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  Outstanding Praise for Kristina McMorris’s

  Letters from Home

  “This sweeping debut novel is ambitious and compelling ... will appeal to historical fiction fans hungry for a romance of the ‘Greatest Generation.’”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Letters from Home is an absorbing debut, combining the emotional power of The Notebook with the stirring history and drama of Saving Private Ryan. An evocative and compelling storyteller, Kristina McMorris gives us a novel to savor and remember.”

  —Ben Sherwood, New York Times best-selling author of The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud

  “McMorris gives readers a poignant and resonant ‘Greatest Generation’ story of love and loss during wartime.”

  —Booklist

  “Letters from Home is a heart-grabbing story of love and war in the era of big bands and among friends keen on small deceptions. Full of period detail and characters you root for, Kristina McMorris offers up a stellar debut novel readers will cherish.”

  —Pamela Morsi, USA Today best-selling author of Last Dance at Jitterbug Lounge

  “A beautifully told story. The characters are well developed and the motivations for their actions and misunderstandings are clearly shown. The tale is emotionally moving and the end is heartwarming. This is a tough book to put down!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A great read. From beginning to end, Kristina McMorris spins a compelling tale of chemistry, love, deception, and the labyrinth of emotions that leads to the human heart.”

  —James Michael Pratt, New York Times best-selling author of The Last Valentine

  “This poignant novel digs deep into the emotional and physical effects of war and is well written and well researched.... The heart-tugging scenes interspersed throughout Letters from Home serve to highlight the harsh realities of both war and human nature.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “This is a debut novel for McMorris, who writes of the people and the period with a great deal of insight and compassion. Through the three heroines she captures a cross section of the myriad experiences and coping mechanisms of the women left behind with their hopes and dreams and fears.”

  —Historical Novel Reviews

  Books by Kristina McMorris

  Letters from Home

  Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  BRIDGE OF SCARLET LEAVES

  KRISTINA Mc MORRIS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  PART TWO

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  PART THREE

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  PART FOUR

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  PART FIVE

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  PART SIX

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  PART SEVEN

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  THE BRIDGE BUILDER

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ASIAN-FUSION RECIPES

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  For those whose voices stayed silent so that one day others could sing

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As the daughter of a Caucasian American mother and Japanese immigrant father, I fell in love with the idea of creating a story set during the Second World War that combined the unique perspectives with which I was raised. The more research I did, however, the more responsibility I felt to accurately depict the experiences of those who survived this tumultuous era. If I achieved anything close, it is from the help and patience of a great many people.

  First and foremost, my gratitude goes out to the following Japanese American WWII veterans for so generously sharing their time and, most of all, their memories: Military Intelligence Service members Ken Akune, Don Oka, George Fujimori, James Murata, Ralph Kaneshiro, Frank Masuoka, the late Dick Kishiue, and 442nd Regimental Combat Team member Tets Asato. Your collective courage is surpassed solely by your inspiring humility.

  I extend my appreciation to former relocation camp evacuee Sets Tomita and Park Ranger Richard Potashin of the Manzanar National Historic Site, both of whom endured an endless peppering of questions. The only person who quite possibly answered more is my research buddy and friend Wes Burritt.

  For providing me with a crash course on historical baseball, I thank 1940s USC ballplayers and WWII veterans Al Spaeter and Hank Workman, as well as Scott Taylor, Jim Klee, and Pat Egan. And for aiding me in tackling the portrayal of legendary coach Justin “Sam” Barry, I am grateful to his godson and namesake, Justin Dedeaux, and USC Sports Information Director Tim Tessalone.

  My Army Air Corps scenes would have struggled for liftoff without the help of fellow historical author Sarah Sundin and WWII airmen Robert Gilbert and Kenneth Tucker. All three of you are my heroes in various ways.

  I am eternally indebted to others who guided me with their diverse areas of expertise, among them: concert violinist Emily Day-Shumway, the late Allied-POW historian Roger Mansell, vintage car enthusiast Neil Handy, Louisiana native Connie Cox, National Railroad Museum curator Daniel Liedtke, Japanese American National Museum docent James Tanaka, archivists at The Juilliard School and Stanford University, the Multnomah County Library Research Department (my new phone-a-friends), and Tomoko Hirata, who kindly reviewed my Japanese phrases with care, no doubt preventing inadvertent obscenities.

  For the privilege of borrowing her poem, which so poignantly captured the essence of my story, I thank the very talented Deanna Nikaido.

