Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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Synopsis
An "impeccably researched and beautifully written" novel about a California marriage threatened by the Japanese internments of WWII (Karen White, New York Times best-selling author of The Sound of Glass).
Los Angeles, 1941. Violinist Maddie Kern's life seemed destined to unfold with the predictable elegance of a Bach concerto. Then she fell in love with Lane Moritomo.
Her brother's best friend, Lane is the handsome, ambitious son of Japanese immigrants. Maddie was prepared for disapproval from their families, but when Pearl Harbor is bombed the day after she and Lane elope, the full force of their decision becomes apparent. In the eyes of a fearful nation, Lane is no longer just an outsider, but an enemy.
Maddie follows when her husband is interned at a war relocation camp, sacrificing her Juilliard ambitions. Behind barbed wire, tension simmers and the line between patriot and traitor blurs. As Maddie strives for the hard-won acceptance of her new family, Lane risks everything to prove his allegiance to America — at tremendous cost — in this "beautiful, timeless love story... McMorris's words reach right off the page and grab at your heart" (Sarah Jio, New York Times best-selling author of Blackberry Winter).
Release date: June 25, 2019
Publisher: Kensington Books
Print pages: 448
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Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
Kristina McMorris
November 1941
Los Angeles, California
At the sound of her brother’s voice, flutters of joy turned to panic in Maddie Kern. “Cripes,” she whispered, perched on her vanity seat. “What’s he doing home?”
Jo Allister, her closest girlfriend and trusted lookout, cracked open the bedroom door. She peeked into the hall as TJ hollered again from downstairs.
“Maddie! You here?”
It was six o’clock on a Friday. He should have been at his campus job all night. If he knew who was about to pick her up for a date . . .
She didn’t want to imagine what he would do.
Maddie scanned the room, seeking a solution amidst her tidy collection of belongings—framed family photos on the bureau, her posters of the New York Symphony, of Verdi’s Aida at the Philharmonic. But even her violin case, which she’d defended from years of dings and scratches, seemed to shake its head from the corner and say, Six months of sneaking around and you’re surprised this would happen?
Jo closed the door without a click and pressed her back against the knob. “Want me to keep him out?” Her pale lips angled with mischief. Despite the full look of her figure, thanks to her baggy hardware store uniform, she was no match for TJ’s strength. Only his stubbornness.
“My brother seeing me isn’t the problem,” Maddie reminded her. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, and found cause for remaining calm. “Lane shouldn’t be here for another twelve minutes. If I can just—”
The faint sound of an engine drove through the thought and parked on her words. Had he shown up early? She raced to the window, where she swatted away her childhood drapes. She threw the pane upward and craned her neck. Around the abandoned remains of her father’s Ford, she made out a wedge of the street. No sign of Lane’s car. She still had time.
“Hey, Rapunzel,” Jo said. “You haven’t turned batty enough to scale walls for a fella, have you?”
Maddie shushed her, interrupted by creaks of footfalls on the staircase. “You have to do it,” she decided.
“Do what?”
Warn Lane, Maddie was about to say, but realized she needed to talk to him herself, in order to set plans to meet later that night. Come tomorrow, he’d be on a train back to Stanford.
She amended her reply. “You’ve got to distract TJ for me.”
Jo let out a sharp laugh. Pushing out her chest, she tossed back stragglers from her ash-brown ponytail. “What, with all my stylish locks and hefty bosom?” Then she muttered, “Although, based on his past girlfriends, I suppose that’s all it would take.”
“No, I mean—you both love baseball. Chat about that.”
Jo raised a brow at her.
“Please,” Maddie begged. “You came by to help me get ready, didn’t you? So, help me.”
“Why not just tell him and get it over with?”
“Because you know how he feels about my dating.” A distraction from her future, he called it. The same theory he applied to his own career.
“Maddie. This isn’t just about any guy.”
“I know, I know, and I’ll come clean. But not yet.”
A knuckle-rap sounded on her door. “You in there?”
She sang out, “Hold on a minute,” and met Jo’s eyes. “Please.”
Jo hesitated before releasing a sigh that said Maddie would owe her one. A big one.
“I’ll come right back,” Maddie promised, “once I head Lane off down the block.”
After a grumble, Jo pasted on a smile, wide enough for a dentist’s exam, and flung open the door. “TJ,” she exclaimed, “how ’bout that streak of DiMaggio’s, huh?”
Behind his umber bangs, his forehead creased in puzzlement. “Uh, yeah. That was . . . somethin’.” His hand hung from a loop of his cuffed jeans. Nearly four years of wash and wear had frayed the patch on his USC Baseball sweatshirt. Its vibrancy had long ago faded, just like TJ’s.
Diverting from Jo’s unsubtle approach, Maddie asked him, “Didn’t you have to work tonight?”
“I was supposed to, but Jimmy needed to switch shifts this weekend.” His cobalt gaze suddenly narrowed and gripped hers. “You going somewhere special?”
“What?” She softly cleared her throat before thinking to glance down at her flared navy dress, her matching strappy heels. She recalled the pin curls in her auburn, shoulder-length do. The ensemble didn’t spell out a casual trip to a picture show.
Jo swiftly interjected, “There’s a new hot jazz band playing at the Dunbar. They say Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday might even be there. I’m dragging Maddie along. A keen study in music. You know, for her big audition.”
“I thought you were practicing tonight,” he said to Maddie.
“I am—I will. After we get back.”
“You two going alone?”
“We’ll be fine.” As everything would be, if he’d let up long enough.
“All right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll just grab a bite in the kitchen then come along.”
Maddie stifled a gasp. “No, really. You don’t have to.”
“At the Dunbar? Oh yeah I do.”
Criminy. Was he going to hold her hand as they crossed the street to reach the bus stop too?
“TJ, this is ridiculous. I’m nineteen years old. Dad used to let us go out all the—”
He lashed back with a fistful of words. “Well, Dad’s gone, and I’m not him. You don’t like the deal, you can stay home.”
Stunned, Maddie stared at him. He’d spoken the word gone as though their father had died along with their mother.
Jo waved her hands, shooing away the tension. “So it’s settled. We’ll all go together.” Maddie widened her eyes as Jo continued, “And hey, while he’s eating, you’ll have time to drop off your neighbor’s letter. The one the postman delivered by accident.”
The letter . . . ?
Confusion quickly gave way to disappointment. Maddie now had an excuse to sneak out, but only to cancel rather than delay her date with Lane. She hated the prospect of missing one of his rare visits from school.
On the upside, in two weeks he would be back for winter break, offering more opportunities for quality time together.
“Fine, then,” she snipped at her brother. “Come if you want.”
