I bought my dress from a wedding-prom discount warehouse, sifting through racks of dresses tried on hundreds of times previously. Tom said he’d ask his parents to buy me a dress, but they were already doing too much. It was ridiculous to spend money on a gown you’d only wear once. We could use that money for tons of other things. I bought an A-line satin dress that skimmed my growing belly, deeply discounted due to the makeup stain by the cleavage. That stain still bothers me whenever I look at our wedding pictures, displayed in our hallway. I don’t want that for my daughter.
Tom’s proposal was not over-the-top romantic. He actually sort of proposed before we even knew about Quincy. I’m glad he did. Otherwise, I might always wonder if he would have.
He took me to Ocean Beach to go boogie boarding. All day we caught waves until my belly turned lobster-red from my prone position. Waves were high for San Diego, maybe five feet, but I kept up with him, not stopping even when my shoulder told me to.
We sat on a beach towel and drank a couple of Coronas we’d smuggled in Super Big Gulp cups. “I’ve never had beer through a straw before.” I stifled an alarming, nonromantic burp. “Pardon me.”
“That was the cutest little burp ever. Like a baby burp.” He laughed and put his towel and his arm around me. I put my face in his shoulder. A sense of peace washed over me. With Tom, I never had to pretend I wasn’t anxious or afraid. I just was whoever I was. Felt whatever it was I felt.
He squeezed me in close. “You know what?”
I looked at him.
“I want to marry you one day.” His face was serious.
I pulled the towel over my head to hide my pleased blush. “Really?” I felt like if he saw me, I’d burst into a million pieces, an iridescent sea-soaked bubble.
“Yes.” He took the towel off and raised my head.
I swallowed. This is too good to be true. Shouldn’t it take more tries than this? Is he serious? My head harped away. “How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you.” Tom leaned in close, next to my ear, so he wouldn’t have to shout over the sounds of the waves and the people around us. “I liked my exes all right. But I was always secretly glad when we were too busy to see each other.” He smiled at me and brushed some sand off my face. “I wake up every morning wondering when I’ll get to see you.”
I took another sip of beer out of the soda container. I pictured us walking down the aisle, college degrees in our back pockets. The sand pushed up against me, hot in the sun. He watched me expectantly. A bit nervous. My heart beat like a marching band drum, shaking me head to toe. I was afraid, but I’d tell him the truth. “I would have walked out of that biology class and gone straight to the county clerk’s office if you’d wanted me to,” I said softly.
He pushed me down into the sand and kissed me.
One of the first things my sister asked me, after I told her I was engaged, was “How did he propose?” I told her. “Lame,” Drew pronounced. “When I get married, I want a big diamond hidden in a glass of champagne during a trip to Tahiti. Or skywriting. If that’s not happening, I’m saying no.”
“Everything you see on television,” I noted drily.
“That’s right.”
“Well,” I said, “would you rather have a ‘lame’ proposal from a great guy, or a great proposal from a lame guy?”
“I want both,” Drew said. Her eyes turned very light brown. “I want everything.”
• • •
I watch the other bride in the store jump up and down in her dress, seeing, I guess, if her top will stay up. She’s got very large breasts, and one slips out, all the way out of her bra. She stops. “Damn. I almost took that one in the chin.” Her mother shakes her head. I giggle and clap my hand over my mouth. A thought pops into my head. I should have invited Drew. Then we could laugh at these things together. Couldn’t we? Next time, if Quincy doesn’t find a dress, we will do it for real. With Drew. If she wants. She’ll probably be back in L.A. by then.
A door hinge squeaks from the aisle of fitting rooms. A rustle.
Quincy holds the saleswoman’s hand to step atop the carpeted platform by the three-way mirror. “What do you think? Is the skirt too much?”
The dress reflects off Quincy’s skin like a pearl, satiny and smooth. Strapless, tight in the bodice but not low cut, curving out over her hips into a full skirt that cascades down to the floor. Quincy fluffs the skirt speculatively. “I could get away with tennis shoes in this. You can’t see my feet at all.”
