Every Time We Say Goodbye
Kristina McMorris

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in the U.S.A by Kensington Publishing Corp

New York, NY, 2012

Kristina McMorris asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE. Copyright © 2012 by Kristina McMorris. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847562425

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007452477

Version: 2018-07-23

Dedication

For those whose voices stayed silent

so that one day others could sing

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

At the sound of her brother’s voice, flutters of joy…

Chapter 2

Cigarette smoke at the Dunbar swirled, adding to the fog…

Chapter 3

It was on nights like this that Maddie missed her…

Chapter 4

“Shhh.” With a finger to his lips, Lane reminded his…

Chapter 5

The song had died. TJ scuffed his spikes on the…

Chapter 6

Apprehension reverberated through Maddie’s body, a concerto plucking away the…

Chapter 7

“Kern!” Coach Barry’s voice shot over the departing spectators at…

Chapter 8

Maddie stood on the Pier, searching, searching. Though unbuttoned, her…

Chapter 9

“Got any idea what you’re lookin’ for?”

Chapter 10

Lane wasn’t aware his mind had been wandering until something…

Chapter 11

Dreariness hung in the air, rivaling the pungency of medications…

Chapter 12

Hunched over the kitchen table, TJ attacked the page with…

Chapter 13

The morning crept by, chained at the ankles. Lane stole…

Chapter 14

Free hand curled into a fist, TJ waited for the…

Chapter 15

From the far corner of the lawn, Lane stared at…

Chapter 16

She couldn’t stand the wait anymore.

Part Two

Chapter 17

Two days and still no word from him.

Chapter 18

TJ lost all awareness of his surroundings until someone gripped…

Chapter 19

As Lane entered his house, the smell of smoke greeted…

Chapter 20

Impossible hand positions on stubborn strings nearly drove Maddie to…

Chapter 21

What a load of bull!

Chapter 22

The unfathomable had become reality. President Roosevelt had signed an…

Chapter 23

“C’mon. Just try a little.” Maddie heard the words through…

Chapter 24

How was it possible? Plenty of food in the pantry…

Part Three

Chapter 25

Rolling onto the graveled lot, the Buick digested its last…

Chapter 26

From the urgency of Bea’s entrance, Maddie tensed for disastrous…

Chapter 27

TJ waited for the target with his finger on the…

Chapter 28

Lane didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t…

Chapter 29

Engines awoke in the distance, a stagger of roars that…

Chapter 30

Entering the room was even harder than TJ had expected,…

Chapter 31

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” The guy shot…

Chapter 32

Life was becoming an endless requiem of good-byes.

Chapter 33

Clock ticking, a twinge of dread set in. TJ knelt…

Chapter 34

Maddie’s entire future hinged on this performance. She rehearsed the…

Part Four

Chapter 35

Aside from missing Maddie, hunger was all Lane could think…

Chapter 36

Beverly Hills. That’s what they called the segregated living area…

Chapter 37

“Put a sock in it, ‘Ravioli,’” TJ grumbled from his…

Chapter 38

In the doorway of his apartment, Lane scowled at the…

Chapter 39

Maddie had been in line at the post office that…

Chapter 40

Follow orders, do his time, get the hell home. That…

Chapter 41

Lane moved slowly through his day, aware that every face…

Chapter 42

Searchlights swept the grounds. Barbed wire winked from the nearest…

Chapter 43

TJ threw back another gulp of beer, avoiding the thief…

Chapter 44

At the main gate, surrounded by MPs, Maddie and Emma…

Chapter 45

They were on a secret, two-plane recon mission with a…

Part Five

Chapter 46

Lane didn’t dare touch her. The expression on her face…

Chapter 47

The rice was moving.

Chapter 48

In the barn, Maddie yelled through the wire mesh, “Throw…

Chapter 49

The only good Jap is a dead Jap.

Chapter 50

TJ stared out the open-air window, every nerve bundled.

Chapter 51

The blur of her surroundings gradually sharpened into walls, a…

Chapter 52

After an hour of Lane’s pleas over the loudspeaker, the…

Chapter 53

By day four, TJ chose talking as the activity that…

Chapter 54

The best way to handle her predicament, Maddie had decided,…

Chapter 55

By the light of the moon, Lane traced the image…

Chapter 56

Amazing how a single night can entirely change how you…

Chapter 57

Maddie tried to follow orders, but ultimately found it impossible.

Chapter 58

Lane clenched his garrison cap at his side. He’d never…

Chapter 59

“Let’s go over it again,” TJ said, crouched in the…

Part Six

Chapter 60

A single letter had changed everything.

Chapter 61

Eyes squeezed tight, Maddie waited for the signal. She could…

Chapter 62

Nine months had passed since the breakout, yet prisoners’ commentaries…

Chapter 63

One hundred thirty-nine American POWs—all murdered. Lane had tried to…

Chapter 64

Suzie’s piercing shriek sent Maddie racing toward the sound. She…

Chapter 65

The mission was running according to plan—so far. With ten…

Part Seven

Chapter 66

All day long, cars honked and neighbors cheered. Celebration crammed…

Chapter 67

This was the first place TJ had promised himself he’d…

Chapter 68

“Watch out!” Maddie cried.

Chapter 69

TJ pounded out his frustrations over the news. He snagged…

Chapter 70

“Bubba-skosh!” Suzie’s butchered version of the word helped relieve Maddie’s…

Chapter 71

After TJ left the rest home, where he’d reveled in…

Chapter 72

The impending ceremony made today the most appropriate for removing…

The Bridge Builder

Author’s Note

Asian-Fusion Recipes

A Reading Group Guide

Discussion Questions

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Kristina McMorris

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Every leaf while on its tree sways in unison;

bears the same light and shadow,

is sustained by the same sap that will release it in blazing color.

It is that moment before falling we all live for,

to see ourselves for the first time,

to hear our name being called from the inside.

—Deanna Nikaido,

daughter of a Japanese American “evacuee”

1

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.

2

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 tow-head 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 upper cut 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.

3

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 … together …”

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.

4

“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 nonsense involving death. One of many bad omens to avoid on the woman’s tedious list of superstitions.

She shifted to Lane and jerked her chin toward the formal room. “We have an issue to discuss,” she said in her native tongue. Despite having immigrated to America with her husband more than two decades ago, she spoke to them only in Japanese, which Lane now honored in return. The show of obedience might help at least delay a stock lecture.

“Why don’t we talk when Emma and I get back? Before the train. I did promise to take her this morning.”

“We will speak now.” She turned to fetch her husband from the den. Negotiating wasn’t an option.

Why couldn’t she have had a Mahjong game scheduled? Or her flower-arranging class? Either activity, required by her societal ranking, might have prevented whatever was to come.

Lane shucked off his shoes. In the formal room, he dropped into a wingback chair. The surrounding décor emanated a starkness that carried a chill. Decorative katana swords and encased figurines created a museum display of a heritage to which he felt little connection.

He bounced his heel on the ornate rug, checked his watch. Perhaps if he could guess the impending topic, he could speed things along. The laughing fit he and his sister had barely managed to contain at yesterday’s funeral seemed the most likely possibility, given that the high hats of Little Tokyo had been in attendance.

But really, who could blame them?

Pretending to grieve for their father’s predecessor, the widely despised manager of Sumitomo Bank, would have been hard enough without the suffocating incense and silly Buddhist rites. The frilly green dress their mother had forced Emma to wear—complete with an onslaught of matching gloves and bows—befit a Japanese Shirley Temple. The sole element lacking absurdity had been the priest’s droning chant. Surely the audience would have fallen asleep if not for the blinding altar of golden statues. Another prime lesson from the ancestors: gaudiness to celebrate humility.

He scoffed at the notion, just as his father entered. Although Nobu was several years short of fifty, more salt than pepper topped his lean form. His Kyoto dialect reflected the gentleness of his eyes. He wore his usual haori, a twenty-year-old kimono jacket, simple and humble, the same as him.

“Good morning,” he said in Japanese.

Lane proceeded in his parents’ language. “Good morning, Father.” A slight bow sent his sunglasses down the irksomely low bridge of his nose. He nudged them upward to conceal his wound.

In the corner, his mother tended to the gramophone. Her song had ended, giving way to a loop of static. As she stored the record, his father settled on the couch across from Lane and absently rubbed dried glue off his thumb. Assembling his latest model airplane had tinted his fingernails red and blue.

Lane was tempted to kick-start the discussion, an acquired habit from his collegiate council position, but refrained. His family didn’t operate as a democracy.

Finally, his mother moved to the couch and claimed her space. She folded her hands on her lap. Prim. Poised. A usual gap divided the couple, as if flanking an invisible guest.

“Your father would like to speak to you,” she prompted, a verbal tap of the gavel.

“Mmm,” his father agreed. He folded his arms and let out a deep exhale that stirred Lane’s curiosity. “It is the matchmaker in Japan. He has been working very hard for you, searching for a well-suited prospect.”

Shit, Lane thought, not this again.

He didn’t realize the words had slipped out of his mouth until his father narrowed his eyes. “Takeshi!” It was Lane’s birth name, spoken with more surprise than anger.

Right away, Lane regretted not mirroring the respect his father had always shown him. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to say that.” Only to think it.

His mother tsked. “You are in your father’s house, not a dorm at your American university. If this is how you—” She stopped short. “Remove your glasses when we are addressing you.”

For a moment, Lane had forgotten he was wearing them, and, more important, why. His mother’s gaze bore through the lenses. Bracing himself, he unmasked his suddenly not-so-prideful mark, and his parents gasped in unison.

“What is this?” His father leaned toward him.

“It’s nothing. Really. It looks worse than it is.”

“Nothing?” his mother said, incredulous, but his father continued on with concern.

“What happened? Were you robbed?”

“No, no,” Lane assured him. “I was just at a club last night, when a brawl broke out.” Not the most tactful opening. Better to expound with highlights considered heroic in their culture; violence as a means of unconditional loyalty was, after all, a samurai staple. “Some chump I went to Roosevelt High with was there. He was being disrespectful, not only toward me but against all Japanese. So”—better to keep things anonymous—“a buddy of mine came to my defense. And when I tried to hold the bigger guy back—”

“Enough,” his father said. His eyes exhibited such disappointment, the remainder of the story stalled on Lane’s tongue. “I did not raise you to be a lowly street fighter. You have been afforded a better upbringing than that.”

Lane’s mother turned to her husband. Shards of ice filled her voice. “Did I not warn you? He is twenty-one years old, and because of you, he remains a child. All the idealistic views you have put into his head, to speak up when it suits him. As always, the nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” To punctuate the ancient adage, she flicked her hand to the side. The gesture effectively illustrated the quiet criticism she sent the man in every look, every day. An unyielding punishment, it seemed, for trading the dreams she’d once held for his. But his dreams were also for his children. Lane had always known this without being told.

Japan was a tiny island, crammed with farmers and fishermen and conformists, all bowing blindly to an emperor roosted on an outdated throne. Here, possibilities floated like confetti. Los Angeles was the city of angels, the heart of Hollywood, where imagination bloomed and promise hung from palm trees. Hope streamed in the sunlight.

America was their home, and Lane’s need to defend that fact took over.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make a difference in this country. My country. Emma’s country.” His delivery was gruffer than intended, but he wouldn’t say “sorry” this time. His sister, if no one else, deserved a safe place to plant the seeds of dreams and watch them grow.

Lane’s father straightened. He rested his hands firmly on his spread knees in a contemplative, Buddha-like pose. Outside of his job, his greatest displays of strength were reserved for these kinds of moments. Moderating. Keeping the ground beneath their family level.

“Your mother is right,” he said evenly, and continued before Lane could argue. “You are a man now. You must settle down. Carrying another’s needs on your shoulders will focus you on your future.” In banking, he meant. A baby rattle made of an abacus had established the reference since Lane’s birth. “Therefore,” he added, “we are pleased the matchmaker has found you a suitable bride, and he will make the necessary arrangements.”

Bride.

Arrangements.

The sentence replayed in Lane’s mind, pulling him back to the original subject.

“She comes from noble lineage,” his father explained. “The matchmaker has ruled out all the usual imperfections—tuberculosis, barrenness, and such. Her family’s financial troubles make your pairing a sensible one. Her younger sister has found a match as well, so you must marry first. The family will sail over from Tokyo in time for the new year.”

“Hopefully,” his mother muttered, “our son will look presentable by then.”

Lane scarcely registered the gouge. His mind was too consumed with the timetable his father had laid out. The rush of it all, the solidity. “But—what about school? I still have a whole semester left.”

“She will live with us after the wedding,” his father said with a small nod to his wife, as if crediting the source of the solution. “Once you graduate, you may make other plans if you wish.”

Lane’s thoughts moved in a rapid tumble, blending into a mass of confusion. From that blur emerged a simple voice of reason. Tell them the truth. Confess, as you’ve wanted to all along.

Before he could reconsider, he tossed out his protest. “I can’t. I’m in love with somebody else.”

Tension of a new level swept through the room, conquering every inch of space. No one moved. No one spoke.

Lane wondered if anyone was breathing.

“You’ve met her before,” he said, easing them in. “She grew up here, in Boyle Heights. She’s a talented violinist. And she’s charming and beautiful, responsible …”

“Her name?” Lane’s mother spoke through lips that barely moved.

“Maddie.”

“Maddie,” she repeated as if judging the name by its taste, expecting a release of bitterness. The women had crossed paths on only a few occasions, during which his mother sustained disinterest. “I do not know of this girl. Who is her family?”

First names meant little in their community; at least a third of the “Nisei,” those born in America to Japanese immigrants, were called George or Mary. All significance lay in the surname, an indication of nobility, of lineage. Of race.

“If you mean Maddie’s last name,” Lane hazarded to admit, “it’s Kern.”

His mother blanched. The lines spanning his father’s brow deepened.

“She’s TJ’s sister,” Lane added, hoping their fondness of his friend would somehow permit a bending of their rules. Yet their scowls made clear there was no exception.

“You have made fools of us,” she hissed.

“Why? Because she’s not Japanese?”

There was no reply. Which said everything.

“Father, you’re the one who’s so proud of your kids being American. That’s half the reason you came to this country. So why should it matter where Maddie’s parents are from?”

Lane’s mother patted her chest, grumbling under her breath, until her husband raised his hand, stilling her. His rigid words hovered above the quiet. “The final decision has been made.”

A humorless laugh shot from Lane’s throat. “A decision I haven’t been a part of.” He rose to his feet. “Shouldn’t I have a say in my own future?”

“This is not about you alone,” his father said, meeting his stance. “This is about the honor you bring to your family.”

