My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California

by Janice Thompson

  “You’re one of the finest ladies I’ve ever met.” Abby rested her hand on Cookie’s arm. “And any man would be a fool not to notice.”

  “Well, pooh.” With the wave of her dishcloth Cookie dismissed that idea. “What fun would it be, marrying a woman who spends three quarters of her life behind a hot stove?”

  “He’d never go hungry.”

  “True, but why feed one man when I can fill the stomachs of hundreds?” She shrugged.

  “You’re a peach, Cookie. Always remember that.” Abby gave her a little kiss on the cheek. “And just for the record, fellas love a woman who knows how to cook, which just goes to show you that I’ll be a spinster for the rest of my life.”

  Her gaze shifted to Sam and Les once again. If a gal like Les could find a fella, then maybe someone like Abby—a woman with no prospects—could find one too.

  On Saturday morning, Abby could barely pull herself from the bed.

  Only when Cookie rapped on her door did she finally stir. Doing so caused every square inch of her body to cry out in pain.

  She somehow managed to get dressed and hobble down the stairs. Each step made her wince in agony, the aching in her hip joints and knees excruciating. On top of all of this, her head pounded and her stomach felt queasy.

  Abby eased her way across the dining hall, then into the kitchen, where she reached for an apron.

  “You all right, kid?” Cookie looked her way, concern etched on her brow.

  Abby shook her head, which only served to aggravate the headache. “I think I might be ill.”

  “Really?” Cookie rested her palm against Abby’s forehead then pulled it away. “You don’t feel feverish. Is your stomach upset?”

  “A little. Right here.” Abby put her hand on her side. “I ache all over.”

  “Mm-hmm. I see.” Cookie’s lips curled up in a hint of a smile. “Does your back hurt?”

  “Oh, yes. Terribly.”

  “And your feet?”

  Abby tried to wiggle her toes but found the task too painful. “I’ve never felt anything like it. They’re swollen too. I could barely lace up my boots. That’s what took so long. Almost came down to the kitchen in my bare feet.”

  “Headache?”

  “Something awful.” Abby groaned. “Do you think I should see the doctor?”

  “No, child. No doctor necessary. But I do know what’s ailing you.”

  “You do?” A wave of relief swept over Abby. “What is it?”

  “I believe the expression is ‘bone tired.’”

  “What?”

  “You’re bone tired. Your body is exhausted from all the work you’ve done over the past several days. And I would venture a guess that you’ve never worked this many hours in a row before.”

  Abby felt her cheeks grow warm. “I, well …”

  Behind her, Neville coughed. He slipped on his apron and got to work.

  Before Abby could stop it, a groan slipped out. “All right, all right. I’ve never worked like this … ever. The most physical labor I’ve ever done was when we volunteered at the mission house and I swept the floors. But even then, someone else came along behind me and picked up what I’d left.” She plopped down into a chair. “So, you don’t think I’m dying?”

  “We’re all dying, honey. No one lives forever, this side of heaven, anyway.” Cookie laughed. “But as for your aches and pains, I’d say your body just needs time to adjust to the new routine. Before long you’ll be fit as a fiddle. Those muscles will stop aching eventually and you’ll toughen up. In the meantime, I’ll give you some liniment to rub on the achy parts.”

  Abby gestured from her head to her toes. “I hope you have a lot of liniment. I’m going to need it by the bucketload.”

  Cookie laughed and slapped her arm over Abby’s shoulders. Abby let out a cry of pain.

  “Oh, sorry.” Cookie pulled her arm away. “Shoulders aching too, eh?”

  “I told you, everything hurts. Even my eyes hurt when I blink them. And my fingers, when I bend them.” She extended a hand and offered an example, wincing when the pain became unbearable as she closed it to a fist. “I’m useless, Cookie. Totally and completely useless.”

  “Pooh on that. Your body will catch up in short order.”

  “If I don’t die first.”

  “No one ever died from hard work.”

