Page 42 of A Serving of Hope

“Is that so? I was too young when she passed away to remember much about her,” said Saki in a low, sad voice.

“Twenty years after the accident, Uichi asked Shigeru to marry into the family. That may have been motivated by his affection for Kaneko, but more than anything it was because Hamae looked up to Shigeru like an older brother.”

“More tea?” Koishi broke in.

“Please,” said Saki, sliding her empty teacup forward.

“Both Kaneko and Shigeru agonized over the decision. But in the end, Shigeru married Hamae and took on the Morishita name. As for whether it was the right choice—well, it seems that was a question that occupied Kaneko until her dying day.”

“Why’s that?”

“At Hamae and Shigeru’s wedding, she was stunned by the gulf between the two families. She’d known about it beforehand, of course, but seeing it with her own eyes was still a shock. She was so worried about tarnishing the Morishita name that she began keeping her distance from Uichi. That must have torn her up inside. Her daughter-in-law even had a baby, whom she was desperate to see, but still she restrained herself. Of course, when you did visit, she was over the moon.”

As she listened, Saki was remembering Kaneko’s gentle smile.

“I wonder why they couldn’t just get along,” Koishi interrupted. “Is family status really that important?”

“Now that I think about it,” said Saki, letting her gaze wander up to the ceiling, “Takahama was the only place where my father ever seemed to fully relax.”

“I guess to him it was home, even if Amami was his birthplace,” observed Koishi, reaching for the photo of the Takahama house. “Kaneko seems to have really doted on him there.”

Nagare, meanwhile, was pointing at Saki’s bag. “Same color as your jacket, I see.”

Saki hugged the olive-green bag to her chest. “It’s one of my favorite tones.”

“You know, the painter Isson Tanaka used that color a lot. And as it happens, he was based in Amami Oshima.”

She looked right at him, startled.

“That sky-blue jacket you wore last time was another of his favorite colors. They’re the colors of the island.”

“I…had no idea.” Saki traced a finger along the sleeve of the olive-green jacket.

“Now, about these noodles. They’re actually Kaneko’s version of keihan, an Amami specialty. Mr. Masaki told me he’d been treated to it a number of times. I believe she devised it especially for you, given your low tolerance for sour flavors.”

“Oh yes,” said Saki, her voice brightening. “As a child, I couldn’t stand them.”

“You cook the noodles, add the same toppings as with keihan—boiled chicken, sweet-simmered shiitake, and shredded omelet—and pour chilled chicken broth over the lot. It’s a clever idea—and perfect for summer, when hotter dishes lose their appeal. Even after moving far from the island where she grew up, Kaneko still carried its flavors deep inside her. As for that sweet milk, it’s another Amami specialty.”

At a signal from Nagare, Koishi set a carton of milk in front of Saki.

“Hanada no Miki?” read Saki. “Can’t say I recognize it.”

The carton was decorated with a red sun and blue waves.

“Miki is a traditional fermented drink enjoyed in Amami and Okinawa. People used to make it at home, but these days there are dedicated manufacturers. It’s basically rice, sugar, sweet potato, and water. Very sweet when it’s fresh, but as it ferments it turns a little sour—which is why children were usually given it right after it was made. What you sipped on with your noodles was, of course, Kaneko’s homemade version—freshly prepared.”

“I had no idea I had any sort of connection to Amami,” murmured Saki pensively, her eyes lingering on the label.

“Oh, you have a connection all right,” said Nagare, looking her right in the eyes. “In fact, I’d go as far as saying that Amami blood is still pulsing through your veins.”

Saki gave a wry smile. “This all seems a little far-fetched.”

“Tell me. Are you familiar with Oshima Tsumugi silk?”

“I’ve heard of it, yes. I’m not really a kimono person, so I’m a little hazy on the details, but it’s expensive stuff, isn’t it?”

“It’s expensive, all right,” Nagare explained. “And it originates from Amami Oshima. My father had a haori made from it. He used to boast that it was a family treasure—though to me it always seemed a little too fancy for our household.”