"Of course."

"There are so many little touches."

She scanned the room indulgently. "The stretched ceilings for example are amazing."

They were polished white and cast a gleaming reflection of the room. The four walls alternated between ecru and a rectangular maple wood grain. A four paneled eggsh.e.l.l room divider mirrored the queen sized platform bed and its pristine white linen. All of it was accented by bamboo stalks on either side of the bed that reached to the ceiling.

"And the wood grain paneling is wonderful. The geometric patterns give dramatic play to the lights and shadows."

Daichi stared at her. "Dinner's being served in a moment. I'm not sure how familiar you are with j.a.panese fare, but you'll find that the j.a.panese American family is the originator of so-called fusion food." He flashed a smile.

"There'll be some sushi," he continued. "Which I know you enjoy, probably some teriyaki and tempura, and always a great deal of seafood. As an aside, you'll find that our vernacular vacillates between English and j.a.panese. We make every attempt not to do this with guests, but occasionally we err. I feel obliged to apologize in advance." Daichi paused. "Perhaps I should brief you on etiquette."

"I'll be fine, Daichi. You're not the first j.a.panese American I've encountered."

Daichi's lips curled into a smile. He offered a curt nod and then opened the door. As they descended the stairs, Deena spotted Kenji at the bottom. Back to her, he faced a diminutive man with broad frames and an even broader grin. Deena placed him at 30.

Kenji turned at the creak of the stairs, face aglow at the sight of Deena.

"Hey, Deena!"

Two steps ahead of Daichi in her descent, she froze. Cringing, Kenji looked from Deena to his father, realizing his error.

"You've met?" Daichi said.

Kenji's mouth opened and closed, furious with the work, but still, no sound emerged.

Deena turned to Daichi, her smile desperate. "We met earlier. Briefly. Probably when you were wondering how I managed to be so stealth."

Daichi frowned. "And have you met my nephew Michael, as well?"

He gestured to the slight and awkward creature beside Kenji.

She shook her head.

"Then Michael, this is Deena Hammond, an employ at my firm, Deena, Michael. He's a systems a.n.a.lyst with IBM. Attended your alma mater, in fact."

Michael's eyes lit up. "A fellow Beaver? What cla.s.s?"

"03. And you?" Deena extended a hand.

"2000. The bra.s.s rat says it all."

With their hands clasped, Michael turned his hand clockwise, giving Deena a view of a gold cla.s.s ring. The bezel held the M.I.T. mascot, a beaver, the school's shield and the year of graduation. "Never leave home without it."

Deena smiled politely. She was not so fond of her days at M.I.T. She found the winters harsh and the people impersonal. She took away no mentors and no friends, though she suspected that much of it was due to a protective sh.e.l.l made long before collegiate days.

"Do you have your cla.s.s ring? I'd like to compare the designs."

She hadn't been able to afford a cla.s.s ring, but she wouldn't tell him that, even if he did look like a shrunken and unsightly version of Tak.

"Those rings are far too bulky for me, I'm afraid."

Michael grinned a grin with too much gums. "You know, William w.a.n.g once said that there are three recognizable rings in the world. The Bra.s.s Rat, the West Point's, and the Super Bowl ring."

Daichi scowled. "I don't bring guests here for you to berate them down with worthless trivia, Michael. Now, we are weary and famished. Has your obachan finished dinner?'

Michael nodded and jabbed the bridge of his gla.s.ses with an index finger. "She's been waiting for you."

"And yet you detain us?"

Daichi pushed past his nephew and led Deena through the foyer and into the dining room.

Like the rest of the villa, the dining room was decorated in simple, subdued earth tones. Warm cream and soft browns came together in a streamlined, sophisticated homage to the Orient. The dining room table took a sleek and minimalist design, made of dark birch wood. Long and narrow, it held seating enough for fourteen. Beneath the table lay a splash of bright, in the form a cream tatami mat that offset the dark table and ebony wood paneled walls splendidly. Rice screen doors with dark wood trim folded back to reveal broad gla.s.s doors, and beyond that, a panoramic view of the Pacific.

