“I’m not. But I read. Every now and then they unearth skeletons from way back when while digging for new construction sites. I guess they neglected to bring some of the bodies with them when they moved the cemeteries.”
“Really?!” Sara said, appalled. “Who forgets to move bodies? That’s just wrong.”
Sid nodded. “We could visit Colma if you like. But it may be easier to check online and see if they have a digital database.”
“Right.” Sara felt a bit stupid for not thinking of that before. “That may be a better idea.”
Sid got to his feet. “M’lady,” he said in his best British accent, making a formal bow, “if you’re interested in the turn of the previous century, perchance we could embark on a historic stroll through the city? I can give you an earthquake tour?”
Sara shook her head. “Historic stroll?”
“Yes, I’ve done a few. They’re fun.”
How come she didn’t know about that? Seriously, what had she been doing here all these years? She glanced at Sid. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to you, for a man in pajamas, you sure possess some interesting knowledge about San Francisco.”
Sid was visibly pleased with himself. “Told you.” He jumped up with an agility that made Sara envious and, very gentleman-like, stuck out his hand. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 4
The next day, Sara entered the restaurant on Howard Street where she was supposed to meet Jean. “Restaurant” was perhaps not the right word; it was more of a fancy juice bar with food. The place was still pretty empty. Mellow jazz was playing. She ordered a juice and sat down.
Her thoughts went back to yesterday. All in all, it had been a pleasant afternoon. Sid’s tour was fascinating and had left her with a new appreciation of the disaster the earthquake had been. Sid had behaved, much to her relief, and turned out to be a good storyteller. He had given her all the details about the early morning of April 18, 1906, when the earthquake had struck, leveling many buildings—especially in areas where people had built on landfills—crushing their inhabitants or trapping them inside. In some cases, the buildings built on marshland had sunk into the ground, the shaking of the earth liquefying the sand and causing people to drown. He showed her a few buildings downtown that had survived the earthquake and fires. She had felt a little embarrassed for not knowing the history of the many old buildings downtown despite living here for so long.
Sid had explained how the earthquake caused small fires, which grew into bigger ones, raging for three days through the city and jumping from neighborhood to neighborhood. They had burned so hot that many physical remains they encountered had simply disintegrated. The earthquake had broken the water mains, so fighting the fires was difficult. The military tried using explosives to breach the fire, with mixed results—in some cases they had started new ones. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the City of San Francisco had a better plan to deal with earthquakes these days.
A woman entering the juice bar caught Sara’s attention. She was in her late sixties or so, with short grey hair. She was carrying a briefcase and her clothing was neat, but somewhat old-fashioned and stiff. The woman gazed sternly around the space. Sara waved, and the woman walked up to her table. “Sara?” Her voice was deep.
“Yes. You must be Jean?” Sara asked.
“Indeed I am! So nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Would you care for something to drink?”
“A coffee would be lovely.” She said it with the authority of someone who was used to giving orders. Sara obediently went up to the counter and came back with the coffee a minute later.
“How wonderful we’re able to meet,” Sara said. “You said you were attending a medical conference?”
“Yes. I’m a physician… a pathologist.”
“I see...” Sara wasn’t quite sure what to say next. Somehow Jean appeared more like a military general than a doctor.
Jean took over. “What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“What kind of teacher?”
“English. Middle school. I work as a substitute teacher.”
“How fun.”
Whether Jean actually thought it was fun was not quite clear to Sara. And Sara had to admit it was not always fun. Subbing could be rough. “Yes,” she said eventually, “It has its moments. Kids can be fun. And brutal.”
Jean nodded. “I never had children,” she said matter-of-factly. “I met my husband later in life. I was always so busy with my career; there never seemed enough time. My husband has children from a previous marriage, and we get the grandchildren over now and then. It’s a wonderful thing to have them. I make sure to take time for them. Life seems too short now.” After a brief silence she added, “Life is too short. I’m very sorry about your parents. I never met your father, but your mother was so kind when I met her.” Her grey eyes never left Sara’s.