“What if I say no? What if I want to make my own choices?”

When his father hesitated, his mother supplied the answer from her seat. “Then you will disgrace this family. And you will not be welcome in this home. Ever.”

Lane felt the stab of her tenacity, a knife between the ribs. He stared at his father in a desperate plea for support. Surely the man wouldn’t be willing to disown his only son. Emotions aside, a male to carry on the name and bloodline was a fundamental basic.

“Oksan.” Emma entered from the kitchen. “I finished my breakfast. Can Lane and I go to the Pier now? Can we, can we?” Not receiving a response, Emma resorted to the parent whose soft spot for her was a reliable constant. “Papa,” she begged, “onegai.”

Lane held his father’s gaze for an eternal moment. Every second sent a mixture of frustration and sorrow through his veins. He felt his limbs sag with each devastating pulse.

At the point of futility, Lane replaced his sunglasses. He would never look at his father the same. “Get your shoes on, Em,” he told her. “We’re leaving.”

5

The song had died. TJ scuffed his spikes on the mound, wishing for the life of him he could remember the tune. For all those high school shutouts and championships, an internal humming had carried him through. Its reliable rhythm had added a zip to any pitch from his hand.

Now, score tied at the bottom of the seventh inning, all he could hear was wind through the trees at Griffith Park and cheering from an adjacent winter-league ball game. Morning clouds soaked up any other sound.

The USC catcher flashed the sign. A curveball. TJ’s old bread-and-butter.

A senior from St. Mary’s continued at the plate. He was a lanky walk-on TJ used to cream with fractional effort. Even sophomore year, just weeks after the holiday that had sledgehammered TJ’s life, the guy couldn’t compete. But that was before. Before TJ’s world had turned silent and grim.

The hitter waggled his bat, waiting. Two balls, one strike, bases loaded with two out.

TJ tucked the ball into his glove. Worse than his sore jaw, a bone-deep ache throbbed from his knuckles. What the hell had he been thinking last night, throwing a right instead of a jab? Thankfully, Paul Lamont hadn’t shown today, banged up as he must have been. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put two and two together, and the last thing TJ needed was the coach to think he’d become a hotheaded scrapper.

Blinking against the dusty breeze, TJ lowered his chin. He reared back with knee raised, adjusted the seams, and let the ball fly with a snap of the wrist. It broke low and away. A decent bend—just outside the strike zone.

“Ball!” the umpire declared.

Damn it.

TJ spat at the ground. He caught the return throw and tugged at the bill of his cap, blew out a breath. Gotta clear the melon. Start fresh without the clutter or a pitch didn’t have a rookie’s chance in hell. He loosened his neck, shook the stiffness from his hand. Strove to look calm.

The St. Mary’s batter smiled. He crowded the plate, his confidence growing.

But confidence could be a tricky thing. It lasted only if the person either had forgotten or didn’t realize what they stood to lose.

TJ wished he had the leeway to send a reminder. Nothing like a knockdown pitch to wipe a smirk off a slugger’s face.

Just then, the catcher tilted his head and shifted his eyes toward the third-base foul line. It was a warning, understood in a game of silent signals. TJ glimpsed a figure he recognized in his periphery. Bill Essick was approaching their dugout. The Yankees’ scout, a periodic spectator of Saturday league games, had once been a follower of TJ’s career.

Time to turn up the heat.

The catcher appeared to understand. He pointed one finger down, a fastball high and inside.

TJ rose to his full height and grasped the ball in his glove. He paused, ears straining. Where was the song? Where was it?

In a pinch, he closed his eyes and forced himself to picture his father’s face. On cue, anger boiled toward an eruption. Memories of the accident poured in a heated stream. The panic of tearing through the hospital halls, the police officer and his endless questions. The stench of the morgue, the lifting of the sheet.

He unshuttered his view and hurled the ball in a torrent—smack into the glove.

“Steee-riiike!”

Wiping his mind, TJ struggled to reduce his emotions to a simmer. He scuffed the mound again, hard.

Coach Barry nodded beside the dugout. A look of approval from the man, a praised coach of three sports for the Trojans, never lost its impact. He continued to be the major reason, in fact, that TJ attended University of Southern Cal.

But right now, Essick’s opinion was all that mattered.

TJ rolled his shoulder muscles for the impromptu review. He could feel the scout’s gaze on him. Just one more. All he needed was one more to smoke by the batter, one more to wrap up the inning. If he kept it up, he might even close out the game, from start to finish like the old days. Wouldn’t that be swell.

The hitter set his stance. He gave home plate a little more space.

Catcher signed another fastball. It was a cocky choice though relatively safe, given the solid zip on the last pitch and drag on the swing.

Problem was, safe choices never led to greatness. Legends were made of risk takers armed with the skills destined for success. A display like that could be just the thing to regain Essick’s interest, to see a winning thoroughbred in a stable of foals.

TJ grabbed hold of that risk, that sample of greatness, and shook off the catcher. “Come on,” he murmured, “something to dazzle ’em.”

The catcher complied: slider.

Now we’re talkin’, TJ thought. With a 3–2 count, the hitter wouldn’t be expecting a pitch that chanced ending up out of the zone. And when done right, a slider gave the illusion of a fastball, up until it fell off a table the last several feet.

TJ readied for the windup. But just as he was about to close his eyes and dip once more into his cage of fury, a question snuck up on him: What if his rage soon tired of being locked up? He could feel its power increasing each time he let it loose to breathe and stretch. Brought out too often and that rage might end up refusing to go back in.

He squashed the thought and threw the ball with all the strength he could muster. Down the pipe it went. The seams spiraled away—a wall of wind seemed to slow every rotation—and laid tracks that led directly to the bat. Crack. The white pill soared overhead while the runners rounded the bases. Every footfall was a stomp to TJ’s gut. Only for the mile-length arms of the left fielder did the ball not reach the ground.

The inning was over. TJ had pushed the batter to a full count and gotten the out, but once more he alone hadn’t closed the deal. When it came to risks, the thinnest of lines separated a legend and a fool.

Quiet applause broke out while the USC players jogged toward the dugout. Following them in, TJ dared to seek Essick’s reaction—not a total disaster; they were still tied, after all.

But the guy had already left.

6

Apprehension reverberated through Maddie’s body, a concerto plucking away the minutes. Inadvertently sticking her callused finger with another straight pin served as a reminder to concentrate on the job at hand. At least until Beatrice, the manager, arrived after a doctor’s checkup. Then Maddie would be free to leave her father’s tailor shop early, in order to present Lane with her decision.

She scooted her knees another few inches on the scarred wooden floor, dark as the paneled walls, and tacked up more hem-line of the jacket. Emerald silk enwrapped Mrs. Duchovny’s robust form. A regular customer since Maddie’s childhood, the woman had spent her youth as an opera singer. Her endless chatter in the full-length mirror evidenced her sustainable lung capacity. Even more amazing, she gesticulated as quickly as her lips moved, taking only tiny breaks to fluff her pecan-brown curls. None of this made marking her garments an easy task.

“Of course, you know more than anyone,” she was saying, “I have enough holiday suits to clothe all of Boyle Heights. But with Donnie coming home on leave, I just wanted something special to wear for Christmas dinner. Especially after missing him over Thanksgiving. We only have three weeks to go, which doesn’t give Bob much time. He’s trying to surprise our Donnie with an entire wall of custom-made bookshelves in his room. That boy could read two books a day if he wanted. Did I ever tell you that?”

Maddie glanced up at the unexpected pause. “I think you’ve mentioned it.” She pretended Mrs. Duchovny hadn’t already reported the same news about her Navy son a thousand times. Often Maddie wondered about the true reason the woman had insisted on becoming her benefactress for Juilliard. A charitable act of kindness? Or an investment in a potential bride for her son?

Mrs. Duchovny prattled on, continuing to drop matchmaking hints, until Maddie announced, “All finished.” Then Maddie snatched two stray pins from the floor and pressed them into the cushion bound to her wrist. She rose, wiping a dust mark from her apron.

“Madeline, dear.” Mrs. Duchovny faced her, suddenly serious. The corners of her eyes crinkled behind her thick glasses. “Are you feeling all right?”

And there it was. The dreaded question Maddie had heard more times than she cared to count.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She forced a smile, feeling anything but fine, as always seemed the case when delivering the phrase. Fortunately, frequency of use had worn the roughness off the lie, turning it smooth as sea glass.

“Are you sure about that?” said Mrs. Duchovny, resonant with disbelief. Before Maddie could repeat herself, the woman cracked a wide grin and displayed her right arm. “Because I think you’ve forgotten a little something, dear.”

The other sleeve. Maddie had only tacked the left. “Good grief, I’m so sorry.” She resumed her tucking and pinning as Mrs. Duchovny chuckled.

“I’m actually relieved. For a minute, I was worried one arm had grown longer than the other.”

Maddie’s lips curved into a full smile. Soon, though, she recalled her meeting with Lane. Today. At the Pier. And her anxiousness rose like the tide.

Oh, how she wanted to get the conversation over with.

She had planned to inscribe her thoughts in a letter, but just as she’d flipped over the OPEN sign this morning, Lane had phoned. He’d said he was headed to Santa Monica with his sister, and that he and Maddie needed to talk before he left town.

It’s about us, he’d replied ominously when she asked if everything was all right. There had been a heaviness in his voice throughout the call, yet it was the word us that had landed with a thud, a trunk too burdensome to carry.

Clearly, he too had been pondering the impracticality of it all: A couple weeks for winter break and he would be back at Stanford; by summer’s end, she could be off to New York for who knew how long. There would be no harm done should they simply put their relationship on hold, revert to friendship for now. If they were meant to be, destiny would reunite them.

The bell above the entry jarred Maddie back to the room. Beatrice Lovell entered—at last!—hugging a sack from the corner diner. It took two shoves for her to fully close the door. The sticking latch was among the list of repairs the seamstress had been chipping away at since becoming the shop’s overseer.

Maddie hastened a review of Mrs. Duchovny’s sleeve lengths. Satisfied, she secured the second one with more pins.

“Lord ’a’ mercy,” Bea exclaimed with her residual Louisianan accent. “I thought I’d left hurricane weather behind me.” She set the paper bag on the counter. Outside the windows, red ribbons flapped on storefront wreaths. Passing pedestrians looked to the pavement, hats held to their heads in a tug-o-war with nature.

Mrs. Duchovny clucked in response. “I tell you, this wretched wind is a lady’s enemy,” she said while Maddie eased her out of the jacket, guiding her around the exposed metal points. “You should have seen the scattering of clothes that ended up in my backyard this morning off my neighbor’s line. Good thing Daisy sews her name into her undergarments, because I wasn’t about to go door-to-door in search of their owner.”

As Maddie hung up the coat, Bea dabbed two fingers on the tip of her tongue and tamed the silvery strands that had escaped her signature bun. Her pursed mouth created a coral embellishment on the wrinkled fabric of her skin. “Brought us back an early lunch,” she told Maddie, and unloaded two wax paper–wrapped sandwiches.

Maddie opened her mouth to explain that she had a last-minute … well, errand to run. But Mrs. Duchovny interjected, “Ooh, I almost forgot. Donnie’s favorite dress shirt is missing a button.” From a shopping bag near the sewing machines she produced a white, long-sleeve garb pin-striped in blue. “I was hoping you might have one to match.”

“I’d be right surprised if we don’t.” Bea turned to Maddie. “Sugar, would you mind peeking in the back?”

Maddie strained to preserve her waning patience. How could she deny her patron a measly button?

“Not at all.” She accepted the shirt and hurried toward the storage room. Mothballs and memories scented the air, luring her inside, in every sense. It was here, between the racks of now dusty linens, that she and TJ used to hide, still as mice, awaiting a familiar waft. The fragrance of rose petals and baby powder. Their mother’s perfume. A sign she’d returned from shopping at the market.

The giggling youngsters would huddle together as two sets of hands swooped in for the capture. And with their small bodies cradled in their parents’ arms, a sound would flow through the air, lovelier than any sonata could ever be. For try as she might, Maddie had yet to hear a melody more glorious than their family’s laughter. A four-part harmony never to be heard again.

Enough.

She wadded the thought, tossed it over her shoulder. There were plenty more where that came from, and the clock wasn’t slowing. Lane, with a train to catch, would only be at the Pier another hour.

Refocusing, she scoured an old Easter basket filled with abandoned buttons, found a decent match, and headed down the hall. She was rounding the corner when she caught the women in hushed voices.

“Goodness me,” Mrs. Duchovny lamented, “I forgot how terrible the holidays must be for them.”

“Aw, now. You shouldn’t feel bad, for having discussed your family gatherin’.”

“I suppose. Just such a shame, the poor girl.”

There was no doubt whom they’d been talking about. The same family everyone was always talking about. After two years of rampant whispers, Maddie should have been used to this.

Bea popped her head up with an awkward abruptness. “Any luck, sugar?”

Maddie swallowed around the pride, the voiceless scream, lodged in her throat. “I found a button that’ll work.”

“Splendid,” Mrs. Duchovny gushed, her cheeks gone pink. With arms appearing weighted by guilt—or pity—she reached out for the items.

“No.” Maddie stepped back, her reply a bit sharp. She held the shirt to her middle and softened the moment with a smile. “That is, I’d be happy to do it for you. No charge.” She would have offered normally anyhow, yet it was her sudden inability to unclench her hands that left her without choice.

Mrs. Duchovny conceded, followed by a rare moment of quiet. “I’d best be getting home. Bob will be sending out a search party soon.” She shrugged into her fur-collared overcoat and covered her locks with a brimmed hat.

“We’ll call y’all when everything’s ready,” Bea said, and ushered her to the exit while they exchanged good-byes. A burst of air charged through before the door closed, rocking Maddie onto her heels. And not for the first time, she was surprised to discover she was still standing.

7

“Kern!” Coach Barry’s voice shot over the departing spectators at Griffith Park. “Need a word with you, son.”

TJ fought a scowl as he zipped up his sports bag. Since being pulled for the last two innings, he’d been counting down the minutes to leave. Their closing pitcher had held on for a 7–5 victory, but TJ wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

He slung his bag over his left shoulder and hid his purpling bruises by dangling his right hand behind him. Thankfully, only a muted yellow tinted his cheek.

Coach Barry strolled toward the outfield, a signal for TJ to join him. A private talk. Not a good thing, considering TJ’s mediocre showing today. The solid, dark Irishman carried a thoughtful look, hands in the pockets of his baseball jacket. A taunting wind blew past them. It flapped a lock of the man’s slicked hair, receding from the effects of close-call games and concern for his players.

