“Perhaps.” She put a few sticks of wood into the firebox on the cookstove and pulled a coffeepot over the front burner. “But your father doesn’t look like he’d make it up the hill to Portsmouth Square, where the more respectable people find lodging, and no one will take you without money.” She turned from the stove, and her gaze landed on the boy.
He looked like he was six or seven, and he was strangely quiet as he watched her with large brown eyes. “Besides,” she said as she drew him to her, “Johnnie could use the companionship of another child. He hasn’t seen one in months.”
Hazel was growing heavy in my arms, and when she wiggled to get down, I set her on her feet. She looked at the little boy with open curiosity, and he stared back at her.
The back door opened, and a man appeared, though he stopped in his tracks as his gaze met mine. He was tall, but it was the breadth of his shoulders and the size of his arms that made me take a step back. A scar drew up his left eyebrow, almost giving him a sinister look, but he was still dangerously handsome. He was bronzed with the sun, and though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested he’d spent a great deal of time outdoors.
His brown eyes were hooded as he took in the full length of me.
“Sam,” Bess said, “we have a few new guests.”
Slowly Sam entered the kitchen, and the size of him made the space feel much smaller and warmer. He wore a simple button-up shirt of gray flannel and a pair of canvas pants held up by black suspenders with a holster and pistol around his waist. His shirtsleeves were rolled at his muscular forearms, and his top button was undone, revealing a white shirt underneath. His dark brown hair was worn a little long, and his brown beard was trimmed short and suited his handsome face.
I backed up, putting my hand on Hazel’s shoulder to take her with me.
His expression didn’t change as he said, “Why would you come here?”
I swallowed the apprehension climbing my throat and was about to speak when Bess said, “Her father is upstairs on his deathbed, foolish enough to think he could make it rich like all the others. Jim sent them here from the docks.”
“It wasn’t Father’s idea to come,” I finally said, finding my voice and courage. “I convinced him.”
“Then you’re the fool,” Sam said, his British accent matching Bess’s. “Only fools and convicts come to San Francisco.”
I shuddered to think what he must be.
“The girl your daughter?” he asked, nodding at Hazel.
“My sister.”
“Keep a close eye on her. Never let her out of your sight, especially here in Sydney Town. There’s no telling what would happen to her.”
I pressed my hand against Hazel’s shoulder.
“I’m Sam Kendal,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you don’t cause trouble, but the sooner you leave, the better.”
My heart fell as his name sounded an alarm inside my troubled mind.
Sam Kendal. The most notorious Sydney Duck in San Francisco. Which meant the woman was his wife, Bess Kendal, the person who would betray him and cause his downfall.
And soon, if I wasn’t mistaken.
2
August 29, 1929
Hollywood, California
The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel glittered that evening as almost three hundred guests sat at banquet tables. Potted flowering trees dotted the large ballroom, and paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. Laughter and conversation lifted over the sound of silverware clinking against fine china. Some of Hollywood’s biggest stars were present, wearing their diamonds and furs. Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplin, Lionel Barrymore, Gloria Swanson, and others visited over the simple meal with ease.
“You should try to smile, Ally,” Mama said as she sat next to me, cutting into her broiled chicken on toast. “People might think you’re sore for not winning the Academy Award for Best Actress.”
I glanced at the winner, Janet Gaynor, who sat at the end of our banquet table, laughing and joking with Clark Gable. The nominees for the first Academy Awards, including me, had been notified over six months ago, and the winners were announced in May. The banquet was being held to honor them as they received their golden statues tonight.
“I’m not even thinking about the award,” I told her, picking at my string beans. “Janet deserves it.”
“You’ve been quiet all day.” Mama turned to me, offering her full attention. Her name was Tacy Howlett Bennett, and she had been a time-crosser but lost her other path in Boston in 1668, where she had been hung for sharing her Quaker beliefs. She had met my papa, Grant Bennett, when she came to California in this path in 1888. Papa had also been a time-crosser, with a second path in 1408, but had given it up for Mama. In 1910, they had started Bennett Studios and watched it prosper beyond their wildest dreams.
But that was then. Almost twenty years later, with the advent of talking films and large studios, everything they had worked for was on the brink of ruin.