  “Not true, not true,” Jin said. “I once saw man collapse carrying barrel of water. Too heavy. He die fast. See with my own eyes!”

  “Except for that one instance, no one ever died from hard work.” Cookie shot Jin a warning look. “Put on your apron, Abby. We’ve got hungry men coming through in thirty minutes, and we haven’t even started cracking eggs yet or slicing bacon. Oh, and we need to peel potatoes. I’m fryin’ ’em up with some onions this morning. The fellas like that with their bacon.”

  “Yes, Cookie.” Abby attempted to stand but felt like crying as the pain in the back of her calves made doing so impossible.

  “Here, Miss Abigail, allow me.” Neville offered her a hand. She braced herself and finally managed to stand aright. “You use that liniment and you’ll feel better in no time.”

  “I hope so.” Abby hobbled back to her room and Cookie arrived a short time later, liniment in hand. Abby managed to coat the sore spots, all the while fighting the temptation to climb back into bed. Then she rejoined Cookie and the men in the kitchen.

  Sam took one look at her and his eyes grew wide. “You all right?”

  She shook her head, but went straight to the stove to lay out strips of bacon and then started peeling potatoes. Before long she was in a steady rhythm, going back and forth between the stove and the sink.

  “How did you fill your days back in England?” Cookie asked. “Not by peeling potatoes, I would imagine.”

  “Or plucking chickens,” Sam added with a crooked grin.

  “Never peeled a potato in my life, I’m ashamed to admit.” Abby paused and her thoughts shifted back to what life had been like in Effingham. “I did take lessons on the pianoforte. And I visited the sick at the infirmary, took baskets of goodies and what-not.”

  “Things you baked?”

  “No.” Abby shook her head. “Our family had the most wonderful cook.” She clamped a hand over her mouth as she glanced Cookie’s way then pulled her hand down and said, “She couldn’t compare to you, Cookie, of course.”

  “Compliment unnecessary, but thank you very much.” Cookie nodded. “But you’re saying the cook did all the baking and you delivered the goods?”

  “Yes.” Abby paused, her thoughts shifting. “Guess I hadn’t pictured it that way. Always felt like I was the one doing the work, but I suppose she carried the heavier load.”

  “We all do our part, honey.” Cookie rested a hand on Abby’s arm. “That’s what makes teamwork so precious. All hands on deck, as it were. When we work together, we accomplish much.” She gave Abby a compassionate look. “And for the record, I now see that you and Sammy have more in common than I’d first thought.”

  “We do?” Abby and Sam spoke in unison.

  “Well, sure. He’s always trying to think of ways to help the down and out. Sounds like you were busy doing the same thing, back in England and here.”

  “Here?” Abby cast Cookie a sideways glance.

  “Don’t think I didn’t see you giving Jedediah Tucker an extra ham steak the other morning.”

  “Ah.” Abby’s nose wrinkled. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve no shortage of food, and he’s got a limited supply of funds. I’ve slipped him several meals myself. So has Sam. And he’s stayed up there in Sam’s tithe room more than a few times. Which brings me back to my point. The two of you are both focused on others, not yourselves.”

  “Which is precisely why I’ve been so concerned.” Neville’s voice sounded from beside her.

  Abby glanced his way, intrigued by his comment. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been so busy lookin
g out for the well-being of your parents that you’ve sacrificed your own personal comfort and safety. That’s what I mean.” He put his hands on his hips and released a breath. “There. I’ve said it. Said what I’ve been thinking for a year and a half now. I dare say, it feels rather good to get that off my chest.” Neville turned on his heel and reached for a tray. “Back to work.”

  “Oh, my.” Cookie looked genuinely astounded. “The man speaks. More than a word or two at a time, I mean.”

  “I suppose he does.” Abby marveled at Neville’s words. “Though I’ve never heard anything like that come out of his mouth before.”

  “San Francisco emboldens folks.” Cookie laughed. “Trust me when I say that many a fellow has dared to speak his mind here. Women, too. All inhibitions are thrown aside in California.”

