Confucius Jane (5 page)

“Hello,” she said, taking her customary seat. No matter how brisk Noodle Treasure's business might be, she always found it unoccupied. “How are your knees feeling today?”

After a few weeks of casual chatter, Benny had done what most people did when talking to a doctor—he had begun to discuss his various physical ailments. Arthritis was the main culprit, and his knees were particularly susceptible because he was always on his feet.

“Better than yesterday,” he said. “The new heating pads are helping. Thank you again.”

“My pleasure.” Sutton's stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding her of just how long she had been on her feet. “I'd like the hot-and-sour soup, please. And an order of pork dumplings.”

Benny's smile suggested that her order was a compliment to his wife's cooking. “Right away.”

Sutton retrieved her laptop from her bag, and while it was powering up, she looked out across Baxter Street to the familiar façade of Confucius Fortunes Company. She had asked Benny about it once, and he had told her that it was the oldest fortune cookie factory in the city. Their recipe was a great secret, he had insisted—passed down over generations. And Sutton could believe it; unlike the cookies she had eaten from other restaurants uptown, which tasted like cardboard, these were airy and sweet and melted in her mouth.

At that moment, Mei arrived with a steaming ceramic mug full of tea. They chatted briefly about the weather before Mei left her to her work. As Sutton inhaled the delicate scent of oolong blended with chrysanthemum flowers, she felt the last of her anxiety ebb away. Exhaling slowly, she turned her full attention to her laptop, determined to make some headway on at least one section of the article.

When Sutton next allowed herself to look at the clock, an hour had passed. As she rolled her shoulders to ease the tension that had returned to her neck, the door opened to admit a familiar face: a girl, somewhere in the ten- to twelve-year range, who came into the restaurant most afternoons to eat a snack and do her homework. Benny greeted her cheerfully in Chinese, and she answered in kind. When she passed Sutton's chair, she gave her a small wave. Sutton smiled in return. For some reason, the girl's acknowledgement always made her happy—as though she were a part of something, even if it was only the small community that patronized this restaurant.

Her introspection was broken by the appearance of Mei at her elbow, bearing a fresh mug of tea. On the saucer next to the cup was a lone fortune cookie, its wrapper bearing the familiar logo of the factory across the street. As she peeled the plastic away and turned the cookie over in her palm, Sutton made a mental note to look up how the paper strips were inserted inside. And then, with one decisive movement, she broke the shell in two.

After brushing the crumbs off the fortune, she leaned in to read its red lettering.
Love is right around the corner
. She snorted and let the wisp of paper fall back onto the counter. The idea that she had time for love right now was patently absurd. Still shaking her head, Sutton turned back to her laptop, but the screen would no longer hold her attention. Instead, she found herself staring out the window and people-watching. Tourists bundled in brightly colored jackets wandered, aimless or confused, squinting at the street signs, while the native New Yorkers walked briskly, hunching their shoulders against the cold. Sutton stroked the warm surface of her mug, glad to be inside and off her feet.

Across the street, the nondescript door next to the factory opened, and an androgynous figure in the process of zipping up a plain navy hoodie stepped out onto the sidewalk. Suddenly intrigued, Sutton leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. The individual's hair was short and dark, and their clothes were too bulky to reveal any telling physiological details. And then the person looked up, directly into the restaurant, and Sutton knew without a doubt that she had just been checking out a woman. A woman whose gaze was now locked with hers.

Her face was striking. Slanted brows drew attention to a pair of eyes slightly too round to be called almond-shaped, set above high cheekbones that lent her a vaguely exotic quality. She was beautiful. Handsome. Both.

Sutton was powerless to look away. The woman stepped forward, and for one suspended moment, it seemed as though she might cross the street. Sutton's pulse leapt at the thought. But even as she silently chided herself for her reaction, the woman pulled her hood over her hair, slid her bare hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and turned uptown.

Within seconds, she had disappeared around the corner, leaving Sutton chagrined by the magnitude of her response. But it was only attraction—as involuntary as it was meaningless. Nothing could come of it, and nothing would. Love wasn't waiting around the corner—love was off the agenda entirely.

