It was her. It had to be. It was the eyes that made him
certain, even from this distance.
Quinn Freeman stared harder at the young woman— not
much more than twenty from the look of it—sitting
uncomfortably onstage. She was trying to pay attention to
the long rally speeches honoring the city's recovery, but
not quite succeeding. And the speeches were surely long.
Politicians fought banks who fought insurance companies and
everyone nursed a grudge over how things had been handled.
The most eloquent speech on God's green earth couldn't
explain how one man was still alive while another's life had
come to an end. The uncertainty of everything made for chaos.
Still, she was here. By some astounding act of God, she was
here. And what a sight she was. Even in the gray light of
this cloudy morning, she looked clean and pretty, and he
hadn't seen anything clean and pretty in days.
It was the eyes, really, that captured his attention. Round
and wide, framed with golden lashes. Even in the brown tint
of the charred photo he'd found, he'd somehow known they
were an unusual color. Something between a blue and a
violet, now that he saw them. The color of the irises Ma was
fond of in one of the city gardens.
Quinn fished into his pocket for the battered locket he'd
found last week as he walked home from yet another
insufferably long bread line. He'd seen it glint in the
corner of a rubble pile just south of Nob Hill, a tiny
sparkle in a pile of black and brown timber. Usually, Quinn
was looking up; he was always looking up at the
buildings—or parts of buildings—still standing,
admiring how they'd survived with so much rubble marking
where others had fallen. It wasn't as if bits of lives
couldn't still be found all over the city—even months
out as it was, Quinn was forever picking up one shoe or a
bit of a cup or a chipped doorknob.
This was different. There was something amazing about the
fact that the locket was still shut, and that despite the
soot and dents, there were still two tiny photographs
inside. Two young women about his own age. Sisters? Cousins?
He kept the charm in his pocket, making up a dozen stories
as he worked or walked or waited, because everything now
took hours longer than it had before. Yes, it was dirty and
dented and the chain was broken, but the faces inside had
survived an earthquake and a fire. And now he knew the
people had, as well. Or at least one of them. Quinn just
couldn't ignore the hope in that.
Reverend Bauers never called anything a coincidence. No one
was ever "lucky" to Reverend Bauers—they were
"called" or "blessed." Quinn had survived
the earthquake and the fire. His mother had, too. But he was
beginning to wonder if he'd survive the next two months. A
few months ago he'd been just another grunt down at the
printing press, scratching out a living, trying to hang on
to his big dreams. Then the world shook and fell over. He'd
survived, but why had God kept him alive while scores of
others died?
"God does not deal in luck or happenstance," Bauers
always said to Quinn when something went their way or a need
miraculously became met. "He directs, He provides and He
is very fond of surprising His children." The saying
rang in Quinn's ears when he saw the familiar face on the
stage this morning. And he knew, even before he pulled the
locket from his pocket and squinted as he held it up to her
profile, that it was her. Well, Lord, I'm surprised,
I'll grant You that.
When that pretty woman saw him hold up the locket, her eyes
wide with amazement, he made the decision right there and
then to do whatever it took to return the locket to her, to
bring one thing home.
The man fished something out of his pocket and held it up,
comparing it to the face—her face—before him.
Annette's locket. With the elongated heart shape that was so
unusual, the one Annette had picked out for her birthday
last year, it just had to be. He had Annette's locket!
It took forever for the rally to end. The moment she could,
Nora swept off her chair in search of the fastest way into
the crowd. He couldn't have missed her intent given how hard
he seemed to be staring at her. Surely he would wait,
perhaps even make his way toward the stage.
The crowd milled exasperatingly thick, and Nora began to
fear the man would be lost to her forever—and that
last piece of Annette with him. Nora pushed as fiercely as
she dared through the clusters of people, dodging around
shoulders and darting through gaps.
She could not find him. Her throat tight and one hand
holding her hat to the mass of blond waves that was her
unruly hair, she turned in circles, straining to see over
one large man's shoulders and finding no one.
