“Hey, Kiddo!” Hunter had said, giving me a kiss on the cheek. I’d managed to find us a private table in the back, out of earshot from the other bar patrons. Then noticing my obvious discomfort, Hunter had asked, “What’s wrong?”
Like ripping off a bandage, I’d let my words loose in one swoop. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?” he’d asked.
I’d taken a deep breath, readying myself, but then Hunter’s phone had jingled its ringtone. He’d reached for it. “It’s my dad. I’ll call him back.”
“No,” I’d said, eager for an extra moment before I changed everything between us. “Take it. Honestly.”
He’d glanced at the screen. “Okay. I’ll be quick.” He’d pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, I’m out to dinner with Sarah . . . Okay, go ahead.” Hunter’s smile had faded slowly. “Fired him? But why?” He’d listened solemnly for several seconds, and then exhaled. “Wow. Yeah, I understand. No, Dad—it’s fine, you did the right thing.” Holding up his finger to let me know he’d be another moment, Hunter had frowned. “I agree. We’ll look for someone else. Bye, Dad.”
“Everything all right?” I’d asked when he’d hung up the phone.
Hunter’s thick brows had drawn together. “Yeah. It’s just, remember my friend Andy, the guy I used to work with at my father’s firm?”
“Vaguely.”
“HR had been doing a routine background check, and my dad found out he has a criminal record. Andy was arrested twice for DUI and twice for reckless driving.” Hunter shook his head. “He could have killed somebody!”
I’d felt cemented to my chair. “So your dad . . . fired him?”
Hunter had nodded. “Tough decision, of course. Andy was one of our best analysts. But it was the right one. We can’t have people like that associated with our business. It looks bad for our family, and we have a reputation to uphold.”
The open-air patio had felt too crowded. I’d felt like all eyes in the beer garden had suddenly focused on me, on my scar.
“Sarah?” Hunter had asked, placing his hand over mine. “You okay? What was it you wanted to talk with me about?”
“Oh. I—” My mind had raced. Before I could stop myself, I’d blurted out the three little words we hadn’t yet spoken. “I love you.”
The silence had seemed to stretch for an eternity. My cheeks had burned like they were on fire. Of all the things I could have said!
But Hunter had smiled. “I love you too, Sarah. I didn’t think the first time we’d say it to each other would be sitting here at Zeitgeist.” He’d leaned forward and whispered, “That scary biker guy in the corner might have heard us.”
I’d laughed. And then Hunter had reached across the table and kissed me. Selfishly, I’d given in—too blissfully happy to ruin the moment.
Hearing a loud clack, I jumped, the memory of Hunter popping like a bubble. Someone had knocked over a pitcher of beer.
“Oh, sorry!” the girl shrieked as it sloshed across the communal table, seeping through the cracks in the wood and soaking my jeans.
“Party foul!” a tattooed guy yelled.
She hiccupped and started laughing. “I’m so sorry, guys! I’m wasted.”
I stood up and wiped my hands on a napkin, the cold wind harsh against the damp fabric of my jeans. I should have told Hunter that night, and now it was too late.
“Let’s get some paper towels,” Jen said, standing up. I followed her to the bathroom. We pulled a wad of paper from the dispenser, and I dabbed at my jeans.
“Poor girl,” I said. “She looks like she’s about to throw up.”
Jen raised an eyebrow. “You’re too nice. I wanted to smack her.”
I smiled. “But weren’t we all like that when we were twenty-one?”
Jen’s phone buzzed with a text. She squealed. “Oh my God! It’s Mark!”
I looked at her blankly.
“You know,” she said, scoffing. “The guy who works at Twitter.”
“Twitter?” I asked, shaking my head. “Last time we talked, you wanted me to meet someone from Tinder. Besides, I thought you hated Twitter!”
Jen shoved me playfully. “Tinder guy is old news. I really like Mark. I know you’re thinking I’m a giant hypocrite. But he’s not your average tech scum. He works there because he has to pay off his student loans, but he’s also a musician.”
