Crimson Footprints Part 10

She turned her attention back to Deena.

"You need a life of your own, sweetheart. An adventure. Wind in your hair and laughter in your heart. You need to feel alive, to do more than just be. And you have the right to happiness. But you have to take it and own it."

"And what? You think I'll find it? On this trip with him?"

Rhonda shook her head. "It doesn't matter if I think you'll find it with him. The question is, do you?"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Deena stared at the pile of clothes on her bed. She had no idea what to pack. She had a few sweaters, relics from her days at M.I.T., but wasn't sure if they'd be traveling far enough north to need them. It was March, and already the unrelenting Florida heat was upon them like summer in a desert wasteland. He'd warned her not to pack much, that they would go where the wind took them, but she found the idea of being unprepared frightening. So she threw in the sweaters, jammed in the jeans, and frowned at the stack of short and long sleeve s.h.i.+rts on her bed. Not everything would fit and for the first time in her life, planning alone couldn't give her comfort. For the first time in her life, she would have to trust someone else.

A year ago, the only Tanaka Deena knew was Daichi. Back then, she was an older sister who practiced a life of piety, determined to be the s.h.i.+ning example her siblings so desperately needed. Every decision was a conscious choice, painstakingly determined after weighing all options and ascertaining every possible outcome. From obsessing over course material to ensure that her grades remained stellar to skipping parties and dating because they were unproductive distractions, all of it had been for Anthony and Lizzie. Anthony, who lived and died by the sword, and Lizzie, who lived and might die like a wh.o.r.e. For once, there was no great and n.o.ble purpose behind Deena's actions. She was responding to a voice thought long dead, bullied and smothered by her grandparents and a file on her hard drive boldly named 'Expectations.' It was a file whose dense itinerary bared no mention of a month long vacation or a schoolgirl infatuation. But the junior Tanaka had done the impossible. He'd resurrected that voice, weak though it was, and gave it reason to shout.

It was a drab and damp Friday morning when they left for destinations unknown. Deena ventured out with a stone gray duffle bag in hand-large, but singular. On her face was the uncertainty that plagued her. But it was coupled with something else, something wholly unfamiliar-excitement. Tak spotted her and smiled. He saw the apprehension, but he saw past it to the single bag and the simmering antic.i.p.ation in her smile. He needn't be told that she'd spent half the night packing and unpacking in an effort to meet every need, only to realize it was impossible. And he needn't be told what this large, lone bag meant to her, or meant to them. In her own way, she was giving herself to him. She trusted him.

There was something about the patter of rain on a winds.h.i.+eld, the mundane nothingness of an overcast sky, and the gentle hum of a car on the interstate that could lull even those with the heartiest resolve to sleep. Tak glanced at Deena, with her knees drawn to her chest, head against the door, and a few unruly wisps of hair in her face as she slept, and he smiled.

He could recall a conversation they'd had last year, shared over two lattes in Brickell. In particular, it was the wide-eyed wonderment with which she looked at him as he confessed that he'd seen most of the country.

"But how is that possible?"

He'd shrugged. "A combination of things. Road trips, family vacations, just visiting people, mostly."

She'd been to two places in her life, Cambridge and Miami, and neither had been vacations.

It'd been his turn for disbelief. Never had she crowded into a jazz joint in New Orleans because a melody had intoxicated her. Never had she tasted Memphis barbecue, Chicago deep dish or Philly cheese steak. Never had she shopped on Rodeo, blew money in Vegas, or watched the ball drop in Times Square. Her words burned him, and in that moment, he'd wanted nothing more than to change that. He wanted those things for her, and wanted to be there with her when she experienced them for the first time.

Tak thought about his own life, and the endless opportunities he'd had. Sure, it hadn't begun in wealth, but by the time he was in the fifth grade, even he could see where the family fortunes were heading.

His father was catapulted to fame quite suddenly when, at 32, he won an open compet.i.tion to design JP Morgan's new headquarters in Manhattan. His design had beaten a whopping seven hundred entries, including several legendary architects, and in doing so had jammed his name into the mouths and magazines of everyone who mattered.

