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5

The song had died. TJ scuffed his spikes on the mound, wishing for the life of him he could remember the tune. For all those high school shutouts and championships, an internal humming had carried him through. Its reliable rhythm had added a zip to any pitch from his hand.

Now, score tied at the bottom of the seventh inning, all he could hear was wind through the trees at Griffith Park and cheering from an adjacent winter-league ball game. Morning clouds soaked up any other sound.

The USC catcher flashed the sign. A curveball. TJ’s old bread-and-butter.

A senior from St. Mary’s continued at the plate. He was a lanky walk-on TJ used to cream with fractional effort. Even sophomore year, just weeks after the holiday that had sledgehammered TJ’s life, the guy couldn’t compete. But that was before. Before TJ’s world had turned silent and grim.

The hitter waggled his bat, waiting. Two balls, one strike, bases loaded with two out.

TJ tucked the ball into his glove. Worse than his sore jaw, a bone-deep ache throbbed from his knuckles. What the hell had he been thinking last night, throwing a right instead of a jab? Thankfully, Paul Lamont hadn’t shown today, banged up as he must have been. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put two and two together, and the last thing TJ needed was the coach to think he’d become a hotheaded scrapper.

Blinking against the dusty breeze, TJ lowered his chin. He reared back with knee raised, adjusted the seams, and let the ball fly with a snap of the wrist. It broke low and away. A decent bend—just outside the strike zone.

“Ball!” the umpire declared.

Damn it.

TJ spat at the ground. He caught the return throw and tugged at the bill of his cap, blew out a breath. Gotta clear the melon. Start fresh without the clutter or a pitch didn’t have a rookie’s chance in hell. He loosened his neck, shook the stiffness from his hand. Strove to look calm.

The St. Mary’s batter smiled. He crowded the plate, his confidence growing.

But confidence could be a tricky thing. It lasted only if the person either had forgotten or didn’t realize what they stood to lose.

TJ wished he had the leeway to send a reminder. Nothing like a knockdown pitch to wipe a smirk off a slugger’s face.

Just then, the catcher tilted his head and shifted his eyes toward the third-base foul line. It was a warning, understood in a game of silent signals. TJ glimpsed a figure he recognized in his periphery. Bill Essick was approaching their dugout. The Yankees’ scout, a periodic spectator of Saturday league games, had once been a follower of TJ’s career.

Time to turn up the heat.

The catcher appeared to understand. He pointed one finger down, a fastball high and inside.

TJ rose to his full height and grasped the ball in his glove. He paused, ears straining. Where was the song? Where was it?

In a pinch, he closed his eyes and forced himself to picture his father’s face. On cue, anger boiled toward an eruption. Memories of the accident poured in a heated stream. The panic of tearing through the hospital halls, the police officer and his endless questions. The stench of the morgue, the lifting of the sheet.

He unshuttered his view and hurled the ball in a torrent—smack into the glove.

“Steee-riiike!”

Wiping his mind, TJ struggled to reduce his emotions to a simmer. He scuffed the mound again, hard.

Coach Barry nodded beside the dugout. A look of approval from the man, a praised coach of three sports for the Trojans, never lost its impact. He continued to be the major reason, in fact, that TJ attended University of Southern Cal.

But right now, Essick’s opinion was all that mattered.

TJ rolled his shoulder muscles for the impromptu review. He could feel the scout’s gaze on him. Just one more. All he needed was one more to smoke by the batter, one more to wrap up the inning. If he kept it up, he might even close out the game, from start to finish like the old days. Wouldn’t that be swell.

The hitter set his stance. He gave home plate a little more space.

Catcher signed another fastball. It was a cocky choice though relatively safe, given the solid zip on the last pitch and drag on the swing.

Problem was, safe choices never led to greatness. Legends were made of risk takers armed with the skills destined for success. A display like that could be just the thing to regain Essick’s interest, to see a winning thoroughbred in a stable of foals.

TJ grabbed hold of that risk, that sample of greatness, and shook off the catcher. “Come on,” he murmured, “something to dazzle ’em.”

The catcher complied: slider.

Now we’re talkin’, TJ thought. With a 3–2 count, the hitter wouldn’t be expecting a pitch that chanced ending up out of the zone. And when done right, a slider gave the illusion of a fastball, up until it fell off a table the last several feet.

