Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

reservations fell into an abyss. For it was here, safe in the heat of his arms, Maddie came to believe anything was possible. The rest of the world be damned.

      Like their night of lovemaking, waking up next to Maddie—his wife—surpassed any expectation. Lane never wanted to leave the surreal bubble encasing them. Only from the incessant grumbling of his stomach did he agree to her suggestion that they venture out for a meal. It was, after all, almost noon.

      With her arm hooked snugly around his, they emerged from the hotel. Once a block down, he pointed to a restaurant across the street. “That’s the one.”

      “Let me guess,” she said. “It’s the fanciest diner in town.”

      “Nope. Just the closest. I’m starving.”

      She laughed. “Oh, and whose fault is that?”

      He whispered in her ear, “I’m happy to take the blame. Last night was worth it.”

      “And this morning,” she reminded him.

      Her growing brazenness made him want to flip around and head straight back to their hotel room.

      They’d make it a quick meal.

      Inside the diner, the aroma of bacon caused his stomach to complain yet again. He led her to an empty booth by the window. The seats were easy to nab with so many customers clustered around a radio on the counter. Too late in the year to be listening to the play-by-play of a Rainiers game. The announcer must have been relating the latest of FDR’s policies. When else would a crackling transistor warrant this much attention?

      Usually, Lane would join in, craving every word from the President’s mouth. But not today. “I’m ready to order when you are.”

      “Hold your horses,” she said, grabbing a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Let me see what they have at least.”

      “Better make it snappy, ’cause my belly isn’t about to wait.”

      “Jeez. What happened to chivalry? You are my husband now, aren’t you?”

      “Hey, I swore to love and cherish. Never said anything about putting you before hunger.”

      Mouth agape, she batted at his forearm, and they broke into laughter. When they settled into smiles, he clasped her fingers. She stared at their interwoven hands.

      “Why do we have to go back to California?” she sighed. “Why can’t we just stay here?”

      Lane mulled over the idea. It wasn’t impossible. He had plenty in savings to afford a couple more nights of heaven. “Who says we can’t?”

      “Yeah, sure.”

      “I don’t have exams till Friday. And you said there’s nothing you have to rush home for.”

      She studied him. “You’re serious.”

      “What’s stopping us?”

      “Well . . . I told TJ I’d be back tomorrow. . . .”

      “So, you’ll send him a telegram and let him know you’re staying a few more days.”

      She hesitated, taking the suggestion in. “I guess I could. But—I didn’t pack many clothes.”

      He leaned forward and answered in a hushed tone. “Mark my words. I’ll make sure you don’t need any of them.”

      Her eyes widened, looking embarrassed. Then a giggle won out.

      “Well, what do you say, Mrs. Moritomo?” His finger rested on her wedding band. “Want to treat this like a real honeymoon?”

      She bit her lip, her cheeks still blushing. At last she nodded in earnest.

      “Good.” He grinned. “Now, let’s eat, so we can hurry back to the room.” He twisted around to find a waitress and muttered, “Isn’t anyone working here?”

      Through the dozen or so people gathered across the room, Lane spied flashes of pastel-blue diner dresses behind the counter. He waved his hand to no avail. The gals were too far away for a polite holler. Rising, he groaned before his gut could beat him to it.

      “I’ll go get someone,” he told Maddie. As he moved closer to the group, mumbles gained clarity.

      “Dear God.”

      “How many were there?”

      “What does this mean?”

      He sidled up to a bearded stranger in back of the bunch. A faded denim shirt labeled the man approachable. “What’s going on?” Lane asked.

      The guy answered without turning. “We been bombed,” he said in a daze of disbelief. “They’ve finally gone and done it.”

      “Bombed? What are you talking about? Where?”

      “Hawaii. They blasted our Navy clear outta the water.” The man shook his head. “We’re going to war, all right. No way around it.”

      “But who?” Lane demanded. “Who did it?”

      The guy angled toward Lane, mouth opening to reply, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes sharpened with anger that seemed to restore his awareness. “You oughta know,” he seethed. “Your people are the ones who attacked.”

      The train’s whistle stretched out in the tone of an accusation. Once the locomotive had cleared the claustrophobia of Seattle’s looming buildings, Maddie forced her gaze up. The Saturday Evening Post lay limply on her lap. She’d absorbed nothing of the articles. Their print, like the universe, had blurred into smears of confusion.

      She scanned the coach without moving her head. Her neck had become an over-tightened bow. Her wide-brimmed, tan-colored hat served as an accessory of concealment. Suspicious glares, however, targeted the suited man beside her: Lane, who hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel. Lane, who could always be counted on for a smile. A guy who could conjure solutions like Aces from a magician’s sleeve.

      Lane, her husband. The word hadn’t yet anchored in Maddie’s mind, and already dreams for their marriage were being stripped away.

      In the window seat, he swayed with the rattling train car. A dull glaze coated his eyes as he stared through the pane. She yearned to console him, to tell him he wasn’t to blame. The Japanese pilots who’d decimated Pearl Harbor, a place she had heard of only that morning, had nothing to do with him.

      You’re an American, she wanted to say, as American as I am, and we’ll get through this together.

      But the sentence wound like a ball of wire in her throat, tense as the air around them. Any utterance would carry the projection of a scream in the muted coach. Helpless for an alternative, she inched her hand over to reunite with his. She made a conscious effort to evade scrutinizers’ eyes. Closure around Lane’s fingers jarred him from his reverie and he turned to face her. A warm half-smile rewarded her gesture. Then he glanced up as though recalling their audience, and the corners of his mouth fell. He squeezed her palm once, a message in the release, before leaning away.

      For the rest of the trip, this was how they remained. Divided by a wall they’d had no say in constructing. Through the night hours, she heard him toss and turn on the berth beneath her; through the daylight hours, his gaze latched onto the mountains and valleys hurtling past.

      Upon their debarking in Los Angeles, the contrast between Friday and Monday struck her like a slap. It seemed mere moments ago when she had stood on this platform, the same suitcase at her feet. Yet everything had since changed.

      “Extra, extra!” the paperboy in the station hollered. “U.S. going to war! Read all about it!” His pitch carried easily over the graveness of the crowd. In small huddles, customers followed his order with newspapers propped in their hands. Headlines blared in thick black letters.

      “Do