Blossom (The Blossom Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  “Viola. You’re ready. Now I’m sending this pot of pink color and the burnt cork with you. Keep it in your handbag to touch up my fine work. And here’s a compact mirror too…for your date with destiny!”

  Monique opened her bedroom door and gently nudged Blossom out into the hallway. They carefully descended the eight flights of stairs. The girls were met at the bottom by Madam Bijou.

  “Coup de foudre! I didn’t see this coming so quickly, but, my child, how you have changed this morning. Are you sure that you wouldn’t like to stay here and become another one of my protégés? Such beguiling beauty should not be wasted on just one man!”

  Blossom responded half-jokingly as the pair scooted out the front door. “If I don’t get to the cable car stop in front of the Tie Yick General Store by noon, we may need to have that discussion!”

  Madam Bijou smiled, winked and waved from her front door saying, “Au revoir…until we meet again!” She added quickly, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Chapter 11

  The View From Twin Peaks

  Sunday, April 15, 1906, 11:57 a.m.

  Three days before the earthquake and firestorm

  Out of breath but on time, Blossom nervously swayed back and forth in front of the Tie Yick General Store. She felt awkward and confined in Monique’s clothes and yet somehow liberated. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the storefront window. I don’t feel like me and, oh my gosh, I don’t look like me, she thought.

  She watched how her body’s movement gently billowed the pale-pink plume in her borrowed hat. So this is what Yen-Shen must have felt like when she saw herself in her green gown and golden slippers before she went to the festival!

  Then the rush of the moment hit her. I’m waiting for a man I hardly know to take me someplace where I’ve probably never been. How could I even think this might be a good idea? He probably won’t even show up. And, if he does, he won’t even recognize me.

  Her rapid-fire thoughts were interrupted by a deep voice. “Blossom? Is that you?”

  Her breath was stolen from her. She looked to her right and saw Brock’s reflection in the windowpane. He stepped down out of his carriage and removed his hat. The “ah-ooo-gah” sounds of the blaring horn of a new-fangled automobile luckily didn’t unsettle the two black horses standing ready to pull the carriage.

  “Hello,” she said softly, letting the word barely escape her lips.

  “Don’t talk,” Brock ordered gently. “Just stand there.”

  He looked into her eyes and then slowly gazed down to the ground and closed his eyes. There was a long, awkward pause.

  “I’ve got it. I captured the vision,” he said. As slowly as he’d closed his eyes, he opened them and grinned widely.

  “Don’t take this wrong, but for a moment I didn’t think it was you. My God, you look incredible!”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I mean…I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you yesterday, but today you’re…”

  Blossom didn’t know how to react. Having always been looked at as being odd and different in Chinatown, she was ill-equipped to respond. Her mind raced.

  What a day this has been, and it’s only noon. I’ve been to a bordello where I was asked if I wanted to become a prostitute. Someone hollered about how my breasts are too large. And now, Brock thinks I’m—

  “Blossom, what are you thinking about?”

  Snapped back to reality, Blossom looked around. While facing Brock’s carriage, she asked, “We’re not taking the cable car? I just assumed we were meeting at a cable car stop so that we could take one. Oh, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

  “No, not at all. I brought a carriage for us this afternoon. Do you know how to ride a horse?”

  “You mean I don’t get to ride in the carriage with you?”

  They broke into laughter at the same time.

  At that moment, the strains of Entrance of the Gladiators being played on a hurdy-gurdy danced on the breeze. Blossom froze. She saw Ting Ting and Little Sunflower skipping down the sidewalk toward her. Without distracting Brock, she held up her palm to signal them to stop. They did, dead in their tracks.

  Ting Ting smiled widely and cocked her head to the left with what Blossom thought was a sense of curiosity. She waved back to Blossom in a knowing sort of way and then turned to skip away, cranking her music maker. Little Sunflower waved, but didn’t move. She stared at Blossom. Ting Ting grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her away. Blossom watched as Little Sunflower followed like an unwilling prisoner.

