Patrick looked back at Daniels, who seemed to be gauging his reaction. Patrick gave a casual nod. “Seems efficient.”
Daniels smiled and nodded. “It is.”
He led Patrick back out and relocked the door before heading back upstairs. Once there, Daniels took Patrick to the bar and introduced him to the barkeeper.
“This is Nelson. He keeps the bar most of the time, and when he’s not able, his brother Albert takes over.”
Patrick nodded. “Name’s Murdock. Patrick Murdock.”
“Say, not that fella who was on trial for murder here a while back.”
Patrick hadn’t expected this but hid his surprise. “The same.”
Daniels seemed to look at him with new respect. “Murder, eh? Must have had a good lawyer to get you out of that trouble.”
“He had good friends,” Patrick replied in a knowing way.
The two men nodded in understanding. “It helps to have friends,” Daniels replied. “Could be we have mutual friends.”
“Could be. But if ye don’t mind, I’ll be takin’ my leave,” Patrick said, noting the time.
Daniels nodded, though Nelson looked surprised. Patrick offered no explanation but turned and headed for the door.
At the end of the bar, a man was beginning to get familiar with one of the pretty waiter girls. When he reached out, she quickly jumped back, causing the man to rip open the front of her flimsy dress.
“Look what you did! You’re going to pay for that,” she said.
“Hardly,” the young man replied, staggering to his feet. “Come on now and give me a kiss.”
Patrick saw this as the perfect opportunity to solidify his position with Daniels. Just as the man tried once more to kiss the girl, Patrick grabbed him by the collar and drew him up close.
“You’re causin’ a bit o’ trouble, mister. I’m thinkin’ ye might want to reconsider your situation. Now why don’t ye pay the young lady for the damages ye caused and be gone?”
“Get away from me, you mick.”
The boy, barely a man, pushed back and broke Patrick’s hold. He came at Patrick with his fists doubled and took a swing. Patrick clamped his hand over the drunken man’s fist with his right hand and belted him in the gut with his left. The hit left the boy gasping and staggering.
“Pay the young lady.”
The young man fished a bill from his coat pocket and threw it on the bar. The girl quickly grabbed it.
Patrick dragged the boy to the door. He turned him toward the street, then gave him a swift kick out. He glanced back at Daniels to gauge his response.
The surprised look faded from the owner’s face as he roared with laughter. “I think you’ll do just fine,” he said.
Patrick yawned as he let himself into the apartment. He had turned to lock the door when he heard Ophelia’s weak voice.
“Paddy?”
“’Tis me.” He went into the bedroom and smiled at his sister. “What can I be doin’ for ye?”
“Come sit,” she barely whispered. He started for the chair, but she touched the side of the bed. “No. Sit here . . . with me.”
Patrick did as she asked, but there was hardly room on the narrow mattress despite Ophelia’s tiny form. He took her hand.
She strained to breath. “Won’t be . . . long now.”
He quickly realized what she meant and frowned. “I can send for the doctor.”
“No. He cannot help.”
Patrick felt his throat tighten. “Can I?”
She nodded. “Hold my hand.”
“I can do better than that.” He turned and pulled her into his arms, cradling her like he had when she was much younger. His father had done the same when his mother was dying.
Ophelia gave a weak smile. “I don’t want . . . ye . . . to fret. Ye know . . . I’m goin’ to a . . . better place.”
“I do, but I’ll be missin’ yer company.”
She nodded. “Don’t forget.” She drew in a raspy, shallow breath.
“Forget what?”
“Make yer . . . yer peace with God.”
“I’ve been workin’ on it.” The words stuck in his throat.
Ophelia’s face tensed in pain. She closed her eyes and panted. Patrick had never felt more helpless. He wished he could do something to alleviate her misery, but he knew the end would come soon enough.
They sat in the stillness of the night saying nothing for the longest time. Patrick’s back was starting to ache, but he didn’t move a muscle. He had no desire to disturb Ophelia in her final minutes or hours. However much time it took, Patrick would sit here and hold her.