What other choice did she have?
While Jo bombarded TJ with questions about the World Series, Maddie strode down the hall. Her urge to sprint mounted as she recalled the time. She made it as far as the bottom step when the doorbell rang.
Oh, God.
“I’ll get it!” She rushed to the entry. Hoping to prevent the disaster from worsening, she opened the door only halfway. Yet at the greeting of Lane’s perfect white smile, all her worries evaporated like mist. The warm glow of the portico light caressed his short black hair and olive skin. Shadows swooped softly from his high cheekbones. His almond-shaped eyes, inherited from his Japanese ancestors, shone with the same deep brown that had reached out and captured her heart the first time he’d held her last spring, an innocent embrace that had spiraled into more.
“Hi, Maddie,” he said, and handed her a bouquet of lavender lilies. Their aroma was divine, nearly hypnotic, just like his voice.
But then footsteps on the stairs behind her sobered her senses.
“You have to go,” was all she got out before TJ called to him.
“Tomo!” It was the nickname he’d given Lane Moritomo when they were kids. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”
The startle in Lane’s eyes deftly vanished as his best friend approached.
Maddie edged herself aside. Her heart thudded in the drum of her chest as she watched Lane greet him with a swift hug. A genuine grin lit TJ’s face, a rare glimpse of the brother she missed.
“I’m only in till tomorrow,” Lane told him. “Then it’s straight back for classes.” Though several inches shorter than TJ, he emitted a power in his presence, highlighted by his tailored black suit.
“Term’s almost over,” TJ remarked. “What brought you back?”
“There was a funeral this afternoon. Had to go with my family.”
Surprisingly, TJ’s expression didn’t tense at the grim topic. Then again, Lane always did have the ability—even after the accident—to settle him when no one else could. “Anyone I know?”
“No, no. Just the old geezer who ran the bank before my dad. Came away with some nice flowers at least.” Lane gestured to the lilies Maddie had forgotten were in her grip. “Priest said they didn’t have space for them all.”
TJ brushed over the gift with a mere glance. “I was gonna take the girls to some jazz joint. Any chance you wanna come?”
“Sure. I’d love to,” he said, not catching the objection in Maddie’s face.
Her gaze darted to the top of the staircase, seeking help. There, she found Jo leaning against the rail with a look that said, Ah, well, things could be worse.
And she was right. Before the night was over, things could get much, much worse.
Cigarette smoke at the Dunbar swirled, adding to the fog of Lane’s thoughts. Since arriving, he had been struggling to keep his focus on the Negroes playing riffs onstage. Now, with TJ off fetching drinks, he could finally allow his eyes to settle on the profile of Maddie, seated across from him. Her jasmine perfume, while subtle, somehow transcended the wafts of beer and sweat in the teeming club.
From above the bar, blue lights danced over the crowd united in music and laughter—racially integrated, as the entire world would be when Lane was done with it—and rippled shadows across Maddie’s face. The narrow slope of her nose led to full lips, moist with a red sheen. Her hazel eyes studied the musicians with such intensity that he chose to merely watch her.
Amazing that he’d known her for more than half his life, yet only months ago had he truly begun to see her. The ache to touch her swelled, along with a desire to make up for lost time. He reached over and brushed the back of her creamy hand resting on their cocktail table.
She jolted, her trance broken. “Sorry,” she said, and returned his smile.
“Pretty good, isn’t he?” Lane indicated the saxophonist. The long, haunting notes of “Summertime” made the guy’s talent obvious even to Lane.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I do. It’s just—the structure’s so loose, with all those slurs, and the downbeat going in and out. Plus, the key changes are too quick to feel grounded. And during the chorus, his timing keeps—” She broke off, her nose crinkling in embarrassment. “Gosh, listen to me. I sound like a royal snob, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
She exaggerated a squint. “Liar.”
They both laughed. In truth, he could listen to her talk forever. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said to her.
“I’ve missed you too.” The sincerity in her voice was so deep, he could lose himself in that sound for days. But a moment later, she glanced around as if abruptly aware of the surrounding spectators, and her glimmering eyes dulled, turned solid as her defenses. She slid her hand away, sending a pang down his side.
He told himself not to read into it, that her aversion to a public show of affection wasn’t a matter of race. She was simply fearful of jeopardizing her relationship with her brother. Understandable, after all she had been through.
“So,” she said. “Where did Jo go?”
“To the ladies’ room.”
“Oh.”
Awkwardness stretched between them as the song came to a close. They joined in with a round of applause. When the next ballad began, it occurred to him that a slow dance would be their only chance for a private, uninterrupted talk. His only chance to hold her tonight. He gestured to the dance floor. “Shall we?”
“I . . . don’t think we should.”
“Maddie, your brother won’t get any ideas just because—”
A booming voice cut him off. “Evenin’, sweet cakes.” The guy sidled up to the table near Maddie, a familiar look to him. Beer sloshed in his mug, only two fingers gripping the handle. He had the sway of someone who’d already downed a few. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Maddie shifted in her seat, her look of unease growing. “Hi, Paul.”
Now Lane remembered him. Paul Lamont. The guy was a baseball teammate of TJ’s, ever since their high school years, subjecting Lane to occasional encounters as a result. Even back then, the towhead had carried a torch for Maddie subtle as a raging bonfire.
“What do you say?” Paul licked his bottom lip and leaned on the table toward her. “Wanna cut a rug?”
“No thanks.”
“C’mon, doll. You don’t wanna hurt my feelings, do ya?”
Lane couldn’t hold back. “I think the lady’s answered.”
Paul snapped his gaze toward the challenge. He started to reply when recognition caught. “Well, lookee here. Lane Moratoro.” Beer dove from his mug, splashed on Lane’s dress shoes.
“It’s Moritomo.” Lane strove to be civil, despite being certain the error was purposeful.
“Oh, that’s right. Mo-ree-to-mo.” Then Paul yelled, “Hey, McGhee!”
A guy standing nearby twisted around. His fitted orange shirt and broad nose enhanced his lumberjack’s build. “Yeah, what?”
“Got another rich Oriental here who wants to rule our country. Thinks he’s gonna be the first Jap governor of—no, wait.” Paul turned to Lane. “It’s a senator, right?”
Lane clenched his hands under the table. “Something like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Maddie shaking her head in a stiff, just-ignore-him motion.
Paul’s lips curled into a wry grin. “Well, in that case, maybe you can help a local citizen out.” He put an unwelcome hand on Lane’s shoulder. “See, my pop’s been truck farming for twenty-some years, working his fingers to the bone. But wouldn’t you know it? Jap farmers round here just keep undercutting his damn prices. So I was thinkin’, when you’re elected senator you could do something about that.” His mouth went taut. “Or would your real loyalty be with those dirty slant eyes?”
