Mission of Hope (3 page)

A
h, but she was a beauty.

Quinn stood mesmerized by the way she held her ground. Tall and proud, with defiant lines he wanted to catch from every angle.

Quinn was vaguely aware of an elbow to his ribs. “Nephew, ya look foolish just standing there like that.”

Rough hands grabbed his face on both sides and pulled his gaze to the dusty, whiskered sight of his uncle Michael. “There's something wrong with you, man. It ain't natural, the way you look at buildings.”

“Architecture. It's called architecture. I'd give anything to study.”

Uncle Mike snorted. “You need a wife.”

Quinn shifted his sore feet as his mind catapulted back to the rows of tiny black buttons that ran up the sides of Nora Longstreet's boots. He'd stared then, too, liking their lines as much if not more. “I need to
learn,
” he said impatiently to his uncle, who simply rolled his eyes at the speech he'd heard every day even before the earthquake. “Apprentice an architect. Only there's no
time to learn anymore. We need loads of builders, but we need them
now.
” Everything took so much time these days.
Lord Jesus, You know I'm thankful to be alive, but this bread line feels two thousand miles long. I'm in no mood to learn no more patience, if You please.
He felt he'd die if he wasn't back at the camp edge by two. He had to see her again. Had to see that dented locket that he just knew would be polished up and hanging around her neck. He'd miss half a week's worth of bread to make sure he caught that sight—even if it meant he'd catch a whole lot more from his ma for returning without bread.

By the time the sun was high in the sky and the police officer on the corner said it was one-fifteen, Quinn still was looking at forty or so people in line in front of him. Without so much as an explanation, Quinn nudged his uncle and said, “I'm off.”

“And just what do you think you're doin'?” the man balked as Quinn strode off in the direction of home, his feet no longer feeling the holes that burst through his shoes yesterday.

“I ain't sure yet,” Quinn replied with a grin, tipping his hat as his uncle stood slack-jawed, “but I'll let you know.”

 

Nora sat beside her father in the mail cart, her heart thumping like the hooves of the horse in front of them. Since the earthquake, she'd barely looked forward to anything or been excited about anything.

She wanted to see him. To feel that tug on her pulse when he caught sight of her. He seemed so
happy
to see her. She knew, just by the tilt of his head, that she brightened his day. There was a deep satisfaction in that;
something that went beyond filling a hungry belly. Still, that hadn't stopped her from bringing a loaf of bread she'd charmed out of the cook this morning.

He was a very clever man. He stood on the other side of the street, far enough from the cart to be unobtrusive, near enough to make sure she caught sight of him almost immediately. His eyes held the same fixation they had at the ceremony, and Nora felt a bit on display as she went about her duties.

He watched her. His gaze was almost a physical sensation, like heat or wind. He made no attempts to hide his attentions, and the frank honesty of his stare rattled her a bit, but not the way that man Ollie's stare had. She might be all of twenty-two, but Nora had lived long enough to judge when a man's intentions were not what they should be. Simply put, Quinn looked exceedingly glad to see her again. And there was something wonderful about that.

“You'll stay by the cart today,” Quinn said, walking across the street when the line finally thinned out. “Mind your papa and all.”

“I should,” she admitted. “However, I would like very much to see the teeter-totter again. It seemed a very clever thing to do, and I wonder if there aren't some things back at my aunt's house that we could add to your contraption.”

A bright grin swept over his face. “My contraption. I like that a far sight better than
that thing Quinn built.
” He pushed his hat back on his head as he looked up at her, squinting in the sunlight. It gave Nora an excuse to settle herself down on the cart, bringing her closer to eye level with the man. “A contraption sounds impor
tant. I'll have to build another just to say I am a man of contraptions.”

They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Nora felt it rush down her spine. It was powerful stuff these days to see someone happy—they'd barely left misery behind, and there was so much yet to endure ahead of them. She'd taken the streetcars completely for granted before. Now, everyone's shoes—and feet—had suffered far too much walking. She imagined his smile would be striking anywhere, but here and now, it was dashing.

“Still,” he said, “it's best we don't wander off today. I wouldn't want your papa thinking poorly of me.”

“Oh, I'm sure he couldn't do that.” Nora fingered the locket now fastened around her neck. Something flickered in his eyes when she touched it. “You brought me back Annette's locket, and that was a fine thing to do.”