Eventually Ophelia whispered, “I love ye so.”
“And I love ye more than life itself.” His voice broke. “I wish ye wouldn’t leave me alone. Ye’re the last of my family.”
Her lips gave the slightest upturn as she opened her eyes. “Make a new one—with Camri.”
Her words took him by surprise. “So now ye’re matchmakin’?” At least it helped him to push back his sorrow for just a moment.
She tried to lift her hand to his face but failed. “Ye need her. She needs ye too.” She moaned and pressed her hand to her stomach. “It’s . . . not . . . good.”
“What’s not good?”
“To be alone.” She closed her eyes. Her chest barely rose as she struggled to breathe her final breaths.
Patrick knew there was nothing to be done, so he just held her and prayed for her release. As much as he wanted to keep her with him, he couldn’t bear to think of her in such terrible pain. The minutes ticked by, and neither one said anything. Patrick could feel her slipping away with each shallow breath. She was really going to leave him—just like Ma had left them years before. Just like their da.
He kissed Ophelia’s forehead. His voice was barely a whisper. “I remember when ye were just born. Ye were small, but ye had a set of lungs on ye. Screeched like a banshee, ye did. Ma called me to come see ye and put ye in me arms. Ye opened yer eyes and looked at me like ye had somethin’ to say.”
He smiled at the memory. “I fell in love with ye from the start, even though I was but a lad. Ye were always followin’ me around, askin’ me questions and demandin’ I take ye with me.” Patrick’s vision blurred from tears. “I wish ye could take me with yerself just now. This world won’t be half as nice without ye here to cheer me on.”
She didn’t reply or even move. Patrick wasn’t completely certain she was still breathing. He pulled her closer and rocked her back and forth as he’d done when she was a baby.
“Ye can go on with yerself. Go on to Ma and Da. I give ye leave.”
It was as if she’d just been waiting for permission. She drew one more breath and then nothing more. Patrick felt the stillness of her small body and knew her soul had departed.
He buried his head against her hair and wept. He cried for the loss of her life, for the loss of his father and mother, and even for the distance he’d allowed to come between himself and God. Once the tears began, Patrick wasn’t at all certain he could ever stop them again.
CHAPTER
18
Patrick had never felt more alone in his life than the day he buried Ophelia. It was a rushed burial without fanfare. There’d been no money for anything more than a gathering of neighbors and the local priest. Thankfully, their father had purchased four burial plots when their mother died. Now all but one were filled.
He stood by the grave, staring at the mounded dirt that he’d helped shovel into place. Ophelia had been such a light in their life. Their father had often called her his little sunbeam. Patrick had thought it quite appropriate.
“But now our light is gone,” he murmured.
A chilled wind left him with little desire to remain at the cemetery. Daniels had heard about the death and funeral. He sent Patrick a bottle of whiskey and a note telling Patrick not to report for work until the following evening. It was strangely generous for a man who had a reputation as a ruthless shanghai agent a
nd brothel keeper.
Patrick stuffed his hands into his empty pockets and walked the short distance home. He knew the apartment would seem dark and empty, but he had nowhere else to go. For a moment Camri came to mind, but he pushed the thought aside. She’d be working today, and there was no sense in going to Caleb’s house.
He glanced heavenward. It seemed most everyone he held dear was up there now. Or wherever God had put paradise. He’d heard so many arguments about life after death, and it seemed everyone had a different opinion. He thought again of his mother.
“Paddy, I can’t know for sure exactly how God has everything arranged and planned out. Folks who spend their time worryin’ about such details are missin’ the point. Where God is takin’ us isn’t nearly as important as how we get there. Jesus said in the book o’ John that He’s the only way.”
