The Healing Summer, page 2
Jo nodded. “How fancy is this place?”
“Fancy,” Maggie said. “Dress up.”
Moments later, when Maggie was making her slow way back to her neighboring home, she found that she was smiling to herself. Nights out were rare for her, and at age ninety-four, she didn’t dare drive herself. That, and the fact she’d lost her license three years ago. Couldn’t pass the driving test. The Parkinson’s medication she took compromised her reaction time should someone suddenly brake in front of her.
Maggie stopped when another neighbor’s cat streaked across her path. “What are you up to, Sergeant?” she called after the gray tabby. The cat didn’t respond but continued to the other side of the road. She and Bruce had never had pets on account of Bruce’s allergies. Maybe she should get a cat or a dog now.
She turned up the walk to her stately two-story home. She’d lived here most of her married life, and she still remembered the day she and her husband bought it.
“I’d give you the world if I could, Maggie,” Bruce had said. “But this house will have to do.”
Maggie had laughed and hugged him. The house represented all her dreams for the future, hoping the five bedrooms would soon be filled with children, laughter, and love. But the children had never come. Only miscarriages.
After the seventh miscarriage, Bruce had sat her down on their pristine couch. Told her he wanted his wife back, that he loved her whether or not they had children, and he was going to take her to his next convention in Europe.
When Maggie had packed for the trip, she felt as if she were packing away her dreams of having children. Buckling up her suitcase had brought finality to her hope of becoming a mother. By the time she stepped off the plane in Paris, she’d reconciled herself to her new life. She hadn’t expected to be so charmed by the museums of Europe. While Bruce met with medical experts, Maggie had visited museums, libraries, antique shops, and gift boutiques.
Her first art purchase was a painting of the French seashore at dawn. The artist had captured the pinks and golds of the early dawn light as it reflected off the sea. She’d never heard of the painter, but the shop owner said that he was well-known throughout Europe.
Maggie opened the door to her house and made a beeline for the kitchen. The walk to Jo’s had winded her for some reason, and she needed some restorative tea. Or perhaps she was feeling faint because of the anticipation of asking Jo something important over dinner. If Jo turned her down, then Maggie didn’t know what she would do.
She set a teakettle of water on the stove, then waited for the water to boil. Maggie didn’t mind living alone for the most part. Bruce had been gone for years, and her only regret was her oldest regret—no children, no little Bruces or Maggies. And as a result, no grandchildren. Bruce had amassed a sizable fortune, and upon his death, Maggie had found she had no personal use for it. She continued to donate to her favorite charities and even bought a few more paintings. But shopping from catalogs was not the same thing as wandering through antique shops in Budapest or Liverpool.
The teakettle hissed, and Maggie removed it, then poured the hot water into a porcelain mug. Next, she added a tea bag of her favorite variety. She enjoyed the sweet flavor of the orange, and she always added cinnamon and honey to make it more robust.
Maggie took her time sipping her tea before reaching for the scrapbook she’d been adding to over the years. She’d shown it to Bruce once early in their marriage when it had only been about twenty pages long, and she found that answering his questions about her young life had only brought her more heartache.
If she kept her memories to herself, she could hold them close, and live a life beyond the pain.
If she shared her past, the pain grew and grew until she felt as if she were drowning.
But every year on the anniversary of her last day in San Francisco, she allowed herself an afternoon of going through the scrapbook. She hadn’t added to it since Bruce’s death. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because she felt if she were to put anything into a scrapbook, it should include things about Bruce and their life together.
Since today was the anniversary of the day she’d left San Francisco for good, she’d indulge in looking at the pages again. She wondered how many more times she’d do this. Ninety-four years of age was nothing to sniff over, and she had no idea how much longer she’d live. Months? Years? More and more people were living into their nineties, yet Maggie couldn’t expect that he was still alive. If he were, he’d be the remarkable age of ninety-six, for he’d been two years older than Maggie’s nineteen when she’d met him that fateful day of April 18, 1906.