Lane shot to his feet, tipping his chair onto the floor. He took a step forward, but a grasp pulled at his forearm.
“Lane.” It was Maddie at his side. “Let it go.” The lumberjack squared his shoulders as she implored, “Honey, forget him. He’s not worth it.”
At that, Paul’s glance ricocheted between her and Lane. He scoffed in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you two are . . .”
Lane knew he should deny it for Maddie’s sake, yet the words failed to form. Again, her touch slipped away, leaving the skin under his sleeve vacantly cold.
Paul snorted a laugh, thick with disgust. “Well, Christ Almighty. Who’d a thought.”
Lane’s nails bit into his palms. He felt his upper back muscles gather, cinching toward the cords of his neck.
“We got a problem here?” TJ arrived at the scene and put down their drinks.
“Everything’s great,” Maddie announced. “Isn’t it, fellas.”
Jitterbug notes failed to cushion their silence.
“Paul?” TJ said.
Paul nodded tightly and replied, “Just fine, Kern. I’m surprised, is all. Figured you’d be more selective about who made moves on your little sister.”
TJ’s face turned to stone. “What are you sayin’?”
Once more, a denial refused to budge from Lane’s throat.
“What, you didn’t know either?” Paul said, but TJ didn’t respond. With a glint of amusement, Paul shook his head, right as Jo returned to their table. “Goes to prove my point,” he went on. “Every one of them filthy yellow Japs is a double-crosser, no matter how well you think you—”
His conclusion never reached the air. A blow from TJ’s fist stuffed it back into the bastard’s mouth. Paul’s beer mug dropped to the floor, arcing a spray across strangers’ legs. Shrieks outpoured in layers.
A wall of orange moved closer; McGhee the lumberjack wanted in on the action. Lane lurched forward to intervene. Diplomacy deferred, he shoved the guy with an adrenaline charge that should have at least rocked the guy backward, but McGhee was a mountain. Solid, unmovable. A mountain with a punch like Joe Louis. His hit launched a searing explosion into Lane’s eye socket.
The room spun, a carousel ride at double speed. Through his good eye, Lane spied the ground. He was hunched over but still standing. He raised his head an inch and glimpsed TJ taking an uppercut to the jaw. TJ came right back with a series of pummels to Paul’s gut.
Lane strained to function in the dizzy haze, to slow the ride. He noted McGhee’s legs planted beside him. The thug motioned for Lane to rise for a second round. Before going back in, though, Lane was bringing support. His fingers closed on the legs of a wooden chair. He swung upward, knocking McGhee over a table and into a stocky colored man, who then grabbed him by the orange collar.
“Cops!” someone hollered.
And the music stopped.
“Let’s scram, Tomo!” In an instant, TJ was towing him by the elbow. They threaded through the chaos with Maddie and Jo on their heels. They didn’t stop until reaching an empty alley several blocks away.
Lane bent over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. The echo of his pulse pounded in his ears, throbbed his swelling eye. Still, through it all he heard laughter. TJ’s laughter. That carefree sound had been as much a part of Lane’s childhood as Japanese Saturday school, or strawberry malts at Tilly’s Diner.
Maddie rolled her eyes with a glower. “Well, I’m glad someone thinks that was funny.”
“See, I was right.” Jo nudged her arm. “Told you that joint was jumpin’.”
“Yeah,” she said, “it was jumpin’ all right. Too bad we almost jumped straight into a jail cell.” When TJ’s laughter grew, Maddie’s smile won out. She hit her brother lightly on the chest. “You’re off your nut.”
Lane grinned. “And this is new news?”
Jo peeked out around the brick wall. Water drizzled from a drain spout. “Coast is clear,” she reported.
The ragged foursome treaded toward the bus stop. On the way, Lane turned to TJ and quietly offered his thanks—for what he did, for defending him.
“Eh,” TJ said, “what’re friends for.” He used a sleeve to wipe the trickle of blood from his lip, then slung an arm over Lane’s shoulder. “Besides, I can’t think of the last time I had that much fun.”
The vision of TJ hammering out his aggressions on Paul came back in a flash of images. “I’m just glad I’m not your enemy,” Lane said with a smile—one that faded the moment he recalled what had initially provoked the fight.
It was on nights like this that Maddie missed her most, when her love life seemed a jumble of knots only a mother could untangle. More than that, her mom’s advice would have fostered hopes of a happily ever after.
The woman had been nothing if not a romantic.
She’d adored roses and rainstorms and candlelight, in that order. She had declared chocolate an essential food for the heart, and poetry as replenishment for the soul. She’d kept every courtship note from her husband—who she’d sworn was more handsome than Clark Gable—and had no qualms about using her finest serving ware for non-holiday dinners. Life, she would say, was too short not to use the good china. As though she had known how short hers would be.
Maddie tugged her bathrobe over her cotton nightgown. Unfortunately, no amount of warmth would relax the wringing in her chest. Always this was the cost of remembering her mother. The one remedy Maddie could count on was music.
She placed the violin case on her bed. Unlatching the lid, she freed her instrument from its red velvet–lined den. The smooth wood of the violin, of the bow, felt cool and wonderful in her hands. Like a crisp spring morning. Like air.
An audience of classical composers—black-and-white, wallet-sized portraits—sat poised in the lid’s interior. Mozart, Mendelssohn, Bach, and Tchaikovsky peered with critical eyes. Do our works justice, Miss Kern, or give us due cause to roll over in our graves.
She rosined and tuned in systematic preparation. Then she positioned herself properly before the music stand. Bach’s Partita No. 3 in E major. The sheets were aligned and ready. She knew them by heart but took no chances. She placed the chin rest at her jaw, inhaling the fragrance of the polished woodwork. A shiver of anticipation traveled through her.
Eyes intent on the prelude, she raised her bow over the bridge. Her internal metronome ticked two full measures of allegro tempo. Only then did she launch the horsehairs into action. Notes pervaded the room, precise and sharp. Her fingertips rippled toward the scroll and down again, like a wave fighting its own current. The strings vibrated beneath her skin, the bow skipped under her control. And with each passing phrase, each conquered slur, the twisting on her heart loosened, the memories faded away.
By the time she reached the final note, the calculated stanzas had brought order back to her life. She held her pose in silence, waiting reluctantly for the world to reenter her consciousness.
“Maddie?”
Startled back, she turned toward the doorway.
“Just wanted to say good night.” Her brother held what appeared to be ice cubes bound by a dishcloth on his right knuckles. His scuffle with Paul suddenly seemed days rather than hours ago. “Got a game tomorrow morning. Then I’m taking Jimmy’s shift,” he reminded her.
