Summer Sonnets

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height...

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Since graduating from college, Rowan had spent her days drifting from one place to another.

She would suddenly turn up somewhere in France to meet her mother, traveling with her and her friends across Europe. There were parties to attend, polo matches to play, bridge games deep in the gardens, and endless conversations about philosophy. Whenever she grew bored, she would disappear and return to New York, only to find herself in Monaco not long afterward, accompanying her father to parties and tennis matches. Once the novelty wore off, she would make her way back to New York again.

On the days she spent in the city, she could usually be found either wandering through museums or surfing along the beaches of the Hamptons, one of her favorite pastimes.

One day in mid-June, as she sped down the highway, Edwin called.

He told her he was planning to move back to Los Angeles.

After a year in Monaco, he had finally grown tired of the same leisurely routine, day after day. What had once been a source of pleasure had gradually become tedious. He had even begun counting the days, longing for something new to bring a little excitement back into his life. He missed his villa on Mulholland Drive, its sweeping lawns, the infinity pool, and the long, sun-drenched California summers.

Before returning to Los Angeles, however, he intended to make a stop in Hong Kong. An old college friend had invited him to visit.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you come to Hong Kong? I’ve had Anne arrange everything. I’ll meet you there,” Edwin said over the phone.

“Dad, I want a new car. And you’re taking me to the South of France this summer,” Rowan said, seizing the opportunity to negotiate.

“Sweetheart, you can have whatever you want. But the South of France... I’m not sure I’m up for that,” Edwin replied.

“Why?” Rowan asked, feigning innocence.

“Well... I think I’ll need a little time to unwind once I’m back in L.A.”

“Okay.” Rowan got out of the car and waved to a friend waiting some distance away. “All right, then. I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”

She hung up before Edwin could say anything else.

Shek O Road, Shek O Peninsula, Hong Kong. A private residence.

Rowan stood by the window of a small sitting room, looking out at the garden. Beneath an enormous oak tree, a golden retriever lay sprawled on the lawn, basking in the quiet of the afternoon.

“Rowan, are you an animal person?” Rachel asked, following her gaze.

“Totally. Oh, look at that sweetie!” Rowan exclaimed. Who could possibly resist such an adorable creature?

“Luna loves hanging out under the tree.” Rachel had adopted Luna in Canada a few months earlier. She looked at the dog with unmistakable affection and added softly, “Aww, my baby. Isn’t she lovely? She knows we’re talking about her.”

She pointed toward the little dog, who had just wriggled a few inches across the grass.

Luna buried her nose in the damp earth. She hadn’t understood a word of the conversation, but she had heard her name, so she gave her tail a little wag.

At the same time, her fluffy ears picked up a rumbling sound that grew steadily louder.

What was that?

She thought for a moment. It had to be that big bird again, the enormous, noisy thing that went whirrrrr.

A bird?

She abruptly lifted her head and stared into the distance.

Sure enough, a great black machine had appeared in her field of vision, settling neatly onto the lawn farther away.

Just you wait, she thought. That bird is going to spit out Deng Deng any moment now, and my Deng Deng will have brought me something delicious.

Luna abandoned her plans for an afternoon nap and sprang to her feet, racing toward the aircraft.

The helicopter touched down smoothly on the lawn.

A few moments later, the cabin door opened, and two young men climbed out one after the other.

The one carrying a cane nearly stumbled as he stepped onto the grass, while the other exchanged a few words with the pilot.

Then, laughing and talking, they made their way toward the oak tree. Along the way, one of them scooped up the little golden ball of fur that had been waiting for them in a state of barely contained excitement. The puppy squirmed uncontrollably in his arms, letting out a series of delighted whimpers.

When they noticed Rachel and Rowan standing by the window, they waved cheerfully. Neither woman could make out what they were saying, but whatever it was, it seemed to have put them in an excellent mood.

As the two men drew closer, their handsome faces and moving lips came into clearer view.

“Hi, Mum.”

The young man holding the puppy bore a striking resemblance to Rachel. He had a gentle manner and an air of warmth about him, though the faint melancholy in his eyes gave him a rather different quality. Dressed casually, he looked entirely at ease.

“I took Cass to the China Club for lunch, then over to see my polo ponies. They’d just arrived from England.”

“Good afternoon, Rachel,” said the young man with the cane.

He looked cheerful. His face was still youthful, and his blue eyes were strikingly deep and beautiful. One could easily imagine what his parents must have looked like; at least one of them had surely been breathtakingly beautiful.

“Afternoon, Cass. Did you have a nice day out?”

“Yeah, very nice, thank you.”

“I’m glad you had a good time, Cass,” Rachel said with a smile. “Owen, we’ll be back in England before long.”

Then she turned to Rowan.

“Rowan, this is my son, Owen.”

She gestured toward the young man on the right, who was still holding the puppy.

“And this is Cassian, Owen’s friend.”

She indicated the young man on the left, who was leaning on his cane.

“Owen, Cass, this is Rowan.”

After the introductions, Rowan exchanged greetings with the two young men.

“Now, go upstairs and freshen up, boys. Dinner’s at seven-thirty,” Rachel said.

After spending a little longer by the window, Rowan was led by Rachel into another sitting room to meet the other women.

Among those gathered there were Mrs. Shao, née Li Yuanfu, and her daughter, Shao Yan; Mrs. Fu, née Song Wanling, and her two daughters, Fu Xi and Fu Xian. Chen Yuzhi, the eldest daughter of the Chen family, had only recently returned to Hong Kong from Japan. She and Mrs. Jia, He Jinhui, had gone out into the garden.