  Brock walked Blossom over to the carriage step and helped her in.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” asked Blossom.

  “Someone called my name. At least that’s what I thought I heard,” he said as he looked across the street.

  Blossom scanned their surroundings to see if she could spot anyone who would have called out Brock’s name. In the process, she discovered that her encounter with Brock was already a cat let out of its bag. From his street-side shop—comprised of a wooden chair and an upended crate—Sang Yuen, the local fortuneteller, was busy writing down a message from a client, but looked up to notice her. He often served as a letter writer for residents who wanted to send mail back to China.

  Ruby the flower seller, though making a sale, also witnessed Blossom in Brock’s carriage. Blossom realized how quickly the fabric of her somewhat sheltered life could be easily pulled apart thread by thread if those who were seeing what they were seeing today wanted to do her harm. Certainly my secret is safe with Sang, Ruby, Ting Ting and Little Sunflower, thought Blossom. Any other witnesses?

  She looked around the area again quickly, stalling momentarily to focus on the storefronts just down from the general store. She didn’t notice any other familiar faces on the street at that moment, though two unwashed men came up from the unusually steep stairs below a nearby building. They looked at her with inquisitive eyes. She returned a curious glance and then realized that she didn’t look like her normal self. The men shielded their eyes as the sunlight was too much to bear all at once. They were among the many illegal immigrants who lived underground in tunnels beneath Chinatown.

  Returning to Brock’s earlier question, she answered, “No, I didn’t hear a thing. I was too focused on stepping into your carriage without tripping on the hem of this blasted skirt.” Blossom then peered in the direction that Brock had looked in. She caught a glimpse of a stunningly elegant white woman in a brilliant-green outfit wearing an extravagant hat adorned with cream and emerald plumes. Boy is she and her hat out of place in this part of town!

  ***

  Faye Huntington was standing on the corner across the street in her signature color: green. She was on a fortune cookie-finding expedition. After making the friendly gesture of calling Brock’s name moments ago, she thought twice about making her presence known and slipped behind an aromatic rack of dried fish in front of a store. There, veiled in a shadow, she watched what was playing out in front of her.

  Who’s that girl? She’s no one I’ve ever seen before, thought Faye. Love the dress, hate the color. And why is Brock meeting her in this cesspool? She must be one of those bordello girls! Faye unavoidably noted how the air was heavy with a combination of stale cooking grease, fish and spices.

  She observed how Brock looked into the girl’s eyes. Faye saw how he paid more attention to his companion than on getting his rig moving. That was true until the horses bolted forward, slamming the couple against the back of the black leather bench seat.

  As Brock’s carriage drove out of sight, Faye continued her hunt for fortune cookies. Though uncomfortable with the idea that a dessert could predict her future, she was going learning more about fortune cookies.

  As fate would have it, she’d just learned a lot more about the futures of some other people in her life without the aid of a cookie.

  She grinned with great satisfaction at the possibility of being the bearer of news about Brock’
s whereabouts this afternoon, wondering what story he may have already fed Clarissa. Not being the type of person who needed all the facts before she made up her mind or opened her mouth, Faye knew that what she witnessed—or thought she witnessed—was sure to be some powerful grist for the rumor mill if she timed it right.

  ***

  Blossom felt her stomach flatten against her spine as the carriage moved out into the street, giving her a fluttering sensation, as if butterflies were taking flight.

  “I just saw a woman with the most incredible hat on. Someday, I’m going to have a hat like hers, with a whole flock of feathers that dance in the breeze.” Blossom raised her fluttering hands along the sides and back of her head. She then realized the frivolity of what she’d just shared.

  “I’m sorry. I bet the last thing you’d like to talk about is feathers and bonnets.”

  “If that’s what you want to talk about and if a hat like that would make you happy, then it makes me happy too,” said Brock. “I’ll ask again. Can you ride a horse?”

