It was quiet, peaceful. There were no sounds of the city, no birds chirping, no children making noise. Just silence. The silence; it was one of the things he hadn't liked as a child. Once he'd bounced a ball against the side of the house and his mother had taken him by the hand and told him to bounce the ball on the lawn. It hadn't been any fun. He wondered where the big red ball was now.
This was another world, alien now somehow. The Hase-gawa family had always lived behind thick walls, shut off from the rest of the city. For privacy. Too much privacy. Even now, in winter, he couldn't deny the beauty of his old home, but he didn't want to live here. He was sure of it now. He tried to remember if he'd liked it as a child. Probably not, he decided.
Japan was a beautiful country. Someday he'd come back and really see it. He'd been so sheltered, so sequestered here as a child: he'd gone only to school and to the newspaper offices, once in a while. The rest of his time he was behind these walls. He didn't belong here even then, and he certainly didn't belong here now. He didn't want to belong. He knew he could never be a newspaperman.
The old one was sleeping. Riley prowled his great bedroom. The last words he'd spoken to his grandfather, before the strong drug took effect, burned in his brain. He was leaving, going back to America, back to his father's home— his home now.
He looked around. How often as a toddler, and then as a child, and then as a young man, he'd come to this room for
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long talks with his grandfather. No problem was ever too big or too small. He never left the room without feeling better. Today was the first time he was going to leave more confused than when he'd entered. And miserable. A word that was almost impossible to associate with this tranquil, peaceful house.
He looked down once more at the sleeping man. He leaned over, his hands clenched. If only he could breathe some of his own healthy life into this frail figure. His lips caressed the crinkly cheek that felt like old rice paper. Tears burned his eyes. His heart ached.
He propped up the letter he'd written earlier, after the doctor told him his grandfather would probably sleep for twelve hours or more. He couldn't wait twelve hours. He had to catch a plane to the States. He had responsibilities there. His family was there.
A tortured sigh escaped Shadaharu when he heard the door close softly for what he was sure was the last time. There was nothing left now, no point in fighting. A tear trickled down his cheek. He felt a moment of shame. It was the first tear ever to leave his eyes. It would be his last.
Then he slept again, the heavy narcotics killing his pain.
Riley walked through the dimly lit house and into the garden.
The precise symmetry of the Zen garden startled him, as though he were seeing it for the first time. The moon created a dramatic pattern of light and shadow. Not a leaf, not a pebble was out of place. It was as though he had stepped back into his childhood. He could picture his mother smiling at him as he ran about.
Calm settled over Riley, a feeling he hadn't had for a long time. Lately he seemed to be on overload, meeting himself coming and going. An accident waiting to happen, Lacey had said. Lacey wouldn't like this garden. It was too sculptured, too perfect. There was no glitz here, no pizzazz. Just tranquillity and beauty. Ivy would like it, though....
Riley checked his watch. It was almost time to leave for the airport. He would sleep on the way back, but he'd still have jet lag when he landed. One of these days he was going to have to learn to eat properly before an overseas trip. Little goose bumps on his arms surprised him. He rolled down his shirt sleeves. His body felt cold and his heart felt cold. There was nothing here to warm him.
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When Riley Coleman left the Hasegawa house he didn't look back. His life changed in that instant. "Airport," he said tersely to the limo driver.
The raw, cold days gave way to late December's tundra weather. Christmas passed with no festivities at Sunbridge, and the New Year was ushered in quietly—just another day.
Amelia delighted in the New Year. She loved new beginnings. Her determination to do something about the nursing home problem had intensified over the holidays. So many lonely old people with none of the small comforts that give meaning to life. She'd spent almost all her time going from one home to the other with piles of magazines and books just to get the lay of the land. Cary didn't understand. She could see it in his eyes. When she'd explained that she was about the same age as most of the residents, and but for the grace of God she could be in the same position, he'd been kind and indulgent, but he really wasn't interested. Why should he be? To a man his age a nursing home must seem like a lifetime away. She'd shrugged. It would happen to all of them at some time, even Cary. He had no children. Who would take care of him when she was gone? Would he ...
