“Understand?” she replied as she folded her fan and returned it to her handbag. “How could anyone have been prepared for that? I was so mortified that I couldn’t even speak. It was like my head emptied. They probably think I’m deaf and dumb!”
“Yes, I noticed that you didn’t talk.”
“Well, even if I could, what would I say? ‘Hello. I’m the girl whose heart races for your fiancé!’”
“It does?”
“Yes, silly, it does,” said Blossom, shaking her head much like Grand Ma Maw did a thousand times a day.
Blossom started to laugh, slowly at first. Then it was a belly-shaking kind of laugh. “What are you so amused by?” asked Brock. Blossom regained her breath. “It’s like when I was a kid, when I’d spin in circles and get so dizzy I couldn’t stop laughing.” She laughed more, and he joined in.
As they began to settle down, Blossom observed, “This was the last place on earth that I expected to meet her. Oh, that’s not right. It’s your new home. That should be the first place on earth to meet Clarissa.” She paused and began again with, “Clarissa seems nice. Though I can’t put my finger on it, there’s something evil about the other one.”
“Yes, Faye is special that way. How perceptive of you to see that in her. Is it that obvious to someone who’s just meeting her? I’ve known her for so long that I guess I’m dull to her sharp edges. But she’s always been like a shot of strong whiskey in a porcelain tea cup.”
Blossom admitted, “For the first time, I felt wrong and sort of dirty, as if she suspected or knew about us. Do you think she does?”
“Faye is suspicious any time of the day or night, and I think she enjoys looking for people’s flaws and unsettling them in the process. She’s not someone to ignore or underestimate. But I also wouldn’t live my life based on what Faye thinks, gossips about or imagines in her own twisted way,” said Brock.
“Do you really think you can live in that house…be happy there? I’ve seen the house you live in now. I’ve seen the one that you’ll live in soon. And I’ve seen the ranch, twice. Well, to me it just doesn’t look like a good fit.”
Brock did not acknowledge her remarks.
“So, what do we do next?” Blossom fanned her face.
Brock pulled the reins, slowed the horses and stopped the carriage. He turned, leaned toward her and pulled her close across the smooth leather seat.
“Not here, Brock. We’ve been far too unlucky today already. Neither of us—”
Her words were cut short as their lips merged. A passionate kiss consumed the air from her lungs. Despite being parked along a curb in the Nob Hill neighborhood, they were in a world of their own for a few brief moments as they focused completely on each other.
The subtle, yet screechy squeak of the Flood mansion’s front gate spooked the horses and they sprang into action. Brock looked up and forward to get his bearings and then to the side from which the squeaking originated. There stood Mrs. James Flood, who unquestionably held one of the highest slots on the list of Nob Hill’s elite. Brock and his family, along with most of their neighbors knew that Mary Leary Flood was an Irish immigrant who had tended bar with her husband in a saloon before they amassed a great silver-mining fortune. She had an affinity for diamonds, the larger the better. Mary was none too bashful about wearing her jewels anytime of the day. She was especially known to shimmer on nights at the theater.
“Mr. St. Clair, your public display of affection truly warms my heart,” she said with an exaggerated wink at Brock. “However, your lack of discretion may ultimately break yours.”
She adjusted a stunning diamond bracelet on her right forearm and turned, saying nothing more. She glanced at them to be sure they noticed her jewelry and then walked toward the attendant who was holding her motor car’s passenger door open.
“She sparkles.” That was the only thing Blossom could summon to say.
“Yes, but her words sting.”
Chapter 26
A Time To Celebrate
Monday, April 16, 1906, 8:23 p.m.
Two days before the earthquake and firestorm
“Boys, raise your glasses!” bellowed Austin to the barroom full of revelers at Prickly Pete’s establishment in the notorious Barbary Coast district. It was a breathtaking kind of place, literally. However, Austin paid no mind to the unrelenting and pungent mixture in the air of unwashed men, writhing snakes of cigar smoke, and musty floorboards that hadn’t been touched by a broom, mop or soap in far too long.
