A-Splendid-Ruin(99)

The sketchbooks were heavy; by the time I arrived, I was tired and sweating, and annoyed with Dante for disappearing. Stephen was not there, but his mother, Rose, was, and she welcomed me as if I were a long-lost daughter. She reminded me of my own mother, actually, not because her rather distracted manner and vaguely affectionate smiles and her flurry of powder-scented, brief embraces were like my mother’s, but because of her simple acceptance. She seemed to belong to another world, one more genteel, mannered, and gracious than I’d seen before, and one that bore no resemblance to the one I’d entered with Goldie and my uncle, and it did not take long before Mrs. Oelrichs made me realize that this world could never include the Sullivans.

My second day there, Mrs. Oelrichs came to me where I wandered aimlessly about the library. “This just came for you, my dear.”

When I saw Dante’s handwriting, I nearly ran to the door to catch him, but Mrs. Oelrichs said it had only been a messenger. Dante had sent a copy of the latest Bulletin with a note:

Here it is, the last of the Chinatown articles. I’ll visit China Joe and finish things there—no need for you to step your pretty foot into Chinatown again. The Sullivan article will be published soon, I promise. And so . . . I guess you won’t be drinking at Coppa’s with degenerate society reporters anymore. Good for you—you deserve the very best and I could not be happier. Dante.

That was all. I felt his sincerity and his affection, but . . . but what? I was disappointed. I wanted more, but I couldn’t say what. The article was excellent: in-depth, well researched, and clearly written. He had been wonderful as Alphonse Bandersnitch, but it was obvious that news was his real talent, and that he loved it was even more so. I could barely contain my pride. It had all turned out so well.

This was the second time in my life that I had everything I wanted, everything I’d dreamed about. And just as then, I was dissatisfied.

Mrs. Oelrichs was kind, and Stephen was kind, but I was impatient and tense and restless. The loneliness I’d thought I’d banished returned with a vengeance. I was unused to doing nothing. The change from struggling to survive in a destroyed city to the luxury of a mostly undamaged manor was jarring. I waited for something to worry about, for something to do. I wondered about Goldie and Ellis and hoped that Joe had truly given Shin the freedom he’d promised. I wondered what was happening with the advertisement Dante had placed for me in the Bulletin, because I’d heard nothing. I supposed no one had responded and told myself I shouldn’t feel disappointed. Why should I have expected anything? But I was haunted by the existence of that library, the plaque with Ellis’s name. I sent Dante a message, hoping for good news. I received no response, not a word. I wondered if I’d been gullible again, if Dante had only used me, but I couldn’t make myself believe it this time. He was simply afraid to tell me the advertisement was a failure when he’d been so encouraging.

All I could do was wait. Before I’d come to San Francisco, I’d never had a dull moment. I’d been busy working or helping Mama. The life I’d actually been living had spun the hours of the day so fast they blurred. I had my sketchbooks, but even drawing now could not make enough hours pass quickly. Not only that, but I found myself drawing a different world in my sketchbooks now, other rooms, not those rich with ornament and luxury, but those inspired by gray-pallored streets, smoke-and fog-smothered sunsets, and a kitchen where I drank wine with a man who was nothing as I’d imagined him.

And I longed for something more with an intensity that surprised me.

Stephen and I were ushered into the house quickly and shown directly to the large study, which had been converted into a banking office, something many of the city’s banking executives had done. The leading banks had opened soon after the fire in whatever rooms or buildings could be procured, even with their vaults too hot to open and their records burned. As large as San Francisco was, most bankers knew their own customers, and by collaborating with the US Mint, they had worked to get the city up and running again.

Mr. Johnson was an easy man, Stephen added. Or he would be now that he’d seen the papers demanding the return of my accounts.

Johnson was tall and thick, but he had a grace that belied such a tree trunk of a man. His dark hair was graying; delicate spectacles perched on a face too broad for them. He welcomed us with a sober handshake for Stephen and a perusal of me that was not unkind.

“You’re Miss Kimble, then?” he asked as Stephen and I settled in two armchairs. “You’re the young woman all this fuss is about?”

“Rather an important fuss to me,” I said.

“Indeed.” He seated himself behind the desk and picked up the papers that Stephen had sent over the day before. “Such curious happenings. But I assure you, Miss Kimble, that all was in order. All the papers were correct. The guardianship—”

“Nonexistent now, and fraudulently obtained,” Stephen put in.

“I’m certain Mr. Sullivan meant only the best for his niece. I am very glad that you are fully recovered and able to take control of your account, Miss Kimble. It is a great deal of money.”

“You’ve seen the papers from my father’s people, Mr. Johnson?”

“Oh yes. Charles Van Berckyl. Very impressive. I assume you intend to keep your account with us? This bank has served the very best families of San Francisco.”

“I imagine that depends on how helpful you are,” I said.