Midnight Harvest

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Sere: what a fine choice of words,” he said, smiling at her.

  “And appropriate,” she said as they neared the Packard. “You can’t see much of the yacht club just now, but there are some lovely sloops and ketches there. Last week the most splendid schooner was visiting the Saint Francis Yacht Club.” She indicated the fog at their back. “I’ll bring you down here one day, when it’s clear.”

  “Thank you, but ships and such have little attraction for me, though I have owned a great many in my time,” he said, reminding himself that he still did.

  “Why? I thought it was only running water that caused you problems,” she said, a bit surprised.

  “And what are the tides, if not running water? Add to them the currents of the ocean—in this bay, a river-current as well—and I am guaranteed misery,” he said. “Even still water can be uncomfortable. It interferes with my contact with the earth, you see.”

  She nodded. “I hadn’t thought.” She went around the rear of the car with him. “Then Amsterdam must have been quite unpleasant for you.”

  “I had my native earth lining the foundation of my house, and that provided relief.” He had his key out of his pocket.

  “Would crossing the bay by ferry make you—”

  “—seasick?” he finished for her. “It might, but I’ll take reasonable precautions. I managed the trip from Berkeley to San Francisco without too much inconvenience; that bridge over the Carquinez Strait is an impressive piece of engineering, and mercifully we were over it in less than two minutes: even then, I could feel the enervation of the current below. The airplane flight over the Atlantic was far more … disquieting.” He offered a half-smile. “Still, it was better than lying for days—or weeks—in a sealed chest in the hold of a ship.”

  She considered all this thoughtfully. “Then, if you don’t think you’ll be too uncomfortable, we’ll plan to drive up to Geyserville next week, if that’s all right with you? Can you endure to ride the ferry as far as San Rafael?”

  “That will be fine, particularly if we go at slack tide, assuming the ferry runs then,” he said, unlocking the passenger door for her. “You’ve taken to this place, I see.”

  “I certainly have,” she said, relieved to have a change of subject. “Thanks to my grandfather.” She slid into the seat and nodded for Saint-Germain to close the door.

  “He truly did his best for you,” he said as he got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

  “Yes, he did,” she said, a distant look in her eyes. “I miss him still, and he’s been gone for more than fifteen years.”

  “So you said in your letter last year.” He halted at the entrance to the street and checked the traffic before turning left.

  She smiled tentatively. “I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous.”

  “Certainly not,” he said, then added in a different tone of voice, “You’ll have to tell me how to find your house. I am still unfamiliar with the streets.”

  “You can take me back to the Saint Francis, if you’d rather,” she said. “I can hail a cab to go home, just as I called one to take me to the hotel.”

  “If that is what you prefer,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

  “Oh, dear. How awkward this is becoming,” she said as if thinking aloud. Then, putting her purse squarely in her lap, she said, “I would love to have you come to the house, today or anytime. But I didn’t want you to feel that I expected anything of you other than the pleasure of your company.”

  “As I am enjoying yours right now,” he said.

  She gave a snort of exasperation. “Are you making this difficult on purpose?”

  “No; that wasn’t my intention,” he said, and went on, “I would be honored to take you to your house. But as you don’t want me to feel as if you expected anything of me, so I would like you not to feel that I expect anything of you.”

  Her cheeks suddenly reddened. “I thought I couldn’t blush at my age,” she said, abashed by her lack of composure.

  “It is very becoming,” he said.

  “Because it’s blood?” she challenged, and regretted saying it the next instant. “Oh, dear. That came out badly. I’m sorry, truly.”

  “Rowena,” he said lightly, “I am not some overgrown mosquito, interested only in corpuscles and hemoglobin, nor am I a seducer who seeks to suborn your will to mine; that would benefit neither of us.” Then his tone deepened. “If you are afraid I will make importunate demands of you, I give you my Word I will not. If you believe I sought you out for only one thing, you demean yourself, and me. If you fear I would not desire you because of age or any other factor, I assure you it is not youth or anything so fleeting as prettiness that intrigues me; it is your self, the whole of you, and that totality commands my respect in every way I can express it. When you have lived as long as I have, you learn to treasure all life gives you as it gives it to you.”