  “Of course I can. I may be a city girl, but I’ve ridden horses since I was a child,” responded Blossom, stretching the truth to her advantage.

  “Great! We’re heading to my dairy farm and stables up near Twin Peaks. I’ve brought us a picnic lunch. We can go for a ride on the trails along the hilltops.”

  Blossom instantly regretted her fib about horseback riding, but realized that she had the perfect excuse: She was wearing Monique’s pale-pink dress.

  “I love surprises, but had I known you wanted to ride today I would have dressed for it.”

  “You’re right. Well, we’re on our way, so let’s make the most of our time together. Does your family know you’re with me?”

  “Does your fiancée know you’re with me?”

  “Ouch!” replied Brock.

  They stopped talking and both looked forward.

  The journey to Twin Peaks was slow as they moved along the rutted dirt pathway. The pair reignited their conversation after a few minutes. The erratic rhythm of the horses’ hooves hitting the uneven ground sounded like a bad heart in a stethoscope.

  They talked about family and friends, Nob Hill and Chinatown, discovering that the many things that made them different in society’s eyes were, in fact, fairly similar in reality.

  Whether they had money or not, whether their families were large or small, whether their house was on a hill or above a restaurant, Brock and Blossom became more comfortable with each other. By the time they reached the stable, they’d learned more about each other than most people learn after several encounters.

  Below the stable on the hillside was a broad patch of green grass and a stand of sycamore trees, with wide canopies that created areas of shade.

  “Let’s go over by the trees. It’s my favorite spot.” Brock reached out his hand to help her out of the carriage. She looked down and hesitated for a moment. Brock sensed it. She said something so softly that he couldn’t hear clearly, except for the last word.

  “Leap?” asked Brock. “You don’t have to jump. I’ll help you down.”

  “Oh don’t mind me,” she said as she put her hand into his.

  Look before you leap, thought Blossom. Look…before…you…leap.

  And what a sight she took in before she leaped into her unexpected future. The vista was spectacular.

  As they walked, Brock admitted, “I come here to be alone and think. It’s hard to find places to be alone, to just think, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t remember when I was ever truly alone. There’s always someone—whether you know them or not—near you in Chinatown.”

  They stopped walking and Brock spread out a blanket near several huge boulders at the base of the massive sycamore trees. Blossom set down the wicker hamper, not knowing if she should open it and remove its contents. She mindlessly hummed the tune that her father often hummed in the bakery.

  “What’s that song called?” asked Brock.

  “I don’t know, but my father sings and hums it all the time. Usually, he looks at me and throws in the words ‘Iris eyes a-smiling.’ Don’t even ask me why he’s so stuck on it and why he says ‘Iris” instead of what I’m guessing should be Irish!”

  “Hungry?” asked Brock.

  “Actually, I’m very hungry. It’s been quite a morning and I guess I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  When Brock didn’t make the first move to open the hamper, Blossom took that as a signal for her to do so.

  As she released the latch, Blossom asked, “Did you pack the lunch?”

  “No, our cook, Clementine, put it together.”

  Fried chicken, biscuits and jam, a block of cheese, apples and red velvet cake were carefully wrapped inside. Blossom removed each item.

  “All of my favorites. How about you?”

  Blossom looked down. “To be honest, fried chicken and biscuits are not usually on our dinner table, but I do like them. And I guess I should tell you that in Chinatown we don’t eat much cheese.”

  Blossom had told her second lie. She couldn’t recall ever having fried chicken and biscuits before, but she wasn’t about to admit to it now. “But I have to say, I’ve never had a velvet cake before…red or any color.” But I sure saw a lot of red velvet at Madam Bijou’s today, she gleefully thought.