“Are you sure you can do all that, with your hand?”
He glanced down. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he said, lowering the injury to his side.
TJ’s hand could be broken into a thousand pieces—as could his heart—and he’d never admit it.
“That sounded good, by the way,” he said. “The song you were playing.”
She offered a smile. “Thanks.”
“You using it for the audition?”
“I might. If I make it past the required pieces.”
“Well, don’t sweat it. I know you’re gonna get in next time.” In contrast to this past year, he meant, when she had blown the audition at I.M.A.
Under the Juilliard School of Music, the Institute of Musical Art had been established in New York to rival the best of European conservatories. Maddie’s entrance into the program was a goal her dad had instilled in her since her ninth birthday. He’d gifted her with a used violin, marking the first time he had ever expressed grand hopes for her future, versus her brother’s.
“You know, I was thinking. . . .” Maddie fidgeted with the end of her bow. “When I visit Dad this week, you should come along.”
TJ’s eyes darkened. “I got a lot of stuff to do.”
“But, we could go any day you’d like.”
“I don’t think so.”
“TJ,” she said wearily. “He’s been there a year and you haven’t gone once. You can’t avoid him forever.”
“Wanna bet?” Resentment toughened his voice, a cast shielding a wound—that wound being grief, Maddie was certain. She had yet to see him shed a tear over their mother’s death, and those feelings had to have pooled somewhere.
After a long moment brimming with the unspoken, his expression softened. She told herself to hug him, a sign she understood. Yet the lie of that prevented her from moving. Their father, after all, had never even been charged. How many years would TJ continue to blame him?
TJ studied his ice bag and murmured, “I’m just not ready, okay?”
Maddie knew better than to push him, mule-headed as he could be. Besides, she couldn’t discount his admission, which held promise, if thin. And truth, the core of his existence.
“Fair enough.” She tried to smile, but the contrast of her ongoing deception soured her lips.
Lane.
Her steady.
It had been Maddie’s idea to keep their courtship a secret, at least until the relationship developed. With TJ’s temperament heightening along with his protectiveness of her, why get him hot and bothered for no reason? His friendship with Lane aside, society’s resistance to mixed couples wouldn’t have helped her case.
Tonight, though, from her brother’s old smile to his old laugh, his defending Lane with gusto, she saw an opening for his approval. She needed to act before the opportunity closed.
“Well, good night,” TJ said, and angled away.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
The words gathered in her throat, but none of them suitable for a brother. She didn’t dare describe how a mere glance from Lane could make her feel more glamorous than a starlet. How his touch to her lower spine, while guiding her through a doorway, would cause a tingle beyond description.
“What is it?” TJ pressed.
Time to be square with him. She clutched her bow and hoped for the best. “The thing that Paul said,” she began, “about me and Lane . . .ogether . . .”
He shook his head. “Ah, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Maddie, it’s fine.”
Stop interrupting, she wanted to yell. She had to get this out, to explain how one date had simply led to another. “TJ, I need to tell you—”
“I already know.”
Her heart snagged on a beat. She reviewed his declaration, striving to hide her astonishment. “You do?”
His mouth stretched into a wide grin. The sight opened pores of relief on her neck before she could question how he’d found out.
Of course . . . Lane must have told him. In which case, how long had her brother gone without saying so? All these months spent fretting for nothing. She couldn’t decide which of them she wanted to smack, or embrace, more.
“Seriously,” TJ mused, “the two of you dating? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.” He bit off a laugh, and Maddie froze. “Lane’s part of our family—the only family we’ve got left. Even if he ever did get a wild hair to ask you out, he’d come to me first. He’s not the kind to go behind a pal’s back. Paul was just drunk, and he was egging for a fight. Don’t let anything he said get to you, all right?”
The implication struck hard, shattering Maddie’s confession. “Right,” she breathed.
“Listen, I’d better hit the sack. Sleep well.”
“You too,” she said with a nod. Though with her uncertainties and emotions gearing up to battle, she expected anything but a restful sleep.
“Shhh.” With a finger to his lips, Lane reminded his sister to keep as quiet as a ninja. Her analogy, not his. Emma gave him a conspiratorial smile. In her blouse and pleated skirt, black bob framing her round face, she stood next to him behind his bedroom door. Their secret quest lent a twinkle to her chocolate, Betty Boop eyes.
He donned his sunglasses, a necessary measure. Not as protection from the cloudy morning light, but to prevent a scolding should they fail to sneak past their mother. Although he felt rather proud of his inaugural fistfight, the bruises encircling his puffy left eye would hardly earn parental praise. At least Maddie wouldn’t see him like this. His train would depart hours before she’d be off work.
Lane pushed aside his suitcase that barricaded the door. His clothes were packed, ready to nab once he and Emma returned, en route to the station. One cautious step at a time they crept down the hallway. The polished wood floor felt slick beneath his socks. Navigating a corner, hindered by his shaded view, he bumped something on the narrow table against the wall. Their mother’s vase. The painted showpiece teetered. Its ghostly sparrow clung to a withered branch as Lane reached out, but Emma, lower to the ground, made the save.
He sighed and mouthed, Thank you.
Emma beamed.
They continued down the stairs. A Japanese folk song crackled on the gramophone in the formal room. The female singer warbled solemnly about cherry blossoms in spring and a longing to return to Osaka, the city of her birth.
It was no coincidence the tune was a favorite of Lane’s mother.
From the closet in the genkan, their immaculate foyer, he retrieved his trench coat with minimal sound. His sister did the same with her rose-hued jacket. Their house smelled of broiled fish and bean-curd soup. The maid was preparing breakfast. Guilt eased into Lane over her wasted efforts, yet only a touch; he always did prefer pancakes and scrambled eggs.
He pulled out a brief note explaining their excursion, set it on the cabinet stocked with slippers for guests. Then he threw on his wingtips and handed Emma her saddle shoes. As she leaned over to put them on, coins rained from her pocket. This time she reached out too late. Pennies clattered on the slate floor.
“Get them later,” Lane urged in an undertone, and grabbed the door handle.
“Doko ikun?”
Lane bristled at his mother’s inquiry. “I’m . . . taking Emma to Santa Monica, to the Pleasure Pier. Remember, I mentioned it yesterday?” He risked a glance in his mother’s direction to avert suspicion. Even in her casual plum housedress, Kumiko Moritomo was the epitome of elegance. Like an actress from a kabuki theatre, never was she seen without powder and lipstick applied, her ebony hair flawlessly coiffed. A small mole dotted her lower left cheek, as dainty as her frame, underscoring the disparity of her chiseled expressions.
