A-Splendid-Ruin(32)

I stood at the edge of a tank, aware that suddenly I seemed to be the focus of everyone’s attention, each taking in my white suit, my indecently bare legs—I looked ridiculous.

A man dodged in front of me—“Smile, miss! It’s for the Bulletin”—and there was a blast of light, blinding, so that I stepped back, too far, and fell with a resounding splash into the shallow end of the pool.

Goldie was nowhere to be found, and when she didn’t appear after what felt like forever, I harnessed my humiliation and left the tank with what remained of my dignity. When she still hadn’t appeared after I’d dried off and dressed, I went looking for her.

The baths were enormous, and there were a hundred places to look, too many restaurants and promenades and bleachers. I went back to the dressing room several times. She was not there. Neither was she where one rented bathing costumes. Perhaps we’d crossed one another, and she was swimming, so I went to the observation deck to look out over the tanks. I saw no distinctive blond head, though it was difficult to tell people apart in the ugly woolen costumes.

I stared out over the rippling water at the men diving and the children squealing as they slid down the giant slides. A prickling sense—someone watching—made me look over to where a man in a long dark coat and hat pressed against the railing. Ellis Farge. I recognized him from the Cliff House. He was alone, and he was not looking at me, though I’d felt he was. He looked out at the swimmers.

There was something odd about him, and it was not just that he was wearing a heavy winter coat in the middle of a humid, warm natatorium. His distraction was evident. He tapped the rail in an incessant rhythm; the thud of it vibrated down the rail where I stood several feet away, and his restlessness troubled the air.

Uncle Jonny had said Farge was a recluse, and only today had said he wished to commission the man. It seemed somehow fated to come upon Ellis Farge here, almost as if I’d conjured him.

Perhaps he felt me looking at him; he glanced over. Quickly, I glanced away, praying I didn’t blush, though of course I could feel that I already was. I should approach him. For my uncle’s sake, of course. It would be one way to repay him for his generosity to me. But I was not Goldie, and I could not be so forward.

The thudding on the rail intensified. Now, I felt it against the bottom of the rail too, his foot tapping. Impossible to ignore. I glanced over again, and there he was, staring at me, frowning, as if he were trying to make me out. That chiseled face was handsome, the face of an aesthete. Yet he was still so very pale, and there were shadows beneath his deeply blue eyes.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Oh no. No, you don’t.”

He slid closer. “Then why do you keep looking at me?”

My mouth went dry. “Um—you’re shaking the railing.”

“Oh.” He stopped tapping and backed away from the rail. “Sorry. I’m just a bit . . . distracted.”

“Yes, I can tell.”

“Desperately so, really.” His foot nudged the rail as if he could not help himself, rapping again. “Oh, sorry.”

“Desperately distracted about what?”

“Seriously, I can’t concentrate on a damn thing—sorry, forgive me. I’m not usually profane. I don’t know why I said that. Do you think it’s the weather? Ah, never mind.”

“Perhaps you’re too hot. It’s quite warm in here.”

“Is it? Well, it was raining this morning, wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“No?” He seemed discomfited. “You see. I’ve lost track of time, I think.” He stared at me now, and it was compelling at first; it started a sweet little shiver over my skin just before it became uncomfortable.

I looked away, suddenly not knowing what to do or what to say. Flirting was Goldie’s specialty, not mine. I was not even certain he was flirting. Tell him your name. Tell him about your uncle. But I could do neither, and I knew that I was going to walk away, to say goodbye, to let this chance go because I did not have the ease with the world to take it as my cousin would, and I felt a little envy at that—how did one learn such a thing?

“Please don’t go,” he said, as if he knew my thoughts. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s only that I’m not quite myself today. Who are you? Where are you from? I promise I’m not a criminal or a kidnapper. I’m an architect.”

“I know who you are,” I said.

He raised a brow.

“Doesn’t everyone? You’re Ellis Farge.”

“Ah. You have me at a disadvantage, Miss—?”

“Kimble. May Kimble.”

“Kimble.” He came closer and reached for my hand, which he enveloped in his. His fingers were warm and somehow electric. “I feel I should know you, given that you know me.”

“You’re San Francisco’s most sought-after architect.”

He grimaced. “Indeed.”

“There you are, May!”

I looked over my shoulder to see Goldie at the top of the bleachers that overlooked the observation promenade. She waved enthusiastically.

Mr. Farge tipped his hat and said, “I’ll let you get back to your friend. Good day, Miss Kimble.”

Goldie hurried down the stairs, and he slipped away before I even knew he was gone, taking his restlessness with him.