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At last I said, "Michael is out of town on business, Father. I
do not believe he will return until after you've left again for
Boston. You did say you could be here only a couple of days."

"That, lamentably, is true." He hung his head and briefly looked
forlorn indeed. I wanted immensely to comfort him, and yet I did
not know how. It was precisely the same aching feeling I'd had long
ago, after Mother died, and I wanted so much to bring her back not
only for myself (although I was sorrowing too) but for him . . .
because she was always the only one who could reach him when he was
at his most solemn, his most bereft. With her gone, there was-there
had been-no one. . . .

And so, because there was no one, and I could not do it alone, I
merely waited.

In time he raised his head.

"Caroline-Fremont-daughter, I must be honest enough with you to
tell you that I've come across the country against my wife's
wishes."

All my muscles stiffened at the word "wife" on my father's lips,
as it applied now to one who was, in my extremely biased opinion,
unworthy of the title. "That must be difficult for you," I
said.

Father nodded. Rather miserably, I thought. And in the lengthy
pause that followed, the waiter came and replaced soup with a
salad, which my father moved to the side with a request that the
entree be brought: "Expeditiously as possible," Father said. The
waiter, an ancient man with yellowed white hair, merely stood
there. "Quickly]" Father translated, with a wave of his hand for
emphasis, and the waiter nodded, this time speeding away.

When he'd gone I said quietly, "You seem to me to have been ill,
perhaps for some time. Is this true? And if it is, why didn't you,
or even Augusta, tell me?"

"I didn't like to worry you. And I thought I would recover, in
time-especially with Augusta to nurture me. She's good at things
like that, you'll find out, I'm sure."

I was much less sure, but forbore to say so. Instead I said,
"You are fully recovered now, I take it?"

"Fully, no. Enough to get along, yes. But still Augusta would
never have agreed to my making the long train trip. I thought it
best, therefore, to spare her the worry of knowing that I was
coming here."

"Father, if you don't mind my asking-what was the nature of your
illness?"

His eyes left mine and seemed to stare, unfocused, into some
middle distance that only he could see. After a pause in which, for
a moment, his mouth worked without producing a sound, as if he were
an ancient no longer capable of speech, he said: "It's in the
nature of a severe digestive complaint. That is all I can tell you.
The doctors themselves don't seem quite to know. It comes and goes,
sometimes better, sometimes worse, but since it set in about a year
ago it has never been completely cured."

"I see," I said; and because he seemed so uncomfortable I
returned to the topic he himself had broached. "Since you are
obviously out of town, where does Augusta suppose you to be?"

"In Chicago at a professional meeting," he replied, with a
sudden, impish smile.

Impulsively I reached across the table and put my hand on
Father's, where it rested just to the left of his plate, politely,
as if ready and willing to dive back into his lap at any moment.
"Yet," I said, all the warmth I could muster, which was
considerable, in my voice, "you did come, all the way here, just to
see me. Thank you, Father. I can never thank you enough."

"You don't need to thank me. In the morning, on your birthday,
you'll understand exactly why I came. In the meantime, if you could
continue to put up with me tonight just for the sake of
companionship, I'd be honored to hear the story of your life before
and since the earthquake. Every single minute you can
remember."

So I launched myself into the story of my life over the past
three years. I omitted only the strange subject of Edgar Allan
Partridge, who had also been known by his real name, Peregrine
Crowe-because there are some stories that, while true, are so
incredible as to invite disbelief.

Thus was the rest of the dinner passed, and I left after
agreeing to return at nine o'clock the following morning. My father
still kept to his banker's hours-that about him had not changed.
And that was almost the only thing that had not.

My bed had a fine new mattress, which Frances and I had bought
on her husband's account, yet lying upon it I seemed unable to
sleep at all. There was far too much going on in my mind. What a
jumble it was, a maddening kaleidoscope of thoughts. I may have
dozed; there were times when I could not tell the difference
between those half-awake thoughts that take us on one or the other
edge of sleep, and dreams themselves.

