She’d heard about a fountain downtown that had become a message board of sorts. People fastened messages or notices or sad notes like “Can’t find Erin Gray since Tuesday” on Lotta’s fountain at Kearny and Market streets. It had become a vital communication place, a gathering spot for the lost and those who had been found. Logistically and emotionally the center point of town. Someone—someone very clever—had thought to do the same here.
When Nora looked out over the crowd, her suspicions proved correct, for her one raised eyebrow of silent inquiry was met with Quinn Freeman’s grinning nod.
“The mail can’t all be headed out of town,” he said when he ambled across the street. “Folks here need to send messages of a smaller sort, too. Took all of an hour, once I found the wood.”
She noticed he had a bandage on his right forearm. “It took a bit more than that, it seems,” she said, pointing to the wound. “That wasn’t there yesterday.”
From behind her at the mail cart, Nora heard her father make a grumbling sort of noise, as if he wasn’t much fond of his daughter noticing the state of some man’s forearms. When she turned, he shot a look of warning between them, as if telling her to stay on the cart while he climbed down to hoist another mailbag off.
“A fencing injury,” he said, pleased at her concern. “I won the duel, anyway.”
What a wit he had. “Now, Mr. Freeman, what sort of man has time for fencing these days?”
“You’d be surprised.” His eyes fairly sparkled. He had the most extraordinary vitality about him. An energy, an inner source of power that stood out like the noonday sun in such a sea of weary souls. And when he looked at her like that, a spark of that power lit up inside her own soul. It was at once thrilling and dangerous.
Nora hid the blush she felt creeping up her face by changing subjects. “How is Sam?” she said brightly, fiddling with a stack of mail. “All healed?”
“Soon enough. He was asking to come over here this morning, but Ma held him off one more day. Fairly bursting to run around, he is. Ma threatened to put him on a leash yesterday afternoon after you left.”
“How resilient children are,” she sighed, sitting down on the edge of the cart. “I think they’ve fared the best of all of us.” Mrs. Hastings’s visit had cheered Mother and Aunt Julia for a little while after, but the dark melancholy had returned within a few days.
“We do fine. Well, as much as we can. You should come over and look at the post. There’s happy news there, as well as the sad news.” He pointed toward the wooden column and extended a hand to help her out of the cart.
Her father didn’t look pleased, but neither did he voice an open objection—that would have to do for now. Nora took Quinn’s hand, forgetting she’d removed her gloves, for it was nearly impossible to handle stacks of paper and the other odd forms of mail with gloves on. He clasped her hand, stunning her with the touch of his rough palms. They were working hands, large and calloused, yet strong and steady. Warm. Something unnamed shot through her, something far more alarming than what his eyes had done. Nora tried to brush it off as something from a dime-store novel, a juvenile thrill, but it felt so…important.
A touch. Quinn Freeman had touched her. Papa was undoubtedly cross, even though it was something as genteel as helping her out of the wagon. Still, she wasn’t the least bit sorry she wasn’t wearing gloves.
He winced, and she realized he had helped her out of the wagon with his injured arm. “Goodness,” she said, “You really are injured there.”
“Only just,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll be fine.” She knew by the way he looked at her that he was as aware of their touch as she was. He held her hand for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary before letting it go and motioning toward the post. She felt that tiny linger—a trembling sensation in her hand—as if her palm would somehow be able to retain the feeling. Nora felt as if she would look at her hand an hour from now and find it physically changed.
She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that Quinn ran his thumb along the tip of each finger. He felt it, too. They walked quietly toward the post, each of them a little bit stunned, pretending at normalcy when nothing at all seemed normal.
Notes of every description, on every kind of material, had begun to cover the post, tacked and pinned or stuffed into cracks. One small corner of a newspaper held the message “Looking for Robert Morris.” Another read “A.D.—I’m fine—M.T.” One heart-wrenching note read “Josiah Edwards born Tuesday morning.” Nora hadn’t even thought about the fact that babies were still arriving. It was cheering to know life went on, but what sort of anguish gripped a mother bringing a precious new life into the wake of catastrophe?