She wished she felt better. Stamina was required for the job she had cut out for herself. Already she had Cary's study filled with manuals and pamphlets, thanks to Billie and Thad, who'd sent her every bit of passed legislation known to man in regard to geriatric nursing care. But it was the interviews she'd done with patients that took up most of the shelf space. After taping and playing them back, she sent them out for typing and binding. Each interview was accompanied by the patient's history. She filed them in alphabetical order by name, being as professional as she knew how. This wasn't a job to skimp on, not when it dealt with human life and dignity.
Amelia tapped the blunt end of her nail on the desktop. If only Cary were more supportive instead of just indulgent. If only . . . those days were gone. She didn't deal with "if onlys" anymore. Everything was either positive or negative.
The pencil moved swiftly. A line, a dark black line on the paper. The bottom line. There was always a bottom line to everything in life. She had one. Cary had one; all the Cole-mans had a bottom line. She already knew what hers was, but she wasn't one hundred percent sure of Cary's. He seemed to be floundering, searching for a new project but finding noth-
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ing to challenge him. Lately he seemed to be moving away from her too. Or was she moving away from him? She had to admit she was consumed with the nursing home project. It was so important. Did only older people like herself, Billie, and Thad understand? How important the last years are, Amelia thought. Every human being has the right to dignity, and by God, she was going to do her best to make sure they got it. If it meant moving further away from Cary, so be it. Someday, when age caught up with him, he'd understand. He'd come to that special place on the hill, high above Sunbridge. He'd kneel down and talk. If he didn't forget, he'd bring flowers. He'd apologize. There would be tears in his eyes. She wondered if he'd be alone. A tear dropped on the dark black line. The paper puckered. A second tear fell on the paper. A sob caught in Amelia's throat. She didn't want to be old, and she didn't want to die. If only she could have yesterday back, just for a little while.
With all the force she could muster, Amelia straightened her shoulders. This was no time to be maudlin. No matter how she felt, she had work to do. Important work. Work that was more important than ... yes, than anything else in her life.
Cary poked his head in the doorway. "What say we chuck all this and buzz into town for lunch?" He gave her a playful leer. "You get gussied up."
Amelia leered back. Then she laughed. "Ah, the idle unemployed. How nice it is. Sorry, but I have to go over the last three interviews I did this week. I want everything in order before I meet with the state commission."
Amelia felt a flutter of panic as her eyes went from her handsome, virile husband to eighty-six-year-old Jethroe Evans's interview. Old Jethroe was suddenly more important than her husband. She smiled to take the sting out of her refusal.
"Can I help?" Cary asked.
"Nope. This is something I have to do myself. Something I want to do."
Cary felt his throat closing. There seemed to be a chill in the room, which was in fact stifling. Amelia liked it warm these days.
He sensed he was losing her. Like now, she was talking to hi
m, smiling up at him, and yet the rest of her was somewhere else—with those old people. People her age and older, she had told him bluntly when she took on her project. Her age.
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Cary refused to think of the numbers. They'd had such a wonderful life, and there was no goddamn reason why they couldn't continue to have a wonderful life. He loved her. He didn't give a damn how old she was. Something was taking his place. He didn't like it, and worse, he didn't know how to fight it.
"Listen, babe, do you think you could take off a few days next week and go to New York with me? Some money boys will be in town, and they asked me to sit in on some meetings. I'd like to. I've been at loose ends since the holidays. We could take in a show, do some shopping, walk through Central Park, have a champagne breakfast. Unwind." He held his breath, waiting for his wife's answer. He knew it would be no, but still he hoped.
