by Megan Chance
Shin was free.
The Benefit for the Rebuilding of San Francisco was the event of the year. It was held in a great circus tent erected in the ruins of Market Street, ironically with a perfect view of the majestic destruction of city hall. Everyone who could buy a ticket was there, with all proceeds going to the rebuilding fund, or to whichever millionaires ran such things. The point was not the money. The point was to be seen. It was to be my first major appearance since I’d been discovered to be a Van Berckyl—an illegitimate one, which was made clear by my relatives in New York, who asked me quite politely by letter to abide by the terms of my mother’s agreement, lest I face legal action (very litigious people, my relatives) and on no account use the Van Berckyl name. It didn’t matter what I called myself; San Franciscans still insisted on referring to me as “May Kimble, our own Van Berckyl.” Despite their claim to care nothing for New York’s opinion, or for the snobbery of the old wealth in New York, or for New York’s claims to superiority, the coup of having a member of a real New York Four Hundred family in society’s midst, bastard or not, was a source of pride and excitement.
The hypocrisy was astounding, and I chafed at it. These people had been more than willing to throw me to oblivion a year before. I dressed anxiously for the benefit and wondered why I even bothered to care what they thought. I’d bought one of the ready-made gowns that were just coming in to the temporarily relocated department stores. Mrs. Oelrichs had been kind enough to lend me her seamstress, who had done her best to turn the gown into something befitting my position.
It was pale bronze, with darker embroidery all over the bodice that left off in a fringe at the hips, and quite the most beautiful thing I’d ever owned. I felt like a queen in it, which was good, because I knew who had been invited to the benefit. All of society, as it was, after all, a benefit meant to raise money.
It would be the first time I’d see the Sullivans face-to-face since they’d put me away.
“You seem nervous,” Stephen said as he helped me and his mother from his automobile. “You don’t need to be. Remember who you are.”
My mother’s words again. How odd they sounded coming from his mouth, and yet here I was, at another ball, another assault on society. How well I remembered my first night in San Francisco, how the memory returned now, the hundreds of glowing candles, the gleam upon the torso of the bacchante in the middle of the ballroom. The champagne. The way I’d stumbled from the room and into a labyrinth of secrets and lies.
No more of those. No more.
The tent was decorated lavishly. Mrs. Oelrichs and Mrs. Hoffman had been on the planning committee, and I had heard Mrs. Oelrichs complain about the scarcity of supplies for decoration, but they had done themselves proud. The makeshift ballroom was festooned with gold bunting, transformed into a glittering forest of bare branches draping from oil lamps suspended from the canvas ceiling, along with pearl-like beads dripping to look like rain.
At the far end, a small orchestra played. Ned Greenway, whom I’d never met, but who was impossible not to recognize, given Dante’s description—and it was true how much he looked like my imaginary society reporter—stood laughing with a young lady near a champagne fountain, supplied by Greenway himself. There were some benefits to being a champagne salesman. How, with the relief efforts still going on, they had managed oysters and pâté, I had no idea. I had no appetite for any of it, in any case. It was as boring as any other society event, and the thought of a lifetime of this brought a fluttering desperation. I was not going to live like this. There must be something else. Once again, I thought of the classified advertisement Dante and I had placed, of which I’d still heard nothing.
I would think of it after tonight. Tonight, I had one more thing to do.
I looked around the room for someone I might recognize, aware of how many gazes turned back to me, of the quiet talk—not mocking or disparaging this time, but admiring. I had to admit that I did enjoy the power of it as I heard—or thought I did—Van Berckyl, whispered over and over again. I could probably call them hypocrites and spit in their faces and they would still smile back at me and ask if they could fetch me a lemonade.
In spite of the fact that I had been to society parties many times with Goldie, there were many people here I didn’t know. A different set entirely. I struggled to keep both my composure and my smile. Stephen brought me some champagne and then went to speak with a friend of his. I saw Thomas O’Keefe standing with Linette Wall near the orchestra, both staring at me as if they could not quite believe their eyes, and I remembered our drunken afternoon at the Cliff House so very long ago.
