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 MIT, but wasn’t sure if they’d be traveling far enough north to need them. It was March, just two weeks shy of the anniversary of her brother’s death, and already the unrelenting Florida heat was upon them. 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 shirts 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 shining 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 whore. For once, there was no great and noble 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 bore no mention of a month-long vacation or a schoolgirl infatuation. But the junior Tanaka had done the impossible. He resurrected that voice, weak though it was, and gave it reason to shout.
It was a damp and gray 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 anticipation 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 windshield, the mundane gray 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, she said, Cambridge and Miami, and neither had been vacations.
He’d stared at her in 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, blown 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 thirty-two, he won an open competition to design JP Morgan’s new headquarters in Manhattan. Daichi’s design had beaten a whopping seven hundred entries, including those by 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 Shores. Just the night before his father had been poring over the records for his fledgling firm, fretting over whether it could stay afloat. He was at the kitchen table frowning over drafts when the phone rang, and it was a then ten-year-old Tak who dashed to answer it. He remembered the man having 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 snatched 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’état, an ousting of architectural aristocracy and a supplanting, by Daichi, of a brazen new face. It was the beginning of the end, they proclaimed.
They were right in more ways than they knew. Within months, they’d moved from the quaint house in Miami Shores 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, and the one 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 Daichi’s 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 drunk 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 succumbed 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. Sure, he had a callous father and a drunk for a mother, but hell, 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. Neglected, 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 a heart attack 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. Not to mention she ignited him in a way that was as thrilling as it was unfamiliar. Deena, with her toffee colored curls and blue-green 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 one 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 woken 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 good use. But he waved her off.
“You were tired so I let you rest. And anyway, sweetie, I don’t mind being your chauffeur.”
She turned away, ignoring the customary flutters she felt at his casual endearment. He dropped sweet nothings like that—a ‘baby’ here, a ‘sweetie’ there, and she dared not take them at more than face value. Her experiences with men were painfully lacking—never a lover, never even a kiss—so she felt insecure about what constituted harmless flirting and what constituted sincere interest.
Deena sighed. It wasn’t that there’d been no opportunities for her, but rather that she shunned 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 a virgin.
She buried those fears with reasoning. A busy woman had no time for men. Driven by success, she needn’t be bothered with cumbersome relationships. So she shied away from the obvious advances, the inherent confidence of her pursuers only serving to intimidate her more. And she shied away from the awkward innuendo of the geeks who figured she wanted an intellectual match instead of the bare bones brawn and good looks of the 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. She would stay seated, start sweating, and 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. They 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.
“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 skyscraper 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 deep breath, paused and offered her a smile. “So, 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 sound, love?”
Deena lowered her gaze. There it was again, sweet words, warming her. And even as she uttered the words, “It sounds wonderful,” she wondered if she was talking about his suggestions or simply the sound of his voice.
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 on the structure, the architect, and his visionary design.
“Stern’s generally classified as a postmodern architect but he prefers being called a ‘modern traditionalist’. You can see why though when you 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, wrenched free from Deena’s partially closed duffle bag.
“Damn it, the zipper keeps getting stuck and then everything falls out.” Deena tucked the shoes underneath her arm and Tak slammed the trunk of his Ferrari before following 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 are for dramatic effect.” She glanced back at him. “I’m so 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. He’d wondered at what her protective shell could be. Deena didn’t see how he hadn’t guessed: architecture.
Tak shook his head. “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 sighed. “Never mind. For once, I want to forget about the structure of the building and enjoy whatever’s inside. Maybe there’s a hot tub. I’d love to soak in one.”
“I’d love to see that,” she thought she heard, but reconsidered given that Tak didn’t seem so…bawdy.
But what if he was? What if he had said it?
Her heart drummed its response.
They settled on a deluxe room, a marble and velvet delight with an enormous tub, a thirty-seven-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. “Tak, it’s seven in the evening. What do you mean, waffles?”
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 and 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 an hour ago, despite Tak’s insistence that this was impossible. The place was a diner in every sense of the word, from its broad counter and bar stools where patrons speculated about Georgia prospects for the upcoming football season, to the single row of tables and chairs waited on by sassy 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 asked as he took a sip of sweet tea.
Deena lowered her gaze. It was the right question, a distraction from the jitters she felt from being hundreds of miles away from home with a man who made her wake up in desperation.
She shrugged. “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, if you will. They wanted to be seen as a progressive city, a sort of 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. “I’m so 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, implied more than the careful friendship they’d maintained to that point.
A slight smile played across Tak’s lips. “Don’t be silly, Dee.” He watched her as she shifted, before apparently 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.”
“Now what in the world does that mean?”
“My dad’s a brilliant man whose 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 hell is this?” Deena said, lifting the edge of a saucer for inspection. Her nose crinkled at the mass.
“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 mass 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 ass would look like in a swimsuit after a bite of that stuff.