Despite her somewhat brusque manner, Jean had friendly eyes. Sara just wished she would blink more. “Thank you,” Sara said. “I miss them a lot.” To change the subject before she started tearing up, she asked, “When is Alice’s great-great-granddaughter coming? Sorry, I don’t think I caught her name.”
Jean checked her watch. “Phoebe—she should be here shortly. Look out for a woman who’s dressed well and wearing expensive shoes with at least four-inch heels.”
“Have you met her?”
“No, but that what’s she sounded like,” Jean said, the corners of her mouth curving up. “And I’m seldom wrong.”
“Did I sound any way in particular?” Sara asked hesitantly.
“I didn’t talk to you—we just emailed…” This time Jean gave Sara a full smile.
As Sara considered this, a shadow fell over their table, and she looked up. A very pretty woman with beautiful deep auburn hair flowing over her shoulders looked down at them, smiling broadly, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Sara guessed she was in her early thirties. Her clothing was hip, expensive, and in need of some extra fabric. Jean had been dead on. Sara felt a pang of jealousy looking at the woman, who extended a hand toward her while bending forward, giving them an exclusive view of her cleavage. “Hi! Are you Sara?”
Sara nodded and shook her hand, attempting to stand up.
“No, please, don’t get up. I’m Phoebe. And you must be Jean?” Phoebe shook hands with Jean and continued talking at a fast pace. “Sorry I’m late. I had a meeting with a client and it just wouldn’t end. How fascinating this all is! I can’t believe I’m meeting two descendants from the women in those letters. And those letters! I still can’t get over it. What an a-ma-zing story! What a time to live in. And what a treasure to have the thoughts of our great-great-grandmothers on paper, don’t you think?” Phoebe finally paused and took a breath.
Sara’s mouth had fallen open. She caught Jean’s eye. Jean winked at her.
Phoebe, noticing the exchange, blushed and giggled. “Gosh, yes, I know, I talk too much, and too fast when I’m nervous. Just tell me to slow down. I promise I’ll try.” She quickly rattled off an introduction while furiously digging in her purse. She was an event planner who lived in the Los Angeles area—married, with three-year-old twin boys and a very dedicated nanny. She was in town planning some corporate event for a client. After finding the object of her search—her cell phone—she placed it in front of her and it instantly came alive, vibrating incessantly with new messages. Groaning, she deposited her napkin over it. “I’ll try to ignore it—for a few minutes at least. Most of them are boring updates from the nanny anyway.”
Phoebe proceeded to tell them, in excruciating detail, what she had found out about her great-great-grandmother Alice and her descendants. Sara’s brain tried desperately to keep up with Phoebe’s relentless stream of information. But in the end, as it turned out, Alice’s only living offspring had been established through Alice’s daughter Eleonore, the little girl mentioned in the letters. “I haven’t really been able to ask anyone about these letters,” Ph
oebe said. “My grandmother on my mom’s side was Eleonore’s oldest daughter. She’s gone, and we aren’t in touch with the descendants of her siblings. My mother passed away as well. I’ve got two brothers who live on the East Coast, but they don’t care about this sort of stuff.”
“When did Eleonore die?” Sara asked.
Phoebe’s forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. “Umm, I believe in the seventies? In any case, some years before I was born. Now Alice, she died young, in 1906, when she was in her early thirties.” Phoebe paused, almost deliberately, as if she were counting to ten.
“Julia died young as well,” Sara said. “My aunt emailed me the family tree. She also died in 1906, but we aren’t sure where or how. Of her two children, only George, the baby in the letter, had children—well one, to be exact. My grandma.”
Jean nodded. “Theresa died in the 1950s. She was the oldest and lived the longest. Married an army colonel. Not many descendants. The family tree will die with me.”
“Well, now that we have that squared away, let’s eat,” Phoebe said, eyeing the menu. “Excellent, they have orange juice with turmeric. Very healthy. And organic.”
