by Megan Chance
She led the way into the Grecian temple entrance, then down a broad stairway several flights to the swimming tanks, ringed on each level by promenades and stadium observation decks. A domed glass ceiling and walls of windows fronting the oceanside blasted sunlight. Tropical plants and arching palms decorated the staircase and restaurant verandas. It was warm and humid, smelling of salt water and fried food and hair oil, echoing with children’s squeals and people talking as they meandered the promenades.
Goldie took me to the ladies’ dressing rooms and pulled from her bag two parcels wrapped in paper.
“Here’s your bathing costume, as I promised.” She was vibrating in a way that reminded me of Aunt Florence at tea, that barely suppressed tension, though in Goldie it wasn’t tension but excitement. “Now, don’t scold.”
I took the package. “Why should I scold?”
“Just open it.”
I tore away the paper. Inside was folded white fabric instead of the black or gray I’d expected. I shook it out. At first, I thought she’d brought the wrong package. It looked more like an undergarment. It was skirted, with short bloomers beneath, the bodice cut in a deep V to a belted waist, the V filled in with black-and-white-striped fabric that repeated at the hem of the skirt and decorated the short sleeves.
I gaped at my cousin. “What is this?”
“Your bathing costume, of course.”
“This is a bathing costume? It’s no bigger than a handkerchief!”
“Don’t be silly. It’s much larger than that.” Goldie held hers—which matched mine, but in black—against her body.
“Where are the stockings?”
“There are no stockings, Mabel.”
“But our legs will be showing.”
“I know.” Goldie grinned and widened her eyes in mockery. “Isn’t it wonderful? Now we will actually feel the water!”
I stared at it dubiously. “This looks indecent.”
“It’s the very latest fashion, May. Half of the girls in there will have them on. Don’t tell me you’re too afraid to wear it.”
“No, but—”
Goldie sighed and grabbed it from my hands. “Oh very well. Look like some old matron if you want. They’ve got costumes for rent, but they’re those ancient wool things that make everyone look awful.”
“Goldie—”
“Go on, go get one. Here.” She pulled some coins from her bag and shoved them at me. “But you’re ruining everything.”
“Don’t be silly.” I pushed the coins away and grabbed the suit back. “Of course I’ll wear it. I was only surprised.”
She gave me the golden smile that made me her puppet. I ducked into the dressing room and changed, then tried desperately to ignore the shocking pale thinness of my legs, the exposed expanse of skin. I tugged at the skirt, hoping it might miraculously unfurl to cover at least my thighs, but it remained stubbornly short. Perhaps people would mistake my white legs for matching stockings.
I stepped out, self-conscious, barefoot, only to hear Goldie’s cry of dismay.
“What is it?” I asked.
She was inside another dressing room. “Oh, I can’t believe it! No, no, no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“They sent the wrong size! Oh, I will scream at that salesgirl for this. I told her.”
“Surely we can pin it in places,” I suggested.
“May, it’s far too small. I can’t even get it over my hips. Oh, hell!”
Some of the other women in the changing rooms turned to look. I crept closer and lowered my voice, trying not to seem too relieved. “You can wear mine.”
“Don’t be a fool. You’re a foot taller at least. It will never fit.”
I was not a foot taller. Only a few inches, but it was true that my costume fit perfectly, and I saw no real way for Goldie to wear it. “There’s no help for it then. We can go swimming another day.”
“No, no. I don’t want to ruin your fun. I’ll go rent a bathing suit. You go on out. I’ll meet you in the warm tank closest to the one for the women and children.”
“Closest?” I asked. “You mean we aren’t swimming in the women’s tank?”
Goldie poked her face out. “Why would we, when we can flirt with half-dressed men? Now go. I’ll meet you in a few minutes. If you aren’t talking to some man by the time I get there, I’ll send you back to Brooklyn!”
“I’ll just wait for you here.”
“You absolutely will not. Go!” She shooed me away with a laugh. “You’re a Sullivan, and Sullivans go forth!”
