Southern Fried Sushi Read online

  © 2011 by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-364-5

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-558-8

  Kindle and mobipocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-60742-559-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. Niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  For more information about Jennifer Rogers Spinola, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.jenniferrogersspinola.com

  Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Dedication

  To my mother, Doris Lambert Rogers, whose only resemblance to Ellen Jacobs was steadfast faith until her last petal fell. Thank you for singing so beautifully. 1952-1996

  Acknowledgments

  People often ask me how a writer gets published, and I have to be frank: I have no idea. Why me? Why now? Why this book? I can’t answer the whys, but I know one thing: apart from God’s extravagance and helping hands along the way, I’d never be seeing my work in print. Although my name appears on the cover, it’s not just me who’s written a book.

  It’s Roger Bruner and his wife, Kathleen, whose first exuberance over my manuscript put hope in my heart, and whose encouragement and editing ideas kept me going along the way. It’s my deputy cousin Lessa Goens, whose quick-fire texts when I desperately needed a plot twist or rescue or piece of legal info kept me from chucking everything out the window.

  I thank teachers all the way back to my third-grade teacher, Sandra Thompson, who took me seriously enough to read over my handwritten manuscript (and not laugh!), to college professors Dr. Gayle Price, Dr. June Hobbs, Bob Carey, and Jennifer Carlile who pushed me forward and encouraged my writing for life. At my first job it was Anita Bowden and Mary Jane Welch who refined my verbs and helped me find my voice; Mark Kelly and Erich Bridges showed me how to change the world through words, one article at a time. You are all my heroes.

  I’d be lost without my crit partners Jennifer Fromke, Shelly Dippel, Christy Truitt, and Karen Schravemade, and even more lost without the love and hands-on help of my handsome Brazilian husband, Athos Spinola, and the cooperation of my two-year-old son Ethan. I love you both more than anything.

  Mom, Dad, and Winter, I remember your encouragement through those long years of handwritten stories and hold them close to my heart. Thanks also to Aunt Lois, Aunt Ruth, and Grandma for reading so many of those little stapled-together books and always making me think they were wonderful.

  To my editor, Rebecca Germany, thanks for taking a chance on an unfamiliar face. April Frazier and Linda Hang and Laura Young at Barbour, thanks so much for your hard work.

  To Jesus Christ, my Savior forever, I owe you everything. You are my life. Why me? I will never understand.

  To those who have stood by my side: there are no solitary journeys. This is all your work. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  Chapter 1

  Uh-oh.” Kyoko peeked over the cubicle at me with suspicious black-lined eyes. “They got your work address.”

  I stared at the envelope Yoshie-san dropped on my desk. Citibank Corp, it read. Not good.

  “Mou ichimai,“ said Yoshie-san slowly, sifting through the mail stack. “One more. For Shiloh Jacobs.” At least he meant to say “Shiloh.” His thick Japanese accent rendered it so incomprehensible, it might have been “Spaghetti.”

  “Busted,” whispered Kyoko insolently.

  I waved her away with a scowl. “Mind your own business.”

  “Sumimasen. Mou nimai. Sorry. Two more.” Yoshie-san’s ink-stained fingers stopped on two more envelopes. “American Express. Daimaru.”

  I snatched them out of his hand and shoved them under my notebook. “You don’t have to read my mail out loud!”

  “You have a Daimaru card?” Kyoko stared. “From that big department store?”

  I ignored her. “I’m busy. My big story on the Diet’s due.”

  “I want a Daimaru card. How’d you get it?”

  “Go to Daimaru and find out yourself.”

  “You know, it’s pretty much impossible for foreigners to get

  credit cards here. What’d you do?”

  I launched a paper ball over the cubicle wall and socked her squarely on her sleek bob, tinted with that mod dark purple-red tone we saw everywhere. In fact, I don’t remember seeing anyone in Japan with black hair except Yoshie-san, the office helper. I saw chestnut and auburn and bleached blond in abundance, but no black. I should make a list.

  Black hair? Yoshie-san. Mod purple-red? Kyoko. My next-door neighbor, Fujino-san. I added some more ticks. I should do a study on this for my master’s. “Modern Japanese and Hair Color: A Study in Transitions.”

  “Ouch. What’s your problem?” Kyoko rubbed her head. She spoke with perfect coastal English that betrayed her California roots. If I didn’t look up, I’d think I sat across from a surfer.

  The cursor blinked on my screen, and I typed a few more lines about the Japanese legislature, otherwise known as the Diet. When previous Prime Minister Koizumi’s son starred in an ad for diet soda, I’d begged to write the article. The puns were too tempting. But thankfully somebody axed the idea before it ever made it to editor Dave Driscoll.

  Somehow I’d become the reporter Associated Press tapped for political stories. Kyoko dabbled in legal articles.