TJ readied for the windup. But just as he was about to close his eyes and dip once more into his cage of fury, a question snuck up on him: What if his rage soon tired of being locked up? He could feel its power increasing each time he let it loose to breathe and stretch. Brought out too often and that rage might end up refusing to go back in.

He squashed the thought and threw the ball with all the strength he could muster. Down the pipe it went. The seams spiraled away—a wall of wind seemed to slow every rotation—and laid tracks that led directly to the bat. Crack. The white pill soared overhead while the runners rounded the bases. Every footfall was a stomp to TJ’s gut. Only for the mile-length arms of the left fielder did the ball not reach the ground.

The inning was over. TJ had pushed the batter to a full count and gotten the out, but once more he alone hadn’t closed the deal. When it came to risks, the thinnest of lines separated a legend and a fool.

Quiet applause broke out while the USC players jogged toward the dugout. Following them in, TJ dared to seek Essick’s reaction—not a total disaster; they were still tied, after all.

But the guy had already left.

6

Apprehension reverberated through Maddie’s body, a concerto plucking away the minutes. Inadvertently sticking her callused finger with another straight pin served as a reminder to concentrate on the job at hand. At least until Beatrice, the manager, arrived after a doctor’s checkup. Then Maddie would be free to leave her father’s tailor shop early, in order to present Lane with her decision.

She scooted her knees another few inches on the scarred wooden floor, dark as the paneled walls, and tacked up more hem-line of the jacket. Emerald silk enwrapped Mrs. Duchovny’s robust form. A regular customer since Maddie’s childhood, the woman had spent her youth as an opera singer. Her endless chatter in the full-length mirror evidenced her sustainable lung capacity. Even more amazing, she gesticulated as quickly as her lips moved, taking only tiny breaks to fluff her pecan-brown curls. None of this made marking her garments an easy task.

“Of course, you know more than anyone,” she was saying, “I have enough holiday suits to clothe all of Boyle Heights. But with Donnie coming home on leave, I just wanted something special to wear for Christmas dinner. Especially after missing him over Thanksgiving. We only have three weeks to go, which doesn’t give Bob much time. He’s trying to surprise our Donnie with an entire wall of custom-made bookshelves in his room. That boy could read two books a day if he wanted. Did I ever tell you that?”

Maddie glanced up at the unexpected pause. “I think you’ve mentioned it.” She pretended Mrs. Duchovny hadn’t already reported the same news about her Navy son a thousand times. Often Maddie wondered about the true reason the woman had insisted on becoming her benefactress for Juilliard. A charitable act of kindness? Or an investment in a potential bride for her son?

Mrs. Duchovny prattled on, continuing to drop matchmaking hints, until Maddie announced, “All finished.” Then Maddie snatched two stray pins from the floor and pressed them into the cushion bound to her wrist. She rose, wiping a dust mark from her apron.

“Madeline, dear.” Mrs. Duchovny faced her, suddenly serious. The corners of her eyes crinkled behind her thick glasses. “Are you feeling all right?”

And there it was. The dreaded question Maddie had heard more times than she cared to count.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She forced a smile, feeling anything but fine, as always seemed the case when delivering the phrase. Fortunately, frequency of use had worn the roughness off the lie, turning it smooth as sea glass.

“Are you sure about that?” said Mrs. Duchovny, resonant with disbelief. Before Maddie could repeat herself, the woman cracked a wide grin and displayed her right arm. “Because I think you’ve forgotten a little something, dear.”

The other sleeve. Maddie had only tacked the left. “Good grief, I’m so sorry.” She resumed her tucking and pinning as Mrs. Duchovny chuckled.

“I’m actually relieved. For a minute, I was worried one arm had grown longer than the other.”

Maddie’s lips curved into a full smile. Soon, though, she recalled her meeting with Lane. Today. At the Pier. And her anxiousness rose like the tide.

Oh, how she wanted to get the conversation over with.

She had planned to inscribe her thoughts in a letter, but just as she’d flipped over the OPEN sign this morning, Lane had phoned. He’d said he was headed to Santa Monica with his sister, and that he and Maddie needed to talk before he left town.

It’s about us, he’d replied ominously when she asked if everything was all right. There had been a heaviness in his voice throughout the call, yet it was the word us that had landed with a thud, a trunk too burdensome to carry.

Clearly, he too had been pondering the impracticality of it all: A couple weeks for winter break and he would be back at Stanford; by summer’s end, she could be off to New York for who knew how long. There would be no harm done should they simply put their relationship on hold, revert to friendship for now. If they were meant to be, destiny would reunite them.

