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Prestige of Hearts

By R. F. Whong

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Chapter One


Hong Kong
Early summer 1992

Who was Mr. Samuel Lam? Why did Mom pen a letter from her deathbed to him?

With questions wound like a noose around her throat, Grace Feng grabbed a cab from the Kai-Tak Airport. As the sedan zigzagged through the busy streets, the driver kept glancing back at her.

He must be wondering why a girl clad in a cheap floral-print dress asked to go to the most affluent area in the whole of Hong Kong and Kowloon. She’d done her research. Her destination boasted the highest concentration of multimillionaire households in this group of British-ruled islands.

Her heart pounding, she wrapped her fingers around the gold cross pendant on her neck. Lord, my future is in Your hand. I have little faith. Please help me.

Gradually, individual houses replaced skyscrapers. The driver navigated a private road. She clutched her seat belt when he mumbled in Mandarin under his breath, “Wow, I’ve never seen this before. The lifestyle of wealthy people for sure differs from mine.”

She nodded. “I...”

A magnificent iron gate blocked the way. Air whooshed from her chest, and her pulse quickened further. When did Mom know such a wealthy friend?

Grace fished the sealed envelope from her bag. It bore Susan Feng, her mother’s name, as the sender and Mr. Samuel Lam as the recipient. Mom had told her that, after Mr. Lam read the letter, he might ask her to stay in Hong Kong, and she must oblige—at least for a year.

When Grace inquired why, her mother, resting on the hospital bed, hadn’t answered. Instead, she’d drawn Grace to her bosom and spoken in a mellow and languorous tone. “My precious Gracie, I won’t be with you for long. I sincerely wish you’ll stay near him. He’ll have your best interests in mind.”

Tears welled up. Why did Mom have to die and leave her alone in this scary world? Grace dabbed her eyes with a finger. If they’d loved each other less, would Mom’s death be less painful?

“Miss?” The driver’s bass rose, still speaking in Mandarin. “Miss, here you are. Eighty dollars, please.”

Nice. Not even eleven US dollars. She handed over a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

A pleasant scent wafted in the air. She sucked in a deep breath, her nerves still jittery. Then she approached the guardhouse and, in English, asked to see Mr. Samuel Lam.

The man inside the booth gaped at her, his open perusal sending fresh flutters into her heart. “Do you have an appointment?” A heavy accent laced his English.

She needed an appointment to see her mother’s friend? “I’m here to deliver a letter. Could you please send this in?”

After she dropped the envelope on the counter, the guy frowned at it. “Okay.” He hurried inside.

Given a choice, she wouldn’t have come to Hong Kong. She’d have moved right in with Nana Wang in the Chicago suburb and found a job. But she had to honor Mom’s deathbed wish. Did Mom know about the guardhouse and the needed appointment to see this mysterious man?

Well, so be it.

Grace nodded. She’d booked a round-trip flight because of her tourist visa’s requirement. Now, she’d fulfilled her pledge. With the letter hand delivered, she’d return to Illinois and embrace the task of caring for Nana Wang in her old age.

She sidestepped her two heavy Pullman suitcases. The taxi had already left. She should’ve asked him to wait. Refusing to get ruffled, she planted her feet wide and savored being grounded after the long plane trip.

A shadow skimmed over her, and she tilted her face to follow the scarlet-bellied bird’s flight. Higher up, cottony white clouds dotted the blue sky, while nearby pink flowers fluttered on the shrubs along the tranquil private road. Maybe a stroll to the bus stop wouldn’t be too troublesome. She sauntered near the closest bush, and the fragrant aroma grew more intense.

The gate rumbled open, and the same guard commanded, “Wait, miss.”

She turned her head sideways. Her chest tightened. What did he want now?

“Miss Feng, Mr. Lam wants to see you.” The lanky fellow strode to her side, then helped drag her luggage through the gate into a world alive with unique, colorful flowers. “Please, miss, come with me.” He hustled her into the house and left her in a spacious room.

With her suitcases pulling on her arms, she edged past a magnificent couch and ornate side table, careful not to clatter into anything. She stopped below a six-foot-wide painting, the cube-shaped colors within its showy frame as vivid as the flowers she hadn’t been allowed to assimilate.

Footsteps on the hardwood flooring had her turning. A man approached with one arm extended. His receding hairline and wrinkles around his eyes betrayed his age. In his late forties, perhaps?

As his gaze fell on her, his eyes widened.

Why would he look surprised to see her? She stretched out a hand. “Mr. Lam?”

“My name is Dave, Dave Cheung. I work for Mr. Lam.” Mr. Cheung curled his lips into a small smile, a slight British accent hardening his English. “Please come with me. Mr. Lam is waiting for you in the study.”

Yeah, Britain ruled Hong Kong. According to Mom, many people in Hong Kong studied abroad in different Commonwealth countries, former British colonies.

She left her suitcases and followed him into a room lined with tall bookcases. Once Mr. Cheung pulled out a chair for her and took his leave, she sat before the gorgeous mahogany desk and studied the man behind it.