Amelia opened her bright red appointment book, which was stuffed with loose papers. He could tell by the scrawled memos that she'd been busy, and from the way she was riffling through the pages, she was going to be a lot busier. "Darling, I can't possibly make it. I've got something going every day. I might, and it's a real iffy might, make it Friday night, and I'll have to come back early Sunday morning. There's an important luncheon Sunday at Grey Oaks. I arranged it myself. The governor and the mayor will be there. How about if I take a rain check? You go and enjoy yourself. Call me and we can talk all evening. Remember how we used to do that when we were first married and you went away on business? We'd both fall asleep with an open phone wire. Lord, those bills were astronomical."
"I miss those days, Amelia," Cary said. "I miss you. We don't have any time together anymore."
"I know, darling. While we don't have quantity time, we do have quality time. Don't you think that's more important?"
He didn't think so at all. He felt like smashing something. Couldn't she see how much he wanted to be with her?
He felt like a fool, standing around begging for quantity time, for God's sake, like some yuppie's toddler. He could feel Amelia's uneasiness and knew she wanted him to leave. He was sorry now that he'd gone with her to one of those old people's homes. He'd let her see how appalled he was, how shocked. He was not ready to deal with mortality. Some of the nursing home residents were Amelia's age, as she'd been quick to point out to him, but it was hard to compare her to any of them. He'd never, ever, no matter what happened,
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commit her to such a place, no matter how good the care was.
She'd laughed when he said so. "Darling, if I lose control of my bodily functions and my mind goes, will you still take care of me? Life is for the living. What I'm trying to do is make sure these old folks get the best possible care. I want people to treat them gently and kindly, not like flotsam and jetsam. I can't explain it any better. I have to help."
"You can't do it alone, Amelia. It's... it's too awesome," he'd said.
"I'm going to try, and when I can't do it anymore, someone else will carry on. I refuse to believe I'm the only person out there who cares. I can see you're uncomfortable. I shouldn't have brought you. I'll drive you home and come back." Her voice had been firm and hard.
He'd gone, too, like a chastened schoolboy. He just couldn't bear the thought of Amelia ever being in a nursing home, being feeble. Who was he fooling? Amelia's heart attack had taken its toll on both of them. Was he being selfish? He was glad she was alive and happy, doing something she liked doing. Love, true love, was unselfish, wanting the other person to be happy.
"I guess I'll read the paper," he said quietly. "Can I get you some coffee?"
"I'd love a cup of tea, if you don't mind."
Mind? Jesus, he'd dig a well for the water if he had to. "Coming right up."
Amelia smiled to herself. She was floating in tea, but if it made Cary happy, doing something for her, she'd drink it. She smiled again when he returned, carrying a tray with two cups, two muffins, and a sprig of something green stuck into a mug. She pretended not to see the little granules of dirt that fell on the tray from the greenery. Poor darling, how lost he was.
"Darling, you go to New York. I can't bear to see you at loose ends while I'm so busy. Promise me you'll go even if I can't join you."
Cary nodded. "Was it like this for you when I was working twelve and fourteen hours a day?" Not waiting for an answer, he continued. "It was, I know it. I'm sorry for that, Amelia. We lost so much time. Hours, days, even years. My God, I'm so sorry."
"Cary, look at me and listen. I did miss you terribly and I wanted to be a part of it all. I lived for the time you came home at night, and then you'd be so tired you could hardly
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stand up. I understood, and I wouldn't do it differently if I had another chance. All I wanted was for you to be happy. If you're happy, I'm happy. I have no complaints, and just look at what you've accomplished. You've left your mark. I'm so proud of you." Her voice softened. "I love you so very much."
Cary could feel the tears gather in his eyes. He blinked. He wasn't the sort of man who was ashamed to show his feelings. "You always know just the right thing to say at the right time. What would I have done without you all these years?"
Amelia wiped at her own tears. "We found each other, so we don't have to speculate. Go along now and make your reservations for New York. Promise to bring me a present."
Cary leaned over to kiss his wife. Her perfume wafted about him. He squeezed her shoulder. "You're my reason for living; always remember that, Amelia. I love you so much I ache with the feeling." Amelia bit down on her lower lip and leaned into the crook of his arm. Their lives. Love.
