American River: Currents: Book Two of the American River Trilogy

By Mallory M. O'Connor

In the second book of the American River trilogy, a cavalcade of disastersboth personal and publicthreatens to overwhelm the scattered members of the McPhalan, Ashida, and Morales clans during the tumultuous 1960s.

Katestill mourning the death of her brother, Julianfinds herself torn between her love for Carl, now a celebrated conductor who is looking for career opportunities on the East Coast, and her devotion to the West and especially the family ranch at Mockingbird. Also, while attending a music festival in Venice, Italy, she meets Stefan Molnar, a renowned concert pianist, who has become her sister Alexs mentor (and lover). As Kate and Stefans unintentional relationship grows, complications multiply.

Meanwhile, Tommy Ashida, now studying in Japan, falls in love with Emiko Namura, the beautiful, sheltered daughter of a Tokyo businessman. He hopes she holds the key to understanding his Japanese heritage, but will that knowledge lead to happiness or something darker?

Determined to make her mark in the male-dominated art world, Kates mother, Marian, decides to move to New York while Kates father, Owen, becomes involved in local politics. When he is elected to the California Assembly, he finds himself in direct opposition to Jorge Morales, Carls father.

Alliances fray, relationships dissolve, divisive secrets are revealed, and promises are broken as the members of three California families struggle to salvage their shattered dreams.

Set against the natural beauty of Northern California, OConnor weaves a complex tapestry of interrelationships and betrayals that captures the mood and resonance of a decade that began in innocence and ended in despair.

American River: Currents, Book Two of the American River Trilogy, is filled with passionate and resolute characters who refuse to let go of their unique visions of successeven as lifes tumultuous currents threaten to sweep them all away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781480858848

Mallory M. O'Connor

Pat Caren is a retired teacher and social worker who studied Literature at Eckerd College and did graduate work at the University of Florida. She has been a member of the Writers Alliance of Gainesville since 2013 including a term as President from 2019 to 2020. Charles Cobb serves on the Board of the Matheson Museum. He is a curator and archaeologist at the Florida Museum of Natural History. Ronnie Lovler is a freelance writer and editor and a contributing writer for the Gainesville Sun. She serves as an adjunct professor at the University of Florida and Santa Fe College. She is a former correspondent for CNN in Latin America was also a Knight International Journalism Fellow in Colombia Mallory M. O’Connor, holds degrees in art, art history, and American history from Ohio University. She taught art history at the University of Florida and Santa Fe College for over twenty years. She is the author of two non-fiction books and six novels.

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Copyright © 2018 Mallory M. O’Connor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-5885-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-5884-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901889

Archway Publishing rev. date: 2/27/2018

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Cast Of Characters

Part I   1963

Chapter     1

Chapter     2

Chapter     3

Chapter     4

Chapter     5

Chapter     6

Chapter     7

Chapter     8

Part II   1964

Chapter     9

Chapter   10

Chapter   11

Chapter   12

Chapter   13

Chapter   14

Chapter   15

Chapter   16

Chapter   17

Chapter   18

Chapter   19

Chapter   20

Chapter   21

Chapter   22

Part III   1965

Chapter   23

Chapter   24

Chapter   25

Chapter   26

Chapter   27

Chapter   28

Chapter   29

Chapter   30

Chapter   31

Chapter   32

Part IV   1966

Chapter   33

Chapter   34

Chapter   35

Chapter   36

Chapter   37

Chapter   38

Chapter   39

Chapter   40

Chapter   41

Chapter   42

Part V   1967

Chapter   43

Chapter   44

Chapter   45

Chapter   46

Chapter   47

Chapter   48

Part VI   1968

Chapter   49

Chapter   50

Chapter   51

Chapter   52

Chapter   53

Chapter   54

Chapter   55

Chapter   56

Part VII   1969

Chapter   57

Chapter   58

Chapter   59

Chapter   60

Chapter   61

Chapter   62

Chapter   63

Chapter   64

Chapter   65

Chapter   66

Chapter   67

Chapter   68

Chapter   69

Part VIII   1970

Chapter   70

Chapter   71

Chapter   72

Playlist For American River: Currents

Author’s Note

Also by Mallory M. O’Connor:

