'Til Grits Do Us Part (27 page)

“Something else.” She shoved the paper closer. “He knows you like roses. Or he thinks you do.
Red
roses.” Meg tapped the pen against her chin thoughtfully. “He spray paints in red—if it's the same guy. Maybe the color red means something? Or at least it does to him?”

“I've thought about that. But I don't know what to do with it.” I raised my hands. “Any more than I do the copper shavings.”

“Well, keep it all in the back of your mind. And remember one thing.” She turned me to face her. “He wants you to ditch your fiancé and your wedding. For
him
.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I have no earthly idea.” Meg shook her head. “But it's pretty clear he's serious about it. So watch yourself.”

Breathe, Shiloh. Just breathe. Relax
.

I scooted forward and took a shaky sip of steaming green tea, its bitter, slightly fruity, earthy flavor reminding me of Japan. Which made my nerves relax a bit, inhaling memories of plum-blossom-strewn sidewalks and pulsing neon signs. A far cry from greasy chicken gizzards and deep-fried Pop-Tarts—which yes, I'd actually seen at a diner in town.

What I needed right now was to shake Staunton's gritty dust off my Prada heels and feel the blast of a Japanese subway on my face. The noise of busy sidewalks and the chirp at the black-and-white crosswalk. The low hum of the JR train as it skimmed along the coast, salty sea breeze blowing my hair.

Going somewhere. Far away from cow-ridden western Virginia.

Wait a second.

I grabbed the padded envelope and squinted at the address. Then I snatched up the Whatever-Bats CD case with a tissue and turned it over in my hand. Staring at the faded photo of the band members, one of whom boasted thick, stand-up hair like one of Mom's spider ferns.

And I tore open my purse, rummaging through it for my international phone card.

“Kyoko Morikoshi.” I tried to keep my voice down, but even so, I could still hear it over the clacking of keyboards and rattle of the old air-conditioning system. “Did you send me a
shuriken
? A very sharp one?”

“What? Hold on a second.”

From across the line something ripped in my ear, loud and grating. I pulled the receiver away. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Packing boxes. I need more tape.” Kyoko grunted, and the stiff tape made a groaning sound as she wrapped it around the box. Marker squeaked. “There. That one's done. So what's your question again?”

“A throwing star. Did you send one to my office?”

“Me? No.” She snorted.

Oh boy. The colors of the room rippled, as if I were seeing underwater. “But I asked my brother to. Did he?” Her voice sparked with sudden excitement. “Are you serious, Ro? He really sent it?”

“Does he live in Santa Clarita?” I growled.

“Yes! That's him! Wow, I'm so impressed!” Thumps muffled into the receiver as Kyoko apparently put down her stuff, snatching the phone closer. “Tell me—what brand is it? A Cold Steel?” she bubbled, excited. “I figured it was better for my bro to send it than mess with customs, but I didn't know if he'd really do it. So does it fit in your purse? And did he do the CD thing I told him?”

I just sat there in my chair, shaking my head back and forth. “I can't believe this. You know it's illegal for him to have one in California, don't you?”

Kyoko snorted. “Since when has Kentaro cared about illegalities? Please. That's the least of my worries right now. You got mugged, Ro! I told you this would happen if you didn't stay out of trouble.”

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?” I threw my hands up in the air.

“Move to a real town.” Kyoko enunciated her words with cold exactness. “Or at least stop hanging around weird places like Civil War battlefields.”

“Oh, and elementary schools?” I scooted my chair forward stiffly, stung. “I was doing my job when that guy snatched my purse, Kyoko. No different than you wandering around Okinawa.”

“I beg to differ. I didn't get mugged in Okinawa, did I?” I heard her scratch something on the side of the box, marker squeaking. “Although I got one mug of a sunburn on the beach. It still hurts.”

I wrapped the phone cord around my hand, staring up at a dried, dark red rose petal that had fallen onto the desk. Half hidden under folders. “Well, you're right about one thing. I'd love to move. And now that Adam's uncle is buying my house, it might be easier. Who knows? Maybe we can move to Harrisonburg about half an hour north of here—where Adam's college is.” I still sounded dubious. “Although it's not a whole lot bigger than Staunton. And it smells like dog food.”

“Dog food?”

“Harrisonburg's where they process the turkey and chicken parts. Like for Purina.”

“Ro-chan.” Kyoko sighed.

“Okay. Forget I said anything.” I scooted the rose petal into the trash. “But don't give me a hard time, okay? I'm doing the best I can. I just need a little time to make some sense out of things.”

“No, you need a bodyguard—and maybe a few more shuriken. But this is the best I can do for now.”

I felt myself smile despite my best efforts. “Well, thanks, Kyoko. For the…uh…thought, anyway. The CD case thing was clever. I guessed it had to be you once I saw the guy with the big hair. Some '80s band, I figured.”

