Seashells Ch. 01

Part 1 of 6 Copyright @calibeachgirl

All rights reserved, 2012

Thanks to Lewis, Bill and Elliot for their support...

*

There was an urgent knocking on the apartment door. William Doyle, Bill to his friends, finally waking up into the morning sun, pulled on a pair of trousers and went to answer it. A Western Union boy was there, holding out a telegram in his left hand, his open right palm waiting for what he considered the customary tip.

After taking the telegram, Bill reached into his pocket and flipped him a nickel. "Here."

"I'm to wait for a reply," the boy said, leaning against the door-jamb.

"Wait a minute," replied Bill as he shut the door in the boy's face.

In his own room, Jack was just sitting up in bed, suffering through another faulty rendition of 'When My Baby Smiles At Me' playing in the apartment below. God, he thought, let me sleep. Wondering who would be knocking on the door so early in the morning, he looked at the nightstand clock. Seven o'clock! It was too early on a Saturday morning to be awake, he thought, especially following a late Friday night. The girls the night before had been so friendly as the liquor flowed in the speakeasy. His throat was still hoarse from the cigarettes he had smoked. He decided it was time to quit smoking.

"A telegram came for you," said Bill, looking in from the room's doorway, laughing at his friend's plight. "It would seem to be a matter of some urgency since the boy is waiting for an answer."

"A telegram?" he asked in surprise. "Who would send...?" He wondered if it were from some angry father demanding the righting of some perceived wrong upon his daughter. God, he thought, it's 1925! Things were different, now, the War had seen to that. If some wonderful young girl wants to bestow her favors upon him, who was he to complain?

Making an effort to conceal his concern, he took the telegram and opened the light yellow envelope. If it were about some girl, wouldn't it have made more sense for the angry father to arrive in person?

A single glance at the telegram was enough to relieve Jack's apprehension. It was from someone named G. Lincoln, whoever that was, about his uncle whom he had not seen in more than ten years.

"This comes from someone working for my uncle. It seems he's quite ill and wants me to come see him." He looked up, confused. "Why now? Just because he's sick?"

Bill hesitated. Jack's uncle was quite well-to-do, incredibly well-to-do, but a grim, rigid, humorless man, prone to condemn anyone whose nature differed from his own and quick to condemn any fancied immorality which he perceived in the conduct of those around him. The moral and religious principles that Jack's father had possessed in a more moderate degree had been transformed by his uncle into a kind of fanaticism.

But, Jack knew, his uncle's fanaticism was inconsistent. While he constantly preached about the virtues of humility and speaking against the pursuit of worldly wealth, he still had condemned Jack's father for marrying 'beneath' him. In the meantime, he, himself, had amassed a huge fortune.

Jack had not wanted to accept the summons. He had been sixteen, the first and last time he had spent time with his uncle, and the circumstances of his having so recently lost his mother made him all the more determined to have nothing to do with the man who had loudly failed to appreciate her merits and beauty.

"You know," his uncle had said, "that you're my heir should anything happen to me. Someday, all this will be yours."

"Well," said Bill, "you might as well go on and see him and see what's what. Stay a week or so, and if you don't like it come back early but it would do you good to get away from here, if even only for a little."

"I guess I could go and see him. I thought he had gotten married a while ago. I wonder what happened there." Of course, Jack thought, all talk of inheritance had changed when his uncle remarried following the death of his wife... a quite young woman, Jack had heard.

He remembered his visit so many years ago. His uncle was a man of unbending... Jack really had no word for whatever his uncle was. The man was a miser, never spending an unnecessary penny even if his life depended on it.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed, finally getting out of bed. "I might as well go. Tell the boy to send a reply saying so, will you?" He went into the bathroom, soaped his brush and lathered his face, then shaved and finally started the shower, waiting for the water to warm up. A half-hour later, shaved, showered and dressed, he went into the kitchen for breakfast.

"I fixed you a couple of eggs and some bacon. Anything else, you're on your own," said Bill as he set the dish down on the table. "Eat up."

He wondered what circumstances could have motivated his uncle to renew his relationship with him.