Non-fiction

Lost Cities of the Ancient Southeast

Florida’s American Heritage River

Fiction

American River: Tributaries

For John, my husband of fifty-four years

who has helped me navigate many currents.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Although American River: Currents is a work of fiction, the historical setting is very real. The experiences of the 60s that I wrote about in this trilogy are things I observed first-hand – the Civil Rights Movements, the Women’s liberation Movement, the United Farm Workers Movement. I watched John Kennedy’s funeral on TV, worked in the Bobby Kennedy presidential campaign, and protested the Vietnam War. There were National Guardsmen with rifles stationed outside the door where I met with my faculty committee to defend my Master’s thesis one week after the Kent State Massacre.

I have always been passionate about social justice issues. In high school, most of my art work depicted migrant workers, the homeless, outcasts and runaways. Many of my friends were gay. In 1961, I joined the Women’s Strike for Peace and became an anti-war activist. I supported the SDS both as a student and later as a faculty member. Ban the bomb. Feed the children. Save the whales. I’m on it. So, I do want to acknowledge history as my greatest teacher.

I also want to gratefully acknowledge my friends and colleagues who have provided so much encouragement and taken their very valuable time to read my story and give me criticism and advice: Diana Kurz, Pat Caulfield, Pat Jablonski, Chia Kinn, Daniel Blumberg, Penny Church-Pupke, and the rest of my amigos and beta readers. I love you all!

And finally many thanks to Stephanie Frame and Gwen Ash at Archway Publishing and to Danielle Grobmeier and Maggie Driver at Lavidge for their advice and assistance.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

The McPhalan Family

Owen McPhalan — Cormac’s grandson and patriarch of The McPhalan family

Marian Archer McPhalan — Owen’s wife

The three McPhalan children:

Mary Katharine McPhalan (Kate)

Alexandria Archer McPhalan (Alex)

Julian Francis McPhalan (deceased)

Cormac McPhalan Fitzgerald (Cory) — Kate and Carl’s son

The Morales Family

Jorge Morales — Mexican immigrant and self-made successful businessman

Rose Fitzgerald Morales — Jorge’s wife

The three Morales children:

Carlos Estevan Morales (Carl Steven Fitzgerald)

Silvio Morales

Allison Morales

The Ashida Family

David Ashida — First generation Japanese American (Issei)

Connie Yoshinobu Ashida — David’s wife

Tommy Ashida — David and Connie’s son

Emiko Namura Ashida — Tommy’s wife

Willie Ashida — David’s brother

Pearl Ashida — his wife (they have four children, Tommy’s cousins)

Others

Stefan Molnar — Hungarian émigré and classical piano superstar

Jean Molnar — Stefan’s wife

Jerry McClosky — Carl’s music agent

Armand Becker — Santa Barbara doctor and patron of the arts

Veronique Becker — Armand’s wife

Chris Malacchi — Kate’s best friend

Nick Vecchio - Canadian-born sculptor/video artist and Marian’s second husband

Jon Fisher — Marian’s New York art dealer

Kyoshi Namura — Emiko’s father

Natsumi Namura — Kyoshi’s wife

Roberto Gonzales — wealthy Mexican businessman and patron of the arts

All we have in the end are stories, stories that are ours, stories that deserve to be told in our own unique voices.

— Beverly Murray,

An Open Letter to Asian-Americans

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PART I

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1963

CHAPTER

1

San Francisco, California

January 1963

A week after her brother’s funeral, Kate McPhalan Fitzgerald drove up California Street and parked in front of Alan Townsend’s Nob Hill mansion. She sat for a long time, staring at the black iron fence, the sun-drenched garden, the white lace of detail work beneath the eaves. At the foot of the hill, San Francisco Bay stretched out dark blue beneath a cloudless sky. Before the accident that ended his life, Alan had been her brother, Julian’s, mentor. And lover. And now Julian was gone too.

