The Last Chinese Chef - By Nicole Mones Page 0,120

with his, and again their fingers interlaced. In this way they held each other and exchanged promises and trepidations, all without speaking, all without hurry, for each wanted to be sure. This was the long moment that was like a question. She let the question play, loving the strong, wiry feeling of his body from behind. Her hand played with his stomach and he tilted himself up to her. She put her lips on the back of his neck. That was it. She had answered. His hands loosened, his body turned, and in a long second she saw the prismatic potential of their lives unfolding. Don’t think about that. Then he was facing her, undoing her clothing, cupping a gentle hand behind her head to bring her mouth to his, and she felt the future and the past fall away from her.

When they awakened it was deep night, and cold. They were naked. Her legs were wrapped around him. She saw the blankets on the floor and remembered the moment they were pushed off the bed. His eyes followed, and they both started to laugh.

“Look at us,” she said, touching his chest. “Like a couple of teenagers.” Then she said what she was scared to say. “Sam, that was so good.”

“I know.” He caught her under the rib cage and stretched, first back, then forward, taking her with him. She felt a gentle pull up and down her spine.

He let her go. There was a shine to his face. “You want to get up and sit in the courtyard? The moon’s up. The city’s sleeping. I like this time,” he added, but with a different tone, as if now he would start to tell her about himself; as if there were many things she would need to know.

“I like it too,” said Maggie.

He rose and drew some folded things from a pile, pajamas — his, but they fit her. Not like the capacious things she used to borrow from Matt. Matt. She swallowed at the new strangeness of the thought of her husband. The dial had moved. She had made love to someone. Sam had put on pajamas and was tying the string at his waist, free in front of her, his hair still loose. She reached out and gathered it and let it drop. The touch made him raise his face, happy. She felt it too. This was the night Matt would start to become a memory.

Sam set out two rattan recliners in the court and lit a sheltered candle between them. They lay side by side and watched the leaves above their heads. The waning moon made a lazy letter C atop the rim of the wall.

“It’s so quiet,” she said. “I thought your father would be staying here.”

“He is, in that room.” Sam pointed to the north-facing room across from his own. “But he went with Jiang and Tan on an overnight pilgrimage to a temple.”

“Are they religious?”

“Only about food. This place has the best vegetarian cuisine in north China. They pray with the monks, sleep at the temple, and eat like kings. They come back tomorrow.”

“So they were already gone when you got the news.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him across the candle. They had been so close to each other a few hours ago, inside each other. She had seen so much about him. She felt a surge. She was aware of how much she wanted him to be happy. “Don’t worry, Sam. This thing means nothing. Your career’s going to take off. Nothing can stop it.”

“You sound like my uncles.”

That’s because I love you as they do, was the thought that blurted up from her subconscious — but which she could not say out loud. “They know. So do I.” Then she kept talking, so the words could more easily pass by. “And in time the world will know, too. My article will help. You will be really happy with its portrait of what you do. And I wrote it before this happened” — she touched his leg — “so don’t worry.” She paused. “I didn’t expect this, Sam.”

“Neither did I.”

A smile crept over her. “Any more than I expected the food to be so great. Maybe that’s what makes the article about you glow the way it does. Do you know what they say? That writers do their very best stories on a foreign place the first time they see it — and then again the last time, when they are saying goodbye, just before