“Asagohan tabenasai,” she said to Emma.
“But, Oksan . . .” The eight-year-old whined in earnest, an understandable reaction. What child would want to waste time eating breakfast? Cotton candy and carousel rides were at stake.
Their mother didn’t bother with a verbal admonishment. Her steely glare was enough to send the girl cowering to the kitchen. “Ohashi o chanto tsukainasai,” their mother called out, Emma’s daily reminder to use her chopsticks properly. Crossing the utensils, though it more easily picked up food, symbolized some
Los Angeles, California
At the sound of her brother’s voice, flutters of joy turned to panic in Maddie Kern. “Cripes,” she whispered, perched on her vanity seat. “What’s he doing home?”
Jo Allister, her closest girlfriend and trusted lookout, cracked open the bedroom door. She peeked into the hall as TJ hollered again from downstairs.
“Maddie! You here?”
It was six o’clock on a Friday. He should have been at his campus job all night. If he knew who was about to pick her up for a date . . .
She didn’t want to imagine what he would do.
Maddie scanned the room, seeking a solution amidst her tidy collection of belongings—framed family photos on the bureau, her posters of the New York Symphony, of Verdi’s Aida at the Philharmonic. But even her violin case, which she’d defended from years of dings and scratches, seemed to shake its head from the corner and say, Six months of sneaking around and you’re surprised this would happen?
Jo closed the door without a click and pressed her back against the knob. “Want me to keep him out?” Her pale lips angled with mischief. Despite the full look of her figure, thanks to her baggy hardware store uniform, she was no match for TJ’s strength. Only his stubbornness.
“My brother seeing me isn’t the problem,” Maddie reminded her. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, and found cause for remaining calm. “Lane shouldn’t be here for another twelve minutes. If I can just—”
The faint sound of an engine drove through the thought and parked on her words. Had he shown up early? She raced to the window, where she swatted away her childhood drapes. She threw the pane upward and craned her neck. Around the abandoned remains of her father’s Ford, she made out a wedge of the street. No sign of Lane’s car. She still had time.
“Hey, Rapunzel,” Jo said. “You haven’t turned batty enough to scale walls for a fella, have you?”
Maddie shushed her, interrupted by creaks of footfalls on the staircase. “You have to do it,” she decided.
“Do what?”
Warn Lane, Maddie was about to say, but realized she needed to talk to him herself, in order to set plans to meet later that night. Come tomorrow, he’d be on a train back to Stanford.
She amended her reply. “You’ve got to distract TJ for me.”
Jo let out a sharp laugh. Pushing out her chest, she tossed back stragglers from her ash-brown ponytail. “What, with all my stylish locks and hefty bosom?” Then she muttered, “Although, based on his past girlfriends, I suppose that’s all it would take.”
“No, I mean—you both love baseball. Chat about that.”
Jo raised a brow at her.
“Please,” Maddie begged. “You came by to help me get ready, didn’t you? So, help me.”
“Why not just tell him and get it over with?”
“Because you know how he feels about my dating.” A distraction from her future, he called it. The same theory he applied to his own career.
“Maddie. This isn’t just about any guy.”
“I know, I know, and I’ll come clean. But not yet.”
A knuckle-rap sounded on her door. “You in there?”
She sang out, “Hold on a minute,” and met Jo’s eyes. “Please.”
Jo hesitated before releasing a sigh that said Maddie would owe her one. A big one.
“I’ll come right back,” Maddie promised, “once I head Lane off down the block.”
After a grumble, Jo pasted on a smile, wide enough for a dentist’s exam, and flung open the door. “TJ,” she exclaimed, “how ’bout that streak of DiMaggio’s, huh?”
Behind his umber bangs, his forehead creased in puzzlement. “Uh, yeah. That was . . . somethin’.” His hand hung from a loop of his cuffed jeans. Nearly four years of wash and wear had frayed the patch on his USC Baseball sweatshirt. Its vibrancy had long ago faded, just like TJ’s.
Diverting from Jo’s unsubtle approach, Maddie asked him, “Didn’t you have to work tonight?”
“I was supposed to, but Jimmy needed to switch shifts this weekend.” His cobalt gaze suddenly narrowed and gripped hers. “You going somewhere special?”
“What?” She softly cleared her throat before thinking to glance down at her flared navy dress, her matching strappy heels. She recalled the pin curls in her auburn, shoulder-length do. The ensemble didn’t spell out a casual trip to a picture show.
Jo swiftly interjected, “There’s a new hot jazz band playing at the Dunbar. They say Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday might even be there. I’m dragging Maddie along. A keen study in music. You know, for her big audition.”
“I thought you were practicing tonight,” he said to Maddie.
“I am—I will. After we get back.”
“You two going alone?”
“We’ll be fine.” As everything would be, if he’d let up long enough.
“All right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll just grab a bite in the kitchen then come along.”
Maddie stifled a gasp. “No, really. You don’t have to.”
“At the Dunbar? Oh yeah I do.”
Criminy. Was he going to hold her hand as they crossed the street to reach the bus stop too?
“TJ, this is ridiculous. I’m nineteen years old. Dad used to let us go out all the—”
He lashed back with a fistful of words. “Well, Dad’s gone, and I’m not him. You don’t like the deal, you can stay home.”
Stunned, Maddie stared at him. He’d spoken the word gone as though their father had died along with their mother.
Jo waved her hands, shooing away the tension. “So it’s settled. We’ll all go together.” Maddie widened her eyes as Jo continued, “And hey, while he’s eating, you’ll have time to drop off your neighbor’s letter. The one the postman delivered by accident.”
The letter . . . ?
Confusion quickly gave way to disappointment. Maddie now had an excuse to sneak out, but only to cancel rather than delay her date with Lane. She hated the prospect of missing one of his rare visits from school.
On the upside, in two weeks he would be back for winter break, offering more opportunities for quality time together.
“Fine, then,” she snipped at her brother. “Come if you want.”
What other choice did she have?
While Jo bombarded TJ with questions about the World Series, Maddie strode down the hall. Her urge to sprint mounted as she recalled the time. She made it as far as the bottom step when the doorbell rang.
Oh, God.
“I’ll get it!” She rushed to the entry. Hoping to prevent the disaster from worsening, she opened the door only halfway. Yet at the greeting of Lane’s perfect white smile, all her worries evaporated like mist. The warm glow of the portico light caressed his short black hair and olive skin. Shadows swooped softly from his high cheekbones. His almond-shaped eyes, inherited from his Japanese ancestors, shone with the same deep brown that had reached out and captured her heart the first time he’d held her last spring, an innocent embrace that had spiraled into more.
