The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

seated across from him. Her jasmine perfume, while subtle, somehow transcended the wafts of beer and sweat in the teeming club.

      From above the bar, blue lights danced over the crowd united in music and laughter—racially integrated, as the entire world would be when Lane was done with it—and rippled shadows across Maddie’s face. The narrow slope of her nose led to full lips, moist with a red sheen. Her hazel eyes studied the musicians with such intensity that he chose to merely watch her.

      Amazing that he’d known her for more than half his life, yet only months ago had he truly begun to see her. The ache to touch her swelled, along with a desire to make up for lost time. He reached over and brushed the back of her creamy hand resting on their cocktail table.

      She jolted, her trance broken. “Sorry,” she said, and returned his smile.

      “Pretty good, isn’t he?” Lane indicated the saxophonist. The long, haunting notes of “Summertime” made the guy’s talent obvious even to Lane.

      “Yeah, I suppose.”

      “You don’t think so?”

      “No, I do. It’s just—the structure’s so loose, with all those slurs, and the downbeat going in and out. Plus, the key changes are too quick to feel grounded. And during the chorus, his timing keeps—” She broke off, her nose crinkling in embarrassment. “Gosh, listen to me. I sound like a royal snob, don’t I?”

      “Not at all.”

      She exaggerated a squint. “Liar.”

      They both laughed. In truth, he could listen to her talk forever. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said to her.

      “I’ve missed you too.” The sincerity in her voice was so deep, he could lose himself in that sound for days. But a moment later, she glanced around as if abruptly aware of the surrounding spectators, and her glimmering eyes dulled, turned solid as her defenses. She slid her hand away, sending a pang down his side.

      He told himself not to read into it, that her aversion to a public show of affection wasn’t a matter of race. She was simply fearful of jeopardizing her relationship with her brother. Understandable, after all she had been through.

      “So,” she said. “Where did Jo go?”

      “To the ladies’ room.”

      “Oh.”

      Awkwardness stretched between them as the song came to a close. They joined in with a round of applause. When the next ballad began, it occurred to him that a slow dance would be their only chance for a private, uninterrupted talk. His only chance to hold her tonight. He gestured to the dance floor. “Shall we?”

      “I … don’t think we should.”

      “Maddie, your brother won’t get any ideas just because—”

      A booming voice cut him off. “Evenin’, sweet cakes.” The guy sidled up to the table near Maddie, a familiar look to him. Beer sloshed in his mug, only two fingers gripping the handle. He had the sway of someone who’d already downed a few. “Fancy seeing you here.”

      Maddie shifted in her seat, her look of unease growing. “Hi, Paul.”

      Now Lane remembered him. Paul Lamont. The guy was a baseball teammate of TJ’s, ever since their high school years, subjecting Lane to occasional encounters as a result. Even back then, the tow-head had carried a torch for Maddie subtle as a raging bonfire.

      “What do you say?” Paul licked his bottom lip and leaned on the table toward her. “Wanna cut a rug?”

      “No thanks.”

      “C’mon, doll. You don’t wanna hurt my feelings, do ya?”

      Lane couldn’t hold back. “I think the lady’s answered.”

      Paul snapped his gaze 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 upper cut 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