I stepped from the dressing room, making my way to the tanks. The sun glared onto the water through the many windows and the ceiling. Swimmers scrambled over slides and springboards and bobbed in the tanks, all of them black suited, most of the women stockinged. There were only a few dressed like me.
I stood at the edge of a tank, aware that suddenly I seemed to be the focus of everyone’s attention, each taking in my white suit, my indecently bare legs—I looked ridiculous.
A man dodged in front of me—“Smile, miss! It’s for the Bulletin”—and there was a blast of light, blinding, so that I stepped back, too far, and fell with a resounding splash into the shallow end of the pool.
Goldie was nowhere to be found, and when she didn’t appear after what felt like forever, I harnessed my humiliation and left the tank with what remained of my dignity. When she still hadn’t appeared after I’d dried off and dressed, I went looking for her.
The baths were enormous, and there were a hundred places to look, too many restaurants and promenades and bleachers. I went back to the dressing room several times. She was not there. Neither was she where one rented bathing costumes. Perhaps we’d crossed one another, and she was swimming, so I went to the observation deck to look out over the tanks. I saw no distinctive blond head, though it was difficult to tell people apart in the ugly woolen costumes.
I stared out over the rippling water at the men diving and the children squealing as they slid down the giant slides. A prickling sense—someone watching—made me look over to where a man in a long dark coat and hat pressed against the railing. Ellis Farge. I recognized him from the Cliff House. He was alone, and he was not looking at me, though I’d felt he was. He looked out at the swimmers.
There was something odd about him, and it was not just that he was wearing a heavy winter coat in the middle of a humid, warm natatorium. His distraction was evident. He tapped the rail in an incessant rhythm; the thud of it vibrated down the rail where I stood several feet away, and his restlessness troubled the air.
Uncle Jonny had said Farge was a recluse, and only today had said he wished to commission the man. It seemed somehow fated to come upon Ellis Farge here, almost as if I’d conjured him.
Perhaps he felt me looking at him; he glanced over. Quickly, I glanced away, praying I didn’t blush, though of course I could feel that I already was. I should approach him. For my uncle’s sake, of course. It would be one way to repay him for his generosity to me. But I was not Goldie, and I could not be so forward.
The thudding on the rail intensified. Now, I felt it against the bottom of the rail too, his foot tapping. Impossible to ignore. I glanced over again, and there he was, staring at me, frowning, as if he were trying to make me out. That chiseled face was handsome, the face of an aesthete. Yet he was still so very pale, and there were shadows beneath his deeply blue eyes.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Oh no. No, you don’t.”
He slid closer. “Then why do you keep looking at me?”
My mouth went dry. “Um—you’re shaking the railing.”
“Oh.” He stopped tapping and backed away from the rail. “Sorry. I’m just a bit . . . distracted.”
“Yes, I can tell.”
“Desperately so, really.” His foot nudged the rail as if he could not help himself, rapping again. “Oh, sorry.”
“Desperately distracted about what?”
&nbs
p; “Seriously, I can’t concentrate on a damn thing—sorry, forgive me. I’m not usually profane. I don’t know why I said that. Do you think it’s the weather? Ah, never mind.”
“Perhaps you’re too hot. It’s quite warm in here.”
“Is it? Well, it was raining this morning, wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“No?” He seemed discomfited. “You see. I’ve lost track of time, I think.” He stared at me now, and it was compelling at first; it started a sweet little shiver over my skin just before it became uncomfortable.
I looked away, suddenly not knowing what to do or what to say. Flirting was Goldie’s specialty, not mine. I was not even certain he was flirting. Tell him your name. Tell him about your uncle. But I could do neither, and I knew that I was going to walk away, to say goodbye, to let this chance go because I did not have the ease with the world to take it as my cousin would, and I felt a little envy at that—how did one learn such a thing?
“Please don’t go,” he said, as if he knew my thoughts. “I don’t mean to be rude. It’s only that I’m not quite myself today. Who are you? Where are you from? I promise I’m not a criminal or a kidnapper. I’m an architect.”