One thing I did remember clearly, when with the first certain
light of dawn I left my bed and gave up even the pretense of sleep:
Emperor Norton. He had appeared to me in the outlandish
military-style costume he wore in the one photograph of him that
I'd seen in the old newspaper archives at the library. Perhaps,
like the previous night's intruder, the Emperor had mistaken me for
Frances?

I did not really think that was so. Rather, I must have seen the
Emperor in an ordinary dream, as I have no psychic ability
whatever, nor do I wish to. Yet as I splashed cold water on my face
in a vain attempt to feel alert and halfway human, I had the oddest
feeling that the Emperor had been in my dreams for a reason. As if
he were trying to draw my attention to him . . . and perhaps
through him, elsewhere ... as if he might help me to solve some
problem, or, more likely, as if my attention to Frances's problems
would help her solve them.

"Well," I said somewhat huffily to the mirror, not looking at my
own face but rather over my shoulder into the depths of the room
that was actually behind me (an odd sensation, to be sure), "'if I
am to help her solve her problems she will at the very least have
to cooperate with me!'' Then for no reason I could think of, I
heard myself mutter as I turned away, "And your cooperation would
also be greatly appreciated, Your Sovereign Majesty!"

Honestly,
I thought, shaking my head and commencing
dressing,
what nonsense will I be into next?

The previous night I had worn my good dark blue silk. For today,
my twenty-fifth birthday (something of a milestone, a quarter of a
century), I had a new dress. It was only cotton, but of a fine
hand, polished like satin, in an amber color that brought out the
red in my hair rather nicely. Michael would like that, I knew.
And Father would like Michael,
I thought.
If only . .
.
but then I nipped that train of thought in the bud, as being
unprofitable.

My amber dress had a round collar of heavy ecru lace. To wear
with it I had earrings of real amber in a teardrop shape; one of
them had a tiny spider trapped inside. You could only see that it
was a spider beneath a magnifying glass. I rather liked the idea of
wearing a spider dangling from my earlobe.

I ate a solitary breakfast, for Frances did not appear, and I
was not in the mood to call and wake her. I wanted only for the
time to pass so that I could be with my father again. I had the
oddest feeling. . . . Another unprofitable thought, which I
likewise pushed away. I went into the office, sat at my old desk,
and wrote a note of detailed instructions for Edna Stephenson.
Included was an alert: I expected to bring Father back here before
the day was over. He would not want to go back to Boston, I was
sure, without having seen where I live and work.

The lavender shawl was the best I owned, and so I wore it when I
left the house, although it would not have been my first choice to
go over an amber dress. I should much have preferred a darker
color, but the black shawl was entirely too disreputable, and I had
not had a coat or a cape for ever so long. Would Father notice that
I was without certain, shall we say, wardrobe essentials? Probably
not. He had never been too interested in the subject of women's
clothing, though he shared my dislike for those elaborate
concoctions most women like to put on their heads.

I walked uphill to Broadway, and then down Broadway toward Van
Ness, a bit of a hike but it felt good. The sunlight fell thin and
thready through the fog; the more I walked the more the golden
threads burst through, until, by the time I had obtained a cablecar
for the ride down Powell Street, the sun was shining in
earnest.

So,
I thought, smiling as I descended gracefully from the
cable car directly in front of the Hotel St. Francis,
my
birthday will be a sunny one after all. It is a good omen.

It all went by entirely too fast, and seemed to be over almost
before it began. Success, whirlwind, both: that was my twenty-fifth
birthday. Father gave me another watch, this one lavaliere-style on
a chain, for which I thanked him profusely. He hung the watch about
my neck, right there in his hotel room, as he was finishing up a
breakfast brought him by room service. On the tray I noted the
remains of dry toast, coffee with cream and sugar, and half a
grapefruit all nicely segmented, with a cherry in the center, which
remained untouched.

