by Jenn Bennett
Winter accepted and shook, formally, and then heartily. They both chuckled, a little nervous. Winter exhaled a long breath and added, “You’ve also got my protection, because on the trail the two of you are about to blaze, you’re damn sure going to need it.”
—
At eight o’clock the next night, Astrid waited for two workers in overalls to carry a leather sofa past her before stepping into the elevator of the Wicked Wenches’ apartment building. She instantly recognized the handsome operator in burgundy uniform—the Jack Johnson look-alike who had helped them when Bo was stabbed. His eyes widened at the sight of her.
“Hello, again,” she said. “Mr. Laroche, isn’t it?”
“Miss Magnusson.”
“Don’t worry. No one’s chasing after me today,” she said. Then added, “He’s dead.”
He considered this for a moment and said, “That’s good news.”
“Someone moving out?” she asked, nodding toward the men hauling the sofa.
“The Humphreys,” he confirmed.
“The state senator and his wife?”
He nodded and gave her a knowing look. Yes, he remembered her altercation with the nasty woman, too. “It was all very sudden. Divorcing, I hear. Top floor?”
She grinned. “Yes. Top floor, please.”
When she got to Maria and Mathilda’s penthouse, they were waiting for her in the living room, smiling in their sparkling evening gowns and drinking champagne. Magnusson stock, Astrid thought as she eyed the black bottle. Had Lowe been here, delivering them booze?
“Darling girl!” Mathilda said and hugged her neck.
“We were so happy to hear that you’re staying in Hadley’s old apartment,” Maria said. “We’re practically neighbors, at least for a little while. Hadley swore us to secrecy, but you must tell us everything. Where’s the dashing Mr. Yeung?”
Astrid’s heart fluttered inside her chest. “He doesn’t know I’m still in town, actually. It’s a very long story . . .”
“And we have a lot of champagne,” Mathilda assured her with a wink. “Let me pour you a glass and you can tell us all about it.”
THIRTY-TWO
Nearly three weeks after Astrid’s departure, Bo strolled into Pier 26 and tipped his hat to Old Bertha the shark. As he hung up his coat, Winter’s dark head popped through the doorway.
“How did it go?”
“Signed the lease.”
Winter grinned. “Excellent.”
Nob Hill. He didn’t belong there. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure, but he damn well didn’t care. He was too busy being buoyed on a mix of excitement and queasiness. He’d done it, and there was no going back. When he’d first turned down Winter’s offer to live in the turret of the Magnusson house, they’d argued bitterly. But Bo wouldn’t concede. He had to stand on his own, even if it was a more difficult path.
And though he could afford the lease—mostly due to the Wicked Wenches offering him the state senator’s former cozy one-bedroom apartment on the floor below theirs for an impossibly low rent that no amount of arguing would change—he wasn’t used to plunking down that much money every month to live. Or any money at all, frankly. Selling his old apartment in Chinatown gave him a small cushion, but there were other expenses to consider, not to mention a dozen unknowns, which were busy churning up anxiety in his gut.
He slipped a hand inside his pocket and fingered the new apartment key, dazedly thinking of everything that was now his. A parlor that overlooked Huntington Park. A cozy dining room. A bedroom—spacious enough for a very big bed. A newly remodeled kitchen with electric appliances. And, best of all, a small library. An actual library! All of Bo’s books would fit on one bookcase, but he could buy more.
“It’s four blocks from Dr. Moon’s apartment,” he told Winter, thinking of the gray area between neighborhoods that Astrid had talked about their first night in the lighthouse. “And only a fifteen-minute walk from Aida’s shop.”
“Aida will be eager to see it,” Winter said. “Hadley stopped by the house earlier and they were talking about it. The two of them are getting awfully chummy, if you ask me,” he said with a lowered brow, as if that was something to be suspicious about.
