Saturday Morning (13 page)

She stepped from the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and grabbed another to dry her hair. As she opened the bathroom door, she heard another door click closed. A note lay on the table.

Decided to go in early. Enjoy your time with the Realtor. We have tickets for
Beach Blanket Babylon
at 8:00. We’ll catch a bite to eat first here at the hotel. M.

Ten minutes before nine, after enjoying her room-service breakfast, she sipped the last of her coffee, laid down the paper, and did her final bathroom sweep. With fresh lipstick in place, she checked her bag to see if she had everything, including her room key, and as she left made sure the door clicked behind her.
Please, Ms. Real Estate Agent, do not be a cute young thing who thinks everyone in her right mind would
want to live in San Francisco. Wonder what would happen if I just blew this off and went shopping for the day?
The thought made her roll her eyes.

“Mrs. Taylor?” The soft voice with a slight southern accent made Andy turn from studying the vaulted glass-paned ceiling of the restored Garden Room, a historical feature the Palace was renowned for.

“Yes.”

“I’m Suzanne Solby, Benchmark Realty.” Thick white hair cut to swing freely at midear framed dark expressive eyes and an oval face. While her business suit said
professional
, her feet in walking shoes said
comfort.

By three o’clock that afternoon, Andy was certain she’d been run over by an eighteen-wheeler named Suzanne. They’d traipsed through lofts with two-story ceilings and windows to match, condos smaller than her kitchen-family room at home, condos palatial but with a two-million-dollar price tag; Andy could hardly breathe. Places with views of the bay, others with views of the city. She now knew the difference between Telegraph Hill and Russian Hill, North Beach and the Marina. Her feet screamed, and her head pounded.

And all for nothing. Well, maybe not for nothing. Today’s house tour reconfirmed that she would hate living in the city, and that even if she did like it, she and Martin couldn’t afford to buy anything unless, of course, he was turning straw into gold. The prices were outrageous! She wondered if Martin had any idea what kind of money they would have to spend to get a place.

“Martin and I have reservations tomorrow for breakfast in the Garden Room at nine. Would you like to join us?” Andy hated to admit it, but she was setting the woman up for a fall. Once Martin saw the pictures and then saw the prices, there would be no more talk about moving.

“How lovely. Thank you. I’ll see you then at nine.”

Hope loved the sounds of the Saturday Market, from the moment the vendors began setting up at seven a.m. until they all packed up and went home again after noon. Preparations had started at J House with mixing the whole-wheat yeast dough for the elephant ears at four thirty in the morning. Since she was usually awake by then anyway, she’d taken on that job. There was something about the yeasty fragrance of rising dough that met a need deep within her.

Maybe it even went back to biblical times and Proverbs 31, where the perfect godly woman provided for her household. Or perhaps she just loved yeast dough. It all depended on how spiritual she was feeling at the moment. She’d mixed the first batch, set it to rising, mixed a second, and filled the two thirty-cup coffeepots with water. Thank God for the ten-cup coffee maker, or she’d be in caffeine withdrawal.

Celia’s cry meant the Saturday Market was officially open for business. “Elephant ears, get your hot elephant ears and coffee here.”

“Hey, Starshine, how’ve you been?” Hope greeted the aging hippie who still insisted on wearing peasant blouses and long skirts with gathered rows. Multiple strings of beads adorned a neck going wattly, and a knitted shawl, in glorious shades of purple shot with silver, warmed the woman’s shoulders.

Starshine’s knitting needles clicked along as she visited. She sold
her hand-knitted wares right off her back, along with those piled on the tables of her booth. In addition to selling her own product, she was in charge of collecting the vendor fees and crisis solving. The most volatile disagreement was usually over who got what booth space. They’d started out on a first-come-first-served basis, but after all these years, those with the longest attendance got their pick of locations.

“Doing better.” Starshine tucked an errant strand of graying hair back in the loose bun she wore, a bun that always seemed to be on the verge of collapse.

“You had your coffee yet?”

“No, thanks, brought some herbal tea today. Swearing off caffeine.” Starshine refolded shawls and scarves as she talked, stacking colors to set off each piece for best show.

“We really missed you.” Hope leaned across the table to give her a hug and whispered, “Was it malignant?”

“Yes, but it’s gone now. Snip, snip, and my youth is over. No more babies for old Starshine.”

“Did you want more?” Somewhere Hope remembered hearing of Starshine’s children, and it wasn’t a pretty story.

“No.” A lock of hair slipped down at the vigorous shake of her head. “But it’s the thought of it, you know, the finality.” Starshine smiled, revealing a missing canine tooth. She worked hard at her knitting; there was always a started project in her hands, needles flashing. But like so many other people, she couldn’t make enough to buy medical insurance, let alone dental coverage. And yet she made too much money to qualify for welfare, where she could at least get medical care.

“If I can help you with some of the medical costs … ”

“Hope, you cannot afford to write checks for my medical bills.”

“No, I can’t, but I have a discretionary fund for J House, and a friend or two with deep pockets.” She ignored the sheen of tears in her friend’s eyes. “When I think of all the people you’ve helped.”

“I don’t do … ” Starshine started to protest.

Hope shook her head, eyebrows raised. “Sometimes one has to be on the receiving end of help.”

“Hope!” A man’s voice rose above the market’s hum.