"This is you, isn't it?" came a voice from behind
her, and she turned with such a start that she nearly
knocked the man over. He held up the locket. Nora let out a
small gasp—it was so battered now that she saw it up
close. The delicate gold heart was dented on one side, black
soot scars still clinging to the fancy engraving and the
broken chain.
Soot. A fire seemed such a terrible, awful way to
die. Nora clutched at the locket with both hands, her grief
not allowing any thought for manners. The two halves of the
dented heart had already been opened, revealing the remains
of a pair of tiny photographs—one of her, the other of
Annette. Nora put her finger to the image of Annette and
thought she would cry. "Yes," she said unsteadily,
"that's me, and that's my cousin, Annette. However did
you get this?"
The man pushed back his hat, and a shock of straw-colored
hair splashed across his forehead. "I found it last
week. I've been looking for either one of you since then,
but I didn't really think I'd find you. I just about fell
over when you walked onto the stage this morning,
Miss… Longstreet, was it? The postmaster's daughter?"
Nora suddenly remembered her manners. "Nora Longstreet.
I'm so very pleased to meet you. And so very pleased to have
this back…although it isn't…actu-ally
mine." She felt her throat tighten up, and paused for a
moment. "It's Annette's, and she isn't…she's
isn't here. Anymore." She pulled in a shaky breath.
"She died…in it."
"I'm sorry. Seems like everybody lost someone, doesn't
it?" He tipped the corner of his hat. "Quinn
Freeman."
"Thank you for finding this, Mr. Freeman. It means a
great deal to me."
Quinn tucked his hands in his pockets. He wore a simple
white shirt, brown pants that had seen considerable wear and
scuffed shoes, but someone had taken care to make sure they
were all still clean and in the best repair possible given
the circumstances. "I'm sure she would have wanted you
to have it, seeing as it's you in there and all."
"I'm sure my father would be happy to give you some kind
of reward for returning it. Come meet him, why don't you?"
Quinn smiled—a slanted, humble grin that confirmed the
charm his eyes conveyed—and shrugged. "I couldn't
take anything for it. I'm just glad it found its way home.
Too many people lost too much not to see something back
where it belongs."
Nora ran her thumb across the scratched surface of the
locket. "Surely I can give you some reward for your
kindness."
He stared at her again. The gaze was unnerving from up on
the stage, but it was tenfold more standing mere feet from
him. "You just did. It's nice to see someone so happy. A
pretty smile is a fine thing to take home." He stared
for a long moment more before tipping his hat.
"G'mornin', Miss Longstreet. It's been a pleasure."
"Thank you, Mr. Freeman. Thank you again." Nora
clutched the locket to her chest and dashed off to find her
father.
She found him near the stage, talking with a cluster of men
in dark coats and serious expressions. "Papa!" She
caught his elbow as he pulled himself from the conversation.
"The most extraordinary thing has happened!"
"Where have you been? You shouldn't have dashed off like
that."
"Oh, Papa, I've survived an earthquake and a fire. What
could possibly happen to me now?"
"A great deal more than I'd care to consider." He
scowled at her, but there was a glint of teasing in his eye.
She was glad to see it—he hadn't had much humor about
him lately.
She held up the battered charm. "Look! Can you believe
it? I thought it lost forever."
Her father took the locket from Nora's hand and held it up,
turning it to examine it. "Is this Annette's locket?
That's astounding! However did you find it?"
"A man gave it to me, just now. He said he recognized me
from the photo inside. The photographs hadn't fully burned.
Can you imagine? I knew there was a reason I needed to come
with you this morning. I knew I should be beside you up
there. Now I know why!" Right now that dented piece of
gold was just about the most precious thing in all the
world. The moment she fixed the broken chain, she'd never
take it off ever again.
"Well, where is this man?" Her father looked over
her shoulder. "I'd say we owe him a debt of thanks."
"I tried to get him to come over and meet you—he
knew who I was and who you were—but he said he didn't
need any thanks." She left out the bit about her smile.