My nerves tumbled in my stomach. I sipped the champagne, which tasted sour.
“Miss Kimble,” said a familiar voice at my shoulder.
I wanted to cry with relief. I turned to Dante with a smile. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“You sent me a ticket. How could I resist?”
“I expected you would be tired of balls.”
He tugged at his formal collar. “I am, but you pleaded so prettily.”
I didn’t bother to disguise my pleasure at his words. “Well, thank God for that. I don’t know another soul.”
“Of course you do.” He leaned close to whisper, the warmth of his breath once more against my ear. “There’s Angel Martin—the one in the peach satin, an old gown, but who can blame her when there’s so little to be had? And over there is Mrs. Lassiter—no, not her, the one by the champagne where the bunting looks ready to fall. That’s an old gown too. She wore it to the Christmas ball last year. I think it’s a theme, actually. No one’s in anything new. Except you. Very becoming. Still . . . City of Paris.”
“How silly of me. I should have thought to telegram Mr. Worth in Paris.”
He took a sip of his champagne. “He’d fall over backward to oblige you.”
“I’m glad you came.”
His gaze was so warm it made me want to whisk him off to someplace private. “You mean to beard the lion in its den. I wouldn’t miss such a show.”
“I thought, because the article had so little effect—”
“I’m sorry it didn’t do what you hoped for,” he said. “But Older’s moved me to the waterfront beat, so . . .”
“You must be happy.”
“I don’t know. I find I rather miss all the gossip.”
“There should be plenty tonight,” I told him dryly. “Enough for a lifetime.”
“I’m leaving that for the new reporter who’s taken over Bandersnitch. He’s here somewhere.” Then he said quietly, “I would have come even without the show, you know. Just because you asked me. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I—”
He stopped. I followed his gaze, and when I saw what he was looking at, everything I’d been about to say, or hoped he would say, fell away. There was my uncle Jonny, returned to his sartorial splendor, his red hair gleaming, with Mrs. Dennehy on his arm. Behind him was Goldie, resplendent in green, with emeralds about her throat, and Ellis, and at the sight of them the rage I thought I’d mastered returned. How happy they looked. Goldie’s smile, Ellis’s gracious nod, my uncle shaking hands, everyone welcoming them. Nothing had ruined them. Not my taking away the money. Not the gossip, not Dante’s articles. They had not even been tainted.
“Astonishing,” Dante whispered.
I said nothing. I could only watch, mesmerized, as they came into the ballroom and took their champagne. Goldie talking with Linette, laughing with Thomas. All just like that night so very long ago, when Goldie had gripped my arm and said, “We shall have so much fun!” And Ellis, self-assured, his hand on her elbow a light touch. And my treacherous uncle. “You’re part of the family now.” Untarnished. Bright as the flames that had devoured the city. San Francisco still welcomed them. Everything they’d done, and nothing had touched them.
Yet.
I saw when they noted me. Goldie’s smile froze, and she whispered something to Ellis, who licked his lips and never lost—not even for
a moment—his self-assurance. My uncle, turning at Goldie’s mouthed, “Papa.”
Uncle Jonny looked toward me. The welcome and pleasure that came into his expression—had I not known him, I would not have thought it an act. Even now, it raised a flutter of longing.
But I knew better.
“They’re coming over,” Dante said, laughing beneath his breath. “Christ, what nerve.”
I had known this was what they would do. I had known it because once I had seen Goldie poring over Dante’s society columns. I had seen the way she’d cried over losing Stephen Oelrichs, not in sorrow, as I’d thought then, but in anger and frustration. I’d heard her resentment of Mrs. Hoffman, and her longing to be invited to the Cotillion Club. Goldie had not bothered to discover what I wanted from my life, but I knew very well what she wanted from hers, and I wondered, had I the power to take it from her? Were the lessons I’d learned from my mother enough? Was I enough?
