The Samurai's Daughter by Sujata Massey Page A

affection.
    â€œThat’s sexist, Mom,” I said, but I couldn’t deny my relief that at least one person in the family was excited about the engagement. “Anyway, I’ll get the sushi on the way back from Hopewell’s. I’m going there to check into Dad’s letter.”
    â€œWhich letter?” my mother asked.
    â€œThe one he mentioned selling back in the seventies. I just want to find out what it was, in case there’s something I should follow up on.”
    â€œOh, that. Well, when you’re there, be sure to ask for my friend Mary Jamison. She’s been working there for as long as we’ve been their clients; I’m sure she’d help you. Oh, and the person who does jewelry evaluations might be able to help you resize your ring.”
    â€œDo you think they’ll charge much?” Hugh asked. “Darling, let me give you something to cover the cost—it’s not right that you’re paying anything toward that ring.”
    â€œHugh, I’m sure they won’t charge, because she’s one of us,” my mother said.
    â€œOne of whom?” Hugh raised a quizzical eyebrow.
    â€œOur family. We’ve done so much business with them over the years, they will just be happy to see Rei. Especially if she dangles a promise of bringing them some wonderful consignments from Japan.”
    An hour later, I was showered, dressed in a violet wool suit, and heading downtown on the no. 1 bus. For a change, my twenty-year-old outfit fit right in. The society matrons riding the bus alongside me were all wearing clothes from bygone days. Sitting around us were a sprinkling of tourists in teal and purple athletic wear, as well as members of the nose-ring mafia who probably had jobs on Filbert Street. It was a perfect San Francisco moment, and reminded me of why I was occasionally bored by life in perfect-taste Japan.
    I jumped off the bus at Sacramento and Larkin and walkedsouth a few blocks to the intersection with Sutter Street, where Hopewell’s Auction House had stood since the late nineteenth century. I’d been in just the previous week to get the gentleman’s traveling desk for Hugh.
    I went straight to the back desk and asked for Mary Jamison, the veteran appraiser my mother had mentioned. She had always reminded me of my mother—she was about the same age and wore the same kind of pageboy hairstyle, only red; and she’d dressed entirely in black, year round, for as long as I could remember.
    â€œDarling, look at you!” she said, gesturing toward me. “Love the suit. And the ring—are you engaged?”
    I slid off the loose ring that I’d slipped on my finger just before entering. “I’m almost afraid to wear it. It’s a bit large. It was my fiancé’s grandmother’s ring.”
    â€œI can take care of that for you.” She held out her hand. “Oh, you’re going to have to tell me all about him. Is he local?”
    â€œNo. He’s from Scotland.”
    â€œOh, the one you bought the traveling desk for. I adore Scottish men; that actor, Ewan McGregor—”
    â€œHugh’s bigger.” I caught myself. “Heightwise, I mean.”
    â€œWell, that’s nice, too.” Mary laughed knowingly. Only in San Francisco would ladies my mother’s age feel so at home with the ribald. “I’m sure he’s simply gorgeous. I’m very upset you didn’t bring him with you today. I assume he’s here for the holidays?”
    â€œYes, but today he’s working. He’s doing something with Sharp, Witter and Rowe.” I made a face.
    â€œA lawyer.” Mary sighed. “Well, there are worse things than having a man who’s still got work to do. Around here, so many people have lost employment that you wouldn’t believe it.”
    â€œI’ve noticed,” I said, thinking about all the people in the coffee shops. “Actually, I want