Quinn noticed her eyes on the announcement and nodded at her. “I saw little Josiah yesterday morning. Fine and healthy and hungry as any baby ever was. He’s hurting for a few necessities, but I gather he’ll make out just fine.”
Nora thought of all the soft, clean pampering that surrounded the last baby she’d seen. Babies should never know hardship—it was just wrong. “What’s he missing?”
Adjusting his hat, Quinn pursed his lips in thought. “The usual things—diapers, cloths, jumpers and such. Soap, too, I suppose.” Getting an idea, he began to walk around the post, one hand roaming over the fluttering papers. “Oh, here’s one. ‘Baby arrived. Need sheets, shirts, cloths and pins.’ You know, that sort of thing. Ma found a clean pillowcase they cut down for Josiah to wear and a pair of little socks from a doll somewhere, so things find their way.”
Nora began to look all over the post now, scanning for any requests like the baby’s. There were half a dozen, maybe more, and the post had only been up one day. “I want to write these down, like I did the others. Surely we can find some of these things.”
“Could you make me a copy, like you did before?”
“Of course I could. Do you have any ideas where we might find some of this?” The “we” had slipped out of her mouth unawares.
“I’ve a few thoughts,” he replied. His eyes glowed again, and Nora felt surely Papa would storm across the street this very second and plant her back on the cart.
“Let me get a page from Papa’s ledger,” she said, needing to turn away from the way Quinn smiled at her, trying to wipe the smile from her own face as well.
Nora could barely keep her eyes on the page as she copied down the posted needs Quinn read out. There was an enthralling partnership in this, as though she were grafting herself into something far bigger than her own tiny problems. Here was something—something concrete and important—that she could do. The first list had been just a product of her being in the same tent as Sam and Mrs. Freeman. This felt more deliberate. Help me, Lord, she prayed as she worked the pencil and paper. I’ll move Heaven and earth to get these things to these people.
Her plan hadn’t worked. Quinn knew just by the set of her shoulders when the cart pulled into sight a day or so later. He’d feared as much, suspected that Nora Longstreet hadn’t yet realized just how hard supplies still were to come by. And while a huge chunk of him wanted her to wheel in here victorious, his practical side knew she had always stood a far bigger chance of wheeling in here sad and frustrated.
She was even prettier when she pouted. Her delicate frown whipped up something fierce inside him, some heroic urge to see her smile again and to do whatever it took to produce that smile. She didn’t know he had the means to do it. She didn’t know how much he’d stared at his hand yesterday, trying to recall the softness of her palm and the distractingly soapy scent that seemed to float around her.
She didn’t know her father was standing over her shoulder looking straight at Quinn, as if to say there’d be no wandering across the street today. That was fine—Quinn had another strategy to restore Nora’s smile, and that strategy was currently tugging impatiently on his good arm. He didn’t mind at all that Sam wouldn’t take no for an answer in coming to see Nora.
The moment Quinn finally let go of his hand, Sam scr
ambled across the street and up onto the cart to give Nora an enthusiastic hug. Her laugh at Sam’s exuberant, nearly tackling welcome made Quinn smile. Those two were a pair from the first moment.
He stayed back while Nora went through her usual business with the mail, which was hampered by Sam for most of her visit. Sam had obviously declared himself her assistant, and Quinn couldn’t help but laugh as Sam’s “assistance” made Nora’s tasks that much more complicated. Every once in a while she would look up, catching Quinn’s eye. Even at this distance—as they had at the rally not so long ago—her eyes could dazzle him. He could tell she was disappointed at not being able to provide the items they’d listed. He admired how important helping out had become to her, mostly because he shared the same urgency.