Appearing tall and well-built, even seated in his fancy office chair, he must be in his midforties. Streaks of silver ran through his wavy, jet-black hair, but his simple blue polo shirt displayed the sculpted physique of a vital man. With fine bone structure on his chiseled face, a straight nose, and a sensual mouth, he made the word handsome an understatement.

He kept quiet, his brilliant eyes intense. Was he scrutinizing her as well?

She fidgeted and gripped the armrest, heat spreading from her neck to her cheeks.

“What year were you born?” A heavy Cantonese accent laced his Mandarin.

Such an odd opening question. Yet, his baritone sounded warm and gentle.

“In 1971.” She replied in English.

He dipped his chin, his voice low, almost a whisper. “When did your mother pass away?”

“Less than a m–month ago. She died of pancreatic cancer a few days before I graduated from college.” Grace’s heart wrenched. Hard to believe a month had passed already. She touched her forehead, cringing over the months before that—months packed with hospital visits, insurance applications, budget concerns, and studies crammed into her spare time for her last semester at the University of Illinois.

“When did she find out she had cancer?”

Grace lowered her head, her vision blurry. She clenched her teeth. No way would she cry in front of a stranger. “Last December.”

“What kind of treatment did she receive?”

“Chemo. But the doctor said it was too late.” Moisture gathered behind her eyelids, and she squinted to hold it back.

“When did your father pass away?”

Her gaze jerked upward. “Before I was born.”

Did Mr. Lam know her father? She’d never seen Papa’s pictures. Mom had said she lost all their family photo albums during a move.

Every time Grace asked about Papa in her childhood, tears rushed into Mom’s beautiful eyes. Her mom had worked so hard to provide a comfortable home. Grace learned not to bring up that subject. Still, it would be nice to know what he looked like.

Mr. Lam wheeled his office chair toward a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the garden. Shadows flickered over a pond while the late afternoon sun shone on the blooming bushes.

An eerie hush stretched across the room, except for the birds chirping. She leaned forward, the wood beneath her fierce grip cutting into her fingers. Why did Mr. Lam behave like that?

At last, he rolled his chair back to face her, his eyes misty. “You said you’ve just graduated from college? What’s your major? Where do you work?”

As she absorbed the concern deep in his eyes and the tender expressions of his voice, a perplexing question obtruded. Was he about to ask her to stay in Hong Kong as Mom had wished? I hope not. She had her return flight in a week. Surely, she’d be able to make it. “Finance. I haven’t found a job yet. After I go home, I’ll focus on my job-hunting.”

With a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he switched to English. “It so happens my company’s chief financial analyst needs an assistant. Would you be interested?”

Oh no. He’s offering me a job. Did she have to honor the second pledge she made to Mom and accept it? Her fingers clawed into the armrests. “I’m not allowed to work here. I’m on a tourist visa.”

He waved Mom’s letter. “I can arrange a work visa.”

She stifled a sigh and scrunched her nose. “What company? What kind of pay are we talking about?”

He poured water for them. “In my hotel investment subsidiary. The pay—seventeen thousand Hong Kong dollars a month, equivalent to twenty-six thousand US dollars a year—is decent.”

Grace furrowed her eyebrows. “Even with an entry-level position, I’ll make more in the US.”

He maintained steady eye contact. “First, you haven’t found a job. Second, from our survey, the US entry-level annual salaries for finance majors range from twenty-two to thirty-two thousand dollars. I believe my offer is fair. Plus, the cost of living in Hong Kong is lower.”

Quite persuasive. She narrowed her eyes. Okay, one last try to decline. “Isn’t rent expensive in Hong Kong? Life in the US will be easier for me.”

His expression went blank. He sipped his water. When he spoke again, his eager tone drew her in. “You’re right. The minimum rent for a modest one-bedroom apartment is about eight thousand Hong Kong dollars a month. How about I offer you free room and board in my house?”

She stifled a gasp at his beyond-generous offer. Why was he so persistent? “What do I need to do in exchange for free room and board?”

The man’s sensual lips crinkled up. “Do you usually behave this way? Who taught you to haggle?”

I’m not haggling. I don’t have any desire to stay in Hong Kong. I want to go home. Holding back the retort, she shook a finger at him with a grin. “Don’t forget, I’m a finance major.”
“And a good one.” He inclined his head. “Do you know about 1997?”

Huh? What a switch in subjects. She blinked and tucked her hair behind her ears. “What about 1997?”

“Britain will give Hong Kong back to China in 1997, and we’ll need to use Mandarin. As you can tell, I speak Mandarin with a strong Cantonese accent. So does my son.” He spread out his hands. “Can you teach us to speak accent-free Mandarin? I’m not asking much. Maybe two hours every Saturday afternoon.”

That didn’t sound appealing but wasn’t bad either. With the free room and board, she would make almost thirty-eight thousand US dollars a year, much better than a job she could find back in Illinois. “Your son? How old is he?”

“Christopher is a college freshman in California and will come home next week.”

