by Deeanne Gist
‘‘Is the money so important to you, then?’’
‘‘Don’t twist my words around, Rachel. We live in a world of folks who don’t believe in Jesus Christ. I’m going to rub shoulders with them, conduct business with them, and debate politics with them.’’
‘‘We don’t have to profit from them.’’
‘‘You already do.’’
‘‘I most certainly do not.’’
‘‘I see. You ask each of your customers if he’s been saved by Jesus Christ and if he says no you refuse to feed him?’’
‘‘Don’t be ugly, Johnnie.’’
‘‘I’m not being ugly. You are talking out of both sides of your mouth. You have this ridiculous sign up about not serving prostitutes and instead cater to the very men who make use of their services.
How is that different from renting my property to someone who runs a gambling hall?’’
‘‘It just is.’’
‘‘No, it’s not.’’
‘‘As a Christian owner of an establishment, I must portray a flawless public image. Not flout the standards society sets down.’’
‘‘Standards, ha.’’ He stood. ‘‘They are nothing but a bunch of tripe that dictate how you women are to dress, walk, talk, laugh, eat, even smell flowers. Did you know there is a right and wrong way to smell flowers?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘And fainting,’’ he continued, ‘‘for the mere purpose of proving you’re delicate. How do you even keep up with what occasion constitutes a faint? Do you carry a list around, then consult it and then swoon?’’
‘‘Well, I can tell you this much,’’ she said, standing. ‘‘Serving women of ill repute in my eatery would definitely require a swoon.’’
He tightened his lips. ‘‘What does your rule book say about women who collect bugs? Dig in the dirt? Roll around in the ocean showing off their pantalets?’’
She stiffened.
He leaned in toward her. ‘‘And what about the claim that proper women have little or no sexual feelings? Because even you cannot deny that female passion exists. And not just in the whores.’’
Grabbing his hat, he whirled around and slammed out of the room.
Hurt, horror, and guilt competed for dominance within Rachel. Grabbing the sack of boots, she threw it at the door, rattling its hinges.
She knew physical love was acceptable, but it was not to be confused with sexuality. According to what she’d read, most women were not troubled with sexual feelings of any kind. Those whose feelings were excessive and who crossed the moral lines often caused debilitation and ill health not only in themselves but in the men whom they preyed upon.
She swallowed, not able to still the memories of Johnnie’s kisses. And touches. And her wish for more. Much more.
But he had twisted everything around in order to justify what he wanted to do. Yet she could not deny some logic behind his statements. She did serve men who had very likely visited those women.
Falling to her knees, she rested her forehead against the bench. She knew the Bible said to ‘‘put away from yourselves the evil person.’’
Yet a few pages over, it also said, ‘‘This punishment which was inflicted by the majority is sufficient for such a man, so that, on the contrary, you ought rather to forgive and comfort him, lest perhaps such a one be swallowed up with too much sorrow.’’
Confused and disheartened, Rachel stayed on her knees, earnestly seeking a revelation.
————
‘‘Oh, it smells so good,’’ Selma exclaimed, balancing on a chair while tying a ribbon to a branch of the fragrant evergreen. Frank had brought the potted tree into the shop and placed it in front of the bay window.
The grand fir had grown since Rachel had last seen it. She had not been out to the greenhouse in ages due to the rain, nor would she have gone anyway. Not after last month’s argument with Johnnie.
She didn’t ask how he was, but Frank told her he no longer ran the Parker House or the City Hotel. She didn’t ask where he was living, but Frank told her he was still staying in the cabin behind the hotel. She didn’t ask how Frank acquired the tree, and he didn’t offer the information.
The three of them spent the morning making impromptu decorations. Frank strung a bowl of cranberries. Selma wrote Bible verses on small bits of paper in a lovely script. And Rachel made sachets of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger.
Between those and the ribbons from her sewing basket, they were running out of branches to adorn.