  “Oh, it’s Clementine’s specialty. She says it pleasures her to see how much I like her red velvet cake. Those are the words she uses, pleasures her. Clementine has cooked for my family for as long as I can remember. She’s from Dixie, as she calls it. Actually, she worked as a cook for a well-to-do Atlanta family. Because she could make both Southern and French meals, Clementine was hired by my mother to be our cook. There aren’t many cooks who look or sound like her on Nob Hill!”

  He went on with a twinkle in his blue eyes and more energy in his voice. “She’s always baked a red velvet cake for me—and iced it with light-as-a-cloud cream-cheese frosting and sprinkled red cake crumbs over it—whenever I was celebrating something or needed to be cheered up. I guess it’s always there when I needed it.” He paused. “And here it is.”

  “So did she think you were celebrating and needing to be cheered up today?”

  “Good question. I really don’t know. But, depending on how our picnic goes, we’ll know.”

  “So what’s it like to have servants?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You talk about Clementine like she’s part of your family, not your cook. What’s it like to have people all around you who do whatever you tell them to do?”

  “They’re my mother’s employees…her helpers. Clementine is special though. She practically raised me. She knows more about me than just about anyone.”

  Blossom noticed how Brock softened as he continued to speak about Clementine. “She’s always been there for me. And I don’t mean her red velvet cake. Why do you ask about our servants, Blossom?”

  “I guess you could say that we’re our own servants. It would be nice to have helpers as you call them, at least on days when I’m just not running at full steam.”

  Blossom stared out over the hillside and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and noticed how the air was laced with the sweet smell of new grass, quite unlike the damp city air below.

  “This may sound odd, but the air smells good up here.”

  “You like the barn smells and manure?” asked Brock.

  “No, of course not, but the hillside smells so fresh, especially as the ocean air pushes the scent uphill toward us. Thank goodness the barn is behind us!”

  The water in the bay glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Blossom let herself think that all was right with the world as the hours leisurely passed. This…is…heaven.

  ***

  “It’s wonderful up here,” said Blossom with an audible exhale. “There’s nothing but air, plants and animals…that is until the city folks spread out some more and move up here!”

  She went on, “But what a spectacular place to build a n
ew house and live. In Chinatown, we’re so cooped up.”

  Brock smiled a crooked smile, with lifted eyebrows, and looked out over the bay.

  The conversation shifted to families.

  Brock learned that Blossom’s mother died shortly after giving birth.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. She must have been a beautiful woman. Not that your father isn’t handsome, I guess, but your beauty had to come from somewhere.”

  “Yes, everyone says my mother was an exceptional beauty. There aren’t any photographs of her since my Grand Ma Maw and parents were stirrin’ up grub, as they call it, for the miners. They say that people didn’t have much of anything except their mining tools, gold dust and a sack full of dreams. By the time I came along, most of the gold was long gone and so were the miners.

  “My mother came from a different part of China and that’s why I look the way I do, not like everyone else. All of my life I looked around and saw people who were just like me—and yet nothing like me.”

  She paused.

  “I really don’t look like anyone else. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s who and what I am. But I have to say, it’s not easy being different,” she said and looked away awkwardly, as if there was shame in not fitting in.

  Brock added, “I know what you mean, sort of. I’ve never fit in either. People see me as an odd mix of rich guy and cowboy, with one foot in the parlor and the other in a barnyard. Huh, I guess I’ve never really talked about it before.”

  “Whenever I say something about my different looks, Grand Ma Maw says, ‘China big place. Everyone not look same. Why you think you must look like everyone else?’” Blossom smiled at her mocking impersonation of her grandmother’s words.

  “After my mother died, Grand Ma Maw decided that the three of us should move to the Tangrenbu district, I mean Chinatown, and open a business using the money that they’d earned. Actually, it was gold dust. She felt I’d have a better life here and that I could go to school and learn to speak English well. She also thought that working in San Francisco would keep my father busy from sunup to sundown while his broken heart mended. I’m sorry if that sounded tragic the way I just said it.”