LITMIR.BIZ

      “Lasagne!” Jasmine smelled it the moment she opened the door. She raced into the kitchen and took a deep breath. The delicious aromas of meat, garlic, tomato sauce and mozza-rella melted through her whole being. “Just the way I like it, with a dash of cinnamon, right?”

      Her father grinned. “Right you are. I certainly have you well-trained.”

      Jasmine bit into a slice of French bread, still warm from the oven. “Crusty on the outside—a perfect ten for that, Dad.” She popped the rest into her mouth, closing her eyes to savour the taste. “Mmm! That tastes like more.”

      “Not till you’ve set the table. I remember training you for that, too.”

      “OK, OK. I think this calls for candles. Can I get them?”

      “Sure. Get the red ones—they’re in the dining room, top drawer of the hutch.”

      Jasmine hummed as she opened the drawer and took out the candles. As she was reaching for the candlesticks she noticed a shiny folder with the words Pacific Travel. She raised the flap and peered inside. Plane tickets! And a sheet of white paper with Itinerary printed across the top. Dates, times—Vancouver—Shanghai, Beijing—weren’t those places in China? —airlines, luggage information—

      “Dinner’s served. Have you got the candles?”

      “Coming.” Quickly she closed the drawer, her mind spinning. We’re going on a trip. That’s why we’re having such a great dinner. He’s going to make a big announcement about our summer holidays—wait a minute. She stopped abruptly, holding the burning match in her hand. The dates she had seen were in February. “Ow!”

      “Need a hand?” Her father struck a new match and lit the candles. “Please be seated, my dear,” he said formally.

      “Thank you, kind sir,” she replied automatically. French bread, her father’s specialty. Lasagne with spinach noodles, her favourite. Tossed green salad with homemade dressing. And for dessert—

      “Dad, did you by any chance make raspberry mousse for dessert?” Raspberry mousse was her all-time favourite, served only on special occasions.

      “Jasmine,” he said, smiling, “you know me too well.”

      “Just a lucky guess.” She did know him welL Well enough to know he had something up his sleeve. Raspberry mousse and lasagne on a weekday in February? The last time they’d had such a feast was one month ago, on her birthday. There was a reason for all this, and seeing that travel folder clinched it. Still, she’d play along for awhile and let him tell her in his own way, in his own time.

      “How was school today?”

      Jasmine swallowed another mouthful of lasagne. “Best ever,” she said. “The lasagne, I mean. But school was OK too. We’re learning about China. Did you know that nearly one out of every four people in the world lives in China? And we’re doing shadow puppet plays about Chinese folktales. My group is doing a story about a dragon and I’m making all the scenery—the river and a pagoda and rain-clouds, and we just cut the stuff out of paper and for colour we put in cellophane so the light shines through and—”

      “Hold it!” Her father laughed. “Once you get going, there’s no stopping you. Don’t let your dinner get cold. Here, have some more bread.”

      “Thanks,” she said, taking her fourth piece. “But you were the one who asked.”

      “Fair enough,” he said.

      They ate in silence for awhile, enjoying the meal. Now and then Jasmine looked up and caught his eye. He winked and smiled.

      “You’re like Mrs. Butler,” she said.

      “How’s that? Does she have a moustache like mine?”

      “No, silly. She always winks.”

      “Oh, I see.”

      “I like it when she winks. But you’re much better at it. And you’ve been doing it more often lately.”

      “Why’s that, I wonder.”

      Jasmine gave him a knowing look, but he took another helping of lasagne and kept on eating. She tried another approach. “My class is going to Victoria on Friday, to Chinatown. And we’re having lunch in a Chinese restaurant.”

      “What a great idea! To celebrate Chinese New Year?”

      Jasmine nodded. “1989 is the Year of the Snake. And after lunch we can look around the shops and buy souvenirs. So can I have some money, please?”

      “I knew it. How much?”

      “Four dollars for lunch.”

      “A bargain.”

      “Mrs. Butler got a special deal.”

      “And you want some souvenir money?”

      “No, it’s OK. I’ve got lots in my piggy bank.”

      “Maybe I’ll borrow some from you.”

      “For your trip, you mean?” There. It was out.

      His mouth fell open with surprise. “How did you know about that? I was going to tell you tonight.”

      “I just happened to see the travel folder in the drawer. You’re not very good at hiding things, Dad. Anyway, I was wondering why we’re having such a special dinner. I mean, it’s a rainy Wednesday in February and it’s nobody’s birthday. So why the celebration?”

      “How about some dessert?” he asked, removing the plates.

      “Don’t change the subject! Where are we going? And when?” She carried the bowls of pink mousse to the table. “I saw the word February on your itin— whatever—but there must be some mistake because we can’t go anywhere in February.” She took a heaping spoonful of the mousse and let it sit on her tongue before swallowing. “Mmm,” she sighed. “Best ever, Dad. But what were those places again? I thought the ticket said Shanghai and Beijing—that’s the capital, isn’t it? But come on Dad, we’re not seriously going to China! And why, Dad? Why China?”

      “Whew!” Her father wiped his brow. “She’s finally stopped talking.” He put down his spoon and looked at her with an unusually serious expression. “Jasmine.”

      An uneasy feeling crept into her.

      “The thing is...I’m going to China alone. I’ve accepted a job at a college in Beijing. The professor who was there got sick and had to come home. So I’m going to take her place. I’ll be leaving on Friday.”

      “This Friday?” Jasmine exploded. “That’s—that’s only two days away! That’s impossible! You can’t! You never asked, you never told me—and where am I going to go? Why didn’t you tell me?”

      She pushed the bowl of unfinished mousse across the table, hoping it would fall in his lap or crash in a mess on the floor. But he reached out his hand and stopped

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