Grace stifled a sigh. Mom had wished for her to stay near Mr. Lam for a while. Maybe she could work in his company for a year to fulfill her second pledge. “I can’t guarantee you’ll get rid of the accent. The student’s effort is more important than the teacher’s skill.”

He stood, shifted to her side, and seemed ready to hug her. Then he stretched out a palm. “Deal.”

She shook his hand. “When do I start?”

He held her fingers a tad longer than expected. “Since you’ve just arrived, you may need time to rest and get over your jet lag. Plus, I’ll need time to obtain your work visa.” He twisted his watch into view. “Today is May twenty-second. It’s customary here for a new employee to start on a Monday. How about June eighth, over two weeks from today? We can have our first Mandarin lesson on June thirteenth.”

Another generous gesture. He didn’t leave any room for her to turn down his offer.

“You’ve met Dave. He’ll help you settle in.” Mr. Lam picked up his desk phone and dialed a number.

Mr. Cheung came and guided Grace down a long winding hallway to enter a room, her new home. Her two Pullman suitcases had arrived before her. A navy-blue quilt covered the queen-size bed in the typical guest room. Next to it, a black phone sat on top of an antique-looking table with a matching chair. A wide dresser made of natural wood stood by the bathroom door.

He drew away the mint-green curtains, and light poured onto the floor.

She edged closer to the large window framed by azure walls. “Is that an Olympic-size swimming pool?”

“Yes. You’re more than welcome to use it anytime.”

“Too bad. I didn’t bring my swimwear.” She hugged her purse to her chest. “Does Mr. Lam usually treat guests this way?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” She swallowed hard. “He’s very generous.”

Mr. Cheung shrugged. “Mr. Lam works in mysterious ways. I’ve been his butler and personal secretary for over a year and still haven’t figured out what he likes and doesn’t like to do.”

“He asked me to teach him and his son to speak better Mandarin.” She touched her throat, a knot tightening in her belly. “What is Christopher like?”

“No different from other kids of superwealthy families.”

She dropped her purse on the bed. “How about Mrs. Lam?”

“I never met her. According to the tabloids, she died in a car accident a few years ago.” He gave out a small cough. “I’ll let you rest. Dinner is at seven thirty.”

Reports from the tabloids about Mrs. Lam’s death? What an unusual family.

He spun on his heels and trudged toward the door. Then, as if remembering something, he paused and gripped the doorframe. “Feel free to walk around the first floor and the garden. Just don’t go to the second floor where Mr. Lam resides. He insists on privacy.”

She dipped her chin. “Of course. I understand.”

After Mr. Cheung left, she pushed her suitcases against the dresser, opened them, and unpacked. Not much to handle. Before she left Illinois, she’d donated most of their belongings to Goodwill and stored their family mementos at Nana Wang’s house, except for the few items she brought with her.
A small glass bottle pendant fell out of its case. She snatched it and traced a finger along its smooth surface. All her pent-up emotions surged to the surface. She’d honored Mom’s wish and buried her cremated remains with a young Japanese maple at the Chicago Botanic Garden, a program for people to dedicate a tree in memory of a loved one. The bottle in her hand contained a dash of Mom’s ash as a keepsake.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and Mom’s handwritten note seared her mind again.

Gracie, my dear daughter,
I pray God will grant you courage and wisdom. Without me around, you’ll live an abundant life, as promised by our Lord. Remember to ask this question in whatever you do—“Is it pleasing to God and helpful to others?” I’ve dreamed about taking you by the hand to lead you into the wedding ceremony one day. It’s an impossible wish now. Yet, I’ve received confirmation from the Lord that He will always be with you.
I know you want to stay with Nana Wang and care for her as she grows older. However, you need to hand deliver my letter to Mr. Samuel Lam as soon as possible. If he asks you to stay in Hong Kong, please oblige for my sake, at least for a year.
Apart from my salvation, you’re the greatest gift God’s given me. Since childhood, you’ve always been kind, smart, and well-behaved.
Look heavenward with hope. We’ll meet again. I’m sure of it.
Love,
Mom

She plopped into the nearby chair, covered her face, and burst out crying. Mom, why did you have to die?

And why did Mom instruct her to leave her familiar turf to come to this strange land? Even though Mom had taken her traveling around the world since childhood, they’d never visited Asia. From this point on, Grace had to live and work here. What an unexpected turn of life!

The clock struck seven. She jerked up her head and wiped her face with the back of a hand. Well, time to shower. The long flight rendered her a stinky mess.

She entered the bathroom and surveyed her reflection. A red smear marked her jaw from where she’d leaned on it earlier. Everybody told her she looked like her mother—fair skin, an oval face with almond-shaped eyes, and full lips. The only difference was the hair. While Mom’s hair was straight, hers was naturally curly. She must’ve inherited it from Papa. What did he look like? Would Mr. Lam have pictures of her father?

With her chest tight, she stepped into the shower.

Maybe this trip to Hong Kong wouldn’t be in vain. Maybe she’d learn more about Papa from Mr. Lam.

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