* * *
The streets of Kowloon, one of two mainland districts of the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region, or SAR, were nearly deserted when Dirk walked out of the soundstage two weeks later and approached the waiting black Rolls-Royce that would take him back to the Peninsula Hotel at the southern tip of the Tsim Sha Tsui neighborhood. The double-decker buses that ran constantly, day and night, and the people who normally swarmed the streets were nowhere to be seen on this first day of May. Everyone and everything seemed to be battened down in anticipation of Typhoon De-De.
“Thanks, Patrick,” he told his twenty-four-year-old Chinese driver, Shuài “Patrick” Chan, who held the door for him.
“Hotel, Mr. DeWinter?”
“Dirk,” he reminded his driver.
“Yes, sir,” Patrick said, closing the door firmly behind Dirk and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Dirk smiled to himself as he leaned back against the leather upholstery. He’d yet to break his driver of addressing him formally, and probably never would, any more than he’d been able to break his employees of that habit. His housekeeper, Hannah, insisted on calling him Mr. DeWinter, too, and the others in his household followed her lead. “And yes, the flags are out,” he said, “So I’d better hightail it back to the hotel.”
The flags were out. Not literally—actual flags to warn mariners hadn’t been hoisted in the Hong Kong SAR in years. But Signal Three had been issued early that morning—which meant schools were closed and the government was shut down, as well as the financial markets and a majority of the private sector. And the Hong Kong Observatory had issued a Signal Eight SE warning a half hour ago. That had caused the studio to reluctantly shut down filming for the day and send everyone home until further notice.
Typhoon De-De was bearing down on Hong Kong from the southeast—a month early for the normal typhoon season, which usually didn’t begin until June. All public transportation had ceased, especially the double-decker buses that were so susceptible to being blown over by strong winds. The ubiquitous red taxis were still running, as were a few green ones, but without the buses traffic was sparse, and the Rolls made good time as it headed down Kowloon Park Drive toward Salisbury Road.
A gust of wind out of nowhere slammed into the limo, causing it to swerve and throwing Dirk against the door. “Sorry, sir,” Patrick said, quickly bringing the Rolls back on course.
“Not a problem. Good thing we don’t have far to go.” He thought for a minute. “You live on the island, don’t you?” he asked, referring to Hong Kong Island itself.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t think you’ll make it home safely today. Not now. You probably should just join me in the hotel—my suite is plenty big enough, and I’m sure Vanessa and the twins won’t mind.”
Vanessa Riordan was the woman who’d been his twin daughters’ nanny since the day they’d been released from the neonatal intensive care unit—or NICU—at Cedars Sinai in Los Angeles. Dirk had tried calling Vanessa at the hotel earlier, but there had been no answer and he wondered absently about that now. He pulled out his smartphone and tried calling his suite again, then Vanessa’s cell phone, but still no luck.
Dirk’s eyes met Patrick’s in the rearview mirror, and he could tell his driver was of two minds about accepting the offer to take shelter from the typhoon with Dirk and his family. Patrick lived with his parents, and Dirk figured the young man was worried about them. “Call your parents,” he told Patrick. “I’m sure they’ll tell you the same thing. Better safe than sorry.”
Patrick Chan wasn’t a limo driver by trade—he was an engineering student at the University of Hong Kong, working on his master’s degree. The young man held down two jobs—teaching assistant at the university and driving the Rolls—to put himself through school and help out at home.
Dirk had done something similar, working three jobs to make ends meet—including movie stuntman—to support Bree and himself before he got his big break in the movies. He’d never been afraid of hard work. Neither had Bree. But Dirk had been too proud to ask her to marry him until he’d snagged his first starring role. Until he could support her in the style she deserved. Until his success meant Bree didn’t have to work at the menial jobs she’d taken in order to stay at his side through thick and thin as he chased his dream of movie stardom...and long before that.
Pain stabbed through him as it always did at the thought of Bree. He could never forget that, because God was punishing him for something that had happened aeons ago. Bree had died. And their daughters had nearly died, too. Only a miracle wrought by the doctors and nurses in the Cedars Sinai NICU had kept their premature twins alive.
Dirk’s phone sounded the tune he reserved for his closest friends, and when he swiped a finger over the touchpad and saw who the call was from, he smiled and answered. “To what do I owe the honor of this call, Your Majesty?”
The voice of Queen Juliana of Zakhar sounded in his ear, prefaced by a very unqueenly snort. “Cut that out,” she said. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m still Juliana to you?”
“Ahhh, but what would your husband, the king, say to that?” he teased gently.
They bantered back and forth for a couple of minutes, then Juliana said, “I hear there’s a typhoon expected to hit Hong Kong this evening, and I remembered you mentioned you were filming there. Are you and the girls in a safe place? And Vanessa and Hannah, too, of course,” she added, referring to the women who had habitually accompanied Dirk on location ever since the twins were born.
“Hannah couldn’t make the trip, after all,” he explained now. “She fell down the stairs and broke her leg three days before we were supposed to leave for Hong Kong.”
“Oh, no!” Dirk knew Juliana’s concern was genuine. Hannah had been his housekeeper for years, and Juliana had met her every time she’d visited the DeWinters during their years-long friendship in Hollywood. “Is she going to be okay?”
“Yeah. She’s recuperating in a nursing home. But Linden and Laurel ask about her several times a day. And we call her every night.” Hannah, a longtime widow with no children of her own, had taken on the role of surrogate grandmother for the twins in addition to her housekeeping duties, something for which Dirk was supremely grateful. His daughters adored Hannah—whom they called Nana—and she adored them.
“Email me the address and phone number of the nursing home, please,” Juliana asked. “I’ll send her flowers and a get-well card.”
“Will do. And don’t worry about us, Juliana. We’ll be fine. Thanks for calling, though.”
“Kiss your daughters for me.” That was something Juliana said every time they talked, another thing that was genuinely meant—Juliana had her own child now, but was the twins’ godmother and loved them deeply. This time, however, she hesitated, then added in a voice tinged with pain, “I adore the pictures of them you’ve sent me, but every day they look more and more like Bree.”
At first Dirk’s throat closed with emotion at the reminder of his wife, who’d been Juliana’s best friend before she died, but eventually he managed, “Yeah, they do.”
Dirk disconnected just as Patrick pulled in at the hotel entrance. He drove past the fountain that had already been turned off, and would have dropped Dirk at the front door, but Dirk refused. “Just find a place to park,” he told his driver. “Call your parents, but I know what they’ll say. Then we’ll go up together.”
It only took a minute for Patrick to receive his parents’ blessing to shelter at the Peninsula Hotel. More than a blessing, actually, Dirk thought with an inward smile as he heard Patrick’s side of the phone conversation. More like a parental command. But he didn’t say anything. He admired the old-fashioned deference the younger generation showed the older in Hong Kong. Once upon a time that had been common in the United States, too, but not anymore.
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