'Til Grits Do Us Part (13 page)

Amanda. We shared the same birthday
. Different years, of course, but both June twelfth. Goose bumps tingled on my arm.

“I've got some black sugar from Okinawa to mail you, too,” Kyoko said, interrupting my thoughts. “It was either that or raw goat soup, but I figured US customs might not be so happy with that one.”

“Wonder if Jerry'd like that soup recipe for The Green Tree?” I joked, but my mind had already slipped back into “Amanda” territory. I pressed my lips together, trying to carefully phrase my next question. “You didn't leave any messages on Adam's phone, did you, Kyoko? Maybe…for my birthday?”

“Me? No. What would I have to ask him about, shipping rates? Seeing how he's at UPS now?” She paused. “Why do you ask?”

“He's been getting a bunch of…um…weird calls. Somebody asking for him and wanting to know when he'll be home. Hang ups. That sort of thing.”

“Eliza Harrison?”

I flinched at the name of a girl Adam had grown up with. And whom his parents had, many years before, hoped he'd marry.

“No. A man. Not sounding too friendly.”

“Then why did you ask me if I called him, Ro?” Kyoko bellowed. “I might be chunky and scary and chop my hair off, but I'm not a guy.”

“I didn't mean that! And stop calling yourself chunky. You look great.” I drove over a very dead road-killed possum, trying not to look. “I sort of hoped you were the one calling him. A joke or something, since you have so many…shall we say…'unusual' skills. Computer hacking and so forth.”

“Well, I didn't call him. Although I can start, if you like. I've got this great new voice on my computer that does Marvin the Martian in Japanese.”

I chuckled. “Well, thanks for the birthday messages anyway. My birthday would have been better though without Clarence's dumb rumors.”

“Who?”

“Clarence. The weirdo mail guy at work that Meg swears used to be a CIA agent or something. Nobody knows much about him, except he loves to stir up stories about everybody. This time he made all these insinuations about my car being parked in
The Leader
parking lot last Friday until late, since Adam drove me to dinner.”

“Oh,
that
Clarence. The one who convinced the whole staff you were pregnant a while back.”

“That's him. The creep.” I pushed the accelerator harder, feeling the transmission complain again.

“You're not, are you?”

“Not what?”

“Pregnant.”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” I roared, angrily flipping the visor out of the way. “Of course not! If you think for one second I—”

I broke off, hot-faced and furious, at Kyoko's loud guffaws.

“I'm kidding, Ro! That farmer of yours seems pretty straightlaced to me. He probably hasn't even kissed you yet.”

“Shut up.” I'd never, ever said that to Kyoko. But she deserved it.

Especially since he actually…hadn't.

I fidgeted with my seat belt, suddenly uneasy. Remembering how near Adam and I had come to kissing so many times, his eyes dark and brilliant and his breath warm on my cheek. But every time his lips came too close to mine, he pulled away.

Cautious, yes. Respectful, definitely.

And…
. odd
. Just a little. Frustrating, too.

I asked him once, albeit indirectly, and he fumbled with his truck keys, nearly dropping them down a storm drain—and promptly changed the subject. But not before I saw his face flush ever so slightly, uncomfortable red next to sandy-blond hair.

Kyoko snickered. “Chill, babe. This is payback for all those nasty pork rinds you sent me last year.”

“Oh. Yeah.” A corner of my mouth quirked up in a guilty smile. “I remember that.”

“They make nice packing peanuts. Wait till you get your next care package, bucko.”

Kyoko'd probably left her apartment window open because I heard the cawing of a crow. A Japanese crow—I'd seen Virginia turkeys on display in the grocer's case smaller than the crows in Tokyo—and its haunting sound made me suck in my breath. Remembering.

“Kyoko, you're lucky you still live in Japan. I wish I did. Most of the time.” I rolled up the car window so I could hear better, blotting out fragrant morning scents of verdant earth and wild daisies, sun-warmed grass and damp leaves. And then I heard it low and soft through my Bluetooth: a wisp of summery cicada chants coming from Kyoko's end of the line, tapering off for the night. Different from the Southern whispers in the trees. Musical. Metallic. Distinctive.

“Well, you'd still be here in Japan if you hadn't gotten caught copying that dumb story.”