“Hi, Maddie,” he said, and handed her a bouquet of lavender lilies. Their aroma was divine, nearly hypnotic, just like his voice.
But then footsteps on the stairs behind her sobered her senses.
“You have to go,” was all she got out before TJ called to him.
“Tomo!” It was the nickname he’d given Lane Moritomo when they were kids. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”
The startle in Lane’s eyes deftly vanished as his best friend approached.
Maddie edged herself aside. Her heart thudded in the drum of her chest as she watched Lane greet him with a swift hug. A genuine grin lit TJ’s face, a rare glimpse of the brother she missed.
“I’m only in till tomorrow,” Lane told him. “Then it’s straight back for classes.” Though several inches shorter than TJ, he emitted a power in his presence, highlighted by his tailored black suit.
“Term’s almost over,” TJ remarked. “What brought you back?”
“There was a funeral this afternoon. Had to go with my family.”
Surprisingly, TJ’s expression didn’t tense at the grim topic. Then again, Lane always did have the ability—even after the accident—to settle him when no one else could. “Anyone I know?”
“No, no. Just the old geezer who ran the bank before my dad. Came away with some nice flowers at least.” Lane gestured to the lilies Maddie had forgotten were in her grip. “Priest said they didn’t have space for them all.”
TJ brushed over the gift with a mere glance. “I was gonna take the girls to some jazz joint. Any chance you wanna come?”
“Sure. I’d love to,” he said, not catching the objection in Maddie’s face.
Her gaze darted to the top of the staircase, seeking help. There, she found Jo leaning against the rail with a look that said, Ah, well, things could be worse.
And she was right. Before the night was over, things could get much, much worse.
Cigarette smoke at the Dunbar swirled, adding to the fog of Lane’s thoughts. Since arriving, he had been struggling to keep his focus on the Negroes playing riffs onstage. Now, with TJ off fetching drinks, he could finally allow his eyes to settle on the profile of Maddie, seated across from him. Her jasmine perfume, while subtle, somehow transcended the wafts of beer and sweat in the teeming club.
From above the bar, blue lights danced over the crowd united in music and laughter—racially integrated, as the entire world would be when Lane was done with it—and rippled shadows across Maddie’s face. The narrow slope of her nose led to full lips, moist with a red sheen. Her hazel eyes studied the musicians with such intensity that he chose to merely watch her.
Amazing that he’d known her for more than half his life, yet only months ago had he truly begun to see her. The ache to touch her swelled, along with a desire to make up for lost time. He reached over and brushed the back of her creamy hand resting on their cocktail table.
She jolted, her trance broken. “Sorry,” she said, and returned his smile.
“Pretty good, isn’t he?” Lane indicated the saxophonist. The long, haunting notes of “Summertime” made the guy’s talent obvious even to Lane.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I do. It’s just—the structure’s so loose, with all those slurs, and the downbeat going in and out. Plus, the key changes are too quick to feel grounded. And during the chorus, his timing keeps—” She broke off, her nose crinkling in embarrassment. “Gosh, listen to me. I sound like a royal snob, don’t I?”
“Not at all.”
She exaggerated a squint. “Liar.”
They both laughed. In truth, he could listen to her talk forever. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said to her.
“I’ve missed you too.” The sincerity in her voice was so deep, he could lose himself in that sound for days. But a moment later, she glanced around as if abruptly aware of the surrounding spectators, and her glimmering eyes dulled, turned solid as her defenses. She slid her hand away, sending a pang down his side.
He told himself not to read into it, that her aversion to a public show of affection wasn’t a matter of race. She was simply fearful of jeopardizing her relationship with her brother. Understandable, after all she had been through.
“So,” she said. “Where did Jo go?”
“To the ladies’ room.”
“Oh.”
Awkwardness stretched between them as the song came to a close. They joined in with a round of applause. When the next ballad began, it occurred to him that a slow dance would be their only chance for a private, uninterrupted talk. His only chance to hold her tonight. He gestured to the dance floor. “Shall we?”
“I . . . don’t think we should.”
“Maddie, your brother won’t get any ideas just because—”
A booming voice cut him off. “Evenin’, sweet cakes.” The guy sidled up to the table near Maddie, a familiar look to him. Beer sloshed in his mug, only two fingers gripping the handle. He had the sway of someone who’d already downed a few. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Maddie shifted in her seat, her look of unease growing. “Hi, Paul.”
Now Lane remembered him. Paul Lamont. The guy was a baseball teammate of TJ’s, ever since their high school years, subjecting Lane to occasional encounters as a result. Even back then, the towhead had carried a torch for Maddie subtle as a raging bonfire.
“What do you say?” Paul licked his bottom lip and leaned on the table toward her. “Wanna cut a rug?”
“No thanks.”
“C’mon, doll. You don’t wanna hurt my feelings, do ya?”
Lane couldn’t hold back. “I think the lady’s answered.”
Paul snapped his gaze toward the challenge. He started to reply when recognition caught. “Well, lookee here. Lane Moratoro.” Beer dove from his mug, splashed on Lane’s dress shoes.
“It’s Moritomo.” Lane strove to be civil, despite being certain the error was purposeful.
“Oh, that’s right. Mo-ree-to-mo.” Then Paul yelled, “Hey, McGhee!”
A guy standing nearby twisted around. His fitted orange shirt and broad nose enhanced his lumberjack’s build. “Yeah, what?”
“Got another rich Oriental here who wants to rule our country. Thinks he’s gonna be the first Jap governor of—no, wait.” Paul turned to Lane. “It’s a senator, right?”
Lane clenched his hands under the table. “Something like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Maddie shaking her head in a stiff, just-ignore-him motion.
Paul’s lips curled into a wry grin. “Well, in that case, maybe you can help a local citizen out.” He put an unwelcome hand on Lane’s shoulder. “See, my pop’s been truck farming for twenty-some years, working his fingers to the bone. But wouldn’t you know it? Jap farmers round here just keep undercutting his damn prices. So I was thinkin’, when you’re elected senator you could do something about that.” His mouth went taut. “Or would your real loyalty be with those dirty slant eyes?”
Lane shot to his feet, tipping his chair onto the floor. He took a step forward, but a grasp pulled at his forearm.
“Lane.” It was Maddie at his side. “Let it go.” The lumberjack squared his shoulders as she implored, “Honey, forget him. He’s not worth it.”
At that, Paul’s glance ricocheted between her and Lane. He scoffed in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you two are . . .”
Lane knew he should deny it for Maddie’s sake, yet the words failed to form. Again, her touch slipped away, leaving the skin under his sleeve vacantly cold.
