Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (8 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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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
T
he 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.”

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