Tak remembered when the call came to their home in Miami Sh.o.r.es. Just the night before his father had been pouring over the records for his fledgling firm, fretting over whether it could get through the month. His father was at the kitchen table frowning over drafts when the phone rang. It was a then ten-year-old Tak who dashed to answer. The man on the phone had an odd accent, so peculiar that he felt compelled to hang up on him.

"There's no Morgan here," Tak said, gleaning a lone word from the garble on the other end.

His father looked up.

"No JP either," Tak insisted. As he moved to slam the phone back in its cradle, Daichi s.n.a.t.c.hed it, rescuing his career in the process.

A $750 million dollar contract. He would never forget the look on his father's face in the moment when he transformed from a man of meager means to one that good fortune had suddenly found. In the days following that phone call, their family was at its happiest. His mother was not yet an alcoholic and his father still had time to toss a football.

Then the phone calls came. First, industry insiders like the Architectural Digest and Architectural Record. Then the rest. They called it a coup d'etat, an ousting of architectural aristocracy and a supplanting of a brazen new face. It was the beginning of the end, they'd all proclaimed.

They were right in more ways than they knew. Within months, they'd moved from the quaint house in Miami Sh.o.r.es to a posh condominium in Coral Cables. With the move came a new school and new friends, a new life where Tak could have whatever he wanted, so long as it didn't include his parents. And as the work poured in, and the Tanaka Firm grew from a single desk in the back of a house to a monolith with twenty-seven locations on five continents, the rift between his mother and father, between him and his parents, slowly but surely, became an abyss.

His younger brother Kenji had been a surprise. Wedged between the JP Morgan account and the revamping of Bayfront Park, no one seemed more agitated with the news than his father. His firm was doing well, he'd hired two architects, the first of hundreds to come, and he hadn't the time for fatherhood. The wince on his face told his son that he regretted those words, but for Tak they were little more than a Freudian slip.

He wasn't sure about the exact time his mother began drowning herself in alcohol. Like Kenji, it was wedged firmly between JP Morgan and Bayfront. Whenever Tak was in a particularly forgiving mood, he told himself that she hadn't drank a drop of alcohol during her nine months of pregnancy, but when he was especially incensed with his mother, he would say that she'd probably all but succ.u.mbed to alcohol poisoning. The truth, he suspected was somewhere in between.

Tak glanced at Deena as she stirred in her seat. He couldn't look at her and feel sorry for himself though. Sure he had a callous father and a drunk for a mother, but h.e.l.l, he had parents. What 's more, neither of them, at their worst, had ever struck him in anger. He'd never known what it felt like to be unloved, unwanted, rejected. Even his father, in all his iciness, had never caused him to feel rejected. Forgotten, most certainly, but never rejected.

She'd lost both her father and brother to murder. His closest comparison was his grandfather, George Tanaka, dead from cancer at seventy-seven. And while they'd both experienced grief, hers of course, was incomparable.

Deena was good for him, in an unexpected sort of way. She forced him to reevaluate, to cherish things he'd taken for granted. Things like life and love, money and security. And she ignited him in a way that was as thrilling as it was unfamiliar. Deena, with her toffee colored curls and fawn-brown eyes, seemed to fit into his life like the perfect puzzle piece, albeit doused with kerosene. He couldn't wait to ignite it.

When Deena woke, she found herself on a bare stretch of interstate skating at close to a hundred miles an hour. She glanced at Tak, who tapped out accosting notes to an 80s rock song with one hand as he drove.

"Did I wake you?" He turned down the volume.

Deena frowned.

"Maybe you should slow down."

He eased off the gas. "Sorry. Lead foot."

Deena's neck creaked as she turned to the window. "Where are we?"

"Half an hour outside of Gainesville."

"Gainesville! How long have I been asleep?"

Tak shrugged. "A while. About four and a half hours. Figured you were pretty tired."

She couldn't remember the last time sleep had come so easy. She brought a hand to her face and felt the creases left there from the door.

"You should've woke me. Why'd you let me sleep so long? You don't have to be a chauffeur, you know."

She had her license, a crisp new piece of plastic in her wallet that she was dying to put to use. But he waved her off.

"You were tired so I let you rest. And anyway, I don't mind being your chauffeur, sweetie."

