The Soldier's Bride by Rachelle J. Christensen Page A

box played behind him, and the little girl peeked around her father’s legs. She inched closer and stood on tiptoes to watch the graceful ballerina.
    “Daddy, look at the lady dance!” she squealed and did a shaky pirouette, mimicking the twirl of the ballerina. The sunlight reflected off the ebony sheath of hair falling halfway down the girl’s back. Her smile faltered when the music stopped.
    “I can wind it up again for you while I take your dad’s order,” Leland said. He leaned over the box. “How old are you?”
    The child stepped back and grasped her father’s hand. She looked at him and he nodded. “Tell him, Emika.”
    “I’m six,” she whispered.
    “Really? That’s the perfect age to be.” Leland hesitated only a half second to think of how Jessie would’ve been the same age as little Emika before he finished turning the crank and stood back. “There, she’s dancing again.” Fighting against gravity pulling at the muscles around his mouth, Leland smiled. It was like flexing a finger that had once been broken. He still remembered how. “Now let’s see what kind of desk your father wants me to build.” He pulled out a notepad and pencil.
    Mr. Tanaka pulled a piece of paper from the inner pocket of his suit, and Leland saw that one of the sleeves of the suit had been patched and was missing a button. “It was my wife’s desk, given to her by her mother.” He held out a sketch of a secretary with pigeonholes and three drawers on each side.
    Leland took the sketch and admired the details the artist had rendered. “Yes, I’ve seen desks like this. They take quite a bit of time to build.”
    “We are prepared to wait, and I will make payments as you build it.” Mr. Tanaka straightened his shoulders. He straightened his tie. He turned to Leland, and the straight line of his mouth edged up into the barest hint of a smile.
    “Mr. Tanaka, is there a reason why you don’t want to purchase a ready-made desk from the furniture store?” Leland eyed the stack of wood near the door. “The materials alone for a desk this size will be costly.”
    “Please, my friends call me Shunsaku,” he said. “It was my wife’s fondest treasure. It broke her heart when we returned from the relocation camp and found it had been stolen. We want the desk to be as close to the original as possible. Those available in the store are nowhere near the quality of her mother’s desk.”
    “I’m sorry,” Leland said. “It isn’t fair—the way you were treated.” The music stopped again and Leland walked over and turned the crank. Emika clapped her hands when the music began.
    “We do not dwell on the past. We are happy to be home again.” Shunsaku rocked back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “Can you build this desk?”
    Leland wet his lips and eyed the sketch again. “I can do it. But I’ve got a lot of orders ahead of you to finish first. You’ve done well with the details here.” He pointed at the drawing. “Let’s go over some of the measurements.”
    Emika played with a mound of sawdust near the door and kept an eye on the dancing ballerina. Leland watched her for a moment while Shunsaku wrote a few notes about the scrollwork around the pigeonholes of the desk.
    “She’s a sweet girl. Is she your only child?”
    “We have a baby boy—almost six months old,” Shunsaku said.
    He didn’t inquire about Leland’s family, and Leland guessed it was because he already knew. For a moment, Shunsaku appeared taller than Leland, stronger than the recovering drunk whose wife had left him. But then Leland looked again, noticed the kindness shining from Shunsaku’s face. Their pasts fell away, and the two men stood eye to eye.
    “Let me see what prices I can find on wood,” Leland said. “It will be expensive, I’m afraid.”
    “I am prepared to pay the fee. We live simply. My wife loves to write, and I love to make her happy.” Shunsaku opened his wallet and handed Leland a