LITMIR.BIZ

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threw the handkerchiefs into the trunk, the delicate squares dropping out of their neat folds and fluttering down. Not while Tobias still occupies every thought.

      Mother drew up to her full height. “I forbid it.”

      “I’m a grown woman.”

      “Then act like it. Don’t run off the moment things grow difficult.”

      Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment, determined to unravel the knot growing in her stomach before she said something she’d regret. “If only you could have heard Miss Cameron’s plea, you would understand.” She laid a hand on her chest. “I felt God’s call, Mother. As clear as I hear your voice right now.”

      Her mother huffed. “I thought God called you to be a concert pianist. Look how quickly you threw it away—after years of training. Why should this be any different?”

      Elizabeth sucked in a defensive breath, blinking back tears. She’d never be able to explain to Mother why the remaining concerts had been canceled. She simply couldn’t risk Tobias exposing her secrets to the world—or worse—to her family. “Working at the Mission will focus my heart on others.”

      “Chinese children.”

      “God’s children.”

      Her mother fell silent. After a long moment, she scooped up the folded quilt. “So much like your father. You’d think of seven offspring, at least one might take after me.” She paced to Elizabeth’s side, her face softening. She held out the quilt, one wrinkled hand placed on top. “I want you to have this.”

      Elizabeth lifted her gaze. “What is it?”

      “Your grandmother’s quilt. She stitched it for me when I was a hair younger than you, but every bit as headstrong.” The hint of a smile softened the lines around her mouth. “Perhaps you do take after me . . . a little.”

      Air rushed from Elizabeth’s lungs. She threw both arms around her mother, the precious quilt crushed between them.

      ***

      Charles couldn’t help but admire the dawn light glowing against the new buildings lining Market Street. Stepping through the door of the Flood Building, he was careful to wipe the road dust from his shoes.

      He hadn’t been to the new office yet. The firm had been in temporary quarters since the devastating earthquake and fires. Uncle Silas had raved about this new location—centered in the heart of San Francisco’s rallying financial district.

      “Need a lift, sir?” A young man in a crimson uniform pulled back the elevator’s ornamental iron gate with a flourish.

      Charles stepped in, trying not to think about the mechanics needed to make such a device function. He’d ridden in them before, but it always made his stomach queasy. “Thank you. Ninth floor, if it’s not too much trouble.”

      An easy grin crossed the young man’s angular face. “No trouble at all.” He flipped a switch and inched the crank lever to the right. “Ninth—McKinley and McClintock, right?”

      “That’s correct.”

      “I’m still getting acquainted with the names. Only been at this post a few days. Lots to learn.”

      Charles curled his fingers around the railing. Hopefully, the operator knew how to stop.

      “But Mr. McKinley—he’s memorable.”

      “Why is that?” Charles pushed back his hat to get a better look at the attendant.

      “He doesn’t deign to speak to fellows like me, outside of requesting a floor. But you can tell right off, the fellow’s influential. Power oozes from every thread of his jacket. Probably not one to be crossed—if you know what I mean.” The operator slowed the car, overshooting the floor by a couple of feet and easing it back down.

      “Yes. I believe I do.” Charles adjusted his collar as the man unclasped the gate and retracted it. “Thanks for the lift, Mr. . . .”

      “Clemmons, sir. Eugene Clemmons. Thanks for asking. It’s an honor to be of service.” He stuck his hand out.

      Charles dried his palm on his jacket before grasping the thin hand. “Um—it’s Charles.”

      “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Charles.” Eugene stepped back inside the elevator. “Have a good day, sir. I’ll see you on the way down.”

      Charles stepped back, contemplating using the stairs from now on rather than explaining his personal connections to the young operator. Would he ever be viewed as a powerful force? It’d take more than a tailored suit to accomplish such a lofty goal.

      Hurrying down the hall, he paused at the door, admiring the etching on the frosted glass. McKinley and McClintock, Attorneys at Law. He might not be the McKinley to which it referred, but he hoped to earn a place, regardless. Charles took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders as he entered the office.

      A clerk lifted his gaze from the stack of papers at his desk and rose to his feet. “May I help you, sir?”

      Charles strode forward, determined to leave his quivering nerves outside in the hall. “I’m Charles McKinley. Here to see my—to see Mr. Silas McKinley.”

      The clerk’s chin jerked upward. “You’re—you’re . . .” His head bobbed on his skinny neck. “Of course, sir. I’ll let him know you’re here. Please, have a seat.” He gestured to a row of chairs before disappearing into the back.

      Charles’s mind wandered back over his visit with the King family. Considering his uncle’s skill with investments, it seemed odd that he’d allowed their situation to become so dire. Even so, Miss King’s abrupt decision struck him as unusual. Hopefully, it came from a deeper conviction and not a knee-jerk reaction to his visit.

      The clerk reappeared, his gangly limbs seeming to arrive a moment before the rest of him. “You may enter, Mr. McKinley.” His voice tightened upon speaking Charles’s last name.

      Charles snapped up his bag and jumped to his feet, following the man past stacks of wooden crates.

      “I must apologize for the mess. We’re still unpacking.” He paused at the end of the hall and opened the door, gesturing for Charles to enter. “He’ll be right with you.”

      Uncle Silas clutched a telephone receiver, his fingers knotted around the device as a scowl drew down his face.

      A tremor raced through Charles’s chest. Not in a good mood, then. He let his gaze wander the spacious office. The light from the large window gleamed off the rich wood paneling, so glossy Charles might have shaved by its reflection.

      Uncle Silas glanced up, quirking one bushy gray brow. He lifted a hand from the blotter and gestured toward a seat located opposite the desk. Reclining in the high-backed swivel chair, he grunted into the receiver. “Nonsense, Cecil. You’re in this position because I deemed it appropriate, don’t give me any of this voting foolishness. You answer to me, and I say the business needs to relocate. He can’t expect to open a trinket shop on the most prestigious corner in the new financial district.” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to hear excuses. If you can’t get it done, I’ll find a man who can. In fact, I’m sitting across from a rather likely looking candidate right now.”

      The words sent a chill through Charles. A candidate for what?

      Uncle Silas cleared his throat and spun the chair toward the window. “I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want to drive past that eyesore, again. Have him out by nightfall.”

      Charles sank into the seat and laid his palms on the edge of the tall desk, feeling like an undersized grammar school student. An odd combination of cigar smoke and furniture polish accosted his nose. If this were his office, he’d crank open those tall windows, first thing.

      His uncle laid the receiver on the cradle and grunted. “Insufferable man. Why don’t they realize this is

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