  She was now as pale as she had been rosy. “I’m making a mull of this,” she said to her hands locked together on top of her purse.

  He slowed down for a stop-sign. “Which way shall I turn?” he asked her.

  “Go up to Lombard and turn left,” she said. “I’ll tell you how to find the house.” So saying, she leaned back against the leather-covered seat. “This is a wonderful auto. I thought my Chancellor Miller Speedster was the bee’s knees, and the cat’s pyjamas, as they said ten years ago—but this … I bought it in the summer of ’29 and it is still running perfectly. I’ll hate to give it up when the time comes, which I hope won’t be for a while yet. Cedric—my gardener?—has very real talent as a mechanic, and keeps it in perfect condition.”

  “The bee’s knees?” Saint-Germain repeated, amused and puzzled at once.

  “You know: swell, spiffy, top-notch. It’s a compliment that implies being up-to-the-minute as well as good quality. Or it meant that a few years ago. It seemed so important then, to be at the leading edge of everything. The bee’s knees.” Rowena laughed, a little sadly. “How dated it sounds now. And how fresh it seemed before.”

  “I am aware of the phenomenon,” said Saint-Germain as gently as he could. “When do I turn?”

  “Cross Van Ness and go to Larkin, then cut over. The house is on Taylor Street,” she said.

  Although he knew the address he said, “The fourteen hundred block, as I recall.”

  “Between Jackson and Pacific,” she said. “It’s a beautiful house. You’ll see.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Oh, dear. I don’t want to seem house-proud.”

  “It won’t trouble me, even if you are,” he said, slowing to get around a milk truck stopped for deliveries. There were a number of pedestrians on the sidewalks, a few of them already huddled into jackets or coats, the others moving briskly in an attempt to keep warm. There were a few men in worn clothing with hand-lettered signs offering apples or day-old bread for sale, and every few blocks, a newspaper boy shouted out the day’s headlines for The Chronicle or The Daily News. In counterpoint to all this, Saint-Germain heard the first moo of the foghorn, a deep, lugubrious pair of notes mixing with the bustle of the city.

  “I think you’ll like the house. Grandfather chose a very good architect after the fire in ’06. That’s what did the damage, you know, much more than the quake.” She was doing her best to make the kind of small talk she had been taught to do as a child.

  “In a city made of wood, that’s hardly surprising,” he said, thinking back to Moscow when Ivan Grosny ruled there, and the building components that were all pre-cut and ready to be assembled quickly. California was a far cry from Russia, but the hazards of wooden buildings pertained in both places.

  They had reached Larkin. “Turn right and go over to Pacific and then turn left,” said Rowena as if registering a final wish.

  Saint-Germain heard the reticence in her voice and slowed down. “You may change your mind, Rowena, if you would prefer to postpone this.”

  “It’s like getting into a swimming pool—better to jump in and get it
done all at once than to ooze in bit by chilly bit,” she said, and then looked at him, dismayed with what she just said. “Not that you are anything unpleasant—what worries me is that you may be too pleasant. That is a bit troublesome.”

  “An excellent recovery,” he approved, then, seeing that she was still uncomfortable, softened his voice, “I took no offense; why should I?”

  She gave a diplomatic cough. “Well, I can’t tell you that you should be offended—where would that leave me?”

  He sounded the horn at a bicycle rider who had cut in front of him as he turned. “You needn’t feel importuned, Rowena.”

  “I don’t,” she insisted, then said in a rush, “I haven’t had to deal with a man, not sexually, for six years. I’m out of practice.” She laughed a little. “There. I’ve said it.”

  “I hadn’t thought that intimacy was a sporting event,” he said, sad amusement in his dark eyes.

  “It may not be,” said Rowena, “but—” She stopped herself before she became too mired in this conversational morass.