“Probably just discussing Lowe and Hadley’s trip to Egypt,” Bo said. The couple was leaving by train tomorrow, heading out to the East Coast, where they’d board a ship bound for an Atlantic crossing. “Hadley’s unusually bubbly these days.”
“Maybe,” Winter said, but he didn’t seem convinced as he headed back out into the warehouse.
Bo was too happy to care. He needed to write Astrid a letter. Maybe a telegram. A long-distance telephone call would be too expensive, and he was afraid if he heard her voice, he’d be tempted to beg her to come home today. He wanted that to be her choice. Besides, there were too many other things that needed doing. Moving his things. Buying furniture.
A letter. That would be the best. He could suggest she send a telegram in return when she received it. That would give him a couple of weeks to get things settled.
He dumped the pile of delivered mail he’d been carrying onto Winter’s desk and sat down behind it, his mind abuzz with Too Many Things, when the warehouse receptionist knocked on the doorframe.
“Miss Fong to see you,” she said.
Bo’s hands stilled over the pile of mail. What in the world was Sylvia doing here? Before he could guess, she was escorted into the office.
“Hello, Ah-Sing,” she said brightly as she breezed beneath the stuffed shark.
“Sylvia,” he answered, standing up. “What’s wrong?”
She tugged on the tips of her gloves and sat down in a chair in front of the desk. “Why would there be something wrong? Can’t an old friend just pay a friendly visit? I heard you sold your apartment. You could have at least stopped by and told me.”
“I did stop by, actually,” he said, sitting back down behind the desk. “You weren’t home.”
“Liar.”
Well, yes. But he’d seen Amy walking up the stairs and didn’t much feel like visiting both of them, so he’d taken the coward’s way out. “I sold my apartment,” he said. “Now you know. How are you, by the way? You seem more cheerful than usual.”
She flashed him a dazzling smile and pulled off her left glove. A small jewel glittered on her ring finger. “I’m engaged.”
“To—?”
“Andy Lee.”
“Your boss at the telephone office? That’s the boyfriend you’ve been talking about?”
“Jealous?”
Bo chuckled. “A little. But mostly happy for you. I mean, are you? Happy?”
“Very much. What about you? Are you and—”
He nodded. “She’s in Los Angeles right now. Back in school.” He told her a few details, about the apartment and the fact that her family knew about them. “How it will all work out, I don’t know. But I never thought it would go this far, and that’s something.”
“How far do you want it to go?” Sylvia pulled a newspaper clipping from her handbag. “Because I saw this at Andy’s place and thought of you.”
He breathed in the scent of ink as he unfolded the newsprint. It was from Seattle. The Northwest Enterprise. A social activism newspaper.
“Andy’s a member of the Chinese Chamber of Commerce,” she explained. “They have affiliations with organizations up the coast. Look at that headline.”
Couples Travel Long Distances to Wed in Washington
“The only state in the West that will allow different races to marry. They talk about how couples are getting around the laws in other states—a Caucasian woman claimed to have Filipino blood in order to marry her minister in Nevada. But you don’t have to lie in Washington to get a license. Did you know that?”
Bo shook his head. His throat tightened.
“Whether they honor
that license here is another story, but you’ve always had a knack for outrunning the police.” She closed the clasp on her handbag and waved the newspaper away. “Keep it. Anyway, I’ve got to get to work, and I’m sure you’re busy. I just wanted to stop by.”
He walked around the desk and grabbed her hand as she stood to leave. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by coming to my wedding.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
She kissed his cheek. “Good luck, Ah-Sing. You deserve it.”
He saw her outside and watched her black bob swing as she slipped into a waiting taxi, and after it drove off, he then made his way back to the office, slightly stunned. If he thought his head had been filled with Too Many Things before, it was in a state of all-out chaos now. But by the time he’d reread the article and sat back down at the desk, he’d decided that a letter to Astrid wasn’t good enough. He’d send a telegram, caution be damned. They had Western Union forms around here somewhere. As he forced open a drawer that often stuck, the pile of letters slid across the desk, and he spied a familiar slant of handwriting.