  A few minutes later, food prepared, Cookie rang the breakfast bell and then opened the door to a waiting public. Abby stood with coffeepot in hand, ready to fill men’s cups with the tantalizing brew. The first man through the door was Marcus Denueve. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her standing there.

  “Well, I guess it’s true.” He shook his head and his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “What’s true?” She gestured for him to take a seat and then she filled his cup.

  “That you’d gone to work for the Harrises. Had to come see for myself. Couldn’t picture it, to be honest with you.”

  “It’s true.” She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and did her best not to flinch as a pain in her hip nearly caused her to fall.

  Marcus gave her a tender look. “Miss Effingham, I hope you don’t mind my mentioning this, but you look …”

  “Like something the cat dragged in?”

  “Well, I was going to say exhausted.”

  She felt like releasing a groan but it would have taken too much energy. “I believe I met and passed exhausted several days ago. I thought, perhaps, I might have influenza. Every joint rebelled at the slightest attempt to put one foot in front of the other. But Cookie assures me I will live. I’m just—as she says—bone tired.”

  He gave her a look so gentle it almost melted her. “Aren’t you tired of living this way? Don’t you wish you could go back to an easy, carefree life?”

  “I will admit, the idea holds some appeal.” She stepped to the next table and filled cups with coffee before rejoining Mr. Denueve in conversation. “But there is value in hard work that I never appreciated before.”

  “Of course. But perhaps somewhere in the middle would be nice?” He gestured for her to join him at his table, but she had far too much work to do for that.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, a bit of work, something to bring fulfillment. But not so much that it causes you distress or pain. A young woman of your position should be enjoying life, not wearing herself to a thread.”

  “I keep reminding myself it’s only for a season. I will be going home to Philadelphia by late summer, and must plow forward until then.”

  “Won’t your father send funds to help you until then?”

  “He would … if I asked.”

  “Are you saying he doesn’t know about your situation?” Mr. Denueve looked aghast.

  Abby managed the groan. “He knows we arrived safely. And, from what I’ve been told, Neville sent word that things are difficult, though I haven’t heard back from Father yet. But how was I to know that everything in San Francisco would be triple the price? Or ten times, in some cases? It’s highway robbery.”

  “Folks around here are accustomed to the prices, ridiculous as they might be.” He lifted his coffee cup and took a sip. “They toss pieces of gold at shop owners like they were candy.”

  “I don’t have pieces of gold.”

  “Though you are a fine prospect.” His brows elevated mischievously.

  “Beg your pardon?” Was the man really flirting with her … again? In her current state, no less?

  “Sorry.” He removed his hat and set it on the table. “Just making a pun. You’re worth more than all the gold in that river, Miss Effingham. That’s all I’m saying. So take care of yourself. Please.”

  “Trust me, I’m …” What was the word Neville used, again? Ah yes. “Acclimating.”

  “So, what was it like … before?”

  “Before what?” Abby asked.

  “Before coming here. What sort of life did you lead? Judging from the gown you were wearing the day we met, I’d say you were some sort of socialite.”

  She brushed damp hair from her face. “I suppose some would say that. I spent my days on charity work and the like. I learned the things that all girls learned.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pianoforte.”

  “Pianoforte?” His eyes lit up. “Are you telling me you play the piano?”

  “Of course. All of the young women in society do.”

  “You play the piano and you didn’t tell us?” He seemed genuinely interested in this notion but she couldn’t imagine why.

  “Likely, not the sort of music you’re accustomed to hearing, but I do play.”

  “Anything restaurant customers would fancy?”

  “Chopin. Mozart.”

  “Hmm.” A pause followed on his end. “What if I paid you a nice wage—a really nice wage—to come and play in a restaurant for a couple of hours each night? You wouldn’t have to be on your feet, and I know the fellows would love it.”

  “Play piano in a restaurant?” She shivered. “I’m trying to picture the look on my father’s face. He would be mortified. But why are you asking anyway? You don’t own a restaurant, do you?”