Orlando Gallo.
Just thinking his name sent a warm shiver along Maggie’s arms. Could he still be alive? Did he still remember her? Surely, he had dozens of grandchildren and possibly great-grandchildren. Italians always had large families; it was almost a religion.
Maggie wondered whom Orlando had married. Was she Italian? Did they stay in San Francisco? Did he ever become a famous artist? At least in his own right?
Maggie could admit that her interest in art had begun with Orlando. She could also admit that she’d been disappointed time and time again when she’d written to art galleries, first in San Francisco, then throughout the state and other surrounding states, inquiring if they’d ever heard of an artist by the name of Orlando Gallo.
Every response she’d received had been in the negative.
So, she was left to wonder all these years.
When she’d met with her estate manager last week, an idea had formed. What if she tracked down Orlando’s descendants and left her estate to them? They could divide up the money from the trust fund and the sale of the home. It would be her way to thank Orlando for saving her life. But then the doubts set in. She was ninety-four. She couldn’t very well drive herself down the Pacific coast. How would she find a man from seventy years ago? He could be dead. He could have moved across the country. Maybe he’d never married at all.
But the idea had kept Maggie awake at night. She had to try, and tonight, she’d present her plan to Jo. And God willing, Jo would agree to help Maggie find Orlando.
Jo chose the dark green dress she’d worn to the winter faculty dinner. She loved the soft rayon fabric and the way the shoulder pads made her waist seem slimmer than it was. The dress was perhaps a winter color, but she could wear her black heeled sandals. Besides, the clouds were already gathering for the promised rainstorm. She hoped that Maggie, and Herb, weren’t opposed to driving in the rain, because Jo found she was looking forward to this birthday outing.
Who would have thought on her last birthday, when she and her husband and son had gone to dinner and then hung out in a downtown bookstore, that she’d be spending this birthday with their elderly neighbor? Jo reached for her makeup bag and applied a dark mauve lipstick, then fastened gold hoop earrings in her earlobes. There. She hoped Maggie would be pleased.
Jo walked downstairs, ignoring the sound of the ticking clock this time. She was finished with tears for the day.
She found Sadie waiting in the kitchen, standing patiently over her food bowl. She’d always been a mellow dog and was so tolerant of Alec’s antics over the years. Right now, the dog looked a bit downcast.
“Missing your buddy?” Jo said, giving the dog’s back a good rub. “Me, too.” She fed her and set out fresh water as well.
Then Jo headed outside in the drizzle, locking up the house.
Maggie was ready and even had the garage door open where she stood in front of the Lincoln. The woman always looked classy. She wore a floral brocade jacket over a soft white blouse, with an A-line navy skirt and low-heeled pumps. Like a true lady, Maggie wore nude-colored hose. She’d also applied a dusting of rouge, pale pink lipstick, and penciled-in brows, which brought more attention to her blue-green eyes.
“You look lovely,” Jo told her.
“Thank you,” Maggie said. “And so do you.”
Jo smiled, her heart feeling lighter with each passing moment. The maroon Lincoln looked as if it had been spit-polished, and the color gleamed beneath the garage light.
The two women climbed into the car after Maggie said she didn’t need any help, and Jo started the Lincoln. She’d never driven such a large car before, so she backed out slowly, then pulled onto the street.
As they drove, Maggie asked a few questions about Alec, and Jo found it nice to talk about her son to someone who knew him.
“He’s such a smart boy,” Maggie said. “I’ve enjoyed watching him grow up.”
The wistful tone in her voice was obvious. Maggie had once told Jo that after a series of miscarriages, she’d given up on the idea of having children with Bruce.
When they reached the restaurant, Jo realized she was quite hungry, and she was also pleased to see the place didn’t look crowded. They parked, and Jo and Maggie walked to the entrance. Inside, the décor was charming, reminiscent of what Jo supposed a real Italian restaurant might look like, complete with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and interior brick walls.