It all goes on, she thought, the sun, the bay, the gulls, the cable cars. Days pile up into weeks and weeks into months, and then it will be years from now, and no one will even remember that Julian McPhalan lived or died. The thought cut through her, filling her with an empty, awful rage.

She looked once more at the house that had been her brother’s final refuge. She had telephoned Reade Wilkes, Alan’s butler, and he told her Mr. Robert Ashford was the executor of Alan Townsend’s estate, and was handling the arrangements for the Townsend family. Mr. Ashford would be available to see her between three and four. Slowly, she climbed out of the car and made her way up the marble steps.

Mr. Ashford’s waiting for you in the study, Wilkes informed her. She followed him into the walnut-paneled room.

Robert rose to greet her. He was a small, portly man with a cherubic face and flowing snow-white hair. He held out his hand. Mrs. Fitzgerald, he said warmly, such a pleasure to meet you, though I wish the circumstances were less somber. Please sit down. I hope it wasn’t inconvenient for you to come this afternoon. My schedule is quite inflexible, I’m afraid. His gentle, thoughtful eyes reminded Kate of her grandfather.

I’ve asked Wilkes to bring your brother’s belongings down to the foyer, Robert continued. There isn’t much. Just his notebooks and some other personal effects. I thought we might send the clothes to St. Agnes Guild, if that meets with your approval.

That’s fine, Kate said. I have no place to store them anyway.

I only met your brother a few times, but I found him to be quite impressive. Robert smiled sadly. Alan was so very fond of him.

Julian admired Mr. Townsend very much.

Yes, we shall miss them both. Now then, I’d like to discuss the settlement of Mr. Townsend’s estate.

Kate looked at him blankly. What do you mean, Mr. Ashford?

When the will was read, we discovered a very generous provision was made for your brother. I need to find out what you want to do with the money. Did Julian leave a will of his own?

No.

Then there was no settlement to be made? No estate?

Kate shook her head. He didn’t own anything. My parents were in the process of setting up a trust fund for Julian, but the arrangements hadn’t been finalized.

Robert picked up his glasses and studied the papers before him. There’s a question of something over four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He looked at Kate over the rim of his spectacles. Who might the beneficiary have been?

I have no idea, Kate said in surprise.

Do you have an attorney, Mrs. Fitzgerald?

Yes. She wrote the information on a note card and handed it to him.

I’ll have our lawyer get in touch. Meanwhile, I have a suggestion, if you’re interested.

Please.

"The bulk of Mr. Townsend’s estate is going to be used to set up a foundation in his name. I’ll be handling the details myself. Alan’s wish was to create a fund that could be used to further the cause of the arts. The foundation will be providing scholarships, grants, that sort of thing.

Since your brother was a poet — and from what Alan told me quite a talented one — I thought you might be interested in seeing a scholarship fund set up in Julian’s name as part of the foundation. The bequest that was left to him would become part of the foundation’s endowment, and each year an award would be made to a deserving young poet in his name. Does this idea strike you as having any merit?

For the first time in two weeks Kate smiled. I think that’s a wonderful idea. Julian would have been very pleased.

Good. They smiled at each other, and then Robert got to his feet and held out his hand. I do hope you’ll forgive me for being so brief, but I have a four thirty appointment.

Of course.

He followed her into the foyer and called for the butler. Oh, by the way, he said as the butler carried the boxes toward the car, I meant to give you this. It came in the mail the morning after the accident. He handed Kate an envelope addressed to Julian. I don’t believe there was any other mail. According to Wilkes, your brother hardly ever received anything.

Thank you, Kate said.

Do take care.

As she went down the steps Kate looked at the return address and noted with surprise that the letter was from her father, Owen.