That morning, Jack reluctantly went to the Southern Pacific Railroad station to arrange for a ticket from Los Angeles to the coastal community where his uncle had his manse. He thought about taking Bill with him but decided not to. He didn't want to subject his friend to his uncle's whims about life and religion.

The next morning, as he was packing his valise for the trip, there was another knock on the door. Opening the door, Jack looked at the Western Union boy who had returned, yet again. He held out a second telegram.

Jack opened the second telegram and his eyes widened as he read the typed letters. "Oh, my God!" he exclaimed to Bill and the waiting boy. "My uncle's dead and evidently, so are his second wife and child. Damn!"

"What happened?" asked Bill, just leaving the bathroom.

"They died from diphtheria, all three of them. Damn, the boy couldn't be more than six. That's horrible."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I don't know, go there I suppose. What else can I do, now?"

"Who's been sending these telegrams, anyways?"

"The same as the first one... G. Lincoln." Jack sat down, silently staring dazedly down at the telegram. He tried to absorb its contents. Bill, hovering nearby, tried to look disinterested, yet was burning with curiosity.

Jack said nothing but passed along the second telegram to Bill. As he watched his friend peruse the message, he knew that nothing would ever be the same.

"A very sad telegram," Bill observed. "I'm sorry, Jack. I guess there's no way you could have possibly gotten there in time, could you?"

"No, not at all. Eventually, I'm going to have to go."

"I wonder who this Lincoln person is?" asked Bill, still holding the disconcerting telegram.

"I don't know but I suppose I should send a telegram telling him that I've gotten his news and will attend to it as soon as possible." Jack stood up from the kitchen table. "I think I'll go lie down. What with one thing and the other, it's been an exhausting kind of day, don't you think? Damn!"

With the announcement of his uncle's death in the newspaper, Jack's whole life underwent a sudden and dramatic change. He continued to live in his downtown apartment with his friend, but that was the only part of his life that remained the same. His landlady suddenly became much friendlier, suggesting that a late night rendezvousi would not be rebuffed but he privately thought that he'd rather die than take advantage of her offer.

The greatest change and in some ways, the greatest irritation, was the way he was treated by his acquaintances who now appeared either ill-at-ease in his presence or those whom he had little to do with who were suddenly polite to a fault.

Letters of condolence came from all quarters, accompanied by invitations that would have astonished and gratified him a few years earlier. Astonished as he was, it was now mixed with contempt rather than gratification. So evident was it that his newfound popularity was linked directly to his newfound wealth that he was in no danger of having his head turned by it, regardless how lovely the invitation or the young lady came wrapped.

His cynicism was heightened when he received a letter from a former lady friend, one whom he had once offered marriage, who ostensibly was offering condolence for his loss but ended her letter with a few lines, which alluded delicately to the possibility of reconciliation. He left the letter unanswered, throwing it into the wastebasket. When she had turned him down, it had been solely on her perceived need for a wealthier suitor and at the time, he did not fit her image of a husband financially.

There could be no doubt as to the extent of his new wealth, as Jack discovered after a meeting with his uncle's lawyers in San Francisco. His late uncle's annual income had numbered in the several tens of millions each year and was derived not only from the rents of many properties but also from stocks in mining, oil, and railroads, and government bonds.

"I had no idea," Jack said, "that my uncle owned so many properties in the city," when he learned of the full extent of his uncle's holdings. "I must say I am surprised. When I visited him years ago, all he could talk about were the evils in the city. And this property around the harbor, you can't mean to say that belonged to him? It's common knowledge that the whole area is given up to speakeasies and brothels."

John Everett, the attorney who was attending him at this meeting, coughed slightly and spoke in a repressive voice. "Your uncle was a shrewd man who did not allow his religious values to stand in the way of making a profit, shall we say. It is true that the property you mention is not the most affluent quarter of the city but I assure you it brings in its rent quite regularly, without fail. Mr. Crawford, it would be in your..."

"I have no doubt that it does," Jack said, "but I would prefer not to derive my income from the kind of businesses that are there. It just doesn't seem right."

