Page 23 of The Manor of Dreams

Ma had won her Oscar in 1986. Lucille had been thirteen. Back then she had practically memorized every word of this profile. Now she read it again.

An actor classically trained at Yale and an ingenue who’d grown up in the Chinese opera, this unconventional pair found each other at an awards show eleven years ago. Their marriage is a seamless partnership both on and off screen. Their home is furnished with an effortless mélange of East and West, from brush paintings to neoclassical and Italianate architectural influences.

Vivian Yin and Richard Lowell are both dynamic new talents, drawn to ambitious projects. This year Richard starred inHamletand Vivian inFortune’s Eye.These roles catapulted them both to the Academy Awards, with Richard receiving a nomination for Best Actor, and Vivian receiving, and winning, Best Supporting Actress….

Lucille shut the magazine. She was losing focus. She was supposed to be gathering documents of legal and defensible use, not looking through mementos. What was the point of reminding herself what their lives used to be like? The portrait of their family that had hung across the room was now long gone. Ma had so carefully chosen someone who would paint them in the style of Renoir; it had taken multiple sessions, and the result was magnificent. Now there was no trace of it, save for the outline of the frame, the paneling that hadn’t touched sun for years. But how much of it did Lucille want to remember, anyway? The summers at Lake Tahoe at a spacious rented cabin, the winters upin British Columbia? Her old day school, perched on a hill overlooking the Pacific; the cool blue nights she stayed up listening to Dad’s Van Morrison vinyl float up from the living room, with its familiar skips and scratches? The years of observing her parents’ lavish dinner parties? How could she endure those recollections, knowing how it all ended?

Something nagged at her. She peeled open the magazine again and then picked up the torn book pages she’d discarded. She looked at the portrait of the railroad magnate, and then at the photo of Dad.

They resembled each other. The more Lucille stared at it, the more she could see it.

part two: bloom?

nine

FEBRUARY 1975

VIVIANYin met Richard Lowell at a film festival in Los Angeles.

She had been invited because of her role inSong of Lovers, and now she found herself nominated for an award, draped in a red satin jacquard dress she’d borrowed from one of her aunt’s friends. It fit well enough. It showed off her delicate collarbones, which she considered one of her best features. She stood unsteadily on the red carpet trying to conjure her old confidence as she tilted her body to face the flashes of the cameras.

Back in Hong Kong, Vivian had loved movie premieres and festivals. In San Francisco, she enjoyed the premieres in Chinatown, which eventually became cozy after-parties that flooded a director’s favorite restaurant’s back room, with dishes loaded upon the circular tables. Los Angeles was foreign to her and surreal in its beauty. But here she didn’t know a soul aside from her co-stars, and even then, the only one she felt comfortable with was Daisy. There were other Chinese actors working in film, too, but most of them were extras and weren’t invited to the parties. So she followed her cast and crewmates around, hearing them laugh and joke in English, their vowels drawn out and flattened in the American way.

She hadn’t won the award and she was partly relieved, because the thought of speaking in front of the crowd made her want to vomit up the water she had taken small sips of prior to the event. She hadn’t eaten anything in the afternoon so she could fit into the dress. Sweat collected at the nape of her neck, and a hidden metal clasp dug intoher rib. Her body had changed after the children, and she wasn’t quite sure what looked flattering and what didn’t, so she contracted in her stomach and hoped for the best.

She had half considered not coming at all. Maybe she should go home and try to see if her hotel room had a phone so that she could call her family before bed. For the past year and a half, she and her daughters had been crammed into a one-bedroom in San Francisco with her aunt and uncle. Her aunt was good at taking care of them, but still, it pained Vivian, being this far away. She felt light-headed from all the lights, the perfumed air, the sequins and satin and bright camera flashes.

But this was a chance to get noticed. And at least she had Daisy. Daisy Rubin had an endearing gap-toothed smile, a heart-shaped face framed by loose, deep red curls, and a loud, warm voice. But now Daisy was across the room talking to someone, her sequined dress winking all around her, so Vivian ordered herself a cocktail that Daisy told her would keep her awake.

The drink the bartender handed her was sweet and creamy. She stood at a table with her co-stars and noticed a lean, dark-haired man with a double-breasted suit across from her, another table over. When he looked up, their eyes met until she looked away, embarrassed. She watched her co-stars drink and laugh. Eventually they drifted off, leaving Vivian standing alone.

All she could think about now were her pinched feet. Maybe this was the moment to make an early exit. She had an entire, luxurious room to herself at the hotel. She could even draw a nice, hot bath.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean in, his arrival marked by a deep, smoky cologne.

“Is that any good?”

His voice was surprisingly light. Vivian turned slightly and found the handsome man she’d made eye contact with earlier gesturing toward her drink. A quick scan revealed a smart, fitted blue suit filled out by broad shoulders, a checkered tie, a clean-shaven profile, and slicked-back hair that was so dark it was almost black. A silver watch peeked out of his sleeve.

Vivian met his eyes. Through his rounded glasses they were the most remarkable jade green flecked through with brown, framed by long lashes. He was young, Vivian thought. Or he had this tentative, inquisitive smile that made him seem so. Another actor, perhaps.

Maybe she had looked lonely and he felt bad for her. In crowds like these, Vivian was used to being all too conspicuous while feeling invisible at the same time. She looked into her glass and tried to keep her voice steady. “It’s strong.”

“Seems about right,” the man said. “Should I get one?”

“I recommend it,” Vivian said.

“Good. I hold your recommendation in high regard.”

Vivian chuckled.

He tilted his head. “What?”

“You put lots of trust in strangers.”

“I don’t usually,” he said. “But you seem like you know what you’re doing. When everyone else is drinking champagne, a white Russian stands out.”

“Oh, I’m just trying not to fall asleep.”

---