Sisters of Heart and Snow (27 page)

Drew leans in next to his ear, even as Lauren glares. “Is something wrong?”

Alan shakes his head. “I can't talk about it right now.” He looks pointedly at his daughters. He bends and helps Lauren with her shoes. Audrey takes Drew's hand again and she double ties the pink laces of Audrey's glittery sneakers.

“What would you like to do now?” Drew asks brightly, standing. “The jump house?”

“We decide,” Lauren says. Her arms are crossed. “Not you.”

Drew rocks back on her heels. Oh. Lauren must feel left out. “What would you like to do, Lauren?”

Lauren takes Alan's hand. “She should get her own tickets, Daddy. She's using too many of ours.”

Drew blushes so hotly she feels like she's almost knocked off her feet. “Oh. Sure.”

“It's not necessary,” Alan says, but Drew's already walking to the ticket booth.

“You guys don't need to wait. I'll catch up,” she calls over her shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Alan holds a hand of each of his girls, and Drew thinks he looks as relieved as Lauren does.

She waves and walks away.

M
IYANOKOSHI
F
ORTRESS /
T
AKATO
T
OWN

S
HINANO
P
ROVINCE

H
ONSHU,
J
APAN

Spring 1181

W
hat's this one?” Tomoe scratched a symbol into the dirt with a stick. The dry, hot wind whipping about nearly wiped out the lesson before it began. Her throat itched in the dust.

When were the rains going to return? A drought had come to Japan. Animals dying because the farmers could not water them. People succumbing not only from lack of food, but from disease as well.

Every morning Tomoe woke and stared at the horizon, looking for rain clouds and seeing nothing but wavering lines of heat. For once she was glad they lived in such an isolated outpost. Illnesses had trouble reaching them here in the mountains. And they were close enough to the scant snow that they still had water.

Shaking away the dark thoughts, Tomoe scratched the symbol again into the dirt. “Come now.”

The three-year-old boy squatting next to her did not answer. He dimpled his chubby cheeks into a smile. “I don't remember,” he said in childish singsong.

“It's
ki
,” Tomoe said, deliberately getting it wrong.

“Ka,”
he corrected.

“I knew you knew it!” Tomoe reached over and tickled him. Yoshitaka, the son of Yoshinaka, doubled over in giggles. He looked exactly like his father had when he was a boy, the eyebrows sticking up at angles toward his temples, the merry twinkle of trouble always in his eyes. Already, his future was secure. Yoshinaka had arranged for his son to be betrothed to his cousin Yoritomo's daughter. Tomoe tickled Yoshitaka some more, kissing his cheeks for good measure.

“Stop! I can't breathe!” he said.

Yamabuki paused at her laundry-hanging, her oversized belly making her off balance. “Tomoe, he's going to pee his pants!”

Tomoe raised her hands. “I've already stopped.” Little Yoshitaka picked up a wooden sword lying in the dirt and swung it at Tomoe's legs. She hopped over it effortlessly. The boy was stocky and strong. Already he could climb trees like Tomoe, fire arrows a short distance, and ride Demon as though the horse was a docile pony.

“I chase you down, Kiyomori Taira,” the boy said firmly, his hands on his hips. “Yah!”

“See if you can catch me first.” Tomoe took off at a run, the boy chasing her and giggling.

For the first time since she could remember, Tomoe hoped that war would never come. And if it came, let it be far from them. Leaning in, she once again tried to get Yoshitaka to focus on the lettering. “Tell me what this is, Yoshi-chan.”

He shrugged, concentrating on his fingers. He'd been trying to snap them for weeks and couldn't yet make a sound. “Show me again, Tomoe?”

Tomoe showed him. Yoshitaka screwed up his face. “I cannot!” He stamped his feet. “Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.”

“You know what you need?” Tomoe said. “Another hug.” He tried to jump away, but she hugged him until he stopped kicking. At the line, Yamabuki smiled ruefully and shook out a laundered kimono.