As they passed the pitcher’s mound, TJ mined his brain for arguments to defend himself. He wasn’t about to surrender all hope of regaining his slot in the starting rotation for USC’s upcoming season. When his game had gone to hell last year, a compassionate demotion landed him in the bullpen. Now he wanted out. He was a prisoner who knew what it was like on the other side of the fence, and could feel his cell closing in on him. Telling the coach about a new pitch he was honing might aid his cause. A “slurve,” they called it. The slider-curve combo could break wide enough to raise some brows.

He was about to volunteer as much when Coach Barry asked, “So how’s your father been?”

Your father.

Swell. Was there anything TJ wanted to talk about less?

“The same,” he answered. Which meant mute in a convalescent home, nearly too depressed to function.

Coach Barry nodded pensively. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

TJ squeezed the strap on his bag. Redirecting, he said, “My sister, Maddie, though—she’s doing great. Her violin teacher says she’s a shoo-in for Juilliard this year, if her audition goes well. Just gotta keep her on track till then.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Coach Barry smiled. “I’m sure you’ve done a fine job looking out for her.”

TJ shrugged, despite feeling as though caring for Maddie was the one thing he was still doing right.

“What about you, son? How you doing these days?”

“I’m gettin’ by.” The reply was so reflexive, he didn’t consider the bleakness of the phrase until it was too late to reel the words back in. “’Course, if you’re talking about baseball, I can assure you, my pitches are coming back more and more every day. You just wait and see. By spring practice—”

Coach Barry held up his hand, bringing them to a stop. “Look,” he sighed. “I’m gonna cut to the chase. Your professor, Dr. Nelson, paid a visit to my office last week. It’s about your grades.”

The path of the conversation, in an instant, became clear. A detour TJ resented. He didn’t need their sympathy, or to be ganged up on. That woman had no business stirring up trouble on the field.

“It was a couple lousy tests,” he burst out. “I’ve told her that. Got plenty of time to make it up.”

“And the rest of your classes?” The challenge indicated Coach Barry was well informed of the situation. That his former-ace pitcher was barely skimming by, tiptoeing on the fence of a scholarship lost.

TJ clenched his jaw. He wrestled down his anger, to prevent it from seizing control.

Coach Barry rested a hand on TJ’s shoulder, causing a slight flinch. “I know you’ve been through a lot, son. But you’ve got less than a year left, and I, for one, don’t want to see you throw it all away. Now, if you need a tutor, you just say so. Or if you need more time for studying, we can certainly see about cutting back your delivery hours ….”

Less time dedicated to his on-campus job was a nice thought, particularly on days of lugging cadavers from Norwalk State Hospital for the Science Department. Yet a nice thought was all it was. Besides school expenses, TJ needed all the dough he could get for house bills and Maddie’s lessons and everything else in the goddamned world that chomped its way through a pocketbook.

“I’ll be fine, Coach,” he broke in. He repeated himself, taking care to stress his gratitude. “Really, I’ll be fine.” If it hadn’t been for the guy’s encouragement, TJ would have dropped out of college long before now.

Coach Barry rubbed the cleft in his chin before he heaved a resigning breath. “All right, then. You know where to find me.”

TJ obliged with a nod. He remained on the faded lines of the diamond as his coach walked away and disappeared from sight. At that moment, in the wide vacancy of the ball field, TJ suddenly realized why he had always been a pitcher.

Because alone on the mound, he depended only on himself.

8

Maddie stood on the Pier, searching, searching. Though unbuttoned, her long russet coat hoarded heat from her anxious rush across town. A current of strangers split around her like a river evading a rock. An ordinary rock, medium in size, nearly invisible. And Maddie preferred it that way. Only when channeling another’s composition through her bow did she now find comfort in the spotlight.

Scanning faces, she hunted for Lane’s distinct features, his sister’s pint-sized frame. Outside the Hippodrome was where he had asked Maddie to meet them. But they weren’t there, and she didn’t have the luxury of time to wait patiently. It was a quarter after noon. She had but fifteen minutes to spare. He couldn’t have left early; she’d told him she would be here as soon as she could. She needed to find him, before he left, before his train.

Before she lost her nerve.

“Lane, where are you?” At the very moment she whispered the words, she spotted the back of his familiar form blinking between passersby. His golden skin peeked out between his short black hair and the collar of his coat.

She prepared herself while striding over the wooden planks to reach him. “I’m so glad you’re still here,” she said, touching his arm. He turned toward her, revealing the face of a man with sharp Italian features. Mustard stained his large lips.

“Pardon me,” Maddie said. “I thought you were somebody else.” Then she streamed into the mass, head down. Blending.

The smell of onions from a hot-dog stand caused her stomach to growl. In her haste, she’d left the lunch Bea had insisted she take for the bus ride over. Macaroni salad and a baked-bean sandwich. Maddie had grown to love both as a child, long before she could comprehend which meals were served solely to survive the shop’s less-profitable months.

But she couldn’t think about any of that now. She had ten minutes to find—

“Maddie …”

She focused on the vague call of her name, filtering out the crowd’s chatter. Notes of “In the Mood,” from the band on a nearby stage, took greater effort to block; music dominated her hearing above all else.

“Maddie!” At last, the soprano voice guided her to Emma’s china-doll face. The girl was scurrying toward her with a smile that made perfect little balls of her rosy cheeks. Maddie used to secretly babysit her when Lane was in high school. Naturally, he had preferred outings with TJ over watching his pesky little sister. He’d been adamant about paying by the hour, though Maddie would have done it for free. And one look at the youngster reminded her why.

“Hiya, pretty girl.”

Emma leapt into her outstretched arms. Adoration seemed to flow from the child’s every pore. It filled Maddie’s heart so quickly she had to giggle to prevent her eyes from tearing up.

As their arms released, she noted a substance on Emma’s hands. “Ooh, you’re sticky. Let me guess, cotton candy?”

“And a caramel apple,” Emma boasted. Then her smile dropped. “Don’t tell my mom, okay?”

“My lips are sealed.” An easy promise to make. Running into the woman, unreadable in her stoicism, had always occurred by mere chance, and Maddie’s talk with Lane would do anything but change that. “Say, Emma, where’s your brother?”

Emma twisted to her side and pointed. There was Lane, weaving around a family ordering ice-cream cones. He wore a trench coat and sunglasses. A bright red balloon floated on a string clutched in his hand. When Maddie caught his attention, he flashed a smile, the breathtaking one that seemed crafted just for her. She felt a warm glow rise within her.

“I was getting worried,” he said, once they were close.

“Sorry it took so long. We had customers, so I couldn’t leave until Bea showed up.”

Emma tugged her brother’s sleeve, looking troubled. “I thought you were gonna get yellow?”

Lane glanced at the inflatable swaying overhead, as though he’d forgotten it was there. He squatted to her level. “Turns out they were out, kiddo. But since Sarah Mae’s favorite color is red, I was hoping this would do.”

Emma contemplated that, and nodded. “Good idea. Sarah Mae loves balloons.”

Maddie smiled at the reference to the girl’s doll, equally ragged and beloved, while Lane tied the string around his sister’s wrist.

“Onsan, can we go down to the sand?” Emma asked him. “I didn’t get to collect shells yet.”

The Japanese term for “brother” was one of the few things Maddie understood about Lane’s foreign culture.

He checked his watch. “I guess we can. We only have a few minutes, though, so don’t go far. And don’t wade too deep into the water.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You promise?” he pressed.

Emma sighed, her pinkie drawing an x over her chest. “Cross my heart,” she said, and rolled her eyes, not in rebellious defiance, but in a gentle manner. As if at the age of eight, she could already see his barriers for what they were. An expression of caring. It wasn’t so different, Maddie supposed, from the strict guidelines TJ had instilled after assuming their father’s role.

Except that she herself wasn’t eight.

Side by side, Lane and Maddie walked toward the beach. Strangers with rolled-up pants and buckets and shovels speckled the sandy canvas. A choir of seagulls cawed as they circled yachts in the harbor, muting the hollers of a teenage boy chasing a scampering black puppy. The dog was yipping toward a pair of brilliant kites dancing in the air. With attentive eyes, Lane watched his sister sprinting like the pup, bobbing beneath her flag of a red balloon.

The picture of him as a father hit Maddie with a swell of emotion she swiftly shoved into a box, stored away for the future.

“How’s your eye?” she asked.

He shrugged, half a smile on his lips. “It’s still there.”

“Could I see?” Noting his reluctance, she added, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

Slowly, he reached for the glasses and slid them free. In the swollen bruising she discovered an irony of beauty she didn’t expect. He’d always projected such certainty in her uncertain world that strangely she found the sight comforting, proof of his vulnerable side. A symbol of commonality she could actually touch.

“Does it hurt?” Her fingertips brushed his skin before she could remind herself to keep her distance.

“It’ll heal.”

She nodded and withdrew her hand. Her gaze shifted to the distant figure of Emma, whose raised arms couldn’t reach her fleeing balloon. Already twenty feet up, it zigzagged a path toward the ceiling of clouds, away from the chaos, the worries of life. Maddie had the sudden desire to be tethered to its string.

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “But we need to talk …. It’s about us.”

That phrase again.

He gestured to a thick, weather-beaten log. “Why don’t we sit down?”

She didn’t reply, simply led them to perch on the bumpy seat. Waves before them lapped the sand, weakening the shore layer by layer. She clasped her hands on her skirted lap. So close to Lane now, she could almost taste the fragrance of his skin. It smelled of citrus and cinnamon and leaves. At the Pico Drive-in, where they’d spent numerous dates necking through double features, Maddie would inhale that lovely mixture. Afterward, she’d sleep in the cardigan she had worn, to savor his scent until it faded.

Would their memories together just as surely disappear?

She banished the thought. She needed to concentrate, to review the practical reasons to loosen their ties. Their usual outings, for one: hidden from crowds, cloaked in darkness. Lookout points and desolate parks. Only on occasion would they venture to the openness of a bowling alley or skating rink, requiring them to refrain from acts of affection.

Just like now.

Lane hooked his glasses in the V of his royal-blue sweater. He stared straight ahead as he continued. “Last spring, you told me you thought it was best if we didn’t tell anyone about our dating, and I went along with it. I lied when I said I agreed.” He wet his lips, took a breath. “But the truth is, you were right. It was better that we didn’t say anything. My family wouldn’t have understood, what with our … differences. God knows, they wouldn’t have taken us seriously. They might have even thought I went steady with you to make a point.”

Their racial diversity had, before now, seemed an off-limit topic. An issue to deny through tiptoeing and silence. But more striking than this new candidness was his usage of the past tense. Went steady with you. Wouldn’t have taken us seriously.

He wasn’t asking for her opinion. To him, the relationship was already over.

“I’m tired of sneaking around,” he said. “I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want you to lie anymore. Especially to TJ. He’s more than a friend, he’s like a brother to me.”

She couldn’t argue. None of this had been fair, to any of them.

“Maddie …” Lane’s mouth opened slightly and held. He seemed to be awaiting the arrival of a rehearsed conclusion, a finale to their courtship. He angled toward her with a graveness that wrenched her heart. “There’s something you don’t know. Something I should’ve told you before, but I wasn’t sure how.”

Maddie blinked. What was he talking about? What had he been keeping from her?

“It’s my parents,” he said. “They’ve arranged a marriage for me.”

The word marriage entered her ears with a calmness that, in seconds, gained the piercing shock of a siren. “To whom?” she found herself asking.

He scrunched his forehead, a revelation playing over his face. “I’m not sure, actually. The baishakunin—the matchmaker—found her in Japan. Tokyo, I think they said. Anyway, her family is supposed to be a good fit.”

“I … didn’t realize … they still did that.” The response was ridiculous, trite. Yet the blow was too great to formulate anything better.

“The custom is crazy, I know. But as their oldest son, their only son, it’s my responsibility to do what’s best for the family.” Annoyance projected in the timbre of his voice. He shook his head. “It’s no more than a business negotiation. Same as my parents were. And they want to bring her over right away.”

A scrapbook materialized in Maddie’s mind: a portrait of Lane in a tuxedo, beside him a wife as exotic as her wedding garb; their children waving to the procession of a Chinese New Year parade; a snapshot of the family at Sunday supper, a foursome with identical almond eyes.

“All of this,” he said finally, “is why I needed to see you.” He laid his hand on hers, a sympathetic gesture. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, and there’s only one thing that makes sense for us.”

The breeze blew a lock of her hair that caught in her eyelashes, a shield to hide her welling tears. She lowered her lids and waited for the words: to break up. She’d been foolish, so foolish to believe she could walk away unscathed.

“Maddie,” she heard him say. “Will you marry me?”

Once the question fully soaked in, her eyes shot open.

“What?”

He smiled. “Marry me.”

She couldn’t answer. Her thoughts were a jumble of fragments. An orchestra of musicians, each playing a different piece.

Lane brushed the strands from her face and tucked them behind her ear. He tipped his chin down, peering into her eyes. “The only way they’ll ever accept us is to not give them an option. Maddie, I love you. I want to see you every morning when I wake up, and fall asleep every night next to you. I want us to raise a family and spend our whole lives together. And if you feel the same”—he tenderly tightened his grasp on her hand—“then marry me.”

Logic. She grappled for any shred of logic. “We can’t though. It’s—not even legal here.” A fact she’d known yet never liked to dwell upon.

“Just the wedding isn’t. The marriage would be perfectly valid. A college friend of mine is from Seattle. He says interracial couples get married there every day.”

“Seattle?”

“That’s right,” he said. Then his smile faded into something tentative. “But sweetheart … we have to do it next weekend.”

Next weekend? Next weekend?

The very idea was rash, and insane. She tried to protest, yet her sentence amounted to a whisper. “That’s so soon.”

“There’s no other choice. They plan to bring the girl’s family here before New Year’s. I don’t want to hurt other people, just because we’ve waited too long.” He caressed her cheek. “I know we’re meant to be together. Since the first time I kissed you, I’ve known it with everything in me.”

The warmth of his fingers on her face revived the memory of that day. He’d been there when she came home from visiting her father, another one-sided exchange. Lane had been in town for the weekend, relaxing on their couch while TJ finished up at the ball field. She’d walked in to find a fresh envelope from the Juilliard School of Music. Even though she’d predicted their decision—a surety after her poor audition—reading the actual form rejection had struck her with a reality that ripped through the seams of her soul. The reality of lost dreams, a lost life she had taken for granted.