She turned away, ignoring the customary flutters she felt at his casual endearments. He was always dropping sweet nothings like that-a baby here, a sweetie there, and she dared not take them for more than face value. Her experiences with men were painfully lacking, never a lover, never even a kiss, so she felt insecure about what const.i.tuted harmless flirting versus a sign of sincere interest.

Deena sighed. It wasn't that there'd been no opportunities for her, but rather, that she'd s.h.i.+ed away from men; first because she feared her grandfather's wrath and later because she feared the men themselves-their expectations, their experience and their laughter when they discovered she was still a virgin. In the back of her mind, she buried Snow's derisive laugh when he'd stated with all certainty that she was, in fact, still tight like a version.

As always, Deena buried her fears with reason. She was a busy woman and had no time for men. Driven by the need for success, she needn't be bothered with c.u.mbersome relations.h.i.+ps anyway. So she s.h.i.+ed away from the obvious advances, the inherent confidence of her pursuers only serving to intimidate her more. And she s.h.i.+ed away from the awkward innuendo of geeks who figured she wanted an intellectual match instead of the bare bones brawn and good looks of other pursuers. And on the occasion when a man crossed her path with that rare combination of looks and smarts, she of course was far too shy to do anything about it. And so, she would stay seated, daring not to approach such a man, and in doing so, would lose him to far more forthright women. Still, she always found it comforting that these lost opportunities affected her so little. Her feelings toward men had always approached indifference. For Deena, men were like museum paintings-ideal to admire, forbidden to touch, and always, always, too costly to bring home.

They stopped for gas in Gainesville, and while filling up, Tak pulled a map from his glove compartment and spread it over the hood of his Ferrari. Despite the GPS of his car, he insisted he liked the feel of a map his hands.

"How's Atlanta sound to you?"

Atlanta. Home of the Bank of America Plaza, the tallest building in the country outside of New York and Chicago. Also home of the Flatiron, a wedge shaped, window-wide building that was the second oldest skysc.r.a.per in the nation. In fact, some of the greatest architects in the world had shaped Atlanta's skyline-Richard Meier, Michael Graves, Daichi- "You know your father-"

"Yes, yes, I know. My dad designed Peachtree Emporium."

Tak crumpled the map and jammed it in his pocket. "Listen. I'm sure Atlanta has some great architecture and I'll make sure you see as much as you want. But keep in mind we're going a lot further than here and time is finite."

He took a breath, paused and offered her a smile, first forced, then broadening with each second that pa.s.sed.

"So," Tak continued, natural this time. "I'm thinking a show at the Fox Theatre, the night scene in Underground Atlanta and maybe a stroll in Olympic Park. We could tour CNN or Coca Cola if you want." He withdrew the nozzle from the car and placed it back at the gas pump.

"How's that sounding, love?"

He glanced back at the Ferrari, scrutinizing the exterior, before declining a car wash.

Deena lowered her gaze. It was there again, sweet words, warming her. And even as she uttered the phrase "It sounds wonderful," she couldn't help but wonder if she was talking about the itinerary or the sound of love on his lips.

They arrived in Atlanta at four thirty and at Deena's insistence, checked into The Mansion on Peachtree, a luxury hotel designed by renowned architect Robert A.M. Stern. As Tak retrieved the bags from his car, she lectured him endlessly.

"Stern's generally cla.s.sified as a postmodernist but he prefers the label 'modern traditionalist.' You can see why though when you actually look at his work. He's really big on tradition. He-"

"Hey, are you bringing this stuff inside?" Tak held up a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, wretched free from Deena's partially closed duffle bag.

"d.a.m.n it, the zipper gets stuck and everything falls out." Deena jammed the shoes underneath her arm and Tak slammed the trunk and followed her towards the hotel. He nearly collided with her when she stopped.

"What? What is it?" he said.

"Look at it. It's wonderful. The limestone and cast stone create such a dramatic effect." She glanced back at him. "I'm sorry. You're bored."

She did that sometimes-use architecture as her failsafe. She could spout arbitrary facts at awkward moments and prattle on about nuances till her nerves calmed or a blush subsided. Though she did enjoy the work before her it wasn't to the exclusion of all else.

But Tak shook his head. "No, it's okay. I'm Daichi's son, remember? I'm used to marveling at concrete structures for hours on end."