Astrid.
Temporarily abandoning his search for the telegram form, he snatched up the letter. It was to him, no return address. He grabbed a letter opener and sliced through the flap. The scent of rose petals drifted up. Inside was an unusually short message, though she hadn’t failed to include her typical dramatic underlining, he thought with a smile.
My dearest Bo,
Please be sure to listen to KPO Friday at 2 P.M. It’s very important.
All my love,
Astrid
He reread the message in a daze—twice—and flipped over the envelope. A San Francisco postmark. How in the hell . . . ? And KPO? Today was Friday. He glanced at his wristwatch. 2:05 P.M. Dammit!
He reached across the desk, spilling the rest of the letters, and switched on the waist-high old radio that sat on the floor nearby, turning the knob until he found the KPO transmission, already in progress, and listened to the familiar voice that crackled over the speaker.
“If you’re a regular listener, you’ve probably heard my voice on KPO’s other programs, such as the melodrama Murder in the Fog, or maybe announcing the Fairmont Orchestra’s midday performances, but today is the first time you’ll hear me really talk.”
Bo nearly knocked the radio over trying to turn up the volume.
“Every Friday at 2 P.M., I’ll be bringing you a unique perspective from the top of Hale Brothers department store. My new program is called Girl Friday, and it’s a half-hour program for women in San Francisco—all women, from housewives to working gals to the students in college. I’ll be giving you the latest updates about fashion, events, and even some juicy local gossip. Whatever you need to know, I’m here to help. Have a question about where to find the best deal on stockings? Telephone our station operator and let her know. Need advice about how to find out if your husband is cheating? Send a letter to Girl Friday, in care of KPO at Hale Brothers, and I’ll answer it live on air. Tell your friends, sisters, and coworkers to tune in every Friday at 2 P.M., and we’ll start the weekend together.”
Osiris, Buddha, and Jehovah. That little schemer . . .
He laughed, utterly delighted and twice as proud. She rambled on, brightly talking about how there were no radio programs for women on the other local stations, sounding like everyone’s best friend, natural and easygoing and funny—like herself—and halfway through the program, he realized with a start: She’s broadcasting live. She’s here. Right now.
Bo didn’t listen any longer. He raced around the desk to grab his coat and hat, and then jogged through the office. “Tell Winter I’ll be back,” he shouted at the receptionist and jogged to the Buick.
A couple of miles. She’d be there until two thirty, at least. He could make it if he hurried.
He sped out of the warehouse and onto the Embarcadero, cutting down Folsom. When traffic slowed, he honked his horn and shouted at a delivery truck, whose driver flashed him a middle finger, which Bo returned with gusto. He just wanted to get there. So badly, in fact, that as he waited for a police car to help a stalled car blocking the road, he almost considered abandoning his car and running the rest of the way.
By the time he finally made it to Market Street and found a parking space, it was 2:45 P.M.
Please don’t let her be gone. He raced down the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians, and came to a sudden stop in front of the department store entrance.
There she was.
Blond curls. Foxlike eyes. Stubborn chin. Devious smile. Scent of roses.
His.
He was the scholar, and she was the girl running up the road to meet him, and he caught her and crushed her in his arms, kissing her hair and face and mouth, holding on as tight as he could, uncaring what anyone thought about the spectacle.
You are mine, he told her with his body. Mine, and I will never let you go.
EPILOGUE
TEN YEARS LATER, CHINESE NEW YEAR, FEBRUARY 1939
“There it is!” Astrid shouted, leaning over the balcony of Aida’s spiritualism storefront on Grant Avenue, where thousands of celebrants thronged the sidewalks beneath painted banners and red lanterns to watch the annual parade in Chinatown.