Yamabuki had long ago given up any pretensions of being a lady. But for her still-weak appearance, she might have been any peasant woman. Her skin had never lost its pallor, almost as though it naturally lacked pigment, like a turnip. Her large belly loomed in profile as Yamabuki leaned over the laundry basket. She was pregnant with her second child. It was easier this time, and Tomoe was glad.

“You should be teaching him with ink, on paper,” Yamabuki admonished gently.

“I'll leave that to his tutor. I don't want to waste the materials with my small teachings.” Tomoe put her forehead against the boy's and blew air through her lips, buzzing them. He chortled.

This boy would have to be well educated. Someday, little Yoshitaka could inherit much land. Yoshinaka hoped the boy would also inherit from his cousin Yoritomo's leadership position by marrying his daughter. But Yoshinaka's ambitions were endless.

Tomoe was content with all they had now, land or no land. Babies were such a joy. At the sight of Yoshitaka's wrinkled, scarlet, pointy newborn head, covered in sticky afterbirth, she had expected to feel disgust. Instead she found herself eagerly holding her arms out to Yamabuki, who was whiter than ever, the blue-green vein on her forehead throbbing.

When Yamabuki went into labor, all bygones of that day Yamabuki had called Tomoe her servant were forgotten. Perhaps that was the mark of a sister, Tomoe thought. You could be angry, but still be there for one another when needed.

And now that baby was almost four, in the blink of an eye.

Tomoe scratched a symbol in the earth that looked like a kneecap.
“Ko,”
she said.

“Ko,”
Yoshitaka repeated dutifully.

Kanehira came into the yard. “Uncle!” Yoshitaka called.

“Little man.” Kanehira paused to ruffle Yoshitaka's hair. He was the one who rode with Yoshinaka, signing up men, tamping down the Taira. Since Tomoe had been spending so much time with Yamabuki, Kanehira had warmed to her marginally. At least he no longer made jibes at her expense.

But now he barely looked at Tomoe. In one hand, he held a small cylindrical object made of dark brown wood. “What is this?” Tomoe asked, forcing his hand open.

It was a wooden seal, a stamp of bamboo leaves with the kanji symbol for “Kiso” carved into the end. She swallowed hard, her grip tightening until Kanehira's hand turned white and she released him abruptly. “Is this a seal for Yoshinaka?”

Only the royal family and the heads of clans had seals. Yoritomo, the new head of the Minamoto, had one, to imprint official binding documents. Why did Yoshinaka need this? By forging this seal, Yoshinaka had declared himself an equal to Yoritomo. This could only mean trouble within the family. She stared at her brother. Kanehira met her gaze, his eyes cold. His jaw tightened. “Nobody answers to you.”

Tomoe's nostrils flared. Kanehira's glance wavered. She kept her voice low. “Tell me, or I promise I'll tell Yoritomo myself.”

Kanehira took a breath and glanced toward the horizon. He must have his doubts, too, Tomoe thought, however much he buried them for his foster brother. “Yoshinaka promises the samurai who fight for him land over all of Japan. He writes deeds for these lands, and puts his seal on them. That's how Yoshinaka gets so many to fight.”

Her mouth went dry. Yoshinaka could not promise anyone land. He was not the head of the Minamoto. Tomoe might as well be telling people
she
had the right to give away territory. “And Yoritomo gave his consent?” she asked, hoping this was true.

“Of course not,” Kanehira snapped. He hid the seal in his fist. “Yoritomo thinks Yoshinaka is overstepping his role. But he is not. The land that Yoshinaka wins rightfully belongs to Yoshinaka—it belonged to his father. If Yoritomo wants it, he can come up here and fight us. He can't win. Not in the mountains, with his soft troops. They'd freeze.”

Kanehira sounded like he was trying to convince himself. The problem, Tomoe thought, was that every leader grew a huge ego and needed at least one man to rein him in. But nobody would say no to Yoshinaka—nobody but Tomoe.

This man would be their downfall.

“He is my general,” Kanehira said shortly, “and I will follow him to his death, if he asks.”

Tomoe looked at Yamabuki, whose face had gone so white it was nearly blue. A pair of wet pants flapped in her loose grip. Little Yoshitaka ran by and snatched the clothing out of his mother's hand, throwing it into the dirt with a laugh.