Paul snorted a laugh, thick with disgust. “Well, Christ Almighty. Who’d a thought.”
Lane’s nails bit into his palms. He felt his upper back muscles gather, cinching toward the cords of his neck.
“We got a problem here?” TJ arrived at the scene and put down their drinks.
“Everything’s great,” Maddie announced. “Isn’t it, fellas.”
Jitterbug notes failed to cushion their silence.
“Paul?” TJ said.
Paul nodded tightly and replied, “Just fine, Kern. I’m surprised, is all. Figured you’d be more selective about who made moves on your little sister.”
TJ’s face turned to stone. “What are you sayin’?”
Once more, a denial refused to budge from Lane’s throat.
“What, you didn’t know either?” Paul said, but TJ didn’t respond. With a glint of amusement, Paul shook his head, right as Jo returned to their table. “Goes to prove my point,” he went on. “Every one of them filthy yellow Japs is a double-crosser, no matter how well you think you—”
His conclusion never reached the air. A blow from TJ’s fist stuffed it back into the bastard’s mouth. Paul’s beer mug dropped to the floor, arcing a spray across strangers’ legs. Shrieks outpoured in layers.
A wall of orange moved closer; McGhee the lumberjack wanted in on the action. Lane lurched forward to intervene. Diplomacy deferred, he shoved the guy with an adrenaline charge that should have at least rocked the guy backward, but McGhee was a mountain. Solid, unmovable. A mountain with a punch like Joe Louis. His hit launched a searing explosion into Lane’s eye socket.
The room spun, a carousel ride at double speed. Through his good eye, Lane spied the ground. He was hunched over but still standing. He raised his head an inch and glimpsed TJ taking an uppercut to the jaw. TJ came right back with a series of pummels to Paul’s gut.
Lane strained to function in the dizzy haze, to slow the ride. He noted McGhee’s legs planted beside him. The thug motioned for Lane to rise for a second round. Before going back in, though, Lane was bringing support. His fingers closed on the legs of a wooden chair. He swung upward, knocking McGhee over a table and into a stocky colored man, who then grabbed him by the orange collar.
“Cops!” someone hollered.
And the music stopped.
“Let’s scram, Tomo!” In an instant, TJ was towing him by the elbow. They threaded through the chaos with Maddie and Jo on their heels. They didn’t stop until reaching an empty alley several blocks away.
Lane bent over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. The echo of his pulse pounded in his ears, throbbed his swelling eye. Still, through it all he heard laughter. TJ’s laughter. That carefree sound had been as much a part of Lane’s childhood as Japanese Saturday school, or strawberry malts at Tilly’s Diner.
Maddie rolled her eyes with a glower. “Well, I’m glad someone thinks that was funny.”
“See, I was right.” Jo nudged her arm. “Told you that joint was jumpin’.”
“Yeah,” she said, “it was jumpin’ all right. Too bad we almost jumped straight into a jail cell.” When TJ’s laughter grew, Maddie’s smile won out. She hit her brother lightly on the chest. “You’re off your nut.”
Lane grinned. “And this is new news?”
Jo peeked out around the brick wall. Water drizzled from a drain spout. “Coast is clear,” she reported.
The ragged foursome treaded toward the bus stop. On the way, Lane turned to TJ and quietly offered his thanks—for what he did, for defending him.
“Eh,” TJ said, “what’re friends for.” He used a sleeve to wipe the trickle of blood from his lip, then slung an arm over Lane’s shoulder. “Besides, I can’t think of the last time I had that much fun.”
The vision of TJ hammering out his aggressions on Paul came back in a flash of images. “I’m just glad I’m not your enemy,” Lane said with a smile—one that faded the moment he recalled what had initially provoked the fight.
It was on nights like this that Maddie missed her most, when her love life seemed a jumble of knots only a mother could untangle. More than that, her mom’s advice would have fostered hopes of a happily ever after.
The woman had been nothing if not a romantic.
She’d adored roses and rainstorms and candlelight, in that order. She had declared chocolate an essential food for the heart, and poetry as replenishment for the soul. She’d kept every courtship note from her husband—who she’d sworn was more handsome than Clark Gable—and had no qualms about using her finest serving ware for non-holiday dinners. Life, she would say, was too short not to use the good china. As though she had known how short hers would be.
Maddie tugged her bathrobe over her cotton nightgown. Unfortunately, no amount of warmth would relax the wringing in her chest. Always this was the cost of remembering her mother. The one remedy Maddie could count on was music.
She placed the violin case on her bed. Unlatching the lid, she freed her instrument from its red velvet–lined den. The smooth wood of the violin, of the bow, felt cool and wonderful in her hands. Like a crisp spring morning. Like air.
An audience of classical composers—black-and-white, wallet-sized portraits—sat poised in the lid’s interior. Mozart, Mendelssohn, Bach, and Tchaikovsky peered with critical eyes. Do our works justice, Miss Kern, or give us due cause to roll over in our graves.
She rosined and tuned in systematic preparation. Then she positioned herself properly before the music stand. Bach’s Partita No. 3 in E major. The sheets were aligned and ready. She knew them by heart but took no chances. She placed the chin rest at her jaw, inhaling the fragrance of the polished woodwork. A shiver of anticipation traveled through her.
Eyes intent on the prelude, she raised her bow over the bridge. Her internal metronome ticked two full measures of allegro tempo. Only then did she launch the horsehairs into action. Notes pervaded the room, precise and sharp. Her fingertips rippled toward the scroll and down again, like a wave fighting its own current. The strings vibrated beneath her skin, the bow skipped under her control. And with each passing phrase, each conquered slur, the twisting on her heart loosened, the memories faded away.
By the time she reached the final note, the calculated stanzas had brought order back to her life. She held her pose in silence, waiting reluctantly for the world to reenter her consciousness.
“Maddie?”
Startled back, she turned toward the doorway.
“Just wanted to say good night.” Her brother held what appeared to be ice cubes bound by a dishcloth on his right knuckles. His scuffle with Paul suddenly seemed days rather than hours ago. “Got a game tomorrow morning. Then I’m taking Jimmy’s shift,” he reminded her.
“Are you sure you can do all that, with your hand?”
He glanced down. “Ah, it’s nothin’,” he said, lowering the injury to his side.
TJ’s hand could be broken into a thousand pieces—as could his heart—and he’d never admit it.
“That sounded good, by the way,” he said. “The song you were playing.”
She offered a smile. “Thanks.”
“You using it for the audition?”
“I might. If I make it past the required pieces.”
“Well, don’t sweat it. I know you’re gonna get in next time.” In contrast to this past year, he meant, when she had blown the audition at I.M.A.