Until then, she had been proud of how dignified she’d been about it all. The perfect portrayal of strength in the face of disaster. But with the weight of that letter in her hands, dignity became too much to carry. When her strength buckled, Lane was the person who’d caught her. She literally cried on his shoulder, soaked his shirt with pent-up grief. He held her close and safe, stroked her hair. And once their lips joined, more than passion flowed through her; it was the peace of finding someone whose heart felt tailor-made to match hers alone.

Now, with Lane’s hand on her cheek, her skin melting into his palm, she felt the same overwhelming emotion. The family she’d been raised in was gone, but she and Lane could start a family of their own. The kind she’d always dreamed of. Together, they could be happy.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Yes?” A request for clarity.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’ll marry you.”

Recognition settled in his eyes and a grin across his face. He jumped to his feet and drew her up into his arms. Their hearts were pumping at the same rapid pace. “Oh, Maddie, I love you so much,” he said against her temple.

“I love you too,” she whispered. She had conveyed the sentiment plenty of times, on notes she’d snuck into his pockets, or in letters she’d mailed to Stanford. Yet only now did she become aware of how much she meant the words.

He leaned back and gazed at her, his eyes glinting with joy. Then he placed his curled fingers under her chin to bring her in for a kiss. Their mouths were a few inches apart when a voice cracked through the moment.

“Onsan,” Emma yelled. “I found one!”

In an instant, they stood a respectable distance apart, though Maddie couldn’t say who had created the gap. How could she have forgotten where they were? That Emma, too, could have been watching?

“Look!” The girl ran toward them, holding up something round and white. “It’s a whole sand dollar. And it’s not broken or chipped or anything. It’s a sign of good luck, right?”

Lane gave Maddie a brief glance and grinned again. “Definitely.”

“Did you know there’s five doves inside?” Emma asked Maddie. “And the North Star is in the middle, and an Easter lily’s around it?”

Unable to speak, Maddie nodded.

“Wow.” Emma studied the shell. “I can’t wait to show Papa. He’s gonna love it. Can we go home and show him? Can we?”

Lane looked at his watch, then sighed. “I guess we’d better go. My train …”

“Of course,” Maddie said, regaining her voice.

He turned to his sister. “Hey, Em. Race you to the snack stand?” He didn’t have to ask twice. She automatically assumed a runner’s starting pose. “Ready?” he called out. “Set … go!”

Unlike Emma, Lane didn’t dash away. He stepped back toward Maddie and, picking up from where he left off, he leaned in and placed his lips on hers. Although she closed her eyes, she saw a vision of strangers walking past, pointing, whispering their disapproval. And when the kiss ended, she couldn’t help feeling relieved.

“See you next Saturday?” he asked.

She prodded herself to nod.

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” she said lightly, pushing out a smile.

He touched her check once more, then jogged off to catch up to his sister. After the two faded into the crowd, Maddie lowered herself onto the log. A chill from the wind prickled her neck. She crossed her arms and stared out into the endless ocean that stretched straight up into the clouds.

Remembering Emma’s balloon, she panned the sky for what had become a tiny red dot. When it vanished from sight, she wondered how much pressure she, too, could take before bursting into nothing.

9

“Got any idea what you’re lookin’ for?”

TJ turned from the hardware store’s shelves to find his sister’s friend Jo. Her tone made clear she doubted he could find the right part on his own. Just the kind of conversation he needed after the lecture from his coach.

“I got it handled.” He swung his attention back to the bins of gaskets, the same ones he’d been staring at for the past five minutes. The smells of kerosene and turpentine were making him light-headed, compounding his frustration.

“Problem with the sink?”

He edged out a nod.

“Kitchen or bathroom?”

“Kitchen,” he muttered, picking up a random gasket to study the thing. He was hoping she’d take her cue to move on to another customer roving her family’s store.

But she didn’t. She continued to watch him, hands in the pockets of her gray work uniform. Her lips bowed in amusement. “You know, I could save you a whole lotta time if you let me help.”

Was there a skywriter over his head today announcing he needed charity?

He snapped his eyes to hers. “I said I got it.”

Pink spread over her cheeks, a look of surprise, then aggravation. “Suit yourself.” She pivoted sharply on the heel of her loafer. By the time she exited the aisle, TJ saw himself for the jerk he’d been.

“Shit.” He flung the gasket into the bin. Abandoning his sports bag on the cement floor, he trudged after her, ready to smooth the waters with the I’m-just-tired-and-have-a-lot-on-my-mind spiel. Sure it was only half the story, but no one needed to hear more. He rounded the corner and bumped a display of paint cans. The pyramid held its ground. Jo’s loose ponytail in his sights, he trailed toward the cashier’s table in front. He was about to call Jo’s name when a voice from the side stopped him cold.

“TJ,” was all she needed to say and he knew it was Cindy Newman.

The harsh fluorescent lights did nothing to take away from her stunning face, her knockout figure. The girl was known to pass as Veronica Lake any day of the week, and today was no exception. Her golden hair draped long and styled, her sundress snug around the curves. Her full lips shimmered in the same red that had tainted his shirt collars more than once.

“Hi, Cindy.”

She smiled broadly. “How have you been?”

“Doin’ all right. You?”

“Terrific, thanks.” The difference between their answers was that hers sounded genuine. “So,” she said after a pause, “who won?”

It took him a moment to follow the question. He’d forgotten he was wearing his baseball uniform and jacket. He wished he could as easily forget about the game. “We did.”

“That’s grand. You were pitching?”

“Yeah.” He left it at that.

“Then I’m not surprised.” She offered another smile, though this one wasn’t solid enough to block the awkwardness rising between them. She fidgeted with her purse handle and glanced down and away. It was the same look she’d given at the end of their last date, a look that said she didn’t expect to hear from him again. No question, she had put in effort. She’d tried to talk to him, to kiss him until he would open up. But his wall of fury had sealed her out.

He realized now, more than a year later, that he’d never explained that to Cindy. Never told her it was nothing she’d done.

A grizzled man in overalls wandered past with a shovel, the cash register rang out a sale, and TJ decided another place would be more appropriate for this conversation. “You know, maybe, sometime,” he said, “if you’re not busy—”

Jo’s brother Wes was marching in TJ’s direction. The oldest of the five Allister boys, he’d been a quiet but popular linebacker. Latest word had it he was on a winning streak of boxing matches around the city. A guy you didn’t want to piss off by insulting his sister.

TJ was about to speak up but didn’t make it that far. Wes took the first shot—by scooping Cindy up by her waist. “There you are,” he said, and nuzzled her neck, inducing a giggle.

“Were you worried I’d gotten lost?” she teased.

Wes gazed at her with pure adoration, oblivious to any others’ existence. “I’m all finished here with inventory. How about a movie at the Palace?”

She groaned. “Is there any picture we haven’t seen this month?”

He held her close and whispered in her ear, prompting more giggles, her face to blush. TJ did his best to pry away his focus. He felt intrusive, irritated, regretful. And yeah, jealous. Not of being with Cindy necessarily. Just of any guy who could truly be that happy.

The couple headed for the door. As her boyfriend held it open for her, Cindy angled back. An afterthought. “It was good seeing you, TJ. You take care.”

He nodded, staring after her. She’d moved on, as she should have. She was better off with someone who had his head on straight.

“Anything I can help you with, sonny?” From behind the counter, old man Allister regarded him over the rims of his bifocals.

Jo touched the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Gramps. He’s not one who takes kindly to help.” After flicking TJ a cool look, she pushed through the swinging half-doors of the storage room. It was then that TJ recalled why he’d trailed her through the store. Yet the urge to follow her was gone.

10

Lane wasn’t aware his mind had been wandering until something hit him in the forehead. He jolted back in his cushioned leather chair. A wad of notebook paper had landed on his leg. He could guess the culprit before looking up.

“At least we know he’s alive.” Dewey Owens smirked at the other two guys in their study group before turning to Lane. “I was getting worried that punch had bruised more than your eye.”

Lane pitched the crumpled ball right back. But with Dewey’s eagle eyes, a match to his beak-like nose, he ducked in plenty of time.

“Have to be faster than that!”

A student in the corner of the common room sent a curt, “Shhh,” to which Dewey retorted, “Relax, bookworm. Finals ain’t till next week.” No doubt, he’d thrown out the grammatical error just to grate on the stuffy kid’s nerves; Dewey had been born to a wealthy L.A. family, same as Lane. Both saddled with the tedium of properness.

“So where were we?” Lane flipped forward in his economics book. Envisioning his rendezvous with Maddie wasn’t going to speed up the week. “Did we already cover the graph on page one-o-one?”

Dewey reclined with feet on the coffee table and addressed the classmate beside him. “Gotta love my roommate. Almost four years now, he’s been pretending to cram just for my sake. Bastard aces his classes without even trying.”

“That’s not true,” Lane said.

“Oh?”

“I try. A little.”

Dewey laughed. “Imagine what you could do if you were actually interested in your major.”

Lane had imagined it all too often, and to no point. Political Science wasn’t an option according to his family’s conditional funding. In contrast, Dewey’s Economics degree—using numbers merely to support the conceptual and theoretical—would serve as a small rebellion against his father, the owner of an accounting firm.

“Lane Moritomo in here?” some guy called out.

“Yeah, that’s me!”

“Girl’s on the phone for you.”

Fighting a grin, Lane set aside his book. He had been hoping all afternoon that Maddie would ring him back once her brother left the house. “That’s gotta be my sister,” he told his study pals.

“Pass along my thanks,” Dewey said, “for making those paper birds.” The origami cranes were what he meant, folded by Emma’s tiny hands to bring them luck on their exams.

“Sure thing.” It drove Lane crazy not being straight with his roommate.

Soon that would change.

At the phone in the hall, Lane brought the handset to his ear. A pair of athletes in Cardinal sweatshirts strolled into the dorm. For privacy, he spoke just above a whisper. “Maddie?”

“Am I speaking with Lane Moritomo?” It was indeed a woman, but he didn’t recognize the voice.

“Uh, yes. This is Lane.”

“Mr. Moritomo, this is Congressman Egan’s office.”

“Yes?” he said again, thrown off guard.

“Sir, I’m phoning to inform you that you’ve been chosen for an internship.”

Her sentence lit a fuse. It traveled through him, gaining potency and speed, until he exploded with excitement. “I can’t believe it! My God—I mean, my gosh.” A small circle of students glanced over. Lane cranked his volume down. “I … don’t know what to say.”

“How about, you accept the offer?” A smile broke through her businesslike tone.

“Of course. I definitely accept.”

“Congressman Egan will be delighted to hear that. Your enthusiasm and fresh ideas made quite an impression.” Lane strove to listen, despite his yearning to scream while sprinting through every corner of the Quad, around Lake Lagunita and back. “You’ll receive more details by post, but feel free to contact us with any concerns. Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you in June.”

“Details. In June.” Thoughts tumbling, he barely remembered to add, “Thank you, ma’am. For letting me know.”

“My pleasure.”

The line went dead, but Lane was afraid to release the handset, as though the phone were his sole link to the internship.

Among all the politicians in the region, Egan most closely shared his visions of equality and civil rights, community outreach. Of immigration and landowning laws needing to be reformed. Ongoing peace talks between Japan and the U.S. were dandy, but why stop there? Increasing American commerce in the East would benefit everyone.

To each of Lane’s points, the congressman had listened, and concurred. Egan maintained that the government existed to serve the public, not the other way around. He was a doer, not a talker. And somehow, Lane’s foot had managed to wedge into that esteemed man’s door.

Granted, it was only an internship and the pay wouldn’t be much, but it was a stepping-stone toward a brighter future. A future he couldn’t wait to share with Maddie.

Maddie. She was the first person he wanted to tell.

The operator connected the call. He started tapping his thumb on the phone after the first ring. By the fourth, it felt like forty.

“Kern’s Tailoring.”

He was so thankful Maddie had answered he plunged straight in. “The internship. At the congressman’s office. Sweetheart, I got it. I got it!”

“Wow, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I thought I had a good shot, after the interview, but … there were so many applicants—” He heard Maddie talking to someone, her voice muffled from covering the mouthpiece. “Maddie?” He waited. “Honey?”

“Sorry, I’m here. And I do want to hear more, but there’s a whole wedding party being fitted.”

He squelched a budding of disappointment. “No problem.”

“I’m happy for you, though. Truly I am.”

“It’s fine, I understand,” he assured her, then remembered the upcoming weekend. “Besides, I can tell you more in person, when we meet on Saturday.”

“Oh, right. Saturday,” she agreed. But there was a catch in her voice that tugged like a hook in his chest. He was about to investigate the cause when the reason became clear.

Egan’s office was in California; Juilliard was in New York.

“Don’t worry about this affecting your schooling, okay? We’ll figure it out, no matter what.”

Muffled again, she spoke to a customer, then, “Sorry, Lane, I have to run. Talk to you soon.”

“Okay then, take care. I—” Click. “Love you.”

The hallway went eerily quiet.

By the time he hung up the phone, he chose to brush away his senseless worries. There was too much to celebrate. The internship of his dreams, a key to his future, had been dropped into his hands. Maybe there was magic in those lucky cranes after all.

He sped to the commons and shared the news with Dewey, who demanded they toast at Danny Mac’s Pub to commemorate the triumph.

Later, once the elation and beer began to wear off, they crashed in a happy stupor on their beds. And that’s how Lane remained until late that night, when he awoke from a nightmare, sweat beading his face. The scene imprinted in his mind left him unable to sleep: At Seattle’s Union Station, he stood on a platform, awaiting his future bride—who never showed.

11

Dreariness hung in the air, rivaling the pungency of medications and disinfectant. The odors, however, didn’t bother Maddie. With each visit to the convalescent home, her nose had grown more tolerant of the strange, sterile surroundings, as had the rest of her senses. The sight of elderly residents struggling to feed themselves over-boiled food, or getting agitated at relatives they no longer recognized, had gradually lost its impact. Even glimpsing shriveled bodies holed up in their beds, disguised chariots headed for the after life, caused Maddie only occasional pause.

She pondered this while rosining her bow, preparing for her performance. As she stood alone in her father’s assigned room, it dawned on her how accustomed she had become to the bland, beige walls and scuffed tiled floors, the clusters of wheelchairs and muted floral paintings. A sadness rose within her.

He wasn’t supposed to be here this long.

The doctor had recommended a change in scenery to help cure his depression, some place free from the memories of his wife. Beatrice Lovell had been quick to highlight the amenities of the rest home owned by her husband, as if selling a vacation house on the Malibu shore. Of course, more than the vastly discounted rate communicated her unspoken favor. Given that Maddie and her brother had both been in school, and lacked any close relatives, Bea had secured the care their father needed. Perhaps even rescued him from an asylum.

What else did authorities do with people whose grief stripped their desire to function?