 

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

J
ANE WOKE FROM A
dream in which she was sitting alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by the scattered remains of what must have been hundreds of fortune cookies. Piled high all around her, the broken shells blocked her vision of all but the ceiling. And yet, she persisted in opening cookie after cookie, only to find
The time is ripe
inside every last one. Just before the dream dissolved, she'd heard a noise behind her and had turned to see Sutton standing in the hallway, wearing a floor-length, forest-green silk nightgown. And her glasses.

“Whoa.” Jane rested the heel of her hand over her racing heart. The image of Sutton persisted in her mind's eye: the contrast of those thin, dark straps against her creamy white skin; the alluring half smile that had curved her full lips; the way her gold hair curled against the contours of her collarbone.

With a shake of her head, she sat up in the bed and scrubbed her palms over her face. Apparently, her subconscious had really internalized that horoscope from yesterday. And wanted her to ask Sutton out. Among other things.

“Are you okay?”

Jane turned to see Min, lying on her side and staring at her in clear concern. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“You were talking in your sleep. It woke me up.”

“What was I saying?” She tried to sound curious instead of panicked.

“No clue. It was in some language I didn't understand.”

“Huh.” Jane hadn't realized that she dreamt in any language other than English. “Well, I'm sorry I woke you. Guess we're even.”

She glanced at the clock. Just past six. Ouch. And there was no way she could fall asleep again after that.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Fortune cookies, of course.” Jane rolled her eyes. “What else do I have to dream about?”

Min's expression turned shrewd. “Not Sutton? Because that was the one word I did understand.”

Jane felt her face go hot, and she thanked her lucky stars that the rest of her sleep-talking had been unintelligible. “She may have made an appearance.”

Min sat cross-legged on the bed and began to braid her hair. Great. The universal sign for girl talk. Just what she needed: advice from a preteen.

“Is this the first time you've dreamt about her?”

“It's too early for twenty questions.”

Min raised one eyebrow and waited.

“To my knowledge, yes.” Jane flopped back onto her pillow, lacing her hands behind her head.
The time is ripe.
The words still echoed in her brain. “Maybe I should ask her out.”

Only when Min squealed, “Really?” did Jane realize she'd spoken the thought. Immediately, Min jumped up and grabbed her laptop from her desk.

“What are you doing?”

“Googling pickup lines!”

Jane choked on a laugh. “I really don't think that's necessary.”

“I really do think it's necessary.” Min looked over the screen at her with a stern expression. “You'll be hopeless, otherwise.”

“Well, thanks for that vote of confidence. I'm a poet, remember? I think I'll be able to come up with something just fine on my own.”

Min ignored her. “Okay. How about this one. ‘Pardon me, miss: I seem to have lost my phone number. Could I borrow yours?'”

Jane snorted in derision. “That line has more cheese than France. Absolutely not.”

“This one is kind of cute: ‘Is your Dad an astronaut? Because someone took the stars from the sky and put them in your eyes.'”

“Slightly better. Only slightly. But no.”

“Oh! How about, ‘I know I don't look like much now, but I'm drinking milk.'”

“Thanks a lot!” Jane stood. “I'm not going to lie here while you insult me. Besides, I'm lactose-intolerant, remember?”

“No, wait,” Min called as she headed toward the door. “This one's perfect! ‘You must be tired because you've been running through my dreams all night.'”

Jane paused with her hand on the knob. “She wasn't running. She was standing still and smiling at me. Enough with the pickup lines. Okay?”

She closed the door firmly and breathed a sigh of relief. Min's intentions might be charitable, but being the object of them was exhausting. Maybe, when it came time for Min to date, she should get a taste of her own medicine. Jane smiled faintly at the thought of her mooning over some boy—or girl. Right now, it was practically inconceivable. Which was for the best, since she couldn't imagine a soul on earth who came close to deserving her little cousin. Even when she was at her most annoying.

