The Trembling Hills

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  These days Sara wanted only to work until she dropped. When she was tired enough hurtful thoughts would not come at night. But sometimes, no matter how exhausted she might be, they forced themselves upon her. An old treadmill of futility. If Geneva had lived and refused to marry Nick, perhaps Sara and he might eventually have come together.

  Or if Geneva had lived and married Nick, there would have been a certain peace for Sara. She could have turned to the making of a life for herself knowing that at least everything was right with Geneva and Nick. There would have been none of this soreness of blame, this grieving for Geneva herself.

  Then one day when a woman put on a dress Sara had designed for her, and posed before a mirror, looking fashionable and lovely, Sara experienced a brief upsurge of happiness that astonished her. Afterward she felt a little guilty, as if she had no right to be happy ever again. But words Nick had once said to her returned and she found a meaning in them she had not seen before.

  He had said that happiness was not a goal in itself, but only a by-product of other things. This surge of satisfaction over her own creative effort was exactly that. And remembering Nick’s words, she was grateful.

  When the fateful year of ’06 had worn its way to an end San Francisco put on as big a celebration as that celebrating town had ever produced. By New Year’s Eve there was no longer any doubt that the city was on its feet again. And its citizens bade an uproarious farewell to a year of disaster and rebirth, greeting 1907 with hope and joy. San Francisco had done the impossible—let the rest of the world take note!

  Sara spent the evening quietly with Allison, so the other Renwicks could attend a party. Even Hilda Renwick was willing to go out these days. Allison was Sara’s one link with Nick. The child seemed unconscious of the fact that they never saw one another and she talked casually about her brother. Sara never asked questions, but she listened eagerly, fed herself on these crumbs whenever they came her way.

  She did not go near Hester Varady at all that Christmas, or on New Year’s Day. This was something she could not bring herself to do. Then the holidays were over and she was so hard at work again she hardly noted the passing of time.

  One beautiful spring Sunday the telephone range and the unexpected sound of Nick’s voice came over the wire. Sara was so startled that she could hardly speak. He sounded awkward himself, but he came to the point quickly enough.

  “I’ve promised Allison a trip to Sutro Heights this afternoon, Sara. Would you care to come along?”

  She held back, remembering other invitations, afraid to open wounds that were at least quiet, if not healed.

  “I suppose Allison wants me—” she began faintly, “and—”

  “I want you,” Nick said. “Please come, Sara.”

  She put the phone down with a hand that was shaking.

  30

  That day at Sutro Heights was a beginning. Geneva’s death had made them strangers and there must now be a groping toward reacquaintance. There was a certain contentment for Sara in being with Nick again, but she was glad for Allison’s presence, which postponed any need for serious talk.

  After that there were other times, and Allison was not always along. Sometimes Nick would take Sara to a concert, or a play, with a quiet dinner in some small restaurant. Eventually words came more easily between them, and they could at last speak of Geneva, talk out some of the soreness that lay in them both.

  There had been too much of the futile round in which each blamed himself and wondered what would have happened if he had done this differently, or that. When they could cease reproaching themselves and speak of Geneva as she had been, they could face what Geneva in her goodness would have wanted.

  It was even possible now to speak with more tolerance of Hester Varady. Not because what she had done could ever be forgiven, but because she was now a pitiable shadow of herself. By this time Sara had brought herself to visit Aunt Hester on several occasions. She had never fully recovered from the events that had surrounded Geneva’s death and it seemed to Sara that her aunt was fading almost before her eyes. She stayed in bed most of the time, watched over and waited on by Ah Foong. She would have nothing to do with doctors and took no interest in prescribing for herself, as once she would have done.

  One Sunday afternoon, shortly before Nick was to call for Sara, Ah Foong appeared at the door to fetch her to Aunt Hester’s bedside. It was plain that he was worried and when Sara had left word with her mother for Nick to come to the house on Van Ness, she went back to Miss Varady’s with Ah Foong.

  The house was more gloomy and shut away than ever these days. Sara could never walk into it without a shiver. As she followed Ah Foong upstairs to the familiar bedroom, the house seemed once more to lay a heavy hand upon her spirit. It was as if it brooded on defeat and failure, even as its mistress must have brooded.

  But when Sara stood beside Hester’s bed she could feel only pity for the shriveled old woman who lay there. Nevertheless, there was still life in the sunken, burning eyes, and a sudden strength in Miss Varady’s voice when she spoke.

  “Sit down,” she said in the old curt way. “I wanted you here so I could tell you about my will,”

  “You mustn’t trouble yourself, Aunt Hester,” said Sara gently.

  “Don’t mollycoddle me! I want you to know that I’m not leaving a cent to you, Sara Bishop. Every penny of my wealth is going to Ah Foong. What do you think of that, my girl?”