“So are you guys going on a date tonight?” I asked.
She shrugged. “He wants me to hang out with his friends over at Maggie McGarry’s. I don’t think that counts as a date.”
“In North Beach?”
Jen grabbed my hand. “Please come with me? I’ll look pathetic if I show up alone.”
“So now it’s a pub crawl?” I asked, wondering when the hell I was going to get my research done. “It’s a Wednesday.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “Thirty is not dead. Don’t you dare pull the old-lady card. I won’t let you.”
“Just wait until it’s your turn,” I said, giving her a knowing smile. “Suddenly all you’ll want to do is wake up at dawn to drink a latte without a headache.”
“Whatever. I’m getting an Uber right now to come pick us up.”
“Jen, I really think I should—”
She brought her finger to her lips. “Uber will be here in five minutes. I already typed in the request.”
Inside a rowdy, dark pub, overgrown frat boys threw back pitchers like they were filled with water. Jen’s date, Mark, cocked his head toward the guys at the end of the bar.
“I don’t know about you ladies,” he said, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up his nose. “But this isn’t really my scene. I heard they have a great live blues band tonight down the street at the Tavern. You want to go?”
“I love blues,” Jen said. Mark had no idea that Jen’s music library had more Britney Spears than B. B. King. She shot Nick and me a warning look. “Let’s go.”
I followed Jen, Nick, and Mark into the street. Girls in vintage coats took drags from their cigarettes, the tips burning bright in the dark alley. Looking up at the Tavern, I felt a shiver work its way down my spine. Maybe the apartment building above the bar really had been a brothel back in the Victorian era.
“I’ll stay out with you guys for a bit longer,” I said. “But then I’m taking the bus home. I’m getting tired.”
Nick raised his eyebrows. “The bus? Girl, you can afford to Uber.”
Jen shook her head. “I don’t get why you don’t just buy a car.”
I drew in a sharp breath. When I finally got behind the wheel again after reinstating my suspended license, I’d hallucinate images on the roadway and pull over shaking with fear. I hadn’t driven in over ten years. “Too much of a hassle.”
“Sarah,” Jen said, looping her arm through mine, “Nick wants me to invite Mark to see Peaches Christ, because he thinks Mark will say no to a drag show.”
“And this proves?” I asked.
Nick dropped his voice to a whisper, nodding at Mark, who was ten paces ahead of us. “That this Twitter guy Jen’s dating is probably another tech asshole, the scum taking over our beloved city. Why not show him some real San Francisco culture?”
“Oh, shut up,” Jen said, shoving Nick. “Mark is nice. He’s not like that.”
“Whatever,” Nick said. “Maybe if he made more of an effort to talk to me I would like him, but I think you can do better.” His phone beeped with a text and he grinned. “Sorry, ladies,” he said, turning to us, “but there’s this guy I’m seeing and he wants me to come meet him at a party in the Mission.”
“You’re leaving us?” Jen said.
Nick nodded. “I really like him. Text me later if you want to come too.”
“Okay,” I said, waving good-bye to Nick. “Be safe.”
I showed my ID to the bouncer, making my way into the dark room. A band jammed onstage, sweating through their shirts as the trumpet wailed and bass thrummed. People bumped against me, jostlin
g for space at the bar.
“I’ll grab us a beer,” Jen said.
“Let me pay for it,” Mark answered. “PBR okay with you guys?”
I nodded. “That’s great, thanks.”
At the end of the bar, a middle-aged man, who was tall and thin with short, dark hair, drummed his hands on the wood to the beat. A chubby guy wearing a beret smiled and clapped him on the back. “Ed, my man! How’s it hanging?”
“Good,” Ed said, shaking his hand.
“Hey, Jen,” I said, moving closer. “I think this guy might be the owner. I’m going to go talk to him.”
“What?” she yelled, over the music.
“Never mind!” Pushing through the sweaty bodies, I tapped Ed on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Are you Edward Kim, owner of this bar?”
He gave me a hearty handshake. “Yep. Call me Ed.”