Low, classical music played as their hostess led them to a table. Only two other tables in the restaurant were occupied.
To Jo’s surprise, Maggie spoke Italian when their waitress showed up a few moments later with ice water. When the waitress left, Maggie said, “Greta has been my waitress a few times.”
“You speak Italian?” Jo asked.
Maggie smiled. “I’ve picked some up over the years. Comes in handy when traveling.”
“I’m impressed.” Languages weren’t really Jo’s strength, although she enjoyed learning to pronounce things.
Maggie reached for the glass of water the waitress had brought, her hands trembling. She took a sip, then set it down. “I’ve tried everything on this menu. All you need to tell me is what kind of dish you like, and I’ll be able to recommend a few things.”
“All right.” Jo looked down at the menu. The prices were about double compared to any other restaurant she’d been to. She scanned the names of the dishes, and most of them she was familiar with since Italian food had become an American staple. “I’m sure it’s all wonderful. Maybe one of the lasagnas? I didn’t know there were so many different kinds.”
“Do you like mushrooms?”
Jo nodded.
“Then, I’d recommend the Portobello mushroom lasagna,” Maggie said. “And it goes wonderfully with a red wine.”
The dinner bill would be a fortune if they ordered wine. Plus, Jo wasn’t sure how to gauge the potency, and if she was driving, it was probably better to stick with water. “No wine for me,” she told Maggie. “Water’s perfect.”
Maggie’s penciled brows lifted. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a glass of wine with my dinner. Get my courage up.”
Jo smiled. “Courage for what?” When Maggie’s face flushed, Jo’s curiosity was piqued. The woman was always so composed, so confident, that it made Jo wonder what she could be nervous about.
“I’ll explain after our food comes.”
Greta returned and took their orders, and while Jo burned with questions, she held up her end of the conversation as she told Maggie about the history classes she taught at Seattle Central. She didn’t mention how Liam was now engaged to the woman he’d left Jo for. Maggie didn’t ask about Liam. In fact, they didn’t speak of the divorce at all.
It was refreshing, Jo decided, to speak about adult things without going there.
When their food came, Maggie was in the middle of telling Jo about a trip to Denmark. Jo had kept her envy at a minimum, thinking that maybe if she stayed strict with her personal finances, she might one day travel, too.
But now she needed to pay attention to the lasagna on her plate. Steam rose from the layers of cheese, mushrooms, and pasta. The first bite convinced her food could be ambrosia, and the second bite convinced her that the restaurant was worth every penny.
“What do you think?” Maggie asked from across the table.
Jo looked up, and Maggie chuckled, probably because Jo had practically moaned in pleasure at the taste.
“It’s wonderful.”
Maggie lifted her glass of red wine. “To good Italian food and neighbors with birthdays.”
Jo laughed. She hadn’t even had any wine, yet the delicious food was its own blissful therapy. She lifted her water glass. “To neighbors who have working cars and know the best places to eat.”
The two women clinked glasses and smiled at each other. At that moment, the earlier grief of the day faded, and something new and warm pricked Jo’s heart. She’d never viewed Maggie as any more than a kind neighbor who was patient with Alec’s questions, but now, Jo felt gratitude for this woman’s company. They had little in common, yet Maggie’s smile, framed by lines of age, was endearing.
Jo took a sip of her water, then set it down. “Tell me, what is it that you need courage for?”
Maggie took her own sip of wine.
Had her hands always trembled? Jo wondered. She supposed when someone reached their eighties and nineties that some trembling was expected.
Maggie picked up her fork again but didn’t take a bite. “Did you know I grew up in California? Right in San Francisco.”
Jo didn’t, and she wondered where Maggie was going with this information.
“I was born in 1887,” Maggie said. “To you, that probably sounds ancient.”
“Not ancient …” Jo said, doing the math between 1887 and 1981. “You’re ninety-four? That’s impressive.”