The men, meanwhile, had retired to the study to smoke cigars.

The women chatted about the parties they planned to host that year and the pieces scheduled to appear at upcoming auctions. Their lives afforded them the freedom to spend different parts of the year in different places, filling their days with an endless variety of pursuits.

In spring, they traveled to Paris or London, dividing their time between art exhibitions and private dinners. Summer found them in their villas along the French Riviera, enjoying long holidays in the sunshine and sea breeze. In autumn, the social season resumed, keeping them occupied with charity galas, opera premieres, and art auctions. Come winter, they traveled with their husbands and children to the Swiss Alps for skiing, or remained along warmer coastlines to celebrate Christmas and the New Year.

7:30 p.m.

The butler led the guests through the corridors toward the South Dining Room.

Beyond a pair of imposing oak doors, the first thing to catch the eye was the expanse of blue sea in the distance. Closer to the house lay a beautiful garden, its grounds arranged to make the most of the view.

The walls were hung with an array of paintings, each distinctive in its own way, whether portraiture or landscape. On the sideboards stood objects collected from around the world: Japanese ukiyo-e prints, Persian jewel boxes, and other treasures.

Every detail spoke of the owners’ impeccable taste.

And, indeed, it was no accident. Not long after their marriage, the Dengs had inherited the Edwardian mansion. They subsequently hired a British designer to redesign the gardens, renovate several rooms, and improve the tennis courts and other facilities.

During that period, they traveled extensively throughout Europe and did not return to Hong Kong until four years later.

A husband who never needed to work and his beautiful wife living in a castle of their own. What could possibly inspire more envy?

The guests took their seats according to the carefully arranged place cards.

The meal began with a small amuse-bouche: lightly seared foie gras on crisp, toasted brioche, finished with an aged balsamic reduction.

For the first course, wild turbot fillet was served with a classic white-wine beurre blanc and Oscietra caviar, delicately garnished with chervil.

The soup was a velvety white asparagus velouté, finished tableside with freshly shaved black truffle. The dish had nearly been struck from the menu by the notoriously particular Mr. Reed, but the chef had insisted on keeping it.

The main course was herb-crusted beef tenderloin, accompanied by roasted root vegetables and a light red-wine jus. Three varieties of French cheese, each aged to a different degree, followed.

The wine pairing was a 1985 Clos de Vougeot Grand Cru, drawn from the private collection of one of Deng Yunzhi’s French friends.

After the main course and cheese, the waiters served a champagne granita infused with lemon verbena to cleanse the palate.

Dessert was an almond tuile tart with fresh figs and vanilla cream, accompanied by a glass of 1976 Château d’Yquem.

After dinner, the guests moved to the terrace to enjoy the night view.

The garden seemed deeper and more mysterious beneath the lights. Beyond the low hedges, the sea was visible in the distance. As night fell, its surface gradually disappeared into a deep blue, merging with the sky until it was almost impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Rowan sat in a wicker chair in a quiet corner of the garden, chatting with several young people she had only just met.

“Did you live in New York as well, Rowan?” Cass asked.

“I did. I grew up in New York, moved to France when I was fifteen, and just relocated back to the City this year,” Rowan replied.

“France is rather romantic, isn’t it?” Owen remarked.

“Oh my God, I adore France. I spend a month or two there every year,” Shao Yan said.

“Seconded,” her brother, Shao Qing, added.

“My mom and I spend our summers in the South every year,” Rowan said.

“How lovely! Who knows? Maybe we’ll run into each other in Cap-Ferrat sometime,” Shao Yan replied.

Cass handed Rowan a glass of port.

“I love the South too.”

“What’s with the leg?” Rowan asked.

There were, after all, any number of sports that could leave someone with an injured leg.

“Had a stupid fall skiing in Switzerland a few months back.” Cass pursed his lips in a rueful expression, as though the injury had been an entirely unnecessary inconvenience and one he found thoroughly tiresome.

“I’m sorry—that sounds awful. I hope it heals quickly,” Rowan said.

“Thanks. It’s actually much better now—the doctor says I can ditch this thing by the end of the month.” He gestured toward his cane. “So, what do you play?”

He sounded genuinely curious.

“Anything that catches my fancy—polo, golf, cricket... I’ve played most of them,” she said, listing a few of the sports that interested her. “And skiing is on the list, of course—though it clearly comes with its hazards.”

She glanced at Cass’s long legs.

At the mention of polo, Cass’s eyes brightened.

“You’ll have to come out to the Hamptons for a chukker sometime.”

“I’d love that,” Rowan replied.

“Rowan, what did you study?” Owen asked curiously.

“Art History and Developmental Psychology,” Rowan said. “What about you?”

“Classics. I was pre-law.” After a brief pause, Owen continued, “Cass and I actually went to the same school—we both graduated from Williams.”

“That’s right. Owen and I even TA’d for the same professor at one point,” Cass added with a smile.

“We did,” Owen said, exchanging a high five with Cass.

“Walter Savage Landor...”

...

The conversations about classical literature gradually thinned out, eventually fading into a low murmur that was difficult to make out.

In the beautiful garden, the older generation spoke quietly among themselves. Their subjects ranged from family trusts and midsummer holiday destinations to private yacht itineraries through the Norwegian fjords and the hunting jackets that had arrived from Savile Row that year, still carrying the faint, unmistakable scent of fresh wool.

Those interminable, carefree conversations belonged to the other side of the wicker chairs.

Over here, the young people’s laughter sounded unusually light—and strangely distant.