 

S
AN
D
IEGO

Present Day

A
lan phones Drew on Monday after the Halloween carnival and asks if she's free for dinner the following night. He surprises her with the Marine Room, an expensive restaurant right on the beach in La Jolla. The last time Drew was here, she was only old enough to order hot chocolate in the bar.

It's dark when they're seated, but the restaurant shines lights onto the breaking waves. The tide's coming in, the water washing right against the thick floor-to-ceiling windows. This is the restaurant's main draw. To be as close as possible to the powerful ocean, yet not leave this air-conditioned comfort. Alan pulls Drew's chair out for her, preempting the waiter. “This is so lovely. Thank you.” She sits down as he pushes her chair in, hoping he knows she doesn't expect such extravagance. A picnic on the beach with sandwiches from the local Subway would be fine with Drew, as long as she could be with Alan.

She admires his face as he squints at the menu, that strong jaw, his face shaved very close again. Really, all she wants to do is straddle him and make out. Maybe they should skip the meal and go out to his car.

But no. She's got the sense he wants to talk about something big. Maybe tell her that his daughter freaked out and he doesn't want to push her. After Drew got her ride tickets, she looked at her phone and found an apologetic text from Alan, saying Lauren wasn't feeling well and they had to go home. Drew gave the twenty tickets to a passing child.

“Lauren feeling better?” Drew asks.

He smiles that quick, slightly sad thing that doesn't hit his eyes again. “She had a bad case of being a brat. I told her if she didn't behave, we'd leave. I had to adhere to my word.”

“Of course. Follow-through is important.” Drew feels like she's echoing her sister. Follow-through. What does Drew know about it? She mentally shrugs.

They pore over the wine list. Drew doesn't want to admit she doesn't know much about wine. She prefers mixed drinks, dry rather than sweet. “I'm not much of a wine drinker.”

“Nor am I.” He puts down the list. “Let's do the chef's testing menu. It comes with wine.”

“Sounds great.” She looks out the window as Alan orders. Almost the same view her mother has in the nursing home, except Hikari's is not as close to the water.

They sit in silence. Drew smiles at Alan. He looks nervous. The waiter brings them an appetizer balanced on a large white ceramic spoon and the first glass of wine. Some kind of shrimp and a white wine. Drew's not listening to the waiter. She's watching her date. Trying to read his mind.

Drew leans over. She's seated next to him, not across, so they can speak quietly. Without anyone hearing. “What's the matter?”

“I have something to tell you.” Alan crosses his hands in front of him. “As I mentioned, my contract ends in the spring.”

Drew's heart starts pounding. Be calm, she tells herself. Nothing's happened yet.

“It seems . . .” Alan clears his throat. Drew takes a sip of her wine without tasting anything except the astringent sensation of alcohol in the back of her throat. He looks at her with those dreamy eyes. “My life is changing.”

He closes his eyes, the lashes thick on his cheeks. Drew waits for him to continue. “My in-laws want to move to North Carolina. They're retired. The cost of living is much better there, they'll run out of money if they stay here.” Alan clears his throat. He holds her hand and runs his fingers up the inside of her forearm, making her shiver. “My wife's sister lives out there, and she just had triplets, so they want to see those grandchildren, too.”

“And?” Drew waits. She's watching his mouth.

“And I'd love for my family to see more of my children. For my children to know where I grew up. And I have to say—I love it here—but I'm homesick.” He stares directly into her eyes. He has such puppy-dog eyes. “I've been offered a job in the Cambridge University library.”

“Cambridge . . .” Drew tries to get her muddled brain to think of where that is. Massachusetts?

“England.”

Drew's mouth opens and shuts. “When?” She turns her arm over, brings it back to her side. Alan watches it retract.

“January.”

January? That's too soon. Drew has trouble taking a breath. Surprised and angry and afraid
.
“I didn't know you'd applied.” Why would she? How many dates have they been on? He owed her no explanation. Her nephew had gotten further with that high school girl than Alan had with her, to Drew's dismay.

“I applied months ago.” He swallows. “I only just heard last week.”

