Out of the Ruins

by Karen Barnett

  No such luck.

  Abby backed a few steps into the upstairs hall, considering a retreat to the rear staircase. Clenching her fists, she chided herself. Why hide now? I’m going to see him all afternoon.

  Cecelia would march straight down those steps and greet the doctor to put their guest at ease. Lifting her head and squaring her shoulders, Abby fanned the tiny spark of her sister’s courage into a burgeoning flame. Before stepping around the corner and onto the stairs, she reached one hand behind her back, flattening the enormous bow.

  Dr. King glanced upward, his smile affecting an instantaneous transformation from nervous guest to sophisticated gentleman.

  Abby’s brief flicker of composure fizzled like a match in the face of a stiff breeze. She paused on the middle landing and clutched the banister, steadying herself as she stared down at him.

  “Hello, Miss Fischer. I’m glad to see you have recovered enough to join us.” His eyes shone, warm and welcoming, putting images of steaming cups of hot chocolate in her mind.

  “Dr. King.” Abby managed to nod, her back stiffening to maintain formality even as her knees threatened to give way.

  “You look . . .” his gaze dropped to the dress before returning to her face, “very nice.”

  A lump formed in her throat. He’s indulging me. “Thank you.” Keeping the massive bow hidden, she gathered her skirt to descend the last three steps. The edge of her shoe caught on the gown’s trailing hem and Abby stumbled, pitching forward in a most unladylike tumble toward the Oriental rug.

  Dr. King reached for her arm, preventing her from landing facedown and bow-up.

  The brush of his fingers against her arm made her jump. She pulled away, cheeks burning. “Thank you, Dr. King.”

  A dimple showed in his cheek. “You do know how to make an entrance, Miss Fischer. Are you sure you are feeling well enough to go to dinner?”

  She straightened her skirt and backed up to the wall. “Yes. I just took a bad step. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Dr. King moved closer, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Please, don’t speak of it. It’s an honor to catch you—again.”

  Abby battled a sudden urge to dash back up the stairs.

  Mama swept into the room with a dramatic swish of her elegant cream-colored skirt adorned with silk roses. Davy squealed atop his father’s shoulders as Papa ducked low through the doorway, Cousin Gerald trailing behind.

  Gerald tucked his gold watch back into his vest pocket and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Abby, you look lovely. I trust you are fully recovered?”

  Abby folded her arm behind her back, wishing she had put on her gloves. If anyone reached for her hand, they would be rewarded with a very damp handshake indeed. “Perhaps I needed some rest.”

  Gerald nodded. “It has been a difficult few weeks. But I am relieved you will be joining us for dinner. My mother is preparing a feast fit for royalty.” He leaned close and winked, lowering his voice to whisper, “If you hadn’t shown up, she might have come over here, herself, to retrieve you.”

  Abby suppressed a shudder.

  Gerald offered his arm. “Shall we go and present ourselves for inspection?”

  Abby placed one hand behind her back, pushing down the bow. She didn’t want to lead this parade. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I need to retrieve my hat and gloves.”

  She lingered in the parlor until the others moved outside. When the door clicked shut, she sighed, her neck muscles relaxing. Abby tied a green ribbon around her casual boater, thankful she controlled at least one item of her ensemble, and jammed a long silver pin through the straw hat, securing it to her bun. Scooping up her handkerchief and lace gloves, Abby hurried back into the hall. A wave of consternation swept over her as she spotted Robert standing by the door.

  “I didn’t want you to think we’d left without you.” Bathed in colored light from the two stained glass windows framing the doorway, Dr. King looked like a footman from the Palace Hotel. He reached for the knob and swung the door wide. “After you.”

  Abby stepped sideways as she crossed the threshold, careful to keep her posterior hidden from view. “Thank you, Dr. —” A sudden jerk from behind rocked her back on her heels. Her throat tightened as she peered over her shoulder and spotted the dreaded bow hooked over the crystal doorknob. Grabbing the frame, she twisted her shoulders until she faced Dr. King. “I believe I have forgotten my gloves. Would you be so kind as to check if I left them on the hall table?”

  He cocked one eyebrow. “Aren’t you holding a pair in your hand?”

