edge of the park a couple was walking toward the camera, and a bit closer there was a man in the left-hand corner of the frame. They were all too distant for her to be able to make out their faces.
Tori had studied this photograph endlessly since she had come home, searching for a clue as to what might make it important enough for Ariel, at me point of death, to entrust her with it. But she could find nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a photo of a man in the park. Ariel. Was this the sum total of him, all that might pass for a legacy?
There was a soft knock on the library door, and Laura Nunn entered. "Darling, it's so late. We were waiting dinner for you."
Tori glanced at her watch. ' 'But it's only six-thirty. Mother.''
Laura Nunn smiled. "Seven-thirty. We turned the clocks ahead this morning. It's Daylight Saving Time. Summer's on its way." She cocked her head. "You're hungry aren't you?"
Tori, putting away the mysterious photo of Ariel, said, "As a matter of fact I am."
And speaking of Zen policemen, Tori thought, hours later when she was alone in her room, there was Bernard Godwin, the father figure in her life. She had met him and her life had changed, as if he had been a bolt of lightning, or a Zen policeman.
She was sitting at the art deco vanity-a Christmas gift from her mother-where, years before, Laura Nunn had put ribbons in her hair, tying them just so, the perfect mother making her daughter in her image. Perfect. Tori, running her brush through her thick hair now, shuddered. She stared at herself in the mirror, and remembered . . .
Almost ten years ago she had been, in the current street patois, a wild child-what the society of sixteenth century feudal Japan would have called a ronin-a masterless samurai.
Those were the days when Tori haunted the wicked back streets, the evil bars squatting in the putrid backwaters, bastard splinters of Tokyo's monolithic nature.
There were so many empty spaces in Tori's mind, she could afford little sleep, because in rest she would be forced to look into the emptiness and see, perhaps, what she was not ready to confront. Instead she walked the line closest to the abyss of death in order to prove to herself that she was still alive.
It was inconceivable to her, for instance, that she might be homesick. Oh, she missed Greg, but that was a given for her. It never occurred to her that she might long to see her father again, to gain from him what she never had been able to, a sense of her own worth, a knowledge seen in his eyes, heard in his tone of voice if not directly from his words, that he was proud of her, the way he was proud of Greg. There had never been room for her in a family fixated on continual praise for Gregory Nunn, pilot, astronaut, and it was far less painful to relinquish all hope than to be forever disappointed.
The fact was, had she been able to admit it to herself, Tori would have seen that she loved her father as she loved Greg. Both were extraordinary people in much the same way. But Tori's burning need to be recognized in her own right by her father made it impossible for her to see him with the same objectivity she saw Greg.
In a way, it was odd that she put no blame on her brother for the praise lavished on him. Shouldn't she see it as his fault that when the family spotlight swung on him, it left her in shadow? Yet she did not. Perhaps her love for Greg was so complete that it never occurred to her to hate him. Certainly she envied his relationship with Ellis Nunn, and yet whatever her lack, she saw it as her father's fault, not Greg's.
But, in another way, it was perfectly understandable that she should hold her brother blameless for the excesses of her family. Greg was her lone ally in her skirmishes with her parents, and to exclude him from her life would be to threaten her very existence.
But with Greg gone from Diana's Garden, Tori discovered that her desire to get as far away from Los Angeles as possible overshadowed
Tori had studied this photograph endlessly since she had come home, searching for a clue as to what might make it important enough for Ariel, at me point of death, to entrust her with it. But she could find nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a photo of a man in the park. Ariel. Was this the sum total of him, all that might pass for a legacy?
There was a soft knock on the library door, and Laura Nunn entered. "Darling, it's so late. We were waiting dinner for you."
Tori glanced at her watch. ' 'But it's only six-thirty. Mother.''
Laura Nunn smiled. "Seven-thirty. We turned the clocks ahead this morning. It's Daylight Saving Time. Summer's on its way." She cocked her head. "You're hungry aren't you?"
Tori, putting away the mysterious photo of Ariel, said, "As a matter of fact I am."
And speaking of Zen policemen, Tori thought, hours later when she was alone in her room, there was Bernard Godwin, the father figure in her life. She had met him and her life had changed, as if he had been a bolt of lightning, or a Zen policeman.
She was sitting at the art deco vanity-a Christmas gift from her mother-where, years before, Laura Nunn had put ribbons in her hair, tying them just so, the perfect mother making her daughter in her image. Perfect. Tori, running her brush through her thick hair now, shuddered. She stared at herself in the mirror, and remembered . . .
Almost ten years ago she had been, in the current street patois, a wild child-what the society of sixteenth century feudal Japan would have called a ronin-a masterless samurai.
Those were the days when Tori haunted the wicked back streets, the evil bars squatting in the putrid backwaters, bastard splinters of Tokyo's monolithic nature.
There were so many empty spaces in Tori's mind, she could afford little sleep, because in rest she would be forced to look into the emptiness and see, perhaps, what she was not ready to confront. Instead she walked the line closest to the abyss of death in order to prove to herself that she was still alive.
It was inconceivable to her, for instance, that she might be homesick. Oh, she missed Greg, but that was a given for her. It never occurred to her that she might long to see her father again, to gain from him what she never had been able to, a sense of her own worth, a knowledge seen in his eyes, heard in his tone of voice if not directly from his words, that he was proud of her, the way he was proud of Greg. There had never been room for her in a family fixated on continual praise for Gregory Nunn, pilot, astronaut, and it was far less painful to relinquish all hope than to be forever disappointed.
The fact was, had she been able to admit it to herself, Tori would have seen that she loved her father as she loved Greg. Both were extraordinary people in much the same way. But Tori's burning need to be recognized in her own right by her father made it impossible for her to see him with the same objectivity she saw Greg.
In a way, it was odd that she put no blame on her brother for the praise lavished on him. Shouldn't she see it as his fault that when the family spotlight swung on him, it left her in shadow? Yet she did not. Perhaps her love for Greg was so complete that it never occurred to her to hate him. Certainly she envied his relationship with Ellis Nunn, and yet whatever her lack, she saw it as her father's fault, not Greg's.
But, in another way, it was perfectly understandable that she should hold her brother blameless for the excesses of her family. Greg was her lone ally in her skirmishes with her parents, and to exclude him from her life would be to threaten her very existence.
But with Greg gone from Diana's Garden, Tori discovered that her desire to get as far away from Los Angeles as possible overshadowed
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