The bell above the entry jarred Maddie back to the room. Beatrice Lovell entered—at last!—hugging a sack from the corner diner. It took two shoves for her to fully close the door. The sticking latch was among the list of repairs the seamstress had been chipping away at since becoming the shop’s overseer.

Maddie hastened a review of Mrs. Duchovny’s sleeve lengths. Satisfied, she secured the second one with more pins.

“Lord ’a’ mercy,” Bea exclaimed with her residual Louisianan accent. “I thought I’d left hurricane weather behind me.” She set the paper bag on the counter. Outside the windows, red ribbons flapped on storefront wreaths. Passing pedestrians looked to the pavement, hats held to their heads in a tug-o-war with nature.

Mrs. Duchovny clucked in response. “I tell you, this wretched wind is a lady’s enemy,” she said while Maddie eased her out of the jacket, guiding her around the exposed metal points. “You should have seen the scattering of clothes that ended up in my backyard this morning off my neighbor’s line. Good thing Daisy sews her name into her undergarments, because I wasn’t about to go door-to-door in search of their owner.”

As Maddie hung up the coat, Bea dabbed two fingers on the tip of her tongue and tamed the silvery strands that had escaped her signature bun. Her pursed mouth created a coral embellishment on the wrinkled fabric of her skin. “Brought us back an early lunch,” she told Maddie, and unloaded two wax paper–wrapped sandwiches.

Maddie opened her mouth to explain that she had a last-minute … well, errand to run. But Mrs. Duchovny interjected, “Ooh, I almost forgot. Donnie’s favorite dress shirt is missing a button.” From a shopping bag near the sewing machines she produced a white, long-sleeve garb pin-striped in blue. “I was hoping you might have one to match.”

“I’d be right surprised if we don’t.” Bea turned to Maddie. “Sugar, would you mind peeking in the back?”

Maddie strained to preserve her waning patience. How could she deny her patron a measly button?

“Not at all.” She accepted the shirt and hurried toward the storage room. Mothballs and memories scented the air, luring her inside, in every sense. It was here, between the racks of now dusty linens, that she and TJ used to hide, still as mice, awaiting a familiar waft. The fragrance of rose petals and baby powder. Their mother’s perfume. A sign she’d returned from shopping at the market.

The giggling youngsters would huddle together as two sets of hands swooped in for the capture. And with their small bodies cradled in their parents’ arms, a sound would flow through the air, lovelier than any sonata could ever be. For try as she might, Maddie had yet to hear a melody more glorious than their family’s laughter. A four-part harmony never to be heard again.

Enough.

She wadded the thought, tossed it over her shoulder. There were plenty more where that came from, and the clock wasn’t slowing. Lane, with a train to catch, would only be at the Pier another hour.

Refocusing, she scoured an old Easter basket filled with abandoned buttons, found a decent match, and headed down the hall. She was rounding the corner when she caught the women in hushed voices.

“Goodness me,” Mrs. Duchovny lamented, “I forgot how terrible the holidays must be for them.”

“Aw, now. You shouldn’t feel bad, for having discussed your family gatherin’.”

“I suppose. Just such a shame, the poor girl.”

There was no doubt whom they’d been talking about. The same family everyone was always talking about. After two years of rampant whispers, Maddie should have been used to this.

Bea popped her head up with an awkward abruptness. “Any luck, sugar?”

Maddie swallowed around the pride, the voiceless scream, lodged in her throat. “I found a button that’ll work.”

“Splendid,” Mrs. Duchovny gushed, her cheeks gone pink. With arms appearing weighted by guilt—or pity—she reached out for the items.

“No.” Maddie stepped back, her reply a bit sharp. She held the shirt to her middle and softened the moment with a smile. “That is, I’d be happy to do it for you. No charge.” She would have offered normally anyhow, yet it was her sudden inability to unclench her hands that left her without choice.

Mrs. Duchovny conceded, followed by a rare moment of quiet. “I’d best be getting home. Bob will be sending out a search party soon.” She shrugged into her fur-collared overcoat and covered her locks with a brimmed hat.

“We’ll call y’all when everything’s ready,” Bea said, and ushered her to the exit while they exchanged good-byes. A burst of air charged through before the door closed, rocking Maddie onto her heels. And not for the first time, she was surprised to discover she was still standing.