“Hmm.” Jean was frowning behind her reading glasses, which were perched low upon her nose. “I think another coffee will do for me.”
Sara stifled a grin; a shared ancestry might just be the only thing these two women had in common.
They ordered lunch and then picked up the conversation.
“So, my great-great-grandmother Alice had three children who survived to adulthood,” Phoebe said. “She had no more children after the twins, with Eleonore’s twin brother dying shortly after birth. As far as I can tell.”
“But according to the letters she was pregnant, wasn’t she?” Sara said.
“Yes. I don’t know what happened there.”
Jean shrugged. “It was the year 1900. Anything could’ve happened.” She opened her briefcase. “I thought you’d like to see the real letters. I brought them along.” She took out two manila folders and placed them on the table.
“Wow!” Phoebe’s face was flush with excitement.
Jean opened the first one and gave it to Phoebe, who carefully placed her perfectly manicured hands on the folder. “Oh my—just imagine—my great-great-grandmother touched this paper! Wrote it, even!” Lost in thought, she stared at the letter while Jean pushed the other folder to Sara.
Fascinated, Sara pulled the file toward her. There it was. Her great-great-grandmother’s handwriting. Bold and round. Carefully, she straightened a fold in the letter with her finger. Almost immediately she became aware of two sensations. The noise in the room became muffled, as if a cocoon had been placed around her and was shutting out the sounds. And then she smelled smoke. Lots of it. It filled her airway, choking her. She started coughing.
Panicked, she moved her hands to her mouth. Like a carousel being turned on, the noises of the café rose to their original volume. Sara caught a piece of something Jean said to her.
Taking in a big gulp of air and a few quick breaths after that, she reoriented herself. Her throat still burned, but the smell of smoke was slowly dissipating. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Sara asked Jean, her eyes watering.
Jean had taken the file back from her, looking annoyed while she checked the contents. “I said you want to be careful with that letter. You were pushing on it with your hand. It’s fragile. It’s more than a hundred years old, after all.” She looked up at Sara, narrowing her eyes. “Are you okay? You look pale. Did something go down the wrong pipe?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry about that. Do you guys smell anything?” she asked.
“Yes. My food,” Jean answered.
Confused, Sara looked at the table and saw that their food had mysteriously appeared while she had been—been doing what, exactly? Studying the letter?
“I thought maybe I smelled smoke. Like there was a fire.”
Jean raised a questioning eyebrow. Phoebe was attacking her vegetarian burger with vigor. “No smoke,” said the latter, in between bites. “But I have a terrible sense of smell. It’s a great advantage when you’ve got children.”
“I didn’t smell anything either,” Jean said. “Are you sure you’re all right?” She was staring again.
“Absolutely.” Sara avoided her gaze. Damn, that woman should have been a cop, not a doctor. She would have people confessing in no time. “I must’ve been mistaken about the smell. Or maybe it’s my food.” Sara picked up her silverware, hands trembling. She could kick herself for touching that letter. This was not good. Not good at all. “So, Jean,” she said, keeping her voice even, “where did you find the letters?”
Jean poked around in her salad. “I found them in my mother’s basement. They were in a wooden box, but somehow the bottom got cracked. The box itself has a lot of water stains, so the crack is how water managed to get in, I presume. My mother had a burst pipe in her basement years ago, which caused a small flood. If she’d kept the box in the attic instead, we might have all the letters now. Such is life, I guess. These three that I brought were on top.”
“These are the only letters that were legible?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I would’ve loved to read more.”
“Me too.”
Phoebe gave a satisfied sigh and pushed her empty plate away from her. “That was delicious.”
Jean raised an eyebrow. “You sure took care of that. Where do you put it?”
Phoebe smiled. “High metabolism. Spin class four times a week.” She wiped her mouth daintily with her napkin. “Now, I was wondering… am I the only one who’s curious about these ‘regrettable words’ Julia mentioned that fell between William and her? I tell you, there’s more to it. I can smell intrigue from miles away.”