“I know.” I sighed. “But I also wouldn't have Adam.”

“Good point. He's a keeper, I guess, even if he does drive a pickup truck.” Kyoko yawned, a dead giveaway that she was about to pounce again. “So how old is he again? Sixteen? Seventeen? I forget.”

Flaming color clawed its way up my neck. “He's twenty-three, Kyoko. Almost twenty-four.” I pressed on the gas. “Hey, you're the one who said age didn't really matter.”

“It doesn't.” She chuckled. “I might be practically twenty-seven, but yesterday I met this little fresh-scrubbed Marine recruit from the base, and if things were different, I'd—”

“Stop it!” I shrieked, turning up the radio as loud as it would go. “I am NOT hearing this!”

“Don't worry. He had a girlfriend already.” Kyoko sighed, and I slowly turned down the volume. Some goofy advertising for pickup truck KC lights, which I hoped she didn't hear. “Anyway, that farmer of yours is all right. I met him, remember? At least he doesn't crochet clothes for his
anime
comic dolls like one of my last dates.”

I forgot my next sentence.

“It's true. Well, I'm leaving Japan soon anyway.” Kyoko's voice came harsh and strident in my ears, as if she'd dumped a bowl of hot ramen noodle soup in my lap. “Although honorably, unlike you. I bought my tickets yesterday.”

I silenced, remembering our strolls through Tokyo sidewalks, golden ginkgo leaves falling in a yellow shower all around us. And soon Kyoko would leave Japan, severing my last link to the country I loved.

No more postcards. No more stinky packages of seaweed rice crackers and dried fish.

And once Kyoko moved off to her next post, no more of the Japan-Kyoko memories I held so close to my heart.

“You're really leaving?” I managed, biting my lip.

“Yep. I've done my time here, and I'm ready to move on.” Kyoko paused. “Don't cry or anything, okay? I told you months ago.”

She didn't get my new and unexpected displays of emotion. After all, I hadn't cried since I was seven, the day my dad walked out the door. Until Virginia. Until last year.

“Won't you miss Japan, Kyoko?”

“No, I love separating my trash into six different piles, hanging up my milk cartons to dry with little clips, and memorizing which day of the week burnables, nonburnables, cans, glass, and bottles go out,” she retorted, a sarcastic bite in her voice. “I may be environmentally conscious, Ro, but I swear even Greenpeace would go nuts if they spent three years here. They'd start screaming and chucking stuff out windows. Dumping Styrofoam in Tokyo Bay.”

I laughed, but it faded quickly. “But the subways! Mount Fuji, and noodle shops, and—”

“I can't wait to buy clothes in normal sizes either,” Kyoko blabbered on, not appearing to hear me. “Not little dainty things my two-year-old niece could wear. I have to buy clothes in the ‘jumbo' section here!”

“Come on. There must be something you'll miss from Japan.”

“Let me think…the traffic jams? Driving on the left? Oh, sorry. That would be you.”

“It takes a while once you come back to the States,” I shot back. “Don't think you're going to do any better.”

“Please. They wouldn't even notice it in San Fran, the way everybody drives on the freeway. I once saw a guy going backward at seventy miles per hour—and he passed me, too!”

“Well, I love Japan. I always will, I guess.” I clicked on my turn signal at an empty intersection. “Come visit me during hunting season when people skin deer carcasses in their backyards, and pacifist Japan might start looking pretty good. You'll beg Dave for a transfer back.”

“Whoa. Deer carcasses? Do you have any pictures?”

“Huh?”

“For my redneck collection. I could make a great screen saver out of that. Maybe hack it into somebody's computer at the office.” She sucked in an excited breath. “Hey, can you get me a mounted deer head? What a great conversation starter on life and death! Or no—just death.” Kyoko snickered.

“Ugh. Please.” I waved my hand. “No death talk.” Not after I'd spent another hour sorting through Amanda's file, trying to understand this case that wouldn't leave me alone.

“Listen,” I began, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as I rounded a smooth curve, sloped lines of the mountains appearing through a thicket of oaks and pines. “Do you think there's any chance a woman who disappeared twelve years ago could still be alive?”

“Twelve years? That's a stretch. Why?”

“I'm just curious about a local crime story. She just vanished. No trace.”

“Did she get anonymous flowers beforehand?”

