue-checkered fabric. Surely this wasn’t all there was. “Who would tie up and hide an old piece of fabric?”

“Maybe it’s wrapped around something more valuable, like a jeweled necklace.” Olivia moved to stand so close that Inara could smell her sister’s coconut body lotion.

“Or maybe it’s a purse full of gold, or a diary full of juicy secrets.” Inara met Olivia’s excited gaze and knew they were both thinking of the treasure hunts Aunt Dahlia had dreamed up for them as kids.

“Open it,” Olivia urged.

Inara reached out to do just that but stopped when she saw the dirty gloves still on her hands. “Hold it for now, but wait. Don’t open it.”

Olivia reverently took the gingham cloth bundle out of the dirty oilcloth. Hurrying, Inara balled up the oilcloth and newspapers and threw them all in the garbage can under the sink, along with the gloves. Then she washed her hands and rushed back to the table where her sister relinquished their treasure to her.

Carefully, Inara pulled the cotton back, unfolding each crease until the cloth was spread open on the table. “It’s a man’s work shirt.”

“Where would Dahlia have gotten a man’s work shirt?”

Then they saw what the shirt had been protecting.

It wasn’t gold, jewels, or secrets, but Inara had no doubt this was a true treasure. Folded into a square as big as one of her hands was a piece of blue silk embroidered with colorful threads in intricate patterns.

Slowly, being careful with the fragile fabric, she lifted it from the work shirt and unfolded it.

Once she had the silk completely unfolded, all she could do was stare in wonder. Olivia too seemed speechless.

It was a sleeve. Not a whole garment, but a single long sleeve with a funny-shaped cuff. The entire thing had been cut from whatever it had once been attached to. But, intriguingly, every inch of the sleeve was intricately embroidered with richly colored threads, creating pictures as detailed as if they were paintings.

Inara knew nothing of textiles or sewing, but even she could tell this sleeve was not merely a piece of clothing, but a work of art.

“What do you think it is?” she asked her sister, not really expecting an answer. She squinted at it, holding it at different angles to try to make sense of what the pictures depicted and what kind of garment the sleeve could be from.

“Why would Dahlia hide an old sleeve under her stairs?” Olivia leaned closer to get a better look. Inara shifted so she wasn’t blocking the light and could see the pictures better.

The scene created in the stitches seemed to center around a large steamship floating on turbulent seas. People, or maybe they were sea creatures like mermaids, swam all around the ship.

Away from the steamer, farther down the sleeve, she saw a male figure standing in a tiny boat, holding up a yellow light.

“Maybe it wasn’t Dahlia who hid it, but someone before her,” Inara mused. “Duncan Campbell sailed to Asia often. Maybe it was his.”

It definitely had an Asian look to it. Like Japanese or Chinese paintings she’d seen in museums. She could even make out what looked to be characters from an Asian language woven into the scene.

“Maybe it’s valuable, especially if we can find the rest of the garment hidden here somewhere.”

“Valuable or not, why cut the sleeve off and hide it under the stairs? It doesn’t make sense.” Inara dropped onto a chair and stared at the sleeve. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”

Olivia sat on the chair next to her and tilted her head. “I guess it’s yours now, so you get to decide.”

Inara stared at the ship on the sleeve. As intriguing as it was, something about it told her she should just stash the sleeve back under the stairs and forget about it.

Sunday, February 7, 1886—before dawn

Seattle, Washington Territory

In this town full of gambling, alcohol, and opium, the banging and shouting that woke Liu Mei Lien seemed no different from any other night. She rolled over in the tiny bed she shared with Grandmother and pulled the scratchy gray blanket up to her neck to ward off the damp cold that never seemed to go away this time of year. Just as she was drifting off again, a man’s voice yelled in Chinese directly below her window, “They are coming!”

Grumbling, though quietly so she did not wake Grandmother, Mei Lien eased from the bed and pulled aside the burlap sack that served as their curtain. Through drifting fog she peered down to the muddy street below.

Three men wearing
samfu
, the traditional Chinese hip-length, side-fastening jackets over loose trousers, ran uphill away from the docks, their long dark queues trailing from black skullcaps. One man tripped and the other two pulled him up without stopping, their faces turned to look over their shoulders, eyes wide, faces tight.

Mei Lien shook her head. When would those Yeung brothers learn not to cheat at cards? They were forever running from trouble and asking Father or Mr. Chin to cover their debts.

Letting the curtain drop back into place, she decided she might as well get dressed and start the day. She reached for the length of cotton she wore daily to flatten her chest and, with quick fingers, wrapped it tightly around her gooseflesh-covered body, tucking the ends securely under.

At seventeen she was older than her mother had been when she’d married Father and only one year younger than when she’d died in childbirth. Mei Lien knew Father had been thinking for some time of arranging her marriage, but she had no interest in that. She loved helping him run his store in the mornings and spending afternoons embroidering with Grandmother. She never wanted to leave them.

