“So … these are darling.” Vivi picks up one of the porcelain seashells scattered across the table. “I didn’t even notice them before.”
The shells have a thick gold band in the middle, separating them into two halves held together by a button. When Vivi presses hers, the shell pops open like a box.
“What’s it supposed to do?” she asks.
“Sometimes I lean place cards on them,” Mae says. “Mostly, they’re for decoration.”
“How sweet. They remind me of something my grandmother would have collected. She loved anything porcelain.”
“You should take them, then. The whole set. I think I have twelve.”
“What?” Vivi looks to Connie for help. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
“They’re not valuable, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I almost never get to use them. It would make me so happy if someone did. Besides, it’s my way of thanking you for your help today.”
Kyung glances at Mae. “Help with what?”
Gillian clears her throat. “Vivi helped your mom with that inventory she’s been working on. They were at it all afternoon.” Something in her voice suggests that she doesn’t think much of her father’s new girlfriend, but no one else seems to notice. Her disapproval registers just below the surface, like a frequency only audible between husband and wife.
“I thought that list was just for the other house,” Kyung says.
“It’s important to have a record of things.” Mae leans toward Vivi again. “If there’s something else you saw today that you liked more, please—”
“The shells are perfect, really. Thank you so much.” She turns hers over, squinting to read the underside. “Lime … Lime-oh-jess? Huh.”
Kyung frowns at the badly mangled French. It’s Limoges, and it’s expensive — hardly the insignificant little trinket that Mae made it out to be. He sits back and examines Vivi, wondering if Gillian’s assessment of her is the same as his own. She’s a gold digger of some sort, accustomed to being taken care of, which would explain the perfect hair and tan and body. The nails and jewelry too. Connie isn’t a wealthy man, but he earns a good salary and has a house, a car, and a pension. Maybe that makes him wealthy to her.
“Kyung.” Connie snaps his fingers. “Earth to Kyung.”
He realizes he’s been staring at Vivi again because she turns away, flustered, straining to hear the conversation at the other end of the table.
“It has bug eyes,” Ethan whines, cocking his head at the lobster on his plate.
“Here.” Gillian picks up a silver cracker. “Let me get you some of the meat from the claw. That’s the best part.”
“You mean the hand?”
“It’s not a hand, honey. It’s a claw.”
“But I don’t want any.”
“Just try it. Your grandma worked hard to make this for you.”
“No.”
Kyung dislikes how everything has come to a standstill because of the boy. He never would have dared to act out in public as a child. “Don’t talk back to your mother,” he says. “Just eat your dinner like she asked.”
Ethan looks at Jin, who doesn’t respond, but something about this exchange bothers Kyung. What was his son hoping for when he turned his head? For his grandfather to overrule him?
“Eat your dinner,” Kyung repeats.
“But I don’t want any.”
“Eat — your — dinner.” The words come out slowly, but there’s no mistaking his menace as he brings his hand down on the table, causing everything — the china, the crystal, the silverware — to rattle. Gillian, Connie, and Jin are all quick to interject: “Take it easy.” “What are you doing?” “Stop.” The voice he hears last and loudest is his father’s, and this, he won’t abide.
“You don’t have the right to tell me to stop. You, of all people. Where do you think I learned this from?”
Vivi coughs into her napkin. “My goodness,” she says to no one in particular. “I’ve never tasted lobster this fresh before. I guess all those others I ate were frozen.”
Mae glares at Kyung as perfect circles of pink bloom on her cheeks. Then she turns back to her guests. “We get them right off the boat at the dock. I like how easy they are to prepare.… Would you like some more butter?”
“No,” Kyung shouts. Everyone at the table jumps, their shoulders stiff, their spines perfectly straight. He’s not about to let them sit there and act like this is a normal meal, a normal family, a normal life. “Stop with the fucking butter. We’re not going to do this anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Mae says, looking at Connie and Vivi. “My son — I think he’s had too much to drink tonight. It’s not like him—”
“No. No. No,” he repeats. “No more excuses for each other. No more pretending everything’s fine. No fucking more.”
Vivi narrows her eyes at Connie, mouthing the words, Should we go? Poor woman, Kyung thinks. Gold digger or not, he almost feels sorry for her, walking into this sideshow when all she wanted was a free weekend at the beach. He stands up, raising his glass to her as if to give a toast.
“See, Vivi? What you need to know about my parents is that this one”—he points to Jin with his glass, spilling an arc of wine across the tablecloth—“this one used to hit my mother. And this one”—he flicks his finger at Mae—“this one used to hit me. So don’t be fooled by all their nice things and nice manners. They’re not good people.”
Gillian buries her face in her hands, mortified. Jin lifts Ethan out of his chair and whisks him out of the room. Mae throws her knife down so violently, it cracks her plate in two as she runs into the kitchen. Kyung remains standing, teetering from side to side like a tree caught in the wind.
“Why would you do that?” Gillian asks, still holding her face in her hands. “Why, Kyung? What good did that just do?”
“I — have — been — waiting—” He enunciates his words slowly, aware that he’s starting to slur. “—I have been waiting my entire life to say that, Gillian. They needed to know.”
“Know what?” she snaps. “They know.”
“Do they?” He raises his voice, shouting at the ceiling so his parents will hear. “Those people ruined me. Why don’t they understand — why don’t they act like they understand that?”
“Kyung … you have to let them be sorry. You have to let them make it up to you. They’re trying. Can’t you see how they’re trying?”
“Oh, right.” He sits down, nearly missing the edge of his chair. “Of course that’s what you’d say. You just want my dad to keep writing us checks. That’s how you want them to make it up to me, don’t you? So we can go on vacations again and drink nice wine every night?”
Gillian leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees and clutching the back of her hair. He can’t tell if she’s crying, or simply trying not to look at him. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s crossed over to their side, and now he doesn’t want her back.
“Why don’t you tell me what I’m worth, Gillian? Give me a number.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The number. The amount.” He slams his hands on the table, upturning glasses and bottles and shells. “Tell me what my life is worth. Tell me how much they should write the check out for so everything they did to me, everything they did in front of me — how much will it take to make that go away?”
Gillian sits up and looks at her father. Her eyes are completely dry. “I can’t talk to him when he’s screaming at me like this. I’m going to bed.”