For years, the number of bars, saloons, gambling houses, dance halls and brothels grew to meet the demands of sailors, laborers, criminals and brave-hearted tourists. The practice of Shanghaiing unsuspecting sailors was legendary, with victims being shipped out to sea before the booze or opium wore off.
But Austin and his guests were here for one reason: to celebrate in a larger-than-life and obnoxiously boisterous way.
“Like real men say, ‘It’s time for booze and teats at Prickly Pete’s!’” The crowd roared in agreement, including Pete, who was behind the bar. He lived up to his prickly name in both looks—a wild unruly red beard and shock of hair—and behavior. Austin reveled at how Pete could string together the crudest words and bark them out in such a way to shock even the grisliest sailors who regularly bellied up to his bar.
“Let’s toast the best things in life…women, and more women! You’ll be giving them all up but one, Brock. But we’re sure that you’ll be getting much more in return. When you find out exactly what that is, be sure to let us all know!”
Spitting arcs of chewing-tobacco juice glistened in the air as the room broke out in a roar of laugher. All eyes turned from Austin to Brock, who was never comfortable being the center of attention. That was painfully evident right now. I only have to do this once, right? he thought.
As the general sobriety of the partygoers diminished, Brock’s less-than-festive mood was not very apparent among the back-slapping, “hey-hey-hey” howling and beer spilling. Not unfamiliar with stag parties, the barmaids were good humored about their treatment by these fine men of society, and they were plenty experienced at holding their ground if need be.
Brock became intrigued by the unfamiliar music the piano player was banging out from the other side of the room. He made his way over to ask about it.
“Hello there. I’m Brock,” he yelled to the musician.
“I gather that you’re in the spotlight tonight. But if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t look much like someone who’s celebrating. I’m Max…Max Morath. Pleasure to meet you.”
Not acknowledging Max’s observations, Brock asked, “What kind of music are you playing?”
“Ragtime, man. Ragtime! It’s the Maple Leaf Rag. A clever Texan named Scott Joplin wrote it.” The seated performer with a worn and craggy face—and a sly smile—energetically went on. “Watch how ragtime combines two enemies: discipline and chaos. My left hand pounds out a steady beat, kind of like a march. But my right hand’s gone wild and syncopated. Looks like it’s lost its mind, doesn’t it?”
“Yes it does.”
As Max talked and pounded his fingers on the ivories, Brock considered the metaphor of ragtime in his life. He’d always been disciplined, doing what was expected of him…adhering to society’s playbook. But now a wild and chaotic world was coexisting in his life, creating a ragtime of his own design.
“How did you find ragtime?”
“Ragtime found me and I can’t shake it loose,” Max said with contagious delight. “Rag’s rhythm can seduce you if you’re not careful, like some of the ladies around here.”
“It was good talking with you, Max,” said Brock as he began to move back toward his table.
Despite the clanking of glasses and the testosterone overload created by too many drunken men in too small a space, Brock’s behavior remained subdued.
Rather than bragging about female conquests or predicting his between-the-sheets performance on his wedding night, Brock was contemp
lative. His mind escaped the confining saloon and traveled back to his kite-flying afternoon with Blossom. Lately he was finding it harder and harder to clear his mind to focus on anyone other than Blossom.
Memories of Mrs. Flood barged in. He could hear her parting words to him: “Mr. St. Clair, your public display of affection truly warms my heart, but your lack of discretion may ultimately break yours.”
Brock knew that he was no longer playing with fire. He was dancing in an inferno that was sure to burn a lot of people before it subsided. The thing that surprised Brock at the moment was that he really didn’t care. Not that he wanted to hurt anyone, but he was focusing on making himself and Blossom happy.
He was jarred back to the realities of the party with a bear hug and a manly slap on the back. “I hear that your personal stud service is booked for Saturday night, buddy. For a city boy who spends as much time as you do in the country with those animals of yours, I bet Clarissa is in for the ride of her life!” loudly announced an inebriated and foul-mouthed partygoer. “She’s a real lady, so you better break her in easy, if you know what I mean!” Drunken, sloppy laughter and elbowing with winking eyes took over the room.