I stood my ground as they came over. Goldie with her glittering smile, Ellis looking certain he would be forgiven. My uncle with his assured and knowing glance, penetrating, believing, and Mrs. Dennehy with a smile of welcome that made me sorry that she must be included in this, but not very sorry, because she had to know, on some level. She had to realize.
Everyone was watching. I took another sip of champagne.
Dante stiffened beside me as Goldie—first, of course, always first—hurried to me, holding her arms out for an embrace. Oh, that smile—one could not see the serpent behind it. How happy she looked. As if I’d just granted her greatest wish. “May! Oh, May, how glad I am to see you! We were all so worried!”
I waited until the precise moment before she would gather me close, and then I looked her in the eye and turned sharply and quite deliberately, and then, as if I did not see her at all, I walked away.
The Sullivans did not stay long after that. They couldn’t, because no one would speak to them. Once I’d cut them, so did Mrs. Hoffman. Ned Greenway looked through them. Mrs. Oelrichs’s expression became wax. Stephen kept talking to his friend as if Ellis Farge had not tapped him on the shoulder. One by one, San Francisco, who prided herself on following her own drummer, followed a Van Berckyl from New York City.
I had my revenge after all. I had ruined them, not with the proof of their own misdeeds, but because of who I was.
Dante and I stood outside beneath a settling mist. Behind us the lights burned, before us was the dark ghost of the city. My hand went into the pocket of my gown, unerringly to the button, which I rolled between my fingers. I said quietly, “I bought Goldie’s IOUs from China Joe.”
“You did?”
“She had no idea of her danger. She still doesn’t.”
“I’d say it was kind of you, but somehow I doubt that’s your motivation.” He spoke lightly, but I felt how closely he watched me.
“She doesn’t know enough to be afraid of China Joe, but she’ll wonder what I mean by it. She’ll be uncertain.”
“Uncertainty is what keeps people up at night,” Dante said wryly.
“I know.” I remembered those days in Brooklyn after my mother’s death, my fear of the future. “I don’t want Joe to hurt her, and I don’t want her dead, but is it terrible to want her unsettled? Maybe to suffer . . . just a bit more?”
“I’m the wrong one to ask. I’d throw her off the docks if it made you happy.”
I pulled my uncle’s button from my pocket and held it out for him to see.
“What’s that?”
“The button I found in my aunt’s hand after she was killed. From my uncle’s vest.”
“You’ve kept it all this time?”
“I didn’t want to forget,” I told him. “I never wanted to forget what they’d done to me, and now . . .” I let it go. It dropped onto the street, rolling into invisibility. Had I been asked, I would have said it was not a burden, that I’d scarcely felt it. Now I knew that wasn’t true. It was a relief to release it.
“How does it feel?” Dante asked.
“Good. Good, but . . .”
“But now what?” he finished.
“It’s all I’ve thought about for so long. And now that it’s done, I can want so much more. I can think about other things.” I put my hand on his arm and turned to him. “Dante—”
“Before you say anything more, you should see this.” He reached inside his suitcoat and pulled out a pocket folder, which he handed to me.
“What is it?” I undid the string clasp and opened it. Inside were letters of inquiry to the Brooklyn Company, in care of the Bulletin. Dozens of them.
“They’ve overtaken our mail. Older’s ordered me to tell you to start redirecting them or we’ll throw them out.”
The first I saw was a missive from a Mrs. Elliot Longmire, who wrote:
I’m no good with finding something peaceful for the eye, and have a bad hand at decorating. I thought your parlor was the most calming thing I ever saw, and it makes me think that you might be the one to design the crypt for my father, who loved peace above all. I have no eye for beauty, but I don’t want my father spinning in his grave for all eternity because I’ve put him into some grotesque. He was a lovely man in life, but I just know he would haunt me. I know you must get dozens of requests a day, but if you could find it in your heart to provide me with taste, when I have none, why, I’d pay any expense.