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Do you think I should open it? she asked Carl when he came home that evening.

Do you think your dad would mind?

I don’t know. I can’t imagine what he would write to Julian about.

Could be important.

Daddy didn’t mention anything about a letter at the funeral.

Carl spread his hands. Do what you like.

She sat for a moment, looking at the envelope. Then she opened it, took out the letter, and read:

Dear Julian,

It isn’t easy for me to say I’m sorry, but that’s what I’d like to do. I won’t ask you to forgive me for saying the things I said, but I do want you to know how sorry I am that I behaved like such a jackass. But if I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care about who or what you are, or how you choose to live your life.

I’ve spent a lot of time nursing my own disappointments, wanting everybody to measure up to my notions of what they should be. I guess I did that with your mother. Maybe that’s why she left. I had this idea in my head about the way things ought to be, about what a family was like. I suppose I figured that you’d grow up to see things the same way I see them. But you had your own ideas.

What I’m trying to say is that I reckon you have as much right as I do to run your life the way you see fit. I may not agree with you, but you’ve got to live your own life the best way you know how.

You don’t have to answer this letter if you don’t want to. I’ll understand. But I wanted to let you know that as far as I’m concerned you are my son and always will be. That means a hell of a lot to me. I hope it means as much to you.

Your father, Owen

What’s wrong? Carl asked.

She handed him the letter. The pink light of evening fell across the page, accentuating the little craters left by her tears. Carl read the letter, folded it, and gave it back to her. Then he got up and looked out at the sunset.

The sky was glorious — streaked with burnt orange, the Golden Gate aflame with light against purple hills.

Jesus, Carl said softly, wherever Julian is, I hope he got the message.

CHAPTER

2

Boston, Massachusetts

"D o you need anything? Can I get you another drink?" Trevor Martin hovered hesitantly next to the silent figure seated before the fire.

No. Nothing, Marian answered dully.

I really can’t stay.

I know, Trevor. Thanks for picking us up at the airport.

Trevor perched on the arm of her chair, pale blue eyes observing her unhappily. Do you want to talk about it? I suppose I could tell Loretta that—

Don’t fuss, Marian interrupted. I know it was unwise of me to call you, but I simply had to talk to someone. I’m all right now.

Trevor groaned and probed his eyelids with the tip of his fingers. The whole thing with Julian is a bloody shame. How’s Alex? Is she holding up all right?

Seems okay. Actually, she hadn’t seen much of Julian these past five years. They were never as close as he and Katie were. Marian sighed and rested her head on the back of the chair. It’s Katie I’m worried about. She was just devastated.

At least she has a husband to look after her, Trevor said, giving Marian a pointed look.

Please don’t start up about that just now, she murmured, closing her eyes.

The silence grew loud, broken only by the soft hiss and sputter of the flames. What are we doing, Marian? Trevor said at last. Where are we going? I know it’s probably not the right time to bring it up, he continued hurriedly as she started to object, but we both know we can’t go on like this forever.

Hasn’t seemed to bother you especially until the last six months, Marian replied sullenly.

"Always bothered me, luv. I’ve simply never found a way to work out a more propitious arrangement."

What you mean is that you’ve never had the guts to tell Loretta that you’re sick of her and intend to move out.

Unfortunately, I’m not as blunt as you, dear lady.

Marian sat up. Since you admire my candor, let me once again make it clear that I’m not at all certain I’d be interested in marriage even if you did decide to jack up your courage and tell your wife how you feel.

I know, I know. But perhaps you’d come ‘round. Perhaps you’d seen things differently once I made the break, hmmm?

No guarantees, Trevor. If you want the security of trading one warm bed for another, maybe you’d be better off where you are.

Crossing his arms, he sighed dramatically. Dear Marian, you’re certainly not making this any easier. You know how I feel about you, don’t you?

I know you like screwing me.

Must you stoop to such verbal garbage? It’s really most unbecoming.