  Sara had only a sense of relief, of fitness. Ah Foong deserved this. He could be a king in Chinatown now. Or he could go back to his homeland and take care of a thousand-thousand relatives. But she knew Aunt Hester wanted the satisfaction of a last triumph, and she groped for words which might give her that meaningless pleasure.

  “Aunt Hester—” she began, but her aunt’s gaze swept past her to the door and there was sudden terror in her eyes. She struggled to sit up in the bed.

  “Do you hear the mewing, Sara? It’s that cat again! The little white cat. Don’t let it come near me!” Her voice rose shrilly.

  Sara leaned above her, took Hester’s cold, parchment hands into her own warm clasp. “Don’t be frightened. It’s only Comstock out there—not the little white cat. And you’ve never been afraid of Comstock.”

  Time had stopped for Hester Varady and she could believe. The fear went out of her, as irritation took its place. “You must speak to Allison. I won’t have that creature—”

  “I’ll tell her,” Sara promised. “Of course you needn’t have Comstock in your house.”

  The dry cold hands relaxed in her own. “That’s all, Sara. I just wanted you to know that you need expect nothing at all in my will. You’ve disappointed me, just as the others have. Go away now and let me sleep.”

  Sara slipped quietly out of the room. Ah Foong was in the hall and he looked at her anxiously.

  “She’s all right,” Sara assured him. But she knew how low the flame flickered, how little time was left for it to burn.

  “Mista Nick waiting,” Ah Foong said and Sara went down, grateful to find Nick in the hall.

  He had a cab at the curb and she did not speak until they were in it together. When she told him what had happened, he listened in sympathy.

  “You’ve done what you could,” he said. “Let’s not talk about her now. I want to show you something, Sara.”

  He took her hand into his and it was the first time he had touched her so, since that day in the library.

  At the place where Broadway steepened, Nick stopped the cab and dismissed it. The climb up Russian Hill was difficult and they went up hand in hand. At the very top they could stand and look out upon the wonderful view. A view that was not merely of bay and hills and far shores, but of a city rebuilding itself.

  Of course there were patches of rubble—the scars would show for years to come. But everywhere new houses, new buildings shone in the sunlight. Sara could
see the great shaft of the Varady Building rising above the others, almost completed now. She could look at it with a feeling of admiration for what Ritchie had built and only good will toward him and Judith. All soreness lay in the past.

  “I want to build a house up here,” Nick said. “Only a small one that I can afford. But there will be a view. I hope you will like that, Sara. I hope you will want to share it.”

  The moment had come as simply as that and she reached out for it as simply, lifting her face for his kiss. How very much she wanted to share with Nick, she meant to spend the years in proving.

  They walked about for a while looking for the perfect site. When they found a place where new grass had covered black stubble, they sat down on the hillside in the sun and the wind.

  San Francisco lay below them. The hills stood tall and firmly rooted. Surely they had never swayed or trembled. Surely fire had never ravaged their very crowns.

  “Before long you’ll never know there’d been a fire,” Sara said softly.

  Nick held her hand. “Those who were here will always know. It changed us all. We were never the same people afterwards. I’m rather proud of us for what we did.”

  But Sara was no longer thinking of the fire, or of the men and women who had done the incredible. She was thinking only of Nick whose hand was strong about her own. Nick who had changed her more than had the fire.

  In through the Gate stole the fog, unhurried and lazy, sure of its way as it puffed its soft gray breath through the streets of San Francisco.

  A Biography of Phyllis A. Whitney

  Phyllis Ayame Whitney (1903–2008) was a prolific author of seventy-six adult and children’s novels. Over fifty million copies of her books were sold worldwide during the course of her sixty-year writing career, establishing her as one of the most successful mystery and romantic suspense writers of the twentieth century. Whitney’s dedication to the craft and quality of writing earned her three lifetime achievement awards and the title “The Queen of the American Gothics.”

  Whitney was born in Yokohama, Japan, on September 9, 1903, to American parents, Mary Lillian (Lilly) Mandeville and Charles (Charlie) Whitney. Charles worked for an American shipping line. When Whitney was a child, her family moved to Manila in the Philippines, and eventually settled in Hankow, China.

  Whitney began writing stories as a teenager but focused most of her artistic attention on her other passion: dance. When her father passed away in China in 1918, Whitney and her mother took a ten-day journey across the Pacific Ocean to America, and they settled in Berkley, California. Later they moved to San Antonio, Texas. Lilly continued to be an avid supporter of Whitney’s dancing, creating beautiful costumes for her performances. While in high school, her mother passed away, and Whitney moved in with her aunt in Chicago, Illinois. After graduating from high school in 1924, Whitney turned her attention to writing, nabbing her first major publication in the Chicago Daily News. She made a small income from writing stories at the start of her career, and would eventually go on to publish around one hundred short stories in pulp magazines by the 1930s.