Oh, thank You, Lord, Nora prayed as she took the
locket back from her father. Thank You so much!
"Did you at least get his name?"
"Freeman," Nora said, thinking about the bold stare
he'd given her at first, "Quinn Freeman."
The mail had always been mundane to Nora. A perfunctory
business. Hardly the stuff of heroes and lifesav-ing deeds.
Papa had told her stories of how they'd soaked mailbags in
water and beaten back the fire to save the post office. And
now, the mail had become just that— lifesaving. Thanks
to Papa's promise to deliver all kinds of mail—postage
or no postage—mail had become the one constant. The
only thing that still worked the way it had worked before.
It was amazing how people clung to that.
No one, however, could have foreseen what "all kinds of
mail" would be: sticks, wood, shirt cuffs and collars,
tiles and margins of salvaged books or newspaper had been
pressed into service as writing paper. Each morning Papa
would take her to the edge of an "official" refugee
camp—for several questionable "unofficial"
camps had sprung up—and they would take in the mail.
Standing on an older mail cart now pressed into heavy
service, Nora took in heart-wrenching messages such as
"We're alive" or "Eddie is gone" or
"Send anything" and piled them into bags headed back
to the post office.
Nora—and any other female—could only accept
mail, for mail delivery had become a dangerous task.
Arriving mail consisted of packages of food or clothes or
whatever supplies could be sent quickly, and that made it
highly desirable. The massive logistics of distributing such
things had necessitated army escorts in order to keep the
peace. Even after months of relief, so much was still
missing, so much was still needed, and San Francisco was
discovering just how impossible it was to sprout a city from
scratch. The nearly three months of continual scrounging,
loss and pain turned civil people angry, and there had even
been a few close scrapes for Nora in the simple act of
accepting mail. Those incidents usually made her father
nervous, but today they made Nora all the more determined to
help. Someone had delivered something precious to her, and
she would do the same. It was not her fault the postmaster
had not been blessed with a son who could better face the
danger. If God had given Postmaster Longstreet a daughter,
then God would have to work through a daughter. Father had
always said, "We do what we can with what we have."
What better time or place to put that belief into practice?
"Please," a young boy pleaded as he pressed a strip
of cloth into Nora's hand. Its author had scrawled a message
and rolled up a shirtsleeve like a scroll, tied with what
looked like the remnants of a shoelace. "Martin Lovejoy,
Applewood, Wisconsin" was printed on the outside.
"All we got is the clothes we're wearing," the lad
said, "but Uncle Martin can send more."
"Is your tent number on the scroll? Your uncle Martin
needs to know where to send the clothes."
"Don't know," the boy said, turning the scroll over
in his hands. He held it up to Nora again. "I don't
read. Is it?"
The scroll held none of its sender's information.
"What's your tent number?"
The tiny lip trembled. "It's over there."
The boy pointed across the street to the very large
"unofficial" encampment that had taken over Dolores
Park. Nora bent down and took the boy's hand.
"Which…" she hesitated to even use the word
in front of him, "…shack is yours?"
He pointed to a line of slapped-together shelters just
across the street. "There."
The shack stood near the edge of the camp, but still, he was
so small to be here by himself. Nora looked around for
someone to send back with him—the unofficial camp was
not a safe place to go—but everyone was engrossed in
their own tasks. The little boy looked completely helpless
and more than a little desperate. It was by the edge, not
forty feet away, and perhaps it wasn't as dangerous as Papa
made it out to be. Taking a deep breath, Nora made a
decision and hopped down off the wagon. Five minutes to help
one little boy couldn't possibly put her in any danger, and
her father looked too busy to even notice her absence. Nora
held out her hand. "Let's walk back together and we'll
sort it out. We can ask your mama to help us."
The little boy looked away and swiped his eye bravely with
the back of his other hand. "Mama's gone," he said
in an unsteady voice. "My daddy wrote it."
Nora gripped the little hand tighter. "All the more
reason that note should get through. We'll do what it takes
to reach your uncle. It'll be all right, I promise. What's
your name?"