I stared at it, suddenly breathless.
Dante said, “Look at this one.” He leaned over my shoulder, shuffling through until he found it, and pulled it out for me to read.
I was very impressed with your design and I think you might know the perfect thing for my wife, Sukie, who is a cripple who dreams her days away, and I would much appreciate you making her a beautiful place to spend her hours. I have the money to get her whatever she needs.
I said, “Are they all like this?”
“Not all of them. Some are from the likes of those in there—” He gave a sidelong glance behind us, into the crowded tent. “But it’s not just the rich who want beauty in their lives. Though, now that you are rich, I guess no one can expect you to do anything more than toil away at small talk.”
“I’m not very good at small talk,” I said, staring down at the letter. A beautiful place to spend her hours . . .
“No, you’re too clever for it.”
“I can’t believe it worked,” I mused. “I mean, I hoped, but . . . After your article came out, Mrs. Oelrichs asked to look at my drawings. She’d donated money to help build the Parson Library for the Arts and she was horrified by what Ellis did. She’s asked me to design her a new parlor. She particularly likes bright colors, she said, and no one wants to oblige her. Everyone is too serious.”
“Big globe lights,” he suggested. “Geometrics mixed with paisley.”
“You have terrible taste,” I said.
“I’m better with gowns,” he joked.
“I imagine that will come in handy on the waterfront beat.” I wrapped the cords around the portfolio and handed it back to him. “Will you hold this for me until we leave? I’ve nowhere to put it.”
He took it obediently and tucked it back into his coat. “So you’ll take it up, then?”
Oh, that possibility . . . The flare it lit within me, the joy it raised . . .
“Someone once told me that I had a gift, and it would be a sin to waste it.”
“Whoever said that was a genius.”
“Or perhaps it’s only that he knows me very well.”
His smile became strangely shy. “Maybe he’d like to know you even better. I know it’s not really acceptable. Not for someone of your set, and I’ve tried to stay away, and we could be friends, if that’s all you want, but I thought, if you have time in between all your society commitments for a drink or . . . I don’t know . . . a walk or something . . .”
“What you’re suggesting is scandalous, Mr. LaRosa,” I teased in my most snobbish voice, and then I laughed. I couldn’t help it; I couldn’t contain my happin
ess. “Where shall we go first? The horse races? I’ve never been. Or perhaps we could spend a few months together at Del Monte—I hear it’s beautiful. We could start with Sundays at Coppa’s, don’t you think?”
He grinned. “I have a feeling San Francisco has no idea what having a Van Berckyl in its midst really means.”
“A Kimble,” I corrected. “It’s about time a truly modern woman stirred things up a bit, don’t you think? Life is short. No need for it to be boring too.”
Beyond, the orchestra played and the crowd talked, and their laughter carried on the wisping cigarette smoke twining about the beads falling like rain, and gathered in the flickering light of the lamps that seemed to set the gold bunting afire. Fire and smoke and rain. Where we stood, the fog thickened, enveloping us in its embrace.
“Shall we go back inside?” Dante asked.
“I suppose we must,” I said.
I took his arm, and stepped into the ballroom, and like the city herself, was remade.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many, many thanks are due to my agent, Danielle Egan-Miller, as well as Ellie Roth and Mariana Fisher and the rest of the team at Browne & Miller, for helping me work my way through this project, from inception onward. I could not have done this one without you, Danielle. Also eternal thanks to the editors who guided my steps: Jodi Warshaw, whose faith inspires confidence and who intrinsically understands the bones of a story, and Heather Lazare, whose suggestions I never doubt will make the book better, and who I trust completely to help me work things through and make the right decisions, which is a gift. To everyone at Lake Union Publishing—you are, as always, wonderful to work with, and I value your efforts more than you can possibly know. So many things go into making a book shine, from copyediting to cover design to artist to interior design to marketing and promotion and sales—thank you to all of you for your work on A Splendid Ruin.