Drew nods blindly. So that's why he acted so aloof at the carnival. He was getting ready to break it off. Minimize losses, especially for his girls. Who cared if they had a spark—that's all it was, a spark. Not all sparks fan into full-on fires. She takes a drink of ice water.

Take me with you,
she thinks, and the thought shocks her. It's unreasonable, and Drew's had enough unreasonable thoughts and actions to last her a whole life. It's time for practicality. For common sense. She forces herself to think rationally. “So . . . what does this mean?”

The waiter shows up and clears their plates, replaces them with the main course. Fish, something something. Both she and Alan stop talking and nod blankly up at the waiter, who seems truly eager to share this with them. She's had only that one sip of the other wine, and a new glass is being poured.

•   •   •

Drew focuses on the crashing waves.
England? Part of her wishes that she'd never gone out with him at all. She wishes that she hadn't picked up that viola at the library. She wishes—oh, she wishes she'd done a lot of things differently. What did she think, that Alan would marry her and she'd be a stepmother and they'd live next door to Rachel in San Diego, cozy forever?

She doesn't need anybody to save her. She needs to get her own life. Not co-opt Alan's. Or force him to live out here, without his support system, turning down a job offer that might not come again.

She knows what it means, even as he struggles to answer. She stands up.

He stares at her, stricken. The waves sway in and out from the shore. Suddenly the churning motion of the water makes her feel seasick. Dizzy. Her ears feel like she's up in a plane. She grabs her chair. “Drew.” He stands. “Do you need help?”

Drew backs away from the table. Her incautious heart screams at her to stay.
Listen to your mind for once, Drew,
she urges herself. “Alan. I'm sorry. I have to go.”

“No, stay. Let's talk about this.” He reaches for her.

She holds up a hand, stopping him. “There's nothing more to say. I've enjoyed getting to know you. Maybe more than you'll ever know. You're a very special person.” She speaks fast, before her emotions catch up with her too much. The other diners look at them or pretend not to. She inclines her head in a bow. Like Tomoe Gozen. “But I can't do this. Not if I'll have to say good-bye in January. Good-bye, now.”

Quickly, she turns and walks upstairs, aware that Alan's trying to follow, but the night's gotten busy and the aisle's crowded with waiters with platters and guests.

She goes straight outside to the valet stand. A cab happens to be there, dropping someone off, and Drew gets in. She doesn't look back at the entrance, both hoping and afraid that Alan will be there, watching her leave.

•   •   •

I sit with my laptop whirring hot
on my lap, a lukewarm cup of tea cooling even further in my hands. I've just gotten an e-mail from UCSD, informing me that my daughter's withdrawn from all her classes. I knew this was coming, of course. Quincy's told me they've rented a tiny studio in a bad part of town, and she's promised to have us over after it's fixed up. She's looking for a job. I don't know where.

But seeing the reality of Quincy's withdrawal in black and white almost bowls me over. She really has officially dropped out of college. No refunds, no take-backs. It isn't just a bad dream. I can't stop staring at it like I've just seen Medusa with my bare eyes.

I shut the laptop and set it on the coffee table and take a sip of cold tea. I wish someone was here to distract me. Tom and Chase aren't home, Drew's out having a fancy dinner with Alan, and I don't have anything to do.

I think about Mom and the Tomoe Gozen story again. Did Mom think she was Yamabuki? Is that what she is telling us with this book? Did my father have a lover, like Tomoe? Is that his big secret threat—that he's got another family or three, stashed around the world like Charles Lindbergh had?

Surely the interpretation's not so literal. I just don't know. I open up the manuscript on my computer. It's jumped ahead in time, and now Tomoe's a stand-in mother. I wonder if Yamabuki ever learned how to fight, as she wanted to do when she was pregnant. She should. I'm not sure about Yoshinaka—he seems to be on the verge of craziness. Who can trust someone like that?

Besides, with the times the women lived in, they need to know combat skills.

