Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ toward the challenge. He started to reply when recognition caught. “Well, lookee here. Lane Moratoro.” Beer dove from his mug, splashed on Lane’s dress shoes.

      “It’s Moritomo.” Lane strove to be civil, despite being certain the error was purposeful.

      “Oh, that’s right. Mo-ree-to-mo.” Then Paul yelled, “Hey, McGhee!”

      A guy standing nearby twisted around. His fitted orange shirt and broad nose enhanced his lumberjack’s build. “Yeah, what?”

      “Got another rich Oriental here who wants to rule our country. Thinks he’s gonna be the first Jap governor of—no, wait.” Paul turned to Lane. “It’s a senator, right?”

      Lane clenched his hands under the table. “Something like that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Maddie shaking her head in a stiff, just-ignore-him motion.

      Paul’s lips curled into a wry grin. “Well, in that case, maybe you can help a local citizen out.” He put an unwelcome hand on Lane’s shoulder. “See, my pop’s been truck farming for twenty-some years, working his fingers to the bone. But wouldn’t you know it? Jap farmers round here just keep undercutting his damn prices. So I was thinkin’, when you’re elected senator you could do something about that.” His mouth went taut. “Or would your real loyalty be with those dirty slant eyes?”

      Lane shot to his feet, tipping his chair onto the floor. He took a step forward, but a grasp pulled at his forearm.

      “Lane.” It was Maddie at his side. “Let it go.” The lumberjack squared his shoulders as she implored, “Honey, forget him. He’s not worth it.”

      At that, Paul’s glance ricocheted between her and Lane. He scoffed in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you two are . . .”

      Lane knew he should deny it for Maddie’s sake, yet the words failed to form. Again, her touch slipped away, leaving the skin under his sleeve vacantly cold.

      Paul snorted a laugh, thick with disgust. “Well, Christ Almighty. Who’d a thought.”

      Lane’s nails bit into his palms. He felt his upper back muscles gather, cinching toward the cords of his neck.

      “We got a problem here?” TJ arrived at the scene and put down their drinks.

      “Everything’s great,” Maddie announced. “Isn’t it, fellas.”

      Jitterbug notes failed to cushion their silence.

      “Paul?” TJ said.

      Paul nodded tightly and replied, “Just fine, Kern. I’m surprised, is all. Figured you’d be more selective about who made moves on your little sister.”

      TJ’s face turned to stone. “What are you sayin’?”

      Once more, a denial refused to budge from Lane’s throat.

      “What, you didn’t know either?” Paul said, but TJ didn’t respond. With a glint of amusement, Paul shook his head, right as Jo returned to their table. “Goes to prove my point,” he went on. “Every one of them filthy yellow Japs is a double-crosser, no matter how well you think you—”

      His conclusion never reached the air. A blow from TJ’s fist stuffed it back into the bastard’s mouth. Paul’s beer mug dropped to the floor, arcing a spray across strangers’ legs. Shrieks outpoured in layers.

      A wall of orange moved closer; McGhee the lumberjack wanted in on the action. Lane lurched forward to intervene. Diplomacy deferred, he shoved the guy with an adrenaline charge that should have at least rocked the guy backward, but McGhee was a mountain. Solid, unmovable. A mountain with a punch like Joe Louis. His hit launched a searing explosion into Lane’s eye socket.

      The room spun, a carousel ride at double speed. Through his good eye, Lane spied the ground. He was hunched over but still standing. He raised his head an inch and glimpsed TJ taking an uppercut to the jaw. TJ came right back with a series of pummels to Paul’s gut.

      Lane strained to function in the dizzy haze, to slow the ride. He noted McGhee’s legs planted beside him. The thug motioned for Lane to rise for a second round. Before going back in, though, Lane was bringing support. His fingers closed on the legs of a wooden chair. He swung upward, knocking McGhee over a table and into a stocky colored man, who then grabbed him by the orange collar.

      “Cops!” someone hollered.

      And the music stopped.

      “Let’s scram, Tomo!” In an instant, TJ was towing him by the elbow. They threaded through the chaos with Maddie and Jo on their heels. They didn’t stop until reaching an empty alley several blocks away.

      Lane bent over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. The echo of his pulse pounded in his ears, throbbed his swelling eye. Still, through it all he heard laughter. TJ’s laughter. That carefree sound had been as much a part of Lane’s childhood as Japanese Saturday school, or strawberry malts at Tilly’s Diner.

      Maddie rolled her eyes with a glower. “Well, I’m glad someone thinks that was funny.”

      “See, I was right.” Jo nudged her arm. “Told you that joint was jumpin’.”

      “Yeah,” she said, “it was jumpin’ all right. Too bad we almost jumped straight into a jail cell.” When TJ’s laughter grew, Maddie’s smile won out. She hit her brother lightly on the chest. “You’re off your nut.”

      Lane grinned. “And this is new news?”

      Jo peeked out around the brick wall. Water drizzled from a drain spout. “Coast is clear,” she reported.

      The ragged foursome treaded toward the bus stop. On the way, Lane turned to TJ and quietly offered his thanks—for what he did, for defending him.

      “Eh,” TJ said, “what’re friends for.” He used a sleeve to wipe the trickle of blood from his lip, then slung an arm over Lane’s shoulder. “Besides, I can’t think of the last time I had that much fun.”

      The vision of TJ hammering out his aggressions on Paul came back in a flash of images. “I’m just glad I’m not your enemy,” Lane said with a smile—one that faded the moment he recalled what had initially provoked the fight.

      3

      It was on nights like this that Maddie missed her most, when her love life seemed a jumble of knots only a mother could untangle. More than that, her mom’s advice would have fostered hopes of a happily ever after.

      The woman had been nothing if not a romantic.

      She’d adored roses and rainstorms and candlelight, in that order. She had declared chocolate an essential food for the heart, and poetry as replenishment for the soul. She’d kept every courtship note from her husband—who she’d sworn was more handsome than Clark Gable—and had no qualms about using her finest serving ware for non-holiday dinners. Life, she would say, was too short not to use the good china. As though she had known how short hers would be.

      Maddie tugged her bathrobe over her cotton nightgown. Unfortunately, no amount of warmth would relax the wringing in her chest. СКАЧАТЬ