  In 1925, Whitney married George A. Garner, and nine years later gave birth to their daughter, Georgia. During this time, she also worked in the children’s room in the Chicago Public Library (1942–1946) and at the Philadelphia Inquirer (1947–1948).

  After the release of her first novel, A Place for Ann (1941), a career story for girls, Whitney turned her eye toward publishing full-time, taking a job as the children’s book editor at the Chicago Sun-Times and releasing three more novels in the next three years, including A Star for Ginny. She also began teaching juvenile fiction writing courses at Northwestern University. Whitney began her career writing young adult novels and first found success in the adult market with the 1943 publication of Red Is for Murder, also known by the alternative title The Red Carnelian.

  In 1946, Whitney moved to Staten Island, New York, and taught juvenile fiction writing at New York University. She divorced in 1948 and married her second husband, Lovell F. Jahnke, in 1950. They lived on Staten Island for twenty years before relocating to Northern New Jersey. Whitney traveled around the world, visiting every single setting of her novels, with the exception of Newport, Rhode Island, due to a health emergency. She would exhaustively research the land, culture, and history, making it a custom to write from the viewpoint of an American visiting these exotic locations for the first time. She imbued the cultural, physical, and emotional facets of each country to transport her readers to places they’ve never been.

  Whitney wrote one to two books a year with grand commercial success, and by the mid-1960s, she had published thirty-seven novels. She had reached international acclaim, leading Time magazine to hail her as “one of the best genre writers.” Her work was especially popular in Britain and throughout Europe.

  Whitney won the Edgar Award for Mystery of the Haunted Pool (1961) and Mystery of the Hidden Hand (1964), and was shortlisted three more times for Secret of the Tiger’s Eye (1962), Secret of the Missing Footprint (1971), and Mystery of the Scowling Boy (1974). She received three lifetime achievement awards: the Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award in 1985, the Agatha in 1989, and the lifetime achievement award from the Society of Midland Authors in 1995.

  Whitney continued writing throughout the rest of her life, still traveling to the locations for each of her novels until she was ninety-four years old. She released her final novel, the touching and thrilling Amethyst Dreams, in 1997. Whitney was working on her autobiography at the time of her passing at the age of 104. She left behind a vibrant catalog of seventy-six titles that continue to inspire, setting an unparalleled precedent for mystery writing.

  A young Whitney playing with her doll in Japan.

  Whitney with her family in Japan, where they lived for approximately six years. From left: Lillian (Lilly) Whitney, Charles (Charlie) Whitney, Phyllis Whitney, and Philip (Whitney’s half-brother).

  Thirteen-year-old Whitney dancing in the Philippines.

  Twenty-one-year-old Whitney at her graduation from McKinley High School in 1924.

  Whitney worked at the World’s Fair in Chicago, Illinois, in 1933. She was pregnant with her daughter, Georgia, at the time.

  Frederick Nelson Litten, Whitney’s mentor in writing and teaching, in Chicago, 1935.

  Whitney’s first publicity photo for A Place for Ann, 1941.

  Whitney, forty-eight, in her first study in Fort Hill Circle at her Staten Island house, where she lived with second husband Lovell Jahnke, 1951.

  Whitney at sixty-nine years old with Jahnke in their home in Hope, New Jersey, 1972. Behind them hangs a Japanese embroidery made by Whitney’s mother.

  Whitney at seventy-one years of age with Pat Myer, her long time editor, and Mable Houvenagle, her sister-in-law, at her house on Chapel Ave in Brookhaven, Long Island, New York, 1974. After her husband died in 1973, she lived close to her daughter, Georgia, on Long Island.

  Whitney at eighty-one years old on a helicopter ride over Maui, Hawaii, to research the backdrop for her novel Silversword, 1984.

  Whitney giving her acceptance speech for her Mystery Writers of America Grand Master Award in 1985.

  Whitney rode in a hot-air balloon in 1988 to use the experience for her novel Rainbow in the Mist.

  Whitney ascending in the hot-air balloon, 1988.

  Whitney in her study in Virginia in 1996 at ninety-three years old, looking over her “Awards Corner,” which included three Edgars, the Agatha, and the Society of Midland Authors Award.

  Whitney at ninety-six years old with her family in her house in Virgina, 1999. From left: Michael Jahnke (grandson), Georgia Pearson (daughter), Matthew Celentano (great-grandson), Whitney, and Danny Celentano (great-grandson).

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the e
xpress written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1956 by Phyllis A. Whitney

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  978-1-5040-4730-2

  This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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