How many times did Quincy put on a princess dress and parade around, when she was three? Of course, she got every one of them muddy. “Sneakers would be perfect.” I sniffle. What a cliché I am. Mother of the bride crying. But hey—I’m only human.
Quincy finally quits fiddling with the skirt and looks up at me. Her expression is analytical, not joyous. As if she’s buying hardware and needs to figure out what size nails to buy. “Nah. Not really me.” She pirouettes and heads back to the fitting room. The gown is held together by chip clips in the back. The saleswoman and I watch her.
“It’s hard for such a young woman. They look fantastic in everything.” The saleswoman purses her lips. “So young.”
I just nod. Even the saleswoman thinks she should wait.
“Mom! Can you please help me get this off?” Quincy calls from the fitting room.
“I’ll help you. One moment.” The saleswoman heads back there. I wonder if she enjoys her job, helping out brides. I glance at the crumpled tissue in my hands and decide I would not last a single day in her position.
Quincy reappears, shoulders down, in a tight mermaid dress. She makes a face and points to her rear. “This is made for someone without hips.”
“Your hips are perfect.” Again I have my irrational fear. Eating disorder? Body dysmorphia?
“Ah. It’s just not me. I’m sorry.” Quincy sits on the platform—no easy feat, given the tightness of the dress. “I’m so stressed out, Mom. Too many papers. No time to do anything. My head feels like it’s spinning off.”
I sit beside her and take her hand. “We’ve got months. I’m happy to help. Don’t rush.” I pat her shoulder. “You could even wait years, if you like,” I add gently. “Ryan’s a great guy. He’ll wait.”
“I don’t know.” Quincy is crying now, her eyeliner smearing over her cheekbones. “Ryan’s going to hate all of these dresses.” She sweeps her arm around the shop.
The saleswoman reappears, a frozen smile pasted on her face. “A groom loves whatever dress his bride picks out, dear.” She meets my eyes. I shrug.
“Why do you think he’ll hate them?” I ask. Tom wouldn’t have cared if I got married in a paper sack.
“Because he thinks all the big wedding stuff is stupid.” Quincy sniffles. “Anyway, he can’t help me with anything. He’s working, and he just told me he might not even be here for Thanksgiving. He’s getting deployed in January.” She takes a breath. “It’s supposed to be for four months, but he says not to be surprised if it’s longer.”
Quincy introduced us to Ryan at a family barbecue over the summer. A friend of her friend’s brother, she’d said, twenty-two years old. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a dazzling smile and close-cut blond hair—it was impossible not to fall for him. He helped clean up without being prompted, got me and Quincy drinks. By the end of the visit, I had a bit of a crush, too.
If only they’d wait just a couple of years. Supportive. That’s what I need to be, I remind myself. “You’ll get it done. Like every other military wife. It’ll be fine.”
The saleswoman clears her throat, eyeing the makeup, the white dress. I glare at her and she leaves. I choose my next words carefully, praying my daughter won’t get angry. “Does Ryan not want to have a wedding?”
She puts her hand on my arm, cutting me off. “I’m not really upset about Ryan, Mom. I have to talk to you about something els
e.”
Oh no. Here it comes. She’s going to tell me she’s pregnant, and that’s why they’re rushing. I take a breath. “Yes.”
Quincy wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I want to have Grandpa there for my wedding.”
Grandpa. It takes me nearly a full minute to realize who Quincy is talking about. Not Tom’s father, who passed away years ago. But my father.
“Killian?” I stammer.
Quincy nods. “I was hoping that my wedding would make you guys bury the hatchet.”
My body grows cold. How can I call up this man—this stranger—who’s blackmailing me? Who wants to stick my ailing mother in a sub-par nursing home? How could I possibly invite him to my only daughter’s sacred moment? Just the thought of calling up Killian makes me feel sick to my stomach.
Over the years, I agonized about the kids not knowing my father. Some part of me always hoped for a relationship with him. Something good that might surface in him, burn out bad memories.
Yet I didn’t want to subject my children to the grocery store con man, the person who treated my mother so badly, who kicked me out for not being able to solve my own problems at sixteen. At his core, he was unpredictable. Not someone I wanted influencing my kids.