  Abby crumpled them against her chest. “Did I say gloves? I meant my Bible. I wanted to show something to Aunt Mae.”

  Her breathing slowed as the doctor retreated into the hall. Rising up on her toes, she twisted her hips as if preparing for a waltz turn. The sound of ripping generated a new flutter in her chest. Biting her lip, Abby wound her finger under the ribbon and tugged.

  “Allow me.” Dr. King’s fingers brushed against her own.

  Abby closed her eyes, wishing for a crack in the floor to swallow her whole.

  Dr. King’s breath warmed the back of her neck, under her knotted hair. “I didn’t see a Bible on the table.”

  As the bow slipped free, Abby lunged forward to escape the stifling sensation produced by his close proximity. “I must have been mistaken. No matter.” Stopping at the edge of the porch, Abby pressed a cool hand against her cheek. Her family gathered around the automobile waiting on the cobblestone street. She paused, trying to think of a suitable phrase of thanks to offer to the doctor without risking further embarrassment.

  Abby turned to speak, but the words froze in her throat at the sight of his amused smile. Is he laughing?

  All gratitude evaporated from her heart. She hurried down the steps, careful to lift the long skirt clear of her stumbling feet.

  Robert ducked his head, a smile threatening to take hold of his face. Abby Fischer was a gem among women. He’d never met someone who could transport him from anxiety to amusement in a few moments.

  Every time he laid eyes on her, she looked more beautiful than the last, and yet one could see honesty laid out on her face, especially in those deep, brown eyes. His soul ached to know her better, to discover the spirit blossoming within.

  Get a hold of yourself. Robert shuddered. Miss Fischer was his friend’s cousin and his patient’s sister—two excellent reasons to steer clear.

  He followed her down the stairs to the street, his eyes drawn to the cockeyed ribbon bouncing along on her backside.

  Robert sucked in a deep breath. It’s going to be a long day.

  7

  The ride in Gerald’s automobile stole Abby’s breath and sent gooseflesh creeping across her skin. Wedged between Mama and Papa in the rear seat, she closed her eyes rather than watch as they careened past buggies, delivery wagons, and cable cars.

  Gerald turned onto Gough Street, traveling two more blocks before stopping in front of his house. He set the brake, the automobile’s engine rattling to a blessed stillness.

  Abby’s hand trembled as she lifted the long green skirt and stepped onto the running board. If she survived the entire day without tripping over the hem, staining the fine silk, or popping a seam, she’d consider it a miracle.

  Dr. King appeared at her side, hand outstretched.

  She forced a nonchalant expression and placed her gloved hand in his. Distracted by the pressure against her fingers, she stepped to the cobblestone street with little awareness of her feet.

  Davy clambered onto the bottom rail of the wrought iron gate, catching a quick ride as it swung out onto the sidewalk. Abby released Dr. King’s hand and hurried to peel her brother from the fence.

  Mama exited the motorcar clutching Papa’s arm, the feathered plumes of her hat waggling like the remnants of a battered rooster after a cockfight. Abby brushed back the green ribbon on her own simple straw boater, thankful she opted not to pack the gown’s matching bonnet. A la
cy veil and a trickling cascade of white feathers—she would have been a sight, indeed.

  Great Aunt Mae swung the door wide. “Welcome, welcome. Come in everyone, get out of the sun.” She lifted an age-speckled hand, casting a shadow across her face. “My goodness it’s bright.”

  Abby hung toward the back of the group, preferring a few moments in the sun to the dark house, every tall window shrouded by draperies.

  Aunt Mae clasped her son’s arm, pulling him through the doorway. “The hospital telephoned a moment ago, Gerald. Cecelia is still sleeping. I told them you would be in after supper.” Her lips pinched together.

  “Thank you, Mother. I’ll ring them back.” Gerald leaned down and brushed a kiss against her cheek.

  Abby stripped off her gloves. Gerald wouldn’t mind if she accompanied him to the hospital—assuming she survived the next few hours.

  “Abigail, my dear child, come in and let me look at you.” Aunt Mae seized Abby’s hand, towing her into the shadowy front hall.

  Abby dragged her shoes across the expensive Persian rug as the rest of the family filed away through the parlor.

