“Ordinance amending the San Francisco Administrative Code Section 10.82 approved and motion carried by the ayes.” The Budget and Finance Committee supervisor glanced at the clock on the wall, then peered at the paper in his hand. “Next item on the docket, Vigilance Committee proposal presented by board president, Mrs. Caitlyn McClare.”
Caitlyn slowly rose to her feet, grateful she could stand despite the wobble of tendons at the back of her knees. Murmurs skittered through the hall, an unwelcome reminder that women had no business chairing a board, much less addressing the Board of Supervisors. Two points she had debated ad nauseam with Walter and the board, to no avail.
“Now, Cait,” Walter had said earlier with a reassuring look that missed the mark, “Liam still has friends on the board and as Liam’s widow, so do you. Not to mention your brother-in-law, who is sure to throw his weight your way.”
Caitlyn smoothed her skirt to deflect the tremble of her hands. Not likely—a wounded ego hardly makes for a cozy endorsement. She felt the gentle pat of Walter’s hand and slid him a nervous smile, his presence a stabilizing force.
“You’ll be fine,” he whispered, “trust me. Just be yourself, and your honesty and sincerity will win them over.”
“Mrs. McClare?” The president adjusted his glasses. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.” Caitlyn returned his smile, then scanned each face, stopping short of Logan, whose dour look did nothing for her confidence. “Gentlemen, thank you for allowing me to address the board this evening on a matter of utmost importance to the success and welfare of our great city. As I speak, degradation runs rampant, both in our city and in the lives of thousands of women who sell their bodies in the vilest of circumstances in the cribs and cow-yards of the Barbary Coast. Not only has this area become a debilitating stain on a city destined for greatness, but a stain on the very soul of every human being caught within its tentacles of sin and corruption. Benjamin Estelle Lloyd was correct when he stated that ‘the Barbary Coast is the haunt of the low and the vile of every kind. The petty thief, the house burglar, the tramp, the whoremonger, lewd women, cutthroats, and murderers,’ all thriving in a cesspool of dance halls, concert saloons, gambling houses, brothels, peep shows, and opium dens.”
Caitlyn rose up tall, legs weak but voice strong as she addressed the board, conviction ringing despite a tone that was humble and low. “A cesspool, gentlemen, that I’m afraid we’ve allowed far too long. Edmund Burke stated ‘all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing,’ and I hope and pray each of the good men on this board will join forces with the Vigilance Committee to do something rather than nothing to protect our city.”
A smattering of applause broke out, buoying her spirits as well as her shoulders. Replenishing with a deep draw of air, Caitlyn laid out the board’s plan—a three-phase strategy she hoped they would consider due to gradual implementation that would give both the board and the city time to adjust. “Phase one,” she began with a lift of her chin, “will focus on closing two of the biggest blights on the Coast, the Nymphia and the Marsicania brothels. As you may or may not be aware, gentlemen, the Nymphia’s 450 ‘residents’ are required to remain . . . ,” Caitlyn swallowed hard, unable to prevent her tongue from stuttering over the next word, “. . . n-naked at all times in order to . . . e-entertain their c-customers, both those in close p-proximity and those who pay to watch through plentiful peepholes provided.” Heat broiled her cheeks as her voice weakened to a mere rasp, the clearing of throats from several board members clear indication she was not alone in her embarrassment. “And then, of course in conjunction with the esteemed Father Terence Caraher, we hope to dismantle the Marsicania as well, which opened last month.”
Despite frowns and awkward looks from the board, Caitlyn continued to present phases two and three, encompassing a time period of two to five years when all businesses in the Barbary Coast would have to comply with stringent guidelines mandated and upheld, she hoped, by the Board of Supervisors. “Gentlemen,” she said in conclusion, “the Vigilance Committee has prepared a detailed brief on the plan itself, which Mr. Walter Henry will distribute to each of you at the close of this meeting. Please feel free to contact me or any of the board members with questions or concerns you might have.”
Logan leaned forward, and goose bumps prickled Caitlyn’s flesh at the glint of challenge in his eyes. “Radical and abrupt changes such as you propose, Mrs. McClare,” he said slowly, emphatically, “often do more damage than good in an undertaking of this magnitude, polarizing many who believe the Coast provides needed tax revenue.”
Silence cloaked the room with unease so palpable, Caitlyn could taste it along with the bile in her throat. Steeling both her jaw and her nerve, she met his cool gaze with a steady one of her own. “I suspect, sir,” she said quietly, “that given the chance, most decent people would concur revenue obtained through debauchery is never ‘needed’—nor wanted—at all.”
She ignored the ruddy color that bled up Logan’s neck and pressed on, desperate to deflect his disapproval. “That said, sir, I assure you most heartily that the Vigilance Committee has worked diligently to ensure this plan is neither radical nor abrupt, building in graduated time tables and sound provisions we believe will grow tax revenue rather than diminish it.”
Arms on the table, Logan slanted in with a hard smile that quickly braised her cheeks. “Excuse me, Mrs. McClare,” he said, his manner far more relaxed than the look of defiance in his eyes. “I believe the appropriate word is ‘restrictions’ rather than provisions. Restrictions I fear may trample the civil rights of legitimate businesses in an effort to eradicate the unsavory ones.” He patronized her with a paternal tilt of his head, causing her to bristle. “You understand, of course, Mrs. McClare—the danger of throwing the baby out with the bathwater?”
“Only if the ‘baby’ is prone to licentiousness and obscenity, Mr. McClare,” she said carefully, “which is seldom the case when one is innocent, wouldn’t you agree?”
The gavel hammered. “Thank you, Mrs. McClare, we’ll take this under advisement,” the president said with a stiff smile. He dismissed her with a cursory nod and continued with the next course of business while Caitlyn slowly slid into her seat, knees all but giving way.
“You were wonderful,” Walter whispered, and Caitlyn offered a weak smile, barely hearing another word spoken until the gavel sounded moments later to dismiss the meeting.
“Can I give you a lift, Caitlyn?” Walter asked, helping her on with her wrap.
“No, thank you, Walter, Hadley is waiting outside.”
He leaned to embrace her. “Well, then, good night, my dear. You had them eating out of your hand, you know,” he whispered, sending a fresh rush of blood to her cheeks.
Her chuckle did not echo the confidence in his tone. “Eating certainly, Walter, but it remains to be seen whether that is out of my hand or chewing me up and spitting me out.” She linked her arm with his and headed for the door, her body weak from relief that the ordeal was finally over. A smile crooked on her lips. “Either way, I fear I’ll have indigestion.”
His laughter boomed in the high-ceilinged corridor of City Hall as he escorted her to the front door. “Nothing a bromide can’t cure,” he remarked with a smile. “Good night, Caitlyn.”
“Good night, Walter.” Heaving a heavy sigh, Caitlyn made her way to the Packard.
“Cait!”
Her eyelids flickered closed before she pivoted at the curb, said indigestion roiling at the sight of Logan striding her way. She lifted her chin, brows arched in question. “Yes, Logan?”
He halted mere inches away, so close another step would send her tumbling from the curb. “You handled yourself well in there,” he said, breathing winded as if he’d run all the way.
“Really? I didn’t get that impression.” She smiled. “At least not from you.”
She watched a nerve pulse in his cheek, the grinding of his jaw, signs he was attempting to conta
in a temper she knew that he had. His smile seemed forced—like every conversation they’d had since Napa. “Come on, Cait—this isn’t a sewing circle here, this is the government body for the city of San Francisco. I’ll give no preferential treatment just because you’re family.”
She blinked up with a sad smile, fighting the pull of late whenever he was near. “Of course not. Just if I’d said yes in Napa . . .”
The plains of his face hardened. “You don’t belong in politics, Cait.” His whisper was harsh. “If you would just trust me, I’d fight this battle for you and win. But, no, you have to push in a time frame that isn’t right, when too many on the board oppose what you’re doing.”
“Including you?”
He hesitated, the look in his eyes confirming her question. He huffed out a sigh and gouged his forehead with the span of his head. “Blast it, Cait, people have investments. Not just me, but almost every man in that room tonight, and a woman can’t just waltz into a Board of Supervisors’ meeting and expect them to see things her way.”
“Even if it’s the decent thing to do?” she whispered, fighting the sting of tears.
He stared at her long and hard, facial muscles sculpted tight. “Even if it’s the decent thing to do,” he repeated, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You’re certainly proof of that.”
His words stung, conjuring unwelcome memories of Napa. “No, Cait, the decent thing to do is to forget the past and admit you’re in love with me.”
“I have to go,” she said too quickly, turning to the Packard as Hadley stood at the door.
Logan grasped her arm before she could get in, voice as strained as the fingers latched to her cloak. “Don’t expect me to side with you on this one, Cait.”
She paused, eyes trained on the dark hairs on the back of his hand. “No, Logan,” she said quietly, “I would never expect that from you.” Slipping into the car, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the seat. Or on anything . . . ever again.
23
If ever a polecat there was . . . Cassie studied Jamie MacKenna through slitted eyes while he and Bram played piggyback badminton with Meg and Maddie on the back lawn. A summer breeze ruffled her hair as she sipped lemonade, her mood as sour as the drink in her hand.
Casually comfortable, both men wore buttoned waistcoats over pin-striped shirts rolled to the elbow, neckties askew from dashing about with young women astride their shoulders. Peals of laughter took flight in a cozy backyard fragrant with honeysuckle and Aunt Cait’s cottage roses, while a battered shuttlecock soared with every whack of the racket. Cassie’s smile thinned considerably. Mmm . . . I’d like to swing a racket right about now, but not at a shuttle . . .
“So . . . this is progress, right?” Alli leaned close while they watched the game from a wrought-iron settee on Aunt Cait’s stone patio.
“If you call no eye contact and occasional grunts ‘progress.’ ” Cassie scowled and popped cashews in her mouth from a candy dish, voice low as she eyed Logan and Blake embroiled in a game of chess while Aunt Cait focused on needlepoint. “At least he showed up, even if he’d rather be out there romping with Maddie than talking to me.”
“I just think he’s nervous and embarrassed—”
“And guilty?” Cassie added, mouth in a slope.
Alli chuckled, bumping her shoulder. “Oh, yes—very, very guilty. It’s written all over his handsome face—the man feels like a dog after what he did to you.”
“Good.” Cassie pelted more cashews, grinding them into dust like she wished she could do with her feelings for Jamie MacKenna. Or the polecat himself.
“Ah-ah-ah . . . ,” Alli said with a wag of her finger, “you promised you’d forgive Jamie and try to be sweet, remember?”
“Forgive? Yes. But sweet?” Her lips curled into an evil smile. “As sweet as a hive of honeybees with three-inch stingers.”
“Well, I’m just grateful you decided to forgive and forget even though the pretrial courtship didn’t work out.” Alli fanned herself with the letter she just wrote to Roger Luepke. “After all, Jamie’s like a brother, so it’s strange when he’s not around.”
“Not as ‘strange’ as when he is,” Cassie muttered. She lobbed a few more nuts to the back of her throat. “At least now.”
“Come on Cass, look at it this way—it’s better to find out now he’s not the one before a courtship where you fall head over heels, right?”
Wrong. Cassie tossed more nuts, chest expanding with a quiet sigh. “I suppose.”
“Cassie, Alli—we’re going to play charades, girls against boys!” Maddie flew across the lawn, auburn curls bouncing as she launched into Cassie’s arms.
“Are we, now?” Cassie kissed Maddie’s nose, ignoring Jamie and Bram when they ambled over for lemonade. “Won’t that be unfair? You know, since girls are smarter than boys?”
“Ha! Girls are ‘smart,’ all right,” Jamie said with one of the first smiles he’d sent her way all evening. His eyes twinkled as he took a deep glug of lemonade. “Smart-aleck, that is.”
“Oh, really?” Cassie hiked a brow. “Would you care to make a wager, Mr. MacKenna . . . or have you lost all your gambling money on pool and poker?” She gave him an innocent blink.
Jamie patted his pocket. “Nope, Miss McClare, I’ve just enough left to prove my point.” A flash of white teeth confirmed the old Jamie was easing back, and a silent sigh feathered her lips. After all, she cared about the mule-brained dope even if he had led her on.
Maddie tugged at her mother. “Mama, Blake, Uncle Logan—we need you to play too.”
Aunt Cait glanced up, obviously hesitant. “Darling, you all go ahead. It will be an unfair advantage if I play, with more ladies than gentlemen.”
Logan ambled past to stretch out in a chair with a cautious smile. “Oh, come on, Cait,” he said, hands braced to his neck. “Ten more of you still wouldn’t be an unfair advantage.”
Lips pursed, Aunt Cait pitched her needlepoint on the table and rose with a jut of her chin. “On second thought, darling, I believe there are egos to burst.”
“What’s an ego?” Maddie asked.
Alli grinned. “A bit like those balloons at your birthday, remember? All full of hot air?”
Maddie’s eyes went wide. “Golly—do we get to pop ’em just like Herman Hatfield did?”
Cassie chuckled with Aunt Cait as Alli provided paper and pencils. “Oh, honey, you bet.”
“Goody!” Squealing, Maddie squeezed between Cassie and her mother on the settee.
“Listen up,” Alli said, handing out supplies. “Write down the name of a book, play, famous person, or song and toss it into this bowl.” She wrote her own, then collected the others. “Uncle Logan will time each turn, but ladies first. And Cass gets to pop the first balloon . . .” She winked at the men. “Uh . . . I mean the first draw.”
Eyes closed, Cassie plucked a paper from the bowl. With a throaty chuckle, she splayed a hand to her chest, her smile smug. “Oh my, this really is too easy.” She cupped a hand to her ear, eyes in a squint. “Wait—did you hear that? I believe I heard something pop.”
“That would be your grand delusions, Cowgirl,” Jamie said with a lazy drawl.
“I don’t know, sounded more like an overinflated ego to me.” Alli grinned.
“A particularly large one, if I’m not mistaken,” Cassie replied, wadding her paper up and lobbing it onto the table. “Okay, Uncle Logan, start timing—now!” Chin up, Cassie posed like Napoleon, tips of her fingers tucked inside the pearl buttons of her blouse.
“Famous person,” Alli shouted.
Cassie tapped her own nose and held up a finger, patting four more to her arm.
“One word, four syllables.” Aunt Cait leaned in, competitive juices obviously flowing.
Raising a single finger to indicate first syllable, Cassie pointed to herself.
“Cassie!” Maddie shot up from the settee, arms in the air.
With another skim of her nose
, Cassie faced her palms to each other, slowly closing the space between.
“Shorter version of Cassie—Cass?” Alli said with a hopeful slope of brows.
Cassie patted her nose, then casually hiked a thumb at Jamie with an angelic bat of eyes.
“Casanova!” Alli launched in the air with a squeal.
Jamie’s lips took a wry twist as laughter erupted. “Very funny, Cowgirl.”
Sucking air through clenched teeth, Logan shook his head. “Uh-oh, ten seconds—we’ve got our work cut out for us, boys. You’re up, Bram—make us proud.”
The laughter and levity were high and the competition as fierce as the fun while the lead bounced back and forth like the shuttle over the net. The pink haze of dusk lent a warm glow on the final round when Aunt Cait redeemed the win with a record-breaking nine-second pantomime, cheeks flushed as pink as the sky. “Goodness, humiliated by Pride and Prejudice,” she said sweetly, sending a rare smirk Uncle Logan’s way. “Imagine that.”
Jamie rose with a wide stretch of arms. “As painful as it is to leave you gentlemen at the gloating and mercy of these ladies, I fear I have tasks to which I must attend.”
Cassie fought her disappointment with a saucy tip of her head. “Nursing your pride?”
The side of his mouth crooked. “No, ma’am, if I wanted to do that, I’d challenge you to pinochle because it would be my extreme pleasure to take you down a few pegs, Miss McClare.”
“Good luck with that,” Blake said. “Cass is as good at pinochle as she is at poker.”
“So I hear.” Jamie quirked a smile. “A rain check, perhaps?”
“Certainly, but do make it on a payday, Mr. MacKenna,” she said with a flutter of lashes.
Alli straightened Jamie’s tie with a pout. “Come on, Jamie, do you really have to go?”
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