"Don't get used to it."
"Your grandmother didn't get agitated or upset while we were speaking, Colton. She was happy to tell her story, and not just to me, to you. She liked that you were there. She wanted you to catch a glimpse of the woman she used to be."
"It was quite a glimpse. However, I still can't help thinking that the women are embellishing what they did. It was a long time ago. Maybe they got a few women to safe places and just made it sound like more."
"Faking someone's death sounds like a lot more."
"True. But that crowd likes to be dramatic."
"I don't think they were being dramatic. If anything, they were underplaying what they did. Didn't you see how many times they looked at each other, as if unsure of how much to say? I don't think we've heard the whole story yet."
He could hear the excitement in her voice. "You are totally caught up in this."
"Of course I am, and you are, too. You're as curious as I am to know more about their adventures. I'm just hoping there are some answers in Molly's house. She was the driving force behind bringing me here and getting the story down on paper. Hopefully, she was putting together materials at home to further that purpose."
"It would be nice," he said, but somehow he didn't think it would be that easy. "Turn right at the next light and then take an immediate left. Parking is tough in this neighborhood, but hopefully we'll get lucky." He smiled as he said the word
lucky
, thinking that for the past few days his luck had all been bad.
"What is this neighborhood called?" Olivia asked, as she drove slowly down a crowded street of retail shops and cafes.
"This is the Haight and you're coming up on the intersection of Haight and Ashbury, made famous in the sixties for hippies, flower children and the peace movement. While the neighborhood has changed since then, you'll still find tattoo parlors and bong shops amid the clothing stores and bars."
"It's charming," Olivia said, shooting him a smile. "I like eclectic neighborhoods."
"So do I," he admitted. "One reason I love this city so much."
"And you'd never want to live anywhere else?"
"I wouldn't say never, but I'm happy where I am. And I like having the opportunity to protect some of these cool old buildings."
"Is your fire station in this neighborhood?"
"No. I work closer to downtown and the industrial district."
"Skyscraper firefighting must be terrifying."
"It presents a different challenge, but the worse fires are usually in the warehouses where there are more combustible chemicals stored."
"That's how you got hurt," she said, shooting him a quick look.
"Yeah." Wanting to change the subject, he said, "Speaking of cool buildings, see the brick building over there?" He pointed to the right.
She nodded. "Ashbury Studios. Is it famous?"
"I think it will be someday. My brother Sean runs the place. He's a musician as well as a producer and now a business owner. His girlfriend runs a dance studio on the top floor."
"Really? He's a musician? I thought it was all about firefighting for the Callaways."
"Sean never had any interest in firefighting. He was always about the music. I think he felt a little disconnected from the family because of that, but he's come around more lately. And my dad has eased up on him, accepted the fact that he has one son who is not going to follow in his footsteps."
"Did your father pressure you to be a firefighter?"
"There was definitely an expectation that I'd at least consider firefighting, which was fine with me. I was fascinated by what my dad did from when I was very small. I loved hearing the sirens, watching him jump on the truck. I liked the firefighter picnics and the way everyone stood together. Firefighters had their own family and their firefighter family."
"That all sounds good, but I think you've skipped over the danger part," she said dryly.
He tipped his head. "I'll admit that I didn't realize the demands the job would put on me physically, mentally and emotionally. You can't really train for all of that. You just have to live it. But while I love to play the hero firefighter, to be honest, not every day at work is that exciting. We have some slow, boring days, too."
"Really? Even in a big city like San Francisco?"
"Even then." He paused, seeing a parking spot up ahead. "Let's grab that spot. Molly's house is a block away, but I don't know if we'll find anything closer."
"That's fine. I wouldn't mind a little walk around the neighborhood when we're done. But right now I just want to get to Molly's and see if there's anything to be found."
He smiled, seeing the purpose in her eyes as she maneuvered the rental car into the typically small San Francisco parking spot. Olivia was even prettier when she was focused and determined. He wondered if this trip to Molly's was going to pay off in some way. And whether or not that payoff was something he needed to worry about.
If there was nothing to be found at Molly's, maybe that would be the end of it. His grandfather could rest easy. His grandmother could play Bridge with her friends and not think about the past, and he would have done right by both of them.
On the other hand, finding nothing meant Olivia would head back to New York, and he wasn't ready to say goodbye to her yet.
* * *
They walked into Molly's house a little before four o'clock. It was a two-story, two-bedroom home tucked between two large apartment buildings and with the late afternoon shadows, everything about the house was dark. As Colton stepped into the entry, he thought the house smelled like an old person lived there. Thick scents of lavender, vanilla and something he couldn't identify hung in the air. Heavy drapes covered the windows, adding to the depressing atmosphere. It was as if the house had given up hope on the occupant ever coming back.
Maybe Molly wasn't coming back
. He felt sad at that thought.
"We need some light," Olivia said, turning on the hallway switch.
Like many San Francisco homes, the building was narrow and a long hallway led from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the house, passing by the living room and dining room on the way.
Colton stepped into the living room first and pulled back the drapes to let in more light. "Better."
"Yes," Olivia agreed, following him into the room. "Although, now I can see just how much stuff there is here."
Olivia wasn't exaggerating. The living room was filled to the brim with antiques, a sofa from another era, an ornate glass-topped coffee table, mahogany bookcases and end tables. There didn't appear to be any sense of design. Molly had just filled her home with things that she liked.
Olivia picked up a pillow with a cat's face on it. "I'm seeing a theme. Cat pillows, cat figurines, cat pictures on the walls…is there a real cat?"
"I don't smell one or see one, but we haven't checked out the whole house. It would be a little surprising if she doesn't have one given her obvious love affair with the furry creatures."
"I've never been that excited about cats. I prefer dogs."
