By the next afternoon, Connorsville was buzzing with the news. A giant sequoia—the biggest on earth—had been found just over the top of Connor’s Pass. Francie was changing the sheets in room 30 when Charlie stuck his head around the doorjamb.
“Don’t say a word about it,” she said quickly, taking in his raised eyebrows and sparkling eyes. She bent to tuck the ends of the bottom sheet neatly around the end of the feather bed. “I’ve heard more than I want to already. I think every single guest in the hotel ordered a box lunch to take up to Connor’s Pass.”
Charlie came into the room, dusted off his pants, and sat down on the chair. “The photographer’s shop is doing a whopping business. John’s set up his camera by the tree and is charging seventy-five cents a photo.” He shook his head. “He’s getting it, too. They all want a picture of themselves beside the oldest living thing in the world.”
“Why aren’t you working?” Francie spread the blanket over the sheets and plumped up the pillows.
“Got the day off.”
Francie gave him a sharp look, and he nodded, answering her unspoken question. “We’re moving to the north end of the basin tomorrow. Gonna start logging around the big one, Granger says. Clear everything out around it, and then see if we can bring it down.”
Francie plopped down on the newly made bed. “You can’t. It’ll shatter. It’s too big.”
Charlie stroked his chin and shrugged. “Some think that,” he agreed. “But Granger says it’s worth the risk. If we can bring it down whole, think of how much lumber we’ll have.” He closed his eyes. “Not quite a city’s worth—but close. Think of it, Francie, an entire city built from one tree. It’ll put California on the map for certain.” He stood up. “Nobody will be able to argue that we don’t grow things bigger and better than anywhere else in the whole United States of America.”
Francie watched him, feeling numb. “Is that what you think?”
He looked at her. “Truth?”
She nodded.
He scratched his head. “Truth is . . .” He paused, took a breath, and began again. “Truth is, I don’t know what to think. Think of a whole city built from one tree.” He thumped his chest. “One I could help bring down. It’s a chance in a lifetime. And it’s only one tree. There are hundreds more.”
Francie sprang to her feet. “But such a tree!” she cried. “It isn’t only one tree. There is only one tree as big or as old as that one. How can you even think to cut it down?”
“But trees grow back, Francie.”
Francie gave a short laugh. “Yes, they grow back. In three thousand years. I counted the rings on that stump, remember? And besides,” she said sadly, “Granger isn’t cutting only this one tree. He’s cutting all the trees.” She turned, but not before Charlie saw her tears.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s too bad. But it’s not your fault. It’s not you cutting the tree.”
“But it is my fault.” She looked over at him. “If I hadn’t found that note or the diary, if I hadn’t been so sure we had to find this secret of Carrie’s,” she kicked the bedstead hard enough to make her foot ache, “if I hadn’t asked my father about it. Then nobody would even know about the tree. It would be safe.”
Charlie shook his head. “You’re wrong. Maybe it would be safe for this year, but what about next year or the year after? Someday, Granger would have found that tree. Depend upon it.”
Francie didn’t listen to him. “I had a thousand chances to stop. But I didn’t. I had to keep on poking around until I found it. And then I had to ask my father.” She picked up a pillow, punched it hard, and then put it back on the bed.
“You already did that,” Charlie said.
She turned on him, almost snarling. “Already did what?”
Charlie grinned. “You already plumped up that pillow.” He pointed to it.
“Oh.” Francie pulled on a corner of the pillow to straighten it. “Don’t think you can make me laugh and forget about this because you can’t.” She picked up the empty wicker basket she’d carried the clean sheets in. “I’m finished here. Are you coming?” And without looking to see if he was following her, she left the room.
The lobby was full of guests drinking tea and eating the vanilla shortbread her mother baked every Tuesday morning. The words “biggest tree in the world” and “oldest thing on earth” drifted in the air, and Francie walked through the crowd as fast as she could. She didn’t want to hear anything more about Carrie’s tree.
“You’d think with all those people so excited about that tree,” she grumbled, hanging the basket on its hook in the linen room, “that someone might think about whether or not it ought to be cut down!”
Charlie jumped out of her way as she swept out of the linen room and into the kitchen. “Maybe you should talk to them, try to get them to stop the lumber company.”
She turned around and stared at him. “Now that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say in a long time.”
“Francie . . .” Her mother, who was stirring something in an enormous kettle at the back of the stove, frowned at her. “I’m sure your father wouldn’t appreciate you badgering the guests.”
“I won’t badger them. I’ll just talk to them.” She grabbed up an extra plate of vanilla shortbread, took a deep breath, and marched into the lobby.
“Good afternoon, Francie.” Old Mrs. Evans was perched on a straight-backed chair by the refreshment table.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans.” Francie picked up the half full plate of shortbread and placed her own full plate in its place. “Did you go out to see the big tree?”
Mrs. Evans gave a raspy chuckle and reached for a fresh piece of shortbread. “Not on these old legs,” she said, patting her lap. “I’m satisfied to walk from the lobby to my room each evening.” Mrs. Evans and her husband had been coming to the hotel each summer as long as Francie could remember. “I used to be able to ramble over the mountains,” she said, “but now I’m content to just breathe in the good mountain air.” She took a deep breath as if to prove her words true.
“Don’t you think it’s a shame the lumber company is planning to cut down that tree?” Francie said. “It’s so old and all.” She looked at Mrs. Evans’s wrinkled face and suddenly realized she might take offense. “I mean . . .” she began again, stuttering.
Mrs. Evans looked up at her; her faded blue eyes were amused and sad at the same time. “The old must give way to the new,” she said. “You young ones will build us an entirely new world.” She nodded and looked away. “It’s the same with trees as it is with men.” She chewed a bite of shortbread. “You tell your ma she’s the best shortbread baker in the state of California.” Her eyes twinkled and she took another bite.
