Once off the boat, she walked the few blocks into town, exploring the streets and buildings and looking in shop windows. On a whim, she walked into a store, bought a pair of brown lace-up shoes, and then tossed her old pair into the trash outside.

She stood next to the store entryway and leaned against the building. Bells began to ring and she looked up the hill where a cable car chugged along. When it disappeared around a bend, her eyes dropped to a phone booth she noticed earlier.

It was time to find Samuel, yet now that the moment had arrived, she realized saying was easier than doing. What if she didn't find him? That had never been an option before now. She looked over her shoulder, where slivers of water glistened between buildings, toward the melancholy sounds of ships blasting their horns.

Before she knew it, she was at the waterfront on a rock looking out over the harbor. She scanned the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of the ocean she knew wasn't far away by the cool salty mist that tempted her nostrils.

The Bay Bridge, parading full and bright now, was a sight to see. It was astonishing how it held up under all the weight of the trucks and cars. She studied its length to where it ended at Oakland, wondering if Michael was there back in school, or if he was spending time with that woman. How dumb she'd been to think she knew him in just those few hours.

She pulled herself from his memory and looked up and down the bay taking it all in with the wonder of something never experienced. A group of fishermen wearing knee-high boots waited for a nibble. Finally, one of them reeled a line in, extracted the hook and then placed the fish in a bucket.

Just up the boardwalk, two women strolled along the waterfront, discussing things that made them howl with laughter, arms flinging, heads back or down at their knees. Emily couldn't help but laugh herself.

Several people stood on a platform about twenty or so feet high. They gazed out over the water, and then headed down the steps and up the walk. Something caught her eye, and she looked back to the platform where a man in a gray baggy suit stood beneath the steps. He glanced in either direction, then pulled something from a pocket and stuffed it into a crack under one of the steps. He stared out across the bay for a few moments, and then turned and looked straight up at her.

All at once, she had a feeling that whatever fascination this town held for her, when nightfall came, things would look much different. She slid from the rock and hurried up the walk toward the city that sat like a fortress against an ever-changing bay.

"See what stalling gets you?" she said with a self-mocking laugh.

She headed straight for a phone booth, opened the book to the name Dimsmoore, and began to dial any number with a name that resembled Samuel, but each call ended in disappointment. Her last try was a number with the initial *S'.

"First of all," the lady said curtly, "the initial *S' stands for Scott. And secondly, I doubt that he's this friend of your mother's, not unless she was about two years old when this friendship took place."

"Well then by any chance do you know a Samuel P. Dimsmoore?"

"I sure don't. Who is this anyway?"

"No one important," Emily said, replacing the receiver.

With all of the Dimsmoore numbers called, she stepped from the phone booth and walked up the street. She longed for the excitement and confidence she experienced the day she first made plans to find Samuel.

A group of people stepping from a building cut her off. She waited for them to pass, noticing a sign overhead that read Mack's House of Food.

When the walk was clear, she saw that the hours were posted on the window. Open from 6 a.m. - 10 p.m.

She stepped through the door into a long narrow room with a number of dirty tables, a handful of customers a three to be exact a but no waitress in sight. The place was silent until a racket came from the kitchen. It sounded as if pots and pans were being thrown about, along with profanities she might've heard from the men back home.

She considered leaving until she took note of the lone man at the counter, drinking coffee and looking the picture of contentment. At the far end of the room was a young couple sharing a plate of french-fries, staring into each other's eyes like this was the best moment of their lives. All of this considered, she decided the place wasn't so bad after all.

Picking a window booth, she dropped her bag onto the tabletop, plucked a menu from its holder, and glanced over the list of items.

The kitchen door swung open and a lank woman with a ruffled blonde up-do and a bright pink uniform sashayed into the room. She set a piece of pie in front of the man at the counter. "Here's your pie, sir," she said. "Chocolate's a little frozen in the middle though, but I just now whipped up the cream." Her southern drawl was as shrill as the clanging pots and pans in the back room. She leaned toward the metal part of the dessert compartment, applied a red coat of lipstick, and then turned back to the man.

"Can you believe ole Mack's got me workin' alone the last hour'n half of this shift?" She pushed his glass of water aside, leaned on the counter, and poked a long-nailed thumb toward the kitchen. "Just between you'n me, I've seen pig-sties that look better'n that kitchen looks."

"Maxine, you complain too much," the man said. He emptied his cup and shoved it across the counter. "But I have to say you make a killer pot of coffee."