  The sunlight pouring in the doorway glinted among the silver strands in Aunt Mae’s hair as the elderly woman paraded Abby around the front hall. “What a festive dress. Turn please, and let me look at you.”

  “It’s Cecelia’s, actually.” Abby sashayed to the side, trying to avoid performing a full roundabout.

  Aunt Mae captured Abby’s elbow and turned her around. Taking hold of the bow, the older woman clucked her tongue. “My, my, what has happened here? This bow is all askew.” The ribbon tugged at Abby’s waist as Aunt Mae tinkered with it. “Come into the kitchen. It won’t take but a moment to fix that.”

  Abby trailed in her wake, chiding herself for ever packing Cecelia’s gown.

  “I hope you are fully recovered because I have been cooking since yesterday and could probably feed all the soldiers at the Presidio.”

  The deep, rich scent of pot roast and fresh-baked bread set Abby’s mouth to salivating as her aunt rummaged through a basket resting on a corner table. She withdrew a gleaming pair of shears. “Aha.” She snapped the scissor in the air and waved her fingers in a circle, gesturing for Abby to turn.

  Abby’s stomach tightened. She reached behind her back, covering the silk bow with her hands. “What are you going to do?”

  “I know a thing or two about dresses, dear. I had three girls—and practically raised your mother and her sister.”

  Abby lowered her hands to her sides and moved in a half-circle. She peeked over her shoulder. “Yes, but . . .”

  Her aunt whacked a palm against Abby’s back. “Hold still, missy, or I might just cut a hole in your bustle.”

  Abby swung her gaze forward, willing her spine rod-straight. The last thing the hideous frock needed was a giant hole where she was supposed to sit.

  “There.” Aunt Mae laughed. “Much better.”

  Abby froze mid-turn.

  The bow dangled from Aunt Mae’s fingertips. “You didn’t want this ridiculous thing, did you?”

  “No, but . . .” Abby explored her back with searching fingers.

  “Don’t worry, it looks fine. Better, in fact. The silly frill was only attached by a few threads. No one will notice.” She pressed the bow into Abby’s hands. “Maybe you can put it in your hair or something.” Aunt Mae’s lips tightened, tiny lines forming around her mouth. “If it were me, I’d bury it in the backyard.”

  Abby laughed, a bit of tension uncoiling from her shoulders.

  Davy ran past and plowed into Aunt Mae. “Cookie!” His joyful shriek cut through the steamy kitchen.

  Mama hurried in, fingers reaching for her son’s shirt-tail. “Davy! Do not speak to your great-aunt in such a way.”

  Abby wadded the ribbon in her fist, pushing it behind her back.

  Davy paused. “May I have a cookie?” His voice trailed up, expectantly.

  Aunt Mae scooped Davy into her arms. “Oh, Clara, please.” She huffed, causing the tiny silver curls on her forehead to bounce. “After a long morning at church, hungry little boys can’t be expected to have perfect manners.” She touched the tip of his nose with her finger. “You know Great-Auntie always has a cookie ready for you.”

  He squirmed free.

  Aunt Mae reached for the jar, stashed in a sunny corner of the kitchen. “Snickerdoodle or molasses, my sweet?”

  Davy scrunched his eyebrows before an impish smile brightened his face. “Both?” He shot a wary glance at his mother. “Both, please?”

  Aunt Mae’s laugh almost obscured Mama’s groan. Aunt Mae patted his shoulder. “Have one now and a different one after dinner.”

  “Aunt Mae,” Mama intercepted Davy’s hands as he lunged for the container.

  “Now, hush. This is my house—actually, I suppose it’s my son’s house—but it’s my privilege to hand out treats.” The small woman tapped the toe of her high-buttoned shoe. “Let him enjoy it or there will be no dessert for you later, my dear!”

  Mama heaved a sigh of surrender.

  Cousin Gerald’s laugh echoed from the next room. “She never fed us sugar before dinner when we were little, Clara. Mama’s going soft.”

  Great Aunt Mae clucked her tongue. “ ‘Behold, what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be called the sons of God.’ And if He can bestow love on His children, so can I. Or at least on the children visiting this house.”