“Mr. Kern, look who’s here,” a nurse encouraged. She guided him into the room in a slow shuffle.

“Hi, Daddy.” Maddie dredged up a smile, held it as his glassy blue eyes panned past her face. The routine persisted in delivering a sting.

Before the window, the nurse eased him into a chair. He angled his face toward the glass pane. “Your daughter’s going to play for you today. Won’t that be nice?”

Holiday garland swagged above him. The fading afternoon light bent around his slumped shoulders. For an instant, time reversed. It was early Christmas morning. He wore his bathrobe over his pin-striped pajamas, his brown hair disheveled. Bags lined his eyes not from aging sorrow, but from a late night of assembling Maddie’s new dollhouse, or TJ’s bicycle for the paper route. Maddie could still see her dad settling on the davenport, winking at his wife as she handed him a cup of strong black coffee. Nutmeg and pine fragranced a day that should have lasted forever.

“If you need anything, I’ll be at the desk,” the nurse said to Maddie, doling out a smile. The pity in the woman’s eyes lingered in the small, stark room even after her departure.

Maddie shook off the condolence and retrieved the violin from her case. She methodically tuned the strings. Photographed composers stared from the lid, always in judgment.

Today, theirs wasn’t the approval she sought.

She took her position before the music sheets. Each lay in sequence side by side on her father’s bed. Height-wise, the pages weren’t ideally located, but she knew the composition forward and backward. The wrinkled papers, strewn with penciled finger markings, merely served as a security blanket.

“I’ve been working on a Paganini caprice for you. His ninth, one of your favorites.”

He didn’t respond, not so much as a blink.

She reminded herself that the title alone would carry little impact.

As she nestled the violin between her chin and collarbone, she played the opening in her mind. There was no room for error. The perfection in her phrases, her aptness of intonation, would wake him from his solitary slumber. Lured out of his cave and back into their world, he would raise his eyes and see her again.

She lifted the bow, ticking away two-four time in her head. Her shoulder ached from relentless practices. Scales and arpeggios and fingered octaves had provided escape from gnawing doubts over her looming nuptials.

If only life could be as well ordered as music.

Maddie closed her eyes, paced her breathing, and sent the bow into motion. The beginning measures passed with the airiness of a folk dance in a gilded palace, where women with powdered unsmiling faces and tall white wigs tiptoed around their buckle-shoed partners. Soon, the imitative notes of a flute alternated with dominant horn-like chords, and after a brief rest, the strength of the strings pushed through an aggressive middle section. Maddie’s fingers leapt up and down the fingerboard. The bound horsehairs hastened through ricochets and over trills. Any ending seemed miles away until a soft high-B floated on melodic wings. Only then did the prim courtiers return. They lent their limelight to a ruler’s abrupt pronouncement, before trading bows and gentle curtsies. When the final note drifted away, Maddie opened her eyes.

Her father’s seated form appeared in blurred lines. As they solidified, her anxiety climbed the hill molded of hope and dread. Her technicality had been pristine, a rendering her instructor would deem “admirably spotless.”

But had she chosen the right piece? The right composer?

Violin held snug to her chest, she watched and waited for the answers. In the silence, her father inched his face toward hers. A trembling of anticipation spread through her. Their gazes were about to connect when an unexpected sound robbed her focus. At the door a matronly nurse stood behind a woman in a wheelchair, pit-patting their applause.

Maddie jerked back to her father—whose attention had returned to the window. His expression remained as dispassionate as those of the composers in her case. Once again she stood before him, alone and unseen. She’d become the beige walls, the tiled floor. An insignificant fixture he passed in the hall.

She sank down onto the bottom corner of his bed. Instrument resting beside her, she leaned toward him. “Daddy, it’s me … Maddie. I know you can hear me.”

At least she hoped so. Even more today than usual.

Suddenly she recalled her impromptu audience. She glanced at the empty doorway before continuing. “Since my visit last week, some things have happened. You see, the thing is that Lane—the Lane you’ve known for years—well, he proposed to me. In a couple days, we’re supposed to get married.”

For a second, she envisioned her father shooting to his feet, outraged she had accepted without his consent, a sure sign he’d heard her.

He didn’t react.

“I love Lane, I honestly do. It’s just happening so fast. We’ve only been dating since the spring, and he’s been away half the time at school. Then there’s Juilliard, and now he’s got a job offer in California … I’m not sure of anything anymore. And even if I were, how can I do any of this without you?” She went to touch his hand, but reconsidered. Grasping fingers that made no effort in return would crumble the strength she’d rebuilt, day after day, note by note.

Maddie tightened her grip on her violin, growing more insistent. “You’re supposed to walk me down the aisle. You’re supposed to tell me what a good choice I’ve made, and that we’re going to live happily ever after.” The impossibility of it all brought tears to her eyes. “Please, Daddy,” she urged in a whisper, “talk to me.”

He continued to stare out the glass. He didn’t utter a sound.

Her answer, however, came regardless. From a cavern of truths, it echoed from deep inside. All she had to do was listen.

12

Hunched over the kitchen table, TJ attacked the page with a vengeance. He scrubbed at his lead markings with a pencil eraser, but the layered numbers still peeked through. Five layers to be exact. That’s how many times he’d been stumped by the blasted stats equation.

Such a waste. Waste of an evening, wasted effort. Baseball had already taught him all the math he ever wanted to use. Measurements from the mound to every point of the plate, the trajectory of hits, angles of pitches, addition of runs, the subtraction of players.

He’d chosen Business as his major. It seemed the least specific option. In actuality, a degree was never part of the plan. His vision of the future had been nothing but stripes. Not of the flag, a symbol of patriotic roles meant for guys like Lane. No, his own allegiance lay with the good ol’ Yankees, with those dapper stripes, their top-notch talent. And TJ’s name could have been—should have been—added to their roster long before now.

Freshman year, only one teammate besides himself had been recruited on scholarship. The second baseman, a fellow All City player, signed last year with the Red Sox. Yet here was TJ, still stuck in Boyle Heights, trying to rid his life of another mistake that couldn’t be wiped clean.

Although that didn’t keep him from trying.

Rubber shavings scattered as he wore down the eraser at an angle. When the nub snapped off, the pencil’s top skidded across the paper. The metal rim tore a rut through the single problem he’d actually gotten right.

He chucked the pencil across the room. Growling, he crumpled the page. “Stupid, useless piece of—” He reared back to pitch the wad, but a discovery halted him.

Company.

At the entry of the kitchen, Jo Allister leaned against the doorjamb. Her oversized peacoat hung open around her overalls. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. A baseball cap shaded her face, though not her bemusement.

“Don’t you ever knock?”

Her mood instantly clouded. “I’m looking for Maddie. If that’s acceptable to you.”

This made for the second time this week he’d misdirected a vent on his sister’s friend. He surrendered the balled paper onto the table, tried his best for a nicer tone. “She’s not here.”

Jo upturned her palm as if to say, You wanna elaborate?

“She … went to see our dad.” Based on periodic reports from the nurses, any visits were pointless. Maddie just hadn’t accepted that yet. “Afraid I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Fine. Then tell her I swung by.” With a scathing smile, Jo added, “I’d stay and wait, but you might take up throwing knives next.”

Once again, he watched her ponytail shake with fuming steps away from him. She certainly had a knack for jumping straight into his line of fire.

“Hold on,” he called out weakly. Her shoulder flinched, indicating she’d heard him, but she didn’t stop.

He marched after her. “It wasn’t you, okay?”

Ignoring him, she opened the front door. He caught hold of her sleeve.

“Jo, please.”

She didn’t face him, but her feet held.

“I just got a lot on my plate, with baseball and finals and … everything.”

Gradually she wheeled around. Her bronze eyes gave him a once-over. “That supposed to be an apology?”

TJ found himself without a response. He had lost the skill of presenting a proper sorry. It was tangled up in the net of regrets that a million apologies couldn’t change.

“You’re welcome to stay”—he gestured behind him—“if you wanna wait for Maddie.” Padding the peace offering, he told her, “No knife throwing, I swear.”

A reluctant smile lifted a corner of her mouth. She glanced past him and into the house, considering. “I dunno.”

Man, was she going to make him crawl over hot coals for her forgiveness?

“Looks like we’ve both been cooped up too much,” she said. “Come on.” She waved a hand to usher him down the steps.

He had to admit, it was a nice night. From the smells of leaves burning and cookies baking next door, he sensed his stress dissolving, making her offer tempting. Still, he felt the tug of obligation, recalled the equations that weren’t going to solve themselves.

“Stop your fretting,” Jo said. “Your books aren’t gonna run off. Or your pencil—wherever it landed.”

He gave in to a smile. “All right, all right. Let me grab a jacket.”

TJ glued his gaze to the asphalt to avoid the lineup of houses they passed. It wasn’t the string of gingerbread cutouts that made him want to scream, but the normalcy.

Middle class to upper class, nearly every ethnicity peppered the neighborhood—Russians, Mexicans, Jews, you name it. The families’ after-supper scenes, however, varied little. Fathers smoked their pipes, slippered feet crossed at the ankles, reading newspapers or books, or playing chess with a son eager to turn the tide. Mothers in aprons tended to children all bundled in nightclothes; they double-checked homework or darned socks beside the radio; they nodded to the beat of a youngster plunking away at a piano. Some even had the gall to hang Christmas decorations—December had scarcely arrived!

TJ was so intent on blocking out these lousy Norman Rockwell sketches, he didn’t give any thought to destination until Jo spoke up.

“This is it.” She jerked her thumb toward the sandlot.

“This is what?”

She rolled her eyes, making him wish he’d just played along. “You know, TJ, you’re about as good at apologizing as you are at listenin’.” She continued into the ballpark, collecting rocks from the lumpy dirt.

TJ slogged behind. By the light of the moon, he took inventory of the place he hadn’t visited in at least a decade. The park was even more run-down than he remembered, and smaller. A lot smaller. When the new ball field had opened several blocks away, complete with kelly-green grass and shiny cages and splinter-less benches, kids had immediately shunned the old hangout. It was a toy they’d outgrown and dumped in a dusty attic.

Only now did TJ detect a sadness etched like wrinkles in the sandlot’s shadows.

“Right over there.” Jo pointed out a set of sagging bleachers. “That’s where I carved my initials, front row on the left. My own VIP seat. Every weekend Pop and I would come here and watch my brothers play. I tell ya, we missed a heap of Sunday Masses, but never a Saturday game.” She jiggled the rocks in her hand as if seasoned at throwing dice. Even TJ would think twice before going up against her in back-alley craps. “One day the coach got so tired of me nagging about wanting to hit, he put me in. Thought it would shut me up.”

“Well, obviously that didn’t work.”

Without warning, she flung a pebble that TJ barely dodged.

“And that, buster, was with my left arm.”

TJ shook his head. A quiet laugh shot from his mouth as he dared to follow her.

On the sorry excuse of a mound, level as the Sierra Madres, Jo planted her loafer-clad feet. A pitcher’s stance. She transferred the rocks, save for one, into her coat pocket. With her right hand, she drew back and slung the stone at her target, the lid of a soup can dangling from the batter’s cage. Plunk. The tin rattled against the warped and rusted fence.

Not bad. For a girl.

“So, how’d you make out?” he asked. “Up at bat?”

“Walked,” she said with disdain. “A beanball to the leg.” She flipped her cap backward with a sharp tug and set her shoulders. Sent out another nugget. Plunk. “My brother Otis was pitching. Told his buddies he wanted to teach me a lesson, which was baloney. He was terrified of his little sister scoring a home run off him.” She wound up and threw at the lid again, as hard as her expression. Another bull’s-eye. Three for three. Without daylight.

TJ tried to look unimpressed. “How long ago all this happen?”

“I dunno. Eight, maybe nine years back.”

A smirk stretched his lips. “And … you’re still holding a grudge?”

She pondered this briefly, rubbing a fourth stone with her thumb. “Irish blood,” she concluded. “Forgiving wasn’t exactly passed down by our ancestors.”

TJ, too, had a dash of Irish mixed into his hodgepodge of European descent. Perhaps this explained his shallow well of forgiveness. He dreaded to think what other traits he’d inherited from his father.

Averting the thought, he focused on the road that had delivered them there. “I gotta get back.”

“No,” Jo said.

He turned to her. “No?”

“Not till I show you why I brought you here.” She tossed her rock aside and sat on the mound. Then she slapped the dirt beside her twice, peering at him expectantly.

He scrunched his face. “Um, yeah. As nice as it would be to hang out and tell ghost stories, I do need to get some studying done.” His future at the university sadly depended on it.

“Two minutes and we’ll go.”

“Jo, I really need—”

“Would you stop your moanin’ and take a load off?”

Clearly arguing would get him nowhere. And he couldn’t very well leave a girl, no matter how self-reliant, alone at night in a deserted park. Safety aside, it was just plain rude.

“All right,” he muttered, “but make it quick.” He took a seat on the packed slope.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Now, lie back.”

“What?”

She groaned at him. “Just do it.”

Concerned by her intentions, he didn’t move. The two of them had never really hit it off, but if any other girl had invited him to cozy up like this, he’d know where it was leading.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she spat as if reading his thoughts. Then she lay back, head on her hands, convincing him to recline.

The coolness of the ground soaked through his clothing, sparking a shudder. “Now what?”

“Relax.” She took a leisurely breath. “And look up.”

He cushioned his neck with his fist and dragged his gaze toward the sky. The lens of his vision adjusted, intensifying the spray of white specks. Clear as salt crystals on an endless black table. Were the stars tonight brighter than usual? Or had it simply been that long since he’d paid notice?

Within seconds, everything else faded away. He was suspended in space, floating among those specks like he’d dreamed of as a kid. He was an adventurer visiting other galaxies, a fearless explorer. There were no responsibilities anchoring him in place. And for the first time since he could remember, TJ felt free.

“This is what I wanted to show you.” Jo’s voice, like gravity, yanked him back to earth. Again, he lay in the old ballpark. “My pop,” she went on, “he knew everything about the stars. Was a big hobby for him. He’s the one who taught me about constellations making up pictures and whatnot.”

“Yeah?” TJ said. “Like what?”

She gave him a skeptical side-glance. Seeming satisfied by his sincerity, she raised her arm and pointed. “You see those three running up and down in a row?” She waited for him to respond.

“I see ’em.”

“Well, they’re the belt hanging on Orion, the hunter. And next to it, right there, are three more dots that make the line of his sword.” She picked up speed while motioning from one area to the next. “Above him is Taurus, that’s the bull he’s fighting, and on the left are his guard dogs. The lower one is Canis Major, and the star at the top of it is Sirius. That’s the brightest star in the night sky. Believe it or not, it’s almost twice as bright as the next brightest star ….” Not until she trailed off and cut to his gaze did he realize he was staring at her. “Swell.” She looked away. “Now you think I’m a nut job.”

