The year begins with a rush. Mr. W. S. Richards, president of Security State Bank in San Jose, desires a two story vacation house in Pacific Grove. He knew my father and seems to be taking an interest in Paul, so I am pleased to do his design. He buys property at 119 Grand Avenue, and I envision a shingled home with a large ground-floor bay window and a gabled bedroom window above the entry. Mr. Richards engages Chivers Brothers to build the home. Although I have learned to be a capable carpenter, I find that I rather enjoy supervising the construction of my designs rather than building them myself. Wielding pen and ink fulfills me more than the blisters and racket of hammeringnails.
The Pacific Grove Review describes the house on Grand Avenue as a “handsome, $4,000 home.” I wink at Lil, but she disavows any credit for the small item. I’m pretty sure she’s written it and I’m confused why she doesn’t want to take credit. Maybe it’s too small an item for her journalistic soul to take pride in. Even so, I trust Lil not to keep secrets from me, and I begin to wonder who else might want to write such items.
Before I have quite finished the Richards’ vacation home, I get a letter from Mrs. Jesse Jordan. Her husband, David Starr Jordan, is still president of Stanford. She would like a vacation cottage in Carmel and will allow no one but me to design it.
Lil hesitates when I share Mrs. Jordan’s letter. “Em, it’s wonderful that you are becoming so successful, but I think you need to build something more for us. We could use some income property. Your bungalows do very well for Edith.”
“A house nearby? So it’s easy to oversee?”
“We need steady income. Can you build a couple more houses like ours?”
So I design two houses similar to ours to be built on Chestnut and Alder, respectively. In March, The Pacific Grove Review reports, Among other smaller buildings going up in that locality is a four room bungalow on Chestnut which Miss Williams and Miss Palmer are building.
I tease Lil about not using a byline. She reacts with irritation. “I am a journalist by profession, Em. Why would I not take credit, even for a small item?”
“You didn’t sign the piece in the San Jose paper, Lil. And if you aren’t writing them, who is?”
“I suspect it’s Etta,” Lil replies. “She’s well known enough that they will print her pieces, and they’re too short for a professional journalist to write.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t mean to insult your professional pride,” I snark at her.
She walks away. I am left to choose between anger and worry over something she might be hiding.
Another article appears in May, this one in the Monterey Daily Cypress. It notes:
Mrs. David Starr Jordan came over from Carmel-by-the-Sea yesterday and registered at the Hotel Del Mar. She will return to Carmel this afternoon. Mrs. Jordan’s handsome home in the Carmel bay town, which has been in the process of erection under the supervising architect Miss Emily Williams during the past two months, is nearly ready for occupancy.
Lil just shakes her head when I lift an inquiring eyebrow. I shall have to thank Etta when next I see her and ascertain by her response if she is indeed the writer. These items appear frequently in the local newspapers, often just a line or two. It doesn’t truly matter who pens these items since the wonderful advertising costs me nothing, but it piques my curiosity.
Before I can talk with Etta, I receive a letter from Elizabeth Austin, living with her mother in the San Francisco house I designed for them. She pens that she wants to be an architect. Her youthful passion reminds me of Eva. How wonderful it would be to mentor my niece in an artistic career! After answering Elizabeth’s letter, I sit down to write one to Eva, telling her all about my current projects.
So revitalized, I attend a meeting of the Woman’s Civic Club. Lil, of course, accompanies me. As expected, Etta also comes. This group of women meets to socialize but also to find ways to beautify Pacific Grove. Over the last few years they have removed a lot of garbage on empty lots and accomplished some street improvements. I sit next to Etta, but before I can ask her about the tiny articles, she rises to speak.
“I have an idea for a convenient and artistic lookout at Lover’s Point, a place where one can sit out of the weather and admire the view. I believe our esteemed Miss Emily Williams could come up with a suitable design.”
A buzz of excited approving conversation erupts before I, too, stand to speak. “I would be happy to donate the design free of charge as a service to this fine organization.” I sit down. Etta beams.
They immediately call for the vote and approve the commission. I hope to gain some paid commissions from the donation of this design. As I smile and nod to acknowledge their well wishes, I picture the rocky promontory swept by wind and salt spray. The Lookout will need to be solid, so stone, and have access to the view, so glass. Encasing the whole structure in natural redwood will make it warmer, blending it into the natural surroundings.