I smiled. “Ed. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. My name’s Sarah Havensworth. I left you a message about a story I’m working on.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding as if he remembered. “Sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. Things around here get a little crazy.”
I struggled to make my voice heard over the music. “Listen. How about coffee tomorrow? Do you have time?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “You know Caffé Sapore?”
“The one on Lombard? I sure do.”
“I’ll make you a deal. You buy me breakfast, I’ll meet you there at eleven.”
I smiled. “Consider it done.”
More of Ed’s friends crowded around, seeking his attention. I slipped back to my table against the wall, where Jen handed me a cold glass of PBR.
“Who’s the old guy?” she asked.
“The owner.” I took a swig of beer, then set the glass down. “I’m glad we ran into him. I’m working on a story about two missing seamstresses who disappeared in 1876.”
“Cool!” Jen said. “But I’m confused. Aren’t you working on a novel for your thesis project?”
“I was,” I said. “But I’m changing my focus to narrative nonfiction.”
“Ha!” she said, smiling at me. “You’re still a journalist after all.”
As I tapped my feet in time to the music, I thought about how right Jen was. For some reason, I’d always dreamed of writing a novel. But maybe it wasn’t what I was meant to do, especially if it didn’t come naturally to me. I would never be the next great American author. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t write a great story.
Sitting at my writing desk with a mild headache, I frowned at my wedding picture. I hadn’t slept well last night. When I’d gotten in at eleven-thirty, Hunter had slung his arms around me, nuzzling my neck in the darkness. I’d closed my eyes, feeling his hardness pressed against me, then I’d guided his hand between my legs.
“You know,” he’d whispered. “Maybe you could go off birth control.”
And just like that, my body had seized, my muscles turning rock solid. When he’d tried to comfort me, I’d pushed him away.
“Hey,” Hunter had said, stroking my hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I know you’re not ready yet. But you will be, right? Never mind. We don’t even have to talk about it right now. Let’s get back to kissing.”
But the mood had been lost. Feeling the muscles of his strong back and smelling the familiar piney scent of his skin and aftershave, I couldn’t. He’d sighed as I’d rolled off him, mumbling an apology. And then I’d curled up in the fetal position feigning sleep, tears pricking my eyes. I would have to tell him what happened. My secret was going to catch up with me eventually. And then everything would fall apart.
My phone buzzed with a text, jarring me from my memories.
Feel like shit. You were smart to go home early.
I smiled, my fingers tapping the phone keyboard.
Told you so! Thirty is coming for you, Jen. ☺ Drink lots of water. Coffee will only make you feel worse. Trust me on this one.
My phone buzzed again. Thank you for coming out. It was great to see you. PS. Mark is a really good kisser!
I chuckled, turning back to my computer screen. In spite of feeling slightly groggy, I was glad I’d gone out with my friends. So much of what Jen had spoken to me about really resonated with me. I’d left the magazine because I’d sensed the new editor in chief would be the type to care more about Jack Dorsey and start-ups with Series C funding than artists, laborers, and educators.
And now I had the freedom to write my own story, about two working-class women who vanished from San Francisco’s gritty streets a hundred and forty years ago.
I glanced at the clock. It was ten-thirty, and the walk to Caffé Sapore in North Beach would be a welcome escape from my apartment, where the rumpled bedsheets served as a painful reminder of the gift I could never give Hunter.
Inside Caffé Sapore, the smell of coffee beans filled the air. Speaking to one another in French, tourists sipped their espressos. I looked up as Ed entered the café, beckoning him over to my table with a wave.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I said, gesturing to the menu above the espresso bar. “Anything you want. It’s on me.”
Ed settled into his chair. “That ham-and-egg bagel looks good, and I’ll take a black coffee.”
“Great,” I said, standing up. “I’ll place your order.”
Back at our table, I leaned forward on my elbows, notebook at the ready. “So tell me, Ed, how did you come into ownership of the Tavern?”