7

“Kern!” Coach Barry’s voice shot over the departing spectators at Griffith Park. “Need a word with you, son.”

TJ fought a scowl as he zipped up his sports bag. Since being pulled for the last two innings, he’d been counting down the minutes to leave. Their closing pitcher had held on for a 7–5 victory, but TJ wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

He slung his bag over his left shoulder and hid his purpling bruises by dangling his right hand behind him. Thankfully, only a muted yellow tinted his cheek.

Coach Barry strolled toward the outfield, a signal for TJ to join him. A private talk. Not a good thing, considering TJ’s mediocre showing today. The solid, dark Irishman carried a thoughtful look, hands in the pockets of his baseball jacket. A taunting wind blew past them. It flapped a lock of the man’s slicked hair, receding from the effects of close-call games and concern for his players.

As they passed the pitcher’s mound, TJ mined his brain for arguments to defend himself. He wasn’t about to surrender all hope of regaining his slot in the starting rotation for USC’s upcoming season. When his game had gone to hell last year, a compassionate demotion landed him in the bullpen. Now he wanted out. He was a prisoner who knew what it was like on the other side of the fence, and could feel his cell closing in on him. Telling the coach about a new pitch he was honing might aid his cause. A “slurve,” they called it. The slider-curve combo could break wide enough to raise some brows.

He was about to volunteer as much when Coach Barry asked, “So how’s your father been?”

Your father.

Swell. Was there anything TJ wanted to talk about less?

“The same,” he answered. Which meant mute in a convalescent home, nearly too depressed to function.

Coach Barry nodded pensively. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

TJ squeezed the strap on his bag. Redirecting, he said, “My sister, Maddie, though—she’s doing great. Her violin teacher says she’s a shoo-in for Juilliard this year, if her audition goes well. Just gotta keep her on track till then.”

“That’s good, that’s good.” Coach Barry smiled. “I’m sure you’ve done a fine job looking out for her.”

TJ shrugged, despite feeling as though caring for Maddie was the one thing he was still doing right.

“What about you, son? How you doing these days?”

“I’m gettin’ by.” The reply was so reflexive, he didn’t consider the bleakness of the phrase until it was too late to reel the words back in. “’Course, if you’re talking about baseball, I can assure you, my pitches are coming back more and more every day. You just wait and see. By spring practice—”

Coach Barry held up his hand, bringing them to a stop. “Look,” he sighed. “I’m gonna cut to the chase. Your professor, Dr. Nelson, paid a visit to my office last week. It’s about your grades.”

The path of the conversation, in an instant, became clear. A detour TJ resented. He didn’t need their sympathy, or to be ganged up on. That woman had no business stirring up trouble on the field.

“It was a couple lousy tests,” he burst out. “I’ve told her that. Got plenty of time to make it up.”

“And the rest of your classes?” The challenge indicated Coach Barry was well informed of the situation. That his former-ace pitcher was barely skimming by, tiptoeing on the fence of a scholarship lost.

TJ clenched his jaw. He wrestled down his anger, to prevent it from seizing control.

Coach Barry rested a hand on TJ’s shoulder, causing a slight flinch. “I know you’ve been through a lot, son. But you’ve got less than a year left, and I, for one, don’t want to see you throw it all away. Now, if you need a tutor, you just say so. Or if you need more time for studying, we can certainly see about cutting back your delivery hours ….”

Less time dedicated to his on-campus job was a nice thought, particularly on days of lugging cadavers from Norwalk State Hospital for the Science Department. Yet a nice thought was all it was. Besides school expenses, TJ needed all the dough he could get for house bills and Maddie’s lessons and everything else in the goddamned world that chomped its way through a pocketbook.

“I’ll be fine, Coach,” he broke in. He repeated himself, taking care to stress his gratitude. “Really, I’ll be fine.” If it hadn’t been for the guy’s encouragement, TJ would have dropped out of college long before now.

Coach Barry rubbed the cleft in his chin before he heaved a resigning breath. “All right, then. You know where to find me.”

TJ obliged with a nod. He remained on the faded lines of the diamond as his coach walked away and disappeared from sight. At that moment, in the wide vacancy of the ball field, TJ suddenly realized why he had always been a pitcher.

Because alone on the mound, he depended only on himself.