  “I do now.” A mischievous smile tipped the edges of his lips. “I have purchased the Watering Hole and have grandiose plans to convert it into a fine dining establishment. As for your father, he would be equally as mortified, I dare say, to see you in your current condition. Any father with half a heart would.” He paused. “Think about it, Miss Effingham. I feel sure your piano pieces could be adapted to a dining atmosphere. Can you play ‘Vive La Compagnie’? Things like that?”

  She offered a shrug in response. “I suppose I could pick it out, though I do better with written music. But I hear the Watering Hole’s pianist playing all of the time. Can’t he play for your restaurant too?”

  “Yep, but he’s headed back to Illinois. Dying mother, or some such thing. So, think about it, Miss Effingham. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the money it will bring in.”

  Earning an income without having to stand on her feet all day over a hot stove almost sounded too good to be true. On the other hand, things that sounded too good to be true … usually turned out to be just that.

  Sam didn’t mean to listen in on the conversation between Marcus and Abby, but couldn’t help himself.

  “What’s all this about Abby playing the piano?” he asked.

  Abby turned to face him, her smile strained. “Yes, Marcus has purchased the saloon and is turning it into a restaurant. He’s asked me to play some classical pieces for the patrons.”

  “Did he, now.” Sam set a plate of food down in front of Marcus and bit back the temptation to say more.

  “Sure did.” The fellow reached for his fork. “I’ll be changing the name shortly to the Lucky Penny.”

  “What about the mercantile?” Sam asked.

  “Still running the mercantile. But Herb Madison offered me a deal I couldn’t pass up on the saloon, so I’ll be stepping in as proprietor.” Marcus took a bite of his eggs and leaned back in the chair, a satisfied expression on his face.

  “Not gonna call it the Watering Hole anymore?”

  “That’s right.” Marcus dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Bringing the place up to higher standards. Grand opening on the last Friday in June. Hope you can join us.”

  Sam’s blood began to boil at this news. Marcus Denueve was a scoundrel, at best. He tripled or even quadrupled the prices on everyday items at the mercantile. What would he do to prices at the saloon? And what was
next? Would he buy out Maggie O’Callahan? Then the bathhouse? Before long, every place in town would be owned by the scoundrel, who would raise rates all over the place.

  On the other hand, maybe the higher prices at the local saloon would nudge the heavy drinkers toward sobriety. Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew the saloon wasn’t going away anytime soon, no matter what pretty words Marcus used to entice Abby to work for him.

  “We’ll be serving food now too. Not just liquor.” Marcus took another bite and leaned back in his chair. “Mmm.”

  “A full menu?” This news took Samuel by surprise.

  “Don’t fret, Sammy.” Marcus gave him a nod but the sour expression that followed seemed more than a little condescending. “There are plenty of hungry men in town. I won’t be cutting in on your business. Much. But wait until you meet my new chef.” He chuckled. “Fine fellow, by the way. Just arrived from France. Trained as a chef in Paris. He’s been a friend of the Denueve family for years.” Marcus’s gaze narrowed. “I have it on good authority he’s wonderful with American fare, though I dare say his cooking won’t hold a candle to Cookie’s, of course.” A strained smile followed.

  “Trained in Paris?” Sam did his best not to snort aloud. Who did this fellow think he was trying to impress? Folks round here loved good home cooking, not fancy stuff.

  “Yep. Don’t let that fool you, though. He’s a master at cuisines from around the world, which should appeal to the men in San Francisco, seeing as how they come from the four corners of the globe. I’m sure many of them have been aching for the foods from home, and now they can have that.”

  A sinking feeling landed in the pit of Sam’s stomach. Instead of showing his dismay, he forced a smile. “Well, I wish you the best, Marcus.”

  “Thanks, friend.”

  Ugh. Friend?

  “See?” Abby glanced Sam’s way with a smile that reflected her delight. “This will be so good for business, to have two full-service restaurants in town. So don’t worry, Sammy.”