  He gave his full attention to driving so she could sort herself out. Finally, as they neared Pacific, he said, “Shall we agree that this visit is something of an experiment? It will end whenever you would like it to, and will be in accordance with your wishes from start to finish.”

  “But I don’t know what my wishes are, and they may change,” she said. “Oh, Lord, I sound like a schoolgirl.”

  “Nothing is writ in stone, Rowena,” he promised her. “You needn’t fret about that You aren’t committing yourself forever through this one afternoon in each other’s company.”

  “Now you sound just like the psychiatrist I saw, some years ago, talking about mutability.” She paused. “It was after my last trip to England, and I was feeling restless and out of sorts, dissatisfied and discouraged. My work suffered, and finally my friends convinced me to see a psychiatrist; most of them had done so: it was a fashionable thing to do, if you could afford it, and I could.” Folding her arms, she went on. “I don’t think he helped very much, but at least I didn’t say anything too hurtful to Penelope; I said it all to Doctor Motte instead, which I guess was a good thing. After all, Penelope is my only immediate relative still living, and I don’t want to alienate her any more than I already have.”

  Saint-Germain nodded to show he was listening, but his attention was on the street ahead that was being veiled by fog. “Did you find Doctor Motte insightful?” He stopped at Broadway and waited for a break in the traffic before crossing.

  “About some things, yes, but generally, he seemed too dogmatic, too eager to conform my perceptions to Doctor Freud’s neat little pigeonholes, whether they actually fit or not, as so many of them seem inclined to do. I don’t think a paintbrush is a displaced phallus, or a painting a substitute for a child, though Doctor Motte certainly thought so. He thought the affaire I had then was a validation of my femininity. I thought it was a mistake.” She looked around at the thickening gloom. “It’s going to be a miserable night, all pea-soupy.”

  “Should I turn on my lights?” Saint-Germain asked.

  “It’s probably a good idea,” she said. “I would.”

  He did as she suggested and saw the mists brighten in the beams of his headlamps. “How much farther?”

  “Two blocks; we just passed Leavenworth.” She cocked her head as the echoing clang of a trolley-bell sounded among the buildings. “That’s the Hyde Street line, on its way to the pier, or back from it. Foghorns and trolley-bells, the two sounds that I will always believe are the voice of this place.”

  Saint-Germain did not challenge this diversion. He slowed and signaled a turn onto Pacific. “Mayor Rossi has plans for the city for the coming World’s Fair, doesn’t he?”

  “He certainly does,” said Rowena, seizing this new topic fervently. “He’s a clever politician, and he knows the value of a World’s Fair suits his ambitions down to the ground. Treasure Island, as they’re going to call it, is going to be a triumph or he’ll know the reason why.” Her tone changed. “We’re almost there.”

  “These hills can be a bit daunting,” Saint-Germain said calmly. “They’re steep enough to be a trial.”

  “Yes. This isn’t a city where you want to neglect your brakes, or your tires. Sometimes I wonder how horse-drawn carriages made it up and down them in bad weather, or even good weather, if it comes to that.” She glanced out the window as he signaled for a right turn onto Taylor. “Up ahead on the left,” she said, a bit distractedly. “There should be a parking space on this side of the street.”

  “If you see one, tell me. The fog is getting worse.” He noticed an approaching car materializing out of the mists ahead of them, coming slowly as if groping its way toward the intersection; it was almost in the middle of the roadway, and Saint-Germain pulled the Packard to the side to give the other driver room to maneuver.

  “There’s a space, there. In front of the next house along. You can fit in there.” Rowena pointed with one hand and touched his sleeve with the other.

  Saint-Germain pulled into the parking space, curbed the wheels, and set the brake. “Well, here we are,” he said, getting out of the Packard and coming around to open the passenger door for Rowena.

  She got out of the car with practiced ease. “Gee, it’s cold,” she exclaimed, folding her arms, her purse pressed against her breasts as if to shield her from the chill. “I should have brought a coat with me.”