“Yes, ma’am,” Francie answered. She sighed and turned away. If everyone agreed with Mrs. Evans, her plan was doomed to failure from the start.
Her father was standing in the middle of the room, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat. He was surrounded by a group of guests, and Mr. Mansfield was gesturing with the stem of his pipe. “You mark my words,” he was proclaiming, “Connor isn’t going to let this depression beat him. He’ll make thousands on that tree. It’s the best thing that’s happened to this area in a long time.” Mr. Mansfield always sounded as if he were speech making. Father said he was thinking of running for Congress.
“You don’t have to convince me,” Father answered him.
Francie didn’t stay to hear more. It was clear she wouldn’t make any headway with that group. She scanned the room. Gloria Mansfield, wife of the would-be congressman, was ensconced on the medallion-back sofa Father had had shipped from New York two years ago. Its pale rose material nicely complemented Mrs. Mansfield’s burgundy shirt-waist, and Francie suspected she’d chosen the seat for that very reason. Three young and admiring women were sitting on chairs around her listening to her words as if she were a queen.
What did Mrs. Mansfield think, Francie wondered. She might be a powerful ally. She gripped the plate with both hands and walked over to the group. “More shortbread?” she asked, offering each woman in turn.
“Thank you, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield took a small piece. “Could we have some more tea as well?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Francie left the shortbread on the small table beside the sofa, picked up the tray full of empty teacups, and returned to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Mansfield’s group wants more tea,” she told her mother, who was pouring boiling water over the tea leaves in one of their large porcelain teapots. “Where’s Charlie?”
“Went out the back door,” her mother answered. “He said something about work waiting.”
“Pooh,” Francie said. She filled the sink with dirty dishes and placed clean cups and their saucers on the tray. “He just doesn’t want to make small talk in the lobby.” She leaned against the counter while she waited for the tea to steep.
“You’re not talking about that tree, are you?” her mother asked. She bit her lip and looked at Francie. “Your father will be so distressed if you upset the guests.”
“Mama, nobody talks of anything but the tree,” Francie said. “How big it is, if they’ll be able to cut it down, how many houses it will build . . .” She sighed. “It’s hopeless. I wish I’d never found it.”
The sad expression on Francie’s mother’s face told her that her mother wished it, as well. “This is ready, now,” was all she said as she placed the teapot in the exact middle of the tray among the teacups.
Francie gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Mama,” she whispered. She picked up the tray and went out to the lobby.
“Here you are,” she said to Mrs. Mansfield, sliding the tray onto the low table in the middle of the group of women. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”
“Yes, please, Francie.” Mrs. Mansfield picked up a cup and held it out. “I understand you’re the one who found that huge tree,” she said, looking up. Was it Francie’s imagination that she didn’t look entirely happy about it?
“Yes, ma’am,” Francie said. “Though my sister found it first, years ago,” she added.
“Your sister?” One of the young women sitting by Mrs. Mansfield raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you had a sister. Where is she?”
Francie couldn’t remember the woman’s name, Mrs. Lockridge, or something like that. “My sister was killed in a landslide six years ago,” she answered, feeling as if her face had turned to wood. Six years and still she never knew what to say when people asked her that. She turned away.
The three other women murmured soft words of comfort too quietly for Francie to really hear what they’d said. “Mary,” Mrs. Mansfield’s voice was gently scolding, “I told you that when you arrived. Don’t you remember?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mary’s face flush slightly. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Please don’t be offended. I’m so silly about things like that.” She was speaking too fast and Francie felt sorry for her. She turned back to fill her cup with tea.
“But aren’t you excited about that enormous tree?” The woman was rattling on. “It even looks ancient, don’t you think? People are saying it’s the oldest thing on earth. Think of that.” She took a sip of tea. “Gerald,” she looked at Mrs. Mansfield, “that’s my husband, Gerald.” She turned back to Francie and the other women. “Gerald has agreed to buy some of the lumber. We’re planning to build a house in St. Joseph next year. I think it would be so romantic if the whole house were built from that one tree. Imagine. We’d be surrounded by three-thousand-year-old wood.” She raised her head. “Much older than any English castle.” She took another sip of her tea.
Mrs. Mansfield shook her head. “Well, I think it’s a shame,” she said. She glanced at her husband, still speech making in the center of the room. “Glen doesn’t agree with me, of course. He thinks cutting the tree will liven up the economy in this area.” She looked up at Francie. “But I’m almost sorry you discovered it.”
Francie’s heart seemed to take a giant leap; she thought she might lean down and kiss Mrs. Mansfield, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined the woman’s surprised face if she actually did it. “I am, too,” Francie said, trying to speak calmly. “I wish I could do something to stop them from cutting it down.” She gripped the teapot hard with both her trembling hands.
Mrs. Mansfield looked at the women around her. “Someone should write to Frank Court, the editor of the St. Joseph Herald. He’s violently opposed to logging in this area, especially the sequoias. I’m sure that if he knew about it, he’d certainly try to do something.” She put her empty teacup down on the tray beside the pot. “I can’t do it myself, because of my husband’s position, of course.” She shook her head. “He’d be absolutely furious if I did something like that.”
The women all nodded wisely, even Mary, now looking even more embarrassed about her dream of a house built of sequoia wood than she did about her tactless words to Francie. “Of course you can’t do that,” she said. “But someone should.”
They seemed to have forgotten Francie, who placed the teapot carefully on the tray and moved away as unobtrusively as she could. “Mr. Court,” she mumbled. “Of course! And I have to write him, anyway.” She rubbed her hands down the sides of her apron. It was going to work! She was going to save the tree.