“The pleasure's mostly mine, Miss. I think it made me as happy as it made you. And good news is as hard to come by as good food these days.”

“Oh,” Nora shot to her feet, remembering the loaf of bread tucked away behind her. “That reminds me. I know you said you didn't need a reward, but I just didn't feel right without doing something.” She pulled out the loaf, wrapped in an old napkin. “Cook makes the best bread, even missing half her kitchen.” She held it out.

“Glory,” Quinn said, his grin getting wider, “You can't imagine how glad I am to see a loaf of bread. Especially today.”

“Aren't you able to get any?”

She thought she saw him wink. “That's a long story. Just know you couldn't have picked a better day to give me a loaf of bread.”

That felt simply grand, to know she'd done something he appreciated so much. “I'm glad, then. We're even.”

“Hardly,” he said, settling his hat down on to his head again. “I'm still ahead of you, Miss Longstreet. By miles.” He bent his nose to the bread and sniffed. “I'd best get this home before it gets all shared away. Thank you, Miss Longstreet. Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure,” Nora said, meaning it. Taking a deep breath, she bolstered her courage and offered, “Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.”

The only sad thing about the entire exchange was that three months ago, Nora would have rushed home to tell every little detail to Annette. Today, she didn't mind the trickle of mail customers that still came to the wagon, for there was only Mama waiting at home. Nora laid her hand across the locket, hoping her thoughts could soar to where Annette could hear them. Is heaven lovely? I miss you so much.

 

Reverend Bauers tried to lift the large dusty box, but couldn't budge the heavy load at his advanced years. He huffed, batted at the resulting cloud of dust that had wafted up around him and threw Quinn a disgusted glance. “I'm too old for this.”

Quinn wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. It was stale and dusty down here in the Grace Mission House basement, and he'd already had a long day's work, but he'd be hanged if he'd let Reverend Bauers attempt cleaning up the rubble on his own. The man was nearly eighty, and although he showed little signs of slowing down his service to God, his body occasionally remind
ed him of the truth in “the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.”

“Didn't I just get through telling you the very same thing? Reverend, I don't think when God spared you and Grace House through the earthquake and the fire that He did it all to have you collapse in the basement. You've got to slow down. You'll do no good to anyone if you hurt yourself.”

His long and fast friendship with the pastor—since boyhood, going on twenty years now—had given him leave to speak freely with Reverend Bauers, but even Quinn knew when too far was too far. And even if the reverend's insistence on ordering the Grace House basement was a bit misguided, Quinn wasn't entirely sure he should be the soul to point it out. People reacted in funny ways to the overwhelming scale of destruction. His own ma bent over her tatting every night, even though Quinn was certain there'd be little use for lace in the coming months. Many people focused on ordering one little segment of their lives, because they could and because so much of the rest of their lives was spinning in chaos.

“I can't seem to stay away,” Reverend Bauers said, giving a look that was part understanding, part defiance. “I keep getting nudges to tidy up down here, and you know I make it a policy not to ignore nudges.” Reverend Bauers was forever getting “nudges” from God. And Quinn believed God did indeed nudge the portly old German—he'd seen far too much evidence of it to dismiss the man's connection with The Almighty. Only no one else ever just got “nudged.” God seemed to be shouting at everyone else—or so they said. People were talking everywhere about God's judgment on San Francisco or claiming they'd heard God's command to
destroy the city—and/or rebuild it, depending on who you talked to.

Only, after twenty-six years, God had yet to nudge or shout at Quinn. Reverend Bauers was always going on about purpose and providence and such, and he'd so vehemently declared that God had spared Quinn for some great reason that Quinn mostly believed him. The reason just hadn't shown itself yet, nor had any of God's nudges.

Quinn sighed as Bauers slid yet another box out of his way, poking through the cluttered basement. “There must be something down here,” Bauers said, almost to himself. “Over there, perhaps.” He pointed to a stack of shelving that had toppled over in the far corner of the room and motioned for Quinn to clear a path.

It took nearly ten minutes, and Quinn was tempted to offer up a nudge of his own to God about how dinner might be soon, when suddenly Bauers went still.

Quinn looked up from the shelf he was righting to see the reverend staring intently at an upended chest. “Oh, my,” Bauers said in the most peculiar tone of voice. “Goodness. I hadn't even remembered this was down here.”

