Cole didn't bother with a shower. He threw on the same clothes he'd had on the night before. He grabbed his wallet and car keys and was out of the apartment in five minutes flat, the perking coffeepot forgotten.
Twenty minutes later he was sitting in his car outside Sun-bridge. He stared at the house for a long time, wishing he knew why he was sitting here at three forty-five in the morning. He didn't even have a key anymore—he'd given it back to Riley at Christmastime—but he did have the electronic garage door opener on the visor in his car. "This is bullshit, Cole Tanner," he muttered. "Go home and go to bed." Instead, he pressed the small device. The doors slid upward. He cut the engine and walked through the garage, his headlights lighting the darkness ahead of him.
First he checked the oil burner and then the water heater. Both were fine as far as he could tell. He walked through the rooms, turning on overhead lights as he went along. Riley had unplugged all the radios and televisions. He made a second pass-through, feeling more foolish than the first time.
Back in the kitchen he felt more convinced than ever he'd done the right thing by giving his half of Sunbridge to Riley.
He shivered.
Cole sat down at the butcher block table that was as old as the house and full of gouges and nicks. He wondered how many meals had been eaten off the table. Nobody in his right mind sits in a cold, empty house he hates at four in the morning, he told himself. Funny, though—he still had the feeling something was wrong, that there was something he should do.
He got up and opened the back door. The air rushed through, warmer than the frigid air in the house. Cole shivered. He switched on the outside light. The courtyard with the double basketball hoops sprang to life. He looked down at two empty milk bottles standing to his left. A wicker hanging bas-
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ket with a dried-up bird's nest swung crazily in the wind. Nothing here.
Cole walked through the library one more time and into the cavernous front hall. He checked the front door to make sure it was locked, then pulled open the heavy curtains on the side window to look out across the front lawn and down the long driveway. Nothing out there. As he closed the curtains, something fluttered at his feet, something that looked like white paper. He bent over to pick it up. When he looked at what was in his hand, his heart stopped beating for a second. Riley's letter to his grandfather—the one he said he was going to write when they came down from the hill. He must have left it on the hall table for Jonquil to mail, and somehow it had slipped to the floor.
Now he understood Riley's phone calls and the question, over and over, have you heard from my grandfather? This was the letter that was supposed to make things right for Riley and the old one.
Cole raced to the library phone, then stood, the phone in his hand, wondering what to do first. Something told him not to call Japan. He punched out a number in New York. Nick's voice was surprisingly alert, considering the hour.
"Jesus, Cole, do you want me to come down there to mail the letter or what?" he asked after Cole spilled the whole story.
"No. What does it mean, Nick?"
"It means you were meant to find it, I guess. I'm no psychic, Cole. I can't even pretend to understand it."
"Riley must have gone through hell these past weeks not hearing from his grandfather. No wonder he—"
"I think maybe it's the old man who's going through hell," Nick said. "Don't you?"
Cole arrived at the Hasegawa household the following day. He was gritty-eyed, unshaven, and anxious. He found the family gathered in the Zen garden with their heads bowed. His eyes searched out Sumi. Her expression showed no surprise at his sudden appearance.
"Where is he? Am I too late?" Cole barked.
"He's gone to the cherry blossom hill. You must not go there, Cole. We must all respect my father's wishes."
Cole looked around at the Hasegawa family. They sat with their eyes lowered, not concerning themselves with his intru-
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sion. It was clear to him that Sumi was their spokesperson. There was an anxiousness in her voice when she said, "We gave our promise to stay here in the garden."
"Well, I didn't promise. I have something here for him, and he has to see it. Stay out of my way, Sumi."
He took off at a dead run. The path was clear, the soft, loamy earth marked by the cane the old one had used. When he came to the clearing, he stopped short. Was he too late?
"Mr. Hasegawa, it's Cole. I'm not of your family, and I made no promise not to come here. I brought this," he said, holding out the letter. The words tumbled out so fast, he wasn't sure he was saying or thinking them. "I know when Riley wrote it. Did you understand what I just said?"
"Every word, Coleman san. The letter is not needed. I know what is in my grandson's heart. I knew when he called for my help. This humble man thanks you for making your long journey here. Please now, go below with my family. Dry their tears for me and beg them not to grieve."
"No," Cole said emphatically.
"You defy me?"
"No man should die alone."
"It is not my way."
"It is now. If I were Riley, you'd let him stand here. I'm his stand-in. He sent me," Cole lied.
"I knew you were coming, Coleman san. I had a vision before I climbed this hill. I believe it was yesterday. I heard your footfall. My hearing is excellent for a dying man."
The conversation was taking its toll on the old man. His breathing was labored, but still he tried to speak. He appeared to be disoriented, his head wobbling about on his thin neck.
"Can you smell the cherry blossoms, Riley?"
Cole blinked. "Yes, Grandfather." He hadn't noticed them till now. Everywhere he looked there were pink petals.
"You will carry this worthless old body to the bottom of the hill, my grandson."
"I will carry your body to the bottom of the hill, my grandfather," Cole said softly.
"Will this worthless body be covered with cherry blossoms?"