Sorry, but I think the only thing we have in common anymore is sex, and I’m not sure that’s enough to sustain a relationship. Especially when I suspect that what you find most attractive is the clandestine nature of our little arrangement. I don’t think it’s really me you like as much as the thrill of cheating on Loretta.

Rubbish. I care about you deeply, Marian. I wouldn’t be here tonight if I didn’t, would I? Coming out in sub-zero temperatures to pick you and Alex up from the airport, jeopardizing my tenuous facade of fidelity to a woman who’d dearly love to stick me with a monumental divorce settlement. Do you know what I’m risking every time I’m with you? Yet I do it, don’t I? You can’t expect me to go much further than that when you’re so bloody iffy about everything, can you?

I imagine not, said Marian. Fatigue began to win out over her determination to stay awake, to sort out her feelings, to make sense. I’m sorry, Trevor, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. I’m being moronic, I know, but I’m just so very tired.

Of course you are, he soothed, patting her arm. I didn’t mean to upset you, luv. We’ll talk about this another time. I’ll ring you up on Thursday. He got to his feet and wound the woolen muffler around his neck. Do take care of yourself.

Sorry, Marian said. I really appreciate your help.

He planted a kiss on her forehead. Have a good rest. I’ll be in touch.

After he left, Marian sat for a long time looking into the fire. The weariness was so intense that she couldn’t find the energy to get up and go to bed. But however tired she was, sleep seemed a long way off.

She and Alex had stayed on at Mockingbird Valley Ranch after Julian’s funeral. She wanted to be certain that everything was under control. That Owen was all right. That Kate would come to terms with Julian’s death. She wanted, she thought, to reassure herself that she was needed, that she could help the healing process.

As it turned out, she felt superfluous. Carl and Kate went back to San Francisco. Owen, though somber, was clearly dealing with the aftermath of his son’s death. There really wasn’t much that she could offer. It was a shock to discover how well they could all get along without her.

Half-formed images tumbled through her mind — Julian’s coffin sitting beneath the oak tree at the summit of the bluff at Mockingbird, Carl holding Kate in his arms, Owen’s face, grey and drawn, as he listened to the minister’s lonely and familiar words, … in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.

Was there a resurrection? The depth of her disbelief was like an abyss opening beneath her, a bottomless pit inside her heart. Do I believe in anything, she asked herself, staring at the dying fire. Embers lay like glowing eyes among the ashes. My art, she thought, I do believe in my art. It’s the one thing I can always come home to.

Wearily, she got to her feet. The kitchen was cold as she stood waiting for the water to heat in the kettle. The tea tasted thin and flavorless. Holding the cup, she went into the studio, closed the door behind her, and stood looking at the blank canvas on the easel.

After a while, she put down her cup and picked up a piece of charcoal. As she sketched, an image began to form, curled up like a fetus, but with the face of a young man.

Spilling turpentine into a paper cup, she traded the charcoal for a brush and spread washes of blue and green across the canvas. Now a bit of orange and a little alizarin crimson. A darker green. A bit of violet over here. That’s better.

She stepped back and studied the canvas with narrowed eyes. Then once more approached the easel. Add a little cadmium orange. Bring the human form into clearer focus with subtle dark and light accents that will highten the emotional impact of the work.

The painting itself seemed to take over its own creation. She had only to follow its lead. When a thin ray of morning sunshine finally trickled through the hazy glass and cast a wedge of muted light across the bare wood floor, she was still standing before the easel, lost, and found, in her work.

CHAPTER

3

San Francisco, California

June 1963

"C arl?" Kate stopped at the living room door and studied her husband. He was sitting in an armchair next to the window, his feet bare, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.

Hmmm? He glanced up and gave her a quizzical look. He was, she thought, definitely the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

I’m going to drive up to Mockingbird for a few days. I just need to…you know …get away? Want to come along?

Carl tossed the Fodor’s Guide to Venice aside and thought for a moment, then shook his head. I’d better stay here. We’re starting rehearsal on Monday for the Valentine’s Day concert, and I need to finalize the program.