The wind whipped up, and Patrick pulled his coat collar tighter and picked up his pace. He believed what his mother had told him. He’d learned all about God at his mother’s knee. The trouble was, he didn’t understand how God could be loving and still allow all that had happened to his family. Maybe it didn’t matter if he understood. Maybe these trials were simply a part of life rather than an indicator of God’s character. He sighed and wondered if he’d ever really know God as Ma and Ophelia had.
At home, he lit the stove and put on the kettle for tea. While the water heated, he went to the chest at the foot of Ophelia’s bed. In it were all the possessions she’d managed to keep after they’d been evicted from their home. He’d promised her he’d go through it once she was buried, and there was no reason to put it off.
He opened the chest, and right on top he found a letter addressed to him. He set it aside and picked up the next thing, her Bible. It was tattered and torn—a hand-me-down from their grandmother. It was one of the few things their mother had brought from Ireland. Beneath the Bible were a variety of things. There were a couple of dolls, one a simple cloth creation their mother had made, the other a fine china doll dressed in blue silk that Da had given Ophelia just after their mother died. He’d told her how Ma had always longed for such a doll when she was a small girl. He hoped having it would remind Ophelia of her mother. It did, but not nearly as much as the old rag doll.
There were a few other trinkets. Little bits of the past that Ophelia had managed to keep when everything else was taken. He lifted several pieces of fancy work that Ophelia had sewn. Years after their mother died, the neighborhood ladies, at least those who didn’t mind her Irish heritage, had invited Ophelia to come to their homes for teas and sewing circles. They encouraged Ophelia to set up a hope chest and fill it with all the things she’d one day need as a bride. When their father had heard about this, he fashioned a chest for her. The very one Patrick was looking through now.
It wasn’t all that long, however, before Ophelia learned she was sick. After that she seemed less inclined to worry about fancy work and instead made things for Patrick and their da. She had told Patrick that she wanted to keep her eyes on the here and now rather than on a future that would never be hers.
Tears came to his eyes. “But it should have been yers, Ophie.”
He hadn’t called her by her childhood nickname since their mother passed on. It was at Ophelia’s request that he’d stopped. She had told him nicknames were for children, and now she was going to be a grown-up and take care of her mother’s household. No amount of reasoning with her could change her mind.
Ophelia could be just as stubborn as their mother. Just as stubborn as . . . Camri’s image came to mind, and even though tears slid down his cheeks, a smile came to his lips. Ophelia had liked Camri very much—just as he did.
Ignoring the other things in the chest, Patrick took the letter and Bible with him to the front room and sat down at the small table. He placed both in front of him, then lit a lamp. He hesitated only a moment, then unfolded the letter.
Paddy,
If you’re reading this, then I’ve gone on and you’re alone. I hate to think of you sitting in the apartment, mourning me. We both knew this day would come, and you know deep in your heart that I’m in a better place. Still, I know you feel the emptiness, just as we both felt it when Ma and Da left this world.
I have only two requests of you. The first is simple. I want you to give Granny’s Bible to Camri. I know she loves God with all her heart, and though we just met, I’ve found a kindred spirit in her. She cares about you, Paddy. More than I think she’s allowed herself to admit. She’s a stubborn one, just like you.
“Like me, indeed. ’Tis yerself she favors,” Patrick mused aloud.
I know you care deeply for her, and I believe you belong together. Don’t let pride or supposed walls come between you. I believe God has brought you two together for more than just finding her brother. Don’t let love slip away without putting up a fight, Paddy. You and Camri belong together.
He reread the last two sentences, shaking his head. Ophelia was such a romantic, but she had no idea of the very real wall that stood between Patrick and Camri. Most of that wall had been put into place by others—people who insisted the Irish were lower than dirt. People—supposedly good people—who felt it important to keep social classes separated lest one be tainted by another. What Ophelia suggested would take more strength than he had to give.
