A Race to Splendor

by Ciji Ware

  “You must believe me when I tell you that none of us is safe,” she said. “My father has been humiliated in front of the very people whose high regard means everything to him.”

  “She’s right,” Emma chimed in. She turned to address Amelia who sat across from her at a table that had been polished to a dazzling sheen. “You probably know now, Miss Bradshaw, that Mr. Kemp threatened to have you killed if Mr. Thayer didn’t do exactly as he wished. I don’t want to frighten you, but that awful Jake Kelly said he meant it.”

  “And there’s also Dick Spitz and that dreadful Joe Kavanaugh to consider,” Matilda declared, “and who knows how many other ruffians my father employs? I know it sounds frightfully dramatic, but I tell you, he will stop at nothing to get even for this.”

  J.D. turned to Amelia. “All the more reason for you and me to go to France immediately and remove ourselves from harm’s way for a while.”

  “What of poor Matilda and Emma?” Amelia demanded. “We can’t just allow them to wander back to Mill Valley and take their chances that Kemp has come to his senses.”

  “You two can go to Boston, can’t you, Emma?”

  “My parents are saying now, they’ll cut off my allowance if I don’t return to Massachusetts and live with them until I am married,” she replied glumly.

  “Well, then,” J.D. said with a glance to Amelia as if to confirm her agreement, “you both can stay here.” He smiled at Matilda. “You’ve kept your father’s accounts. Why not keep ours and we’ll find space somewhere in the hotel for you to use as a studio? And you, Emma. You’re a lively young lady. How would you like to earn your keep by serving as one of the hotel’s desk clerks, under the supervision of Grady, whom Amelia and I will promote to overall hotel manager?”

  Emma and Matilda exchanged excited glances.

  “What a splendid idea, J.D.!” Amelia exclaimed.

  “And for everybody’s safety, as of tomorrow, several Pigati cousins will serve as permanent security guards.” Matilda and Emma exchanged relieved glances. “Loy and Shou Shou will be right here to help you two every step of the way, right, Loy?”

  Loy smiled broadly, but before he could respond, a tremendous concussion resounded throughout the building.

  Matilda emitted a high-pitched scream as the window on the far side of the room exploded, shattering glass in all directions.

  “Can’t be fireworks this time,” muttered J.D. bolting in the direction of the deafening sounds.

  Black smoke and debris immediately filled the air. Angus appeared at the dining room door, flanked by Aunt Margaret, the Misses Cameron, Morgan, Fiske, and Pratt, along with Wing Lee, who cried out in terror.

  “Good God, what was that?” Angus shouted.

  “It can’t be the boilers again,” cried Amelia, anguished. “I stood over the installer’s shoulder for two entire days.”

  “It’s not the boilers,” yelled J.D., as a second explosion rent the air. “I think it’s dynamite!”

  “Holy Mother of God!” exclaimed Angus. “I believe you’re right!” He ran to another of the shattered windows and peered through the smoke. “There’s rubble all over the garden.”

  “You two come with me,” J.D. directed the doctor and Edith, who was already dressed in her nurses uniform, ready to return to work at the Presidio hospital. “Loy, round up all the help you can get and order the staff to man the hoses down in the basement. Amelia, ring for the fire brigade and if you can’t rouse them, run down to Powell Street.”

  “What about the guests?” Amelia asked, jumping to her feet and throwing her napkin into her chair. “Aunt Margaret, are you all right?”

  “Yes, dear,” her aunt said calmly. The older woman turned to J.D. “What can I do to help?” In a genuine crisis, Margaret Bradshaw Collins, survivor of Donner Pass, was unflappable.

  “You, Miss Cameron, Miss Morgan, and Miss Fiske—would you all please station yourselves in the lobby and direct the guests safely out onto the Taylor Street side?” J.D. ordered. “I’m headed down Jackson.”

  “Certainly,” Julia Morgan said, taking charge.

  “J.D.!” Amelia cried. “Be careful! We don’t know if all the dynamite’s exploded.”

  Angus and J.D. dashed through the door that led to the kitchen, while Amelia herded the women toward the lobby.

  “Emma and Matilda?”

  “Y-yes?” they responded in unison.

  Amelia figured it would be best to give the poor, frightened young women a task to keep them busy and their minds off the blast.

  “Don’t take the elevators, but go upstairs and knock on every single door on all three floors. Apologize for the inconvenience, but make sure everyone immediately leaves the hotel through the front entrance, away from the explosion. I’ll telephone in the alarm.”

  Within minutes, Amelia was relieved to hear the clanging bells of the fire brigade coming up Jackson Street. She ran down the street’s steep incline toward the rear of the hotel just as Angus and J.D. were struggling between them to drag a body away from the smoke and fire. Behind the trio followed Jake Kelly, leaning heavily on Edith’s shoulder. The hulking figure stumbled through the smoke, howling in pain as blood spilled down his face. Dick Spitz trailing behind was in equally bad condition with burns on his face and forearms.

  Amelia stood frozen in place, her hands on each side of her face, watching in horror as J.D. and Angus laid their disfigured victim in the street next to the fire engine.

  Joe Kavanaugh no longer had any arms.

  Nearby, the volunteers battled a small blaze in a storage area adjacent to J.D.’s office. A portion of one wall on the ground level had blown out, revealing sections of twisted steel and concrete, strong materials that had guaranteed that the rest of the building still stood solid as a rock.

  Through the drifting haze, Amelia caught a glimpse of her grandfather’s walk-in safe that appeared as impervious to natural and man-made disasters as ever. Beside the safe lay Ezra Kemp, a chunk of concrete the size of a wine barrel resting on his chest.

  “Kemp’s dead,” announced J.D. “He must’ve been watching Kelly do the dirty work when a huge section of the wall blew out and fell on him.”

  “Oh my God,” murmured Amelia, turning away from the carnage.

  “The fools used dynamite as a weapon, but they didn’t know what they were doing,” Angus declared with disgust. He swiftly removed his own shirt and ripped it in pieces to make tourniquets. Glaring at Spitz, he said, “You men are murderous idiots!”

  He motioned for the wounded man to sit on the ground beside Jake Kelly while he and Edith attended to Kavanaugh, by far the more seriously wounded of the surviving trio. Joe’s eyes were closed and his chest barely moved.

  Meanwhile, the men of the local fire brigade hooked their equipment to the fire hydrants linked to the underground cistern that the Chinese workers had dug and soon doused what remained of the conflagration.

  Trembling with relief that the flames had been handily extinguished, Amelia returned to Taylor Street to inform anxious friends and guests that the danger was past. She urged everyone to proceed to the main dining room where Shou Shou and the staff were quick to work up a luncheon buffet, dispensing plenty of coffee, tea, and reassurance that everything at the Bay View would soon return to normal.

  When Matilda and Emma reappeared in the lobby, Amelia ushered them into a private suite off the front desk and had a tea tray brought in. J.D. soon joined them, his shirtfront stained with blood.

  “I’m so sorry, Matilda,” he said gravely, taking a seat next to the tall, ungainly young woman. “Your father was probably killed instantly when the dynamite went off. Joe Kavanaugh’s wounds were severe and Dr. McClure couldn’t stop the bleeding. He died ten minutes ago.”

  “And the others?” she said, barely above a whisper.

  “Everyone at the hotel is fine,” J.D. assured her. “Jake Kelly is missing most of his fingers and an ear, and Dick Spitz has burns all over his arms and chest. They
both should survive, the doctor says, if gangrene doesn’t set in. At any rate, I don’t think we’ll have much trouble from them anymore. Dr. McClure, Edith, and a policeman drove them to the Presidio in the Winton to be looked after at the army hospital, which is a lot more than they deserve. They’ll both be under arrest before nightfall.” He gave Matilda’s shoulder a kindly squeeze. “The coroner’s just come for your father. Amelia and I will help you see to final arrangements later.”

  Matilda began to sob quietly into her hands. “I’m just so thankful you all weren’t killed and your beautiful hotel destroyed again!”

  Amelia turned to enfold Matilda in her arms. “Well, thank heavens you and Miss Stivers are all right.” She peered over Matilda’s bowed head at Emma. “J.D. and I hope you both will remain here, starting today. Would you like to do that?”

  “Most gratefully,” replied Emma, wiping her eyes.

  Julia, Lacy, Aunt Margaret, and Donaldina Cameron appeared at the door. Wing Lee clung to their skirts and gazed solemnly at Matilda, who continued to weep softly.

  “Can we help in any way?” asked Julia with a look of concern.

  Amelia rose from her chair and crossed to the door. “Yes, actually, you can. Would you kindly escort these poor dears into the dining room and let’s all have some lunch.”

  Matilda and Emma were led out of the room. Amelia placed her hand lightly on Julia Morgan’s tailored sleeve.

  “Thank you, Julia. You are such a good friend.”

  “And you as well, my dear.”

  J.D. waited for everyone to leave and then shut the door behind them. Amelia hesitated and then held out her arms. He swiftly closed the distance between them and folded her in an embrace. His hair still smelled of smoke.

  “I was afraid for a moment that the curse of Charlie Hunter had struck again,” he murmured against her neck, “and that this hotel too would come tumbling down.”

  Amelia held him to her for a long moment and then leaned back in his arms. How close she’d come in so many ways to losing him, this man she now knew as well as herself. Neither of them was perfect in this strange new world of men and women, working together for common goals. For a split second, she imagined them walking side-by-side along the broad stretch of sand that led toward the Golden Gate straits, each on a separate path, but close enough to hold hands.

  “Oh no, darling” she protested with a broad smile. “Don’t you realize that Charlie Hunter is your very own guardian angel?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, his granddaughter intends to reconfigure the dynamited area to add not only a sculpting studio for Matilda, but also a design studio off the basement where I can put my drafting board. Perhaps several drafting boards eventually—that is, if you agree.”

  An unmistakable look of triumph shone in J.D.’s eyes. “Oh, so it’s definite? You and I are back in business together, are we? Does this also mean we’re engaged now?”

  “No.” She smiled at him sweetly. “It means that, for a start, we’re full partners. I propose that after we return from France, you run this hotel while I design the next one. We’ll see how that suits us for a while. Then, perhaps, we could become engaged.”

  J.D. regarded her a moment. “Sounds perfectly reasonable. And one day, married?” He laughed and shook his head. “I never in my life thought I’d hear myself say something like this.”

  “Well, let’s just say marriage is… within the realm of possibility.”

  “What about children?” J.D.’s bantering tone had vanished and Amelia detected wariness in his expression. “I want children with you, Amelia. I also never thought I’d say that to anyone, but I do. Are you willing?”

  She met his unwavering glance. “Oh, I very much want to have children with you. It’s the institution of marriage I find so—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, he grasped her hand and held it against his chest. “It’s all about building our confidence. What say you that we start with partnership—and advance from there? I’m betting that both of us might eventually come to appreciate the convention.”

  “Well, you were always a high-stakes gambler,” she said, laughing.

  What an incredible twenty-four hours this had been, Amelia mused, tilting her head for a brief kiss. She had thought last night she’d come to bid farewell to the Bay View forever, and here she was, walking along the plush carpeting of their beautiful, brand new building. Her mother would eventually come back from Paris and Aunt Margaret and Consuela would soon have hotel suites for themselves. The amazing turn of events had once again created a family-run hotel—just like the old Bay View.

  Only better! a voice whispered in her ear.

  Charlie Hunter would have been proud that she and J.D. had fulfilled his dream of helping to make San Francisco a port city that would vie with New York and New Orleans. She imagined that all the survivors of April 18, 1906, would always live in the shadow of what had happened here—and what could happen again. But in the strangest fashion, the disaster had also been a gift, showing at least two wounded hearts the crooked path to love and trust.

  A few minutes later, Amelia and J.D. entered the dining room filled with paying guests sitting at tables covered in snowy linen and gleaming silverware. For a moment, they both stood at the door, absorbing the beauty and gaiety of the scene.