Maggie’s smile was soft. “Except for my body slowing down, my mind doesn’t know much difference between now and when I was nineteen.”
Jo nodded and took another bite of her food, although Maggie had stopped eating for now. “I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of changes and advances in your day.”
“Many, and not all for the better.” Maggie’s voice was quiet. “Do you remember learning about the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906?”
Jo blinked a couple of times. “Of course … were you there at the time?”
Maggie picked up her wine glass and took another swallow. “I was nineteen years old and on my way to my first day at the Pacific Dispensary for Women and Children when the earthquake hit. I was training to be a nurse, you see.”
The hairs on Jo’s arms stood up. “I didn’t know you were a nurse.”
“I was only in training for a short time,” Maggie said. “After the earthquake and those terrible fires, I’d had enough of hospitals. I was a patient in one of them for three weeks because of my own injuries. Even now, I’ll do almost anything to avoid stepping foot into a hospital ward.”
Jo didn’t know if her eyes could get any wider. She’d known nothing of this about Maggie, and she wondered what type of injuries the woman had from the earthquake. What little she’d shared so far had conjured up a dozen more questions. “What time did the earthquake hit?”
“Around five in the morning,” Maggie said. “So many people lost their lives because they were in their beds. They couldn’t get out of their apartments and homes fast enough. And then the fires—back then, most of the buildings were made of wood.”
Jo shook her head. “I can’t even imagine.”
“No one could.” Maggie looked down at her hands. “Until you’re in the middle of it yourself, it’s impossible to comprehend.”
Jo’s heart ached for the woman sitting across from her, and she rested her hand atop Maggie’s. “How awful. What about the rest of your family?” Surely, she had parents, possibly siblings?
“All of them were killed.” Maggie lifted her gaze. Her blue-green eyes were still beautiful even with tears in them.
Jo’s throat squeezed.
“The events of that day, and the next few days, were surreal.” Maggie moved her hand from Jo’s and picked up her cloth napkin. After dabbing at her eyes, she said, “If it hadn’t been for a young man named Orlando Gallo, I wouldn’t be here today. I owe him my life.”
Jo swallowed. “He helped rescue you?”
“More than that.” Maggie folded her hands again. “He kept me alive until we could both be rescued. I guess you could say that he was the first man I … fell in love with.”
Jo didn’t know how this story could become more amazing and incredible, but every sentence was more astounding than the previous one. And who knew a ninety-four-year-old woman could still blush?
Maggie brought a hand to her flushed neck. “When we were rescued, he promised to find me after he was released from the hospital. But he never came.” Her tears returned.
“I’m so sorry,” Jo said. “Did you ever find out what happened to him?”
“No,” Maggie said. “I never found out what happened to him, despite inquiries I’ve made over the years.” She cleared her throat and met Jo’s gaze head-on. “I was hoping that you could adjust your summer plans and take me to San Francisco for a few weeks. I have no children, no grandchildren, and I want to leave my estate to the descendants of the man who saved my life so long ago. In order to do that, I need to find out what happened to him.”
Jo wasn’t sure if she’d heard right. Maggie wanted her to go to San Francisco, and what? Dig through library archives? When she saw that Maggie’s expression was perfectly in earnest, Jo felt irritated. First, she couldn’t drop everything. And … she’d planned on working on her manuscript. Really working on it. Perhaps finishing it. And … what? Now wasn’t the time to come to an epiphany that her summer plans were quite pitiful, yet aside from the manuscript-writing aspect, what did she have?
Maggie lifted a hand. “Don’t answer yet. Come to my house, and I’ll show you my scrapbook. If nothing else, you’ll be humoring an old lady and her memories. But if you’d like to come with me on my investigative tour, then I’ll make sure you’re compensated for your time as a travel companion, and I can guarantee that we’ll eat some of the best food ever created.”
San Francisco
April 17, 1906