Brock summoned a smile to appear to be playing along with these boys. This bachelor party could not end soon enough to suit him, and yet it had only begun. He hadn’t even finished that thought when the girls who Austin hired for the night poured into the room like beer out of a keg. Not one, not two, but five shimmering, sparkling beauties surrounded Brock on cue. Their hands rubbed all over his body. He was uncomfortable before. Now he was being made the center of a sexual spectacle.
A Chinese girl with smoky almond-shaped eyes and a suggestively sassy grin appeared in charge. She signaled to Max to crank up the volume of his music. Brock took a deep breath and grinned with everything he could muster in his body.
“Hey all you stags, it’s time to add some va-va-voom to this party. I’d like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine and some very good friends of hers. Yep, these are some friendly ladies from around the globe led by none other than Mademoiselle Monique LaFontaine. Here they are: Monique’s Mistresses of Pleasure. The only rule tonight is: there are no rules!!!” yelled Austin with all the pride and bravado of a circus barker.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of it always being ‘this or that.’ I say that’s horse shit! My bosom buddies, now it’s a time for ‘and.’ You don’t have to pick either one or the other tonight. I’m the host, and this is an ‘and’ place where you can have it all. So, have some fun. Hell, have anything you want!”
Monique secured some of the most noteworthy—or perhaps notorious—prostitutes in the region, each of a different flavor: Mexican, Creole, French and good-old American. It was a female buffet, an international rainbow of carnal delights. The men in the room responded enthusiastically with catcall cheers and the tongue-wagging exuberance of backwoods miners striking the Mother Lode. And it was just that, striking the whoring equivalent of the gold miners’ Mother Lode.
As several of the girls ran their fingers through Brock’s hair, they flaunted their heaving bosoms and their round, full bottoms in every possible direction around Brock.
“Damn, your dumplings are boiling out of their pots,” Austin exclaimed. He quickly followed that remark by slapping the girl’s backside while saying, “Your bottoms are tops!” The crowded room filled with cheers of delight.
Austin looked to Brock for his reaction and approval. He knew this entire evening was going to be profoundly painful and awkward, considering Brock’s inexperience with women and the darker side of being a wealthy man in a boomtown where hearing “no” was not an option in just about any situation.
“Brock, my brother,” said Austin as he put his right arm around Brock’s shoulder and forcibly pulled him over to Monique. “I’d like you to meet my lightning in a bottle!”
In his intoxicated state, Austin then pulled Monique in close with a single grab and jerk. Monique did not appear to be offended by the roughness.
“Monique,” Austin said. Then he robustly released a loud, foul-smelling belch and an equally explosive laugh. “Oh, pardon me, Monique. I’d like you to meet the guest of honor, my brother, Brock.”
Monique responded, “You rascal! You didn’t tell me the party was for your brother.” Austin rolled his eyes down as a signal to Brock to emphasize that they were in the company of women who sported an excess of bosom covered by an insufficiency of fabric.
“Nice to meet you,” Brock said in a loud voice to compensate for the noise level in the room. He tried not to focus on her nearly exposed breasts, but it was impossible.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” responded Monique as she sized up Brock, scanning his body from top to bottom. “It’s like I already know you somehow,” she said with an arched eyebrow.
Austin belched again and interrupted with, “I don’t see how that could be possible since Brock doesn’t whore around like he should, and you don’t spend much time in a horse barn or on Nob Hill with the Stanfords, Huntingtons or St. Clairs.”
“Just the same,” said Monique, “I have this feeling.”
“Well, feel this, Baby,” Austin said as he grabbed Monique’s hand and placed it on his crotch.
“You’ve always had a handful. You’ll always be a handful. So get over yourself already, my devilishly handsome Big Boy. There’s nothing down there that we haven’t explored together, now is there?”
Austin proudly smiled, made clear eye contact with Monique’s breasts and generated a growling tiger sound. “I just love those melons of hers. Want to feel them?” he directed to Brock.