  “Wanna go to lunch?” Kyoko could change subjects in the blink of an eye.

  “Meeting Carlos. In Shibuya.” The corners of my mouth turned up.

  Tap, tap, tap from Kyoko’s side. “Wanna join us? He’s bringing along his new roommate. Wants me to check her out and make sure she’s … you know. Normal. Not psycho or anything.”

  “Her?” The tapping stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I said the same thing.
But he told me not to worry. Just business, and he’s not attracted to her and whatnot.”

  “They all say that.”

  “He’s engaged. To me.” I waved my ring at her.

  “Doesn’t mean a thing.”

  I glared at her again. “I trust Carlos. He’s never lied to me.”

  No response. Just those black, overplucked eyebrows. She thinks I’m a moron.

  “Do you want to come or not?”

  “I’d better. Moral support. ‘Cause believe me, you’re gonna need it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Five more minutes. Gotta get this to editing ASAP.”

  I added a few more lines, saved, and turned off the screen. The end of this month made two years working for the Associated Press bureau in Tokyo as a news reporter—a heady jump from college papers and my aspirations of the New York Times for as long as I could remember.

  Not that I hadn’t worked for it though. I’d grown up in Brooklyn, read every page of the paper since age eight, and studied my tail off at Cornell—double majoring in Japanese and journalism. Studied a year abroad at Kyoto University, number two in the country, and homestayed in Nara. Interned at the Rochester Democrat and New York Post and worked six months at my beloved Times. And suddenly I found myself in Shiodome, Tokyo, in a brand-new office, halfway through my online master’s program in journalism and ethics. With awards lining up behind my name.

  Kyoko slung her black skull-printed purse over her shoulder and played with the mouse while I gathered my purse and keys.

  The corners of the envelopes stared at me accusingly, and I quietly slid my notebook back.

  Shiloh P. Jacobs, they read in stern, accusing fonts. No mistake. Not only was there no possibility of another Shiloh Jacobs in the entire country, but the amazing Japanese postal system once delivered my friend’s letter from New York when the address smudged. They read the names in the letter, guessed the recipient from the context, and forwarded the letter—to mycorrect apartment no less. Back in Brooklyn I still got mail for Mr. Pham, who’d moved back to Vietnam in 1987.

  I was still staring at the envelopes when Kyoko scared me by appearing over my shoulder.

  “Uh-huh. As I suspected.”

  I slapped my notebook down over the envelopes and pushed her with both arms. “Out! Now!”

  “How much did your last trip cost?” We walked through rows of cubicles with reporters typing furiously and piles of paper, sprawling books, and boxes stacked everywhere. Reporters never close books or throw paper away; they just stow them somewhere for future use.

  “Which trip?”

  Kyoko stared at me. “What do you mean, ‘which trip?’ To Brazil of course.” She pretended to smack me in the forehead. “That must’ve cost a fortune!”

  We closed the glass office door and pushed the elevator button. “I couldn’t miss Carnaval, Kyoko. The biggest Mardi Gras in the world. It was the trip of a lifetime.”

  I closed my eyes and remembered the wild samba, the crowds, the late-night euphoria and thick salt air of the beach. Lights reflected over the dark water, mirroring the two famous bulges of Pão de Açùcar mountains. I’d flown back to Japan with confetti in my hair.

  “Well, you’ll pay on it for a lifetime.” Kyoko folded her arms grumpily.

  A Japanese woman with fake blue contacts got on, and I quietly made a tick mark in my reporter’s pad under Sandy Blond.

  “What’s that?” Kyoko demanded.

  I put a finger to my lips and put the pad back in my jacket pocket. The elevator dinged, and the woman got out.

  “Research. I’m doing a study on hair color in Japan for my master’s.”

  “Aren’t you studying ethics?”

  “Sure. The impact of Western imperialism and globalization on traditional cultural attitudes. What do you think?”

  Kyoko raised her eyebrows. “You’re just weird. Period.”

  I smirked. The elevator was empty, so I turned to the mirror and brushed lint off my new navy-blue jacket. A lightweight silky weave from Comme des Garçons—a super-spendy splurge after a particularly heated argument with Carlos. But I have to admit, it did suit my straight, dark brown hair and hazelish-greenish eyes with their distinctive flecks. All the summer pastels seemed to wash me out, but this did the trick. And my Louis Vuitton silk scarf pulled everything together. Just one Louis Vuitton. I promised myself.

  In my teenage years I’d dressed like a bum: torn-up jeans, T-shirts. But this was AP and Tokyo, and the combination reshaped me in ways I’d never imagined. It also reshaped my wallet.

  The doors opened with an automated announcement from a high-pitched woman’s voice, and we stepped out into the brilliant late-June sun. And heat.

  I took off my scarf immediately and folded it in my purse. And my jacket. Draped it over my arm.