  “We did it, J.D.,” she murmured. “The Bay View has survived in a way neither of us could ever have imagined.”

  J.D. put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “And we did it together, my dear Amelia, even if we didn’t win the race against the Fairmont. I think from here on out, the ghosts at our hotel will be friendly, don’t you?”

  She nodded and glanced around the elegant dining room. She could almost feel the spirits of her grandfather, her father, Ling Lee… and even dear Barbary. They’d never be alone here.

  “May I tempt you with a bite of lunch?” she asked. “My spies tell me that the Bay View serves excellent cuisine, now that that hideous German chef is no more and Mrs. O’Neill permanently rules the kitchen.”

  “Your spies are correct—because you never rehired him,” J.D. replied.

  “That is true, and before I left on Tuesday, I begged Mrs. O’Neill never, ever to put sauerkraut on the menu again. I was delighted to learn that you’d already sent down the order. I hate the stuff!”

  “Well, then, that does it!” J.D. said with a laugh. “We’re obviously destined to marry one of these days. I cannot even abide the smell of sauerkraut!”

  Amelia wanted to kiss him right then, but instead, gestured toward a north-facing window.

  “Shall we take that table over there… the one with a view of the bay?”

  Acknowledgments

  Perhaps it’s the result of my former life as a journalist, broadcast commentator, and observer of some extraordinary events in my own lifetime, but I have always been drawn to the notion of telling stories that take place on a “large stage” through the eyes of everyday witnesses and the documents they leave behind.

  In A Race to Splendor, as in several of my historical novels, my fictional characters are distilled from the records of everyday people, struggling to survive epic trials and tribulations—and eventually triumphing.

  That being said, the biggest thank you offered here in this Age of Digitalization is to the unsung librarians, archivists, cataloguers, and others who toil in the bowels of research libraries and historical societies around the globe.

  In a work the length of A Race to Splendor, I specifically wish to pay tribute to the professionals who preserve documents, letters, diaries, photographs, architectural drawings, original images, and ephemera at such institutions as the Museum of the City of San Francisco and the San Francisco Main Library facility. I offer my undying gratitude for the existence of the Julia Morgan, Bernard Maybeck and other special collections at the Bancroft Library, in addition to the University’s Environmental Design Archives—collections that form part of UC Berkeley’s
vast repository of research materials.

  Thanks, too, are due the Julia Morgan and Sara Holmes Boutelle collections at CalPoly in San Luis Obispo; the San Francisco Historical and California Historical societies; the Harriet Rochlin Collection of Material about Women Architects in the United States at the UCLA Library; and the special collections and newspaper archives both of publications in existence during the 1906-07 period of this historical novel, and the day-in-day-out archiving of current publications in paper files and now, on the Internet.

  The Fairmont Hotel atop Nob Hill has an impressive collection of vintage photographs and historic material that they kindly shared with me during a meeting early in the writing of the book. The San Francisco-based firm of Page and Turnbull, specialists in architectural and conservation services for historic buildings, delved into Morgan’s role in the 1906 restoration of the Fairmont during their work on the renovations of the hotel in the year 2000, and kindly recounted some of that adventure for me.

  In preparing to write this novel, I read secondary sources too numerous to detail here, but the most noteworthy and readable for those wishing to learn more about Julia Morgan’s body of work as well as events surrounding the cataclysmic 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire include: Julia Morgan: Architect of Beauty by Mark Wilson (2007); Julia Morgan, Architect by Sara Holmes Boutelle (1988; paperback 1995); and Julia Morgan, Architect of Dreams, by Ginger Wadsworth (1990; part of a series of biographies for young readers).

  Perhaps the most riveting nonfiction account of the early twentieth century catastrophe is to be found in Gladys C. Hansen’s Denial of Disaster: The Untold Story and Photographs of the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 (1989). Born some twenty years after the temblor, Hansen became the City’s expert on both the quake and the subsequent firestorm. Even after her retirement as a City librarian, she made it her mission to account fully for the number of people killed, since a combination of bad record keeping and governmental cover-up had held the official figure at 478.