Unfazed by his bluntness, Maxine filled his cup. "I could threaten to find another job. Hmm... Maybe not such a smart move at my age, you think?" She looked up as if to contemplate her situation. That's when she noticed Emily. "Gosh darn. I've got a customer!"

Carrying a glass of ice water, she headed across the room.

"What's the matter?" she said, slapping the coaster down, placing the glass on top, "lose your best friend or something?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What do you mean... not exactly?"

Emily pulled the glass over and took a drink. "Well. It's just that, uhm...I just got into town and I'm trying to find an old friend of my mother's. I couldn't find his name in the phonebook." She looked up, hopefully. "But I have his Post Office Box number."

Maxine gaped at Emily's bag. "You traveling alone?"

"...Yes."

"So, if your mother and this guy are friends, how come she didn't give you his home address?"

"My mother died when I was a baby. I-I grew up with my ... my aunt. When she died, I found a letter from him up in her attic." She gave her bag a pat. "I've written him a letter."

"In the attic, huh? You notice the date on that thing?"

"1941."

Maxine chuckled. "Let's see. That's seventeen years ago. You actually think he's gonna have the same P.O. Box?"

"I don't see why not."

"You know how many times I've moved in the last seventeen years?"

"Well, no, but I..."

"Ten, maybe eleven times, I'll have you know. Across country and back, and a number of towns in between. Now there may be your answer as to why the fella don't have a number in the phonebook. Maybe he ain't got a phone. And then again, maybe he's in prison, or hiding from the police. You ever think of that? Say, what's your name, anyway?"

"Emily. But I don't think it'll hurt to send out a letter."

"Listen here, young lady. You ever consider that maybe the man got himself a P.O. Box so's not to be bothered?"

"People do that?"

"Well, would you give out your home address when you didn't want anyone to find you? For-instance, the police?"

Emily snatched her drink off the table and took a big gulp.

"So, uhm, Emily. Do you know anyone else in the area?"

"No."

"Where you from?"

Emily set her glass down, using her thumb to rub moister off the rim. "Down south."

"Bet you've never even had a job."

This was beginning to feel like one of Grandfather's interrogations. She glanced at her bag, thinking it might be time to leave.

"Well, have you? Have you ever had a job?"

"No."

"I'll bet you're planning to mooch off your dead mother's friend."

"No. Of course not. And soon as I get done here, I'm headed out to look for a job."

"You know how naive that sounds? Coming to a city of this size like a-a-a lost soul, expecting to find some fly-by-night stranger with a P.O. Box from, what was it, 1941? And then, you expect a job to just drop from the sky without even a day's experience. Ha! From the looks of it, you haven't seen much else than a mop and bucket. You need to prove yourself first."

"But I have. I've cooked and baked a-and I've sewn my own clothes for years. In fact, back at the farm I canned shelves-full of fruits and vegetables. A number of times they held us through a bad winter." Emily thought that would show her.

"Y'all can brag about your homemaking skills," Maxine said, making a point of looking down at Emily's blouse, "but you still need experience."

Emily touched the safety pin that had worked its way through the buttonhole. "Well, I've done enough cooking that it should count for something."

Maxine pulled a pencil from above her ear and jabbed it against the table several times. "A job's not just throwing meat and potatoes into a pan. My grandma used to cook up a storm back on the farm too, but that's not the same as workin' a real job." She tucked the pencil back over her ear. "Even here, you have to know how to count out change. You ever done that?"

"No."

"Well, there you are. I mean, you could send the profits home with someone."

Emily toyed with her glass of water, took a drink and set in down. "So then, how do I get experience if I can't get a job?"

"You've gotta earn it, that's how." Maxine thought for a moment, eyes scouring the ceiling, her lips twisting into a pucker. Then she leaned with her knuckles on the table. "I'll tell you what. I just might have something for you. Why don't you give me your order, get your tummy filled and I'll get back to you." She whisked the pencil from its cradle, lifting a pad from her apron pocket. "Now, what can I get you?"

Maxine reminded her of one of the crabs at the bottom of a creek waiting to latch onto the first thing that moved. The moment just before the strike was the worst, and the best thing to do was not get too close.

"I'll have a grilled cheese, and some french-fries. Oh, and a coke. I hardly ever had coke back home."

Maxine rolled her eyes, scribbled the order, and sauntered towards the kitchen.