Don’t mourn too long, Paddy. You once told me after Ma had gone that she wouldn’t want me to be sad because her release was one of joy. ’Tis the same for me. The pain I’ve felt has been far worse than I’ve let on, because I didn’t want you fretting or working yourself to death to find relief for me. I only mention it now because I want you to know that my release—my freedom from this body and the pain—is most welcome. I’m truly happy to be going home . . . except for leaving you. That’s why I hope you’ll heed my suggestion and put aside your silly ideas that you don’t deserve Camri or that she won’t have you. I feel confident she will.
Remember that I love you, that I will always love you, but Paddy, God loves you even more. He’s there for you now—just as He’s always been. He’s just waiting for you to come home. And that’s my second request. Get out of the pigsty and come home to the Father who’s waiting.
Ophelia
He read the letter over and over until the whistling teakettle drew his attention. He folded the letter and put it in his coat pocket, then made himself a cup of tea. He took his mug back to the table and sat there for a long while, looking at his granny’s Bible. His sister’s romantic notions were farfetched. Camri was a woman of independent means. Not just money, but of intellect and fortitude. She had no need of a poor Irishman’s love.
On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore Ophelia’s heart for him to make things right with God.
Patrick rested his elbows on the table, then hid his face in his hands. The sadness and loneliness threatened to overwhelm him. It seemed he stood at a crossroads. Caleb had told him this day would come—this moment in time when Patrick could no longer ignore what he knew to be the truth.
I’m a dirty rotten sinner, Lord. Ye know that better than anyone. My heart is shattered in a million pieces, but if there be even one piece worth Yer trouble . . . then I give it to Ye. Forgive me, I beg Ye now. Forgive my arrogance and pride. Forgive my doubt and my anger. I’ve nothin’ left, Lord. I’m an empty man who wants to come home.
Camri climbed down from the delivery wagon once again. Earlier that day, George Lake had been completely beside himself. A dozen deliveries to some of the wealthier households in San Francisco needed to be made, and he had no one who could take them. The regular deliveryman was already taxed beyond his ability with deliveries to multiple stores around town. Poor Mr. Lake might have gone himself, but he didn’t trust the others to be able to take care of the factory should anything break down.
Camri had volunteered to make the deliveries if Mr. Lake would be so good as to loan her his carriage. She assured him she could drive a team quite capably and was able to find her way around the city
. Seeing he had no other choice, the little man agreed.
Camri hoisted down a heavy crate of Lake Chocolates. Mr. Lake had been kind enough to put the boxes of chocolates into smaller crates that Camri could manage. They couldn’t count on the household staff to help unload the deliveries, Mr. Lake had explained, so this was the best solution.
“Well, this is the last of it.”
She counted the boxes in the crate, then checked the number against the order list she’d been given. Twenty boxes had been ordered, and twenty boxes were ready for delivery. She tucked the list in her pocket and hoisted the crate in her aching arms.
She made her way to the delivery entrance of the lavish Victorian mansion belonging to Rudolph Spreckels. She’d learned on her first stop that even the kindest of butlers had no tolerance for deliveries being brought to the front door. Camri had never thought about such things. She’d always been on the receiving end of deliveries, and only then after the household staff had seen to them first. More surprising was the snobbery and intolerance among many of those who worked in the nicer households. There was an obvious ranking of importance among the servants, and most of them treated her as if she were far beneath them—a lowly delivery girl.
It was something she hadn’t expected. Her world had been filled with fashionable and well-educated people before coming to San Francisco. However, she had always congratulated herself on her knowledge of the workingman’s plight and believed herself quite understanding of the poorer populace. Her mother had taught her that even the lowliest servant still deserved her respect. The servants in their house were paid well and treated as valued employees rather than lowly laborers. They were encouraged to attend school and better themselves. Her father had even financed the education of two of their staff. If there was a hierarchy and such attitudes of disdain among those who worked for her parents, Camri hadn’t experienced it.
She carried the crate to the back door and then shifted it awkwardly in her arms in order to ring the bell. A uniformed woman quickly opened the door. She looked at the crate in Camri’s arms, and only after this did she look at Camri.
In Places Hidden Page 16
