The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy
“Don’t fidget!” Astrid mouthed from the front row as Nick fussed nervously with his cuff links. She couldn’t help but recall the skinny boy in soccer shorts who used to run around with her in the gardens of Tyersall Park, scaling trees and jumping into ponds. They were forever inventing games and getting lost in fantasy worlds, Nicky always the Peter Pan to her Wendy, but now here he was, all grown up and looking utterly dashing in his celestial blue Henry Poole tuxedo, ready to create his own new world with Rachel. There would be great trouble to come once their grandmother found out about the wedding, but at least for tonight, Nicky was getting to marry the girl of his dreams.
The wall of French doors at the front of the pavilion opened, and from inside a musician on a grand piano began to play a vaguely familiar melody as Rachel’s bridesmaids—Peik Lin, Samantha, and Sylvia, in pearl gray bias-cut silk dresses—began the procession up the aisle. Auntie Belinda, in a gold lamé St. John gown with matching bolero top, suddenly recognized that the pianist was playing Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” and began to sob uncontrollably into her Chanel handkerchief. Uncle Ray, mystified by his wife’s behavior, pretended not to notice and stared straight ahead, while Auntie Jin turned around and glared at her. “Sorry…sorry…Stevie just gets me every time,” Belinda whispered, trying to collect herself.
After the pianist had finished, another surprise awaited the crowd as the lights inside the pavilion dimmed and a scrim hanging above the building came down, revealing a full ensemble of musicians from the San Francisco Symphony on the roof. The conductor raised his baton, and as the delicate opening strains of Aaron Copland’s “Appalachian Spring” began to fill the air, Rachel appeared at the steps of the portico on the arm of her uncle Walt.
The wedding guests murmured in approval at the bride, who looked stunning in a figure-hugging gown of silk crepe de chine with delicate knife pleats that fanned out over the fitted bodice and a column skirt that draped across the front in romantic cascading folds. With her long, luxuriant hair worn down in loose curls and pinned on the sides with a pair of feather-shaped art deco diamond clips, she was the epitome of a relaxed, modern bride with just a touch of 1930s Hollywood glamour.
Rachel clutched her bouquet of long-stemmed white tulips and calla lilies, smiling at all the people she knew. Then she caught sight of her mother seated in the front row next to Bao Gaoliang. She had of course insisted that Uncle Walt, who had always been the closest thing to a paternal figure, walk her down the aisle, but seeing her mother and father together like this stirred up a whole new set of emotions.
Her parents were here. Her parents. She realized that this was the first time in her life that she could actually use that term properly, and her eyes began to well up. There goes that hour spent in the makeup chair. Just yesterday morning, she had almost given up hope of ever meeting her real father, but by the end of the day, she discovered that not only was her father alive and very much real but she also had a half brother. It was more than she could have ever hoped for, and in a strange roundabout way, she had Nick to thank for all of this.
Bao Gaoliang couldn’t help but feel a peculiar sense of pride as he watched his daughter glide gracefully down the aisle. Here was a woman he had not met until yesterday, but already he could feel an undeniable connection with her, something he couldn’t seem to forge with his own son. Carlton and Shaoyen had a special bond that he was never able to penetrate, and he suddenly began to dread the conversation that he knew would take place when he returned to China. He had yet to discuss any of Eleanor Young’s revelations with Shaoyen, who thought he was on a diplomatic mission in Australia. How in the world was he ever going to explain all this to his wife and son?
“I can’t believe how beautiful you look,” Nick whispered when Rachel reached his side.
Rachel, too moved to say anything, simply nodded. She looked into the kind, beautiful, sexy eyes of the man she was about to marry and wondered whether this was all a dream.
 
; • • •
After the ceremony, as the wedding guests adjourned to a reception inside the music pavilion, Eleanor sidled up to Astrid and began her commentary. “The only thing missing from that service was a good Methodist pastor. Where is Tony Chi when you need him? I didn’t really care for that we-are-all-nature Unitarian minister. Did you see he was wearing an earring? What sort of kopi-license* minister is he?”
Astrid, who hadn’t spoken to Eleanor since her Apocalypse Now–style arrival the day before, gave her a sharp look. “Next time you plan on plying my child with a gallon of ice cream, you have to take him for the rest of the day. You have no idea how long it took us to pry him off the ceiling.”
“Sorry, lah. But you knew I had to find out about the wedding. See? It all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”
“I suppose so. But you could have spared everyone so much heartache.”
Refusing to be any more contrite, Eleanor tried changing the subject. “Hey, did you help Rachel choose her dress?”
“No, but doesn’t she look lovely?”
“I find it a bit plain.”
“I think it’s exquisitely simple. It looks like something Carole Lombard would have worn to a dinner party on the French Riviera.”
“I find your dress much more striking,” Eleanor said, admiring Astrid’s cobalt blue halter-neck Gaultier outfit.
“Aiyah, you’ve seen me in this a dozen times.”
“I thought I recognized it! Didn’t you wear it to Araminta’s wedding?”
“I wear it to every wedding.”
“Why on earth do you do that?”
“Don’t you remember Cecilia Cheng’s wedding years ago, when people couldn’t stop talking about my dress in front of her? I felt so bad, I decided from that day on to always wear the same dress to every wedding.”
“You’re a funny one. No wonder you get along with my son, with all his funny ideas.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Auntie Elle.”
• • •
The sunken garden behind the music pavilion had been transformed into an al fresco ballroom. Hundreds of candles in antique crystal orbs sparkled in the eucalyptus trees surrounding the garden, while old-fashioned klieg lights cast a silver-screen glow onto the dance floor.
Astrid leaned on the stone balustrade overlooking the garden, wishing her husband could have been here to dance with her under the moonlight. The phone inside her minaudière gave a quick buzz, and she smiled, thinking Michael must have just read her mind and pinged her. She got out her phone eagerly and found a text message: