A Race to Splendor (42 page)

“Let me know if you’d ever like to meet my half sister,” J.D. offered, smiling faintly. “Your little daughter will accompany Donaldina Cameron to the grand opening of my hotel on the Fourth of July.”

“I won’t be there.”

To J.D.’s chagrin, Big Jim’s expected refusal to attend the debut of his hotel—and all the other times he’d ridiculed his son’s efforts to strike out on his own—still had a capacity to cut to the quick. In that moment, the younger James Thayer recognized that attempting to gain his father’s attention and respect had been the primary engine that had driven his rebellious youth and his more recent desire to acquire trophy properties like the Bay View. He’d gambled everything he’d owned to get that particular possession, hoping with the pathos of an orphaned child that he’d win an even greater prize—his father’s love, or at least his grudging admiration.

J.D.’s lust for the Bay View Hotel had begun the first time he gazed out Charlie Hunter’s big bay windows and watched the serpentine fog slither through the Golden Gate straits. His aspirations to get his hands on it were rekindled the day he’d heard that the flinty old man had been stricken by a stroke amidst the palms in the lobby of his mirrored palace, and that his wastrel son-in-law was running—and ruining—that wonderful place.

J.D.’s insatiable hunger for Taylor and Jackson streets long predated his lust for the intriguing Miss Bradshaw, a woman whose existence he’d utterly disregarded until the day she slammed into his office, fresh from France.

By then, J.D. had wanted to own the Jewel of Nob Hill so badly, he’d sold everything he possessed and even went into business with a known drunkard and an outright extortionist to show his father that he could add up to something, after all. He’d had the arrogance to believe that the supremely clever Ling Lee, whom he’d grown to love like a sister and to respect for the capable businesswoman she was, would help him make enough money in the first year of the gambling club to pay off both Ezra Kemp and Amelia’s father several times over. The place would be his alone and perhaps, at last, Big Jim Thayer might say, “Well done, son.” Or at least reluctantly respect the wealth and property his son had acquired.

Nothing had turned out as he’d planned. Building the gambling club so swiftly had nearly broken him. In fact, to keep his financial juggling act going, he’d almost lost the prize several times in a few bizarre and foolhardy games of chance. It had been a wild ride, indeed, but now, he’d come nearly full circle. Lady Luck had favored him one last time on the morning of the quake. He’d retained control of the hotel and now would
never
sell, never risk losing it again, or let it fall into disrepair.

When he first met Amelia, she’d presented a major obstacle, for she was as devoted to the Bay View as he was. What a strange and unpredictable twist of fate that he should fall in love with the late Henry Bradshaw’s daughter. Dear God, but it would be a hard price to pay if Amelia ever found out the truth about certain things—though he calculated that the odds were great she never would.

J.D. figured he was the kind of a man who never showed his entire hand. If he put his cards on the table and people like Kemp knew that his feelings for Amelia Bradshaw ran much deeper than an enjoyable night in a Sears and Roebuck brass bed, he put her life at risk. If he didn’t tell
her
all the facts, and she found them out on her own, she’d probably walk out of his life for good.

Which she might do anyway, should he ultimately decide to reveal the “unvarnished truth,”
he reminded himself.

His one hope was that Big Jim could strong-arm Kemp into a corner so he could no longer threaten Amelia’s life or shanghai him into marrying Matilda. If J.D.’s luck held at all, he’d later reveal Kemp’s putting the engagement notice in the
Call
and his own successful counter-moves to stop the wedding. Then J.D. and Amelia could make a home in the place they both loved to distraction and share in its value, fifty-fifty. It was a calculated gamble, this decision to not tell her everything, but he’d risked far more in the past—and won.

And what of the poker game on the morning of the quake…?

J.D. concentrated instead on making a quick exit from the family dining room. With a brief farewell nod to his father, whose gaze remained fixed on a cold cup of coffee, the younger Thayer exited the dining room and mounted the stairs to his mother’s apartments. He had a sudden compulsion to let his mother know that he understood everything now. Understood and forgave her—and himself—for their long separation as mother and son.

He’d finally grasped the root causes of her morbid shyness. He saw the reason, now, for her pills and potions. Her desperate search for a kind word, a friendly face. Anything to assuage the loneliness and fear that came from feeling like an outcast. He understood because he also knew how it felt to stand outside the charmed circle of social acceptance in a city like San Francisco.

Though Consuela didn’t know it, she had unwittingly colluded with Big Jim Thayer in convincing their only child on some unspoken level that he didn’t quite measure up to the almighty Thayers—and never would.

Because he was one quarter Spanish, with skin almost as tawny as his mother’s, he’d been doomed from birth as an outcast too, in his father’s eyes, and it was this deep-seated racism felt toward Big Jim’s only son that had propelled J.D. out of his family home when he was just sixteen and taught him to fight for what he believed in and held dear.

Thayer reached the landing and knocked gently on a door to his right. When bidden to enter, he disappeared into Senora Consuela’s private chamber.

***

Blocks to the east of Octavia Street, Amelia stood in the hotel’s doorway dressed in coat and a hat that sat on her head at a jaunty angle—and she was loaded for bear. Angus McClure was just coming up the front steps.

“Good morning, Amelia. Where are you going at such an early hour?” he asked. “I was just coming by to beg a bit of breakfast off you, now that your grand kitchen’s been installed. I’m picking up medical supplies at the dock this morning and need to borrow the Winton to take them back to the Presidio, but I don’t see the motorcar. Is J.D. here?”

“No.”