  Kyoko wiped her brow. “This is awful! I feel like I’m in New Mexico. Ro-chan …” She moaned. “Are you really going all the way to Shibuya? Again? It’s like the third time this week!”

  I grinned at the nickname she’d given me: “Ro-chan.” Chan is an honorific, so she called me, in effect, “Little Honorable Ro.” Kyoko would never admit in English that I had any honor, but in Japanese it just sort of happened.

  Ro? That’s another story. Not only did I have to repeat my unusual name—Shiloh—over and over to Tokyo-ites in various red shades of embarrassment, but it’s utterly impossible to pronounce in Japanese. And not just for Yoshie-san.

  Just trying to sound out the warped vowels and syllables tofit in the Japanese phonetic alphabet was sheer torture. It ended up something like “Sha-ee-row,” since there exists no “shy” sound or L in any form in the Japanese alphabet, and gave us all a headache.

  My mom had single-handedly given me a name where each and every syllable got butchered in Japanese. She’d accomplished a pretty good feat; I’d never seen another name like it. I hoped she enjoyed her little prank.

  “Carlos wants me to,” I pleaded. The oppressive heat rushed at us in all directions, making it hard to breathe. “He’s really busy.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Not as busy as he is, I guess.” My red face dripped sweat, and my clothes stuck to me.

  “Thank goodness!” Kyoko grabbed a mini pack of tissues from a noisy gaggle of spiked- and dyed-haired young people on the sidewalk. Companies and stores gave tissues away by the pack as advertising, boasting bright pictures on the clear plastic. She tossed me one, and I mopped my forehead.

  “Good thing, too. My collection at home is getting sparse. With freebies like these, I never have to buy tissues anymore.” I turned over the package and read the kanji characters. “Kinoko Records. Checked it out yet?”

  “Yeah. It’s all right. I found some good Ramones stuff there once. And a bunch of Japanese punk albums. More punk than post-punk, but darker than New Wave.”

  I never knew what Kyoko was talking about when she started in on her music, which included a heavy dose of retro ‘80s stuff, so I pulled out my reporter’s pad. “Did you catch the hair colors back there? At least one neon blue.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  Maybe. But I knew Kyoko’s secret from the distant gleam in her eyes. She adored “Akiba”—Akihabara, Tokyo’s geeky electronics district. That’s where all of her extra cash disappeared.

  Video games, cool stuff for her computer, anime comic books. Record shops reminded her of electronics shops. She was probably plotting her next trip now.

  “Akiba this weekend?” she suddenly asked, and I laughed out loud.

  We ducked into the subway station already jammed with people jostling in line for tickets that popped out of a machine. The turnstiles opened, and we joined the waiting throngs.

  The next two cars were so full we couldn’t even get on, with people squishing out of them and white-gloved “pushers” shoving arms, legs, expensive purses, shopping bags, and occasionally heads through the slowly closing doors.

  On the thir
d try the crowd finally spit us into the subway car and smooshed us up against the glass with contorted faces. Kyoko, dressed all in Gothic black, looked scary as she grimaced and sponged her forehead with another tissue.

  “Is that a real Louis Vuitton?” she demanded, snatching the corner of my scarf out of my purse when I dug for my tissue pack.

  I snatched it back and zipped my purse shut. “Why do you care?”

  Her reflection stared back at me in the glass. “Girl. You are a spender.”

  “Just like you in Akiba.”

  “I bet all my comic books cost less than a corner of that little silk thing in your purse.”

  “I bet they don’t.”

  “So Carlos has a girl living with him now?” She wrinkled her nose, and her piercing glittered. She’d just done the one-second subject change again.

  “For now. Says it’s temporary. The last guy had gang tattoos and never paid rent.” I put my nose in the air. “I don’t see any problem with it, provided she respects our relationship. I’m a modern woman.”

  Kyoko shot me a look. “She better be ugly as sin. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Then don’t.” I turned my thoughts to Carlos. Carlos Torres Castro hailed from Argentina (or, as he pronounced it, Arhentina) and in the words of more than one female friend was a knockout. Dark lashes and even darker brows framed gorgeous almond-shaped black eyes, and his skin glowed with a perpetual tan. He was a stockbroker, twenty-seven, just three years older than me—and he let his wavy hair grow just a little over the collar of his fashionable dark suits. Total Arhentinian style.

  I fingered the big diamond on my left hand, wondering if I’d lost my sanity to get engaged four months ago—in only my second year at AP. But we’re talking about Mr. Right here. Mr. More-Than-Right, with a Spanish accent.

  He’d offered me the ring over wine and steak. “Sí?” he’d said, turning those pleading eyes to me, almost too beautiful to look at.

  “Sí,” I replied and slipped it on my finger. It dazzled in the candlelight like fire trapped in glass. And so we were affianced. No wedding date in sight, perhaps not for the next two or three years. But it would happen. We just needed time.