  As ever, I am grateful to my fabulous readers Julia Whitby, Darcy Burke, and Elisabeth Naughton (who ensures there is actually “love” in my love stories); to Whitney Otto, Tatiana Hulser, and Graceann Macleod for their valuable enthusiasm and input; to my unyielding group of cheerleaders for accompanying me every step on this often-bumpy yet never-dull road: Michelle Guthrie, Sunny Klever, Tracy Callan, Stephanie Stricklen, Lynne House, Jennifer Sidis, Sally Ramirez, Delilah Marvelle, and my mother, Linda. And, of course, to my grammar gurus Sue McMorris and Kathy Huston, whose generous spirits and contagious zeal should be packaged and sold in a heated auction.

  Once again, I offer my immense appreciation to my editor, John S
cognamiglio, and my beloved literary agent, Jennifer Schober, both of whose support and faith made this experience not only possible, but utterly fulfilling. To the entire Kensington team: Thank you for rolling out the red carpet on this unforgettable journey. And to my film-rights agent Jon Cassir at CAA for stretching that red carpet ever closer to a childhood dream.

  Lastly, above all, my heart goes out to my husband, Daniel, and our sons, Tristan Kiyoshi and Kiernan Takeshi, for serving as my constant reminders of true success; for understanding that a B-17 ride far outweighed any other possible Mother’s Day gift; and for continuing to be the unwavering bridge upholding my life. I love you more than words.

  PART ONE

  Every leaf while on its tree sways in unison;

  bears the same light and shadow,

  is sustained by the same sap that will release it in blazing color.

  It is that moment before falling we all live for,

  to see ourselves for the first time,

  to hear our name being called from the inside.

  —Deanna Nikaido,

  daughter of a Japanese American “evacuee”

  1

  November 1941

  Los Angeles, California

  At the sound of her brother’s voice, flutters of joy turned to panic in Maddie Kern. “Cripes,” she whispered, perched on her vanity seat. “What’s he doing home?”

  Jo Allister, her closest girlfriend and trusted lookout, cracked open the bedroom door. She peeked into the hall as TJ hollered again from downstairs.

  “Maddie! You here?”

  It was six o’clock on a Friday. He should have been at his campus job all night. If he knew who was about to pick her up for a date ...

  She didn’t want to imagine what he would do.

  Maddie scanned the room, seeking a solution amidst her tidy collection of belongings—framed family photos on the bureau, her posters of the New York Symphony, of Verdi’s Aida at the Philharmonic. But even her violin case, which she’d defended from years of dings and scratches, seemed to shake its head from the corner and say, Six months of sneaking around and you’re surprised this would happen?

  Jo closed the door without a click and pressed her back against the knob. “Want me to keep him out?” Her pale lips angled with mischief. Despite the full look of her figure, thanks to her baggy hardware store uniform, she was no match for TJ’s strength. Only his stubbornness.

  “My brother seeing me isn’t the problem,” Maddie reminded her. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, and found cause for remaining calm. “Lane shouldn’t be here for another twelve minutes. If I can just—”

  The faint sound of an engine drove through the thought and parked on her words. Had he shown up early? She raced to the window, where she swatted away her childhood drapes. She threw the pane upward and craned her neck. Around the abandoned remains of her father’s Ford, she made out a wedge of the street. No sign of Lane’s car. She still had time.

  “Hey, Rapunzel,” Jo said. “You haven’t turned batty enough to scale walls for a fella, have you?”

  Maddie shushed her, interrupted by creaks of footfalls on the staircase. “You have to do it,” she decided.

  “Do what?”

  Warn Lane, Maddie was about to say, but realized she needed to talk to him herself, in order to set plans to meet later that night. Come tomorrow, he’d be on a train back to Stanford.

  She amended her reply. “You’ve got to distract TJ for me.”

  Jo let out a sharp laugh. Pushing out her chest, she tossed back stragglers from her ash-brown ponytail. “What, with all my stylish locks and hefty bosom?” Then she muttered, “Although, based on his past girlfriends, I suppose that’s all it would take.”

  “No, I mean—you both love baseball. Chat about that.”

  Jo raised a brow at her.

  “Please,” Maddie begged. “You came by to help me get ready, didn’t you? So, help me.”

  “Why not just tell him and get it over with?”

  “Because you know how he feels about my dating.” A distraction from her future, he called it. The same theory he applied to his own career.

  “Maddie. This isn’t just about any guy.”

  “I know, I know, and I’ll come clean. But not yet.”

  A knuckle-rap sounded on her door. “You in there?”

  She sang out, “Hold on a minute,” and met Jo’s eyes. “Please.”

  Jo hesitated before releasing a sigh that said Maddie would owe her one. A big one.