Our children got to know Tom’s father, Howard, instead. When Quincy was little, he’d been ill, but after that he spent as much time with the kids as he could until he died. Took them on outings, built birdhouses, cheered at games.
I hadn’t realized Quincy felt that way about Killian. Felt anything for him at all.
I stare at my own reflection in the endless mirror at the bridal shop, my reddened eyes and Quincy’s teary ones reflected back thousands of times, reflections within reflections, until both of us disappear in the glass. It’s not my place to poison her against Killian. “You know your grandfather’s trying to get power of attorney for Obachan,” I say with care. “We only talk through our lawyers.”
“I know, but . . .” She spreads her hands helplessly. “Don’t you think he wants to make up with us now? After all this time? I’m his only granddaughter, and I’m getting married.”
I look at my daughter’s open, innocent face, and I don’t want to disappoint her. No matter what Killian says or does. Surely Killian has a soft spot, too. He’s elderly. Don’t we all want to make peace during our last moments? Besides, she’s his only granddaughter.
Maybe this wedding will be the bridge.
I let out a long breath, like a balloon expelling air. “Okay.”
Quincy smooths her skirt. “Thank you, Mom.” She steps down; I hold out a hand, but she walks by it.
“Let me help you unzip.” I reach for her, to unclip the contraptions holding the back in place.
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.” She disappears down the hall of fitting rooms, vanishing into the bank of mirrors and half-closed doors.
MIYANOKOSHI FORTRESS
SHINANO PROVINCE
HONSHU, JAPAN
Winter 1174
Yamabuki Gozen arrived as the winter twilight turned a watery blue. Her enclosed litter swayed, barely clearing the sides of the fortress opening, carried by four stoic men moving slowly along the path, their toes scuffing into the snow with each heavy step. Tomoe stood outside, slightly behind Yoshinaka, next to her mother, the chill like knives on her cheeks. Chizuru stood on tiptoe to whisper. “Remember, it’s you who has his heart.”
Tomoe glanced down at her mother, this woman who had been able to marry her love, Kaneto, a man chosen of her own free will. Tomoe did not recall seeing her father glance toward another woman his entire life. Chizuru couldn’t understand what Tomoe was going through, Tomoe thought, and straightened, smoothing out her heavy coat. Yoshinaka’s hair, normally wild even when bound back, had been oiled and smoothed. Tomoe wrinkled her nose at its strong floral smell. He shifted from foot to foot. Nervous. She could tell without seeing his expression.
All of Yoshinaka’s supporters were here, waiting, dressed in what passed for their best. Mostly threadbare clothes mended and made over for years. All of them wearing layers and layers, their heads tiny above their puffy clothing. They looked so unsophisticated and rough. What would Yamabuki make of them?
Of her?
Yamabuki might want to be rid of Tomoe.
She took a breath so loud and deep it startled Demon, the huge black horse tied to a post on the other side of the courtyard. He neighed anxiously. Tomoe whinnied back to calm him.
After what seemed like forever, the men carrying the litter laid it on the ground. Two of Yoshinaka’s retainers opened the door and held out their hands to help Yamabuki step out. Tomoe braced herself for the sight of a plump and powdered white face with shaved eyebrows drawn in close to the shaved hairline. A face used to poetry and music and leisure.
Tomoe could not remember when she had last listened to music. Only when they made one of their infrequent trips into town, stopping at a restaurant, did she catch the refrains of a koto, the floor harp, or a voice lifted in song. And there had never been poetry here. Though Kaneto had taught all the children to read, they rarely did so for pleasure. Tomoe didn’t see the point of keeping up with such skills. Not when she had so many other occupations with which to concern herself.
One small foot, clad in a cloth tabi and a wooden geta, appeared first, landing slowly on the snowy ground. Then another. An ice-blue kimono, beautifully woven—Tomoe could see that even from her place in the back—picturing cranes scooping fish out of ocean waves, swished audibly in the still air.
Those tiny feet. How could she stay balanced? Tomoe heard her mother gasp and forced herself to look at Yamabuki’s face.