Lil and I walk out to the point to survey the site in person. Across from the Japanese Tea House and a row of bath houses for summer tourists, a windmill spins in the breeze. As I share my ideas with Lil, tendrils of hair escape firmly tied hats and whip around our laughing faces.
“My ears are too frozen to hear you!” Lil complains good-naturedly.
I cup my hand over her ear and try to blow warm air over it, but my laughter makes this impossible. I grip her icy hands in my slightly warmer ones. We head for the warmth of the tea house, hoping to thaw our chilled fingers against a warm cup. Here we can discuss ideas for Lookout as well as the two houses I am working on for us.
“We should each put one of the new homes on Chestnut in our name,” Lil says.
I frown. “Whatever for?”
“For our future, Em. You own the cottage we live in. I’d like something of my own.”
“So you are free to leave?” My voice trembles between incredulous and nervous.
“Of course not, silly. You know I care not what society thinks, but it makes better financial sense to split our assets between us.”
“It makes sense,” I agree reluctantly. “After all, if we were married we could jointly own the property. As housemates, we cannot.”
“I love you no less,” she promises, caressing me with her eyes.
I laugh and sip my tea, unsure how to answer with words.
Over the next couple of days I step lightly around Lil, afraid of giving offense yet not sure why I believe I might. Several times I catch odd looks on her face that seem to indicate she feels as I do. We are strangely unable to discuss this with each other, maybe because I am not quite sure what ‘this’ is.
During this time I receive a letter with an impressive logo on the envelope, the entwined letters so embellished I cannot make out the initials. It does appear to be an architectural firm, however, in San Francisco. The letter makes me laugh.
Dear Miss Williams,
I regret that I was unable to offer you a position with the firm when last you inquired. Although it has been over five years since you queried us, I am pleased to say that a position has become available as a junior draftsman. We would be honored if you considered employment with us.
Sincerely,
Charles Field
So now that I finally have some successes, Mr. Field can find a position for me? The notion is ludicrous. I hand the letter to Lil, still smiling. The pompous man’s note has lightened my mood.
Lil’s smile, however, is tight. “Isn’t this the man you almost married?”
“Married?” I frown. “Hardly. Fannie had high hopes for a marriage with any unmarried man at church, Lil.” I shrug. “This one wasn’t any nearer the altar than any other.”
“But you interviewed with him.” Her tone perplexes me. Anger? Jealousy? She should know better.
“Since when is interviewing a courtship ritual? The interview was a strange coincidence, that’s all. Now his firm wants a woman to show how progressive they are. Junior draftsman? Ha! I have designed and built homes and he wants me to go backwards!”
Lil folds the letter carefully. “It might be good for your career to work for such a prestigious firm.”
“I don’t want to draw up someone else’s visions. I want to design what’s in my head. Come on, Lil, you know this. What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” She looks at me with a smile, but her eyes are clearly pained. What isn’t she telling me?
Frustration twists my lips as I snap, “Something’s wrong, and it’s not Mr. Field. What are you keeping from me?”
“It’s all about you as usual?”
“What?” I’m stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m hardly talking. Talking requires listening, and that’s something you don’t do well.”
“Oh no? I haven’t had much to listen to!” Fury thrums through my body. A rational thought cools my temper, though. I cannot even put into words what we are fighting about. We subside into individual pools of simmering emotion.
By the end of 1907 two bungalows begin to arise on Chestnut, one owned by Miss Lillian Palmer, and one owned by Miss Emily Williams. Designed almost exactly the same as the others I have done for Edith and for our first home, the building comes along well. With Lil at my side to share sawdust in our hair and blisters on our hands, the physical labor of carpentry, plumbing, and masonry once more becomes an adventure. Part of me dreads completion because deep down inside I worry that Lillian Palmer will want to live in the house she owns while I live alone in mine.
My career shoots forward in 1907, and the first months of 1908 find us exhausted, me from overwork and over worry, and Lil from dealing with my crankiness and her secret angst. Property in Pacific Grove gets more expensive. I like to believe it might be partly due to the increasing number of my designs that have been built here. But Lil and I cannot come up with the last payment for our new properties on Chestnut, and I have no commissions at the moment.
“We’ll have to ask Etta for a loan,” Lil says with a deep sigh.
“Why Etta?” I am resistant, since asking for a loan makes it appear my business is not successful.
“Look, Em. Etta is a friend. She will keep it private that we have asked for the loan. You know she can afford it. She runs an insurance agency and manages her late father’s commercial property. She has income and good business sense.”
