Mr. Deane rose to his feet as Mara entered the room. His eyes widened, as he gazed in stunned disbelief. For the first time since she’d met the man, he was speechless.
“Miss McClain, you look…breathtaking,” he whispered.
From the corner of her eye, Mara glimpsed Jane Darby seething. Her lips parted, but she was unable to speak.
“Are you ready, dear?” Patrick offered his arm and led her outside. Jane rushed to the open window and watched with clenched fists, fingernails sinking deep into her palms
Patrick helped Mara into the surrey. He climbed up beside her, giving a gentle flick of the reins. They drove down the darkening street. The rustling wind scattered the ends of his hair over his face. He pushed them away absently with the back of his hand. She breathed in the aroma of chimney smoke and soft cologne. Autumn leaves blew across the cobblestones, dancing chaotic circles through shadows, the sky glowing like burning embers.
They were both quiet for the first few moments of the ride, stealing glances and smiling shyly as they made their way across Market Street toward Mission. Mara noticed a large cathedral rising toward the heavens, a Gothic silhouette shadowed by the setting sun.
“Mr. Deane, is that a Catholic Cathedral?”
“Yes, it is. That’s Saint Patrick’s.”
“It looks lovely. I was hoping to find a nice church for Sunday Mass.”
“Well, I’m sure Miss Lowe would be happy to join you. She goes every Sunday.”
“Oh, really?”
“So, another Catholic girl has moved into the Levy Boarding House.” He chuckled. “It appears that I had to travel all the way to America before finding my perfect Irish rose,” he said quietly, his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the road, and turned down the block. Mara took the opportunity to drink in his features, admiring his rugged jawline, high cheekbones, charming snub nose and smoldering eyes. No wonder Jane Darby couldn’t keep her hands off him.
The scenery changed abruptly and they found themselves in a completely foreign world. The street signs were written in Chinese. Lanterns hung along and over-top the busy avenue, swinging in the breeze like colorful paper moons. Soft lights illuminated the frenzied neighborhood. The night was loud with the hard edges of Cantonese. There was an urgency in the crowd, as if these people were racing against time. Hundreds of Chinese residents hurried over the sidewalks, some peddling bicycles. Most of the pedestrians were men. They wore long braided queues down the backs of loose fitting shirts. Mara noticed only a handful of women outside. They wore colorful silk dresses that hugged their petite figures. Several Laundromats displayed starched clothing hanging in their windows. Produce stands sold exotic fruits and vegetables. Large yellow banners advertised mysterious businesses with cloudy windows. Mara tried to make sense of the signs.
She noticed a group of men gathered outside a dark building with heavy red doors. They were bunched up in tight circles, a few of them pacing around anxiously. Smoke spilled out from an open window. The doors parted slowly, revealing a young woman in her late teens. A hazy light revealed her silhouette. She wore a bright red Quipao covered in tiny gold flowers. She smiled demurely as the gentlemen entered. These scenes repeated themselves for several blocks until they had at last reached their destination.
Mr. Deane stopped the surrey in front of a small building, The Golden Dragon. He helped Mara climb down and escorted her inside. It was a small restaurant, full of people, laughter, and the scents of eastern cooking. A young man made his way over to greet them.
His ebony hair was braided in a long queue. When he smiled, his face lit up like the lanterns above their heads.
“Patrick! It’s wonderful to see you!”
“Miss McClain, I’d like to meet my friend, Junjie Lee. His parents own this restaurant.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss McClain,” he answered politely.
“Thank you, Mr. Lee. The pleasure’s mine.”
Mara soon realized that they were the only people speaking English. Some of the diners were taking turns staring at them. She didn’t mind. It thrilled her to be able to travel just a few blocks and emerge into this magical world. It was quite the adventure.
They were escorted to a private table in the back and handed two menus. Chinese characters covered the pages.
Mr. Lee described some of the dishes listed, pointing to a few vegetarian options.
She turned to Mr. Deane. “What do you recommend?”
He thought for a moment and said, “Junjie, could we have two vegetable chow mien platters with bean curd and a bottle of plum wine?”
“Nice choice,” he smiled, collecting their menus and heading back to the kitchen.
The food arrived quickly, two steaming bowls of noodles, bean curd and vegetables covered in a dark brown sauce. The aroma was tantalizing and Mara’s stomach rumbled with hunger. She looked down at the chopsticks with a curious expression.
“Shall I help you with those?” Patrick asked standing up.
“Thank you.”
He smiled, walked over to her chair, leaning toward her shoulder, and gently placed her fingers around the chopsticks. His hand folded over hers, guiding them through the noodles. A few moments passed, which seemed like a lifetime, before she had the hang of it. As he leaned in closer, she could feel the coarseness of his skin against her cheek. She breathed in the subtle aroma of his aftershave, the touch of his hand sending shivers down her back, as she struggled to focus. Once it appeared that Mara had mastered the use of her chopsticks, he went back to his seat and filled her glass with plum wine. She took a sip; the rich beverage rolled down her throat, warming her belly. She felt at ease and wanted the night to go on forever. Meanwhile, she tried her best to gather the slippery noodles up with the slender pieces of wood. When she had finally managed to wrestle a hunk of chow mien between the sticks, just inches from her lips, the points crossed and the noodles slipped and fell onto her lap. She looked up, embarrassed, but caught the glimmer in Patrick’s eyes, and they laughed until tears welled in their eyes. When they’d composed themselves, Patrick leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his wine, and steadied her with a thoughtful look.
“I’m really looking forward to working for you over the next few weeks.”
“I am, too,” she said smiling. “But I should probably ask you how much you charge before you start to work. I’ll make sure to have your money ready by Monday.”
His eyes flickered for a moment.
“Well, I had an idea about that.” He took a sip of wine before going on. “I was thinking we might do an exchange.”
“An exchange?” Mara asked, raising her brow.
“I’d like to ask you a favor. You see…it’s not everyday that I get the chance to work for a lovely young artist. I was wondering if we might exchange my labor for one of your paintings?”
“Really? What’d did you have in mind?”
“Well, I hope you don’t think it’s strange…but I’m quite fond of my old horse, Sammy, and I’m afraid he’s getting a little long in the tooth. That old boy means the world to me. I don’t know how many more winters we’ll be sharing, and so it might be nice to have a painting done of him before he passes on.” His eyes glazed over, and he blinked, looking towards the open window.
Mara was touched.
“I’d be more than happy to paint Sammy. I’d consider it an honor, but is that enough for all the labor you’ll be doing at the shop? I know it’ll be taking you away from your other jobs.”
“No, dear, it’s more than enough, and I’m going to be boxing in some matches over the next couple of weeks in the evenings. I’ll be earning my keep that way,” he said with a far off look.
Mara was quiet, fretting over the possibility of him being injured.
As if reading her thoughts, he asked, “Is everything alright?”
She collected herself and tried to smile. “Oh yes…I think it’s a lovely idea. Perhaps you’
d like to pose with Sammy?”
His eyes widened. “Oh? Well…I never really considered it…but it would be interesting, I suppose.”
“Perhaps you could take a few work breaks during the day. There’s a paddock behind my new gallery. I could set up my easel and paint the both of you.”
Patrick was quiet for a moment, studying his glass. “I think that’d be just fine.” They smiled at one another, comfortable in their silence, the cool wine easing their nerves.
“Oh, I did have an idea for your gallery before I forget. Junjie happens to be an accomplished artist himself. His parents came to San Francisco during the height of the Gold Rush. They moved from Beijing, China. He’s spent his entire life in San Francisco, which is why his English is so excellent. We’ve been on a few carpentry jobs together. He’s actually going to be taking over at the mercantile store for the next few weeks, but he paints in his spare time. His work deals a lot with Chinese heritage. Think you might be interested in taking a look at some of his paintings?”
“Absolutely.”
After paying for their meal, Patrick helped Mara out of her seat, taking her by the arm towards the upstairs living quarters. Junjie turned around by the front entrance, paused nervously, and asked if they wouldn’t mind taking off their shoes before entering, and so they took turns stripping off their footwear.
“Miss Mara, this is my mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Lee.”
His parents were sitting in the dining room finishing supper. They seemed surprised by the unexpected guests, but smiled warmly all the same. Junjie explained that they both spoke little English. His mother stood up from the table, a petite woman with delicate features, and motioned for them to take a seat. Within moments, there was hot tea and sugar cakes. Mr. And Mrs. Lee studied them with curious expressions, smiling while the young couple thanked them for their dessert and drinks. Mara looked around the room, sipping her tea, admiring the colorful decorations and the otherwise modest home. There were several jade animal figurines along the shelves. Family photographs covered the walls, a few scenes from China.
The logs in the fireplace crackled; a golden Buddha rested on its hearth. A dish of fresh oranges was set to the left, burning sticks of incense to the right. The ends glowed red with spiraling smoke that floated lazily towards the ceiling.
Junjie came back into the room carrying five large paintings. He propped them up alongside the fireplace. Each canvas depicted a different animal. The largest work was of a dragon rising from the sea, its golden scales glittering in the soft light.
“In our culture, our birth years are represented by the Zodiac. So, if you were born in 1849, you’d be the Year of the Monkey.” He lifted one of the paintings, a brown monkey with expressive eyes grasping the branches of a tree. The hair appeared to shimmer with flakes of gold.
“Miss Mara, may I ask your birth year?”
“Why, yes, it’s 1848.”
“Ah, the Year of the Horse. A very good animal.”
He held up a painting of a golden horse running through a green field flecked with white lilies and yellow daffodils.
“That’s stunning!”
“Thank you. People born during the Year of the Horse are said to be kind, sentimental and straightforward. And you, Patrick?”
“Oh, me? 1845.”
He smiled, reaching for one of the paintings. “Year of the Tiger.” As he held up the image, she noticed that the orange and black fur was highlighted by what appeared to be gold dust. The style was unique—realistic imagery, but with broken brush strokes. It reminded her of the photograph that Betty had shown her of Monet’s haystacks. The paintings had an electric quality to them, giving the animals the appearance of being in motion.
“People born in the Year of the Tiger are said to be brave, confident, and adventurous. The horse and tiger are romantically compatible,” Junjie replied with a smile. Patrick gave Mara a quick wink. She smiled back, studying the image with fascination.
“Your paintings are lovely, so…original. You know, I’m looking for pieces for my gallery. What would you think about showing your work in my studio? I’m planning on having a grand opening soon. I’d love to have your canvases on display.”
“Yes, I’d like that very much. Thank you.”
They discussed the details of commissioning the pieces and arranged a day to drop off the artworks. Afterwards, they said their goodbyes and headed back to the surrey. The night was cold and dark, the fog pressing down on the city. The street lamps glowed eerily in the haze. Mara winced as the wind whipped past, her body shivering in the breeze. Patrick reached his arm around her waist and scooted her closer. They smiled at one another as they rode along. Once they were back at the house, Mara offered to help Patrick with the horses. He was patient and showed her how to safely remove the tack and reins, and then how to hang them on the paddock wall. When they were finished, the horses settled in their stalls. They stood silently together in the soft light of the barn. Patrick leaned toward Mara, gently taking her hands in his, their eyes locking. His lips brushed against her eager mouth, warm and tender. His strong arms embraced her, pulling her close, and for a moment, it seemed like they were one person, melting against one another, floating through time and space.
Slowly their eyes opened, hearts drumming with desire. Patrick smiled down at her flushed face.
“I better get you inside. I can’t have my little Irish rose shivering in the cold.” He gave her a quick peck on the nose and escorted her back to the house. They walked up the stairs hand in hand.
“Good night, darlin’.” They kissed goodbye outside her bedroom.
