Free Bridge of Scarlet Leaves by Kristina McMorris Page A

her case. Once again she stood before him, alone and unseen. She’d become the beige walls, the tiled floor. An insignificant fixture he passed in the hall.
    She sank down onto the bottom corner of his bed. Instrument resting beside her, she leaned toward him. “Daddy, it’s me ... Maddie. I know you can hear me.”
    At least she hoped so. Even more today than usual.
    Suddenly she recalled her impromptu audience. She glanced at the empty doorway before continuing. “Since my visit last week, some things have happened. You see, the thing is that Lane—the Lane you’ve known for years—well, he proposed to me. In a couple days, we’re supposed to get married.”
    For a second, she envisioned her father shooting to his feet, outraged she had accepted without his consent, a sure sign he’d heard her.
    He didn’t react.
    “I love Lane, I honestly do. It’s just happening so fast. We’ve only been dating since the spring, and he’s been away half the time at school. Then there’s Juilliard, and now he’s got a job offer in California. . . I’m not sure of anything anymore. And even if I were, how can I do any of this without you?” She went to touch his hand, but reconsidered. Grasping fingers that made no effort in return would crumble the strength she’d rebuilt, day after day, note by note.
    Maddie tightened her grip on her violin, growing more insistent. “You’re supposed to walk me down the aisle. You’re supposed to tell me what a good choice I’ve made, and that we’re going to live happily ever after.” The impossibility of it all brought tears to her eyes. “Please, Daddy,” she urged in a whisper, “talk to me.”
    He continued to stare out the glass. He didn’t utter a sound.
    Her answer, however, came regardless. From a cavern of truths, it echoed from deep inside. All she had to do was listen.

12
    H unched over the kitchen table, TJ attacked the page with a vengeance. He scrubbed at his lead markings with a pencil eraser, but the layered numbers still peeked through. Five layers to be exact. That’s how many times he’d been stumped by the blasted stats equation.
    Such a waste. Waste of an evening, wasted effort. Baseball had already taught him all the math he ever wanted to use. Measurements from the mound to every point of the plate, the trajectory of hits, angles of pitches, addition of runs, the subtraction of players.
    He’d chosen Business as his major. It seemed the least specific option. In actuality, a degree was never part of the plan. His vision of the future had been nothing but stripes. Not of the flag, a symbol of patriotic roles meant for guys like Lane. No, his own allegiance lay with the good ol’ Yankees, with those dapper stripes, their topnotch talent. And TJ’s name could have been—should have been—added to their roster long before now.
    Freshman year, only one teammate besides himself had been recruited on scholarship. The second baseman, a fellow All City player, signed last year with the Red Sox. Yet here was TJ, still stuck in Boyle Heights, trying to rid his life of another mistake that couldn’t be wiped clean.
    Although that didn’t keep him from trying.
    Rubber shavings scattered as he wore down the eraser at an angle. When the nub snapped off, the pencil’s top skidded across the paper. The metal rim tore a rut through the single problem he’d actually gotten right.
    He chucked the pencil across the room. Growling, he crumpled the page. “Stupid, useless piece of—” He reared back to pitch the wad, but a discovery halted him.
    Company.
    At the entry of the kitchen, Jo Allister leaned against the doorjamb. Her oversized peacoat hung open around her overalls. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. A baseball cap shaded her face, though not her bemusement.
    “Don’t you ever knock?”
    Her mood instantly clouded. “I’m looking for Maddie. If that’s acceptable to you.”
    This made for the second time this week he’d misdirected a vent