“What?” Kyoko's shriek startled me so much I nearly dropped the phone. “Kentaro sent you my Judybats CD? I love that one! I knew I shouldn't have let him borrow it! Tell me, Ro—is it still in good shape? ‘Cause that's a limited-edition special release, and I paid big bucks for it. If he let anything happen to it, I'll…”

I tipped the phone to the side, Kyoko's ranting still blaring out, and met eyes with Meg in a grin as she headed out. Camera slung jauntily over one shoulder.

I was reaching to hang up when a crazy thought sprang into my mind, as jarring as if Phil the sportswriter had slapped me with the strap of his Cannon. Which, given his grumpy, hotheaded nature, he'd probably like very much.

“Kyoko.” I jerked the receiver closer to my mouth. “Let me ask you something. Do you still have any of my things from my old apartment? The one back in Shiodome?”

“Before you got fired?” Her tone needled.

“Thanks for bringing it up.” I scowled. “Just answer me. What happened to all the rest of my stuff I didn't want to pay to have shipped?”

“The pecan pie? I sent you that.”

“I know. I mean like…maybe my old books. Letters.” My heartbeat picked up. “I'm pretty sure I left behind a couple of letters.” “Oh, that kind of stuff. Why?”

“I'm…curious. And I need some of the letters if they're still there.” My heart thudded, remembering Mom's stacks of unopened envelopes and dark blue ribbon. Hoping I'd stashed any others she might have sent—or ones that arrived for me after I'd already left Japan.

“Well, AP policy is to throw away unclaimed belongings after the apartment's been returned, unless the renter leaves a postal deposit.”

That painful acid returned to my throat, and I felt my fingers turn cold.

“But.”

“But what?”

“You're talking to
me
.” I could almost hear Kyoko smile over the line. “I've been…how shall we say…keeping your junk for you.”

“You have? How?”

“Oh, I stored a bunch of it in a couple boxes labeled ‘extra photocopies of the safety handbook' in the office storage room. Of course nobody's bothered to open it.” She yawned and made a groaning sound like she was stretching. “And then I sort of…um…appropriated them. So they've already been shipped as part of my belongings. To your address, of course. Which I've designated as a storage unit.”

I sat there with my hand pressed over my mouth, hardly believing my good luck.

“And believe me, your house is pretty small, Ro. I've seen it. In fact, you might consider renting an actual storage unit and moving there instead.”

I didn't bother to reply to her jab. “When do you think the boxes will get here?”

“I dunno. I sent 'em two weeks ago. You want the tracking numbers?”

Right then and there, if I could have gotten down on my knees and kissed Kyoko's chunky spike-heeled, metal-studded boots, I would have.

C
ome on. Quit starin' at 'em.” Becky tried to pull me away from the glass display at the wholesale flower shop, where a thick bouquet of dark red roses nestled behind frosty glass. Tied with silver and burgundy ribbon.

“It looks so similar, Becky. I can't stand it.”

“Put a cork in it, woman!” she scowled, steering the stroller with her free hand. “Quit thinkin' about that stuff! You're weddin' shoppin' now. Ain't nobody gonna get ya in here.”

The stroller wheels squeaked as she pushed it around a corner, but Macy didn't stir. Black lashes closed in sleep, and one brown hand curled against her flushed cheek. I traced her softer-than-silk skin with my finger, pushing a sweaty black curl out of her forehead. Her hair was longer now; Becky had fashioned the little tufts into two tiny pigtails, one on either side of Macy's head.

I helped Becky steer the stroller, wishing Macy would hurry and wake up. A whiff of baby-powder scent reminded me of her weight in my arms as she sipped water from a bottle and played, for five rapt minutes, with a silken corner of the transparent scarf at my throat.

Macy had come to the Donaldson house in bitter February, two months old and barely the size of a newborn. But now, as her chubby cheeks flushed slightly with sleep, you'd never know she'd been an at-risk preemie.

What a difference a little love—and a lot of God's grace—can make in the heart of a child.

Becky put her hands on her hips. “Maybe ya'll do things differently back in Japan, or New York, or wherever, but weddin' shoppin' means lookin' for
weddin'
stuff! Forgit ev'rything else. I mean it.” She tapped her foot. “Lands, if it's gonna be this difficult, mebbe y'oughtta just sign some papers at the justice of the peace!”

I put my hands up quickly in surrender, recalling Adam's comments on Mom's deck at nightfall. “Fine. You win. I'm just not good at all this, you know? Flowers and stuff. I said last year that I'd like grape hyacinths for my wedding, but it's too late in the season for spring bulbs.”

“Well, think of somethin' else.”

“But you know I like potted things.”

“Too bad. I ain't puttin' ferns up the aisle, and that's final.” Becky shook her head. She dislodged the stroller wheel from an overly exuberant stand of lilies and pushed it ahead.

I trailed along after her, brushing my hands against petals. The air smelled loamy and sweet, just a degree or two warmer than comfortable: a gardener's paradise. Hanging baskets of orange and white impatiens hung over the black tubs of carnations and frilly spades of snapdragons. Waves of yellow and pink and green stretched as far as I could see.