Kate nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Okay then. It’ll take me a few minutes to pack. There’s roast beef in the fridge, and some lettuce for a salad.

I’ll be fine, he said, picking up the travel guide. Tell your dad hi for me.

Traffic was light on Highway 80, and Kate marveled at how quickly she reached Sacramento. In the days before the new Interstate system, it had taken twice as long to cover the one hundred miles between San Francisco and the Capitol. Soon the flat expanse of the Central Valley gave way to rolling hills, and the distant peaks of the Sierras came into view. From the Auburn exit, it was a short drive along the river canyon to the ranch gate.

Owen met her on the porch and took her suitcase while Consuelo, the housekeeper, offered lemonade. Warm for February, Owen commented. Had a wet winter and now an early spring. Trees already in bloom.

Kate smiled. You talk like an old farmer, Daddy.

"Hell, I am an old farmer, honey."

They settled down at the breakfast table next to the kitchen window. You look tired, Kate noted. You ought to take some time off and rest.

I’m okay, Owen said, patting her hand. The legislature’s close to Spring Recess, and I’ll be able to get up in the hills and do a little fishing as soon as the season opens. Meanwhile, there’s just too much to be done downtown.

I guess you and Jorge are still squared off, Kate said. We had dinner with him last week. He was concerned that there’s a rift building between you.

Owen shot her a wary glance. Nothing for you to worry about. Jorge and I just seem to be on opposite sides of the fence when it comes to the immigration issue. He frowned and shook his head. He’s a smart man, Jorge. I’m surprised he’s getting mixed up with a bunch of fanatics.

He’s Mexican, remember? He used to work in the fields.

"And I’m Irish, and I still work in the fields, Owen exclaimed. That sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to go out and agitate on behalf of a bunch of no-account drifters. I don’t care if they’re Mexican or Irish or what they are."

"They’re people, Kate shot back. Like you and me. They’re just trying to make a living."

They get paid what they’re worth. If they don’t like it, let ‘em go back where they came from. It’s hard enough to make a profit from farming these days. If it isn’t the field hands asking for more pay, it’s the government asking for more taxes. Owen scowled, then got up and poured himself a glass of wine. Between ‘em, they’re going to put the growers out of business. Then who’s going to keep this country fed? He sat back down and took a sip.

Kate leaned forward and said earnestly, But have you seen how most of the workers live? Have you been in those camps? Jorge told me—

Owen pushed himself back from the table and glowered at her. Damn it, Mary Katharine, you grew up here. We had help come in for every harvest. Did you ever see me mistreat anyone? I paid a decent wage for decent work, didn’t I?

But they used to camp out in the river bottoms, Kate exclaimed. They lived in tents. They never had enough to eat, and the kids never went to school.

You bet they lived cheap, saving up all those nice fat American dollars to take back to Mexico, never paying taxes, expecting us to provide them with medical care, educate their kids for free. He shook his head angrily. Let me tell you something, daughter. You go into a foreign country to look for work, and you take your chances. Especially if you aren’t legal. You just better hope you’re lucky enough to get out in one piece. If you can make a little profit, you’re damned fortunate. Think about it, and you’ll see I’m right. His hand clenched into a fist.

But America was founded by immigrants and refugees, Kate argued. People have to start somewhere. Don’t you have any compassion for—

Owen drummed on the table with his fist. I’ll tell you what I have compassion for — people who work hard and make their own breaks. I’ve got no sympathy for whiners that go around asking for a handout. Just look at Jorge. Now there’s a man I can respect. He came up here with nothing but the shirt on his back, and look what he’s got —a good business, a nice home. That just proves to me that if you’re smart and you’re willing to work hard, you can make something of yourself no matter if you’re brown or yellow or black. I give credit where it’s due, but not to bums and drifters.

Jorge was lucky, Kate retorted. He’d be the first to tell you that.