"If this is your wish, Grandfather." Cole blinked away his tears.
"Come closer, Riley. I can't see you."
Cole stepped closer. "I'm here, Grandfather."
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"I knew you would come. I prayed for this moment."
Cole felt faint. He had to take something back to Riley, even if it was the delirious words of a dying man.
"I need to know, Grandfather, that you forgive me. That you understand what has happened to me."
The voice was thin, frail, and barely discernible. "My grandson, I would forgive you anything. My happiness is knowing you are happy. It is you who must forgive this foolish old man who turned selfish with the illness that consumes me. Tell me you forgive me so that I may join your mother and grandmother."
"I forgive you, Grandfather. May your spirit and the spirits of my mother and grandmother keep me safe always." Sumi had told him that was the phrase the children used when a relative died. Thank God he remembered it.
When the old one's eyes closed for the last time, Cole walked over to the cherry tree closest to the still body. He reached for a low branch and shook it. The fragile, fragrant petals sailed down gracefully, coming to rest on the old man.
Cole's eyes burned when he picked up Riley's grandfather. He weighed no more than a small child.
He had lied to Riley, Cole thought: it wasn't easier going down. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do in his life.
UiiiUii CHAPTER }}})))}}} TWENTY-SIX
It was a quiet day, but no quieter than any of the other days since Amelia's death. Days spent sitting and staring, or standing and staring, or staying in bed and staring. Long days, endlessly long days with no meaning, no desires. He'd been contemplating his navel, Amelia would have said. It was always like this: as soon as he started to think, Amelia would pop into his head, like now. He had to do something, count for something again. The sugarcane refinery didn't count; once it was off the ground, it would practically take care of itself. He needed a challenge, mo
tivation of some kind, a reason to get off his duff and do some work that would amount to something. He had to come back to the land of
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the living and start to contribute again. He had to stop acting like an invalid, wallowing in self-pity.
At least once a day he took a stab at pep-talking himself. For a few seconds he'd feel better, then the old guilt would settle in again. His relationship with Julie couldn't have hastened Amelia's death, he'd tell himself. His guilt or lack of guilt couldn't have affected her health, either. The minister told him, in one of his visits, that it was Amelia's time, and nothing could change that. He didn't know if the minister's words were true then, and he still didn't know. Always he ended his guilty thoughts by thanking God that Amelia hadn't known of his unfaithfulness.
Cary leaned back and stretched, trying to loosen his tense neck muscles. He was smoking now, more than ever, almost three packs of unflltered cigarettes a day. There was always one of the hateful white cylinders between his fingers. The apartment reeked of stale smoke and dirty ashtrays. He didn't care. He watched the ash drop to the carpet, and scuffed at it with the toe of his slipper. That was another thing; half the time he didn't bother to get dressed. He lounged around in his slippers and pajama bottoms, sometimes not bothering to shower because it was too much of an effort. Everything was too much of an effort. The television and radio ran day and night, each vying for his attention. Once in a while he'd use what little energy he had to reach for a picture of himself and Amelia that stood in a gold frame on the end table by his chair. He reached for it now. It was two corny, little pictures in a double frame; he had insisted on displaying it in the living room. He couldn't remember who had snapped the picture, Cole or Riley, but whoever it was caught Amelia's perfection as she dug her shovel into the pile of mud the day they broke ground for Miranda. He'd offered her a pair of work boots, but instead she'd stepped into ankle-deep mud in high-heeled lizard shoes, her fur coat dragging in the mud, too. She'd hefted a damn good shovelful of mud, and then she'd slung it at him for good luck. Slipping and sliding, she'd made her way to him and threw her arms around him, kissing him, mud and all. That was when Cole or Riley snapped the second picture. It was all he had left now: pictures and memories.
Cary stirred, his misery so alive, it frightened him. He mustered all his energies to stumble to the balcony, his arms reaching for the sunshine and fresh air. He struggled to take deep breaths.
All about him the sun shone, glinting off the chrome of the
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balcony furniture, shimmering on the artful arrangement of green plants, bathing the pedestal and the.... Cary drew in his breath as his eyes searched the balcony for a sign of the gift he'd given Amelia. The sundial was gone. He dropped to his knees, pushing and toppling the plants to see if it had blown off the pedestal or somehow got dislodged. It was gone. The gift Amelia had treasured more than any other, gone. How? When? Why? He searched every inch of the balcony, but there was no sign of the sundial. If Amelia were here, she would say it was one of those little mysteries in life that would never be explained.
He was in the kitchen now, searching aimlessly among the contents of the nearly empty refrigerator. The frosty air of the freezer spiraled outward. As empty as his life. He hadn't been eating right, he hadn't been sleeping right, he hadn't been doing anything right. The apartment was a mess and he was a mess. He closed the refrigerator door, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He felt himself sliding toward the floor and made no move to right himself. He sat there, leaning against the kitchen cabinet and cried, huge, wracking sobs that shook his entire body.
