by Ciji Ware
“You’ve lost your room there, remember?”
“Oh Lord…” she murmured.
“So Tadich’s it is. You can sleep in one of the Bay View maid’s rooms. It’s a bit drafty, but at least it has a door that shuts.” He pointed to her boot resting on the Winton’s floorboards. “And easy on the accelerator, if you don’t mind.”
Chapter 21
Amelia’s driving lesson concluded with an uneventful return to the heart of the city. Mercifully, she and J.D. arrived a block from Tadich’s restaurant before dusk had become evening. She carefully downshifted and made a remarkably smooth stop next to the curb.
J.D. looked across at her from the passenger seat, a trace of the grin he’d displayed at the parade grounds pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“Well done, Miss Bradshaw. I believe you can call yourself an expert driver now. Your many talents continue to amaze me.”
“Thank you,” she said, just short of breathless.
“No one can deny that you certainly are a woman of the twentieth century.”
“I like convenience as much as the next man.”
J.D. put his head back and roared with laughter. Then he looked at her squarely, his admiration undisguised. “And you have a sense of humor, Miss Bradshaw. Who would have thought it?”
“And you like to laugh, though I don’t think that you do it very often, Mr. Thayer.”
They were both smiling broadly and she felt a subtle shift in the tenor of their banter. Before she was aware of what was happening, J.D. leaned across the car and gently seized her chin in his hand.
“But I must correct you on one thing. You don’t, in the slightest, resemble a man. In fact, not at all.”
It almost seemed to Amelia as if an arc of electricity connected them now, blue and pulsing. They locked glances and, like magnets, each leaned imperceptibly toward the other.
And then he kissed her. On the lips.
Surely he will soon pull away, she thought, and when he didn’t, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink into his embrace, her mouth welcoming the first, astonishing contact with his lips.
A cable car trundling nearby clanged its bell a block away and Amelia’s eyelids shot open. Good gracious! Here they were in broad daylight—well, dusk, she thought, glancing over his shoulder. How preposterous that two adversaries who had battled in a San Francisco courtroom less than a year previously were kissing in a motorcar parked in front of Tadich’s Grill for all the world to see.
Amelia pulled back sharply and fumbled with the handle on the car door.
J.D. reached out and laid a hand on her sleeve. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”
She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed with embarrassment. Then she realized he was teasing her again.
“Yes, of course. Thank you for my driving lesson,” she managed primly.
“That’s all?”
She felt hot and flustered and thoroughly put out with herself as she made a determined effort to recover her dignity.
“For the many skills you undoubtedly have, Mr. Thayer, I commend you.”
“To which skill are you referring, exactly?”
“You know which.”
His glance was challenging, but she refused to take the bait. They waited in silence for a few moments longer before J.D. said, “Shall we go in to supper? I’m sure you’ll have many times in the future when you can dazzle the world with your prowess… at the wheel.”
He was deliberately provoking her and she cursed the flush of heat fanning her face. Rather than answer, she opened the car door and got out. What else was she supposed to say to him now, she wondered. That his first, brief kiss far outshone the fumbling attempts of a boy she knew at Berkeley? Or even the prowess of First Officer Etienne Lamballe, for that matter?
She may have seriously enjoyed their embrace a minute ago, but the fact was they were architect and client, a relationship she had an obligation to keep strictly professional. She had no business allowing J.D. to kiss her or making ridiculous comparisons with other men—given her rather limited experience in the ways of the world.
But you’re not a total neophyte, are you, Amelia? If his kiss felt that marvelous, what would it be like if you and he…?
She turned to walk toward the entrance to the restaurant, deeply regretting she’d accepted an invitation to dine in public with her employer.
“Wait!” J.D. called after her.
When she turned to face him, his expression had grown serious.
“Amelia, before we go in, I need to talk to you about something you may hear soon from other sources…”
She had no desire to listen to any confessions concerning his relationship with the late Ling Lee. He’d kissed her just now—and she’d let him. Well, it was up to her to see that it wouldn’t happen again. She held up a gloved hand to halt the discussion.