I glance around my safe living room, tucked away in suburban America. Or am I safe? I guess nobody's really safe anywhere. There could be a burglar or an earthquake or a plane crash or a terrible drought, like the one that happened in Japan. Who knows what. Well, that doesn't make me feel any better, I think wryly. I look up the drought they're referencing. Yes. The famine of 1181 killed more than twenty thousand people. You can't stop Mother Nature from doing what she wants, even today.

A yellow taxi pulls up in front of my house and Drew emerges, looking wobbly as a sick calf. Without thinking, I run outside. People hardly ever take cabs in San Diego, and especially not cab rides of more than twenty miles. “Are you all right?”

She looks up at me mutely, her eyes red, her carefully applied cat-eye black liner smeared all over her cheeks. “It's Alan, isn't it?” I ask, and my stomach clenches. What had he done to my sister? I'll track him down and smack the life out of him. And here I thought they were so good for each other, that he was so nice, his girls sweet.

Drew nods.

I take care of the cab and go back inside. Drew's already in her bed, the covers pulled up around her, her back to me. I pat her back, thinking of how many times I'd done this with her when she was little and upset or sick. And how many times I've done it with my own kids.

Like I do with my children, I don't press. I wait until she's ready, wedged next to her back, our weight sinking the mattress low, until her silent tears subside and she blows her nose a few times with the tissues I hand her, one after another. Drew had been so happy over the past few weeks. Happier than I'd ever seen her with Jonah. Like Drew was more . . .
Drew.
Drew cubed.

She'd always seemed a little downtrodden when she was with Jonah. Even if I saw her only briefly on holidays, it was like she was wearing an invisible suit of armor. Back then, it was always:
Jonah says this. Jonah thinks that.
I mean, I know I do that with Tom, but not to that degree. It always seemed like Drew had taken on Jonah's plans, abandoning her own—or that she'd never developed them as she should have.

And frankly, when she first came down after losing her job, it'd seemed like she'd lost all hope in her life, too. She has it back. That's no small thing. If you don't have hopes or dreams, there's no reason to keep living.

She tells me what happened, without looking at me. “So it's over,” she finishes. “You were right. I shouldn't have dated him. There's no point in seeing him anymore.” Her voice breaks, and I squeeze her arm. “I wish I never went to coffee with him. You were right, Rachel. Go ahead. Tell me your told-you-sos.”

I was the one who thought it'd be bad for her to date Alan, if she was living in L.A. But that was before I saw how they were together. I tilt my head, regarding my sister. They make sense. Like my spaghetti and meatballs. If I make my sauce without meatballs, my whole family complains. It's not against the law for me to be wrong, is it? For me, Rachel Perrotti, to (gasp) actually change into a less judgmental, less uptight human being?

Drew turns her head back. “Why are you just staring at me, Rachel? Gosh. Just like you did when we were little.”

I grin. “I'm thinking.” I shake my sister gently. “Hey, Drew.” How could I make her understand all that I'm feeling? I remember when my sister helped me, just by knocking on my door. Brought me back to myself. Maybe I can return the favor in some small way. I think of something. “Do you remember that chalk drawing of the waterfall we saw at the Halloween carnival?”

Drew turns her back to look at me. Her skin's all mottled. “What about it?”

I put my face close in next to hers. Like I'm telling her a secret. “The sprinklers washed most of it away that night. But we still enjoyed it during the time it was there. It's impermanent, but not worthless. Right?”

Drew's mouth pulls downward as she scrapes at the makeup under her eyes with a finger. “I guess not. What's your point?”

“Well.” I take a breath, coming up with the right words. I'm not usually this philosophical. At least, not out loud. “No experience lasts forever. None of us knows how much time we have with anyone. It could be years, or it could be days. I think you should see him and enjoy what you have, while you have it.”

Drew says nothing for a moment. Then she shrugs. “I understand what you mean, but I know he's going to leave. I know it. And it hurts too much. It'll hurt more if I hang on. I don't want to, Rachel. I just don't.” She bites her lip, the way my daughter does when she's sad, and I see in her both my children. A tear comes into my eye, too, and suddenly I feel like I'm talking to both my sister and my daughter at once. I want so much to spare both Drew and Quincy all this pain—I feel like I've experienced it
for
them already. I wish one of them would listen. Let me help.