My Heart Belongs in San Francisco, California

  “I do, thank you.” She walked down the hallway, every joint in her body complaining. When she reached her room, she found a note pinned to her door, something written in a foreign language. Chinese, maybe? Underneath, in English, one familiar word: Welcome.

  With trembling hand, she reached to open the door. What she found inside took her breath away. The worn cot had been replaced with a small feather bed. Atop the bed, a quilt nearly as pretty as the one in her room back home in Philadelphia. The broken hinge on the wardrobe had been reattached, the floor swept, the tiny chest of drawers polished to a shine.

  “My goodness.”

  Someone had even thought to place a couple of colorful rag rugs on the floor.

  She turned and called Sam’s name. His smile answered the question before she even asked. “You helped Jin with my room, didn’t you?”

  A nod followed.

  Somehow, he’d managed all of this. In the middle of his busy day, he had taken the time to make her feel welcome and secure. Her cheeks warmed as she realized he must have set up the new bed and covered it with the fine, intricate quilt.

  “Sammy-boy’s a true gentleman,” Cookie hollered out from the room below. “Even gave up his bed to make you feel welcome.”

  This stopped her cold. “Are you really telling me you’ve given me your bed?” She stared at Sam, not quite believing those words. “Why would you do that?”

  “You weren’t supposed to know.” Sam scolded Cookie and then turned back to face Abby. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I sleep like a rock, no matter what sort of bedding I’m on.”

  “Are … are you sure?”

  “Of course. Couldn’t abide the idea of a lady sleeping on that old cot.”

  “And the beautiful quilt?”

  The edges of his lips curled up. “… was my mother’s. She was a fine quilter. That one was always one of my favorites.”

  “And yet you loaned it to me.”

  “Of course. We want you to be comfortable here, Abby.” He spoke her name with such tenderness that it caught her off guard. “So we’ve rolled out the welcome mat.”

  “I’m grateful.”

  “No trouble. We’ve mostly used the room for storage, but I got this idea a few months back that it might be nice to have a tithe room.”

  “A tithe room?” This caught her by surprise.

  “Yes. You know … tithe.”

  “I’ve heard the word in church, but never equated it to inns.”

  “Just saying that some of the new fellas in town haven’t got a penny to their name. They come filled with dreams of grandeur, ready to take on the town, but they have no idea what they’re up against. They don’t have the kind of funds to pay the price of a room, especially not San Francisco prices. So, I’ve kept a cot in this room …”

  “… to give away to men who can’t afford to pay for a place to sleep.” Abby’s heart swelled as she understood his story. “I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “But now I’m in that room.” She pursed her lips and thought about how that must be affecting things. Some poor fellow would have to go without a place to sleep tonight.

  “Never you fear, Miss Abigail. We’ve got a storage shed out back that Jin took a broom to. It’s not fancy, but if anyone comes calling without a nickel in his pocket, that’s what we’ll offer him.”

  “Still …” Waves of guilt washed over her at the very idea that she’d taken away a perfectly good room. “You could put me in with Cookie.”

  “I have it on good authority the woman snores.” He lowered his voice. “Guests in the room next to hers often complain they can’t sleep due to the noise. You’d never get any rest.”

  “I’m pretty sure I could sleep through a hurricane.” An unladylike yawn escaped before she could stop it. “But thanks for the warning.”

  “We always manage, Abby. God gives us what we need. And we give back to the community, as we’re able. It’s a wonderful cycle—we offer God what we can and He blesses it and multiplies it. Like the loaves and fishes.”

  “Ugh. Fish.” She shivered. “That reminds me, Cookie says I have to debone fish eventually.”

  “Don’t look at the task.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. “Just think about the outcome: golden fried pieces of fish, ready to be put onto plates. Potatoes already peeled and mashed, then placed in a heap with gravy on top. I find it helps to think about the end result, not the work to get you there.”

  “Good point.” She yawned again. “Fried fish. I’ll think about that, then. After I’ve slept a little. Thanks again for your hard work on my behalf.”