"If I may... such a move would remove both legal and illegal business. The illegal ones would have no trouble finding somewhere else to establish themselves but the legal ones... they would probably be out of business forever and the financial pain you would cause the hardworking people..."

Jack looked at the attorney, taking the time to consider what the man was saying.

"Perhaps, Mr. Crawford, it would be best to just sell the properties in question. I am sure we could find a buyer for the lot." The lawyer's mind was already considering ways to turn a quick profit if the properties sold.

After receiving a reluctant consent to pursue the matter, the lawyer moved hastily onto other matters. "There's also your uncle's townhouse at Pacific Heights, which at present is empty with just a caretaker staff and another house in San Diego. I have already let them know that there has been a change in ownership. I suppose, as you live in Los Angeles, you will wish to have it available for your own use? That is, if you wish to move to San Francisco or San Diego."

"I don't know," said Jack, frowning. "I hadn't thought that far ahead. I suppose I had better take a look at the places before I decide what to do about it. What's the caretaker's name?"

Everett passed over a sheet of paper with all the information requested and then walked him to the door of the office. Getting into a taxi, he rode over to the townhouse. He wished he had brought Bill along, if nothing more than for the company.

He made a quick tour of the house and saw the dark rooms would need to be refurbished as soon as possible before he would consider living there.

"And what would you want new furnishings for?" demanded Higgins, the caretaker, a small man with bushy eyebrows and a belligerent manner. "These were all bought by your uncle's first wife and there's nothing wrong with them. He's never had a word of complaint about me in all the forty years I've worked for him."

Jack was taken aback by the man's attitude. "That's very nice, Mr. Higgins, but tastes change over time and with different people. Please have these dust sheets removed and see that everything has a thorough cleaning as soon as possible. I'll come back in a week or so and look it over and decide which of the furnishings I want to dispose of."

The old man glowered at him in silence. Jack considered firing him on the spot but decided to see what would happen. Forty years of service was a long time, he thought, and endeavored to give the man one more chance.

He already felt it might have been hasty to have talked to Higgins before understanding completely the dynamics of the household.

He returned to Los Angeles.

Chapter 2

"While you were gone, there was another telegram from Lincoln. He still wants to know when you're coming to settle the affairs of the coastal estate. What did he call it?"

"Windcliff, it's called Windcliff, between Carmel and Big Sur. But first, I want to go to San Diego. You want to come with me?"

It was true that for a time he debated whether to go to Windcliff first but the memory of his earlier visit had caused him to delay as much as possible. Instead, he decided to travel south to his uncle's house in Coronado. He had received a letter from the housekeeper there, inquiring politely if he meant to come and see the property there. After his miserable time with Higgins, a change of scenery was what he needed and sunny San Diego was just what he wanted.

"Sure, that sounds like fun. Let me pack a case. When do we leave?"

"This afternoon, if we can get tickets. Let me call the Santa Fe station."

Bill looked out the window at the endless blue of the Pacific as the train journeyed south. "Thanks," he said. "I appreciate your taking me along."

"That's all right. I'm glad for the company. I wonder what this place will look like. At least the housekeeper seems to be nicer than that ogre Higgins in San Francisco. I'm going to let him go as soon as I can."

At Coronado, the property overlooked the water on the Pacific side and the view was tremendous.

The housekeeper there, Mrs. Smith, was as nice in person as she was in her letter and the rest of the small staff were equally polite and accommodating to his needs. It was even more pleasant to find himself the owner of a wonderful home overlooking the ocean surrounded by large trees.

It had not been his uncle's habit to spend much time at Coronado, so the house had little influence from his dubious tastes. It seemed, on the contrary, a warm and friendly house and it soon became apparent that the staff preferred the new owner.

For the first time since inheriting, Jack felt as though he were coming to terms with his new position in life and he finally entered eagerly into the business of running the small empire his uncle had left him. He found so much to interest him that he and Bill spent the entire winter there and it wasn't until early March that he began, reluctantly, to think of finally visiting Windcliff.

He knew he could not put off visiting the estate south of Carmel any longer. He had not received any further telegrams from Lincoln but his conscience reminded him that he had neither visited his uncle's grave nor the people still waiting for him to come.

