Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(71)

“What can we do?” she said.

“I could save up money while you go to school—or while you figure out what you want to do.”

“Or maybe I could figure out what I wanted to do here. Maybe I could work. I could, you know. Hadley said I could work in the de Young Museum offices. I could be a secretary, or assist her with paperwork.”

It took Bo several blinking moments to process just how far her conspiracy with Hadley had gone. He was surprised. And impressed. As for Astrid working with Hadley . . . well, that remained to be seen. But he tried to focus on the larger picture. Astrid could live at home and work—thereby allowing them to see each other—but if she did that, he couldn’t stay at the Magnusson house. He’d have to stay at his old apartment building and maybe find new work. New work meant less pay. But if she went back to school, perhaps they could keep things secret from Winter for a while longer—a thought that gave him such a pang of guilt, his stomach twisted. But if he could manage it, he might be able to save money faster. The price, however, was not just lying to a man who’d been like a surrogate father to him; it meant also not being able to see Astrid but twice a year.

And then there were always the deepest worries. The ones about class and race, and how he could not legally marry her. That if she got pregnant, their children would be under similar restraints. Where would they go to school? Would he take them to Dr. Moon if they got sick? Would they get treated with the same indignities that he’d faced? Or would it be worse for them, because they wouldn’t be accepted in either community?

He didn’t know the answers, and his heart grieved under the burden.

As the sun continued to climb a sky free of rain clouds, Bo urged Astrid to eat and began to think of less weighty problems in their immediate future, like the fact that the Magnusson household would already be awake and soon someone would notice that they weren’t home. He’d have to telephone the house and concoct a story. Pray that Greta or Aida answered the telephone, and not Winter. Sneak Astrid into the house.

Whatever he had to do, it had been worth it. All those years of wanting disappeared when he looked at the sun shining on the softly curving planes of her face and saw the joy he felt in his heart reflected in her eyes. It had been worth it all.

“This can’t be impossible, Bo,” she said as she swirled tea leaves at the bottom of her cup, peering inside as if she could read their future. “We have to make a plan. I can’t go back to a life without us.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Three nights after they left the lighthouse, on Christmas Eve, Bo stood in the living room of the Magnusson house, surrounded by twinkling candles, the biggest Christmas tree in Pacific Heights (surely), and twenty or so people—most of whom were Swedish and on the verge of being drunk on tulip-shaped glasses of akvavit spirits and mugs of cardamom-scented mulled glögg. And amidst the merry shouts of God Jul! and the lingering smells of the holiday smorgasbord—overloaded with ham, sausage, herring, potatoes, and the precious few Dungeness crabs Winter and Bo were able to catch that morning—Bo was experiencing a wealth of conflicting emotions.

Though few in Chinatown actually celebrated Christmas, he’d spent the last third of his life developing a taste for yuletide presents and singing “Jingle Bells” around a piano. And he was experiencing that familiar buzz of happiness now, watching Lowe and Hadley’s adopted five-year-old, deaf daughter, Stella Goldberg, grinning as she ran from Aida’s one-eyed mastiff, who was attempting to confiscate the almond cookie the girl carried in her hand.

But in the back of his mind, he was also worried that he could lose all this if his relationship with Astrid caused a family schism, and wondered wistfully if this was the last time he’d sit in this room watching Greta loosen her staunch Lutheran morals and get tipsy while Winter played horsey with his infant daughter on his knee.

And somewhere between the joy and worry was Astrid, who wore a dazzling sleeveless red gown that bared half her back, and was now working in tandem with Lowe to help the mastiff chase the merry, pink-cheeked Stella. How could two people live in the same house and never see each other? He hadn’t been able to skim more than a couple of passing kisses from Astrid since the lighthouse—what with the combined roadblocks of work and hovering family members who always seemed to show up at the wrong times. He’d come this close to stealing into her bedroom last night when he’d gotten home after midnight, but Aida had been up, and she’d stayed in the kitchen with Winter talking seriously until Bo gave in to sleep, waiting for them to go to bed.

It didn’t help that every time he looked at Astrid she was staring back at him with those fox eyes that left him grinning like an idiot and forgetting to keep his feelings masked. Watching her now made him want to drag her into his arms and feel her smile against his neck . . . and then haul her off somewhere private, find a pair of scissors, and split that red gown of hers right down the back.

He was in agony.

After little Stella finally tired, he made his way back over to the fireplace and stoked the logs, inhaling the fresh cedar and eucalyptus branches that decorated the mantel. Behind him, Jonte was coaxing Lena to take off her apron and dance; Christmas was the one time of the year that Greta allowed the staff to celebrate with the rest of the house.

“Meant to tell you earlier, Sylvia’s fender looks shiny and new.”

He glanced up to find Astrid smiling down at him, flames from the fire dancing across her face. “They did a good job. I would thank you for having it repaired, only you’re the one who hurt her to begin with,” he said, standing to brush off his pants and replace the fireplace stoker.