Frank plopped into a chair. ‘‘This tree trimming is a lot of work.’’
‘‘Then play us something, Frankie, while you take a rest,’’ Selma said, spearing one of her verses onto a tree limb.
To Rachel’s surprise, Frank pulled a harmonica from his pouch and began to play a medley of Christmas carols. Selma sang along, her voice clear and true. It was a side of the cousins Rachel had never seen.
When Frank began to play ‘‘The Cherry Carol,’’ Selma grabbed her skirts and sashayed about the room singing each verse by heart.
Rachel kept time for her by clapping to the beat.
‘‘Joseph was an old man and an old man was he, And he married Mary Queen of Galilee.
When Joseph was married and his cousin Mary got, Mary proved big with child, by whom Joseph knew not.’’
The front door banged open. Selma yelped. Frank cut off in mid-note. Rachel whirled around.
On the threshold stood Lissa in an elegant claret-colored walking dress of cashmere. The ermine trimming its high collar matched the rich muff encasing her hands. A single-plumed hat sat at an angle upon her head.
Rachel’s heart began to hammer.
Leaving the door open, Lissa stepped inside, taking in the tree and the occupants of the room. ‘‘Well, isn’t this a festive little scene.’’
Slipping one hand out of her muff, she pressed down on her skirt, causing it to bell out in the back a bit as she negotiated her way around the fir and over to the front corner of the room.
She snatched the ‘‘No Prostitutes’’ sign from the window and held it up as if she were the teacher and the three of them were her pupils. ‘‘This says you do not allow prostitutes.’’
A tightness formed across Rachel’s chest. ‘‘That is correct.’’
Outside, Michael ran by the window, grabbed the doorframe, and swung himself into the shop. ‘‘Lissa!’’ he cried. ‘‘Don’t!’’
She strode directly to Rachel. ‘‘I’m tired of every yokel in this town laughing at you behind his hand, including these fine employees of yours.’’
Michael grabbed Lissa’s arm. She yanked free of him and slammed the sign down on the table beside her sister.
‘‘If you do not allow prostitutes, Rachel, then you’ll need to find someone else to work for you. Because even though Selma is no longer plying her trade, you know what they say: once a whore, always a whore.’’
Rachel sucked in her breath.
‘‘Furthermore, it might interest you to know that you pay rent to the very woman you threw out earlier this year. She runs a brothel on Dupont Street, and had she been the vindictive type, she could have thrown you out on your ear.’’
Lissa spun around and left the shop as suddenly as she had entered it.
No one said a word. No rebuttal. No excuses. No denial.
Yet, clearly, everyone in the room knew. Except for her.
Michael took a tentative step forward. ‘‘She’s just upset, Rachel.
It’s two days before Christmas and Sumner is making merry with his wife. Lissa thought he was going to spend this time with her. You saw her. She was all dressed up and everything.’’
Rachel didn’t know what to do, who to look at, what to think. So she left. She simply wended her way around the table, through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her room.
She didn’t cry. Didn’t wail. Didn’t anything.
Curling up into a ball on her bed, she closed her eyes.
<
br /> Please, Lord, please. I want to fall asleep. Then we’ll talk. Please?
Michael moved to the front door and carefully closed it. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think Lissa would really go through with it.’’
‘‘It’s all right,’’ Frank said. ‘‘There was nothing you could do.’’
Michael looked at Selma. She didn’t look young and pretty like she usually did, but old and tired.
In a way, he was relieved the story had finally come out. He’d known, of course. Known since Rachel had hired her.
And so did everyone in town. Word was that Selma had been a music teacher when she and Frank left Texas to come west, that she had been a girl full of zest and adventure. Upon their arrival, Frank had found her a job as a governess for some wealthy Spanish family, then tried his luck at the mines.
But Selma had gotten tired of waiting and had come down to San Francisco looking for something better to do. The El Dorado had offered her forty dollars a night if she would sit at a lansquenet table and deal cards.