8

Maddie stood on the Pier, searching, searching. Though unbuttoned, her long russet coat hoarded heat from her anxious rush across town. A current of strangers split around her like a river evading a rock. An ordinary rock, medium in size, nearly invisible. And Maddie preferred it that way. Only when channeling another’s composition through her bow did she now find comfort in the spotlight.

Scanning faces, she hunted for Lane’s distinct features, his sister’s pint-sized frame. Outside the Hippodrome was where he had asked Maddie to meet them. But they weren’t there, and she didn’t have the luxury of time to wait patiently. It was a quarter after noon. She had but fifteen minutes to spare. He couldn’t have left early; she’d told him she would be here as soon as she could. She needed to find him, before he left, before his train.

Before she lost her nerve.

“Lane, where are you?” At the very moment she whispered the words, she spotted the back of his familiar form blinking between passersby. His golden skin peeked out between his short black hair and the collar of his coat.

She prepared herself while striding over the wooden planks to reach him. “I’m so glad you’re still here,” she said, touching his arm. He turned toward her, revealing the face of a man with sharp Italian features. Mustard stained his large lips.

“Pardon me,” Maddie said. “I thought you were somebody else.” Then she streamed into the mass, head down. Blending.

The smell of onions from a hot-dog stand caused her stomach to growl. In her haste, she’d left the lunch Bea had insisted she take for the bus ride over. Macaroni salad and a baked-bean sandwich. Maddie had grown to love both as a child, long before she could comprehend which meals were served solely to survive the shop’s less-profitable months.

But she couldn’t think about any of that now. She had ten minutes to find—

“Maddie …”

She focused on the vague call of her name, filtering out the crowd’s chatter. Notes of “In the Mood,” from the band on a nearby stage, took greater effort to block; music dominated her hearing above all else.

“Maddie!” At last, the soprano voice guided her to Emma’s china-doll face. The girl was scurrying toward her with a smile that made perfect little balls of her rosy cheeks. Maddie used to secretly babysit her when Lane was in high school. Naturally, he had preferred outings with TJ over watching his pesky little sister. He’d been adamant about paying by the hour, though Maddie would have done it for free. And one look at the youngster reminded her why.

“Hiya, pretty girl.”

Emma leapt into her outstretched arms. Adoration seemed to flow from the child’s every pore. It filled Maddie’s heart so quickly she had to giggle to prevent her eyes from tearing up.

As their arms released, she noted a substance on Emma’s hands. “Ooh, you’re sticky. Let me guess, cotton candy?”

“And a caramel apple,” Emma boasted. Then her smile dropped. “Don’t tell my mom, okay?”

“My lips are sealed.” An easy promise to make. Running into the woman, unreadable in her stoicism, had always occurred by mere chance, and Maddie’s talk with Lane would do anything but change that. “Say, Emma, where’s your brother?”

Emma twisted to her side and pointed. There was Lane, weaving around a family ordering ice-cream cones. He wore a trench coat and sunglasses. A bright red balloon floated on a string clutched in his hand. When Maddie caught his attention, he flashed a smile, the breathtaking one that seemed crafted just for her. She felt a warm glow rise within her.

“I was getting worried,” he said, once they were close.

“Sorry it took so long. We had customers, so I couldn’t leave until Bea showed up.”

Emma tugged her brother’s sleeve, looking troubled. “I thought you were gonna get yellow?”

Lane glanced at the inflatable swaying overhead, as though he’d forgotten it was there. He squatted to her level. “Turns out they were out, kiddo. But since Sarah Mae’s favorite color is red, I was hoping this would do.”

Emma contemplated that, and nodded. “Good idea. Sarah Mae loves balloons.”

Maddie smiled at the reference to the girl’s doll, equally ragged and beloved, while Lane tied the string around his sister’s wrist.

“Onsan, can we go down to the sand?” Emma asked him. “I didn’t get to collect shells yet.”

The Japanese term for “brother” was one of the few things Maddie understood about Lane’s foreign culture.

He checked his watch. “I guess we can. We only have a few minutes, though, so don’t go far. And don’t wade too deep into the water.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You promise?” he pressed.

Emma sighed, her pinkie drawing an x over her chest. “Cross my heart,” she said, and rolled her eyes, not in rebellious defiance, but in a gentle manner. As if at the age of eight, she could already see his barriers for what they were. An expression of caring. It wasn’t so different, Maddie supposed, from the strict guidelines TJ had instilled after assuming their father’s role.

Except that she herself wasn’t eight.