UUUM CHAPTER FOUR >}>»»»
Cary didn't know if he loved or hated New York. He'd been walking aimlessly for hours now, gawking at street vendors selling cheap plastic belts and sunglasses, peering into shop windows, hoping the perfect gift for Amelia would beckon him inside. What the hell, he had nothing better to do. As far as he was concerned, he was out of the real estate deal with the high rollers. There was something wrong, and he didn't want to take the time to figure out what it was. It wasn't the big numbers that scared him, it was the nervousness of two of the investors, big-money men who shouldn't even blink at such a deal. He'd known, early in the meetings, that this project wasn't the right one for him, and he'd excused himself, saying he'd give them his decision in a day or so, which meant he had to kick around the city on his own.
Cary walked on, oblivious to the admiring glances he was getting. The wind tousled his hair. He gave up trying to smooth it down and jammed his hands into his pockets. He
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stopped at a vendor and bought a wind-up toy of two bears, one riding piggyback on the other. Farther on he bought Car-rera sunglasses in their minicase along with a god-awful lime-green leather belt big enough to go around a horse's belly. Amelia would laugh. On another street he bought a fold-up umbrella with lace on the scalloped edges and a scarf splattered with chartreuse and purple flowers, to match the belt. He laughed at the look of outrage on the black boy's face when he asked for a bag. It was a deep, delighted sound of humor, and people around him smiled. He nodded slightly to two young girls admiring the brilliant scarf. He looked around to get his bearings and decided to walk to Bloomingdale's for a shopping bag. For fifty cents he could dump all his purchases in one bag. Maybe he should get two shopping bags. The decision to spend a dollar for two shopping bags made him laugh again. Two hours ago he could have made a decision to commit seven million dollars to a fancy hexagonal, copper-colored high rise. Amelia would laugh and say, "Penny-wise and pound foolish," whatever that meant.
The colorful Bloomie's bag felt good in his hand, as if he'd accomplished something. The second bag was folded neatly inside the first for anticipated purchases.
A sweet-smelling clerk motioned him to the Chanel counter and held out a sample of perfume. Cary looked at the little vial, wrinkled his nose to show he approved of the scent. Coco, the girl called it. Her nam
e tag said she was Betsy Gill, and she wore a yellow flower in the buttonhole of her suit jacket. Cary ordered a large bottle, dusting powder, and some fragrant soap. He peeled off two hundred-dollar bills from his money clip and pocketed the few dollars change. Amelia was going to love this. He hoped she wouldn't stint when she sprayed the sheets. He decided to get a second bottle. Betsy smiled and said she wished she were the recipient of such a lavish gift. Cary smiled shyly. "It's for my wife," he said.
A flock of women descended on the perfume counter. He moved out of the way, but not before he heard a vaguely familiar voice ask for a sample of Coco. He tried to peer into the group of women but couldn't see anyone he recognized. Annoyed with himself, he headed for the men's department, not that he needed anything, but at least he could tell Amelia he had checked out New York male fashion. He plunked down $480 for a cashmere sweater, knowing she would be de-
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lighted. It was perfect for lounging around in. Casual but elegant, as she would put it.
It was past his lunchtime and his stomach growled. A New York deli pickle would go great right now, he thought, along with a pastrami on rye and gobs of spicy brown mustard. An ice-cold beer to top it off would make him delirious. He marched out onto Third Avenue in search of a deli.
The deli was crowded with shoppers and businessmen. Standing inside the brass rail to wait for a table, he heard a voice ask for a pastrami and corned beef on rye with plenty of mustard. "A diet Coke," the voice added. The same voice he'd heard in Bloomingdale's.
Two ladies got up from their table and Cary sprinted for it. As he slid into his seat he noticed a woman emerge from the crowd at the counter. Now he knew who "the voice" was.
"Julie! Julie Kingsley!" he called, jumping to his feet.
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