Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris
locomotive chugged to a standstill. A cloud of steam shot out like an exhale of relief, of which he felt none.
He bounced his heel on the weather-stained concrete, hands fidgeting in his trench coat pockets. Minutes later, passengers poured from the coaches. Men in suits and fedoras, ladies in coats and brimmed hats. Lane’s gaze sifted through the commotion. Families and friends reunited. Children squealed, set free to release their bundled energy. At a faraway glance, he mistook a lady for Maddie, clarified when the stranger angled in his direction. He rose up on the balls of his feet for a better view. But still no sign of her.
Lane confirmed with the conductor that this was the overnighter from Los Angeles—both good and poor news. Could she have missed her train, taken another?
The likelihood of the more obvious taking hold, dread rushed through him. Somehow only with Maddie at his side did defying his parents make sense. Fighting the muzzle that would bind his future to a stranger would require, while hopefully only temporary, a break from his family. Without a strong incentive, rebellion would be hard to justify. Even to himself.
Once more, Lane reviewed the train cars. The crowd was thinning, hope growing sparse. What was he to do now?
He started toward the station’s Great Hall, needing to regroup, to process, until a sight ensnared him.
Maddie . . .
In a burgundy suit jacket and skirt, she lugged a suitcase down the steps of the lead coach. Sunlight added radiance to her creamy skin, her swaying auburn hair. She spotted Lane and sent an enthusiastic wave.
Grinning, he hastened to meet her. He picked her up and held her close, savoring the fragrance of her jasmine perfume. It flowed like her music into his heart. That’s where he’d stored every note she had played at her last performance. Her movements had been so entrancing; if not for Jo nudging him to applaud, he’d have forgotten that TJ, or anyone else in the audience, was there.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry you had to wait.” She spoke with a lingering panic as he set her down. “I almost missed my connection, so I didn’t have time to check my baggage. Which was fine, until the darn latch caught on a seat while I was carrying it off and my clothes scattered all over the aisle. People offered to help, but I just couldn’t accept. My undergarments and nightdress were in there and . . .” She put a gloved hand to her face. “Good grief, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
He rubbed her blushing cheek with his thumb and shook his head. “You’re perfect.”
When she smiled, he drew her in for a kiss. Her lips tasted of mint, their texture like Japanese silk. But even more wondrous, he sensed a new comfort in her display of affection. From the discovery came an instant desire to sweep her off to their hotel. It was an urge he would have followed if not for the importance of one other stop.
He pulled his head back and Maddie slowly opened her eyes. “So, Miss Kern,” he said as though suggesting an afternoon stroll, “how would you feel about tying the knot today?”
A knock announced the message: It was time.
“I’ll be right out,” Maddie called to the closed door. She finished smoothing her hair in the tall oval mirror and straightened her suit jacket. Dust motes danced like fireflies in the spill of light through the window. A four-poster bed, two Victorian chairs, and a square table with a bowl of peppermint candies filled the makeshift dressing room, leaving little space for her nerves to jump and jitter.
Another rap sounded on the door.
What was the hurry? There weren’t any other couples when they arrived here, a minister’s residence on the outskirts of the city. A few more minutes to prepare for this momentous step seemed reasonable enough.
On the other hand, eliminating time to dwell would be wise. Little good would come of imagining the very different wedding she had pictured as a child, with the smashing gown and mile-long veil, the church pews teeming with friends. And most of all, her mother’s sweet fussing, her father’s arm to guide her.
“May I?” Lane asked, poking his head in.
“Of course.”
Inside, he shut the door with his heel. Approaching her, he paused and tilted his head in concern. “Is something wrong?”
Pondering her parents must have left clues in her expression—signs Lane could mistake for second thoughts on marriage. “I just thought it was bad luck,” she said quickly, “seeing each other before the wedding.”
“I didn’t think you believed in old wives’ tales.”
“Better to play it safe, don’t you think?” In truth, she didn’t want to taint their day with mentions of past sorrows. “Honey, you need to go. The ceremony will be starting.”
“Without us?” His eyes gleamed. “Now, pick a hand.”
Until then, she hadn’t noticed he held his arms behind his back. “What is it?”
“Pick a hand,” he repeated.
Neither of his bent elbows gave a hint. “I don’t know. This one.” She tapped his right shoulder. He flashed an empty palm.
“Now which one?”
“Lane,” she grumbled.
He laughed softly before presenting her the gift. A bundle of peach roses, each bud a flourish of perfection. White ribbons bound the thorn-less stems.
“Can’t be a bride without a bouquet,” he told her.
She barely deciphered his words. The flowers in her hand, their reminiscent color and scent, pinned her focus. “These roses,” she breathed, “they were . . .”
“Your mom’s favorite,” he finished when her voice faltered.
She nodded, amazed he had logged away such a detail.
“And let me tell you”—he smiled—“they weren’t the easiest things to find in Seattle in December.” Growing more serious, he moved her hair off her collar. His fingers brushed past the side of her neck. “But I thought you might want something of your mother with you today.”
The bittersweet sentiment tightened Maddie’s throat, just as he added, “I’ve got one more thing for you.”
What could possibly top what he had given her?
To her surprise, he went to the door and signaled to someone in the next room. The recorded notes of a solo violin entered the air with a slight crackle. Bach’s Chaconne. It was the final movement of his Second Partita, by far among his grandest works. Which was why Maddie’s father used to listen to it on their phonograph so often. Somehow the piece had slipped through her repertoire.
She felt moisture gather in her eyes, unaware a tear had fallen until Lane returned to her and wiped it away. “Thank you,” she said, unable to verbalize the scale of what the presents meant to her. She leaned in for a kiss, but he gently put a finger to her lips.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
Maddie beamed in agreement, remembering the impending ceremony. Then a revelation struck. “Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t give you anything.”
“Yeah, you did,” he replied, confusing her. “You said yes.”
Such power lay in a single syllable. Yes. Scarcely a word, a reverse gasp really, it was an answer capable of forever altering the landscape of a person’s life. And yet, to Lane’s proposal of marriage, she would say it a hundred times over.
“I’ll be in the other room,” he said. “Come out whenever you’re ready.”
Once he’d left, she brought the bouquet to her nose. At the old fragrance of home, she recalled a memory of Lane and her family. A slow month at her dad’s shop had elevated nerves while they awaited a scholarship offer for TJ. A rise