  The jar cradled in the crook of her elbow, the older woman turned to Abby. “Now, young lady, you were always partial to the molasses ones, right?” She pressed a cookie into Abby’s hand.

  Abby’s throat tightened. Crumbs dropped from her fingers while she crumpled the bow in her other hand. Cecelia lay in a hospital bed while the rest of the family joked and laughed and ate. A sour taste sprang to her mouth.

  Aunt Mae took Mama’s arm. “I intend to bestow my love on your entire family, my dear. I am pleased you and Herman could join us today. Having you in town has made me very happy indeed—even though it comes under such tragic circumstances. Until I get him married off, Gerald and I rattle around this big house all alone. And my son doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so.”

  Mama leaned into the embrace. “It’s good to be with family.”

  Aunt Mae patted her arm. “Yes, child. You know we’re always here for you. I’m praying for Cecelia with every breath.”

  Abby escaped to the pantry. Leaning against the shelves, she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Get through supper, and you can go to the hospital with Gerald. Grasping a long white apron hanging from a peg, she tucked the bow and the uneaten cookie into a pocket.

  When she stepped back into the kitchen, the two ladies had turned their attentions to dinner. Mama gripped the oven handle with a towel, leaning low to peer inside, the scent of peach pie anointing the warm room. Aunt Mae caught Abby’s eye and gestured with a dripping wooden spoon. “Carrots and onions, dear one.”

  Abby pushed the sharp knife into the onion, the pungent odor tickling her nose. She pushed the vegetables across the block, chopping in a steady rhythm, creating neat piles of carrots and onions. Abby only half-listened as her mother and aunt discussed the building of the glamorous new Fairmont Hotel. Why should she care? She lifted a wrist to brush against her stinging eyes. Her thoughts wandered as Aunt Mae’s words hummed in her ear like a bumblebee around a honeysuckle vine.

  “The paper claims Caruso will give a marvelous performance in Carmen, though I’ve never been fond of him, myself. The opera society has put together a rather remarkable program this year. San Francisco is certainly making a name for itself when it comes to the arts. The Call wrote we are beginning to rival New York and Chicago—trading in the ‘wild west’ and gold-panning forty-niners for a new image.”

  Mama sighed and leaned back against the cupboard. “I can’t remember the last time I went to the opera. It must have been shortly after Herman and I married.” Her voice lo
wered. “He never wanted to go back.”

  Aunt Mae pointed her gravy-coated spoon toward her. “Now you are staying in the city, we should make some plans. It would be just the thing to lift your spirits. You can’t be at the hospital all of the time. And it would be such a treat for Abby.” She fixed her bright eyes on Abby. “Wouldn’t it be fun, my dear?”

  Abby blinked away the stinging onion tears, swallowing hard, and managing a quick nod. “Yes, of course.” Another reason to wear this dreadful gown.

  As Aunt Mae slid the pie from the oven, the sugary juices bubbling up through the lattice top, Abby closed her eyes, trying to pull her mind away from the operas, crowded cities, and onion fumes. Gripping a large carrot, she shoved the knife downward. A squeaking gasp broke from her mouth even before she realized what she had done. The knife clattered to the floor as Abby lost her grip, dazed by the sight of blood welling from her finger.

  Aunt Mae rushed to Abby’s side with a clean dishtowel, clasping it around the wound. Mama’s face blanched at the sight of the blood sprinkled across the glistening white pile of sliced onions.

  Steering Abby into a nearby chair, Aunt Mae tightened her lips into a thin line. “Let me look at it, child.” She loosened the towel and examined the injury, her eyebrows drawing together like purse strings. “You still have all your fingers, but the cut looks deep. Clara, go find Gerald. He may want to put in a stitch or two.”

  Mama’s pale skin had taken on a greenish cast. She rushed through the swinging door into the hall.

  Aunt Mae twisted the cloth around the wound. “How did you manage not to get any on your dress? How very fortunate!”

  Abby glanced down at the gown and sighed.

  Mama stepped back into the room with Dr. King on her heels. His gaze darted about the kitchen.

  Abby closed her eyes. The tree, the doorknob . . . now this.

  Her mother’s voice trembled. “Gerald and Herman took Davy out for a walk.”