  “Happy to have you with us.” He gave her a smile so warm it almost woke her up. Almost. A faint light twinkled in the depths of his beautiful eyes and he added, “G’night.”

  He headed down the hall in the opposite direction. Abby walked into her room and closed the door, then dressed for bed. The moment her head hit that soft pillow, she found herself dwelling on what Sam had said. Peeling potatoes was no fun, but mashed potatoes sure tasted good, especially with gravy atop. Plucking feathers from chickens had proven to be too big a challenge to tackle, but she loved crispy fried chicken, especially the way Cookie prepared it. Slicing apples was a lot of work, but the smell of apple pie wafting through the air was enough to make her drool.

  Yes, there was a lot to be said about focusing on the end goal.

  In that moment, her thoughts shifted to Mother and Father. Hadn’t she spent most of her teen years focused on the end result there? Didn’t she imagine them living happily together in the same home, Mama content to wander no longer? The idea of chasing after her mother, writing letters, scheduling trips out west, didn’t feel like work when she focused on the ultimate goal: bringing Mama back home for good.

  Abby’s heart grew heavy as she pondered just how much she missed her precious mother. Truth be told, she could hardly wait to see her again. As she drifted off to sleep, she whispered a prayer that Mama would come to her … and soon.

  It seemed just moments later that a bell rang out, startling her.

  “You must be joking.” She pulled the pillow over her head and groaned. “Please tell me I’m dreaming this.”

  She wasn’t.

  The bell continued to ring and she roused herself, took care of morning necessities, pondered the need for a hot bath, but dressed in her plainest dress instead. She pulled her hair up in a bun then peeked out the window down onto the street below. Only a handful of men were out and about at this time, but she took note of Mr. Denueve unlocking the door of the mercantile. He glanced her way and nodded. She closed the curtain, embarrassed to have been seen looking so disheveled.

  When Abby walked out into the hallway, she glanced over the railing and saw Neville fussing with the tables, just as she’d left him a few short hours before.

  “Have you slept at all?” she called down.

  Neville looked up. “Of course. But Cookie’s already hard at work in the kitchen, so I came down early.”

  Abby yawned as she walked to the top of the stairs. She gripped the railing, her aching feet probing for the steps downward toward another long day of work.

  Cookie popped out of the kitchen and glanced her way. “There you are. I was about to come looking for you.”

  “Am I late?” Another yawn followed on Abby’s end.

  “Nope, but the fellas are early. I hear a couple of ’em at the door. Don’t think they’ll wait till six.” Cookie turned her attention to Neville. “Go ahead and let ’em in, hon. I’ve got coffee brewing and ham steaks frying. That’ll tide ’em over until Abby gets busy on the flapjacks.”

  “Flapjacks.” Abigail released a slow breath. “Right. Flapjacks.” And, had Cookie really just called Neville ‘hon’?

  Neville headed to the door and let the men inside. He glanced Abby’s way as she passed by. “I trust you slept well, Miss Abigal.”

  “Like a rock. And you?”

  “As well as could be expected on a cot i
n Jin’s room.”

  “Oh dear.” She wanted to cry at this news. Her decision to work at the inn had landed her good friend and mentor in a terrible position, hadn’t it? But what could she do about it now?

  “Not to worry, miss. I will be fine.” He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Once the kinks in my back work themselves out, anyway. And, in happier news, I’m well on my way to learning several new phrases in Chinese.”

  “That’s good, I suppose. Might come in handy.” Abby walked into the kitchen and turned her attention to helping Cookie, who handled the ham steaks with ease.

  “Apron, Abby,” Cookie called out. “And let’s get to work on those flapjacks. Quick, if you please.”

  “All right.” She reached for an apron and tied it on, then walked to the stove, awaiting further instructions.

  “Didn’t have time to write down the recipe for you, hon,” Cookie said. “So, let me call it out and you throw the ingredients into the mixing bowl as we go along.”

  “A–all right.”