“What?” Quinn cleared a path to it.

“That's it, isn't it? And there should be another one—a long, narrow one—right beside it somewhere.”

Quinn stared from Bauers to the pair of chests, his heart thumping as he recognized the shape of the long narrow box. He must have been, what, twelve? Surely not much older. He caught Bauers's gaze, the old man's eyes crinkling up when he read Quinn's expression.

“Mr. Covington's things.” Quinn began tearing
through the boxes, bags and beams between him and the pair of chests. “Those are Mr. Covington's…”

“No, man, not just Mr. Covington's, and you know that. Those belong to the Bandit.”

Quinn had reached the chests, fingering the latch on the longer box. He remembered what was inside now. He remembered thinking that that sword and that whip were the most powerful weapons on earth. He blew the dust off the box and set it atop a crate. “Do you think it lasted?”

“I see no scorch marks or dents. I'd venture to say it's in perfect shape.” He picked his way quickly through the room until he stood next to Quinn. “But we'll not know a thing until you open it.”

W
ith a deep breath, Quinn undid the pair of latches on either side of the long wooden box. Inside, carefully nestled in their places on a bed of still amazingly blue velvet, lay a pair of swords. Even with the patina of twenty years, they gleamed in the basement's faint light. “His swords,” Quinn remarked, not hiding his amazement. “The Bandit's swords.”

Reverend Bauers's hand came to rest on Quinn's shoulder. “So many years. Such a long time ago—for both of us.”

Quinn could hear the smile in Reverend Bauers's voice, sure it matched his own as he remembered the daring heroic feats of the Black Bandit that had once captured his young imagination. A dark hero who roamed the streets at night, offering aid to those who had none, supplying food to needy families, even sending money once to fix Grace House. The Black Bandit legend had woven its way into San Francisco's history—everyone's mother and grandmother had a Black Bandit story—but Quinn and the reverend were two of the only four people in the world who knew Matthew Covington
had been the man behind the mask. He cocked his head in the clergyman's direction. “Wouldn't we like to have our Bandit back now, hmm?”

Quinn picked up the sword, turning it to catch the light. When he was twelve, this sword had seemed enormous. Too heavy and long for a slight boy. Time and trials had done their work on Quinn, however, and he was a tall man of considerable strength. He wondered, for a moment, if he remembered any of the moves Mr. Covington had taught him. “Do you remember that day, Reverend?”

There was no need to explain “that day.” Bauers would know Quinn was referring to the day he met—and marred—the noble English businessman. Bauers's smile and nod confirmed his understanding. “Evidently, I've remembered it better than you. You, who have the most reason of all to remember that day.”

Quinn's introduction to Matthew Covington had been, in fact, by injury. He'd taken a knife to Covington's arm as the Englishman tried to stop a robbery. A crime Quinn and his buddy were attempting—stealing from Grace House. It was amusing, in a sad sort of way, to think they'd thought times hard enough to steal from a church back then. Those times were nothing compared to what they were now.

Still, Quinn was young, impressionable and desperate for decent food. His father's love of the whiskey bottle hadn't made for much of a steady home life. Trying to steal from Grace House Mission—an organization bent on helping his impoverished neighborhood—had been the low point of his life.

It had also been the turning point. Back in that garden, watching Matthew Covington bleed, Quinn
had realized he had two choices in life: up or down. Dark or light. Hard or easy. And, when it came right down to it, destruction or redemption. That day Quinn chose to climb his way out of the mess his young life had become, and Reverend Bauers had been the first to recognize it. That troublesome day, and the tense ones that followed it, marked the beginning of Quinn's unusually close relationship with the reverend. Uncle Mike had been known to say that Bauers was the real father Quinn never had; and it was true.

Quinn swung the sword in a gentle arc. It felt so light now. “Do you think he knows? Everything that's happened here?”

Bauers smiled. “Matthew and Georgia wired money last week and asked that we wire back a list of needed supplies. His own son is fifteen now.”

Quinn tilted the sword again, admiring it. Even though Bauers had only been able to secure him a year or two of fencing lessons, he knew it was an outstanding weapon. It had a graceful balance and tremendous strength.

