Sisters of Heart and Snow (22 page)

“Nothing there,” the old man said.

A scorpion, so pale it was almost translucent, emerged. I screamed and jumped back. The old man stomped it. I looked up at my father, who was staring at the sky. I worried he'd yell at me in the car for giving up. A jittery feeling took hold of my stomach. I held the detector over the spot and again it beeped. The soil was looser with the rock gone. I used the spade to feel around, digging about a foot farther down, until the metal edge of the shovel touched another rock. A small one, less than half the size of a meatball. With my other hand, I snatched it out.

It was a round piece of gold.

“Let me see that.” The old man grabbed my wrist with his leathery fingers. “Placer gold. Not bad.”

“I found gold!” I shouted up to my father. “Gold!”

“Good job, Rachel!” Dad shouted back.

The old man licked his lips. “Don't forget, I get half.”

“It's a small piece, Ralph,” Dad said. “I did pay you.”

“Half,” Ralph said.

I clutched the gold in my hand. How could they break this in half?

“Let me see it,” Dad said. I handed it over. He pursed his lips. He looked at me, then took out his wallet and gave Ralph what seemed to my eyes like an enormous stack of bills. “That ought to take care of it.”

“I don't know,” Ralph said doubtfully. “Gold's worth more these days.”

Dad handed him another bill. This one had Benjamin Franklin on it. My heart fluttered.

“Well then.” Ralph tipped his hat to us. “If you'll excuse me, I've got to get to the grocer's.” With that, Ralph limped back toward his jeep, stomping over the scrub bushes. He revved the engine and took off, sending a cloud of dust up behind him.

Dad ruffled my hair. “Let's get back to work, then. Rachel, you've got a nose for this, just like your old man.”

We spent the rest of the morning looking for gold, stopping only after a sudden noon downpour. “We'd better get out,” Dad said, loading me into the car. “There might be a flood.”

I leaned over the seat as we drove away, the gold in my hand. I felt bad that he had paid Ralph so much money.

“You want this gold, Daddy? You can have it.”

“It's yours, Rachel.” He grinned at me in the rearview mirror. “I'm not my old man.”

Now, sitting together in my old bedroom, I tell Quincy and Ryan the story. Quincy's eyes widen as she passes the gold to Ryan. “I never knew that. You never tell us anything about your family. Especially not about your dad.”

This stings. A lot. I cough to hide my distress. “I tell you as much as you need to know. And how much do you tell me about you?” I ask. “You quit volleyball and didn't mention it.”

She crosses her arms and looks down. “Enough to keep you off my back, I suppose.”

Ryan laughs, handing the gold back to Quincy. “My mother would have a heart attack if she knew about all the crap my brothers and I pulled when we were teenagers. She says she's better off not knowing.”

A pang hits my chest. How well do I know my children? How well do they know me? Perhaps Ryan's mother is wise. My children don't need to know the troubling nitty-gritty of my late teen years. It will only disturb them. All they know is that my father was very strict, and didn't like my choices early on. Which is all true.

Do I really need to know every bit of trouble or fun Quincy gets into? I'm her mother, not her confessor. But shouldn't we be getting to know each other as friends now? Isn't this the time? Especially since she's getting married.

Quincy gives me the nugget. “I didn't know your dad took you mining. You should tell us more stuff. I like your stories.”

My hands feel cold suddenly, though it's warm.

Maybe that father with the gold is still inside my current-day father, someplace. I look directly at Quincy. “Killian can't make it to the wedding. He'll be traveling.”

“Oh.” Quincy's gaze centers out the window.

I regard my now adult daughter, feeling like I've been punched in the stomach. My children don't know the whole story. They don't even know that my mother was a mail-order bride. I didn't want to color my kids' perception of Mom. Or me.

I smile at my oldest ruefully. “It doesn't matter. What's done is done.”