  As Cookie hollered out the various ingredients, flour, baking soda, eggs, pinch of salt, milk, Abby did her best to keep up. Was that three cups of flour, or four? She couldn’t remember. And what did a pinch of salt amount to? A teaspoon? Two? Three?

  She scrambled to sift the dry ingredients as instructed and then she added the milk, stirring just as Cookie instructed.

  “Now, heat up that griddle and get ’em cookin’, girl.” Cookie nodded her head toward the stove. “A minute or two on each side, then flip.”

  “Yes. Right.” Only, how did one get the batter—especially one this lumpy—onto the griddle? Seemed an impossible task.

  As if reading her mind, Cookie said, “Fill that large pitcher with batter and pour out flapjacks the size of a fist. Make sure they’re all the same size.”

  “Hmm.”

  Getting the batter from the bowl to the pitcher proved to be a bit more problematic than Abby expected. She then tipped the pitcher over the griddle, and a large quantity of the messy stuff poured out in chunky clumps. It sat there, doing nothing.

  “You’ve got to heat it up first, Miss Abigail.” Neville rushed to her side, stoked the fire, and before long the edges of her lopsided flapjack were sizzling. He handed her a spatula and she gripped it as if her life depended on it.

  “Time for a flip,” Cookie said, as she passed by with a platter loaded with ham. “But don’t just cook one at a time. Cover the whole griddle with blobs of batter. I usually do five or six pancakes at once, not one or two. We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed.”

  “Right.”

  Abby took the spatula and slipped it under the half-cooked flapjack then gingerly tried to lift it. Unfortunately, it split down the middle. She managed to get half of it turned over. The other half landed on the floor. This proved to be a bigger mess than she’d bargained for as Jin happened by and stepped in the gooey blob, then took to slipping and sliding across the floor. He managed to right himself before going down, but spit out a phrase in Chinese that only Neville might’ve been able to interpret.

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.” Abby knelt down to clean the mess, and while doing so burned a round of pancakes. Wonderful. Wasn’t she off to a terrific start?

  Sam stuck his head in the door of the kitchen, more than a little worried. “How long till the flapjacks are done, ladies? The men are asking, and asking is putting it mildly.”

  “Just a few minutes,” Cookie called back, then muttered, “I hope.”

  “You hope?” He took a few steps into the kitchen and stopped at the stove, where Abigail stood, spatula in hand. He’d seen more than his fair share of messes over the years, but nothing like this. She had batter on her apron, batter on her cheek, and scorched pancakes covering the griddle. Poor girl. She looked about as confident as a farmer performing an appendectomy on one of his cows.

  “Let’s start again.” He took the spatula from her hand and stuck it under the flapjack closest to the front and flipped it with ease. Then he turned the second, and the third. All of them came straight off the griddle and into the trash bin. He poured batter once again, this time manning the process himself.

  “Watch where you’re standing, Sammy.” Cookie gestured to the floor and he glanced down to find a blob of batter under his boot.

  “What happened here?”

  “I happened.” Abigail reached for a broom. She nudged him with it and he stepped aside, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the flapjacks.

  She managed to get the floor cleaned just as he flipped them with ease.

  “Your turn.” He filled several plates with flapjacks and ham and then handed her the spatula.

  She stood at the edge of the stove, a terrified look on her face.

  “Never you mind, Miss Abigail.” Neville took the spatula from her. “I’ll take over the flapjacks. You just help Sam with the serving.”

  Serve those rowdy fellows breakfast? She’d rather be incarcerated in the local jail. Still, the idea of standing in front of the stove flipping flapjacks left her feeling wobbly in the knees.

  She made her way out to the dining hall and greeted the fellows with a forced smile. Before long, however, they had her laughing. By the time the breakfast crowd thinned, Abby had to admit, the process of waiting tables had been a far sight easier than cooking. Or flipping.

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. Maggie O’Callahan stopped by at noon to pick up their dirty clothes. The fiery redhead had a lively sense of humor, just as the coach driver had said. She and Cookie appeared to be good friends, and why not? The two women had much in common—they were both single, in their fifties, and ran successful businesses.