Then we left the hotel and went to the Bank of San Francisco. I
thought at first this was only a courtesy call, as my father is
himself a banker and knows others all over not only this country
but the world; but I soon learned I was wrong.

They had known we were coming. Heads turned as Father announced
himself in a voice with just the right edge and hint of command to
make it carry. Deference was shown through a certain modicum of
bowing and scraping.

And when we left half an hour later, the bowing and the scraping
were being done for me, Fremont Jones, holder of a new account in
this establishment-a new account containing more money than I had
ever in my wildest dreams thought would be mine. Certainly I had
not known, nor would it ever have occurred to me to inquire, the
extent of my father's wealth. When I was living at home, I'd taken
all that for granted. With some amazement, as I signed paper after
paper acknowledging the transfer of funds, I realized that being
largely without money for the past couple of years had taught me
its true value.

"This represents a little less than half your inheritance,"
Father had said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of
his arm as we left the bank, "the discrepancy having been caused by
the fact that I had to sell some stock in order to come up with the
cash amount, and the price of that stock fluctuated downward that
particular day. The other half of the inheritance is to be yours
upon my death."

"But what of Augusta?" I'd blurted out the question, when I
should-had I thought about it-have restrained myself.

"She is also to be provided for. But nothing is to go to her
many relatives, including that son, who is a ne'er-do-well if ever
I saw one."

"Son?" This was the first I'd heard of a son.

"Yes," Father said with a hint of bitterness. "I didn't find out
about him until near the end of that first idyllic year with
Augusta. He has been like a plague upon us ever since. But let us
talk no more of him, as I have only this one day with you."

So the day had gone on, its highlight a visit to the double
house at Divisadero Street, Wish and his mother a great hit-Edna
thankfully on her best behavior, and Frances nowhere in sight.
Father's only comment that could be construed as negative was:
"Well, Fremont, now that you have some of your inheritance, you
will be able to complete the furnishing of your apartment." To
which I'd merely nodded. But then that night, once again unable to
really sleep, I'd wandered around half fantasizing, half planning
what I should buy. After, of course, buying my half of the house
outright from Michael. How good that would feel!

Now, at seven o'clock in the morning on April 11, I stood on the
dock at the Embarcadero with Leonard Pembroke Jones, waiting for
the ferry that would take him to Oakland and the train back to
Boston . . . and a part of me was filled with sorrow and gloom and
a horrible foreboding that I would never see him again.

Of course I could not tell him that.

"You're awfully quiet, daughter," he said, looking over at
me.

Since we are nearly the same height, our eyes met on the level.
"It's not like you," he added.

I smiled. "No, it isn't."

"The life here suits you, it would seem."

"Yes. I do love San Francisco. But I didn't realize until seeing
you again how much I've missed you, Father. I'm sorry you have to
go so soon."

"So am I, dear heart. So am I." My father could be affectionate
on occasion, but never demonstrative in public, and so I was
surprised when he reached out, put his arm around my shoulders, and
drew me close.

"There was only one thing missing from our visit," he said, very
quietly.

"And what was that, Father?"

"Your friend Michael. Your partner. I'm truly sorry I was not
able to meet him. I suspect he is more than just a friend and
business partner to you."

"Why, what makes you say that?"

"Any number of little things that have come to my attention over
the past few years. If nothing else, the persistence with which he
remains in your life. How many years older than you is this
man?"

"Roughly, um, twenty," I answered truthfully.

"You're my daughter, I know you. I watched you grow up, don't
forget. I've seen how the older men were the ones who interested
you most, and you them, while you treated the boys your own age
like brothers. Finally, my dear, there is the expression on your
face whenever his name is mentioned, and the unusual blush that
overcame your composure that first night when I asked after him. So
tell me now, for I'll be leaving soon; has he asked you to marry
him?"