The door closed behind her. Mara could barely contain her excitement. She paced back and forth, trying to release her pent-up energy. It would be hard to sleep tonight. She undressed in a happy daze, snuggled under the covers, and clicked open her diary.
Mara and Patrick were oblivious to the fact someone had been watching from down the hall. Jane Darby clenched her jaw, spying through a small opening in her bedroom door. When they were both back in their rooms, she quietly closed the wooden barrier and threw herself on top of the bed. The tears she cried were not tears of sorrow. No, they were tears of rage.
* * * *
Mrs. Levy’s table was full for Sunday breakfast, the guests quietly helping themselves to generous helpings of French toast, scrambled eggs and fresh fruit. Mara and Patrick occasionally stole glances at one another, happy in their blossoming romance.
Joshua looked over at Mara and said, “Betty said you might want to attend church this morning. Could I give you two a ride?”
“Yes, thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”
Jane stared for a moment and then asked, “Is it true what they say about Catholics?”
Mara turned and looked at the girl. She tried to keep her voice calm as she spoke. “What is it that they say?”
“That Catholics worship statues in their churches.” She giggled. “And that ya’ll practice a bunch of strange rituals,” she said rolling her eyes.
“No, we don’t,” Mara said flatly, trying her best to love her neighbor, though failing miserably. “We’re not idolatrous. The statues remind of us what we love most, Jesus, Mary, and all the saints and apostles, but we aren’t worshipping the statues. That’s just silly.”
Jane eyed her distastefully and refused to speak to her through the remainder of breakfast. Mara caught Betty’s eyes and tried not to laugh.
After breakfast, Patrick led Mara over to the parlor.
“I’m going to be gone most of the day and night. I have some sparring practice this morning, and a fight later this evening, but if things work out the way I hope, I’ll have more than enough money for my new business.”
“Oh, really? What kind of business?” Mara’s face lit up.
“Jenjie and I have been saving our money so we can invest in a few properties. There are some really interesting homes being built over in Pacific Heights. We’ve been calling them Painted Lad
ies. They’re pretty spectacular, architecturally speaking. The paint colors are often bold and theatrical. We have plans to build one of our own, but we need to get the capital. There’s still a bit of real estate available to lease on that side of town. I just need to score a few more fights downtown. There’s a big one coming up. It’s quite the payday for whoever comes out on top. I know I can do it, Mara. I’ve got to do it. I can’t go on forever like this, just scraping by, hoping to grab whatever job happens to come my way.” His face grew solemn.
Mara looked down at his hands. She traced her fingers over his clenched fists. She thought of how they were strong, and yet seemed so very gentle.
“What if you get injured…or what if…” She couldn’t finish as her stomach began to turn.
“I’ll be fine, darlin’,” he said, trying to ease her worries. “If I plan this just right, my boxing days will soon be a thing of the past. You’ll see, then I’ll be able to focus on what really matters.” Patrick looked deep into her eyes, and she felt as if she were falling. He bent down, kissing her softly on the mouth.
They pulled apart as they heard footsteps approaching.
“Sorry to interrupt, we were just about to drive over to Saint Patrick’s, if you’re ready.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
They said their goodbyes and headed to church. A heavy weight settled in her stomach as they drove along. She tried to pay attention to the conversation, but her mind kept wandering. Before she knew it, they’d arrived at Saint Patrick’s. The gothic cathedral, with its spiraling arches which faded into the clouds. A number of painted glass windows were set deeply in the stones. Betty and Mara walked up the steps and entered the dark building. They genuflected and made their way down the pew. The aroma of candles eased her mind. Mara closed her eyes and was carried along in prayer, and a feeling of contentment washed over her.
For a moment she was somewhere else, a beautiful parlor, surrounded by prisms of light. Autumn colors shone through the stained glass, dancing crystals flickered along the walls. The warm rays fell against her skin and settled on her swelling waist. She looked down toward her belly, a feeling of love so powerful that it nearly swept her away. Her hand reached down, caressing the slight bump, for a moment she could almost hear its heartbeat.
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