Now fully awake, she was eager to stoke the fire in the stove downstairs and warm up with morning tea. Still moving as quietly as she could, she shoved her cold-stiffened legs into cotton pants,
fu
, and threw on the jacket,
sam
, and cap that convinced everyone on the streets of Seattle she was a boy. As a boy, she could move freely about town, helping Father deliver orders from his store. As a boy, she wasn’t bothered by the lonely Chinese bachelors or curious white men. This freedom was how she’d learned to speak English, and how she gathered news and gossip to bring home to share with Grandmother, who still fretted that Mei Lien wasn’t being a good Chinese girl.

As she shoved her feet into her flat-soled shoes, she tied a scrap of red string around the end of her queue, which trailed down her back to her waist. The string was the only feminine convention she allowed herself, but she knew no one would question it, definitely not now. Red was the color of good luck. She, like all of Seattle’s Chinese residents, had been quietly celebrating the Chinese New Year all week, with signs of double happiness posted outside doorways and red candles lit to honor ancestors and chase away demons. Three nights ago she’d sat with Grandmother at their window and cheered as the Yeung brothers set off firecrackers late into the night.

Still shivering, she rushed down the steep stairs to the room behind Father’s store and the welcome warmth of the stove. The stove door creaked as she opened it, and she knew the sound would signal to Father it was morning. Quickly, she shoved split logs into the belly of the stove, set the waiting kettle on the burner, and then moved to light candles and incense at their family altar, where she whispered words of respect to her ancestors. Today marked the third day of the New Year, the Year of the Dog, and today was the day Father had promised she could have one of the preserved plums he’d ordered for the festivities but that remained unsold.

Her mouth watered as she thought of the sweet, chewy plum. Maybe, if she hurried through her chores, Father would give it to her before they opened the store for the day.

First chore, the morning meal. She moved about the small room, gathering the jar of preserved cabbage and onions she would mix with the rice and broth left over from supper last night. Just as she was spooning the mixture into a pan on the hot stove top, pounding noises echoed from the store out front, followed immediately by anxious shouts that reminded her of the three brothers running frightened up the street. She froze to listen but couldn’t make out the words, or even if they were in English or Chinese, but the tone was enough to make her grip the wooden spoon handle tightly as she held her breath and strained to hear more.

Through the thin wooden walls, she could hear what sounded like a great commotion coming closer, the cries urgent, angry even.

And then she knew.

But she didn’t want to know. No. It couldn’t be happening. Not here. Not now.

With the rice spoon still clutched in her hand, she eased open the door connecting their living quarters to the darkened store. Through the glass windows overlooking Washington Street, she saw a crowd of white men carrying guns and what looked to be heavy sticks. A few carried lanterns, but the lightening sky illuminated the mob clearly. As she watched, one of the men, wearing a businessman’s black suit and hat, broke from the mob and came to the locked door. His black eyes seemed to be staring right at her under the name of the shop painted on the glass. Cold fear sliced through her, causing her body to jerk. The handle of the spoon dug into her palm,

“Pack up, Chink!” the man yelled at her. “Today you’re going back to China!”

“Mei Lien! Come away from there.” Father grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the doorway enough to close it and block out the sight of the mob and the man outside.

“The rumors were true,
Bàba
,” she cried, as she turned to face him and saw he was still wearing his sleeping clothes. “They are driving us out of town!”

“Hush, Daughter.” He held her shoulders in his warm palms and looked into her eyes from a breath away. “Do not show them your fear. As long as we are together, we will be fine.”

He released her then with a small shove toward the stairs. “Go wake Grandmother and get her dressed. Pack whatever you can. I don’t know if we’ll be back.”

She was going to protest but he’d already disappeared into the tiny back room where he slept. With her stomach squeezing painfully, she climbed the stairs and kneeled beside Grandmother’s side of the bed.

“
N
ă
inai
, wake up. We must prepare to leave.” Mei Lien shook her grandmother’s shoulder, knowing the older woman’s hearing had been failing steadily over the last months. She repeated her words in Chinese, since Grandmother had never learned English, and kept shaking her gently.

“I must tell my maid to hurry,” Grandmother cried, jerking upright. “Mother does not like to be kept waiting on market day.” Her eyes were as clouded as her words were confused.

Mei Lien, used to Grandmother’s nightly dreams of life back home in China, patted her on the shoulder and turned to open the chest beside the bed where Grandmother’s clothing was stored. But just then she heard her father’s cry from the store below, followed by a crash and a bang.

She threw the first garment she touched onto the bed, then raced down the stairs, her feet suddenly clumsy. When she reached the door to the store, she stumbled to a halt. Father knelt on the floor at the feet of two white men. A sack of rice had been split and was spilled all around him. The taller man grasped a rifle across his chest, while the short fat one wielded a stick of wood painted black—it looked like a piece of trim from around the store windows.

Both men wore the dark suits and hats so common of white men, though the short one in front looked like he hadn’t changed in days, so wrinkled and stained was his jacket. Both had a crazed look in their eyes that caused all the saliva in Mei Lien’s mouth to dry up. Her gaze shifted to the store’s front door. Shattered glass littered the floor. Splintered wood framed the opening where the men had kicked the door in. The area around the dead bolt still held fast into the wall.