I jerked the steering wheel, swerving so much my tire bumped against the grassy shoulder, jarring my teeth.

“I just read a novel where the serial killer starts by sending the women flowers—you know, funeral flowers. Lilies and stuff. And then when he sends the ribboned wreath, it's time to—”

“Cut it out!” I screeched, sorry I'd asked. I guided the car back onto the asphalt with a soft bump. Fingers shaking on the steering wheel. “Forget it. Let's talk about something else. Like Adam's good news.”

Kyoko chuckled. “Why do you think I called, Ro?”

“To congratulate me?” A muddy truck passed me, going too fast, and I waited for the whine of the engine to fade. “Adam found a buyer for my house, Kyoko! His uncle's going to buy it. It's a miracle.” I exhaled, watching the green pastures and ribbon of asphalt spin past me, reviving my Japan-sad spirits. “By the end of July—just in time for our wedding in August. He got a job transfer with a company here in Staunton and wants to move in right away.”

“I heard. That's fantastic, Ro. Really.”

“And he's paying the full asking price! Do you know how rare that is? That's way more than that last offer.”

“You deserve it.” Her voice turned tender. “I'll even miss that silly screen door on your front porch.”

“Yeah, and all those marigolds Adam planted in my flower bed. Mom's stuff all over the house.” My throat contracted. “The kitchen table where she used to sit and write before I knew her.”

“Before you…what?”

“I mean, before I really knew who she was. She'd changed, you know. I just arrived too late to see it.” My fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

For one irrational second I didn't know which I'd miss more—Japan or Mom's house.

“So,” I said, shaking the memories out of my head, “after more than a year of gathering dust on the real-estate market, Mom's house is finally going to sell. We'll rent an apartment somewhere in town so Adam can drive to college, and…”

Kyoko waited. “And?”

“Llama!” I screeched. Jamming on the brakes and swerving out of the way, gravel spinning under my tires. I fishtailed against a grassy shoulder, barely managing to miss a lone white pine tree before screeching to a stop.

Just inches from, yes, a real, live llama. In the middle of the road.

“I can't believe this,” I fumed to Kyoko, slamming the car door behind me with shaking fingers. “Don't people fix their fences around here?” I encountered groundhogs on my daily runs along country roads, and once somebody's overfriendly hound, but never a llama.

And I was sick of too-close encounters with livestock.

“Ro-chan—are you there?” Kyoko shouted into the Bluetooth. “What's going on? I could swear I heard you say something about a llama.”

“Yes. A big one.” I peered past it as it backed up a step, knobby knees bending on legs like skinny drinking straws. “Make that two. There's a baby back there in the pines.”

Kyoko silenced. “You're joking, right? Like…the cow-tipping thing?”

“Nope. But now that you mention it, there are cows out, too. A whole section of the fence is down. Great. Do I look like I have a hay bale in my car?”

“A—a what?”

“Now I'll never get to work!” I threw my hands up in the air, shooing the llama out of the road and into the grassy shoulder. “How in the world am I supposed to explain this to Kevin? He won't believe me for a second.”

The llama reared back its head and glared at me, showing thick rectangular teeth. Baby trotted behind, ears up like two inward-curving apostrophes.

“I can definitely see why Kevin wouldn't believe you. You'd better take pictures.”

“With what? Adam's cell phone doesn't have a camera.”

“Well then you'd better borrow somebody else's. I'm just saying.”

“Don't llamas spit?”

“Like the dickens. I think they bite, too. You had your rabies shots? Diphtheria? Anthrax? You know how I feel about animals.”

“Thanks, Kyoko. Some help you are,” I huffed, stepping around my car and marching up the long gravel driveway toward a large, blocky white farmhouse surrounded by sugar maples. “Hold on. I'm going to get help.”

“You're not gonna turn around and drive to work another way?”

“And let all the animals get run over?”

“I did ask you for a mounted deer head. Llama would be fine though, too.”

“You're sick, Kyoko.” I clopped up stone steps. “The Brewers' house is right over here. Fred Brewer bought a llama a year or two ago. Everybody knows that. But she's an escape artist, and his fences aren't strong enough. If he's going to have a llama, he needs to use high-tensile wire, not this old rusty stuff. Something like Red Brand.”