“Actually, I was thinking …” He was thinking that he’d never noticed what a pretty face she had. Had a naturalness about her. She wasn’t one for wearing makeup, and he sort of liked that—though he wasn’t about to say it. “I was wondering how you remember so much about all of them. The constellations, I mean.”

“Oh. Well. I don’t remember them all. Those are just some of my favorites.”

“What’s so special about them? Compared to the others?”

She lifted a shoulder, signs of embarrassment having fallen away. “I like that they have a whole story. Plus, you can see them from anywhere in the world. It’s kinda nice, don’t you think? Some stranger in a faraway country’s gotta be looking at those very shapes right now.”

Jo turned back to the sky, and after a beat, she quietly added, “Mostly, though, I guess they remind me of my dad. I like to think of him as Sirius, the brightest one. Way up there, watching over me and my brothers.”

Normally TJ would bolt from a moment like this, averse to poking and prodding, yet he felt compelled to hear more. “What exactly happened to your parents?”

“Depends. Which version you lookin’ for?”

He understood the dry response. The local rumor mill had churned out plenty of whoppers about his own family, so he didn’t give much credence to anything he’d heard about Jo’s. When she and her brothers moved into town, to live with their granddad, stories had spread like wildfire. Some claimed her mother ran off with another guy, supposedly a traveling missionary from Canada; others said friendly fire took out her father during the Great War. TJ could have asked Maddie for the real dope, after the girls met in junior high, but he hadn’t considered it any of his business.

Probably still wasn’t.

He decided to nix his question, but then Jo up and answered.

“Plain truth is, my ma died while giving birth to my brother Sidney. I was only two, so I don’t remember much about her, outside her photo. As for Pop … on the dock where he was working, some wire on a crane broke loose. A load of metal pipes dropped. Folks said he pushed another fella outta the way and that’s why he bought it. Wanna know the screwy thing? It wasn’t even his shift. He was filling in for another guy who’d come down with the flu.” A sad smile crossed her lips. But then she heaved a sigh, and the moisture coating her eyes seemed to evaporate at will. “Just goes to show you. Of the things we’re able to control, death sure ain’t one of them.”

“Pffft, right.” The remark slipped out.

Jo angled her face toward his. She hesitated before asking, “You wanna talk about it? About your parents?” The glow of the moon highlighted a softness in her features. She looked at him with such profound understanding that he genuinely felt the relief of someone sharing his burden.

The cost of the moment, however, was remembering.

Suddenly that horrific night, usually flashing in pieces, stacked like a solid wall of bricks. He closed his eyes and the emergency room flew up around him. His father lay in a hospital bed, forehead and shoulder bandaged, gauze spotted with blood. Bourbon oozing from his pores.

Once he’s conscious, we’ll need him for questioning, the policeman said. There was an accusation in his voice. When TJ’s mind stopped spinning, he found himself in the passenger seat of the officer’s car. Rain hammered the roof as they drove through the streets, shrouded in darkness. With every passing headlight, he saw his father’s sedan winding down the canyon road, colliding with the oncoming truck. He imagined the spontaneous sculpture of bloodied bodies and twisted metal, saw the New Year’s Eve party the couple had left only minutes before the accident.

Cars honked in ignorant celebration as TJ mounted the steps to the morgue. Round and round “Auld Lang Syne” played in his head as the coroner pulled back the sheet—Should old acquaintance be forgot—and TJ nodded once in confirmation. If not for her gray pallor, the absence of breath, his mother could have been sleeping. A doctor arrived to identify the other driver, a widower lacking a family member to do the honors. We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet … TJ drifted out the doors. He thought of Maddie, and the task of telling her the news when she returned full of laughter and tales from her group holiday concert in San Francisco.

It had been at that moment, outside the morgue with drizzle burning cold down his face, that TJ swore two things: He would protect his sister at all costs; and he would never, for anything in the world, forgive his father for what he did.

“Maybe it would help,” Jo said, “if you talked about it.” The tender encouragement opened TJ’s eyes. “I know it helped me an awful lot when I finally did that with Gramps.”

A sense of comfort washed over TJ, and he couldn’t deny wanting to purge the memories. But how could he put those images into words? And how could Jo truly relate? Her dad was a hero; his own, a murderer. Sure, an inconclusive investigation had prevented any charges—whether it was the truck driver or his father who’d crossed the median, whether booze or the slick road was to blame.

Yet to TJ, the key evidence lay in his father’s reclusion and, more than that, his inability to look his children in the eye.

Jo kept watching, in wait of an answer.

“Another time,” he said, almost believing it himself.

She twisted her lips and nodded thoughtfully.

Rising to his feet, he extended a hand to help her up. She dusted off the back of her overalls, her peacoat. “Home?” she asked.

“Home,” he replied, the word sounding distant and hollow.

13

The morning crept by, chained at the ankles. Lane stole another glimpse at his watch. Don’t worry, he told himself. She’ll be here. She’ll be here.

For three nights in a row, the same scenario had plagued his dreams. Clear as the aqua sky now overhead—unique weather for a Seattle winter, according to passersby—he had visualized himself in this very spot. On a platform at Union Station, waiting futilely for his fiancée’s arrival.

To quell his concerns, he had contemplated phoning her again from his dorm. Yet calling without warning meant the possibility of reaching TJ or Beatrice and raising unwanted suspicions. Thankfully the charade would soon be over. At last he could tell her brother the truth—presuming cold feet hadn’t kept Maddie from boarding her train.

Although Lane tried to dismiss it, he’d sensed her uncertainty, both at the beach and on the phone. And how could he blame her? A sudden rush to the altar should rightly cause reservations. He just hoped her love for him would be powerful enough to conquer any doubts.

Excited murmurs swirled. A train appeared in the distance, chuffing on tracks that led toward Lane. An eternity bloomed, then wilted, before the dusty locomotive chugged to a standstill. A cloud of steam shot out like an exhale of relief, of which he felt none.

He bounced his heel on the weather-stained concrete, hands fidgeting in his trench coat pockets. Minutes later, passengers poured from the coaches. Men in suits and fedoras, ladies in coats and brimmed hats. Lane’s gaze sifted through the commotion. Families and friends reunited. Children squealed, set free to release their bundled energy. At a faraway glance, he mistook a lady for Maddie, clarified when the stranger angled in his direction. He rose up on the balls of his feet for a better view. But still no sign of her.

Lane confirmed with the conductor that this was the overnighter from Los Angeles—both good and poor news. Could she have missed her train, taken another?

The likelihood of the more obvious taking hold, dread rushed through him. Somehow only with Maddie at his side did defying his parents make sense. Fighting the muzzle that would bind his future to a stranger would require, while hopefully only temporary, a break from his family. Without a strong incentive, rebellion would be hard to justify. Even to himself.

Once more, Lane reviewed the train cars. The crowd was thinning, hope growing sparse. What was he to do now?

He started toward the station’s Great Hall, needing to regroup, to process, until a sight ensnared him.

Maddie …

In a burgundy suit jacket and skirt, she lugged a suitcase down the steps of the lead coach. Sunlight added radiance to her creamy skin, her swaying auburn hair. She spotted Lane and sent an enthusiastic wave.

Grinning, he hastened to meet her. He picked her up and held her close, savoring the fragrance of her jasmine perfume. It flowed like her music into his heart. That’s where he’d stored every note she had played at her last performance. Her movements had been so entrancing; if not for Jo nudging him to applaud, he’d have forgotten that TJ, or anyone else in the audience, was there.

“Gosh, I’m so sorry you had to wait.” She spoke with a lingering panic as he set her down. “I almost missed my connection, so I didn’t have time to check my baggage. Which was fine, until the darn latch caught on a seat while I was carrying it off and my clothes scattered all over the aisle. People offered to help, but I just couldn’t accept. My undergarments and nightdress were in there and …” She put a gloved hand to her face. “Good grief, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

He rubbed her blushing cheek with his thumb and shook his head. “You’re perfect.”

When she smiled, he drew her in for a kiss. Her lips tasted of mint, their texture like Japanese silk. But even more wondrous, he sensed a new comfort in her display of affection. From the discovery came an instant desire to sweep her off to their hotel. It was an urge he would have followed if not for the importance of one other stop.

He pulled his head back and Maddie slowly opened her eyes. “So, Miss Kern,” he said as though suggesting an afternoon stroll, “how would you feel about tying the knot today?”

A knock announced the message: It was time.

“I’ll be right out,” Maddie called to the closed door. She finished smoothing her hair in the tall oval mirror and straightened her suit jacket. Dust motes danced like fireflies in the spill of light through the window. A four-poster bed, two Victorian chairs, and a square table with a bowl of peppermint candies filled the makeshift dressing room, leaving little space for her nerves to jump and jitter.

Another rap sounded on the door.

What was the hurry? There weren’t any other couples when they arrived here, a minister’s residence on the outskirts of the city. A few more minutes to prepare for this momentous step seemed reasonable enough.

On the other hand, eliminating time to dwell would be wise. Little good would come of imagining the very different wedding she had pictured as a child, with the smashing gown and mile-long veil, the church pews teeming with friends. And most of all, her mother’s sweet fussing, her father’s arm to guide her.

“May I?” Lane asked, poking his head in.

“Of course.”

Inside, he shut the door with his heel. Approaching her, he paused and tilted his head in concern. “Is something wrong?”

Pondering her parents must have left clues in her expression—signs Lane could mistake for second thoughts on marriage. “I just thought it was bad luck,” she said quickly, “seeing each other before the wedding.”

“I didn’t think you believed in old wives’ tales.”

“Better to play it safe, don’t you think?” In truth, she didn’t want to taint their day with mentions of past sorrows. “Honey, you need to go. The ceremony will be starting.”

“Without us?” His eyes gleamed. “Now, pick a hand.”

Until then, she hadn’t noticed he held his arms behind his back. “What is it?”

“Pick a hand,” he repeated.

Neither of his bent elbows gave a hint. “I don’t know. This one.” She tapped his right shoulder. He flashed an empty palm.

“Now which one?”

“Lane,” she grumbled.

He laughed softly before presenting her the gift. A bundle of peach roses, each bud a flourish of perfection. White ribbons bound the thorn-less stems.

“Can’t be a bride without a bouquet,” he told her.

She barely deciphered his words. The flowers in her hand, their reminiscent color and scent, pinned her focus. “These roses,” she breathed, “they were …”

“Your mom’s favorite,” he finished when her voice faltered.

She nodded, amazed he had logged away such a detail.

“And let me tell you”—he smiled—“they weren’t the easiest things to find in Seattle in December.” Growing more serious, he moved her hair off her collar. His fingers brushed past the side of her neck. “But I thought you might want something of your mother with you today.”

The bittersweet sentiment tightened Maddie’s throat, just as he added, “I’ve got one more thing for you.”

What could possibly top what he had given her?

To her surprise, he went to the door and signaled to someone in the next room. The recorded notes of a solo violin entered the air with a slight crackle. Bach’s Chaconne. It was the final movement of his Second Partita, by far among his grandest works. Which was why Maddie’s father used to listen to it on their phonograph so often. Somehow the piece had slipped through her repertoire.

She felt moisture gather in her eyes, unaware a tear had fallen until Lane returned to her and wiped it away. “Thank you,” she said, unable to verbalize the scale of what the presents meant to her. She leaned in for a kiss, but he gently put a finger to her lips.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

Maddie beamed in agreement, remembering the impending ceremony. Then a revelation struck. “Oh, no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t give you anything.”

“Yeah, you did,” he replied, confusing her. “You said yes.”

Such power lay in a single syllable. Yes. Scarcely a word, a reverse gasp really, it was an answer capable of forever altering the landscape of a person’s life. And yet, to Lane’s proposal of marriage, she would say it a hundred times over.

“I’ll be in the other room,” he said. “Come out whenever you’re ready.”

Once he’d left, she brought the bouquet to her nose. At the old fragrance of home, she recalled a memory of Lane and her family. A slow month at her dad’s shop had elevated nerves while they awaited a scholarship offer for TJ. A rise in the cost of Maddie’s lessons clearly hadn’t helped. Seated at supper, each Kern drifted so far into thought, no one realized Lane had built a tower of biscuits twelve layers high. Maddie was the first to notice his attempt to crack the tension. He gave her a knowing wink, a secret traded between them. By the time her family caught on and all broke into smiles, something small but deep in her had changed. In a single look, she’d finally seen Lane as more than her brother’s friend.

She held on to that moment now, a scene of the two of them surrounded by her family’s joy. It wasn’t hard to do, thanks to the gifts Lane had given—her mother’s favorite scent, her father’s beloved notes. She drank them in as she opened the door and headed for the aisle.

In what appeared to be a dining room, lacking a table to hinder the cozy space, she walked in time to the Chaconne; its harmonic middle section resembled a church-like hymn. A stained-glass cross glowed red, blue, and gold in the window. The watercolor of light projected a kaleidoscope over her open-toed heels, guiding her to Lane. Beside him, the Methodist minister waited, wrinkled as the leather Bible in his hand. The man’s wife looked on in delight from the corner, where she supervised the Victrola.

Bach continued to roll out the carpet of chords. Once Maddie turned to face Lane, the music miraculously faded from her mind, as did everything in the room but him. Lost in his eyes, she listened as he vowed to love, honor, and cherish her. In kind, she devoted herself through good times and bad, through sickness and health, till death would they part. She embraced him as their lips met, sealing her heart and name: Mrs. Madeline Louise Moritomo.

The day unfolded with more enchantment than Maddie had imagined possible.

Never one to break a promise, Lane had handled every detail from the marriage license to the rings, gold bands perfect in their simplicity. She wasn’t a fan of jewelry that would impede her playing, and he’d understood this without being told. He understood everything about her.

For their first night as newlyweds, Lane had reserved a hotel room downtown. The accommodations were going to be nice, he’d said. Nice. His tone was one Bea would use to describe a Mint Julep or Mrs. Duchovny’s son. Perhaps a little girl’s party dress with bells sewn into the petticoat. Nice didn’t come close to describing their gilded suite.

If not for Lane carrying Maddie over the threshold, she might have fainted in the marble entry. Splat. There went the bride.