“And to think, even after that, I’m not immune to your charms! Now simmer down, Austin. This night is about your brother and his wedding this weekend. I’m sure you’ll make your fiancée’s dreams come true,” said Monique as she ran her right index finger across Brock’s chest and tapped on his heart.
“She must be a mighty fine catch to tie down a big hunk of man like you.”
Brock smiled politely.
“She’s not one of those high-and-mighty rich bitches is she? Oh, that came out a little harsher than it should have,” Monique apologized, recoiling a bit, since she was well aware of his dalliances with Blossom while he was preparing to marry a high-bred show pony of a woman. In Monique’s world, situations can get dicey fast, but she had to admit to herself that tonight took the prize for awkwardness and clandestine meetings.
“Better watch yourself around Monique. You may have a girl named Clarissa in your life to arrange flowers for you. But, if you’re lucky, Monique will—in a heartbeat—rearrange your bouquet, if you know what I mean,” blurted out Austin as he swiftly reached down to grab the front of his brother’s pants. Brock’s quick reflexes enabled him to intercept Austin’s reach. He grasped Austin’s wrist and twisted it firmly until it was behind his back.
Monique snickered.
“Come on and laugh a little. What happened to you?” Austin asked with a tinge of pain in his voice.
Brock replied, “I grew up!”
“Well then, grow back down, would ya!”
Brock released his grip on his brother.
Austin scanned the room to see that his guests were having a good time. Brock was sure that he was witnessing his evening curdle into a toxic mess.
“I’ll leave you two to get to know each other better while I get to know some of Monique’s exotic companions,” said Austin as he turned and stumbled across the room to approach a statuesque black beauty from the South.
***
A brisk pull on his elbow forced Austin to swing around to face a new partygoer: Faye Huntington. She’d come to a party that she was neither invited to nor welcome at.
“Well don’t you put the hell in hello!” she said too loudly for their proximity.
Equally loud, he added, “Well, don’t you put the good in goodbye!” He tried to back away. “Now get your damned claws off me,” he said in respon
se to being woman-handled and at having the bride’s best friend at a bachelor party. “Get yourself out of here, now! Shoo! Scat!”
Austin stared into Faye’s eyes. “There’s something about you that always pisses me off whenever you’re around me. You’re like an un-locatable itch that makes my skin crawl!”
“Oh no, my pet. This may not be the most respectable thing I’ve ever done, but that’s never stopped me in the past, now has it?” Faye offered a paper cut of a smile. “I have every right to enjoy some refreshment at this dump if I wish to. In fact, I just knocked back—as you boys would say—a shot of Devil’s Spit and it burned like hell fire all the way down.”
She cleared her throat and went on, “I’m just keeping an eye on your dear brother so I can report anything unseemly to Clarissa who, by the way, doesn’t know that I’m here. My driver is right outside waiting to whisk me away to Clarissa whenever I wish.”
“You sure know how to spoil a party, don’t you?”
“Austin, my alley cat, you have no idea!” said Faye, almost purring.
She added, as if stating a fact, “You and I are alike, you know.”
“I have to disagree with that pile of horse shit you just shoveled at me. But, if I was a conniving, manipulative, frigid shell of a woman, then I’d agree,” retorted Austin with a sense of pride in his word choices given his inebriated state.
Faye seethed. She pulled him in close and replied, “Nicely played. On second thought, we’re not that much alike at all.” A verbal swordfight had begun. “If I was a puny, lost boy who lived with both hands in his mother’s wallet, then we’d be alike. So, you’re correct.”
She paused. “I have a feeling—a strong feeling—that I’ll be battling with you until hell freezes over. And then I’ll fight you on the ice,” predicted Faye. She turned with a flourish and headed for the saloon’s front door, displaying her finest high-and-mighty strut.
Austin grabbed her by the elbow and swung her around. “I’m going to try something.” He planted a boozy kiss on her lips and forced his tongue into Faye’s mouth so that it could dance with Faye’s. He abruptly stopped and she slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.
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