She pressed her lips together. “That doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll check the card catalog while you take a peek in the San Francisco book.”
I found a seat and was thankful the library was quiet that Sunday afternoon. It was nice to take a break from filming. Papa never liked to work on Sundays, knowing we needed rest. Even with the rushed filming schedule, he still gave us the day off. I’d gone to church with my family and then taken a taxi to the library.
The book was dusty and yellowed with age. I cracked it open. It was odd to think that the information in this book had said one thing, but that it had altered somehow after Bess had changed history. It would have originally recorded the first fire in San Francisco on August 30, 1849. But now I wasn’t sure when the first fire would take place.
I turned to the back index pages and ran my hand down the list until I came to the name Kendal.
My breath caught when I saw “Kendal, Ally,” listed just above “Kendal, Samuel,” with the same page number attached to both names.
With shaking hands, I turned to the page. Part of me wanted to know what the book would say, and the other part was deathly afraid. I was breaking unofficial rules of time-crossing by looking, but I couldn’t help myself.
Samuel Kendal was a notorious member of the infamous Sydney Ducks. He came to San Francisco from the penal colony in New South Wales, Australia, in April 1849, by way of New York City. Not much is known about his life before arriving in California, except that it was rumored he and English Jim Stuart met in Australia and formed a gang in New York City before heading west.
Upon arrival in San Francisco, they had gone their separate ways, and animosity had grown between them. English Jim and the other Sydney Ducks were known for extortion activities, demanding payment from those in Sydney Town and other neighborhoods for protection. When Sam refused to pay, Jim and his men set fire to Sam’s new restaurant and hotel on Portsmouth Square in the early morning hours of November 3, 1849. The wind was fierce that day, and the fire tore through two-thirds of the city, becomingthe first great fire of San Francisco. Sam Kendal was killed, along with his wife, Ally, while she tried to save him.
“What in the world?” I stared at the last sentence, reading it four times before I shook my head in denial. How many other Allys could there be in Sam’s life? This wasn’t talking aboutme, was it?
If it was me, I wasn’t sure what part of the sentence was more alarming or unbelievable. That I would somehow be married to Sam Kendal—Sam Kendal—in less than two months, that I would die in a horrible fire with him, or that I would stay in San Francisco after my twenty-fifth birthday, which was November 2nd. If I was in 1849 on November 3rd, that meant I had forfeited my life in 1929—and lost my other life.
And that would be it. I would no longer be alive in either path.
“Miss Bennett?”
I jumped and slammed the book closed.
Miss Clampett jumped, too, her hand coming up to her heart.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No, I’m sorry for startling you.” She took a tentative step toward me. “I checked our card catalog, and I’m afraid I couldn’t find any books written by an author named Cole Goodman. We do have one book calledGoldRush, but it was written by a woman named Mrs. Myrtle Anderson in 1909. I assume that’s not the book you’re looking for.”
“No.” I stared down atThe Annals of San Francisco, my mind still spinning. Could there be another Ally in San Francisco that I didn’t know about? One who would come into Sam’s life in the next two months? It wasn’t a common name, but I couldn’t be the only one. I couldn’t betheone. It was ludicrous. Preposterous. I wouldn’t marry a convicted murderer, not of my own free will. The history book had to be wrong. History was misreported all the time.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Miss Clampett asked, watching me closely.
“Are there any other books about the gold rush?”
“Of course.” She went back to the shelf and removed four other books, bringing them to me.
I looked through each of them, and they all described the fire on November 3rd, but none of them mentioned Sam or me, and they didn’t give me any other information that helped determine how or why we would be caught in the fire.
Leaving the table, I walked to the circulation desk withThe Annals of San Franciscoand found Miss Clampett.
As she checked out the book for me, I thought through all I knew concerning 1849. There had to be an explanation. If Bess Kendal hadn’t changed history, Sam would have hanged, and I couldn’t have possibly married him or died in a fire at the new hotel. But historyhadchanged, if this book was to be believed, and somehow this new version made a mess of my life. Now that I knew what would happen, if I changed it, I would forfeit that path anyway. And because it was supposed to happen after my birthday here, I would lose both.
Unless I changed something else from that pathbeforethe night of the fire. But I would have to say good-bye to Father, Hazel, and Johnnie if I did.
My head began to hurt just thinking about it. I needed to talk to Mama and Papa. They would know what to do.
Finally, Miss Clampett put the due-date card into the envelope sleeve in front of the book and handed it to me. I left the stucco building with the red tile roof and walked down the street, deep in thought and uncertainty. I needed to hail a cab, but there were none in sight, so I walked farther down Hollywood Boulevard on the lookout for one.
The day was warm, and the sky was clear as the palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze. Hollywood Boulevard was busy with tourists and locals, eating in restaurants and shopping in stores. No doubt there would be dozens of people looking at the hand- and footprints of movie stars in front of Grauman’s Theatre. Mr. Grauman had invited me to put my prints there last year, not far from Mary Pickford’s. I hadn’t been back since then because itwas hard to stay incognito, especially in a place like Hollywood, where tourists came to see actors and actresses in person.
As I approached Sardi’s Restaurant, a group of men exited the building, and I caught sight of a familiar figure, pulling me out of my reverie.
Spencer.
He was in deep conversation with the man to his left and hadn’t noticed me.