As wondrous as the sword was, it wasn't the weapon most people associated with the Black Bandit. Catching Bauers's eye, Quinn flipped open the second chest. There it lay, on top, carefully coiled; the Bandit's leather whip. His mind wandered back to the summer afternoons where Quinn would swish a length of rope around the Grace House garden, pretending at the Bandit's skill with his whip. Quinn lifted it carefully—it hadn't survived the years as well as the swords. Bits of leather disintegrated with every flex, and the rich black braids were a stiff and crackled gray. He found himself afraid to uncoil it, simply moving it to the side to gain access
to the rest of the chest's contents. It contained exactly what he knew it would: a pair of black boots with a small silver B imbedded in each calf, a trio of dark gray shirts—voluminous, almost piratelike in appearance—and a black hat with the remnants of a white feather beside it.

And there, at the bottom of the chest, lay the mask. An ingenious thing, the Bandit's mask was almost a leather helmet with a strip that could either come down over the eyes or fold up into the hat. Covington had let him try the mask on once, and the thing had nearly slid off his head. Quinn raised the mask into the light, inspecting it. It had held up much better than the whip, still surprisingly supple even after so much time. He couldn't help but smile at the memory of the Bandit's myriad of adventures. “Mr. Covington should have kept these.”

The reverend's expression changed. “I don't think that was the plan. He gave those to
you.
And Matthew Covington did everything for a very good reason.”

That made Quinn laugh. “I've not much use for a sword and whip, now do I? Although I could put the boots to good use.”

Reverend Bauers leaned his heavy frame against a dusty chest of drawers. “It makes one wonder.”

“What?”

“What else you could put to good use.”

It took Quinn a full ten seconds to gain the man's meaning, at which point he dropped the mask. “You're not serious.”

The sparkle in Reverend Bauers's eye was unmistakable. “Why not?”

Quinn squared off at the man. “I'm a bit old for adventure stories. And times are a mite harder now.”

Bauers folded his arms across his chest. It was a gesture Quinn knew all too well, and he did not like the look of it.

“Matthew was close to your age when it all started. And it all started with a story.” He caught Quinn's glare. “Stories are meant to be told. And
retold.
”

“I'm not Matthew Covington,” he said, because it needed saying. Covington was a clever, wealthy man who'd done remarkable things.

“No, Quinn. You're
you.
Matthew knew that, too. What if you are exactly the man we need? Do you really think we're down here digging in the basement for no reason at all?”

Quinn sank down on a crate. “I hardly think God brought me down to your cellar to ask me to be the Black Bandit.”

It was a long moment before Bauers answered simply, “How do you know?”

“Because it's insane. I've barely enough food to eat, my shoes have twelve holes in them, the city's barely getting through the day, I've no money, no influence and barely a spare hour to think.”

Bauers's face split into a satisfied grin. “But you found enough time to help an old man go through his cellar. You found enough time to build those little ones that toy you told me about. You know what I always say—there's always enough time to do God's will.”

 

Even as the mail cart bounced its way a block from Aunt Julia's house, Nora could tell something was happening. The house seemed almost bustling, with Mama
and Aunt Julia scurrying around the yard and porch with a speed and energy Nora hadn't seen in a while. A gracious table—or as gracious a table as one could manage these days—was set up on the porch.

Tea. Mama and Julia were setting out afternoon tea. And while afternoon tea had recently meant cups and saucers on mismatched plates with whatever crackers could be managed, this tea was different. It took a moment for Nora to realize what Mama and Aunt Julia were actually doing; they were entertaining.

“There you are,” said Mama hurriedly as the cart rattled its way into the drive. “Goodness, I thought you'd miss it altogether. Run upstairs, find whichever dress is the most clean and put it on. She'll be here soon.”

“Who?” Nora and her father asked at the same time.

“Mrs. Hastings.”

“Dorothy Hastings? Here?” Papa asked. “I didn't think she was still in town.”

“She's returned.” Mama said it almost victoriously, as if it were as significant a societal achievement as the streetcar lines coming back into service. “And she's coming
here.
”

The Hastings family was a social pillar of San Francisco. Mr. Hastings was on the Committee of Fifty—the emergency governing body that Papa served. Mrs. Hastings, like many of the city's finer families, had removed herself from the city to safer environs. Why she was in town at all, much less at Aunt Julia's house, Nora could only guess. Still, it was clear her visit was important to Mama. Perhaps even more than that, the opportunity to host someone, especially someone so important, seemed to light a spark in Mama and Aunt Julia that had been
gone since the earthquake. A spark, when Nora was honest with herself, she hadn't been sure would return. That relief made Nora practically dance up the stairs to find whatever dress seemed the least tattered.