"I can see that this room meets your approval," Daichi said with a teasing smile.

Deena returned it. "If I didn't know you so well I'd ask who you hired to decorate."

Daichi rolled his eyes. "Now you simply flatter."

The Tanaka brood watched them. Tak sat on one side, sandwiched between John and Kenji. There were two middle-aged men-one that would've been striking if not for his widow's peak and another, with a pudgy face, comb-over and too-thick eyebrows. Deena knew which was Daichi's brother, John's father.

"Deena, might you do a fellow Beaver the honor of breaking bread together?"

Michael appeared at her side, slender arm already extended. He donned a Dodger blue t-shirt, bare save for the stylized arrowhead just over his heart. A Master's degree and five years amongst the geeks at M.I.T. told her it was a Star Trek tee. On this evening, he'd paired it with some snug jeans.

Deena glanced at Tak, who made a point of looking away.

"Well? What do you say?"

She turned back to Mike. "I-I guess so."

"Great!" Mike led her to a seat across from John and took one across from Tak.

Deena lowered herself into her chair and gave John a sheepish smile. He responded with a short wave that was more fingers than hand. John turned to Tak and whispered something. Tak whispered back. When John turned back to Deena, he was all smiles.

He stood abruptly and offered a hand across the table. "John. John Tanaka. Pleased to meet you."

His gaze was steady, as challenging as Tak's handshake.

Deena stood, aware of the attention of the entire Tanaka family.

"Deena Hammond," she said quietly.

"If Michael can reign in his unadulterated eagerness I will in fact, offer formal introductions to all," Daichi said, taking a seat at Deena's left hand, his variation of an apology to John for supposed rudeness..

A blush colored Deena's cheeks as Michael mumbled 'sorry.' With Tak, John and Kenji across from her, she felt as though under a firing squad Daichi glared at Mike a moment longer, as if to ensure his silence, and then turned his attention to the elderly woman at the head of the table.

"Deena, this is my mother Yukiko Tanaka. Okasan, this is Deena Hammond, a colleague of mine."

She was a regal figure, short and wraith-like, with bone-straight, glossy black hair running the length of her back, bronzed skin and wide, expectant eyes. When she spoke, her voice was no surprise-silken and aged, soothing.

Yukiko rose, her diminutive stature leaning over the table, and offered Deena a tiny hand. Deena stood and took it. Here was Daichi's mother, Tak's grandmother. It seemed to Deena that everything she now was, was somehow because of this stranger.

"It's a great honor, Mrs. Tanaka."

She lowered her gaze.

"Likewise, I am sure."

The old woman found her seat again, careful not to sit on her silken locks. Daichi turned to the fat man with the comb-over at the left hand of his mother. "And this is my brother, Yoshiaki."

Deena stood, attempting to stifle astonishment. It was this man, with the beer belly and the greasy comb-over, that was John's father, Daichi's brother-not the man at the other end in peak physical condition.

Yoshiaki offered a hand. His mouth was stuffed with what appeared to be rice, though no one else was eating. He glanced at his palm, spotted grease, and wiped it on his pants. When he offered it again, Deena took it reluctantly.

Across from him, Daichi glared.

Deena met Yoshiaki's wife next, John's mother June. A wide-eyed and angular woman with stringy brown hair and a smidgeon of freckles, she had a wide mouth with pink lips and a caddy laugh that she reacted to everything with. She was white.

They had another daughter, a teenage girl named Lauren, as slim as she was solemn. Dark make-up circled her eyes and painted her lips, a gross contrast to her pale pallor. When she greeted Deena, she used no words, only a hand, the fingernails of which were painted black.

The man Deena had been certain would be Daichi's brother was actually his brother-in-law. Ken Wantanabe, a microbiologist for the Center for Disease Control. He and Daichi's sister, Asami, had a five-year-old daughter named Erin, who seemed to simmer more than sit. Deena thought her adorable.