“Come on, Dee. Open up already.”
Tak stuck 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. An explosion of flavor slipped between her waiting lips, and with it the fork that had once been in his mouth. She blushed.
“Uh oh,” Tak said as he caught chili with his thumb. Quickly, he returned the finger to her mouth, her lips parting to accept it. He gasped loud enough to draw the eye. Their gazes connected, locking for too long. Staring, neither speaking, breathing as the seconds passed until he receded. Wide-eyed, Deena cleared her throat and looked away, red-faced and stiff. Tak stared, a sober, blinking astonishment on his face. Both finished their meals in silence.
THREE DAYS IN Atlanta. In it, they strolled the lush greens of Centennial Olympic Park, admired the architectural wonders of Peachtree, and danced till exhaustion in Underground Atlanta—Deena’s first foray into a nightclub.
Underground Atlanta wasn’t so much “underground” as it was downstairs. Furthermore, the entrance to it looked seedy and suspect, but she took Tak’s hand and allowed him to lead her in. There were nightclubs down there, at least half a dozen, and tonight, he said, they would dance.
Deena produced a shiny, laminated new driver’s license for entrance to the club. The bouncer who took it was tall enough so that the back of his head pressed against the bit of wall above the door. He scrutinized the picture and handed it back as if unimpressed. The bouncer repeated the ritual with Tak before they were finally admitted.
They stepped inside and darkness swallowed them. People were pressed on a vast floor, swaying to a trance-inducing beat. Deena blinked. It was damp and humid as sweat and liquor coalesced. The music throbbed, a light, pop-like tune that was almost disco. It was paired with an airy voice.
Tak squeezed her hand. “Want a drink?” he shouted over insistent bass.
Deena nodded gratefully.
They weaved through the club, hands clasped, till they reached the bar at the back. He ordered a Heineken draft and a Strawberry Daiquiri before looking down at her hand.
“You okay?”
She blushed, grateful that it was too dark for him to see. Her grip was clammy and tight, her resolve to keep him in reach unshakeable.
“A little nervous.” She peered around. “You’re probably eager to dance.”
At UCLA, he’d been a beer-chugging frat boy of a stereotype who partied four times a week.
He shrugged. “Whatever you want to do.”
She lowered her gaze. “Just—enjoy my drink, maybe?”
Tak nodded. “Sounds good to me.”
He released her when his beer arrived and tossed back a big swallow. She brought the daiquiri in a big pilsner glass to her lips for a sip.
“Good?” Tak asked.
Deena nodded. “Very.”
She drank the first one and had a second. The music was southern rap now so it had a slower tempo, claps on the backbeat and constant references to sex, strippers and alcohol.
The liquor had a warming effect. She peered in her glass. What was in a daiquiri? She had no idea, but it was marvelous.
“You uh…want another?” Tak said. He was smiling.
Deena nodded. “One more. Not too much.”
Her words didn’t sound right. Running together and enunciating all at once. She frowned.
Another daiquiri was placed before her and again she peered in the glass.
“These are very good. You should try one.”
Tak grinned. “I generally steer away from drinks with umbrellas and sliced fruit adorning it. Not good for the image.”
“Fine,” Deena said. “Suit yourself.” She tossed it back for a big gulp and got brain freeze. “Ow!” She gripped her skull with both hands.
“Just let it pass,” Tak advised. “And drink slower.”
She looked up at him suddenly. “Wanna dance?”
He looked surprised. “Uh—sure. If you’re okay with that. I’d love to.”
She took another gulp of her drink and abandoned it, near full. She started for the floor. Tak dropped a few bills on the counter and followed.
“I’ve never danced,” Deena gushed. “Tell me what to do.”
“Not much to tell. Just feel it. Feel it and have fun.”
“Feel it. Fun. Got it,” she said.
Tak smiled. “Follow me.”
The music was club rap, a few intoxicating beats, a breathy male voice and a few sexy and well-placed hooks. He pulled her into his arms and began to sway. She followed with ease.
“Like this?”
Tak grinned. “Just like that.”
It was easier than she thought. When she told him that she’d never danced, what she meant was that she never danced in public. In her room with a radio and a broomstick, she’d held jaw-dropping concerts for an audience of none. She’d danced in those days, as a girl all alone. But in his arms, it seemed her self-less abandon had found her again.
“Someone told a lie,” he teased.
He pulled her closer, till their bodies molded—his arms around her waist, hers at his neck. He was hard and hot and moved like liquid. She imagined he was a skilled lover for the motions to come so easy. It wasn’t the first time they’d been so close—after all, they hugged each time they saw each other—but this was different. This was lingering and indulgent and…intoxicating.
She knew what was happening, happening to her, to them and between them. She wanted to stop it, felt like she had to, to avoid pain down the road. But her heart took no heed from the tyrant that was her mind. It wanted him near and was willing to do anything to make that happen.