What a story that would have made for the bellboy behind them balancing their luggage. As Lane directed the placement of their belongings, Maddie explored the lavish furnishings. Copper-hued satin draped from the ceiling in a waterfall of luxury over an enormous bed. Claw-footed chairs flanked an oversized window. At the center of the framed view, a burnished sun slid behind a train station. The building had inarguably been modeled after the Campanile di San Marco. In high school, she had studied the famed bell tower of Italy. The redbrick structure boasted an arched belfry, a pyramidal spire, and a cube displaying images of lions and the female symbol of Venice, La Giustizia. Justice.

Somehow, a time machine had zapped Maddie into the drawing room of Giovanni Gabrieli. No wonder the Venetian composer had contributed such significant works to the High Renaissance. With a view like this, motets and madrigals must have flowed like water from his quill.

“What do you think?” Lane’s arms looped her waist from behind. “Not a shabby way to kick off a marriage, huh?”

Rooted back in reality, she noticed the bellboy was gone. She and Lane were alone. In a room where all barriers would soon be removed, her nervousness strummed.

“It’s marvelous here,” she said, gently breaking away. She retreated to the curtains, projecting a fascination with the embossed ivy and fleur-de-lis pattern. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go someplace else, though? This must be costing a fortune.”

“Well,” he drew out. “It does help that I secretly rob banks for a living. Including my father’s.”

She kept her eyes on the fabric and felt him getting closer. “Really, Lane, I didn’t expect all this extravagance.”

Right behind her again, he stroked the back of her hair. Each strand tingled as he offered a level explanation. “When I was in high school, my father put some funds in the bank for me, a nice start for after college. Of course, you and I will have to find a modest home at first. But that’ll change, once my internship turns into more. Or I’ll find an even better opportunity near Juilliard.”

It suddenly hit her that she hadn’t considered any details past their nuptials—where or how they would live, before and after his graduation. Everything had happened with the force and urgency of a tornado. Besides thoughts of her father, the sole concern crouching in the back of her consciousness had been her brother.

As far as TJ knew, she was traveling with Jo to visit the Allisters’ cousins in Sacramento for the weekend. To cover her bases, she’d told Jo she would be away for a performance. This time, more than any other, she’d despised fibbing. She just couldn’t jeopardize complicating her decision with others’ opinions. Better to ease them into the news once all was solidified.

Lane turned her around with care. “All of that,” he said, “we can talk about later. This is our wedding night, and I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “Just know, I’m going to take care of you, Maddie. So long as we’re together, the rest will work out.”

The assertion cradled her, as solid and real as the throbbing of his heart. With every beat, the trust he had nurtured expanded, pressing down her defenses.

She linked her hands behind his neck and brought him to her. Lane trailed kisses across her cheek, into the curve of her neck. A soft moan escaped her. No longer would they hide in the darkness of a drive-in, shadowed by worries of who might see. From the freedom they’d been granted—in the eyes of God and the law—she yearned to be closer than ever before.

Sensibility, nonetheless, reminded her to do this right. She forced herself to pull away from the magnetism of his hold. “I’d better freshen up,” she rasped.

He paused before yielding a nod, his breathing heavy.

Regaining her composure, she slipped into the bathroom fit for a palace. Steam crawled up the mirrors as water filled the porcelain tub. She unboxed a bar of honey-milk soap and, when the bath was ready, twisted off the faucets. In the vaporous space dripping with gold and marble, she removed her clothes, then remembered. She’d left her nightgown in her suitcase.

Drat.

A problem, yes, but easily remedied. She threw on a plush hotel robe from the door hook. To fetch her garment, she would sprint both to and from her luggage. That was the plan, anyhow, until she stepped into the room, its fabric-lined walls aglow with candles on the nightstand.

“Thirsty?” Lane’s voice came gently from the side, inches from her ear. The smell of champagne sweetened his breath. Candlelight flickered over his bare chest and down the muscles of his stomach. At the sight of his pajama pants, relief battled disappointment, her curiosity swelling.

She ignored the flute of champagne in his hand and ran her fingers along the contours of his shoulders. For years, while he and TJ played basketball at the park, she had witnessed a younger, leaner version of this very chest, these same arms. She’d pumped away on the swings, on a pendulum in her own universe. That girl had no inkling that one day the touch of his skin would ignite passion that stole her breath.

Lane set aside his glass and led her to the bed. When he lowered her onto the cream comforter, billowy with down, she closed her eyes. His fingers traced the collar of her robe and edged the fabric away from her body. Her breasts prickled from a tepid draft of air. Her mind grew dizzy approaching the act she knew little about, outside scandalous passages from a book Jo once swiped from beneath an older brother’s mattress.

“My nightdress,” Maddie murmured, recalling her mission.

Sensing his movements had stopped, she lifted her lids and discovered him gazing at her, his head propped on an elbow. A tender smile crinkled the skin bordering his eyes. “I don’t think you’ll need it,” he said. “But if you’re saying you want to slow down …”

The compassion in his voice soothed her unease, drawing her into another dimension like she’d thought only music could. She rose up and placed her mouth on his. Their bodies soon discovered a natural rhythm, and all reservations fell into an abyss. For it was here, safe in the heat of his arms, Maddie came to believe anything was possible. The rest of the world be damned.

Like their night of lovemaking, waking up next to Maddie—his wife—surpassed any expectation. Lane never wanted to leave the surreal bubble encasing them. Only from the incessant grumbling of his stomach did he agree to her suggestion that they venture out for a meal. It was, after all, almost noon.

With her arm hooked snugly around his, they emerged from the hotel. Once a block down, he pointed to a restaurant across the street. “That’s the one.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “It’s the fanciest diner in town.”

“Nope. Just the closest. I’m starving.”

She laughed. “Oh, and whose fault is that?”

He whispered in her ear, “I’m happy to take the blame. Last night was worth it.”

“And this morning,” she reminded him.

Her growing brazenness made him want to flip around and head straight back to their hotel room.

They’d make it a quick meal.

Inside the diner, the aroma of bacon caused his stomach to complain yet again. He led her to an empty booth by the window. The seats were easy to nab with so many customers clustered around a radio on the counter. Too late in the year to be listening to the play-by-play of a Rainiers game. The announcer must have been relating the latest of FDR’s policies. When else would a crackling transistor warrant this much attention?

Usually, Lane would join in, craving every word from the President’s mouth. But not today. “I’m ready to order when you are.”

“Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Let me see what they have at least.”

“Better make it snappy, ’cause my belly isn’t about to wait.”

“Jeez. What happened to chivalry? You are my husband now, aren’t you?”

“Hey, I swore to love and cherish. Never said anything about putting you before hunger.”

Mouth agape, she batted at his forearm, and they broke into laughter. When they settled into smiles, he clasped her fingers. She stared at their interwoven hands.

“Why do we have to go back to California?” she sighed. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

Lane mulled over the idea. It wasn’t impossible. He had plenty in savings to afford a couple more nights of heaven. “Who says we can’t?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I don’t have exams till Friday. And you said there’s nothing you have to rush home for.”

She studied him. “You’re serious.”

“What’s stopping us?”

“Well … I told TJ I’d be back tomorrow ….”

“So, you’ll send him a telegram and let him know you’re staying a few more days.”

She hesitated, taking the suggestion in. “I guess I could. But—I didn’t pack many clothes.”

He leaned forward and answered in a hushed tone. “Mark my words. I’ll make sure you don’t need any of them.”

Her eyes widened, looking embarrassed. Then a giggle won out.

“Well, what do you say, Mrs. Moritomo?” His finger rested on her wedding band. “Want to treat this like a real honeymoon?”

She bit her lip, her cheeks still blushing. At last she nodded in earnest.

“Good.” He grinned. “Now, let’s eat, so we can hurry back to the room.” He twisted around to find a waitress and muttered, “Isn’t anyone working here?”

Through the dozen or so people gathered across the room, Lane spied flashes of pastel-blue diner dresses behind the counter. He waved his hand to no avail. The gals were too far away for a polite holler. Rising, he groaned before his gut could beat him to it.

“I’ll go get someone,” he told Maddie. As he moved closer to the group, mumbles gained clarity.

“Dear God.”

“How many were there?”

“What does this mean?”

He sidled up to a bearded stranger in back of the bunch. A faded denim shirt labeled the man approachable. “What’s going on?” Lane asked.

The guy answered without turning. “We been bombed,” he said in a daze of disbelief. “They’ve finally gone and done it.”

“Bombed? What are you talking about? Where?”

“Hawaii. They blasted our Navy clear outta the water.” The man shook his head. “We’re going to war, all right. No way around it.”

“But who?” Lane demanded. “Who did it?”

The guy angled toward Lane, mouth opening to reply, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes sharpened with anger that seemed to restore his awareness. “You oughta know,” he seethed. “Your people are the ones who attacked.”

The train’s whistle stretched out in the tone of an accusation. Once the locomotive had cleared the claustrophobia of Seattle’s looming buildings, Maddie forced her gaze up. The Saturday Evening Post lay limply on her lap. She’d absorbed nothing of the articles. Their print, like the universe, had blurred into smears of confusion.

She scanned the coach without moving her head. Her neck had become an over-tightened bow. Her wide-brimmed, tan-colored hat served as an accessory of concealment. Suspicious glares, however, targeted the suited man beside her: Lane, who hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel. Lane, who could always be counted on for a smile. A guy who could conjure solutions like Aces from a magician’s sleeve.

Lane, her husband. The word hadn’t yet anchored in Maddie’s mind, and already dreams for their marriage were being stripped away.

In the window seat, he swayed with the rattling train car. A dull glaze coated his eyes as he stared through the pane. She yearned to console him, to tell him he wasn’t to blame. The Japanese pilots who’d decimated Pearl Harbor, a place she had heard of only that morning, had nothing to do with him.

You’re an American, she wanted to say, as American as I am, and we’ll get through this together.

But the sentence wound like a ball of wire in her throat, tense as the air around them. Any utterance would carry the projection of a scream in the muted coach. Helpless for an alternative, she inched her hand over to reunite with his. She made a conscious effort to evade scrutinizers’ eyes. Closure around Lane’s fingers jarred him from his reverie and he turned to face her. A warm half-smile rewarded her gesture. Then he glanced up as though recalling their audience, and the corners of his mouth fell. He squeezed her palm once, a message in the release, before leaning away.

For the rest of the trip, this was how they remained. Divided by a wall they’d had no say in constructing. Through the night hours, she heard him toss and turn on the berth beneath her; through the daylight hours, his gaze latched onto the mountains and valleys hurtling past.

Upon their debarking in Los Angeles, the contrast between Friday and Monday struck her like a slap. It seemed mere moments ago when she had stood on this platform, the same suitcase at her feet. Yet everything had since changed.

“Extra, extra!” the paperboy in the station hollered. “U.S. going to war! Read all about it!” His pitch carried easily over the graveness of the crowd. In small huddles, customers followed his order with newspapers propped in their hands. Headlines blared in thick black letters.

“Do you want me to come home with you?” Maddie asked Lane as they exited the station. The rustiness of her voice underscored the length of their silence.

“Nah, you’d best get home.”

“Are you sure?”

“Your brother’s got to be worried about you. It’s better if I check on my family alone.”

Of course. Nobody back here knew about their secret excursion. Now was hardly the time to announce their blissful news.

Lane added, “I’ll have a cab drop you on the way to my house, all right?”

She agreed, relieved they’d be together a little longer before facing the unknown.

A peaceful sunset glowed orange and pink as they approached the taxi stop. Lane swung open the back door of a Checker cab, inviting Maddie to slide in. He ducked in after her to take his seat.

“Whoa there, buddy!” the driver called out. “Uh-uh, no way. I ain’t driving no Jap.”

Lane became a statue, one leg in, one out.

“You heard me, pal!” The cabbie white-knuckled his steering wheel. Bystanders paused to observe the scene, pointing, not bothering to whisper.

“It’s okay,” Maddie assured the driver, “we’re getting out.” She scooted back toward Lane, who blocked her from rising.

“No,” he told her. “You go ahead.”

“But, Lane …”

“I’ll take the next one.”

“Well—what if they won’t—”

“Then I’ll ride the bus.”

The driver’s steely look bounced off the rearview mirror. “You goin’ or not, lady? Make up your mind.”

Lane tenderly touched her chin. “Honey, don’t worry. I’ll swing by as soon as I can.” The surety in his tone caused her to relent. She made room for him to place her suitcase beside her. He had barely closed the door when the cabbie screeched away with the speed and power of fear.

Maddie strained to keep Lane in her view until the taxi veered around a corner. Grip on her luggage, she sat back in her seat.

Seven days, she told herself as they rumbled down streets that now felt foreign. In seven days God had created the Earth. In a single day mankind had turned it upside down.

14

Free hand curled into a fist, TJ waited for the call to connect. Any more pacing and his shoes would leave a permanent groove in the floor. His ear felt feverish against the metal receiver. Behind him in the living room, a floor model radio delivered seeds of hysteria. The quiet of dusk amplified the man’s reports: mandated blackouts, potential sub sightings, a climbing toll of Navy casualties, a list of precautions to keep families safe.

At last came a buzzing on the line. Years lingered between each ring.

“Answer it,” TJ snapped.

Another ring … and another …

“Allisters.” It was one of Jo’s brothers, didn’t matter which. They all sounded alike.

“It’s TJ Kern. I was wondering—”

“Who?” The question competed with chaotic conversations in the background.

“TJ,” he repeated louder.

“You callin’ about the meeting?”

“Meeting?” TJ said, thrown off.

“The block meeting.” The guy sounded annoyed. “For standing guard at the beaches. We’re figuring out shifts. You wanna come, we’ll pick you up on the way.”

Jesus. Were enemies invading the coast? TJ had never even held a rifle before. Apparently it was time he learned.

“Uh, yeah. Okay.”

“Fine. See ya soon.”

Then TJ recalled his greater concern. “Wait, don’t hang up.”

A mumbled response trickled through, indiscernible amid the noise.

“I was looking for Maddie. I know she and Jo were supposed to be up north, visiting—”

“Hang on.” He yelled in a muffle, “Shut your traps, will ya?” The volume lowered half a notch. “Now, what’re you sayin’?”

TJ rubbed his thumb over the knuckle of his fist, bridling his own annoyance. “I was asking about Jo.”

“Hey, Jo! Phone’s for you!” TJ winced from the guy hollering into the mouthpiece. A rustling and a clunk followed.

As TJ waited, relief swept over him. Jo was back in town. That meant Maddie must have stopped over at the Allisters’ on the way home.

“Hello?”

“Jo. Thank God. Is Maddie still there?”

“TJ, is that you? Here, let me go in the other room.” More sounds of rustling with the handset and cord, then the chatter dimmed. “I swear, I can’t hear myself think in this place.”

