Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