Jack supposed there were other matters to keep his attention as well so, after sending a telegram to Lincoln, he and Bill packed their bags once again and set off on the long journey to Monterey, stopping at Los Angeles to change trains.

The train ride up the coast took most of the day. After leaving Los Angeles early in the morning, the train made its way north and in the late afternoon they finally reached Castroville where they caught a branch train to Monterey.

"I'm for spending the night. I don't fancy trying to drive to the place in the dark," Jack said, watching the sun set into the Pacific. The two friends walked from the station to the nearest hotel and booked two rooms for the night and after having dinner, retired for the evening, tired from the long trip.

The next day, after breakfast, they arranged for a hired car to take them south to Windcliff. "Are you sure," Jack asked, "that we can't leave any earlier?"

"Yes, that's the earliest. It's already been hired for the morning."

"I wasn't expecting this," Bill said, later as the new Ford touring car arrived in front of the hotel. "Good, he has the top down. It should be a beautiful day for the ride." As exuberant as Bill was, though, his enthusiasm died quickly after the car began to bounce along the ruts in the road.

Jack was conflicted about returning to the estate he had once visited ten years earlier and the closer to the estate they were, the quieter he became. By the time they arrived, it was early evening and he had been almost silent for the last hour.

"Cheerful looking place, isn't it?" asked Bill upon seeing Windcliff for the first time.

The hired car came to a halt at the top of the drive, which opened into a courtyard fronted by the mansion's large covered porch. Jack got out, followed by Bill who continued to stare at the building and its elegant rooflines now fading into the twilight.

"I don't see any lights. I wonder if your telegram went astray, somehow and there's no one here. It doesn't look like we were expected."

The air was chilly, something he still wasn't used to, especially coming from Southern California.

"No, it doesn't, does it?" said Jack, also looking at the house. "But, maybe it's too early for them. I don't know." He walked up to the front door and was going to knock when it suddenly opened inward so that he had to catch himself to keep from falling into the arms of the woman who had opened it.

She was a young woman of perhaps twenty-five years of age, though dressed in a manner that made her seem much older and whose skin was the color of fine chocolate. Her high-collared brown dress reached to her neck with nothing to enliven its lines and her dark hair was drawn back into a knot at the back of her head without a single curl or wave to soften its severity. Notwithstanding this, she was a pretty woman whose features were better able to withstand a look than others. But it was her air of self-possession that distinguished her, even more than her smooth oval face, high cheekbones and large dark eyes. As he tried to right himself in the doorway, she surveyed him with a look that was at once interested and highly critical.

He wasn't there to start any kind of relationship, especially one with a colored girl but this one was catching his interest... at least a little, he told himself. Was it a happenstance of just being there? He didn't know. Why was he reacting as he was? He never had any interest with colored girls.

"Good evening," she said, blocking the doorway. "May I help you?"

"Good evening," he replied, smiling at her in a tentative manner. "My name is Jack Crawford. I'm..."

The woman seemed too young to be the housekeeper but she was obviously not a housemaid, unless it was a housemaid of a very superior attitude. She made no effort to help him and stood regarding him with a slightly critical gaze.

"I sent a telegram," he said, awkwardly. "I have been receiving telegrams from one of my uncle's servants here, a man named G. Lincoln. Perhaps you would be so good as to inform him that I have arrived?"

The woman regarded him a moment longer and then with a faint smile, said, "I am Georgia Lincoln. I have been expecting you. Please, come in."

"Bill, ask the driver if he wants to spend the night or is he going to drive back tonight."

While his friend went to talk to the driver leaning against his black automobile, Jack walked in and followed the woman into a great room with a dark and cold fireplace, his mind whirling with startled speculations. It had never entered into his head that the unknown G. Lincoln might be a woman, let alone a colored one.

Looking at her slim, straight back in her brown dress, he wondered what position she had filled in his late uncle's household. It struck him that she was a very attractive woman, in spite of her drab dress and severe hairstyle. He was regarding her legs with a slight sense of arousal when she turned to address him.