  “I’ll come right back,” Maddie promised, “once I head Lane off down the block.”

  After a grumble, Jo pasted on a smile, wide enough for a dentist’s exam, and flung open the door. “TJ,” she exclaimed, “how ’bout that streak of DiMaggio’s, huh?”

  Behind his umber bangs, his forehead creased in puzzlement. “Uh, yeah. That was ... somethin’.” His hand hung from a loop of his cuffed jeans. Nearly four years of wash and wear had frayed the patch on his USC Baseball sweatshirt. Its vibrancy had long ago faded, just like TJ’s.

  Diverting from Jo’s unsubtle approach, Maddie asked him, “Didn’t you have to work tonight?”

  “I was supposed to, but Jimmy needed to switch shifts this weekend.” His cobalt gaze suddenly narrowed and gripped hers. “You going somewhere special?”

  “What?” She softly cleared her throat before thinking to glance down at her flared navy dress, her matching strappy heels. She recalled the pin curls in her auburn, shoulder-length do. The ensemble didn’t spell out a casual trip to a picture show.

  Jo swiftly interjected, “There’s a new hot jazz band playing at the Dunbar. They say Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday might even be there. I’m dragging Maddie along. A keen study in music. You know, for her big audition.”

  “I thought you were practicing tonight,” he said to Maddie.

  “I am—I will. After we get back.”

  “You two going alone?”

  “We’ll be fine.” As everything would be, if he’d let up long enough.

  “All right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll just grab a bite in the kitchen then come along.”

  Maddie stifled a gasp. “No, really. You don’t have to.”

  “At the Dunbar? Oh yeah I do.”

  Criminy. Was he going to hold her hand as they crossed the street to reach the bus stop too?

  “TJ, this is ridiculous. I’m nineteen years old. Dad used to let us go out all the—”

  He lashed back with a fistful of words. “Well, Dad’s gone, and I’m not him. You don’t like the deal, you can stay home.”

  Stunned, Maddie stared at him. He’d spoken the word gone as though their father had died along with their mother.

  Jo waved her hands, shooing away the tension. “So it’s settled. We’ll all go together.” Maddie widened her eyes as Jo continued, “And hey, while he’s eating, you’ll have time to drop off your neighbor’s letter. The one the postman delivered by accident.”

  The letter ... ?

  Confusion quickly gave way to disappointment. Maddie now had an excuse to sneak out, but only to cancel rather than delay her date with Lane. She hated the prospect of missing one of his rare visits from school.

  On the upside, in two weeks he would be back for winter break, offering more opportunities for quality time together.

  “Fine, then,” she snipped at her brother. “Come if you want.”

  What other choice did she have?

  While Jo bombarded TJ with questions about the World Series, Maddie strode down the hall. Her urge to sprint mounted as she recalled the time. She made it as far as the bottom step when the doorbell rang.

  Oh, God.

  “I’ll get it!” She rushed to the entry. Hoping to prevent the disaster from worsening, she opened the door only halfway. Yet at the greeting of Lane’s perfect white smile, all her worries evaporated like mist. The warm glow of the portico light caressed his short black hair and olive skin. Shadows swooped
softly from his high cheekbones. His almond-shaped eyes, inherited from his Japanese ancestors, shone with the same deep brown that had reached out and captured her heart the first time he’d held her last spring, an innocent embrace that had spiraled into more.

  “Hi, Maddie,” he said, and handed her a bouquet of lavender lilies. Their aroma was divine, nearly hypnotic, just like his voice.

  But then footsteps on the stairs behind her sobered her senses.

  “You have to go,” was all she got out before TJ called to him.

  “Tomo!” It was the nickname he’d given Lane Moritomo when they were kids. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

  The startle in Lane’s eyes deftly vanished as his best friend approached.

  Maddie edged herself aside. Her heart thudded in the drum of her chest as she watched Lane greet him with a swift hug. A genuine grin lit TJ’s face, a rare glimpse of the brother she missed.

  “I’m only in till tomorrow,” Lane told him. “Then it’s straight back for classes.” Though several inches shorter than TJ, he emitted a power in his presence, highlighted by his tailored black suit.

  “Term’s almost over,” TJ remarked. “What brought you back?”

  “There was a funeral this afternoon. Had to go with my family.”

  Surprisingly, TJ’s expression didn’t tense at the grim topic. Then again, Lane always did have the ability—even after the accident—to settle him when no one else could. “Anyone I know?”

  “No, no. Just the old geezer who ran the bank before my dad. Came away with some nice flowers at least.” Lane gestured to the lilies Maddie had forgotten were in her grip. “Priest said they didn’t have space for them all.”