The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