  “I’ll get you inside quickly, so you can get warm,” he said, offering her his arm as he squinted into the fog, hoping to get them safely across the street; even his night-seeing eyes could not penetrate the blurry mists around them. “How dangerous is it?”

  “I can’t tell. The corner won’t be any safer—it could even be more risky because of traffic turning. Best to take our chances here.” She took a step out into the street, and as quickly stepped back; a moment later, a Cadillac loomed at them, passing on to the intersection. “I think we’d better listen, and when it sounds clear, make a run for it. That’s what I usually do.” She shivered, as much from apprehension as from the cold.

  “As you wish,” he said, and stood silently, trying to hear the approaching rumble of car engines. Three cars passed before they sprinted across the road, slipping between a Pierce-Arrow and a Lincoln tourer to the sidewalk.

  “Not that you can see it at its best, but that’s it, two doors down,” said Rowena as they started toward the house. They walked toward it, and gradually it became more visible, a large house in a style that combined elements of the Edwardian and Queen Anne, with a touch of Orientalism thrown in. The windows were good-sized and three of them were fronted by trellises upon which wisteria grew. “Not Gingerbread Gothic, but still…” She used the knocker, which was a flying brass bird, over which was the elaborately lettered motto And lo! the bird is on the wing. “Clara should still be here. She’s supposed to be at the house until five, more than an hour from now.”

  “Your housekeeper—yes, I recall.” He stepped up onto the porch beside her, under the broad eaves that sheltered the front door.

  There were footsteps inside the house, the distinctive sound of heeled shoes, and then the snick of a lock, and the door opened inward, revealing a woman of about thirty-five in a plain dress of dark blue; her hair was done up in a simple bun and she wore only a touch of lipstick. “Good afternoon, Miss Saxon,” she said, glancing toward Saint-Germain with veiled curiosity. “The mailman arrived at one, and I put your letters on the table. There’s one from your nephew.” She indicated the small taboret under a framed painting of deer grazing at the edge of a meadow; the impression was pastoral, but with an underlying unease, as if the deer were being watched by a predator.

  “Thank you, Clara,” said Rowena, maintaining her composure as she and Saint-Germain stepped into the foyer. “We’re going into my studio.” She smiled. “The Comte here was one of my first patrons. He and I met in England, before the Great War.”

  Clara regarded
him narrowly. “Do you say so? He must have been very young.”

  Rowena looked a bit startled; she picked up the envelopes on the taboret and began to sort through them. “Yes. We were both much younger then, and our lives were very different.”

  “I should think so,” said Clara. “Is there anything you want of me just now, or shall I go back to making dinner?”

  “Oh, yes, please,” said Rowena. “A tray with tea and English muffins—you know what I like—and a snifter of brandy,” she said. “We’ll be in my studio.” She put all the envelopes but one back on the table. “I’ll take care of the mail later. Come along, Saint-Germain. I want you to see what I’ve been working on.” He followed Rowena after favoring Clara with a nod; Rowena opened the pocket-doors on the left side of the foyer, and motioned to Saint-Germain to come along. “These used to be parlors, and could be opened up to make a small ballroom; my grandfather often entertained fairly lavishly. They make a fine studio, and you can see the windows I had put in at the far end for north light,” she said, pointing these things out, a bit of her nervousness returning. There were paintings on almost every foot of wall-space, some of them finished and framed, others in various stages of completion. “That group I did on a trip up to Mendocino, a little town about a hundred sixty miles away. The coast north of here is still fairly remote and the road is not an easy one, but the town—you can see the saw mill in this view—has a beautiful location, and the isolation makes it unique. The painting in the foyer is part of the series I did there. I did twenty watercolors and nine oils.” She put down her purse on a trestle table and pulled off her gloves. “And these are my studies of the bridge being built. This one is the Oakland bridge—as you see, it’s further along than the Golden Gate—and the—” She stopped abruptly and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I am rattling.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Saint-Germain said. “I think you’re trying to compress more than two decades into ten minutes.”