"Me, too. Do you have a dog?"
"No, I live in a very small studio apartment in Manhattan. I can barely fit myself in there. And I often travel for Philip, either to do research or run his book tours, so I'd feel guilty having a pet. Someday perhaps. What about you?"
"Same. Not the right time. I have what is probably a slightly bigger apartment than yours, but my shifts are long and I'm gone for multiple days at a time." He paused, checking out the bookcase. "Molly is a fan of detective and spy fiction. And it looks like she was even thinking about writing her own books."
Olivia nodded, as he pulled out a book on writing. "She's probably had this story in her head for a long time but just couldn't figure out a way to put it on paper." She looked around the room and sighed. "I'm not sure where to start. There are so many things in this room; I can only imagine what the rest of the house looks like."
"It's cluttered, but it is neat. Molly is not a dirty person. You should see some of the places I've been in. It's amazing what conditions people can live in, especially older people, who obviously need help but don't have it." He paused. "But I'm surprised you're confused about where to begin. Isn't this what you do? Aren't you used to going through people's garbage and dirty laundry?"
She frowned. "You like to make my job sound more sordid than it is, Colton. I'm not a tabloid reporter."
"So you've never looked through someone's trash can?"
Her lips tightened. "I wish I could say I haven't done that, but on occasion, yes. This, however, feels different in some way."
"Maybe because Molly isn't a celebrity or a politician or someone famous. This is her private home, her personal life."
"That's true. I am more used to working with people who have a public face, and there's a price that comes with fame. When Philip picks a subject for a biography, the subject of the book knows that they'll get more fame from telling their story, so in those cases I don't feel bad pushing past their reluctance to tell me everything."
"But Molly is different." He liked seeing the conflict in Olivia's eyes. It told him she had a moral code that he could respect.
"Yes, Molly is different. But she wanted me to come to San Francisco and tell her story, so I have to believe she'd be okay with me looking around her home. And I don't think Eleanor would have given me the key if she had any doubts about my motives. So, I need to start figuring out what's important." She paused in front of a wall laden with framed photographs and pointed to one. "I met this guy earlier today."
He crossed the room to see the picture she was referring to.
Molly had her arm around the waist of a young man in a Navy uniform. Judging by Molly's appearance, the photo was at least twenty plus years old. "Who's the guy?"
"Peter Harper, Molly's son. I met him at the hospital when I went to see Molly. He looks a lot older now."
"I didn't know you'd gone to see Molly. Was there any change in her condition?"
"No. She was asleep or unconscious, whatever you want to call it. She looked very fragile, old, pale, and her skin was cold to the touch." She paused. "Her letter to me was so vibrant, so full of hope and desire. It's strange to think she wrote it only a few weeks ago. How quickly everything changed."
"What did her son have to say?"
"He wasn't very happy to see me in Molly's room."
"Why not?"
"Well, apparently your grandfather isn't the only one who thinks a book about Molly's past is not a good idea."
"Her son must have the same protective instinct."
"I guess. I feel like I'm missing something, Colton. It's right here, but I can't see it."
Her words sent an uneasy feeling through his body. "Maybe it's not here, and you can't accept the idea that there's nothing more to find."
"Nice try," she said making a face at him. "But I can't come to that conclusion until I check out the rest of the house."
They walked through the dining room together, which held nothing of personal interest. The kitchen at the back of the house was small and neat; the only thing at all intriguing was the cupboard filled with teas from around the world. Apparently, Molly liked to mix it up when it came to hot beverages.
Leaving the kitchen, they went up the stairs to the second floor, which housed two bedrooms. The smaller room appeared to be a combination guest room and office. The double bed was covered in papers, magazines, and what appeared to be shopping catalogs. Next to the bed was a desk that was stacked high with file folders and bills. It didn't appear that Molly liked to throw anything away.
"There could be something here," he said.
"Why don't you start in this room, and I'll check Molly's room," Olivia suggested. "We'll be able to cover more ground faster if we split up."
It was a good plan, but he felt a little reluctant to let Olivia out of his sight, although he wasn't sure why.
Olivia was gone before he had a chance to suggest they go through each room together. Resigning himself to letting her take the lead, he moved over to the desk and started going through the stacks of folders.
Fifteen minutes later he was about to call it a day, having seen nothing more personal than bills, receipts and retail offers. Molly had discount coupons that had expired three years ago. It was clear that she hadn't gone through anything in a while.
He was down to the last drawer in the desk when he finally found something worth looking at. There was a stack of personal letters, about six in all, held together by a rubber band. What was unusual about the envelopes was they boasted no return address, and the postmarks appeared to be from all over the country. He wondered if these were letters from some of the women they'd helped escape.
His pulse sped up as he thought about his grandmother's story. He'd been trying to tell himself it wasn't true or it was exaggerated, but now he wasn't so sure. Not that he'd even looked at the letters, but there was something about the feminine handwriting and the way Molly had kept them together that told him they were important.
He pulled out the top letter and opened the envelope. The first words confirmed his suspicions.
I know you told me never to write but it's been four years now, and I feel like maybe it's okay. I just want you to know that I'm safe and I'm happy and I've actually met someone else. Yesterday I told him about my past, not any names of course, not anything about you and the other wonderful women, but I did tell him about the man who almost killed me. I was afraid he would reject me or demand a name or something. But you know what he did? He opened his arms to me, and he said he would protect me forever. That's it. No questions. No worries that he was getting in the middle of something complicated. No comments that maybe I brought it on myself.
You were right, Molly. Everything did turn out okay. Better than okay, and it's all because of you and Eleanor.
I'm sending you this while I'm on vacation. It's coming from a place I've never been and never will be again. I guess I'm still a little paranoid.