As she went through the familiar motions of her morning routine, Jane couldn't stop her mind from drifting back to the dream. For about five hot seconds, she debated stopping by Sue's shop to ask what she thought. But that was silly. Dreams didn't mean anything—not objectively. Her mind had simply smashed together the horoscope, her attraction to Sutton, and her job into a brief, though remarkably coherent, narrative. All it meant was what she already knew: that Sutton was a breath of fresh air in a life otherwise defined by repetitive and rather mundane work.

“You made your bed,” she reminded herself, pointing her toothbrush at her reflection as the familiar guilt kicked in. Until she found the courage to go back and graduate, she should lie in it gratefully.

When she returned to the room, Min was dressed and sitting at her desk. She swiveled in her chair, holding up both hands. “Okay, maybe those pickup lines were tasteless—”

“You think?” Jane injected as much sarcasm as possible into the words.

“—but you do need a plan.”

“At last, we're in agreement. I suppose you have some suggestions?”

“Well, Sutton's usually there when I go after school.” Min rested her chin on her hand in the classic pose of
The Thinker
. “What if … oh! What if you come in and pretend to help me with my homework? That might impress her.”

“Now that is a good idea. Bravo. I could also actually help you with your homework, you know.”

Min scoffed. “I don't need any help.”

“Of course you don't.” Jane pulled a SPAM T-shirt over her head. This was one of her favorites. “All right, I'll meet you at Noodle Treasure this afternoon. It's a date. Or at least, hopefully it will result in one for me.”

Min rolled her eyes. “Are you really laughing at your own pun? Lame.”

“Tough crowd around here.” Jane grabbed her notebook. “I'm going to get a jump on the deliveries this morning.”

“One last thing. Don't wear any smoking paraphernalia. She's a doctor. She won't like that.”

“I suppose not.” Jane tugged lightly on Min's braid as she walked past. “Thanks for the tip. See you later.”

As she descended the stairs, Jane took a few deep breaths in the hopes of calming her erratic heartbeat. She had a plan—or at least, the start of one. Therein lay the problem. Once she was ensconced in Noodle Treasure, impressing Sutton with her generosity toward her cousin, what was the next step? How would she engage Sutton in conversation? Maybe she needed one of those cheesy pickup lines, after all.

Glad to find the kitchen empty, Jane quickly slipped out the front door. She wasn't hungry this morning. In fact, she felt vaguely nauseous. What on earth was she going to do? Maybe she should just state the obvious:
Hi. I've noticed that you come here often. What is it that you're working on?
Did that sound too much like a stalker?

With a rueful shake of her head, she pushed open the side door of the factory. Unless she could come up with something better over the course of the next few hours, it would have to do.

*   *   *

SUTTON STARED AT THE
screen and ground her teeth in frustration. She hated writing. No, that wasn't exactly true. She hated writing anything related to her dissertation. Growing up, she'd never been one of those students who had enjoyed doing papers, but she'd always been competent. Her article on stem-cell therapy hadn't been this difficult to write, but now that she was trying to revise her thesis for publication, she had hit another wall. Something about it lent itself to writer's block—perhaps because her heart wasn't really in the work. She had to deliver this draft to Dr. Buehler soon, and it was nowhere near where she wanted it to be.

In an effort to calm her rising panic, Sutton took a sip of tea, savoring the warmth as it slid down her throat. Mei steeped her green tea with pine nuts, and the distinctive flavor was always comforting in some visceral way that defied logic. Sutton closed her eyes and focused on the soothing aroma. She could do this. She really could.

As the door chimed, she steeled herself for the incoming rush of cold air. When she opened her eyes, her breath caught—not at the chill, but at the sight of the woman from yesterday. Today, she was dressed in low-slung jeans and a heavy flannel shirt. Her short hair stood up a little in the front, as though she'd been dragging her fingers through it repeatedly. Blindsided by the sudden urge to do exactly that, Sutton couldn't avert her eyes. The woman glanced her way, and one corner of her mouth curved up in a shy half smile before her gaze shifted toward the back of the restaurant.