Of course, the terrace was neither little nor informal. Lining the perimeter of the tennis-court-size space were tall silver hurricane votive lamps filled with flickering candles, and the round zitan-wood dining table that seated eight was elaborately set with “casual” Nymphenburg china. Maids stood at attention behind every chair, waiting as if their life depended on it to help ensure that each guest could properly manage the feat of sitting down.

“Now, before we start dinner, I have a special treat for everyone,” Colette announced. She glanced at Wolseley and nodded. The lights were dimmed, and the first strains of the classic Chinese folk song “Jasmine Flower” began to boom from the outdoor loudspeakers. The trees around the great reflecting pool outside suddenly lit up in brilliant shades of emerald, and the waters of the pool, lit in deep purple, started to churn. Then, as the operatic singing began, thousands of water jets shot up into the night sky, choreographed to the music and morphing into elaborate formations and a rainbow riot of colors.

“My goodness, it’s just like the Bellagio dancing fountain in Las Vegas!” Mrs. Bing squealed in delight.

“When did you have this put in?” Jack asked his daughter.

“They’ve been working on it in secret for months. I wanted it to be ready in time for my summer garden party with Pan TingTing,” Colette proudly explained.

“All this just to impress Pan TingTing!”

“Nonsense—I did this for Mother!”

“And how much is this costing me?”

“Oh—it was much less than you might think. Only around twenty bucks.”

Colette’s father sighed, shaking his head in resignation.

Nick and Rachel exchanged looks. They knew that among the wealthy Chinese, “bucks” meant “millions.”

Colette turned to Rachel. “Do you like it?”

“It’s spectacular. And whoever is singing sounds a lot like Celine Dion,” Rachel said.

“It is Celine. It’s her famous duet in Mandarin with Song Zuying,” Colette said.

As the water spectacle ended, a line of maids entered the dining terrace, each bearing an antique Meissen platter. The lights came on again, and in perfect unison the maids placed a platter of parchment chicken in front of each dinner guest. Everyone began undoing their parchments, which had been adorably knotted in butcher’s twine, and tantalizing aromas came seeping out of the golden-brown paper. As Nick was about to take his first bite into the succulent-looking chicken thigh, he spied the trusty Roxanne creep up to Colette and whisper something into her ear. Colette grinned broadly and nodded. She looked across the table at Rachel and said, “I have one final surprise for you.”

Rachel saw Bao Gaoliang coming up the stairs to the dining room. Everyone at the table rose in deference to the high-ranking minister. Gasping in delight, Rachel got up from her seat to greet her father. Bao Gaoliang looked just as surprised to see Rachel. He hugged her warmly, much to Carlton’s astonishment. He had never seen his father display physical affection for anyone like that before, not even his mother.

“I am so sorry to interrupt your dinner. I was in Beijing a few hours ago, and I suddenly got strong-armed by these two conspirators and put onto a plane,” Gaoliang said, gesturing toward Carlton and Colette.

“No interruption at all. It is an honor to have you here with us, Bao Buzhang,”*2 Jack Bing said, getting up and patting Gaoliang on the back. “This calls for a celebration. Where’s Baptiste? We need some very special Tiger Bone wine.”

“Yes, tiger power for everyone!” Richie cheered, getting up to shake Bao Gaoliang’s hand. “That was a very insightful speech you gave last week about the dangers of monetary inflation, Lingdao.”*3

“Oh, were you there?” Bao Gaoliang asked.

“No, I watched it on CCTV. I’m a politics junkie.”

“Well, I’m glad some of you younger generation pay attention to this country’s affairs,” Gaoliang said, casting a sideways glance at Carlton.

“I only pay attention when I feel like our leaders are being on the level with me. I don’t watch any of the speeches that are all hype or rhetoric.”

Carlton had to resist rolling his eyes.

A place setting next to Rachel was swiftly arranged for Gaoliang, and Colette graciously gestured, “Bao Buzhang, please do sit down.”