And she met Tak's mother, Hatsumi Tanaka. A slender beauty, she had alabaster skin, creamy and polished, ebony salon-styled curls and mournful gray eyes. She wore a silk white blouse and creased gray slacks. Her makeup was daring yet well-done, shimmering silver above the eyes, a hint of blush for the cheeks, and lips the color of cherries. She looked flawless.

It was only when she stood and clasped Deena's hand that her awe-binding spell was broken. Her touch felt cold, too cold, and with it came the memories of stories Deena had heard. Of neglect and alcohol, of indifference to everything.

Still, she was beautiful.

The spread before them was impressive. She'd never seen such an a.s.sortment of fresh seafood in one home. Boiled Maine lobster, raw oysters, and steamed mussels shared s.p.a.ce with an a.s.sortment of sushi and sashimi, gyoza or steamed dumplings, miso soup and soup of another kind, clear with large prawns in it. There was soba with sliced duck b.r.e.a.s.t.s, shrimp and chicken tempura, steamed white rice, fried rice and a few steaming one-pot dishes that Deena couldn't identify.

"Everything looks so delicious," Deena said to no one in particular.

"My mother is quite the chef," Daichi said. "She's the one to thank for such a lavish meal."

He lifted the miso soup, ladled out a bit into the porcelain bowl before him, then pa.s.sed it to Deena. She took some and felt the incredulous eyes of Tak and Kenji on her, both of which knew that she didn't care for miso soup.

"I find it fascinating that you're an architect," Michael said suddenly. "It isn't a field with a lot of women, let alone beautiful women."

Daichi's spoon clattered to the table.

"Will you force her to listen to your nonsense endlessly? Even sweatshops allow lunch breaks."

John snickered into his hand.

"But I was just making conversation, oli!"

Daichi returned to his soup. "Well do a better job."

They ate in silence, and after the soup, pa.s.sed around trays of seafood and sushi. People plucked at random. Deena took some of everything so she wouldn't seem impolite. She also took only a little, as taking the last of anything she knew would be rude.

Michael slid a one-pot dish towards her. "This is especially good, if you like beef."

Deena peered into the dish. She spotted soba noodles, firm tofu, slices of beef, cabbage and mushrooms.

"It's sukiyaki," Michael said. "You know, there's a great fable about sukiyaki and a medieval n.o.bleman. It goes like this. One day-"

"Michael, maybe you should just let her get some before it gets cold," his mother suggested hastily.

Again, John snickered.

"Could you not have quite so much fun?" Tak whispered.

His cousin turned serious with the scolding.

Deena grabbed bits of the sukiyaki with the back of her chopsticks and shot John a warning look. He returned it with wide-eyed innocence.

Tak's grandmother, Yukiko, cleared her throat. "And how is your art these days, Tak.u.mi?"

Tak's glare melted. "It's good, baachan. Just a few weeks ago I had a gallery showing in Manhattan, the most profitable to date."

His grandmother beamed. "Your art inspires people. Even your grandfather said so."

Tak shrugged. "There's always room for improvement."

"And your music? Do you keep up with that, still?" John's father, Yoshi asked.

Daichi scowled. When Tak was a boy he had music lessons three days a week-piano and violin. One summer with Yoshi and the boy returned with a knack for the drums and a need for a guitar. When Daichi refused to buy him either, his uncle did, and Tak taught himself.

"You know I practice." Tak simulated a guitar riff and Yoshi grinned, his mouth was br.i.m.m.i.n.g with rice.

"So, you studied architecture at M.I.T. huh? A difficult program to get into," Michael said. "But then again, aren't they all?" he chortled obnoxiously.

Deena shrugged. "I suppose so."

She brought white rice to her mouth with chopsticks.

But Michael mistook her indifference. "You suppose so? You must be a sharp one. But I knew that already since you work for my oli."

Deena ma.s.saged her temple tiredly.

"So, were you an active partic.i.p.ant in the social scene?"

"No. Not really," Deena whispered. She openly searched for a rescuer, but found no takers.

"Funny. I would've pegged you for a folk dancer, easily."