“There’s absolutely no need to enlighten me about any aspect of your private life, Mr. Thayer,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “What just happened was a mistake. My job is to help you complete the rebuilding of the Bay View on time and on budget. Nothing more, nothing less.”
J.D. appeared to accept the sharp veer in their conversation. “And if all continues to go well,” he replied, “we’ll be open for business in March, ahead of Miss Morgan’s Fairmont and the first anniversary of the quake.”
Amelia felt a stab of guilt. Julia’s efforts at the other hotel would, by necessity, take much longer because she was a stickler that every aspect of the reconstruction be done properly—unlike the work of the demoted site supervisor, Dick Spitz, and his crony, carpenter Kelly.
“Well, doesn’t that rather depend on our making the masons rebuild the chimney properly so your guests will have heat in their rooms and the place won’t burn down—again?” She flashed him a challenging smile. “Maybe I’ll take a drive down to the docks tomorrow and see if that load of bricks has arrived or any of the furniture you ordered has made its way to San Francisco.”
“I knew if you learned to drive you’d be dangerous.”
She felt a sudden attack of melancholy, thinking about the beautiful furniture her grandfather had collected over the years that had gone up in smoke.
“You know, Mr. Thayer, on the outside, the Bay View may look the same, but it will never be quite like the hotel my grandfather built. That beautiful bank of gilded mirrors in the lobby… the plush red furniture…”
To her surprise, Thayer leaned toward her and seized her hand. “Whatever my sins, Amelia—and I am quite aware they are many—I do appreciate that it can’t be easy for you to rebuild the hotel your grandfather created. I am vastly impressed by your skills, and I thank you for them.” His touch was dangerously comforting and she wondered at the sudden change in his mood. He was speaking to her now as if she were an old friend. “Sometimes it’s beyond bearing, trying to recover what’s been lost, don’t you think? There are days when I feel like climbing on board some ship and sailing off to Timbuktu—wherever that is.”
“Paris, Mr. Thayer,” she advised soberly, wondering that they had lingered so long in conversation on the sidewalk in front of Tadich’s. “Head for Paris. A much more pleasant escape, I can assure you.”
“I expect your time in France changed everything about you.” His mood had shifted again and his lips faintly curved. “Now that you and I have shared a kiss, I think it wouldn’t be amiss if you stopped calling me ‘Mr. Thayer,’ agreed?”
She dropped her gaze to stare at her gloved hand resting in his. “On the contrary, given the tasks that lay ahead, I’m afraid ‘Mr. Thayer’ it must remain.”
Just then, a guest at Tadich’s burst through the door onto the pavement. In a move that left her feeling mildly bereft, J.D. released her hand.
“When in doubt… flee to Paris,” he murmured. “I’ll remember your suggestion.”
Walking separately into the restaurant, they spent the rest of the evening discussing supply budgets and labor sch
edules for the work yet to be done.
***
After a very fine dinner at Tadich’s, J.D. pointed the Winton up Vallejo Street, turning left onto Taylor Street. He glanced at the passenger next to him, tendrils of her brunette hair swept back by the breeze in the open-air motorcar.
He’d been impulsive tonight, something he prided himself on not being in most instances. Fortunately, Amelia Bradshaw had imminent good sense, along with her obvious talents as an architect, and during the rest of their meal they’d both exhibited admirable restraint.
His mind, however, had begun to travel in directions that had him worried. He certainly did not need any additional complications in his life. Before he could go any further with such thoughts, however, he noticed an ominous glow illuminating the night sky.
“Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Amelia. “Look! Over there! The sky’s orange.”
Images of fire and littered streets and streams of refugees fleeing toward the Presidio played out in J.D.’s mind as if the quake and fire of only months ago were still tormenting the city.
“Oh God, not again,” he groaned.