“I know who you are,” I said.
He raised a brow.
“Doesn’t everyone? You’re Ellis Farge.”
“Ah. You have me at a disadvantage, Miss—?”
“Kimble. May Kimble.”
“Kimble.” He came closer and reached for my hand, which he enveloped in his. His fingers were warm and somehow electric. “I feel I should know you, given that you know me.”
“You’re San Francisco’s most sought-after architect.”
He grimaced. “Indeed.”
“There you are, May!”
I looked over my shoulder to see Goldie at the top of the bleachers that overlooked the observation promenade. She waved enthusiastically.
Mr. Farge tipped his hat and said, “I’ll let you get back to your friend. Good day, Miss Kimble.”
Goldie hurried down the stairs, and he slipped away before I even knew he was gone, taking his restlessness with him.
“Was that Ellis Farge?” she asked upon reaching me.
“Yes.” How had he disappeared so quickly?
“I can’t believe it! Did you tell him about your sketches?”
“My sketches? Why would I?”
“Papa will be thrilled to hear you’ve met him.”
“It was hardly a meeting,” I said. “We spoke only a moment.”
“Oh, did I interrupt too soon? I’m so sorry.”
“I doubt he’ll remember me tomorrow. Where were you, anyway?”
“Oh”—she waved that away—“I couldn’t bear to wear a rental, so I just walked about a bit to give you a chance to bathe.”
“You missed the spectacle I made of myself.” I told her about the photographer and my misstep, and she let out a little peal of delight.
“You’ll be all over the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“You’ll make headlines—don’t cringe. You’re becoming the most mentioned girl on the society page.”
“If you say so.”
“Anyway, you’re in a better mood now.”
It was true, I had to admit. Ellis Farge and his restlessness had entirely distracted me from my lack of purpose and the episode with my aunt and my questions.
Goldie and I ate sandwiches and ice cream at one of the restaurants while I tried to ignore the now-and-again glances from those who had undoubtedly seen me in the white bathing costume. More than one man tipped his hat to me with a knowing smile, and when Goldie and I walked past one of the restaurant balconies, someone catcalled and whistled.
Goldie seemed so delighted by the attention that I could not bring myself to be dismayed, but I was relieved when we started back to the streetcar depot. The bathing complex, with its expanse of glass and its twin cupolas decorating an arched roof, flared like its own sun.
Goldie stopped. She put her hand to her eyes to shield them and said, “There’s Mr. Farge again.”
I glanced in the direction she was looking, and yes, he was coming from the building, still in that winter coat.
“May, you must make him remember you. For Papa’s sake. Promise me you will.”
“How am I to do that?”
“You’ll have to seek him out.”
“Goldie—”
I was interrupted by the clanging bell of the streetcar as it dragged, screeching, into the depot, and Goldie and I had to run to catch it.
Of course, Goldie had not forgotten any of it. Almost the moment we sat at breakfast the next morning, she said to Uncle Jonny, “You’ll never guess who May met yesterday at Sutro’s.”
Uncle Jonny barely glanced up from his eggs. “You’re right, I never will. Who was it?”
“Ellis Farge!” she announced.
A suddenly intense interest replaced my uncle’s inattention. “Ellis Farge?”
“Can you believe it?”
His gaze landed on me. “How exactly did May achieve this impossible thing?”
I tried to shrug it away and took a small bite of toast. “I happened upon him.”
“She happened upon him,” Goldie mocked gently.
Uncle Jonny wiped his mouth. “He’s avoiding me. I’m not alone in that, either. He’s shaken off Ruef for months.”
Abe Ruef. The man sitting at the Palace Bar with Uncle Jonny and the widow Dennehy. The man without whom nothing in the city got done.
“It seems like fate that May met him, doesn’t it, Papa? I told her it was a perfect opportunity.”
“He’s my first choice for the Nance building,” Uncle Jonny said thoughtfully. “We’ve been having trouble getting commitments. If they just could see a design . . .”
“Commitments?” I asked.
