Reflecting on all this, the two women shook their heads in silent wonder.

“We always thought it would blow over,” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“I know.” But it made sense. For now her aunt had the loving family she had always wanted, with herself at its vital center.

Sarah had seen her aunt briefly during her last visit. That was the year of Mr. Kobayashi’s death, and Mrs. Izumi had come to pay respects. She brought with her one of those fragrant gift melons that were sold in their own box. Since she couldn’t pray at the funerary table, she sat at the dining room table and sipped cold wheat tea.

That was a busy afternoon. A stream of visitors had padded through the dining area on stockinged feet, bowing politely to Mrs. Izumi as they made their way to the parlor. Sarah kept her aunt company at the dining table. They said little. They listened to the miniature gong in the next room, to the hushed babble of voices as visitors exchanged greetings with the lady of the house. Sarah had wondered if her aunt felt any longing to join that group, to stand for one last time before the altar from which she had exiled herself.

During a lull, Sarah had placed her aunt’s melon on a dish and taken it into the parlor. But the table was already full, cluttered with orchids and fruits and pastries. She put the melon on the floor, on the other side of the table, where people’s feet wouldn’t strike it.

“Mama and Grandpa used to love those melons,” she told her aunt, going back into the dining room. “Auntie, you’re the only one who remembered.”

Her aunt had smiled at her, and the sweetness of that smile flooded Sarah’s heart with a great tenderness. It was her old childhood crush, refined over the years to something bittersweet. Mrs. Izumi had grown a bit stouter, but she was still pretty. She had achieved the settled, contented air of a matron, with nothing left of the old coquettish vivacity.

Sarah now asked, “Does Auntie Tama still wear her hair swept back in a French twist? The same way Mama did?”

“As far as I know. She still copies a lot of things from your mother. She looked up to her so much, you know. I think it went deep.” Mrs. Kobayashi shifted position under the kotatsu blanket. “This blanket’s so hot!” she said. “I’m turning down the heat switch.” In the same breath she added, “She wants me to come live with them.”

“Really!” Sarah thought her aunt had given up by now. But one never knew about people.

“I told her I’d think about it, but…”

The original plan had been for Mrs. Kobayashi to come live with the Rexfords when the time came. She and Mrs. Rexford had often talked of the things they would do together: the dishes they would cook, the garden they would tend. Having looked forward to this for so long, it must have been hard for Mrs. Kobayashi to imagine living with anyone else. It was reminiscent, in a way, of marrying for the second time when it was the other sibling she really wanted.

“Ne, Grandma, it’s not as if you need looking after. I mean, you’re still walking around wearing heels.”

“Exactly! I plan to stay independent as long as possible,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “I overhear those women at the bathhouse, the ones who live with their children. And I can guess what’s going on with Granny Asaki, even though she puts on a public face…It’s a secure life, to be sure. But secure doesn’t mean easy. Human nature being what it is, it’s best to think twice before putting yourself at someone else’s mercy.”

Sarah liked this about her grandmother: the worldliness that surfaced at unexpected times.

“I suppose moving out there is the smart thing to do,” continued Mrs. Kobayashi. “It’s not as if there’s any other…” She gave a little sigh.

“But you want to stay near Auntie Masako, don’t you.”

“Yes. I think…I think she’d like me to stay. I mean, she’s never asked me outright. But I want to be near her anyway.”

“But Granny might not die for a long time. She’s really healthy. She’ll probably live to be a hundred.”

“Yes, I know.”

Sarah imagined the women’s future: chance meetings in the open-air market, brief stolen moments over a bit of grilled eel or liver. She had been here long enough to see that for all their new closeness, there was little change in their day-to-day routine.

“It doesn’t seem like enough,” Sarah said. “You hardly even see each other, or talk, or anything. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not fair,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “But it’s enough.”

“Oh, Grandma.” Sarah felt a great sadness. “Why can’t you spend more time together? Those old boundaries can’t possibly matter now. You’re her mother.”

“I gave Granny-san my word. After she’s gone-”

“But what if you die first?” Sarah’s voice rose in spite of herself. “Granny’s had all those good years. You and Auntie didn’t have any. It’s not right.”

Mrs. Kobayashi shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t agree,” she said. “And I know your auntie feels the same way I do.” Sarah, sensing that gap of generation and culture between them, knew it was a lost cause.

“It’s like a love affair,” she marveled. “A sad, beautiful love affair.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Romance isn’t just between men and women,” she said. “It’s a state of mind, I suppose. It may be beautiful but it comes with pain. And sacrifice. Not just for yourself, but for others around you. I’ve often thought that being in love is bad for a family. It’s much less risky when people merely love. There’s a big difference, you know.”

Sarah sipped her tea, pondering this.

“I’ve been in love all my life,” said Mrs. Kobayashi.

“Your whole life?”

“My whole life. It’s the one part of me I always protected.”

Growing up, Sarah had thought of her grandmother’s charisma only as it related to her mother. With her mother gone, she could see her grandmother had a force of her own. It wasn’t the social magnetism of her mother. Nor was it the fetching femininity of her aunt Tama. Her grandmother’s charisma went deeper, somehow, than those surface attractions. She made people feel something of the magic and purity and passion that were still possible in this world.

“I admire you,” Sarah said impulsively. “I do. Not many people are brave enough to give up security for love.” Her vehemence made them both laugh. She felt her sadness lift, replaced by a girlish kind of optimism.

“Your mother, she had that quality too,” said Mrs. Kobayashi. “That’s why we got along.”

Sarah, remembering, nodded. From somewhere outside in the rainy afternoon, there came the muted pee-poh pee-poh of a passing ambulance.

“And you got a chance to experience it. But your auntie, she never had much opportunity for romance.”

“Not until now,” Sarah said.

“That’s right,” said her grandmother. “Not until now.”

After her tea, Sarah slipped her sock-clad feet into an old pair of geta and clopped over to the Asaki house. A drizzle made pinpricks of sound on her umbrella and on the surrounding garden foliage. She lingered in the lane, breathing in the smell of rain and leaves and wet wood.

Alerted by the sound of the garden gate rolling open, Mrs. Nishimura came to meet Sarah at the door. “Go right on up, Sarah-chan,” she said. “Granny’s waiting for you. I’ll bring up refreshments a little later.”

Sarah climbed the old-fashioned stairs, which were exceedingly steep and made her feel as if she were climbing a stepladder. She planted her hands firmly on the step above her-partly because there were no handrails, only wooden walls, and partly because her socks had no traction against the aged, slippery wood. Dangerous, she thought. But no one in this family, young or old, had ever had an accident.

Emerging from the dark stairway onto the landing, Sarah slid open the fusuma panel and found her great-aunt hunched over a kotatsu near the glass panels. All around her, strewn on the tatami floor, were drifts of persimmon leaves. Each year she collected them from the tree in the back garden, while they were still pliable enough to wipe clean with a moist cloth. This she did painstakingly over a period of weeks-she had little else to do-and when they dried out completely, she crumbled them in tins to use as medicinal tea throughout the year. “It’s excellent for a woman’s health,” she always said, though the tea was so bitter no one else would drink it.