“Yes, I wondered about that sentence too.” Sara nodded.
“Because, let’s be real here,” Phoebe continued, “Alice comes across as a bit, what shall I call it, calculated? I know she was my great-great-grandmother and all, but Julia seems so much nicer. Am I wrong? She said it herself in that letter that she used her head as well as her heart in marriage. Very unromantic, if you ask me.”
“Well, you see where romance leaves you,” Jean said. “Alone, with two children to feed, in your sister’s house, relying on her generosity.”
“Are you implying Julia and William had something going on way back when?” Sara asked. “I doubt that. I think it’s far more likely Julia disapproved of William as a match for Alice because she wanted her sister to be happy and in love. Perhaps as in love as she was with her husband. Maybe they had an argument.”
“Well, we’ll never know.” Jean waved the waiter over. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I’ve got to go. I have to get back to the conference.” After settling the bill, she hugged Phoebe and Sara stiffly. “Don’t be strangers, now. Keep in touch.”
They watched Jean march out of the door.
“I have to go too,” Phoebe said. “But I’ll be around till tomorrow. Would you like to hang out tomorrow afternoon? I don’t know many people in San Francisco. We could go shopping? Or something else fun?”
“Sure! I’d love to. It beats hanging out with Sid.”
“Who’s Sid?”
“Don’t ask.”
Phoebe grinned. “Okay, I won’t. But now I’m curious. And I’m not always good with personal boundaries. Just warning you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sara shot back. “But I’ve got nothing to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” Phoebe laughed out loud. “That’s fine, have it your way. I always find out the truth eventually. No one keeps secrets from me.”
Later that afternoon, as Sara made her way back to her apartment, her steps were remarkably lighter. She was glad to have met Jean and Phoebe. They were family, in a way—even if they were triple removed, or however far it was.
But deep in the back of her mind, Sara felt a shadow lurking. Something had gone wrong when she touched that letter. Someth
ing that could not be undone. The thought of the coming nighttime filled her with dread. Whatever she had started, she now had to see it through to the end.
Chapter 5
The room is spacious. Sunlight comes in through the large bay window. Sara has trouble focusing. She hears many voices—children’s voices. There’s laughing and squabbling. As she concentrates, the room becomes clearer. In one corner, two girls in nice dresses sit at a table together with a boy; they are playing a game of sorts and arguing at the same time. “Frederick,” the tallest of the two girls says in a loud voice, “you’re cheating!” She turns her head, her dark brown curls shaking in outrage. “Aunt Julia, Frederick is cheating!” she calls out.
“I was not!” The boy at the table stands up. He is about six years old, blond, with ruddy cheeks. He looks offended. “Mary is lying, Mother. I wasn’t cheating! She just can’t stand losing.”
“Well, one of us is lying,” Mary said, putting her hands on her hips. “But it’s not me.”
“Children, lower your voices.” A soft voice comes from the other end of the room. Sara strains to see the speaker. A head full of beautiful red hair appears from behind the sofa as a woman slowly gets up from the floor, where she was apparently sitting. Standing up, she bends forward again, reaching with both hands to grab something Sara can’t see. Walking around the sofa, the woman comes into full view, each of her hands holding on to a toddler happily trotting alongside her.
In awe, Sara takes in the scene. The woman in front of her is Julia, her great-great-grandmother—of that she is certain. The woman is wearing a becoming dress that highlights her curves and her small waist. Her face, framed by her gorgeous hair, is dominated by two large deep-blue eyes. This woman radiates warmth more than beauty, but the glow is intense, like everyone around her is basking in the sun. Sara’s breath catches. Julia bears a striking resemblance to her mother. It unnerves her. The same hair, the same eyes.
One of the toddlers next to Julia releases himself from her grip. Sara watches the strawberry-blond boy run through the room on his short legs. That must be my great-grandfather, Sara thinks. How weird.
A Dose of Deadly Intentions Page 4