“My father bought the place back in the 1980s. It had fallen into disrepair, but I think he saw its potential.” He paused to sip his coffee, and then set the mug down. “It’s part of our neighborhood. I grew up in Chinatown on Grant Avenue. My father still calls the street ‘Du Pon Gai.’ He wanted to preserve a piece of San Francisco history.”
I scribbled as much as I could on my notepad. “That’s really cool. Who did your father buy the bar from?”
Ed rubbed his chin. “The Heinrichs. The great-great-great-grandfather, George Heinrich, opened it in 1860 and got one of the city’s first liquor permits. It stayed in the family for generations, but eventually they didn’t want the burden of it anymore.”
I wrote down the name George Heinrich. “And do you stay in touch with any of them?”
“Oh yes.” He smiled. “Anna Heinrich. She lives up in Sacramento, but sometimes she comes into the city to hear the bands jam.”
“Are the blues bands your addition?” I asked, holding my latte.
He laughed. “No, that was my wife’s idea. She convinced me to turn the bar into a live music venue, because she’s a big fan of blues. I decided to do just that, while maintaining the integrity of the old Tavern.”
I nodded, tapping my pen. “The photographs on the wall, some of them date back to the 1870s. How did you end up with that collection?”
Ed took a bite of his bagel. I waited for him to swallow. “Funny you mention them,” Ed said. “They don’t really fit the vibe of the bar, but they were always a part of it. When I was a kid they kinda freaked me out. It was like looking at pictures of ghosts.”
“So your father put them up?” I asked.
“He found them in a box in the back room when he was fixing up the old place. I don’t know why he decided to hang them. For the history, I guess.”
“Would you mind if I got Anna Heinrich’s email address or phone number from you? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
With any luck, Anna might have kept old newspaper clippings related the murder of the prostitute that took place outside. “Do you own the whole building, including the apartments?” I asked, taking another sip of my latte.
Ed set down his bagel. “I sure do. Why, are you looking for a place to live?”
I laughed. “No, thank God. I’ve heard people compare apartment hunting in San Francisco to The Hunger Games. But I’d love to see one of your units if that’s possible.”
Ed’s face lit up. �
�I’ve got a corner unit for rent that the painters are working on now. You’re welcome to take a look before the open house on Thursday morning. Probably best to avoid the crowds and the fight to the death.”
I smiled, putting the cap back on my pen. “Perfect. When can I stop by?”
“Tomorrow night at seven, if you’re free.” Ed wiped his mouth. “Give me a ring and I’ll have one of the tenants buzz you in. It’s unit number thirteen. The door will be unlocked.”
“Sounds lucky,” I said, picking up my latte. “Thanks so much, I appreciate it.”
Learning about San Francisco’s wild past was what I loved most about living here. This city had so much more to offer than start-ups, gourmet food, and overpriced coffee. Digging beneath its shiny veneer, I never knew what I’d uncover next.
I twisted my heavy ring upright on my finger, looking into the mysterious depths of the emerald. In 1876, a prostitute had been murdered in the alley next to the bar. And perhaps the person behind the door to unit number thirteen had seen what had happened.
Looking down at my notes from my interview with Ed, I felt confident in the research I’d done so far. Taking a deep breath, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed my graduate advisor’s number.
All of the faculty members at the University of San Francisco were fantastic, but my advisor intimidated me. She had a New York Times bestselling novel, a PhD in English lit from Princeton, and an MFA in fiction from Columbia. Part of why I’d chosen to focus on a novel in the first place was because she’d wanted me to leave my comfort zone. And now here I was, right back in the world of nonfiction.
“Mariko Sanders,” she said.
“It’s Sarah,” I answered, my heart beating faster.
“Sarah,” she said, her voice lightening. “How’s it going? Are we still scheduled to meet tonight after the fiction seminar?”
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely. But about that . . . I’ve decided to change the focus of my thesis project. And I can’t wait to tell you about it.”
Chapter 8
Hanna, 1876
Hanna gripped the iron frying pan and steadied her shaking arms.
The Dressmaker's Dowry Page 9