Side by side, Lane and Maddie walked toward the beach. Strangers with rolled-up pants and buckets and shovels speckled the sandy canvas. A choir of seagulls cawed as they circled yachts in the harbor, muting the hollers of a teenage boy chasing a scampering black puppy. The dog was yipping toward a pair of brilliant kites dancing in the air. With attentive eyes, Lane watched his sister sprinting like the pup, bobbing beneath her flag of a red balloon.

The picture of him as a father hit Maddie with a swell of emotion she swiftly shoved into a box, stored away for the future.

“How’s your eye?” she asked.

He shrugged, half a smile on his lips. “It’s still there.”

“Could I see?” Noting his reluctance, she added, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

Slowly, he reached for the glasses and slid them free. In the swollen bruising she discovered an irony of beauty she didn’t expect. He’d always projected such certainty in her uncertain world that strangely she found the sight comforting, proof of his vulnerable side. A symbol of commonality she could actually touch.

“Does it hurt?” Her fingertips brushed his skin before she could remind herself to keep her distance.

“It’ll heal.”

She nodded and withdrew her hand. Her gaze shifted to the distant figure of Emma, whose raised arms couldn’t reach her fleeing balloon. Already twenty feet up, it zigzagged a path toward the ceiling of clouds, away from the chaos, the worries of life. Maddie had the sudden desire to be tethered to its string.

“I don’t have much time,” he said. “But we need to talk …. It’s about us.”

That phrase again.

He gestured to a thick, weather-beaten log. “Why don’t we sit down?”

She didn’t reply, simply led them to perch on the bumpy seat. Waves before them lapped the sand, weakening the shore layer by layer. She clasped her hands on her skirted lap. So close to Lane now, she could almost taste the fragrance of his skin. It smelled of citrus and cinnamon and leaves. At the Pico Drive-in, where they’d spent numerous dates necking through double features, Maddie would inhale that lovely mixture. Afterward, she’d sleep in the cardigan she had worn, to savor his scent until it faded.

Would their memories together just as surely disappear?

She banished the thought. She needed to concentrate, to review the practical reasons to loosen their ties. Their usual outings, for one: hidden from crowds, cloaked in darkness. Lookout points and desolate parks. Only on occasion would they venture to the openness of a bowling alley or skating rink, requiring them to refrain from acts of affection.

Just like now.

Lane hooked his glasses in the V of his royal-blue sweater. He stared straight ahead as he continued. “Last spring, you told me you thought it was best if we didn’t tell anyone about our dating, and I went along with it. I lied when I said I agreed.” He wet his lips, took a breath. “But the truth is, you were right. It was better that we didn’t say anything. My family wouldn’t have understood, what with our … differences. God knows, they wouldn’t have taken us seriously. They might have even thought I went steady with you to make a point.”

Their racial diversity had, before now, seemed an off-limit topic. An issue to deny through tiptoeing and silence. But more striking than this new candidness was his usage of the past tense. Went steady with you. Wouldn’t have taken us seriously.

He wasn’t asking for her opinion. To him, the relationship was already over.

“I’m tired of sneaking around,” he said. “I don’t want to lie anymore. I don’t want you to lie anymore. Especially to TJ. He’s more than a friend, he’s like a brother to me.”

She couldn’t argue. None of this had been fair, to any of them.

“Maddie …” Lane’s mouth opened slightly and held. He seemed to be awaiting the arrival of a rehearsed conclusion, a finale to their courtship. He angled toward her with a graveness that wrenched her heart. “There’s something you don’t know. Something I should’ve told you before, but I wasn’t sure how.”

Maddie blinked. What was he talking about? What had he been keeping from her?

“It’s my parents,” he said. “They’ve arranged a marriage for me.”

The word marriage entered her ears with a calmness that, in seconds, gained the piercing shock of a siren. “To whom?” she found herself asking.

He scrunched his forehead, a revelation playing over his face. “I’m not sure, actually. The baishakunin—the matchmaker—found her in Japan. Tokyo, I think they said. Anyway, her family is supposed to be a good fit.”

“I … didn’t realize … they still did that.” The response was ridiculous, trite. Yet the blow was too great to formulate anything better.

“The custom is crazy, I know. But as their oldest son, their only son, it’s my responsibility to do what’s best for the family.” Annoyance projected in the timbre of his voice. He shook his head. “It’s no more than a business negotiation. Same as my parents were. And they want to bring her over right away.”