Under the Juilliard School of Music, the Institute of Musical Art had been established in New York to rival the best of European conservatories. Maddie’s entrance into the program was a goal her dad had instilled in her since her ninth birthday. He’d gifted her with a used violin, marking the first time he had ever expressed grand hopes for her future, versus her brother’s.
“You know, I was thinking. . . .” Maddie fidgeted with the end of her bow. “When I visit Dad this week, you should come along.”
TJ’s eyes darkened. “I got a lot of stuff to do.”
“But, we could go any day you’d like.”
“I don’t think so.”
“TJ,” she said wearily. “He’s been there a year and you haven’t gone once. You can’t avoid him forever.”
“Wanna bet?” Resentment toughened his voice, a cast shielding a wound—that wound being grief, Maddie was certain. She had yet to see him shed a tear over their mother’s death, and those feelings had to have pooled somewhere.
After a long moment brimming with the unspoken, his expression softened. She told herself to hug him, a sign she understood. Yet the lie of that prevented her from moving. Their father, after all, had never even been charged. How many years would TJ continue to blame him?
TJ studied his ice bag and murmured, “I’m just not ready, okay?”
Maddie knew better than to push him, mule-headed as he could be. Besides, she couldn’t discount his admission, which held promise, if thin. And truth, the core of his existence.
“Fair enough.” She tried to smile, but the contrast of her ongoing deception soured her lips.
Lane.
Her steady.
It had been Maddie’s idea to keep their courtship a secret, at least until the relationship developed. With TJ’s temperament heightening along with his protectiveness of her, why get him hot and bothered for no reason? His friendship with Lane aside, society’s resistance to mixed couples wouldn’t have helped her case.
Tonight, though, from her brother’s old smile to his old laugh, his defending Lane with gusto, she saw an opening for his approval. She needed to act before the opportunity closed.
“Well, good night,” TJ said, and angled away.
“Wait.”
He looked at her.
The words gathered in her throat, but none of them suitable for a brother. She didn’t dare describe how a mere glance from Lane could make her feel more glamorous than a starlet. How his touch to her lower spine, while guiding her through a doorway, would cause a tingle beyond description.
“What is it?” TJ pressed.
Time to be square with him. She clutched her bow and hoped for the best. “The thing that Paul said,” she began, “about me and Lane . . .ogether . . .”
He shook his head. “Ah, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Maddie, it’s fine.”
Stop interrupting, she wanted to yell. She had to get this out, to explain how one date had simply led to another. “TJ, I need to tell you—”
“I already know.”
Her heart snagged on a beat. She reviewed his declaration, striving to hide her astonishment. “You do?”
His mouth stretched into a wide grin. The sight opened pores of relief on her neck before she could question how he’d found out.
Of course . . . Lane must have told him. In which case, how long had her brother gone without saying so? All these months spent fretting for nothing. She couldn’t decide which of them she wanted to smack, or embrace, more.
“Seriously,” TJ mused, “the two of you dating? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.” He bit off a laugh, and Maddie froze. “Lane’s part of our family—the only family we’ve got left. Even if he ever did get a wild hair to ask you out, he’d come to me first. He’s not the kind to go behind a pal’s back. Paul was just drunk, and he was egging for a fight. Don’t let anything he said get to you, all right?”
The implication struck hard, shattering Maddie’s confession. “Right,” she breathed.
“Listen, I’d better hit the sack. Sleep well.”
“You too,” she said with a nod. Though with her uncertainties and emotions gearing up to battle, she expected anything but a restful sleep.
“Shhh.” With a finger to his lips, Lane reminded his sister to keep as quiet as a ninja. Her analogy, not his. Emma gave him a conspiratorial smile. In her blouse and pleated skirt, black bob framing her round face, she stood next to him behind his bedroom door. Their secret quest lent a twinkle to her chocolate, Betty Boop eyes.
He donned his sunglasses, a necessary measure. Not as protection from the cloudy morning light, but to prevent a scolding should they fail to sneak past their mother. Although he felt rather proud of his inaugural fistfight, the bruises encircling his puffy left eye would hardly earn parental praise. At least Maddie wouldn’t see him like this. His train would depart hours before she’d be off work.
Lane pushed aside his suitcase that barricaded the door. His clothes were packed, ready to nab once he and Emma returned, en route to the station. One cautious step at a time they crept down the hallway. The polished wood floor felt slick beneath his socks. Navigating a corner, hindered by his shaded view, he bumped something on the narrow table against the wall. Their mother’s vase. The painted showpiece teetered. Its ghostly sparrow clung to a withered branch as Lane reached out, but Emma, lower to the ground, made the save.
He sighed and mouthed, Thank you.
Emma beamed.
They continued down the stairs. A Japanese folk song crackled on the gramophone in the formal room. The female singer warbled solemnly about cherry blossoms in spring and a longing to return to Osaka, the city of her birth.
It was no coincidence the tune was a favorite of Lane’s mother.
From the closet in the genkan, their immaculate foyer, he retrieved his trench coat with minimal sound. His sister did the same with her rose-hued jacket. Their house smelled of broiled fish and bean-curd soup. The maid was preparing breakfast. Guilt eased into Lane over her wasted efforts, yet only a touch; he always did prefer pancakes and scrambled eggs.
He pulled out a brief note explaining their excursion, set it on the cabinet stocked with slippers for guests. Then he threw on his wingtips and handed Emma her saddle shoes. As she leaned over to put them on, coins rained from her pocket. This time she reached out too late. Pennies clattered on the slate floor.
“Get them later,” Lane urged in an undertone, and grabbed the door handle.
“Doko ikun?”
Lane bristled at his mother’s inquiry. “I’m . . . taking Emma to Santa Monica, to the Pleasure Pier. Remember, I mentioned it yesterday?” He risked a glance in his mother’s direction to avert suspicion. Even in her casual plum housedress, Kumiko Moritomo was the epitome of elegance. Like an actress from a kabuki theatre, never was she seen without powder and lipstick applied, her ebony hair flawlessly coiffed. A small mole dotted her lower left cheek, as dainty as her frame, underscoring the disparity of her chiseled expressions.
“Asagohan tabenasai,” she said to Emma.
“But, Oksan . . .” The eight-year-old whined in earnest, an understandable reaction. What child would want to waste time eating breakfast? Cotton candy and carousel rides were at stake.
Their mother didn’t bother with a verbal admonishment. Her steely glare was enough to send the girl cowering to the kitchen. “Ohashi o chanto tsukainasai,” their mother called out, Emma’s daily reminder to use her chopsticks properly. Crossing the utensils, though it more easily picked up food, symbolized some
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Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
Kristina McMorris
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