“Have you seen Casey’s dress?” Douglas asked, watching her.
Leah shook her head no, feeling even more upset but not knowing why exactly.
“It’s very pretty. Ella chose the dress, and Casey picked the color. It’s the color of persimmons.”
Leah could imagine Casey in a flame orange dress.
Encouraged by her smile, he said, “In the courtyard of my father’s house, there was a grove of very old persimmon trees. It bore a great deal of fruit. Just delicious. I can still taste them.” He closed his eyes, and his mouth watered. “After the season ended, the cook used to dry the fruit and make this drink, you know. . .” Douglas tapped his head to jog his memory. “It’s got cinnamon, and it’s very cold. My mother used to love it.”
She knew the drink he was speaking of. It had been a long time since she’d tasted it.
“Do you like persimmons?”
“Yes. The small flat ones.” Leah’s eyes grew wet, and she blinked back her tears.
He nodded in sympathy, believing that she’d been moved by a memory of their homeland. Food could do that, he thought. He also found comfort in knowing that they liked the same kind of fruit. But that didn’t mean anything, he chided himself. How silly even to notice. Douglas had a strong wish to touch her. If she were a patient, he would be allowed to put his hands on her face.
“You know, ever since Ella was little, she’s admired your daughter. She’s so happy that Casey is going to be her bridesmaid. You can’t imagine how much.”
Leah tried to look pleased. She’d always liked Elder Shim, felt safe in his company, but suddenly she wanted to flee. None of this was his fault. He was the father of a girl getting married. He had every right to be happy.
“Excuse me. . .” Leah bowed. “My husband is waiting.” She bowed again.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “of course. Good-bye, then.” Douglas felt like a fool. She was married. A deaconess. He shook his head briskly, as if he could cast off his feelings this way. Why did he never feel anything like this—a kind of stirring in himself—for any of the number of single women he was constantly being asked to meet? Then he marched to the cloakroom to retrieve his overcoat and muffler.
Two weeks later, Leah lied to her husband, saying she had a hair appointment. Ten days had already passed since she’d received Ella’s wedding invitation, but it had taken as many days for her to come up with that alibi. She was headed, on foot, to the return address printed on the invitation envelope, guessing correctly that this was where Ella lived. On the way, she bought a large bouquet of white chrysanthemums and ilex branches.
A uniformed doorman stood in front of Ella’s building, and in the lobby, a man in a suit and necktie sat at the concierge desk. He directed Leah to the modern leather armchairs, and she sat down—afraid to touch the magazines on the glass coffee table. Her shoulders were curved with worry; the invitation envelope and flowers rested on her lap. In the space between the chairs, she tucked away her leather purse, one of the first gifts her husband had ever bought for her. They’d been walking along the market in Myeongdong when a bag hawker called out to them. Joseph had asked her which one she liked. All her life, she’d carried bags made of heavy string and tarpaulin. After looking over the stall, she’d chosen a leather bag—square, without any trimming, and cheap. Joseph had studied it, then put it back on its hook, and Leah had felt ashamed at having chosen something so costly. But to her shock, he’d told the hawker to pull down another bag—similar in style and the most expensive one there. She’d protested, saying she couldn’t possibly accept it. No one had ever bought her a present before. When she’d gotten it home, her brothers had teased her for days because she wouldn’t let the bottom of the bag touch the ground. The bag, now over two decades old, still worked fine, so she couldn’t throw it away or buy a new one. Its size was ideal for holding her Bible and hymnal, as well as her choral music and Joseph’s newspapers. But against the backdrop of the pristine Upper East Side lobby of a luxury condominium, the bag was more a shabby briefcase than a lady’s handbag. Leah picked it up again from the floor, sorry for such a thing that had served her so faithfully; then she laid it next to her on the chair, covering it with her woolen scarf.
The concierge called out to her, “Madam, Miss Shim asked you to go up. She’s on twelve. Twelve G.”
When the elevator doors opened, she spotted Ella standing in front of her apartment. As soon as Ella saw her, she bowed deep from the waist, the way she’d greet her father’s guests at his home. Using flawless Korean, Ella invited Deaconess Cho in, accepting the flowers from her hand and thanking her.