No wonder she retreated to the ballpark to find some peace.

“I was just trying to find Maddie,” he said, “since I hadn’t heard from her yet.”

“Oh. I don’t know. She didn’t tell me what time she’d be home from her trip.”

“I—don’t understand. Didn’t you two travel together?”

“Together? No. Why’s that?”

He wasn’t in the mood for razzing, if that’s what this was. “To visit your cousins. In Sacramento.” The lengthy pause reinstated his panic. “Jo, where the hell’s my sister?”

He heard her exhale, at a loss. “I don’t know, TJ…. I don’t know.”

“I repeat,” the broadcaster declared, “we are in a state of emergency. Authorities recommend that everyone stay inside and tune in for further details.”

A state of emergency. The death count rising.

In a combustive flash, he saw his father on the hospital bed. His mother lay lifeless on a silver table so shiny he could make out his own reflection. The memory of rain pelted his eardrums, interrupted by the screech of brakes.

But that screech was real. A fresh sound. He turned to the window.

“TJ? You there?” Jo said.

Maddie was stepping out of a taxi in a coat and hat, yet relief had no chance of regaining its footing. “She’s here,” he said, and slammed the handset onto the cradle. The bell inside pinged.

TJ faced the door with arms crossed. Air labored through his nose. He was a bull preparing to charge.

She didn’t see him until she’d closed the door behind her and set down her case. Her demeanor shrank beneath his gaze.

“Where the hell have you been? And don’t you dare lie to me again.”

Flushing, she fumbled for a reply.

“There’s a goddamned war going on out there. You understand that? Got any idea what that means?”

She straightened, lifting her chin in feeble defiance. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Yeah? Then why don’t you prove it by telling me where you’ve really been.” He pressed her with a hard stare.

“I … think we should discuss this later. When you’ve had a chance to calm down.”

The challenge to his temper only inflamed it more. “Well, that ain’t gonna happen for a while. So why don’t you start explaining yourself.”

She locked on his eyes and replied firmly. “You’re not my father, TJ.”

“You’re right. But maybe I shoulda been. I guarantee, then, you wouldn’t be traipsing all over the place with God-knows-who, doing—” An impossible sight cut through his words. A gold band gleamed from Maddie’s finger. Her wedding finger.

She wouldn’t … couldn’t have. Yet the evidence was smack in front of him.

“You got married?” he breathed.

Her gaze fell to the ring. The answer was clear. What he didn’t understand was why. Why’d she run off and elope? Why’d she keep it from him? His mind seized the most obvious reason, and the air in his lungs turned to lead.

“Maddie, are you pregnant?”

Her forehead bunched. “Oh, God, no.” She gave an insistent shake of her head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” She reached for his arm, but he moved backward.

TJ wanted to feel grateful, but all he could think about was which asshole was responsible. Which one would trade a girl’s innocence for lustful kicks. Why else would a guy have persuaded her to sneak around? Anyone with good intentions would have been up-front, not treated her like a dirty secret. Like a mistress. Like a whore.

He muscled down the thoughts. Left to roam free they just might unlock the cage inside, setting loose the constant rage that prowled back and forth behind the bars.

A succession of honks summoned his face toward the window. The silhouette of a pickup appeared, its headlights off.

“Come on, Kern! Let’s move it!” Jo’s brothers, plus a few other neighbors, crammed the truck from cab to bed. The fading sunset outlined their rifles pointed straight at heaven.

TJ grabbed his jacket from the coat tree. With any luck, he could take his fury out on an enemy bomber orphaned from its flock.

“Where are you going?” Maddie asked as he headed for the door. “TJ …,” she pleaded.

In need of escape, he simply walked out.

15

From the far corner of the lawn, Lane stared at the crime scene, his senses gone numb. No lights shone through the windows. By government order, darkness draped the city.

Men in black trench coats, black hats, even blacker eyes, swam in and out through the front door. They carried boxes off the small porch and down the driveway, loaded them into two old Packards with rear suicide doors.

FBI agents.

He recognized their type from the picture shows. That’s what this had to be—a movie set. It wasn’t real. At any moment, the word Cut! would boom from a director’s horn and Cecil B. DeMille would leap from the trimmed hedges.

“Sir, you’re gonna have to clear out.” The man approached him on the grass. His features were like Gary Cooper’s, but spread over an elongated face.

When Lane didn’t respond, the guy sighed, took another tack. “I can see you’re concerned about the family. But right now, they’re part of an investigation. So I gotta ask you to move on till we’re done. I know you people like your privacy, and I’m sure the Moritomos are no different.”

The mention of his surname—Moritomo, how did the fellow know that?—tore Lane from the surreal dimension of his hopes. There would be no intermission between reels, no velvet curtains or salted popcorn. Dramas crafted for the silver screen were morphing into the reality of his life.

“Listen, pal.” The agent planted a fist on his hip. “I’ve asked you nicely, but if you’re not gonna abide—”

“They’re mine.” Lane’s reply emerged with so little power he barely heard it himself. “The family in there is mine.”

The man studied him and licked his bottom lip. He nodded toward the house. “Well, then you’d better go in. Agent Walsh will have some questions for you.”

Lane scarcely registered the path he traveled that led him into the foyer. He was a driver after a weary day who had blinked and discovered he’d already reached his destination.

“Onsan!” Emma came running. She latched onto his waist. Her little body trembled.

He set down his suitcase to rub the crown of her head. “What’s going on, Em? Where’s Papa?”

She peeked over her shoulder and pointed toward the kitchen. Her manner indicated that the monster trapped in her closet had found a way out. Lane knelt on the slate and clasped his sister’s hands. It dawned on him how rapidly she had grown. He once could cover her entire fist with his palm. “You go to your room while I figure out what’s happening, okay?”

“But those men, they keep going in there.”

“Your bedroom?”

She nodded with a frown. “They’re looking through all my stuff. They took Papa’s work books, and his radio, and his camera. Some of my Japanese tests too—even though I don’t care about that.” Then, cupping her mouth, she whispered, “I hid Sarah Mae so they couldn’t find her.”

He was about to assure her that the doll he’d given her two Christmases ago wouldn’t be in jeopardy. But who knew what they were looking for, or what other absurd belongings they would confiscate.

“Good thinking,” he told her. “Now, you just sit on the stairs here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Reluctantly, she stepped back and sat on the middle step. She gripped the bars of the banister and watched him through a gap.

Lane paused while passing the parlor. Cushions of their empire couch had been slashed. Its stuffing poured out like foam. Scraps of papers dappled the rug. His father’s prized katana swords had been pillaged from the wall.

A man’s husky voice, presumably Agent Walsh’s, led Lane into the kitchen. An oil lamp on the table soaked the room in yellow.

“You’re not lying to me, are you, folks?” The guy, thick with a double chin and a round belly obscuring his belt, loomed over Lane’s parents, who sat stiff and humble in their chairs. He held up a small laughing Buddha statue. “’Cause I don’t want to wonder what else you might be hiding from me.”

“We telling the truth,” Lane’s father insisted politely, taking obvious care to pronounce his words. “We Christians. Not Buddhists. Christians. This only Hotei-san.”

“This is what?” Walsh said.

“Hotei,” Lane replied, turning them. “It’s a lucky charm. My mother brought it from Japan when they first moved here.”

“Uh-huh. And who might you be?”

“I’m their son.”

“Is that right,” Walsh said slowly, and glanced at Lane’s father. “I was told you were away at a university. How ’bout that, now?”

Lane fought to control his tone. If his dad possessed any trait, it was integrity. “My train just got in. With a war starting, I thought I should be with my family.”

“Sure, sure. I understand,” the agent said, as though not accusing. He returned to Lane’s mother in a gentle appeal. “Got a family of my own. Nice, pretty wife, two kids. Boy and girl, just like yours. So I know how it is, wanting to do everything I can to protect them. Which is the reason we need to ask all these questions.” He put the decoration on the coffee table and motioned at Lane. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” The arrogance of his invitation, implying a staked claim on the house, bristled the tiny hairs on Lane’s neck.

Due to alien land laws, and Asian immigrants being barred from citizenship, his father could only lease the place. Although it was common practice, Lane hadn’t felt right about purchasing it in his own name to bypass the rules. He preferred to change the system and guide society’s evolution.

That system, however, was turning out more flawed than Lane thought—starting with Agent Walsh, who eyed him, waiting for compliance.

“I’m fine standing,” Lane bit out.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m telling you to take a seat.”

“And I said I’m fine.”

Their invisible push and pull raised the temperature of the room.

“Takeshi, suwarinasai.” His father intervened, a stern command to sit.

Lane’s gaze shot to his mother. The woman would never stand for such humiliation. After all, they had nothing to hide. But she remained rigid, her eyes fixed on the agent’s dress shoes, another insult to their home. That’s when Lane remembered he, too, hadn’t taken his off.

“Boss,” a voice called out. The Gary Cooper agent entered the kitchen. “I think we got something here.”

Walsh accepted a stack of large creased pages. Flickers from the lamp concealed the content from Lane’s view. The man flipped through them and drew out a whistle. “So you like airplanes, do you, Mr. Moritomo?”

“Yes, yes.” Lane’s father perked with a touch of enthusiasm.

“American bombers … fighter planes … all kinds, looks like.”

“Yes, yes. I paint for, ee …” He searched for the word, found it. “Hobby. Is hobby.”

“Any chance you’ve been sharing some of these drawings with, oh I don’t know, friends back in Japan?”

Blueprints. That’s what they’d found. Blueprints for his model aircrafts. The same ones any kid could buy for a few nickels at Woolworth’s.

“This is ridiculous,” Lane blurted. “Are you trying to say my father’s a spy?”

Walsh crinkled the paper edges in his hands. “Better watch that tone, son.”

“I’m not your son. And my father’s not a criminal.” This wasn’t how America worked. Justice, democracy, liberty—these were the country’s foundational blocks that creeps like this kicked aside like pebbles.

Lane’s father stood up and yelled, “Takeshi! Damarinasai.”

“No,” Lane said, “I won’t be quiet. They can’t come in here and do this. We haven’t done anything. We’re not the enemy.” Holding his gaze, he implored his father to fight for the very ideals with which Lane had been raised. Yet the man said nothing. His Japanese roots had taken over, dictating his feudal servitude.

“Eh, Boss, we’re all set.” A third guy appeared. The brim of his fedora shaded his features from nostrils up. “Boss?”

Walsh relaxed his glower. “Yeah?”

“All the major contraband’s packed up.”

“Right.” He jerked his layered chin in Lane’s direction. “Then, let’s take him in.” The two other agents crossed the room, the faceless one pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

Lane’s stomach twisted. “What is this? You’re gonna arrest me?”

“Got a reason we shouldn’t?” Walsh said.

Gary Cooper raised a calming hand at his supervisor. “Al, you’re tired. You need some food, some sleep. Go on home and rest up. We got this.”

Walsh exhaled, rubbed his eyes. Eventually, he mumbled his concession and handed off the blueprints. He had just left the kitchen when Lane heard two metallic ripples. The third agent had handcuffed his father, explaining it as a formality.

“Nani ga atta no?” Lane’s mother demanded, now on her feet.

“We just need your husband for some more questioning,” the agent said. “He’ll be back by morning.”

“Shinpai suruna,” her husband assured her weakly as the men began escorting him out. “Shikata ga nai.”

Lane despised the old adage. It can’t be helped. No culture needed to be so damn passive.

“You can’t do this!” Lane marched behind them. “Where are you taking him?”

“The Justice Department will be in touch,” one of them answered, right as Emma charged down the stairs, begging him to stay.

“Papa, ikanaide.” She shook his bound arms. “Papa, Papa! Ittara dame!”

He offered her phrases of comfort that did little good. Then he turned to Lane and in Japanese stated in an even tone, “From now on, you are responsible for the family.”

These were his final words before being ushered into the backseat of the agents’ car, the last instructions before Emma chased them two full blocks. She wailed out useless pleas as her mother retreated into the dishevelment of their house. Neighbors peeked from windows.

Yet for Lane, none of this—not the groundless arrest, not his sister’s cries nor their mother’s isolation—caused the physical blow that came from the look in his father’s eyes. A look of utter shame.

16

She couldn’t stand the wait anymore.

Maddie threw her coat back on, not bothering to fasten the buttons. She had tried phoning Lane, to confirm he’d made it home. Then to warn him not to come over. But the calls wouldn’t go through. The only person she’d reached was Jo, who had more questions than Maddie felt up for. A third attempt to ring Lane’s house had failed. The chaos of the switchboard was likely the problem, the operator had said. Told her to try again after a spell.

Maddie, though, didn’t have time to spare. TJ could return at any minute—having gone to a meeting, Jo claimed. Right or wrong, TJ needed a chance to cool off before connecting her wedding band to Lane. And that’s precisely what would happen if the three of them shared an exchange. After the intimacy of her wedding night, how could she possibly hide her feelings in Lane’s presence?

In the morning, once TJ’s shock had settled, she could explain everything. Rarely did she deviate from tracks laid in reason. He knew this. He knew her.

At least the brother she used to know did.

Headed for Lane’s, she hurried from the house and down the front stairs. The tip of her shoe caught on the splintery bottom step, sending her tumbling. Exhaustion from the day wilted her body. No chance to rest. She heaved herself up and brushed off her gritty palms. A hole tore through her silk stockings, among the few she owned. Yet the misfortune had become a meaningless hiccup in the grand scheme.

She continued toward the street with a hindered stride. At this pace, the walk would stretch to a good twenty minutes, widening the opportunity for the guys to cross paths.

Should she go or stay? Which option would be worth the risk?

Frustrated by her own indecision, she wagered her hopes on a car approaching from the end of the long suburban street. The vehicle rumbled in and out of moonlight slanting between houses. Its chrome grille had the opened fish-mouth shape of a Buick’s.

“Lane, please be you.” She focused on the windshield, breath held.

“Are you all right, dearie?” a woman called. It was her elderly neighbor, leaning out from behind her screen door. “I was just watering my pansies in the window when I saw you take a fall.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” Maddie flung the reply behind her.

“I have some peroxide if you scraped yourself up. You remember what I told you about my nephew’s ankle, after he didn’t care for it properly. Ended up almost dying in the hospital.”

No matter how dire the situation, Maddie knew better than to entrap herself in the house of a person who took pride in enumerating worst-case scenarios.

“I appreciate the offer. But I’ll be okay.” Maddie stretched her neck toward the street.

“What are you doing out here, exactly? If you pardon my asking.”

“Just waiting for … a friend,” she said, at last determining that Lane—thank goodness—was the driver behind the wheel.

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