When her mail was dutifully received and Sam had been thanked, rethanked and thanked again for his “invaluable assistance,” Nora tugged a small box from the back of the cart and then handed it to Sam while she climbed down. Quinn wanted to sprint over there and help her down again, if only to buy himself the fraction of a second it gave him to hold her soft hand, but he decided restraint was the better choice. No one used to say restraint was a characteristic of Quinn Freeman, but maybe the stinging cut on his right forearm was sinking the virtues of discretion into his thick skull.
After producing a piece of licorice for Sam from her pocket, Nora waved Quinn over. He forced himself to walk casually to the cart.
“Here. It isn’t much, I’m afraid.” She held out the box to him with a handful of bandage rolls and half a dozen dish towels inside. “I think the dish towels will make fine diapers if they’re cut in half.”
“Don’t say it’s not much,” Quinn replied to the frustration in her voice. He took the box from her, resisting the urge to find a way to make sure their hands touched when he did. “Every bit helps out here. You’re doing so much already. Josiah’s ma will be thrilled.”
The wind stole a lock of hair out from underneath her hat, and she reached up to push it back off her face. “There’s just so much to do.”
“Reverend Bauers says all we can really do is the bit God puts in front of us. With all he faces, I think he might know a thing or two about big problems.”
“The post has twice as many messages as yesterday,” she assessed, squinting across the street. “It was such a splendid idea. You really should be proud of yourself.”
Quinn shrugged, hiding his pleasure at how obviously she wanted to go over and inspect his creation. “I just copied the fountain. Anyone could have done it.”
Her eyes told him she thought otherwise, and he liked that very much.
She stared harder. “The post looks nearly full.”
“And I need to talk to you about that.” Quinn leaned in as close as propriety would allow. “I know someone. If we could write all these down, I could get the list to him and he might…help out.”
“Someone? Who can find these things?” Her eyes grew wide, and he feared he’d blurt out his secret any second.
“Could be. A bit early to tell, but it’s worth trying.”
“Really? How wonderful.”
“We’ll have to be quiet about it. Careful. Things might get out of hand otherwise, there being so much need and all. Will you help?”
He had expected her to hesitate, to worry about the clandestine nature of it all. She didn’t. “Absolutely,” she said, taking in a breath. “How could I not?” Looking over her shoulder at her father, who was thankfully otherwise occupied, Nora asked, “But why do you need me?”
He hadn’t thought about that. He’d just wanted to make sure she was involved. With clever moment’s inspiration, he held up the bandaged right arm. “Hurts still. Besides, you’ve got more access to decent paper than I do.” He’d thank Major Simon at tomorrow’s lesson. Maybe.
“Oh, of course. I should make two copies again, like we did with your mother. That way I can look while your…friend…does his own looking.” Resolutely, she brushed off her skirts and nodded back toward the mail cart. “I’ll just go fetch another piece of Papa’s ledger. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“You mind your pa, now. Don’t give him any reason to decide it’s not wise for you to be coming here anymore.” Quinn didn’t even want to think about how he’d endure the days if two o’clock didn’t mean seeing Miss Nora Longstreet anymore.
“I’ll mind.” Her smile was as warm as sunshine. He had a partner. Actually, if Major Simon and Reverend Bauers counted, he had a tiny army. Quinn felt like he could take on the world if God asked him to do so.
Quinn felt himself grinning like a fool the entire time Nora ventured across the street and wrote down items from the post. She slipped him a conspiratorial smile as she climbed back aboard the mail cart and handed him his copy of the list. “Do you really think this will work?”
“No harm trying. Oh, by the way, I’m meeting with Revered Bauers to set up that tour you asked for.”
“That’s wonderful. I think Mrs. Hastings could be a grand patroness if she chose. And I imagine Reverend Bauers can be most persuasive. I do hope it will be all right with them that I come along.”