"Limestone."

"What?"

"It's limestone and-" Deena shook her head. "Never mind. For once, I want to forget about the structure of a building and enjoy whatever's inside. Maybe there's a hot tub. I'd love to soak in one."

He glanced at her as if he'd love for her to soak in one, too.

They settled on a deluxe room, a marble and velvet delight with an enormous tub, a 37-inch flat screen and two queen size beds. The two showered and dressed before deciding on dinner.

"How do waffles sound?"

Deena glanced at her watch. "It sounds like breakfast at 7 in the evening."

Tak threw an arm around her, grinning. "Come on, Dee. Waffles it is. Allow me to rock your world."

"Two pecan checkerboards, four eggs wrecked and two heart attacks on a rack. Sweep the kitchen and give it to me scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, topped & diced!" Deena's waitress cupped her hands over crimson painted lips, gave her chewing gum a few more pops, and sauntered off in her crisp white blouse and black slacks.

Deena scrutinized the diner. They were at the Waffle House, a place she'd never heard of until half hour ago, despite Tak's insistence that such a thing was impossible. The place was a diner in every since of the word, from its broad counter and weathered stools where patrons speculated about Georgia prospects for the upcoming football season, to the single row of tables and chairs waited on by sa.s.sy waitresses who insisted on calling you 'hon' even when you asked them not to.

"So, what does my little architectural scholar think of the Atlanta skyline?" Tak took a sip of his sweet tea.

Deena lowered her gaze. It was the right question, a deterrent from the jitters she felt from being hundreds of miles away from home with a man who made her wake up in a peculiar, mysterious and acute sense of desperation.

She attempted to shrug nonchalantly.

"Oh, I don't know. There's a lot of modern and postmodern stuff here, but that's not surprising. Atlanta's a southern city, but it's a hybrid one. In a time when much of the south rejected what they saw as an encroachment on an old way of life, Atlanta was going through a transformation. They wanted to be seen as a progressive city, a beacon of the 'New South'. You know how some of the best architecture reflects the values of the people around it? Well, Atlanta's no exception. You can see the rejection of antebellum roots and-"

Deena paused, her cheeks coloring. She's was being nervous and stupid again.

"I'm sorry. Before this is over you'll wish you asked some other girl to come with you."

Silence followed. Her words implied more than she'd intended about their reasons for being there. They implied more than the careful friends.h.i.+p they'd maintained to that point.

A slight smile played across Tak's lips.

"Don't be silly, Dee." He watched her as she s.h.i.+fted, before deciding she'd squirmed enough. "You're a genius. My otosan must love talking to you."

Deena shrugged. "It's a big firm. I don't really spend time with your father."

Tak laughed. "You do. You just think you don't."

She frowned. "What in the world does that mean?"

"My dad's brilliant and his whole life is wrapped up in that firm. He hired you because he saw something. While you were his intern, he studied you, figured out what you were made of, and decided that he liked it. In other words, he was spending time with you, even if you weren't spending time with him."

Before Deena could respond, the waitress returned with their food. Pecan waffles and scrambled eggs, biscuits and country gravy and two unidentifiable piles on saucer plates were placed before them.

"What in the h.e.l.l is this?" Deena said, lifting the edge of a saucer for inspection. Her nose crinkled at the ma.s.s.

"It's hash browns. Try it."

Tak grabbed a bottle of syrup and went to work on his waffles.

"Hash browns where?"

Tak grinned. "Hash browns there." He jabbed at the ma.s.s with his syrup-covered fork. "There's also onions, ham, cheese, chili and tomatoes." He pointed at each item with the utensil before returning to the slicing of his waffles. "And it's all quite good."

She looked at the red and yellow goo that covered the potatoes in distrust. She didn't want to think of how many calories might be in that little saucered dish, with its fried potatoes and ooze of cheese. She didn't want to think of what her a.s.s would look like in a swimsuit after a bite of that mess.

"Come on, Dee. Open up already."

Tak dipped his fork into his mouth to clean it before taking a stab at her hash browns. He came away with a thick wad, and trained it towards her mouth.

"Just a little now."

With a hand beneath her chin, he guided the gooey hash into her mouth.