“Please no hurt family,” Father pleaded in fractured English, his body curved into itself and his head lowered. Mei Lien had never seen her father act so scared or so weak. Her stomach convulsed and she had to swallow hard to keep down the bile.

In spite of the danger to them both, she scurried to him, careful to keep her eyes downcast the whole time. She grabbed his arm. “
Bàba
, get up.”

Father’s head jerked toward her, his eyes wide with horror, and she knew she should have stayed upstairs. He stumbled to his feet and together they took several steps back. She still held his arm. He shifted his body in front of hers.

The man with the club slapped it against his palm and spit onto the floor, leaving an ugly brown mark where only yesterday Mei Lien had scrubbed it clean. “All you Orientals are leaving on the one o’clock steamer this afternoon. It’s back to China for you.”

“But this is our home,” Mei Lien protested without thinking. She’d been born in Seattle. She knew no other life. “We don’t want to leave.” Father patted her hand but said nothing.

The fat one looked back at his friend. Wide smiles that didn’t reach their eyes spread across both of their faces before the short one turned back to face Mei Lien and her father. “That don’t rightly matter, now, does it? A vote’s been cast. No one wants you Chinks here takin’ jobs and money from us Americans.” He took a step toward them, and Mei Lien felt her father stiffen. “I’m thinking I can’t trust you to get your asses on that boat, so’s I’d better take you there myself.”

His hand snagged Mei Lien’s arm before she or her father saw it coming. “Let go of me!” she shouted, but his grip tightened as he yanked her away from her father and gave her a shove toward the door.

“Get going, Chink.”

“Wait!” Father was suddenly in front of her, his own body between her and the men. “We go. Please get our things and old mother. She no walk.”

“
Bàba
!” Mei Lien hissed in Chinese into his ear. “Why should we go? There’s nothing in China for us. You’ve said so yourself many times.”

Father turned his head to look at her, his eyes commanding her to obey. “My son,” he said in English, used to their charade when strangers were about. “We are given no choice. Go collect your things and help
N
ă
inai
. I’ll gather what I can.”

“You’ve got five minutes. Not a second more. Any Chinaman left on shore when the steamer departs will be shot.” As if to emphasize the man’s words, the sound of gunfire erupted from up the street outside.

While the white men hurried to look out the window, Father pushed her toward the stairs with an urgent directive whispered in Chinese. “They’re looking for an excuse to kill us. Don’t give them one. Collect everything you can of value. Hurry!”

His words made Mei Lien stumble. How could this be happening? How could these men barge in here and force them to sail “home” to a country where Mei Lien had never been? A country her father had bid farewell to with no intention of returning?

She found Grandmother sitting on the bed, her eyes wide in her small, pale face. She’d managed to dress herself in her finest
mang
ao
worn over the matching red and pleated skirt she’d worn on her wedding day. The clothing looked baggy on her frail body. As though she knew they were about to embark on a journey, she’d even squeezed her tiny bound feet into her best black embroidered shoes.

Seeing the fear etched on Grandmother’s creased face made Mei Lien’s heart dip, but she didn’t take time to comfort her. She grabbed her market bag from the chair next to the bed and started throwing in clothing, her hairbrush, and the lucky money she’d received just three days ago. As soon as the bag was full, she grabbed Grandmother’s embroidery bag and dumped all of the floss, needles, and half-finished purses onto the floor. Into it she shoved some of Grandmother’s clothing, her antique hairpin, and the pocket money she kept in a pouch wedged behind their shared washstand. Finally, she faced Grandmother.

“
N
ă
inai
, we must leave,” she said. “The
Bok
Guey
are forcing us to sail to China today.
Bàba
is waiting downstairs.”

Grandmother’s eyes lit up at the mention of China, then quickly clouded again. “Don’t forget my face powder, Mei Lien. I mustn’t be seen without my face powder.”

Mei Lien gently but quickly brushed the white powder over Grandmother’s paper-thin skin and touched a dab of rouge to her cheeks and bottom lip before dropping the containers into the embroidery bag. “Your
mang
ao
is beautiful,
N
ă
inai
,” Mei Lien said as she tied the bag closed. “The dragons and phoenixes will surely protect us on our journey.”

Grandmother smiled wide and lifted her chin high. She had told Mei Lien often how the red silk of the jacket brought good luck and boasted how the eight dragons were a sign of her late husband’s official rank. The silver pheasant badge on the front had become worn and faded, but the stitching, done in Grandmother’s own hand, was so fine one had to look closely to see the design had not been painted on. Mei Lien hoped the ornate jacket wouldn’t bring them undue notice today.

Father appeared in the doorway with the taller white man behind him. “It is time to go,” he said, his voice sounding stiff.

Mei Lien nodded. “Yes,
Bàba
. Can you carry our things? I’ll get
N
ă
inai
.” Grandmother needed to be carried wherever she went because her deformed feet prevented her from putting much weight on them. Mei Lien was used to carrying her around the apartment on her back, which was usually all that was required since Grandmother had not left their home in years. Even though she was physically small, carrying her three blocks to the docks was going to be difficult.