Hours later Cary walked out of the kitchen to look for the phone. He pulled it loose from under a pile of sofa cushions and called a cleaning agency Amelia had used from time to time. Would they please send a crew to do a thorough spring cleaning? He replaced the phone and headed for the shower. Dressed in clean but wrinkled clothing, he left the apartment. He had some thinking to do, serious thinking. He accepted the fact that the sundial was gone. He could live with that. When something was gone, it was gone. That meant it ceased to exist. He might not be whole right now, but he was on his feet, and that was the first step. Amelia was gone, not of this earth. He was alive and life went on. How it went on would be up to him.
Cary estimated he walked fifteen miles that day. A plan took shape in his mind as he walked. Amelia had called ideas embryos. That was all he had, an embryo. Miranda had once been an embryo. When the time was ready, he could do it. He had to do it. Not to prove anything. Do it out of love. Pure, simple love. A memorial to Amelia. There, he'd said the words aloud. An embryo with a name was a fact. An embryo with a name was ... reality.
There was a certain frenzy in Cary's movements as he rifled through his desk for the thin folder he needed. Remnants and scraps of paper, some notes scribbled on napkins and
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matchbook covers, ran through his fingers. Some of them, he noticed, were starting to turn yellow. All were ideas and thoughts concerning the building of Miranda. A deep sadness swept over him. It all seemed so long ago.
Why was he having such a hard time finding the right notes and scraps of paper, the memos he'd written to himself? Because part of you doesn't want to remember you made those notes when Amelia was still alive, he told himself. You were already thinking beyond her death to what you would do. Is that what you did with Julie, too, jumped ahead of Amelia's death, envisioning it, preparing for it? His conscience pricked.
A drawing, a sketch of his plan folded in a tight square; goddamn it, where was it? He knew he'd stuffed it here in Amelia's desk. Still, maybe he was wrong. Right after Amelia died, he'd worked on the plan until it became unbearable and he'd shelved it. No, he hadn't shelved it, he'd hidden it. From himself.
Cary upended a third drawer and then he saw it. His mouth felt dry. A warning ricocheted around his brain: Touch this, open it, look at it, make even one mark, one correction, and you're committed. Committed. Are you ready? Can you handle it? Cary's shoulders slumped and then straightened. Yes, he could handle it. He'd built Miranda, hadn't he? What he was contemplating would be small potatoes compared to Miranda. All he needed to get this project off the ground was the desire and motivation.
He picked up the folded square of paper. He was committed now, heart and soul. His memorial to his wife. A retirement city for people like Jethroe and Minnie, for all the people Amelia had worked so hard to help. Amelia had told the one hundredth Congress that others would come after her, would carry on her work. "I'm applying for the job, honey. I don't see anyone else out there forming a line, so I'm it."
Cary perused the rough sketch of the buildings and the surrounding acreage he'd contemplated for his retirement city. Next to his sketch was a map, one of Amelia's, torn and creased. Staring up at him was a large red X. He unfolded the map and smiled. Then he laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. Amelia's property. The property her mother's house had rested on, and all the acreage behind it. When she'd burned the house to the ground, years ago, she'd told him that someday something would be built on it. Until that day it would simply wait and grow more valuable each and every year.
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A thousand acres of prime land. A thousand acres filled with sunshine. A place with ramps, windows that could be opened, a place where pets would be allowed. If residents arrived without a pet, they'd be given one. No goddamn attendants in white coats, no nurses and doctors except for emergencies. Grass, green and beautiful, trees in leaf with benches underneath. Transportation from one building to the next. Dignity. By God, there would be dignity. No uniforms. A petting zoo, a pool, gardens.
A dream. Built with his blood and sweat. Built out of love.
"I'll make you proud, Amelia. Count on it."
On the first day of summer, a Japanese delegation of seven walked into Cole Tanner's offices at Coleman Aviation. His first thought was that something had happened to Sumi. Then he realized it wouldn't take seven sober-
faced men to tell him that.
All the men carried identical briefcases. Even their suits appeared to be made from the same cloth, crafted by the same
tailor.
Bewildered, he led the men to the long oval table in the conference room, motioning them to be seated. Damn. Sumi hadn't indicated there would be a problem with their marriage. The only thing she'd said was they'd have to postpone it for a
year.
The spokesman for the delegation spoke flawless English. "Mr. Tanner, we represent Hasegawa Enterprises in its entirety." The spokesman's briefcase snapped open at the same moment the others snapped open. Synchronization to the last sync, Cole thought ruefully. Sumi's dowry, or something to do with his own net worth? Shit. When they got a load of his bank account, they'd never let Sumi marry him.
"Mr. Hasegawa asked me to deliver this to you personally. v I am to wait while you read it before I continue."
Cole's heart pounded when he reached for the letter. His hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold the paper.
Dear Coleman san,
This letter, my last to you, reaches you from beyond my grave. I am writing this many, many months before my expected demise. I mention this to you so you will know I am lucid and have all my faculties at my disposal. The men who are with you now will attest to this fact.
To you, Coleman Tanner, I bequeath Hasegawa En-
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terprises in its entirety, with only one condition.
Every man must have a dream, and other men must help bring that dream to fruition. Now you will write. Nothing stands in the way of that dream now. Do it, Coleman san. For yourself, for Sumi, and for all the children she will bear for you with love.
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