“And she’s a friend,” I repeat, reluctantly nodding.
Etta loans us $300 without question. When I pick up the bank draft from her office, I take the opportunity to ask her a question that has been nagging me. “Etta, have you been writing those marvelous bits for the local papers about me?”
“Me?” She looks startled. “Honey, I value any opportunity to put my name into the business community. No, I didn’t write them.”
“Thank you for the loan, dear friend.” I take my leave, convinced that Lil has written the articles and deliberately hides the fact from me. Something needs to be done to clear the air between us, but my feeble head has no idea what.
One evening as dusk is settling over the town, I walk home from a meeting of the Woman’s Civic Club deep in thought. The fog lingers offshore like a mountain of cotton painted orange and purple by the setting sun. The spectacular display distracts me for a moment, then the sun dips lower and the light fades to gray. I continue walking.
Lil declined to join me tonight at the meeting. She didn’t say why, although she did say she isn’t ill. Our cottages are finished. Soon we must move in, together or separately. Whatever weighs on her must soon explode. I eagerly anticipate this event so we can move past it and on with our lives.
The house is dark. By now, Lil usually lights the kerosene lamp in the front window to welcome me home with its soft glow. No smoke billows from the chimney. Has she let the fire go out?
“Hello, Lil?” I call as I come in the door. No sound comes from the kitchen, and no smells of a scrumptious dinner greet me as they usually do when Lil arrives home before me.
I find her sitting in the front room in the gathering dark, naught but a darker shadow against the dusk-grayed walls and furniture. She faces the window, showing no sign that she knows I am there.
“Lil?” I ask softly. I cross to her, the swishing of my skirts suddenly loud. I stand beside her chair and place my left hand on her left shoulder, sliding my right hand behind her to squeeze her right shoulder. Laying my cheek on her head, I whisper, “What is it, my dear? Please let me help you.”
She rouses then and a lightning-quick smile flashes. “Sorry, Em, I was lost in a bit of a daydream. My, it’s gotten quite dark. Let me light a few lamps, tend the fire…”
She begins to get up, but I hold her in the chair. “Lil, talk to me.” I look her straight in the eyes. Beneath my hands, her shoulders slump.
“Oh, Em, I feel so foolish.”
I wait, rubbing her shoulder in a gentle circular pattern. In the half-dark it is easier to bare your soul. Somehow even lamplight inhibits a person from divulging the contents of their heart. With a deep sigh, Lil begins to talk.
“It’s not that I’m unhappy with you, my dear Em. Please don’t think that! I just feel so useless. I know you value my assistance with your building projects, but lately it’s not been enough. I was so happy last summer with the studio at home in San Jose. Could it be time for me to learn more about metalworking?” Her tone is one of discovery, of wonder.
“Lil, copper has always held your heart. If you want to go to school, of course you should. Where would you study?” I hold my breath. Our conversations have been so fragile lately, I hate to shatter this one.
She holds up a much-folded paper, a brochure, vaunting the wonders of Vienna. I sink to my knees beside her chair. “Vienna?” I say weakly.
“Europe would be amazing, Em,” she says. I can hear the lilt in her voice and know her eyes are alight with passion. “Vienna has wonderful schools for metal crafting and electrical design. It would be heaven to study in a place so rich with history! Think of the architecture in Rome and the Far East—maybe we could even see some pagodas in Japan!”
Relief washes over me, draining every ounce of energy and leaving my hands shaking. “We?” I confirm weakly.
“Of course, you silly goose! Why would I want to embark on such an adventure alone?” She sweeps to her feet and lights the lamp to show me the brochure.
She has other brochures, too, from points all across Europe. How long has she been thinking about this? “Lil, why haven’t you said anything?”
“Your business flourished last year. How could I pull you away when you were finally seeing success? I was content to wait.”
“For a time you were,” I tease. “You’ve been pretty sad for awhile now.”
“I was afraid to say I wanted this trip so badly,” she admits, her hands clasping mine like lifelines.
“You have done so much for me that I would love to give you this. Let’s take the year off and discover Europe together. We could even go to Paris!”
We pore over the brochures, giddy with relief that secrets have been shared. I ignore a pang of worry about leaving just as my business is thriving. We have enough put away to make this trip happen, and Lil’s parents will lend us more if we need it. This will be good for her, so we will do it.