Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris
me,” Mrs. Duchovny lamented, “I forgot how terrible the holidays must be for them.”
“Aw, now. You shouldn’t feel bad, for having discussed your family gatherin’.”
“I suppose. Just such a shame, the poor girl.”
There was no doubt whom they’d been talking about. The same family everyone was always talking about. After two years of rampant whispers, Maddie should have been used to this.
Bea popped her head up with an awkward abruptness. “Any luck, sugar?”
Maddie swallowed around the pride, the voiceless scream, lodged in her throat. “I found a button that’ll work.”
“Splendid,” Mrs. Duchovny gushed, her cheeks gone pink. With arms appearing weighted by guilt—or pity—she reached out for the items.
“No.” Maddie stepped back, her reply a bit sharp. She held the shirt to her middle and softened the moment with a smile. “That is, I’d be happy to do it for you. No charge.” She would have offered normally anyhow, yet it was her sudden inability to unclench her hands that left her without choice.
Mrs. Duchovny conceded, followed by a rare moment of quiet. “I’d best be getting home. Bob will be sending out a search party soon.” She shrugged into her fur-collared overcoat and covered her locks with a brimmed hat.
“We’ll call y’all when everything’s ready,” Bea said, and ushered her to the exit while they exchanged good-byes. A burst of air charged through before the door closed, rocking Maddie onto her heels. And not for the first time, she was surprised to discover she was still standing.
7
“Kern!” Coach Barry’s voice shot over the departing spectators at Griffith Park. “Need a word with you, son.”
TJ fought a scowl as he zipped up his sports bag. Since being pulled for the last two innings, he’d been counting down the minutes to leave. Their closing pitcher had held on for a 7–5 victory, but TJ wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.
He slung his bag over his left shoulder and hid his purpling bruises by dangling his right hand behind him. Thankfully, only a muted yellow tinted his cheek.
Coach Barry strolled toward the outfield, a signal for TJ to join him. A private talk. Not a good thing, considering TJ’s mediocre showing today. The solid, dark Irishman carried a thoughtful look, hands in the pockets of his baseball jacket. A taunting wind blew past them. It flapped a lock of the man’s slicked hair, receding from the effects of close-call games and concern for his players.
As they passed the pitcher’s mound, TJ mined his brain for arguments to defend himself. He wasn’t about to surrender all hope of regaining his slot in the starting rotation for USC’s upcoming season. When his game had gone to hell last year, a compassionate demotion landed him in the bullpen. Now he wanted out. He was a prisoner who knew what it was like on the other side of the fence, and could feel his cell closing in on him. Telling the coach about a new pitch he was honing might aid his cause. A “slurve,” they called it. The slider-curve combo could break wide enough to raise some brows.
He was about to volunteer as much when Coach Barry asked, “So how’s your father been?”
Your father.
Swell. Was there anything TJ wanted to talk about less?
“The same,” he answered. Which meant mute in a convalescent home, nearly too depressed to function.
Coach Barry nodded pensively. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
TJ squeezed the strap on his bag. Redirecting, he said, “My sister, Maddie, though—she’s doing great. Her violin teacher says she’s a shoo-in for Juilliard this year, if her audition goes well. Just gotta keep her on track till then.”
“That’s good, that’s good.” Coach Barry smiled. “I’m sure you’ve done a fine job looking out for her.”
TJ shrugged, despite feeling as though caring for Maddie was the one thing he was still doing right.
“What about you, son? How you doing these days?”
“I’m gettin’ by.” The reply was so reflexive, he didn’t consider the bleakness of the phrase until it was too late to reel the words back in. “’Course, if you’re talking about baseball, I can assure you, my pitches are coming back more and more every day. You just wait and see. By spring practice—”
Coach Barry held up his hand, bringing them to a stop. “Look,” he sighed. “I’m gonna cut to the chase. Your professor, Dr. Nelson, paid a visit to my office last week. It’s about your grades.”
The path of the conversation, in an instant, became clear. A detour TJ resented. He didn’t need their sympathy, or to be ganged up on. That woman had no business stirring up trouble on the field.
“It was a couple lousy tests,” he burst out. “I’ve told her that. Got plenty of time to make it up.”
“And the rest of your classes?” The challenge indicated Coach Barry was well informed of the situation. That his former-ace pitcher was barely skimming by, tiptoeing on the fence of a scholarship lost.
TJ clenched his jaw. He wrestled down his anger, to prevent it from seizing control.
Coach Barry rested a hand on TJ’s shoulder, causing a slight flinch. “I know you’ve been through a lot, son. But you’ve got less than a year left, and I, for one, don’t want to see you throw it all away. Now, if you need a tutor, you just say so. Or if you need more time for studying, we can certainly see about cutting back your delivery hours. . . .”
Less time dedicated to his on-campus job was a nice thought, particularly on days of lugging cadavers from Norwalk State Hospital for the Science Department. Yet a nice thought was all it was. Besides school expenses, TJ needed all the dough he could get for house bills and Maddie’s lessons and everything else in the goddamned world that chomped its way through a pocketbook.
“I’ll be fine, Coach,” he broke in. He repeated himself, taking care to stress his gratitude. “Really, I’ll be fine.” If it hadn’t been for the guy’s encouragement, TJ would have dropped out of college long before now.
Coach Barry rubbed the cleft in his chin before he heaved a resigning breath. “All right, then. You know where to find me.”
TJ obliged with a nod. He remained on the faded lines of the diamond as his coach walked away and disappeared from sight. At that moment, in the wide vacancy of the ball field, TJ suddenly realized why he had always been a pitcher.
Because alone on the mound, he depended only on himself.
8
Maddie stood on the Pier, searching, searching. Though unbuttoned, her long russet coat hoarded heat from her anxious rush across town. A current of strangers split around her like a river evading a rock. An ordinary rock, medium in size, nearly invisible. And Maddie preferred it that way. Only when channeling another’s composition through her bow did she now find comfort in the spotlight.
Scanning faces, she hunted for Lane’s distinct features, his sister’s pint-sized frame. Outside the Hippodrome was where he had asked Maddie to meet them. But they weren’t there, and she didn’t have the luxury of time to wait patiently. It was a quarter after noon. She had but fifteen minutes to spare. He couldn’t have left early; she’d told him she would be here as soon as she could. She needed to find him, before he left, before his train.
Before she lost her nerve.
“Lane, where are you?” At the very moment she whispered the words, she spotted the back of his familiar form blinking between passersby. His golden skin peeked out between his short black hair and the collar of his coat.
She prepared herself while striding over the wooden planks to reach him. “I’m so glad you’re