She found a frock—a deep rose that hid dust and dirt especially well and whose neckline showed off the locket to particular advantage—and a small pink flower that had fallen off a hatpin to tuck into her hair. It did feel wonderful to “dress up,” even just this small bit. She had no idea how Mama and Aunt Julia could pull together any kind of tea under the circumstances, but they were highly motivated and resourceful women. And the combined skills of the two household cooks had managed some wondrous meals given the lack of foodstuffs. Half of Nora understood her father's amused scowl at the whole thing. She was sure Papa found the whole exercise to be simply a diversion for his wife. Even if Mr. Hastings was in charge of city services, tea seemed rather pointless.

Still, the other half of Nora understood how valuable it could be right now. To engage in something—anything—for the mere pleasure of it seemed a dear luxury. A tiny, beautiful shield against the endless, tiresome obstacles of rebuilding. Not unlike, she realized as she fixed the small flower into the corner of her chignon, Quinn's teeter-totter. Papa might consider that a pointless diversion as well, and yet she recognized the plaything's value.

Nora was just dusting off her skirts a second time when Mama entered the room. The
real
Mama, not the wisp of a woman who had seemed to occupy Mama's skin for the last few months. She'd been praying nightly
for God to return the light to Mama's eyes. Today, those prayers had been answered.

For days after the earthquake, Mama had carried all her good jewelry around in a pocket tied inside her skirts. There was no safe place to put anything, and no one knew, as the fires ate up more and more of the city in an arsenal hunger no one could quite believe, when a hasty exit might be required. Over and over again during those first weeks, Nora had watched her mama lay her hand over the lump in her skirts. Checking to be sure it was still there or perhaps just shielding the trinkets from the horrors of the outside world. Eventually, Uncle Lawrence had produced a lockbox for Mama and Papa, and their valuables went in there. Nora thought it was far too tiny a thing to hold a life's valued possessions, but then again, Nora had had to rethink a lot about life's valued possessions in recent weeks.

Today, Mama had her pearls around her neck. And Grandmama's pearl ring—a piece that belonged to Mama and Aunt Julia's own mother—graced her right hand. It wasn't the beauty of the jewelry that made Nora smile, it was the way Mama carried herself when she wore it.

Mama came over and readjusted a curling tendril that fell from Nora's chignon. “You look lovely,” Mama said. “But I think,” she said delicately, “that it would be kindest to tuck the locket inside your dress.”

Nora's hand came up to touch the locket. She'd already been gratefully amazed that Aunt Julia let her keep it. In her joy over recovering the locket, she hadn't even considered that Aunt Julia might want her lost daughter's necklace for herself until Papa brought it up on the ride home. He'd gone with Nora to show the locket to Aunt
Julia, and it had taken every ounce of will Nora had not to beg Aunt Julia to let her keep it. It would be wrong to deny a grieving woman any remnant of her daughter, but the necklace couldn't come close to meaning to Aunt Julia what it meant to Nora. She
needed
to have it. Needed to feel the only tangible evidence of that sweet friendship around her neck, close to her heart.

Aunt Julia had clutched the locket for a long moment that made everyone in the room hold their breath. Papa kept his hand on Nora's shoulder, as if to say,
be strong,
but said nothing. After a hollow-sounding breath, Aunt Julia let it slide back into Nora's hand. “You keep it, dear,” she said with an unnatural calm. Nora and Papa waited there for a moment, thinking she meant to say something else, perhaps to cry or to say how glad she was to have the locket found, but she never said anything else. She just straightened her shoulders, touched Nora's cheek in a way that made her shiver and walked on to the porch to sit staring out over the city.

Nora went after her to thank her, but Papa's hand held her back. “Let her be,” Papa said quietly. “It is a terrible thing to bury a daughter. And it is a far more terrible thing to not have a daughter to bury.”

Of course Nora would tuck the locket out of sight. And Mama was right—it was by far the kindest thing to do.