Amelia pointed at a team of horses straining to pull a brass fire engine down the street, their clanging bells renting the night air. “They’re heading down Taylor Street,” she said, her voice growing shrill. “It’s the Bay View!” she half-sobbed as J.D. slammed his foot on the accelerator. “Dear God! The hotel’s totally engulfed in flames!” They could hear another fire brigade clanging its way up a nearby street, heading for the corner of Taylor and Jackson. “The entire neighborhood might burn down again.”
But all J.D. could think about was the hotel that he’d worked so hard to raise from it’s charred foundation and for which he and Amelia had both absorbed so many body blows.
“What about Loy and Shou Shou and little Foo?” Amelia cried against the wind as the Winton screeched to a halt a block from a battery of fire engines gathered to battle the blaze. “What about the workers?”
“Nobody’s there,” he shouted across the passenger seat. “Except Barbary.”
By the time they ran to the corner, the scene had taken on a surreal quality. He could hear the fire crackling and feel the heat. He ran up to one of the volunteer firefighters.
“I’m the hotel’s owner, J.D. Thayer. For God’s sake, what happened?”
“A big explosion happened, that’s what!” The fireman was rapidly unwinding a length of hose from a large metal spindle. “Who might still be in there, sir?”
J.D. scanned the burning wreckage. “As far as I know, no one,” he replied. Except my dog… He couldn’t think about that now, for chaos reigned everywhere on the street.
The firefighter gave him a relieved look, seized the front end of the hose, and charged toward the burning inferno.
How could this be? J.D. demanded silently.
Everything had been in working order only hours earlier. Someone Dick Spitz had recruited supervised the installation of the boilers the day before. Only Providence had saved his Chinese workers, though. He’d had time to offer to teach Amelia to drive this night because Loy’s men weren’t scheduled to return until after the boilers had been inspected and they could once more attempt to clear the final debris near his buried walk-in safe.
Just then, a pair of shingles atop one of the Queen Anne turrets hissed and disintegrated, sending a shower of sparks into the fog clinging to the night sky. J.D. attempted to gather his wits, thinking, suddenly, that the disaster could well have been man-made. Kemp had been known to send his bullyboys to other sites where he was at odds with the owners. Why not dispatch an arsonist to finish the job? The scoundrel may have known there was no insurance on the building because the financially strapped owner hadn’t the funds for such luxuries. With J.D. bankrupt, Kemp could claim the property in lieu of the money he was still owed by its owner—and rebuild on this choice piece of land at below cost.
Amelia had been very astute to suspect Kemp of wanting to take total control, he thought. Why didn’t I pay more attention to what she was saying…?
J.D. bolted away from the fire engine, dodging members of the fire brigade as he rounded the corner to view the conflagration from the Jackson Street side of his property. With Amelia trailing a few steps behind, the first faces he recognized among the onlookers were those of Julia Morgan and Ira Hoover. Miss Morgan’s hair was fashioned in a braid plaited down her back. She and her deputy had obviously dressed hastily at the Fairmont and run to his aid.
“Oh thank heavens you’re both all right!” Julia exclaimed, her owlish eyes glistening with tears as she caught sight of them. “We were so worried.” Before he or Amelia could react to her show of emotion, Miss Morgan added, “So fortunate you both weren’t inside, Mr. Thayer. So very fortunate.”
“Yes…” he replied faintly, the full, financial impact of the night’s events beginning to dawn on him. He would have to pay many new fees to redraw rebuilding plans, as his originals were surely cinders by now.
“Who else might have been in there?” asked Ira, his gaze glued to the conflagration.
“No one, thank God.” J.D. felt Amelia catch his eye and they exchanged a knowing glance. “The boiler installers finished their work, and Spitz’s men had departed by the time we left for supper downtown.”
His architect shot him a warning look.
“It’s a blooming miracle the place was empty,” Ira said, relieved.