A silence settles over us, thick as one of my mother's quilts. Ryan sits on the bed motionless, his eyes fluttering closed. Poor guy. A motorcycle roars past on the street below, shaking the single-paned window. After a minute or two, Quincy clears her throat. “We should be going.”

I look at her and realize she'll probably never sleep under my roof again by herself. Everything's changed. “If you want to come over this weekend, we could take you guys out to dinner with Aunt Drew.”

Quincy hesitates, nudges Ryan.

“I was just resting my eyes.” He moves his shoulders noncommittally. “Don't you have a paper due?” he asks, yawning. I hope Quincy drives them home.

“Yeah,” Quincy echoes, her voice going strange. “A paper.”

“In what subject?” I ask. “Is there something wrong?”

“History. It's just a big project, and I need to get started.” She smiles her sweetest at me, showing deep dimples on both sides of her mouth. “I'll see you later, Mom. Come on, Ryan.”

“Bye, Mrs. Perrotti.” Ryan lifts his hand to me, following Quincy out.

She's never sounded like that about a paper before. Quincy's not a procrastinator—ever since third grade, she's tackled projects as soon as they were assigned. I go to the window and watch them walk down the driveway. An uncomfortable ache settles in my gut, but I can't tell whether it's my too-sensitive Mommy instinct or because I wish she'd stay with me. Probably both.

Ryan feels my eyes on him and turns, waves.

•   •   •

Drew arrives at the coffee shop
five minutes early. The place Alan picks isn't corporate-owned. It's called Lestat's (like the vampire, Drew remembers), and it's near Balboa Park, in a neighborhood Drew's not familiar with. When she was growing up, the area was rough and nobody she knew went down here unless they wanted to buy sex toys or illegal drugs, but now it's gentrified and populated with hipsters carting around MacBooks.

She finds it readily enough, though. It's decorated with hanging crystal chandeliers and gold-painted chairs, comfortable couches, fabulous velvet thrones of carved wood. Glass cases of elaborate pastries glisten. Drew's mouth waters. Is it too early for a slice of cheesecake?

She doesn't see Alan yet, so she orders her latte and a slice of cheesecake, and, in case Alan doesn't like cheesecake, a Danish. The debit card goes through without a hitch, causing a pang to appear in Drew's gut. Killian's money is paying for those pastries.

He wants her to talk to Rachel, but Drew won't. First and last and in between, he can't treat their mother like a milking cow past her prime and sent to slaughter. He just can't. It's not fair.

Not that anybody ever thinking something's not fair has changed it.

The door jingles and Alan appears. Right on time. He'd told her the library opened late today, not until noon, so he has this whole morning free. “Drew! Good to see you.” He smiles at her and, though he's British—aren't they supposed to be terribly standoffish?—and she only just met him, he gives her a quick hug when she stands. The kind of hug any friend would use. But she also notices how his shoulders feel under his argyle sweater vest. Strong, but not jacked-up.

“Find the place all right?” He sits down across from her. He looks a tiny bit tired around his eyes.

“Definitely. No problem.” She smiles, feeling shy, points at the pastries. “I didn't know what you like.”

“Oooh. Cheesecake.” His cheeks dimple. “I'm sorry I didn't arrive before you. I owe you a coffee.”

“You were right on time.” Drew sips her latte. The barista has drawn a heart in the foam. Her ears color. It's like they're in a musical. Either of them might burst into song. Like she'd done at the library. Except she didn't bring an instrument, and her singing voice is only adequate.

“My girls were dawdling this morning. Took Audrey fifteen minutes to find one shoe.” Alan shakes his head. “She put it in the pantry, of all places. Behind the flour bin.”

Drew's heart drops to the floor. “Little girls?”

Alan nods. “Lauren and Audrey. Ages four and three.” He digs out his phone and lights up a picture. “Here.”

Two little blond girls with cherubic faces beam out. They're eating ice cream cones almost as big as their heads. Drew can't help but smile. “They're adorable.”

“Yes.” He pockets the phone. “You know, Drew, that viola was amazing. Magical.”