While Emily waited for her sandwich, she opened the letter to Samuel, deciding that whether or not Maxine was right about him, she was willing to take the chance. At the bottom, she added that she would like to meet him at Mack's House of Food. gave a date a couple weeks out, and then if he couldn't make that, she set up another meeting for a month away, on November 19th, between noon and two p.m. She described what she looked like, where she would sit, and if he couldn't make it that day, she would be there again on December 19, same time. At the bottom, she added that a waitress told her she might be able to help her, although she wasn't sure if it was with a job or a place to stay. She sealed the letter and took it to a mailbox she noticed up the street. When she returned, her food was on the table, and Maxine was taking an order a couple of booths down.

Several customers came in as she ate, along with another waitress arriving for the next shift.

"Well, kid," Maxine said as she stepped to her table. She unwrapped and folded a piece of gum into her mouth. "It wasn't easy, but I managed to pull some strings."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you wait here while I grab my things, I'll take you to a place that's looking to hire. If the woman decides to take you in, it won't cost you a dime. And you can make money to boot."

"You're saying, just like that, there's a job, and a place to stay?"

"That's right." Maxine stood with her hands on her hips, chomping her gum, looking like she had a lot more on her mind than what she was saying. "You know, if I were you, I'd forget about that friend of your mother's. If he's not in jail, the guy's probably a kook at best. Either way, it sounds suspicious to me." She stuck a hand out. "Why don't you hand the letter over? I'll toss it for you."

Emily had no desire to argue with her. "It's done. I already dropped it in the garbage."

"Good decision. No use clouding your mind with false hope."

"I take the bus," Maxine said as they headed out the door. She looked at Emily's clothes. "Once you get rid of those rags you're wearing, you'll feel much better."

Emily's cheeks flushed with anger, thinking of the effort she put into sewing her skirt and blouse.

"Come along now," Maxine urged when Emily fell behind. "I want to tell you something." She reached around and nudged her forward, digging her long fingernails into her back. "If you keep in mind what I've told you and don't make any waves, you'll do just fine."

What's that supposed to mean? Emily wondered as they got on the bus. She thought of asking, but decided whatever it was, it couldn't be half as bad as the mess she was already in.

The bus wound through the streets, up and down hills making stops on the way, and then finally pulled over next to a row of trees and let them off.

"Well, there it is," Maxine said when they were alone. She pointed to a three-story white house visible through the branches of trees that circled the property. It sat a half a block up a side street, had green shutters, a brick chimney, and was surrounded by a tall white picket fence.

They walked through a gate into a sprawling yard filled with a variety of plants and flowers that followed walkways and hedged the perimeter of the house. Tiny pink trailing roses wound around a wooden archway above the steps.

The two walked beneath the arbor of roses and up onto a large porch enclosed with hanging plants and potted ferns. Emily stopped to cup a sweet-smelling flower in her hand while Maxine stepped to the stained glass door and pressed the buzzer.

A woman of about fifty, clad in scarlet red, peeped the door open. Her dress was taut over cleavage that swelled like two mountains. Her bright red hair was stacked up into neat layers and sprayed to a freeze. On first glance at her fiery green eyes and pointed nose, Emily might've considered her brazen. Although her voice was sweet as pie as she swung the door open all the way. "Oh my. I guess you were serious."

"Hello, Beatrice," Maxine said, her voice trilling with pleasure.

Beatrice gave Emily's rumpled appearance a thorough once over. "So this is the gal. My, my. Emily, you say?"

"This is her," Maxine crowed. She put a hand on Emily's back and pushed her forward.

There were those fingernails again. Emily moved out of reach and tried not to make too much of the way the women talked as if she wasn't here.

"And soon as I heard she was new in town with no place to stay, well I thought of you right way."

Beatrice stepped out onto the porch, took Emily by the wrist, and pulled her from side to side. "Well, young lady, we'll just have to see if we can do something about this dilemma of yours, how about it?"

"Well, I..."

"It's terrible to be all alone in a strange town, isn't it, dearie?" Maxine cooed. She leaned forward and stretched her long neck in order to look into Emily's face.

Emily glanced over, wondering why the sweet change in her voice, and why she was suddenly calling her "dearie".

A bus rumbled in the distance, and Maxine positioned herself for a better view up the street. Then she turned back and moved her head from side to side, peering inside the house. "Uhuh... Bea, don't you have something for me?"

Beatrice reached inside the doorway and took an envelope off a stand. Maxine snatched it away before she had a chance to hand it over, making a quick exit down the steps. "Well, see ya'll."

Beatrice rolled her eyes, and then stepped inside. "Come in, Emily. We'll have us a nice chat in the parlor."