“Yes, what an enormous blessing,” agreed Julia Morgan. She closed her eyes and nodded, as if contemplating the burden of answering for the safety of the construction workers—even if the Morgan firm had not been the one to hire Thayer’s crew.
“Barbary!” Amelia exclaimed. “Oh, J.D… what about the dog?”
The foursome stared as another section of the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and intense heat. J.D. shook his head and looked away.
Julia gently seized his arm, saying “Come with us for a moment, will you?” she urged. “I want you to see what’s happening further down on Jackson. It appears you’ve had some kind of explosion.”
“That’s what a fireman said,” Thayer replied.
J.D. allowed himself to be led down the hill. A group from the brigades had been attacking the south side of the property with healthy doses of water, and successfully doused the section of the hotel where the original basement office was located.
“Where did you indicate the boilers should be installed?” Julia asked Amelia suddenly, her tone sharp. J.D. sensed Amelia’s alarm as she turned to face her former employer.
“In the basement, next to the south wall, as you approved, Miss M.”
J.D. added, “And I was the one who hired the men who installed them. The boilers were due to be inspected by the city later today.”
How simple it would have been for Ezra Kemp to get his hands on some dynamite, thought J.D. Stores of the stuff remained from Army supplies used to create firebreaks during the great firestorm of a year ago and he suspected that Kemp could easily pay handsomely for access to contraband material whenever he wanted it.
Amelia pointed to the extensive wreckage toward the rear of the structure. “Did you have a look at the boilers, once the job was done?” she asked J.D.
“No,” he murmured. “There was no time. I had my meeting with you this morning, Miss Morgan, and then a conference with Miss Bradshaw about her taking up the reins. Then there was her driving lesson… and later, we had dinner at Tadich’s, and… well, here we are.”
The group fell silent and the only sounds were of firefighters calling for more water to pour on the roaring blaze. J.D. looked down the hill toward Chinatown and considered how one’s fate rested on small, seemingly insignificant daily decisions. If he hadn’t decided Amelia should learn to drive, would he have then taken the time to have a look at the boilers instead? Would he have known what he was looking at, anyway? And as far as the city’s inspection process, that was all a sham anyway. He’d been asked for a bribe by the city
official due to inspect the boilers—and paid it. An inspector might never even have appeared.
By this time, Julia Morgan’s expression was grim. “If the guts of the boilers were installed improperly, pressure may have built up and forced them to blow on a cold night like this,” she said. “It’s only one possibility, of course. Any number of mishaps could have occurred.”
“It looks as if the whole place was dynamited,” J.D. said, voicing his darkest speculations. “I don’t think it was the boilers at all.”
“Look over there,” declared Ira. “The fire has diminished significantly now, thanks to the brigades.”
And thanks to the weather gods, thought J.D. Fortunately, it was a windless, damp night. The volunteer firemen had arrived quickly and the near-empty lot behind the hotel had been a boon in preventing the fire’s spread to neighboring structures.
“We heard three loud explosions,” noted Ira.
“Well, a stick of dynamite under each boiler would do the trick, don’t you think?” J.D. replied with a bitter tinge to his tone. He turned toward Amelia. “Or you were right all along, Miss Bradshaw. It could well be my own idiocy that’s caused this. I hired Spitz and Kelly against your advice, and they hired workers on the cheap who most likely weren’t up to the task of installing—”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. The consequences of his desperate attempts to conserve his cash that subsequently led to tolerating shoddy workmanship during the construction felt like a huge boulder crushing the breath out of him.
“There can be tremendous force when natural gas is involved,” Amelia intervened gently. “It can build up in the line and be ignited by a spark, or the pressure was incorrectly calibrated in the boilers themselves, which certainly isn’t your fault. There might have been any number of problems you couldn’t have foreseen. Or Kemp did, indeed, have his bullyboys blow it all up,” she added with an edge of anger.
To J.D., her kind words about the catastrophe not being his fault were an appreciated antidote to the poisonous brew of guilt and self-incrimination. He felt Amelia’s hand on his sleeve.