Amelia had checked J.D.’s newly furnished bedroom in the penthouse when he failed to appear for breakfast. She had no idea if he’d even been home the previous night. No one had seen him anywhere all morning and the Winton was not parked on the street or in the commodious garage she’d built for it. She had been so angry a few minutes earlier, she’d almost thrown rocks at the lobby windows.

Angus regarded her for a long moment and then asked, “Is everything all right, lass? I trust the boilers are in fine fettle?” he added, with an amused lift of an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you’re amazed to hear they’re perfectly operational. I’ve just completed my final inspection. Basically, the project here is done. I’m sorry, Angus, but I have an appointment. Shou Shou will fix you whatever food you like.”

“Amelia!” He placed his hand on her sleeve to restrain her from leaving. “I can see something’s upset you. Tell me what’s wrong. Has your work crew been giving you problems?” He reached toward her and grasped her chin between his fingers. “Look at those dark circles under your eyes! You look exhausted. All this rush-rush to make the opening date has put you under a terrible strain.” He gave her cheek a little pat and seized her hand. “Come inside with me and relax a bit. I’ve been telling you right along that this kind of work puts too much of a burden on your shoulders. You ought to—”

“No!” Amelia yanked her hand away. “Please don’t tell me what I ‘ought’! I loved my work here. What I do not care for is your incessant badgering!”

She glared at him, anger coursing through her entire body. She’d had her fill of domineering men this morning. J.D. had made absolutely no attempt to contact her in two days or explain one word about his engagement
announcement. Nor had she had a chance to confront
him
about the playing cards she now had in her possession. And here was Angus, berating her for merely trying to complete the bloody hotel on time!

Startled by her heated words, Angus could only stare. “Badgering you? What are you saying? I was merely observing that—”

“Well then, let me put it in
this
fashion. Many men of my acquaintance seem to think that it’s perfectly all right to treat me as if I were blind, feebleminded, and thoroughly unable to discern my own intentions. Well, I’m
not
,
and I have an appointment to keep, Angus. So if you will, excuse me, please.”

“I’m just asking you to have breakfast with me, lass.”

Amelia hardly heard him. “I don’t know why so many men seem to believe that they can simply put shackles on a woman and take from her what they will, be it her trusting nature, her freedom, her ability to choose her own fate, or her money and inheritance!” she declared with an uncharacteristic vehemence. “To take everything from us because they think we’re too
stupid
to look after ourselves!”

Before Angus could reply to this tirade, Amelia stormed across Jackson Street and disappeared around the corner. By the time she reached California Street, she already felt contrite, knowing her fury was misplaced. The lion’s share of the speech she had just flung at the good doctor more appropriately should have been addressed to his
best friend.

***

Amelia took a seat at her old drafting board that currently resided at the Morgan architectural firm in the Merchants Exchange building and swiftly penned her thanks to Franco Pigati and his entire crew
“for the splendid job you’ve done at the Bay View Hotel. I will forever be in your debt and hope we can work together again.”

On a second piece of paper she wrote:

Mr. Thayer:

The last of the rubble was cleared today.

This morning I signed off on everything but the flower beds at the very rear of the property, a section designated to honor “Lucky Dog” and Barbary, that should be planted by the time you read this.

Also: Mr. Pigati’s crew should have placed the remaining uncrated hotel furniture as I’ve directed, but of course, you may see fit to make some changes, which I encourage you to do.

I have decided I could use an extended holiday so I am leaving immediately for France via train to New York. Please send the final payment of my fees, care of Miss Julia Morgan, Merchants Exchange Building, 465 California Street, San Francisco, California.

Sincerely,

Amelia Hunter Bradshaw, Architect

Her desire to avoid seeing J.D. until the July Fourth opening of the hotel had spontaneously given birth to a scheme whose success now depended on his believing that she would
not
be attending the hotel’s grand opening a few days hence. And if he thought his marrying Matilda Kemp that night was devastating news to his architect, so much the better.

But you
are
devastated…

Amelia forced her thoughts back to matters at hand. Once J.D. got her letter, he’d readily assume that she’d found out about his engagement and had abruptly decamped for France in tears.

Amelia sealed the notes and addressed each one, placing them in envelopes with the name of the Julia Morgan firm printed in the upper left front corner. She gave both missives to Ira.

“You are a true friend, Ira Hoover.”

He patted her awkwardly on her shoulder. “And you to me, Amelia Bradshaw.”

“Everyone in the office has been wonderful,” she added, battling a well of emotion that had risen in her chest.

“We’re all glad to help,” he replied affectionately. “I walked by the Bay View last week. It’s magnificent. You are an absolute pistol, my girl.”

“And not a word to anybody about my plan?” she pleaded. “I want everyone at the Bay View to believe I’ve already left for New York.”

“Not a word to the contrary,” Ira solemnly agreed.

Amelia expressed her appreciation, offered her farewells to Lacy and Julia, who’d promised to help her with the necessary arrangements to salvage what she could from this sorry mess, and marched out the office door.

She would, indeed, go to France, and there, along the grand boulevards, sidewalk cafés, and magnificent buildings, she would forget about J.D. Thayer and the treachery of men. She would revisit the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Luxembourg Gardens and drive a motorcar down the Champs-Elysées with her hair unpinned, and revel in the fact that Julia Morgan believed she was an architect with true ability. She would stay at least one night at her favorite hotel on the Rue Jacob—alone.

She wondered briefly if she would ever run into Etienne Lamballe. She hoped her French was still good enough to tell him what she thought of
him.

But before her departure from San Francisco, she would, by God, reclaim what legitimately belonged to her mother—and herself. And only
then
would she decide what direction to take for the rest of her life.