PALACE HOTEL
APRIL 17, 1906. 6:00 P.M.
In an elaborate suite on the third floor of the Palace Hotel, Kaitlin scribbled unsteadily in her diary. She had plenty to record. In less than thirty-six hours she had encountered Enrico Caruso, learned from an infatuated geologist that the world was about to end, survived an attack by thugs, befriended the Emperor of North America, been robbed by a French pimp and solicited by a wealthy madam, and had somehow wound up at the world's most luxurious hotel, free of charge. Kansas, she wrote, seemed like a lifetime away.
Now she had gained an invitation to the heart of San Francisco society to see the great Caruso. But at what price? She ended the entry with "Who is this Adam Rolf?"
She put the diary down and rubbed her aching temples, then walked to the window and stared over bustling Market Street. Once enlivening, the constant clang and clamor, the rumbling, honking, and shouting had melded into an annoying discord. She thought to flee but again was unsure where to go. Save for eighty dollars in Emperor Milton money, she was penniless. The dream of San Francisco had somehow become a gilded nightmare.
A knock at the door startled her. Kaitlin froze, her heart pounding. Another knock. She moved to the door, fighting to compose herself. A third knock had her reaching for the door handle.
Andrew Tavish grinned at her over a large white box tied with a green lace ribbon and bow. "Kaitlin! What a surprise!"
She opened the door wider and Andrew stepped inside. He placed the box on a low table in front of a gray satin divan. A snow-white envelope was tucked under the box's ribbon.
"What's this, Andrew?"
"Don't know. They told me at the desk to bring it up."
She tilted her head to read the gold printing on the end of the foot-deep box. "City of Paris. That's the most expensive store in San Francisco."
"I swear. For someone who has never been here, you know the city better than me."
Kaitlin stared at him. The warm, accommodating smile she had encountered the day before now seemed patronizing and shallow. It wilted slightly under her gaze.
"I just realized something," she said.
"What's that?"
"I guess I am more naive than I thought." She hesitated. "A man came to the place I was staying and told the landlady I was a prostitute. He took all my things and got me thrown out."
"That's awful."
"Except that you're the only person I told where I was staying. Who paid you? Antoine or Tessie?"
His smile faded and his eyes slipped downward. "I, uh, I didn't say anything to anyone."
"We're not sophisticated where I grew up, but we can sure identify the smell of horse manure when it's right in front of us."
"I gotta be going. They need me at the desk."
"Does your boss know you work for pimps and thieves?"
"Have fun. With the opera dress, I mean."
"Dress? My, they work fast here in San Francisco. I thought you said you didn't know what it was. You try to hurt me again, Andrew, and I'll make a gelding out of you. Understand?"
He stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him
Kaitlin raised the white box and felt its heft. Inside the envelope she found a card with gold lettering: "Mr. Adam T. Rolf." She turned it over.
"Dear Kaitlin," she read aloud from the handwritten note, "Please accept this welcome gift. My driver will call at seven-thirty. I hope you enjoy the music of Enrico Caruso. At the post-opera party, you will have an opportunity to meet him in person. Warmly, Adam Rolf."
She set the card aside and fumbled to untie the ribbon. She pulled out a black lace embroidered dress with a gathered waist and flared skirt. She held it up. A perfect fit.
Miss Tessie obviously knows her girls.
In the bottom of the box she found a pair of long black fingerless gloves, an ivory choker, black silk stockings, garters and a pair of black short-heeled pumps. She looked at the card and read the words again, searching for a clue to Rolf's intentions. She tried to convince herself that perhaps all Adam Rolf wanted was her company.
She entered the spacious tiled bathroom and twisted the ornate silver handles on the claw-foot tub. She inhaled the steam rising from the torrent of hot water and laughed nervously. She had never had a bath without first heating the water in buckets on a wood-burning stove.