Jorge made his own luck. Owen looked away and then back. Come on, sugar. Let’s not argue. I get enough of that in Sacramento. When I’m here at Mockingbird, I just like to forget about it.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It just seems so unfair.

Let me tell you something. When you grow up with lots of advantages, you come to think that everybody else should have the same things you had. But the world isn’t like that. There’s haves and there’s have-nots. And the haves are mostly where they are because they had the energy and the guts and the brains to get there. Owen sighed. Maybe I should have let you scramble around a little more, let you find out how the world works. Lord knows I should have brought your brother up to be tougher. My God, I wish I had it to do over. He stared out the window into the darkness.

You couldn’t have made Julian tough, Kate replied. It wasn’t in Julian to be tough. Who was it that said ‘There are men too gentle to live among the wolves’?

Maybe that’s true. I don’t know, Owen said. I tried so hard to protect all of you, my family, and look what’s happened — your mother’s run off to live like some wild-eyed Bohemian. Julian gets himself killed. Your sister Alex is crazy as a March-hare. All I ever wanted was for all of you to be happy. He gave her a weary smile. At least you’re doing okay. You’ve got a successful husband, a good education. You’re everything I hoped you’d be.

When I’m everything I hoped I’d be, then there’ll be two of us, Kate thought.

That evening they sat at the dinner table. Consuelo had cleared away the dishes, but the room was still fragrant with the scent of spices and roasted lamb. Kate sipped a glass of zinfandel and took in the familiar surroundings — the Mexican tile behind the stove, the butcher’s block, the ancient porcelain sink with its built-in drain board. Nothing had changed, but everything was different. I still dream about this place, she said.

That so? Oen said.

I have this recurring dream that I’m lost. It’s dark and cold, and the trees are bare. I start to run and there are people — not real people but phantoms — that are trying to grab me, but I get away from them. Just when I think I can’t go on, I see this little light, like a firefly, and I follow it. The path gets steeper and steeper, but I won’t give up. It’s like the path up the bluff, you know, the one that comes up from the river? And then I get to the top, and I’m looking down at Mockingbird, and I’m so happy that I start to cry.

Owen reached across the table and took her hand. You need a home, he said.

I’ve got a home.

You’ve got a house. Not the same thing.

Kate looked out the window. In the early evening light, she could still see the pear trees covered with a froth of white flowers. She knew exactly how the blossoms smelled. The memory brought sudden sadness. She tried to smile. Well, maybe someday …

You never know how much you’re going to miss something until it’s gone, Owen said.

Kate nodded. I know.

That reminds me … Owen got to his feet and ruffled through some papers on the counter. Here. Take a look at this news clip. It’s about David Ashida’s boy.

Kate scanned the clipping. Wow. One of five students selected for the International Studies Program in Architecture at the University of Kyoto. She caught Owen’s eye and grinned. Not bad, for a Jap.

Owen grimaced. Give me a little credit, will you? I always knew Tommy was a bright kid. He just wasn’t right for you.

Kate looked back at the news clip. She remembered how grown up Tommy had looked at Julian’s funeral with his dark sports coat and narrow tie. Still so … well, cool. I hope he’s happy, she thought. I hope he finds what he’s looking for.

After finishing a glass of port beside the fire, she told her father good night and made her way upstairs. She looked around the room. Owen had kept it exactly as it was the day she left to go to UC Berkeley. One of Marian’s early watercolors still hung on the wall — a small study of thistles and pears. The bulletin board above the dressing table held a snapshot of her best friend, Christy Malacci, and one of Julian on his motorcycle. Pinned beside the board were the desiccated remains of the rosebud that Tommy had given to her on high school graduation night. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to go outside and lie down beneath the blossoming pear trees and let the night wind stroke her with its gentle fingers.

But instead, she brushed her teeth, turned down the covers, turned out the light, and then, for a long while, lay in bed, awake and starring at the darkness.