  Abby couldn’t believe it when the dinner hour rolled around. It seemed they’d just cleaned up the dishes from lunch. Not that she had time to think about it. No, she was far too busy scooping up servings of chicken and rice casserole and serving up healthy portions to the men. And Les, who arrived fashionably late reading a book. She took the table nearest the kitchen and spent much of her meal nose to the page.

  Abby approached to refill her coffee cup. “Good book?”

  Les shrugged. “I’ve read it before, but don’t have much to pick from out here.”

  “I’m a reader too. In fact, I read an interesting book on the train.”

  “Oh?” Les leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. “I love to read, but we have to wait months to get books. By the time I get around to reading novels, they’ve run their course back east.”

  “I’ll be happy to loan it to you. It’s called Wuthering Heights.”

  “Wuthering Heights. What a mysterious name.”

  “For a somewhat mysterious story. And my, the relationships in this novel are complicated.”

  “As they are in real life, I have discovered.” Lesley appeared downcast as she spoke these words.

  “You can let me know what you think after you’ve read it. I’ll bring the book down after lunch.”

  “Wonderful. Thank you.”

  “The author, Miss Emily Bronte, died just after the novel released. Her sister edited the story and it was rereleased posthumously.” She sighed. “I find it rather sad that a young authoress didn’t become famous until after her death.”

  “For pity’s sake, me too. If heads are gonna turn my way, let it be while I’m alive and kickin’.” Les leaned back in her chair and kicked up her legs in rowdy fashion, then just as quickly put them down again. “Oops. Did I look like one of them gals over at the saloon?”

  “Not if you tried all day.” Abby patted her new friend on the shoulder. “I better get back to work. Maybe we can visit later.”

  “I’d love that.”

  Abby dove back in but after some time, she began to feel dizzy. Probably the heat from the stove. Or maybe it had more to do with the swelling in her feet.

  When the meal ended, she and Jin went to work on the dishes. With that task finally ended, she sat at one of the tables in th
e dining hall, so weary she could hardly move.

  Neville took the seat across from her, his face glistening with sweat. “Miss Abigail, it’s too much. We must return to Philadelphia as soon as possible.”

  She leaned her head on the table and groaned. “Mama will come to us as soon as the roads clear.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “I know Mama.” Abby looked up from the table. “She will see this as another one of her adventures. She will come, I assure you.”

  “But will you last until then?” Neville gave her such a compassionate look that she almost burst into tears. Crying, however, would take energy that she simply didn’t have right now.

  “I will last.” She did her best to stand, but uncooperative knees threatened to buckle beneath her.

  “Here, Miss Abigail.” Neville lent a hand and she managed to stand. Abby didn’t mean to groan aloud, but the pain in her back made it impossible to remain silent. She shifted from foot to foot to shift the pain.

  Cookie entered the dining hall, wiping her hands on her apron. “You okay over there, girlie?” she called out.

  “I suppose.” Abby glanced across the room, her gaze landing on Sam and Les, who stood at the front door of the restaurant, deep in conversation.

  “Cookie, can I ask a question?”

  “Sure, hon.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice that Sam is … drawn … to Miss Lesley.”

  “Les? And Sam?” Cookie paused and appeared to be thinking. “Never gave it a moment’s thought, to be honest, and certainly never saw them as a couple, if that’s what you mean.”

  “She’s older though, right?”

  “Older?” Cookie shrugged. “Maybe by a couple of years, but out here folks don’t pay any attention to such things. If a fella happens to fall for a woman a few years older—or younger—no one blinks an eye. Guess that’s what happens when the pickin’s are slim.”

  “How come no one’s grabbed you up, Cookie?” Abby asked. “You’re quite the catch.”

  Cookie’s cheeks flamed crimson. “Me? No one could live with a bossy old thing like me. First of all, I’m not half the gal I used to be.” She ran her hands over her plump backside. “Actually, now that I think of it, I’m twice the gal I used to be.” Raucous laughter followed. “But I’m not the sort men give a second glance. Never have been.”