Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(90)

He walked around the desk and grabbed her hand as she stood to leave. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by coming to my wedding.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

She kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Ah-Sing. You deserve it.”

He saw her outside and watched her black bob swing as she slipped into a waiting taxi, and after it drove off, he then made his way back to the office, slightly stunned. If he thought his head had been filled with Too Many Things before, it was in a state of all-out chaos now. But by the time he’d reread the article and sat back down at the desk, he’d decided that a letter to Astrid wasn’t good enough. He’d send a telegram, caution be damned. They had Western Union forms around here somewhere. As he forced open a drawer that often stuck, the pile of letters slid across the desk, and he spied a familiar slant of handwriting.

Astrid.

Temporarily abandoning his search for the telegram form, he snatched up the letter. It was to him, no return address. He grabbed a letter opener and sliced through the flap. The scent of rose petals drifted up. Inside was an unusually short message, though she hadn’t failed to include her typical dramatic underlining, he thought with a smile.

My dearest Bo,

Please be sure to listen to KPO Friday at 2 P.M. It’s very important.

All my love,

Astrid

He reread the message in a daze—twice—and flipped over the envelope. A San Francisco postmark. How in the hell . . . ? And KPO? Today was Friday. He glanced at his wristwatch. 2:05 P.M. Dammit!

He reached across the desk, spilling the rest of the letters, and switched on the waist-high old radio that sat on the floor nearby, turning the knob until he found the KPO transmission, already in progress, and listened to the familiar voice that crackled over the speaker.

“If you’re a regular listener, you’ve probably heard my voice on KPO’s other programs, such as the melodrama Murder in the Fog, or maybe announcing the Fairmont Orchestra’s midday performances, but today is the first time you’ll hear me really talk.”

Bo nearly knocked the radio over trying to turn up the volume.

“Every Friday at 2 P.M., I’ll be bringing you a unique perspective from the top of Hale Brothers department store. My new program is called Girl Friday, and it’s a half-hour program for women in San Francisco—all women, from housewives to working gals to the students in college. I’ll be giving you the latest updates about fashion, events, and even some juicy local gossip. Whatever you need to know, I’m here to help. Have a question about where to find the best deal on stockings? Telephone our station operator and let her know. Need advice about how to find out if your husband is cheating? Send a letter to Girl Friday, in care of KPO at Hale Brothers, and I’ll answer it live on air. Tell your friends, sisters, and coworkers to tune in every Friday at 2 P.M., and we’ll start the weekend together.”

Osiris, Buddha, and Jehovah. That little schemer . . .

He laughed, utterly delighted and twice as proud. She rambled on, brightly talking about how there were no radio programs for women on the other local stations, sounding like everyone’s best friend, natural and easygoing and funny—like herself—and halfway through the program, he realized with a start: She’s broadcasting live. She’s here. Right now.

Bo didn’t listen any longer. He raced around the desk to grab his coat and hat, and then jogged through the office. “Tell Winter I’ll be back,” he shouted at the receptionist and jogged to the Buick.

A couple of miles. She’d be there until two thirty, at least. He could make it if he hurried.

He sped out of the warehouse and onto the Embarcadero, cutting down Folsom. When traffic slowed, he honked his horn and shouted at a delivery truck, whose driver flashed him a middle finger, which Bo returned with gusto. He just wanted to get there. So badly, in fact, that as he waited for a police car to help a stalled car blocking the road, he almost considered abandoning his car and running the rest of the way.

By the time he finally made it to Market Street and found a parking space, it was 2:45 P.M.

Please don’t let her be gone. He raced down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians, and came to a sudden stop in front of the department store entrance.

There she was.

Blond curls. Foxlike eyes. Stubborn chin. Devious smile. Scent of roses.

His.

He was the scholar, and she was the girl running up the road to meet him, and he caught her and crushed her in his arms, kissing her hair and face and mouth, holding on as tight as he could, uncaring what anyone thought about the spectacle.

You are mine, he told her with his body. Mine, and I will never let you go.

EPILOGUE

TEN YEARS LATER, CHINESE NEW YEAR, FEBRUARY 1939

“There it is!” Astrid shouted, leaning over the balcony of Aida’s spiritualism storefront on Grant Avenue, where thousands of celebrants thronged the sidewalks beneath painted banners and red lanterns to watch the annual parade in Chinatown.

It was the largest Chinese New Year’s celebration in years—aided by an organized effort in Chinatowns across the nation to raise money for the war in China—and the San Francisco police projected that more than a hundred thousand people would stand along the parade route to watch acrobats, lion dancers, and hundreds of Chinatown’s residents festively clad in traditional attire. Astrid’s family had gathered here in the apartment over Aida’s shop every year, but this was the first time they’d done more than just watch the parade.