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Authors: Kristina McMorris

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BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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“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.
“Ok
san.”
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
T
he 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
A
pprehension 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 hemline 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.
BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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