“Leases,” he provided.
“Ellis Farge’s design of Papa’s new building is bound to be famous. If it’s famous, then everyone will be rushing to lease space. If everyone’s rushing to lease space, it will be a huge success.” Goldie laid it out simply.
“Oh, I see.”
“There’s also that land in Chinatown I’m looking at.” My uncle spoke as if he were thinking out loud. “It may be easier for me to buy it if I can convince the seller I’ll bring in more business than anyone else. A connection with Farge could make that happen too.”
“You will simply have to go to Mr. Farge’s office, May,” Goldie said. “Don’t you think so, Papa?”
“Go to his office?” It was very forward, but I had approached him already, hadn’t I? It wasn’t as if we hadn’t been introduced. In a way.
“Of course. You’re an independent, modern woman, aren’t you?”
Uncle Jonny cautioned, “We cannot ask such a thing of May, my darling.”
“But you just said it would help, and she’s already got Mr. Farge’s attention.”
“Well, yes.” My uncle spoke with obvious reluctance. “But if it makes you uncomfortable, May, my dear, then please don’t give it another thought.”
I owed him so much. I owed them all so much. My meeting with Ellis Farge had been fated, as I’d thought. And I was a modern woman, as Goldie said. Why shouldn’t I go to his office?
“Of course I’ll call upon him. I would do anything to help, Uncle Jonny. You must know that.”
Goldie settled back with a smile. “How very good you are, May. Really, you simply could not be better.”
“You’ll come right back? I want to hear everything.” Goldie lounged on my bed an hour later, watching Shin artfully shape my hair into elegance.
“I won’t delay a moment.”
“Good. Do your very best, Shin. I want him unable to refuse her.” Goldie got off the bed. She took my sketchbook in its leather case from the bedside table and shoved it into my bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Show him these.”
“Goldie, I cou
ldn’t. They’re only sketches, and he’s—”
“It’s a way to gain his sympathies. Ask his advice. Men can’t resist a woman asking for help.”
I would never have thought of it. I knew I could not ask it of him. I knew I would not.
“Good luck!” Goldie blew me a kiss as she left the bedroom.
It was the first time I’d been alone with Shin since the debacle with my aunt. I wanted to ask her why she’d said nothing of my going through Aunt Florence’s drawers. I also wanted not to broach it. Perhaps she’d forgotten; perhaps she’d thought nothing of it. I didn’t want to give her a reason to tell my uncle if she hadn’t realized there was one. In the end, it seemed best to say nothing, to let her bring it up if she wished to do so. Still, I felt ashamed every time I met her eyes. I waited for her to say something about it. When she didn’t, I pretended my nervousness was because of my impending visit with Ellis Farge. That was partially true, anyway. Shin tucked in the last pin and stood back to survey her handiwork. “A ribbon, Miss May?”
I shook my head. “Businesslike is best, I think. Thank you, Shin.”
She helped me into my coat and pinned one of the giant cartwheel hats on my head—this one with a short veil and a bobbing owl perched in a sprawl of web-like silk branches. Shin looked as if she were about to say something, but thought better of it.
I patted the owl. “What is it? Does it look ridiculous?”
She handed over my bag. “You should not show him your drawings, Miss May.”
It was one thing to know myself that a renowned architect would find my sketches juvenile. It was another to be told. Shin’s words stung. That, and my guilt over Aunt Florence made my response sharper than I meant. “Of course not. I know that. I’m not an idiot.”
I refused to feel sorry at her wounded surprise, though I was irritated with myself as I went out to the waiting carriage and asked Nick to drive me to the office of Farge & Partners.
With every block that passed, I grew more nervous. When we reached the Italianate-styled building that took up an entire block on Montgomery Street, I did not want to get out of the carriage. I stared up at the four floors of windows, with restaurants and shops on the street, wondering if I could go home again and pretend that Ellis Farge had not been in. But then Nick was opening the door and I was stepping out, and before I knew it, I was at the door, where a directory indicated that Farge & Partners was on the top floor.