Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Read Online Free PDF Page A

flanking an invisible guest.
    “Your father would like to speak to you,” she prompted, a verbal tap of the gavel.
    “Mmm,” his father agreed. He folded his arms and let out a deep exhale that stirred Lane’s curiosity. “It is the matchmaker in Japan. He has been working very hard for you, searching for a well-suited prospect.”
    Shit, Lane thought, not this again.
    He didn’t realize the words had slipped out of his mouth until his father narrowed his eyes. “Takeshi!” It was Lane’s birth name, spoken with more surprise than anger.
    Right away, Lane regretted not mirroring the respect his father had always shown him. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to say that.” Only to think it.
    His mother tsked. “You are in your father’s house, not a dorm at your American university. If this is how you—” She stopped short. “Remove your glasses when we are addressing you.”
    For a moment, Lane had forgotten he was wearing them, and, more important, why. His mother’s gaze bore through the lenses. Bracing himself, he unmasked his suddenly not-so-prideful mark, and his parents gasped in unison.
    “What is this?” His father leaned toward him.
    “It’s nothing. Really. It looks worse than it is.”
    “Nothing?” his mother said, incredulous, but his father continued on with concern.
    “What happened? Were you robbed?”
    “No, no,” Lane assured him. “I was just at a club last night, when a brawl broke out.” Not the most tactful opening. Better to expound with highlights considered heroic in their culture; violence as a means of unconditional loyalty was, after all, a samurai staple. “Some chump I went to Roosevelt High with was there. He was being disrespectful, not only toward me but against all Japanese. So”—better to keep things anonymous—“a buddy of mine came to my defense. And when I tried to hold the bigger guy back—”
    “Enough,” his father said. His eyes exhibited such disappointment, the remainder of the story stalled on Lane’s tongue. “I did not raise you to be a lowly street fighter. You have been afforded a better upbringing than that.”
    Lane’s mother turned to her husband. Shards of ice filled her voice. “Did I not warn you? He is twenty-one years old, and because of you, he remains a child. All the idealistic views you have put into his head, to speak up when it suits him. As always, the nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” To punctuate the ancient adage, she flicked her hand to the side. The gesture effectively illustrated the quiet criticism she sent the man in every look, every day. An unyielding punishment, it seemed, for trading the dreams she’d once held for his. But his dreams were also for his children. Lane had always known this without being told.
    Japan was a tiny island, crammed with farmers and fishermen and conformists, all bowing blindly to an emperor roosted on an outdated throne. Here, possibilities floated like confetti. Los Angeles was the city of angels, the heart of Hollywood, where imagination bloomed and promise hung from palm trees. Hope streamed in the sunlight.
    America was their home, and Lane’s need to defend that fact took over.
    “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make a difference in this country. My country. Emma’s country.” His delivery was gruffer than intended, but he wouldn’t say “sorry” this time. His sister, if no one else, deserved a safe place to plant the seeds of dreams and watch them grow.
    Lane’s father straightened. He rested his hands firmly on his spread knees in a contemplative, Buddha-like pose. Outside of his job, his greatest displays of strength were reserved for these kinds of moments. Moderating. Keeping the ground beneath their family level.
    “Your mother is right,” he said evenly, and continued before Lane could argue. “You are a man now. You must settle down. Carrying another’s needs on your shoulders will focus you on your future.” In banking, he meant. A baby