“I’m sorry to see that Mrs. Bao couldn’t join us. Is she still held up in Hong Kong?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, unfortunately. But she sends her regards,” Gaoliang said quickly.

Carlton let out a snort. Everyone at the table looked at him momentarily. Carlton looked like he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind and chugged a full glass of Montrachet in several quick gulps.

As the meal resumed, Rachel filled her father in on everything they had done since arriving in Shanghai, while Nick chatted amiably with the Bings and Richie Yang. Nick was relieved that Bao Gaoliang had finally shown up, and he could see how excited Rachel was to spend time with him. But he couldn’t help noticing that a few seats away, Carlton sat stone-faced while Colette seemed to be getting more and more agitated as each course was served. What’s the deal? Both of them look like they could spontaneously combust at any moment.

Suddenly, while everyone was in the midst of savoring the Lanzhou-style hand-pulled noodles with lobster and abalone, Colette put down her chopsticks and whispered into her father’s ear. The two of them abruptly got up. “Please excuse us for a moment,” Colette said with a forced smile.

Colette marched her father downstairs and as soon as they were out of earshot, she began to scream: “What is the point of hiring the best butler in England to teach you proper manners, when you just won’t learn? You were slurping your noodles so loudly, it made my teeth ache! And the way you spit out your bones onto the table, my God, Christian Liaigre would have a heart attack if he knew what was happening on his beautiful table! And how many times have I told you not to kick your shoes off when we are dining with company? Don’t lie to me—I could smell something from a mile away, and I know it wasn’t the snow-pea shoots simmered in stinky tofu!”

Jack laughed at his daughter’s tantrum. “I am the son of a fisherman. I keep telling you, you cannot change me. But don’t worry, it doesn’t matter how good my manners are. As long as this remains fat,” he patted the wallet in his back pocket, “even in China’s best dining rooms, no one will care if I spit on the table.”

“Rubbish! Everyone can change! Look how well Mother is doing—she hardly chews with her mouth open anymore, and she wields her chopsticks like an elegant Shanghainese lady.”

Colette’s father shook his head in amusement. “Hiyah, I really pity that idiot Richie Yang. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Don’t try to deceive your own father. Your plan of dangling Carlton Bao in front of Richie has paid off like a charm. I have a feeling he’s planning to propose to you any day now.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Colette said, still fuming at her father’s negligent etiquette.

“Really? Then why did he beg his way onto my plane to ask my permission for your hand in marriage?”

“How silly of him. I hope you told him exactly where he could stuff that proposal.”

“Actually, I gave Richie my blessing. I think it will be a brilliant match, not to mention that I will finally be able to stop fighting over companies with his father.” Jack grinned, flashing the crooked incisor that Colette was constantly begging him to get fixed.

“Don’t start getting any fantasies of mergers, Dad, because I have no interest in marrying Richie Yang.”

Jack laughed, and then he said in a low whisper, “Silly girl, I never asked if you were interested in marrying him. Your interest is not my concern.”

Then he turned and headed back upstairs.

* * *

*1 A delicacy where chicken pieces are mixed with a hoisin sauce and five-spice garnish, wrapped envelope-style into square packets of parchment paper, and left to marinate overnight (white truffles, an ingredient not normally found in classical Cantonese cuisine, are an extra touch of decadence added by the Bings’ wildly ambitious chef). The packets are then deep-fried, allowing the delicious marinade to caramelize onto the chicken. Finger lickin’ good!

*2 Mandarin for “minister,” the correct form of address for a high-ranking official.

*3 Mandarin for “boss,” the correct form of address for really sucking up to a high-ranking official.

11

CORINNA AND KITTY

HONG KONG

She’s late again. Corinna stood fuming by the revolving doors outside Glory Tower. She had specifically told Kitty to arrive no later than ten thirty, but it was now almost eleven. I’m going to have to give her my punctuality lecture—the one I haven’t had to use since working with that Burmese family in 2002, Corinna thought as she nodded politely at all the nicely dressed people rushing past her into the building.