It was the largest Chinese New Year’s celebration in years—aided by an organized effort in Chinatowns across the nation to raise money for the war in China—and the San Francisco police projected that more than a hundred thousand people would stand along the parade route to watch acrobats, lion dancers, and hundreds of Chinatown’s residents festively clad in traditional attire. Astrid’s family had gathered here in the apartment over Aida’s shop every year, but this was the first time they’d done more than just watch the parade.
“Daddy! It’s your float!” Astrid’s daughter said. May had just turned eight, and was unusually tall for a girl. Unusually pretty, too. She stood on the balcony’s bottom rail and peered over the top, grinning Astrid’s grin—a smile that went all the way up to eyes that looked just like her father’s.
And the man who’d given her those eyes now stood next to her, hoisting their five-year-old son in his arms. “Look, Ty,” Bo said. “Do you see it?”
Pulled by a truck, the float trailer was covered in ferns and flowers that spelled out MAGNUSSON AND YEUNG FISH COMPANY around the sides. And in the center was a giant papier-mâché representation of the company logo: a nine-tailed golden fox with a fish in its mouth. The tails moved up and down on sticks held by company employees, who walked behind the trailer.
“It looks good,” Winter said over Bo’s shoulder.
“Damn near majestic,” Lowe agreed, slinging his arm around Hadley as the children whooped and cheered around him—a lot of children. In addition to Astrid and Bo’s two, Winter and Aida had four, Stella was in her teens now, and Dr. Moon and his wife, Le-Ann’s, two girls were here, too. All of them were crammed into the small space, bobbing and jumping to see over the railing. Astrid held a Brownie camera above all the bouncing heads to snap a good photograph.
“All right, I took five shots,” she shouted as the giant fox slipped farther down the street and a new float took its place. “Hopefully one of them won’t be blurry.”
“Can we have our red envelopes now?” May asked, tugging on her dress.
A traditional Chinese New Year’s present. The red envelopes—red for luck—held money. Bo and Astrid gave them out to the entire Magnusson clan every year. Red envelopes for their Chinese side, and semla cream buns on Shrove Tuesday for their Swedish side—made by Greta and Lena.
“No envelopes until the parade’s over,” she told May.
Astrid hadn’t been able to catch her breath. She’d come straight from a meeting at the radio station that morning, but the parade route had blocked off the street and parking was a nightmare, forcing her to walk several blocks from their apartment to get
here on time. And only barely. Now she pulled May closer and grinned at her husband.
“The float looked wonderful,” she said loudly.
He pointed to his ear and grinned back, but there was a question behind his eyes. She knew why, but they hadn’t been able to talk privately yet. And as she leaned over May’s head to kiss her son’s cheek, making him squirm with delight, Bo wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and spoke into her ear. “Downstairs.”
She nodded. “Stay here with your cousins,” she told May as Aida held out her hands for Ty.
“Auntie will hold you so you can see better,” she told him, and he didn’t hesitate to jump into her arms.
Astrid mouthed thank you to Aida and handed the camera to Stella before Bo grabbed her hand to lead her out of the family gathering.
Strains of music from an approaching marching band floated over the roar of the crowd as they descended the stairs into Aida’s shop. It was much quieter here. The intense punch of the parade’s din was slightly muffled by the locked door, and afternoon sun silhouetted the bodies of revelers pressing against the windows through the shades.
Bo stopped in front of a bookcase filled with titles about spiritualism and coping with bereavement, and then he turned to face her, dropping her hand to cross his arms over his chest.
“So,” he prompted.
“You know, I haven’t seen you in two days. I was hoping for a ‘Hello, dear wife. I’ve missed you while I was upstate buying a new boat.’”
“I did miss you,” he said, looking unfairly handsome in the slatted light spilling in from the shades. He’d returned from his trip while she’d been in her meeting that morning, and was still dressed casually for travel in slacks and an argyle sweater vest, the brim of his cap pulled down tight. But when she reached up to straighten the necktie peeking above the vee of his vest, he grabbed her hands. “Tell me what Girl Friday decided. I haven’t slept the entire trip.”