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As it had so often in the past, a mockingbird’s singing woke her. She lay still, listening, as it made its way through a heady repetoire of whistles, chirps and trills. When at last the bird fell silent, Kate sat up, hugging the covers around her, and squinted at the clock. Five-fifteen. It had always been her favorite time of day for a solitary ride before the ranch woke and began to stir with its daily activities.

She slipped out of bed and dressed in blue jeans and a sweater. Carrying her cowboy boots, she tiptoed into the hall, closed the bedroom door behind her and headed down the stairs. How many times had she done this same thing when she was growing up? As she reached the base of the stairs, memories washed gently over her.

The house was dark and cold, but the windows had turned deep blue as the sky lightened toward dawn. In the living room, she paused for a moment beside the grand piano and ran her fingers over the keys. Julian and Kate had both taken lessons, but Alex was clearly the most gifted. Kate smiled, thinking of her younger sister, wondering where such extraordinary talent would lead her.

As she entered the kitchen, Joe, the family’s German Shepherd, rose stiffly from his mat and greeted her with a whine and a smile, his tail thumping a drumbeat on the door. She rubbed his ears. Hey Joey, want to go for a run? The dog’s eyes, now milky with age, brightened at the invitation. Come on, buddy, let’s go. She followed the dog across the courtyard and down the path toward the barn.

Inside, the familiar scent of alfalfa and sweet feed filled the air. Grabbing a halter, she opened the door to Frosty’s stall. The Appaloosa mare whuffled a greeting and tossed her head. Take it easy, Kate told the mare. We’re going for a little ride. Then it’s time for breakfast.

She slipped the halter over the horse’s nose and led her outside. Vaulting easily onto Frosty’s bare back, she tapped the mare’s flanks with her heels. The horse broke into a trot that changed to a canter as they got to the sandy drive that led up the hill toward the bluff. Joey scrambled to keep up, his tail waving furiously.

Kate reined in the mare at the top of the bluff and sat looking down into the still-dark river valley. Above her, the sky had turned an ethereal blue. A crescent moon hung in the western sky, Venus dangling from its tip like a diamond earring.

Toward the east, Kate could just make out the peaks of the High Sierra silhouetted against the lightening sky. The air smelled of dust and dry oak leaves and something pungent — a nameless grass or herb. From the canyon came the steady roar of the river as it rushed westward toward the sea.

She slid off Frosty’s back and dropped the lead rope. The mare lowered her head at once and began to nibble at the green sprouts of grass. Joey came and stood next to Kate, looking into the canyon as though trying to see what she was staring at. She patted his head absently.

What am I doing, she thought. Where am I going? What if Carl and I move somewhere, and I never see Mockingbird again?

This will be yours someday, Owen had told her. But what good would that do? Carl wasn’t going to want to live out in the country miles from his work and his life. Different things nourish different people, she thought. Carl and Mom both thrive on the energy and toughness of the city, but I navigate by the landscape like the Australian aborigines who sing themselves from mountain to mountain.

Suddenly, from the darkness on the opposite side of the river, a wild, sweet song rose, a high-pitched chorus of yips and yelps. Coyotes, she thought, and listened intently. The singing rose and fell, moving eastward along the far shore of the river. The singers moved as one in hot pursuit of some unlucky rabbit or raccoon. The sheer wildness of the sound made her heart skip.

The coyote pack moved away upstream, and their singing muted to a murmur. A shooting star trailed across the sky and vanished into the darkness. Quick, Kate thought, make a wish. She gazed at the sky, and the stars stared back at her. Although she tried to think of one, no wish came to her. She couldn’t wish to stay when she knew someday she would have to go.

She thought about the graves of her ancestors that lay silent and dark at the foot of the bluff. And about her brother who had so recently joined them. And about Tommy, so cruelly banished from this Eden. How had everything been rent apart?

There must be a way, she said aloud. I can’t say goodbye to Mockingbird forever …

CHAPTER

4

Kyoto, Japan

September 1963

T ommy Ashida had