Page 35 of The Manor of Dreams

fourteen

JUNE 1982

VIVIANwas sitting alone in the kitchen when her husband returned. He nudged the tie from his neck. Vivian smiled up at him. “Have you eaten?”

Richard settled down across from her. “Already did.” He reached out to squeeze her shoulder as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his other hand.

“Qin ài de, did you not sleep well last night?” He was a light sleeper, and it had gotten worse over the past few years. He’d been having violent and specific dreams that happened over and over again, in which he was thrown from an explosion, or swept away by an avalanche. He would wake up shivering, with frigid, blue fingertips that he’d run under scalding water in the sink, as though he’d been out for hours in the cold. Sometimes he would lurch awake, certain that the house was shuddering. He’d recently been prescribed sleeping pills. Barbiturates.

“It was just a long day.” He blinked hard. “I’ve got to get in all my meetings before I go film in Scotland.”

“And how were they?”

Richard shrugged. “As good as could be. They say I need more films under my belt before I can be a director. But I think at this point they’re looking for an Oscar or something. What else can I do to prove myself to them?”

“You’re young,” Vivian said, “to them. They think of you as their… their—”

“Protégé,” Richard said, filling in smoothly the word that she’d been searching for in English.

“Yes.”

“They’re just testing me.” Richard reached for his cigarettes. “They ask me to jump, just to see how high I can.”

“Aiyah, my love, don’t smoke,” Vivian chided him. “Not in the house with children.”

Richard gave her a long look. “Fine,” he relented, and slotted the cigarette back into the pack.

Vivian stretched across the table, gazing sweetly up at her husband. “How about we open a bottle of wine instead?”

“Ah, the kinder poison,” Richard teased. He extracted a bottle of red wine from the pantry and uncorked it. Vivian took in the ripple in the lean muscle on his forearms. Once again, she felt desire tighten inside her. He poured them both full glasses and handed her one.

“You know, my grandfather used to own a winery.” Her husband fiddled with the cork with his long fingers.

“Oh? Here?”

“One of my mother’s…” His expression dimmed. “Doesn’t matter. It folded in the Depression.”

“Why?” This was something else she hadn’t heard. After that dinner with Eugene and Jeanette years ago, she’d gotten little from her husband on the history of this place. Nor had she bothered him about it. In general, when Richard’s family came up, he tended to fall silent or change the subject, and in the end, what Vivian knew sounded like the story of any other family; cycles of fortune and misfortune. That was the way of the world, and even the Lowells weren’t immune. Her mother’s family had been wealthy once in Zhejiang, until they had to flee their homes because of the Japanese invasion. And Vivian wasn’t exactly forthcoming about her family history, either. But now she felt the need to press him. “How did the winery fold?”

Her husband rubbed his forehead. “My grandfather’s brother was a broker when the stock market crashed. Shot himself when the family lost half its money, and Pops was never the same. Or so I heard.”

“??,” Vivian whispered. “My God. I’m sorry.”

So this—this—was the family history that Eugene’s wife, Jeanette, was talking about.

They sat in silence. Her husband gave a slight, smooth shake of his head and a reassuring smile. “All in the past, sweetheart.” He refilled their glasses. “God, I hope this movie is it. You know, I’ve done my time with movies that go nowhere. I need some serious roles. And then I can direct something. I mean, theyknowI can. It’s crazy to make me keep proving myself.”

At this, Vivian stiffened. She’d been naïve and assumed that once she was in Los Angeles, the film world would embrace her. But the same scene that had welcomed her husband was indifferent to her. At a single party, Richard could collect invites to several premieres and dinners; Vivian was practically invisible if he wasn’t physically introducing her. Her film agent barely returned her calls. Richard went out to dinner with his all the time and could get up to three auditions booked over the course of a day. When she expressed her resentment to her husband, he tried to comfort her. He’d told her, over and over again, in the morning while she was putting on her makeup, during late nights while they were curled up together on the couch, during weekend afternoons when they helped each other rehearse lines, just how much of a star she would be. The industry didn’t see how talented she was, he’d said, but they would one day. It was just a matter of time. Her big break was right around the corner. He’d made it sound so certain, so inevitable, as if it was simply a matter of waiting around. But she’d gotten impatient. Why couldn’t anyone else see it in her the way her husband did? Here she was, driving all over Hollywood in the baking summer heat, waiting for her turn in her car, remembering the advice he gave her on how to speak, how to express and emote, how to make a good impression on casting directors, just to audition for supporting roles with so few lines. They dismissed her and told her she didn’t look Chinese enough. Who were these men to determine what looked Chinese or not? What kind of specific, twisted visions did they have in their heads?

The roles she did get were miniscule. She hovered at the edges of sets as a maid, or spoke one line as a waitress, or dropped into one scene to give a clue to a policeman. All she’d wanted were longer speakingparts. She’d finally, after years, landed a role in an upcoming movie calledFortune’s Eye, with actual lines and stunts. Maybe it would be different this time.

Like now, when her husband complained to her about starring in roles she couldn’t even dream of having, she was careful not to betray her irritation or jealousy. He was never happy with what he had. But part of her did admire that keening, endless hunger in him. That was a part of the ambition they shared. It was good for them and for the life they were trying to make together. They still needed to pay off the construction bills on this house they’d built.

“You don’t have to worry this time. The Academy will love this one.” It was true. His next film wasHamlet. He would be performing some of the most famous monologues in the English language. The entire project was geared toward setting him up for awards season in a few years. “This will be it.”

“I feel like I have that creativeinstinct, you know? And vision.” He drummed his fingers around the stem of his wineglass. “And maybe I can produce one day, too.”

“And you will. Who knows? Maybe I could even write a screenplay for you to star in,” Vivian said. She got up to go to the kitchen counter to pour more wine.

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