Pale, all right. But not pale from makeup. This woman’s skin was pale as that of one who has never seen the sun, nearly translucent with blue undertones. One blue-green vein ran down the center of her forehead. Yamabuki kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her reddened lips pressed closely together. A great length of straight hair swept down her back, shiny as lacquer. She was lovely. Lovely and untouchable as a thin sheet of ice in late spring. When the sun shone on her, this apparition might melt.
The retainers helped her forward to Yoshinaka. True to fashion, the kimono prevented fast movement, so tightly was it bound around her legs. “Yamabuki Gozen,” said one of the retainers, his breath visible on the air.
The last bit of light disappeared behind the mountains, the moon straddling its ridge, casting its spectral glow onto Yamabuki. Somehow she seemed more natural in such light. Yoshinaka bowed. “Welcome.” Tomoe noticed he was trying to keep his voice low and cultured. It still sounded more like a growl.
But Yamabuki was not afraid. She raised her eyes to his. They glittered like black onyx, the darkest eyes Tomoe had ever seen, yet light too somehow, lit from within.
Tomoe imagined how Yamabuki saw her new spouse, and waited for her to register astonishment or disgust. Yoshinaka had none of the attributes Yamabuki would have prized in Miyako. His face was not round. He was decidedly hairy. “Thank you,” Yamabuki said, her tones so high and sweet that Tomoe momentarily forgot this woman was her rival. Her expression was pleasant, as though no terrible thought could ever pass through a mind so pure.
Yoshinaka’s great shoulders sagged in that particular way Tomoe recognized. It was the way he looked when he wanted to embrace her. A moment when he let down his guard.
No! Tomoe wanted to shout. She stepped forward.
Yoshinaka straightened. “Please show her to her quarters.” Yoshinaka bowed again. “We will see you at dinner.”
Was he not going to introduce her? Tomoe stood, rooted to her spot, cheeks hot in embarrassment. The retainer stepped in again, cleared his throat. “This is Tomoe Gozen.”
Yamabuki turned her otherworldly gaze to Tomoe. Which world, good or bad, Tomoe couldn’t say. “I am pleased to meet you,” she said, still keeping that silv
ery tone. Tomoe should have bowed first, but Yamabuki did.
Tomoe bowed back.
Nine
SAN DIEGO
Present Day
Drew takes the slow way to see her mother, on a highway bordering the ocean. Last night, after they saw Joseph in the morning, he e-mailed more Tomoe Gozen chapters, and Drew had stayed up late reading them.
The story swims through her head. A woman who doesn’t fit in anywhere. She can relate, though Drew definitely doesn’t think of herself as any kind of warrior. She thinks maybe she’s more like Yamabuki, another out-of-place person, who seems at the moment to be basically useless. At least Tomoe distinguished herself as a fighter.
Are they related to this Tomoe woman? Is that what Hikari wanted them to know?
She tries to remember a single time when Hikari mentioned Japan. A bit of homesickness, a tale about her family. In Drew’s family, stories of the past stayed there. Drew wonders if Rachel thinks about that, too. Rachel somehow created a whole new family and a whole new way of life.
She finds a parking spot and beeps her car alarm, leaving her giant sunglasses in the car. Sometimes, if Drew is being very honest with herself, she admits that she can’t see the point of these visits. It tears at Drew’s heart to sit there, watching her mother wither away like a time-lapse movie of a life cycle. As her mother stares at the ocean, unaware of her brain’s mutiny.
In the glass-walled lobby, where leather couches face the water, Drew waits to check in behind an older man who leans on a cane. Its top has a silver griffin, the beak peeking out from under a large, spotted hand. Silver threads of hair swirl around a pink-pale skull. He wears a fine pair of slacks, a pressed dress shirt over shoulders that were probably once broad, over a body once tall.
“Let me know how it was,” he says to the receptionist in the voice of a much younger man. A familiar voice.
“Thanks for the tickets,” the receptionist, a plain woman in her early twenties with light brown hair, says. She smiles up at him as if he’s saved her from a house fire. “You don’t know how much it means.”
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