Michael had heard a bonnet was to start work there, so he’d made a point of being at the Dorado her first day. Selma had entered the den, her steps slow, her gaze touching the paintings that lined the walls. Before she could even find her table, she’d fainted.
The man behind the bar told Michael that Selma had been taken to her hotel and left there but that the owner had checked up on her the next morning and doubled his offer. She’d accepted.
Night after night, he’d watched Selma resist the pressure the men had constantly applied. But the longer she worked, the more relaxed she seemed to be. With the paintings. With the men. With the offers being cast her way. Until one day, she started dealing out more than just cards.
The night Frank returned to town, he stormed into the Dorado like a bull ready for a fight and dragged Selma out. That was about the same time Rachel had opened her café.
Michael ran a finger inside the collar of his shirt. Didn’t seem to matter too much what the fellas did around here, but the women were different. Everybody knew who they were. And exactly what they did.
Selma lifted a tear-filled gaze to him. ‘‘I’m so sorry. This will cause more trouble between you. I . . .’’
‘‘It’ll be fine,’’ he replied. ‘‘She knows you. It’ll be different.’’
‘‘She knows her sister, too.’’
He had no reply for that.
Selma began to collect the leavings of their decorating. ‘‘I’ll just clean up here and then . . . go.’’
‘‘She needs you, Selma,’’ Michael said. ‘‘The shop opens in a couple of hours. She can’t run it without you. Please don’t go.’’
Selma placed ribbons onto a tray.
Michael glanced at Frank, but the man said nothing.
‘‘I’m going to check on Rachel,’’ Michael said, ‘‘then I’ll get back with you.’’
Upon reaching her door, he eased it open. Rachel lay on the bed, knees drawn up to her chin.
He stood in indecision, wondering if he should go to her. And if he did, what he would say. In the end, she took the decision from him by looking back over her shoulder.
‘‘You all right?’’ he asked.
‘‘I was going to rest for a little while before I opened.’’
Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. ‘‘Selma is leaving.’’
She swallowed and nodded.
‘‘Are you going to let her go?’’
‘‘I don’t see what choice I have.’’
He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘‘She’s given up her old ways.
You gonna force her back to them by taking away her job?’’
‘‘Oh, Michael. I’m so confused. I like her so much. I do, but how can I keep her on?’’
‘‘It isn’t like she works for you and then does, you know, after hours.’’
‘‘How can you be so sure?’’
‘‘I’d have heard.’’
She laid an arm over her eyes. ‘‘I cannot believe this is even happening. Why didn’t you tell me?’’
He stayed silent.
Moving her arm, she looked at him. ‘‘Is that why she refuses to work the front room?’’
He studied his nails.
‘‘Did you know that woman owned this building?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ he sighed.
Rolling over, she placed her back to him. ‘‘Put up the closed sign.
I won’t be serving lunch today.’’
chapter 23
The donkey slipped, nearly tossing Johnnie off and into the infernal mud it waded through. Cursing, he shortened the reins, keeping the jackass under tight control.
The town was nothing but one big quagmire. No telling how many bodies they would exhume from this mess come spring. Men who had become drunk, lost their footing, and sunk into the goop with no one the wiser.
Slowing his pace, he eventually allowed his mind to wander. Michael had told him all that had transpired yesterday. Johnnie hurt for Rachel. For Lissa. For Selma.
He wondered what Rachel would do now that she’d discovered her landlady was a prostitute. A prostitute who had let out the place for a sum well below market value.
Johnnie wondered why the woman had done it. But couldn’t begin to guess her motives.
Not able to sleep, he’d retreated to his property in the wee hours of the morning. He missed Rachel with an intensity that was palpable, and the land made him feel closer to her somehow.
Over this last month he had spent hours there trying to direct the flow of water. Trying to nurture the trees. Trying to restore his relationship with God.