Drew takes in another deep breath. So. This coffee is just a coffee. To repay her for the bet. She takes the spoon and swirls the heart away. “Thanks.”

“Some of the children have asked if you give lessons.” Alan laces his fingers together.

“I've never thought about it.” And she hasn't. She's not usually in contact with kids, so it hadn't occurred to her. It might be kind of fun. She wonders how quickly she can find students, if she'll need insurance. She smiles to herself. Rachel would be proud of her for thinking so responsibly.

He lets out a sigh. “Well. I need a coffee. Would you like anything else? Fruit tart? Flask of whiskey?”

Drew shakes her head. “I'm good.”

She watches Alan walk up to the register. His corduroy pants make that whisk-whisk noise. Drew's always liked that sound. She had a pair when she was little. And they're hugging him rather well. Is he married? She hates to say it, because Alan seems like a genuinely nice guy and she already enjoys his company, and maybe she's a totally unevolved immature person, but she can't be just friends with him if he's taken. She won't be able to stop thinking about touching his smooth shaved face, what it would be like to put her mouth on his. Asking for trouble. Her phone buzzes with a text.

Jonah.

Haven't heard back from you. Decision?

She puts the phone away. Maybe she ought to go back to L.A. Rachel has things more or less under control. Laura will take care of the legal stuff. Drew shakes her head, remembering what Rachel said. Basically, her sister is letting her stay here to lick her wounds. Because Rachel feels sorry for jobless Drew. She won't abuse her sister's goodwill.

Besides, Rachel could call her anytime and Drew would come right back down. Maybe if she works with Jonah again, she won't have to touch her father's money. She'll give it to Quincy for a wedding present. The thought makes Drew feel better about the situation.

She'll put everything all right.

Alan comes back with a fruit tart anyway, and a cup of steaming coffee. Not tea, Drew notes. “I'll take the leftovers home to my girls. Don't worry.” He puts in two Splenda and a ton of cream.

Drew laces her fingers around the cup and decides to be direct. “Do you take care of the girls by yourself?”

Alan takes a sip. He looks down at the fruit tart. He coughs a little, his face screwing up in distress, then has a little coughing fit that he can't stop.

“Are you okay?” Drew asks. Should she pound his back?

Alan gives a final cough, sniffles. “Excuse me. That coffee went down the wrong way.” He tries to smile, but his eyes don't. When he speaks, it's soft, almost apologetic. “Sophia, my wife, is no longer with us.”

“Oh.” Drew sits up ramrod straight and puts her hand on his arm. He nods, no emotion at all on his face, and somehow Drew knows he's used to this question. Used to not reacting. Not crying. “I'm so sorry.”

He digs into the cheesecake. “Of course—you'd wonder. With the girls. Silly of me. I always forget to say it.” He waves his hand around. “Not that I do this very often. As you can see, I'm a complete imbecile at dating.”

Drew allows herself a small smile even as she feels his sorrow for his late wife. So this is a date. But his girls are so awfully young. “When did she . . .” She's reluctant to say it.

“Three years. She passed away when our littlest was born. Childbirth.” He takes another bite of cheesecake.

“I'm so sorry,” Drew says again. She feels a surge of sympathy. And admiration, for raising two little girls who seem so obviously happy. “Are you here all by yourself? Do you have family?”

“Sophia's parents live here.” He sips his coffee. “And I thought it would be important for them to know their mother's family. So we stay here. We've visited my family.”

“Do you miss England?” Drew tries to imagine England. She's never been. All she can think of is a photo of a library at Oxford, and the Tower of London.

He takes another bite of cheesecake. “I don't miss the weather, honestly.” He closes his eyes. “And I'd certainly miss this cheesecake. Have you tried it? It should be outlawed.”

“Well, maybe we should vote Bloomberg mayor and he can outlaw cheesecake here like he did soda in New York.” Drew smiles.