Hope waved to signal she heard, then turned to Starshine. “I have to go, but you think on what I said.” Hope squeezed her friends hand and threaded her way between the vendors, answering greetings as she made her way to the steps where Roger waited for her. “Hey, mon, what’s up?”

“Bad news.” Roger lifted his hands in defeat. “Kiss split.”

Hope closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “When?”

“No one knows. She left this note.” He held the folded paper out to her.

Thanks for the shower and food. Wish I could stay, but I can’t.

“Can’t?”
She looked up at her husband. “Strange word, don’t you think?” She read the note again.

“That got me, too. The others assured me they’d told her we could deal with an angry pimp, that there are safe houses and that we’d get her into one.”

“Did he come for her?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Guess we’ll just pray she finds her way back to us. We’re the best chance she has.”

“Unless she goes home.” He handed her half an elephant ear. “Have you had anything to eat this beautiful day?” He glanced up where the sun was already burning off the fog, leaving wisps around the granite towers of Grace Cathedral up on Nob Hill. North Beach and China Town still lay in the shadows.

“Nope. Just coffee.”
Probably the reason for my indigestion.
“Maybe I’d better give up on the hard stuff.” She rubbed her middle, all the
while keeping eyes on the shifting kaleidoscope that was the Saturday Market.

“Cream in it might help. Maybe you ought to go have a checkup?”

“For an upset stomach? Hardly. I’ll get a couple of antacids.” She and Roger paused shoulder to shoulder for a moment, looking out over their neighbors gathered in one place and obviously enjoying it. She waved back at Pierre and Brian, the two men who had recently purchased Speedy’s, the grocery at the corner of Union and Montgomery. They’d come from New York and discovered the store, which had been a neighborhood icon for fifty years or more but had been going downhill. With a new look, a good cook, and friendly servers, the deli section was quickly becoming a gathering place. The men bought a lot of fresh produce from the Saturday Market vendors.

“We need new dough,” one of their girls sang out as she returned to the kitchen for the next batch.

“That’s the second one already. And the coffeepot is half empty.”

Hope watched as more customers strolled in from the street. One of these days they might have to rent a cop to direct traffic. The article in the
San Francisco Chronicle
about their market being a good Saturday destination, in spite of the main one down at the Ferry building, was bringing in plenty of newbies.

Thanks to the early morning chill, she recognized several of Starshine’s shawls warming shoulders. You could count on San Francisco fog through the summer and much of September, as long as the inland valleys remained hot.

“Who’s shopping for us today?” Hope asked.

Roger held up two string bags. “How about you and me?”

“I’m game.” Hope waved at the two musicians who were just setting up. “Hey, guys, you’re late.”

“I know. The traffic is getting worse and worse.” Rafe, the darker
one, took his hammered dulcimer from the case and set it on the frame while his partner tuned his guitar. The worn guitar case lay open in front of them, waiting for donations. The two men—one with dreadlocks tied back, the other with head shaved and shiny—had been playing at the market for the last couple of years, even though they now had more real gigs than they could handle. They often boasted the Saturday Market had given them their start.

The notes of “Scarborough Fair” wended their way through the hum of conversations.

Roger and Hope had just purchased a crate of late peaches when Roger laid a hand on her arm. “We’ve got trouble.” He nodded toward three men, all in black, strolling into the lot. A diamond ring caught the sun’s rays when the man in the center raised his hand.

“You know him?” Hope slit her eyes against the sun’s glare.

Roger nodded. “King D’Angelo. I’ll bet he’s Kiss’s pimp. She said King, right?”

Hope nodded but didn’t ask how he knew the man. His years in vice while on the San Francisco police force had put him in touch with much of the thriving lowlife of the city. She touched his arm. “Be careful.”

Roger rolled his eyes at her, squeezed her hand, and melted into the crowd.

“I’ll carry that in for you.” The young fruit vendor took her box of peaches and headed for the side door to the shelter.

“Thanks.” Hope busied herself searching for the best buys on tomatoes, salad fixings, and vegetables, all the while hoping she wouldn’t hear angry shouts or gunshots.
Keep him safe, Lord. He’s my mon, my life, my love.
“I’ll take that full box of tomatoes. I know they’re pretty ripe. We’ll make sauce.” She took a quick look around and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
Don’t worry. He’s good at what he does.

Hope moved on to a different stall. “Hi, Nita,” she said, fingering the mounds of cabbage and bok choy. “How much?” When the older Filipino woman named a price, Hope shook her head. “No, you’re not charging enough. I know you would get more from someone else. I’ll wait to see what’s left.”

“No, no, that for you.” Nita leaned under the makeshift counter and brought out a box. “I bring you this special.” She handed Hope long slender Japanese eggplants that glowed in the sunlight, a deep purple with slashes of cream, as if lit from within.

Hope’s face brightened. “I thought these were done for the season.” Coveting eggplant was probably not against one of the commandments, but oh, she loved it diced with garlic and onion and stir-fried in sesame oil. Nita had given her the recipe several years earlier. Rarely did she find this kind in the grocery store. “You are so good to me.”

“Least I can do.”

When Hope pulled her money from her pocket, Nita, black eyes snapping, flapped her hand and shook her head. “No, no, gift for you.”

“You’ll never make a living giving the good stuff away.”