much more than that. Daniel loves the little trolley car you sent him. Maybe it’s time you had a family of your own, Quint.”
Quint shifted Clara onto his knee. “That’s a fine idea. But first I need to find the right sort of woman.”
“And what sort of woman would that be?” The minute she said it she regretted her words.
He hesitated. Her heart sank as she guessed the unspoken answer. Quint had never gotten over his lost love. That was why he’d never married. And that was one reason he was so devoted to Clara. The child was his souvenir, his own little piece of Hannah.
Maybe if she kept reminding herself of that, she could get through the week with her heart intact.
In no time at all they were docking at the ferry building with its impressive clock tower. Quint helped them ashore, saw to their luggage and summoned a horse-drawn cab. Soon they were traveling down Market Street, amid the wonders of San Francisco.
“Look, Uncle Quint! What’s that?” Clara pointed as a racing fire wagon, drawn by four horses, rounded the corner ahead of them. Bells clanged as they thundered closer. The cab driver pulled over to let them pass.
“They’re on their way to a fire,” Quint explained to the wide-eyed Clara. “That big tank on the wagon is the boiler for the steam pump. It helps them spray water to put the fire out.”
“Will they put it all out?”
“Let’s hope so. Sometimes we have bad fires here because the houses are close together and they’re mostly made of wood.”
“Is your house made of wood, Uncle Quint?”
He gave her a reassuring hug. “My apartment is in a nice brick building, so don’t you worry your pretty head. We’ll be fine there.”
As they chatted, Annie peered out the cab’s open side at the wonders of San Francisco. She’d been in Denver plenty of times to buy fabric and trim, but Denver was a backwater compared to this shining metropolis that throbbed with life and excitement. Buildings of stone and concrete towered around her like canyon walls. Traffic streamed by in a constant flood—horse-drawn cabs, wagons and buggies, new gasoline-powered autos and electric trolley cars that ran on tracks down the middle of the street.
And the people! Annie had never seen so many or so much variety. Vendors hawked their wares from carts on the sidewalks, everything from cabbages to gold watches and bright bolts of silk. Chinese men in dark, pajamalike garb, their heads crowned by black derby hats, darted among the crowds with burdens slung from poles on their shoulders. A gang of sailors jostled each other as a pretty, foreign-looking girl passed them. Two prosperous-looking businessmen stepped off a trolley and entered a bank.
Traffic sounds made a roar in Annie’s weary head. Right now she would gladly have traded lunch at Delmonico’s for a nice nap. But she knew Quint had planned the meal as a special treat. She would smile and do her best to enjoy it.
The stop at Quint’s apartment was brief, allowing for little more than hauling up the baggage and using the splendid porcelain facilities. They also met the smiling, middle-aged Chinese man called Chao, who worked as Quint’s cook and housekeeper.
The two-bedroom apartment was spacious and comfortable, with a brown leather settee and two matching chairs drawn up before the fireplace. The walls were paneled in walnut and sparsely but tastefully decorated with photographs Quint had taken on his visits to the ranch. There were shots of snow-covered peaks, willows in winter, the house, the barn, the cattle and the wagon loaded with hay. One picture showed Quint’s scruffy border collie, Pal, who’d lived into old age and passed on. Another showed a beautifully windblown Hannah on the porch with two-year-old Clara in her arms.
Annie couldn’t help wondering how Quint could afford such a place on a reporter’s salary. But then she remembered that he’d sold his share of the ranch to Judd and invested the proceeds. He would have all the money he needed. At the very least he could afford to take them to a nice lunch.
The name Delmonico’s had been synonymous with glamour and elegance for more than half a century. The San Francisco version was the most dazzling place Annie had ever seen. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung above what looked like acres of linen-covered tables decked with fresh flowers. Formally dressed waiters flitted among them, balancing silver trays the size of wagon wheels above the heads of the diners. Seated at a grand piano, a young black man played a tinkling waltz.
The waiter seated them at a table near a window and pulled out the brocade-covered chairs for Annie and Clara. Quint passed on their orders from the à la carte menu—braised chicken for Clara, poached salmon for Annie and a plate of oysters on half shell for himself. Then they waited for their orders, sipping fresh lemonade and nibbling from a platter of tiny crackers, smoked meats, pâtés and cheeses.
Clara’s ongoing chatter filled the need for conversation, allowing Annie to observe the diners. Most of the women wore skirts and jackets, beautifully cut and embellished with tucks and lavish embroidery. The fabrics almost made her drool—jewel-toned wools, raw silks, heart-stopping merinos and cashmeres, English tweeds to die for. And the hats! Merciful heaven, such hats! They were veritable museum pieces, piled with clouds of tulle, huge satin bows, artificial birds, sparkling jewels and jutting feathers. Annie had thought her own well-tailored suit and modest chapeau chic enough to wear anywhere. She had, in fact, been one of the most fashionable women on the train. But in this place she felt like a drab little country mouse.
“Why, Quint Seavers! What a surprise!” The speaker was a stunning woman with hair the color of a prairie sunset. She was dressed in a skirt and jacket of emerald silk bombazine, which looked costly enough to feed Annie’s mother, brothers and sisters for six months. A forward-curving black plume adorned her hat and framed one jade-colored eye.
“I missed you at the opening of my play,” she cooed. “You aren’t angry with me, are you, darling? After that awful scene at the club…”
“Not at all.” Quint rose. “Evelyn, I’d like you to meet Miss Annie Gustavson and my niece, Clara. Ladies, this is Evelyn Page, whose acting is the toast of San Francisco.”
Annie murmured a polite greeting. Ignoring her, Evelyn focused on Clara. “Your niece? What a delightful surprise! And she’s adorable! She looks enough like you to be your daughter!”
“So people say,” Quint muttered. “It’s good seeing you again, Evelyn. Save me a seat at your next opening night, and I’ll write you a nice review.”
“You’d better, you naughty man! Ta!” She sashayed toward the door with a flutter of her lace-gloved hand. Quint sighed as he took his seat.
“She’s pretty,” Clara said. “Are you going to marry her, Uncle Quint?”
“I hardly think Miss Page is the marrying kind,” Quint said.
“But she called you darling. Doesn’t that mean she loves you?”
Quint was saved from answering by the arrival of the waiter with their meals. Annie’s poached salmon, cradled on a bed of fresh, steamed kale, looked delicious, not like the lumpy gray-green morsels on Quint’s platter of shells. Annie had read about oysters, but she’d never seen them before. They looked downright revolting.
She gave them a tentative sniff and wrinkled her nose.