Quinn wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter Eight
As it turned out, Reverend Bauers was already familiar both with the Longstreets and the Hastingses, and it took little convincing to arrange a tour. The hardest part about it turned out to be accommodating Mrs. Hastings’s packed social schedule and her limited visits to town. How anyone managed to do so much socializing in the wake of an earthquake, Quinn didn’t know. That world was as foreign to him as the hatch-mark signs that used to hang in the Chinese quarter of town. And while Ma raised an eyebrow when Quinn asked if there was anything close to a clean, pressed shirt in the camp, she’d long learned to expect strange things from Quinn’s association with Grace House. She’d only looked at him for a quizzical second when she handed him a surprisingly tidy shirt on the appointed day.
“There simply isn’t enough space,” Reverend Bauers said as he pointed the tiny tour group down the hallway. “With the camp right next to us in Dolores Park, the needs have been enormous. The army is doing a commendable job with the official camp, of course, but I think we can all see how much more help is still needed. He pointed to a row of long, narrow tables that now filled what used to be the front parlor. “We already feed sixty or so at a time at these standing tables. With a little help, we might be able to add benches, but that seems a long way off for now.”
“Gracious,” said Mrs. Hastings, gripping the hankie that had been her constant companion for the visit. “Eating standing?”
“When one is thankful to eat at all, sitting or standing hardly seems to matter,” replied Reverend Bauers.
“It is an amazing thing,” Nora said as they walked down the hallway. “You’d think feeding all those people would be chaos. But it seems quite orderly. People seem grateful and very kind.”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Hastings said, “that might depend on your definition of order. And they certainly ought to be grateful. Free hot meals.” Her phrases were kind, her tone was not. Quinn bit back the retort he would have liked to offer.
Surprisingly, Nora stepped in where he’d been silent. “I think they’d much rather be paying customers, earning their own keep,” she said. “They’re no happier to be out of their homes and out of their jobs than Mama and Papa would be. They weren’t even given tents like at the other camps. That’s hardly their fault. Everyone has suffered.”
Quinn wondered if Nora was as aware of Mrs. Hastings’s expression as he was. The woman bore a look Quinn had come to recognize over the time since the earthquake. The unspoken theory that folks had brought the earthquake down upon themselves. It made no sense, of course, for the Grace House kitchen fell down just as fast as a brothel kitchen half a mile away. Reverend Bauers said those society types had “hoarded their grace and left none for anyone else,” and looking at the sharp angle of Mrs. Hastings’s eyebrows as she surveye
d the Grace House pantries, Quinn thought the description fit. He was trying not to judge, but it was mighty hard.
Reverend Bauers pointed to the near-empty pantry shelves. “Our need is great, as you can see. Even the staples are hard to come by.”
“But I hear food and goods are pouring in from all over the country. They tell us the camps are in fine shape. Money has been donated,” Mrs. Hastings argued.
“The official camps are indeed doing well, and it gladdens my heart to see it. But too many are struggling in places like Dolores Park, and we can’t turn our backs on those souls. Distribution to those in need is still nowhere near fast enough.”
Yet, Quinn’s mind silently added. He had Nora’s second list from the message post, and he had an appointment with Major Simon late this afternoon.
“Things have been finding their way, Mrs. Hastings,” Nora offered. “Just this week I learned of some medical supplies finding their way into Dolores Park to help a little boy. Little miracles happen every day as people help each other out.” She turned her smile full force to the woman, and Quinn felt a twinge of ridiculous hope that her charming smile would one day be turned to him. “Can you see the good a woman of your compassion and influence might be able to achieve? I just know you could work wonders.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the piece of her father’s ledger. “There’s a post in Dolores Park. People have been tacking up requests on it, and I’ve copied them down.” She handed Mrs. Hastings the list. “See? It’s nothing so hard to get. Everyday things.”
“I’m flattered you hold me in such high regard, Miss Longstreet. And ladies have been shredding petticoats into bandages since the first day. I’m not at all convinced there’s that much to go around. And Dolores Park is…” The woman stopped short of the remark she was obviously thinking.
Nora simply stood in front of the lady, hands folded, silent. Quinn, trying not to get his back up over Mrs. Hastings’s judgmental attitude, would have handed Nora the shirt off that very back were she to turn that look on him.
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