“What are those perfect rows of trees?” Rachel asked.

“Rubber—we’re surrounded by rubber plantations,” Nick explained. They pulled up to a spot right by the beach, got out of the car, took off their sandals, and strolled onto the hot sand. A few Malay families were scattered about the beach having lunch, the ladies’ colorful head scarves flapping in the wind as they bustled around canteens of food and children who were more interested in frolicking in the surf. It was a cloudy day, and the sea was a mottled tapestry of deep green with patches of azure where the clouds broke.

A Malay woman and her son came toward them, hauling a big blue-and-white Styrofoam cooler. Nick began talking animatedly with the woman, buying two bundles from her Igloo before bending down and asking the boy a question. The boy nodded eagerly and ran off, while Nick found a shady spot underneath the low-hanging branches of a mangrove tree.

He handed Rachel a still-warm banana-leaf packet tied with string. “Try Malaysia’s most popular dish—nasi lemak,” he said. Rachel undid the string and the glossy banana leaf unfolded to reveal a neatly composed mound of rice surrounded by sliced cucumbers, tiny fried anchovies, roasted peanuts, and a hard-boiled egg.

“Pass me a fork,” Rachel said.

“There’s no fork. You get to go native on this—use your fingers!” Nick grinned.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope, that’s the traditional way. Malays believe the food actually tastes better when you eat with your hands. They only use the right hand to eat, of course. The left hand is used for purposes better left unmentioned.”

“But I haven’t washed my hands, Nick. I don’t think I can eat like this,” Rachel said, sounding a little alarmed.

“Come on, Miss OCD. Tough it out,” Nick teased. He scooped some of the rice into his fingers and began eating the nasi lemak with gusto.

Rachel gingerly scooped some of the rice into her mouth, instantly breaking into a smile. “Mmmm … it’s coconut rice!”

“Yes, but you haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. Dig a little deeper!”

Rachel dug into her rice and discovered a curry sauce oozing out from the middle along with big chunks of chicken. “Oh my God,” she said. “Does it taste this good because of all the different flavors or because we’re sitting on this gorgeous beach eating it?”

“Oh, I think it’s your hands. Your grotty hands are giving the food all the added flavor,” Nick said.

“I’m about to slap you with my grotty curry hands!” Rachel scowled at him. Just as she was finishing her last bite, the little boy from earlier ran up with two clear-plastic drinking bags filled with rough chunks of ice and freshly squeezed sugarcane juice. Nick took the drinks from the boy and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Kamu anak yang baik,”* he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. The boy’s eyes widened in delight. He tucked the money into the elastic band of his soccer shorts and scrambled off to tell his mother about his windfall.

“You never cease to amaze me, Nicholas Young. Why didn’t I know you spoke Malay?” Rachel said.

“Only a few rudimentary words—enough to order food,” Nick replied modestly.

“That conversation you had earlier didn’t sound rudimentary to me,” Rachel countered, sipping the icy sweet sugarcane through a thin pink straw tucked into the corner of the plastic bag.

“Trust me, I’m sure that lady was cringing at my grammar.” Nick shrugged.

“You’re doing it again, Nick,” Rachel said.

“Doing what?

“You’re doing that annoying self-deprecating thing.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Rachel sighed in exasperation. “You say you don’t speak Malay when I hear you yapping away. You say, ‘Oh, this old house,’ when we’re in a friggin’ palace. You downplay everything, Nick!”

“I don’t even realize when I’m doing it,” Nick said.

“Why? I mean, you downplay things to the point that your parents don’t even have a clue how well you’re doing in New York.”

“It’s just the way I was brought up, I guess.”

“Do you think it’s because your family is so wealthy and you had to overcompensate by being super-modest?” Rachel suggested.

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I was just trained to speak precisely and never to be boastful. Also, we’re not that wealthy.”

“Well then, what are you exactly? Are you guys worth hundreds of millions or billions?”

Nick’s face began to redden, but Rachel wouldn’t let up.

“I know it makes you uncomfortable, Nick, but that’s why I’m prodding you. You’re telling me one thing, but then I hear other people speaking as if the entire economy of Asia revolves around your family, and you’re, like, the heir to the throne. I’m an economist, for crying out loud, and if I’m going to be accused of being a gold digger, I’d like to know what I’m supposedly digging for,” Rachel said bluntly.

Nick fidgeted with the remnant of his banana leaf nervously. Since he was old enough to remember, it had been ingrained into him that any talk of the family wealth was off-limits. But it was only fair that Rachel know what she was getting herself into, especially if he was (very shortly) going to ask her to accept the canary diamond ring hidden in the lower right pocket of his cargo shorts.

“I know this may sound silly, but the truth is I really don’t know how rich my family is,” Nick began tentatively. “Now, my parents live very well, mostly due to the legacy my mum received from her parents. And I have a private income that’s not too shabby, mainly from stocks left to me by my grandfather. But we don’t have the kind of money that Colin’s or Astrid’s family does, not even close.”

“But how about your grandmother? I mean, Peik Lin says that Tyersall Park must be worth hundreds of millions just for the land alone,” Rachel interjected.

“My grandmother has always lived in the manner that she has, so I can only presume that her holdings are substantial. Three times a year Mr. Tay, an elderly gentleman from the family bank, comes up to Tyersall Park in the same brown Peugeot he’s driven ever since I was born and pays a visit to my grandmother. She meets with him alone, and it’s the only time her lady’s maids have to leave the room. So it’s never crossed my mind to ask her how much she’s worth.”

“And your father never talked to you about it?”

“My father has never once brought up the subject of money—he probably knows even less than I do. You know, when there’s always been money in your life, it’s not something you spend much time thinking about.”

Rachel tried to wrap her mind around that concept. “So why does everyone think you’ll end up inheriting everything?”

Nick bristled. “This is Singapore, and the idle rich spend all their time gossiping about other people’s money. Who’s worth how much, who inherited how much, who sold their house for how much. But everything that’s said about my family is pure speculation. The point is, I’ve never presumed that I will one day be the sole inheritor of some great fortune.”