The peace he had gained this morning, however, evaporated along with the night as dawn brushed the sky and mud suctioned the strength from his donkey. What a way to start Christmas Eve.
A spark on the horizon caused him to yank his animal to a halt.
An instant later, a huge flame spiraled up from the center of town.
Dread and fear clamped his chest like the jaws of a vise. Even with the recent rains, San Francisco was nothing but wood and cloth kindling. And it had caught fire, with not one single engine to its name.
It took every bit of self-control he had not to slam his heels into the sides of the donkey. He knew that would only delay him. The mud was close to three feet deep here, and there would be no hurrying through it.
He urged the animal on, speaking to it with a calmness he didn’t feel. Shouts of alarm drifted up to him, and he gleaned a bit of comfort from them. If he could hear them, Rachel could hear them.
What would she do? Where would she go?
Black smoke billowed up from the fire as it gained momentum.
If it wasn’t the actual Plaza that had caught, it was awfully close.
The smell of burnt wood tickled his nose, though there was no wind to speak of. Or rain—now that they actually needed it.
Men scurried up the hills and away from the fire. Some dragging trunks, some shouldering valises, some with no more than their mining gear.
Like a trout swimming upstream, Johnnie pressed ever onward.
As the mud became more manageable, the donkey became less so.
The screams of the fire and the terror of the men transferred themselves to his mount.
He forced the animal forward. In the twenty minutes it took him to reach the edges of the Plaza, the fire had turned into a roaring wall of destruction, greedily licking up the entire east side of the square.
The donkey refused to go any farther. Johnnie jumped off and plunged into what felt like the insides of an oven. Ashes, cinders, sparks, and smoke consumed any air worth breathing.
Dennison’s Exchange, the Parker House, and the El Dorado all wore fiery cloaks. Goods of every description lay piled in the muddy Plaza. Men of all nationalities swarmed like bees through the square, no one making any effort to stop the blaze.
Already the fire teased the Cottage Café. He scanned the crowd to no avail
. He shouted out Rachel’s name, but a deafening crash shook the Plaza. Dennison’s roof collapsed and the walls caved in.
Reason told him Rachel would have long ago left the cafe and maybe headed to the waterfront. But his gut was not convinced. After a split second of indecision, he ran to the door of the shop.
The lock scorched his fingers. He worked for several more seconds trying to unfasten it but could not.
Why is the door still bolted? Did she go out the back?
Hurrying to the window, he kicked it in and crawled through, shoving the Christmas tree’s branches aside. Smoke had already filled the place and more poured in the now exposed window. But the room was still navigable and somewhat breathable.
‘‘Rachel!’’ he shouted.
Coughing answered him.
O Lord!
He raced through the eatery and kitchen. On the stairs, Selma had Rachel by the waist, trying to help her down.
Johnnie took the steps two at a time and held out his arms. Rachel came to him. Scooping her up, he ran out the back.
‘‘Come on, Selma! Can you follow?’’ he yelled.
‘‘Yes! Hurry!’’
‘‘Grab my shirt so I know I haven’t lost you!’’
He felt Selma secure a fistful of his flannel, and together they plowed through the mud, down the hill and, finally, to the wharf.
Rachel pressed her face to his shoulder, taking short, quick breaths, interspersed with coughs.
Smoke replaced the morning fog that usually hung over the water. Men crowded the shore and pier, guarding their salvaged belongings.
A violent explosion from the Plaza caused all to cease moving and watch the spectacle on the hill. Johnnie guessed the alcohol within the dens most likely caused the blast.
He splashed into the tide, Selma with him. She swished her hands in the water and wiped Rachel’s face.
‘‘Rachel? Are you all right?’’ Johnnie asked.
‘‘I’m sleepy. And my throat hurts.’’ She coughed and rested her head against him.
‘‘What happened?’’ he asked Selma.
‘‘I don’t know. She was wandering around upstairs, confused. As if she were lost.’’