“Yes. Only bite-sized pieces should be allowed. Actually, I'll get another piece to take home, otherwise I'll feel too guilty that the girls didn't try it.”

“You know, I make a pretty wicked cheesecake. I'll make you one sometime.” Drew likes baking. She's better at cakes than she is at regular food.

“Oh. Perhaps I won't bother with this, then.” He chews on the cheesecake and smiles, his eyes truly crinkling this time. She can already tell his true smile. Warmth floods through her. She wants him to smile. Drew digs her fork in next to where his just was and lifts it to her mouth.

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRESS

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Summer 1177

O
ne day in late July, Tomoe came into the house from cooking breakfast. Yamabuki moaned as the light hit her face. “Close the door!”

Tomoe could not stand another second of this nonsense. She left the door open. The day was fine. It wasn't too humid or too hot. The pregnancy was going well now—the girl was perfectly healthy. She needed fresh air. “Get up, Yamabuki. You missed breakfast.” Tomoe refused to bring Yamabuki food—she figured the girl would get hungry enough to rouse herself. But this was the second day she'd stayed in bed. Chizuru had made her drink hot fish broth last night.

“I am too tired.” Yamabuki still had her eyes closed.

“If I could have the baby for you,” Tomoe said, “I would.” She touched Yamabuki's belly, imagining the life was inside Tomoe instead.

A great clattering, shouts, and then the gong sounded. Arrows fell from the sky as abruptly as a sudden downpour. Attack. Tomoe stood up and shut the door quickly. She strapped on her arrows and sword.

“What is it?” Yamabuki pushed herself upright.

Tomoe handed her a dagger. “Stay in here. Bolt the door. Don't come out no matter what.”

“And if they come in?” Yamabuki trembled like a tear balanced on the end of a nose.

Tomoe regarded her silently for a moment. “End it with honor.
Jigai.”
Jigai
referred to the female method of suicide. A woman used the long-bladed
kaiken
to deliver a quick cut to her jugular.
Jigai
was preferable to being raped or hauled off like a bag of rice.

Yamabuki calmed. She nodded.

Tomoe slid the door closed and heard it bolt. The rain of arrows had stopped. Yoshinaka's men were engaged all over the grounds—mostly concentrated at the gate, as they tried to hold off the forces. Taira. These were no better than raiders, Tomoe thought. Kiyomori Taira would love to weaken the Minamoto by doing away with Yoshinaka and his power.

Tomoe ran across the yard, whistling for Cherry Blossom. Almost without stopping, Tomoe grabbed a hank of mane and pulled herself onto the horse.

The enemy had gotten inside somehow. She chased down a samurai on a brown stallion. A beautiful animal. Tomoe wanted to spare it.

The samurai shouted, noticing Tomoe too late. Tomoe brought back her sword and swung it forward, feeling the contact of metal connecting to bone reverberating through her hands.

His head fell cleanly onto the ground, its mouth moving in some silent prayer.

Yoshinaka picked up the head Tomoe had cut off and held it aloft by the black hair. Already the skin was turning an unnatural blue. “The next head I hold will be Kiyomori Taira's!” he shouted, and threw the head into the crowd.

Tomoe's stomach lurched.

“Tomoe?” Her brother trotted up beside her. Kanehira's face was filthy, covered in a mixture of brown and red and black splotches whose origins Tomoe didn't want to know. “Where's Yamabuki? Some enemies may have gotten around us. Didn't you stay to protect her?” He was accusing. And rightly.

“Inside.” Tomoe began moving toward the building, her brother following with raspy breath. “Are you hurt?” she said to him.

“Of course not,” Kanehira snapped. He took an especially deep breath.

Yamabuki's door was open. Just inside, the girl knelt in the shaft of light, staring out into nothing. She held the bloody dagger, and red covered her front in a thick dark wash.

Tomoe's breathing stopped, her brother thudding into her back. Yamabuki did not move. Tomoe froze in place, watching, waiting for the girl's chest to rise.

Yamabuki was still.