From Across the Room, Gina L. Mulligan [year 7 reading list txt] 📗

From Across

the Room

GINA L. MULLIGAN

"The characters have richly defined voices and fascinating lives that sparkle against a transcontinental history of America at the beginning of the twentieth century." ~ Jessica Klein, Award-winning Writer/Producer of Beverly Hills 90210

What Readers Say…

"I wasn't sure I would like a story told all in letters, but this book was amazing. Totally engaging, great story, fast paced, and I fell in love with the witty main character Thomas."

"The story line just draws you in. Prepare to read nonstop."

"Well written, feel good novel yet a surprise ending"

"Loved the format. A lost art!”

If you’re want a voyeuristic look at love and history that's "delightfully entertaining," then you've found it!

Want to try a letter story for FREE? Download "THE GADABOUT," Gina's fun letter short story. Get your free no-obligation download in print or audio today! Find our more now.

DEDICATION

This book inspired me to start Girls Love Mail, a charity that gives handwritten letters of encouragement to women newly diagnosed with breast cancer. From Across the Room is dedicated to every letter recipient, writer, volunteer, health professional, and breast cancer organization who supports Girls Love Mail and gives this novel more meaning

than I ever expected.

Together we can encourage the world, one handwritten letter at a time.

For more information about Girls Love Mail, visit GirlsLoveMail.com.

PROLOGUE

From the Desk of Henry James – October 21, 1881

To write well you must understand we all work in the dark. Doubt may either fuel your enthusiasm or block your way, but true passion is not something you can turn on and off. As a doctor listens to a heartbeat not with his ears but his soul, for you to become a writer you must live within your work. Think of each pen stroke as the advancement of your cause and do not waste paper on merely cataloging facts. Explore, relish, surprise, and delight in the words so someday your readers can do the same. The novelist faces many unknowns, so remember this—the novel exists to represent life.

SUMMER 1888

June 6, 1888.

DEAR AVERY —

In another age my kind was near extinction, killed in battle while struggling to put on chainmail. Today a writer can travel to a seaside resort, slouch on a padded lounge, and appraise your furious letter in comfort. Rest assured I am toiling away on the book, but as a matter of principle, I must refute your accusation I am again irresponsible. Again? You know my pages were delayed last time due to a simple miscalculation. According to my lunar calendar, I was a month early. Nevertheless, this time my delay in sending the promised chapters was unavoidable and shows a depth of character you might also find hard to believe.

Are you at least curious why I journeyed all the way to the Hotel Del Coronado to find my muse? A hotel is the ideal setting. The onslaught of fresh arrivals provides constant fodder while the locale ensures variety. True, high season calls for stamina; writing requires such keen skills of observation. Though some are born with this gift, the rest of us must learn the nuances of peering and loitering while enduring the occasional knock on the head with a beaded evening bag. You see what I must suffer for your greatness and the publisher’s profits?

Before you fling your spectacles and run your thick fingers through your thin hair, I am not in the least trying to be flippant. I am well aware that, as my agent, your income is based on my hard work, and losing Harper & Brothers Publishing is a distasteful consequence we both wish to avoid. My career is dependent on the publisher and their dotted line so let me explain my tardiness with enough background and detail to appease, nay impress, our good friends at Harpers.

Though the hotel offers many diversions, I abstained from the temptation of billiards and chess and set out my writing supplies even before unpacking. You see, Avery, right to work. Looking for inspiration, I even arranged a city tour. After a turn through the respectable streets of San Diego, a few extra coins persuaded my hackney driver to take me to the Stingaree District. In contrast to the luxury of the hotel, this area is described only in whispers and my intent was a quick survey to jot down scenery notes.

San Diego was built around the Mission Basilica and remnants of Spanish settlements. Along with drab wooden storefronts, much of the city proper is laden with handmade signs advertising clean office space and cheap irrigation supplies. It seems San Diego has stalled for need of water and respectable industry. Of course men always find ways to occupy their time. I just wonder what Father Serra would think if he saw what goes on just around the corner from his mission.

Trainloads of high-flying men in shirtsleeves blanketed walkways lit more by cigars than the dirty lamps, and powdered chippies in purple corsets were draped over balconies like flags on Decoration Day. I stepped over men gambling and passing jugs of Tarantula Juice right on the street corners, then a pitch-man with a greasy complexion slapped a pot of milky cream in my hand and said, “For the French Pox.” Before I could react, a harlot with ruby cheeks and a vacant stare offered me a way to need the jar of ointment.

Unrecognizable music blared from every direction, and my disgust at the scene was almost bested by the smell. The stench from the chickens, horses, and opium dens (their curtains parted to calloused deputies) was so thick not even the sea breeze could carry it away.

The district is small, so with the end in sight, I turned to go back, when all of sudden I was shoved and fell right into a stack of hay. The landing was soft but my surprise meant I also got a literal taste of the area. As I spit out sprigs and brushed bits from my waistcoat, I spotted my assailant: a woman running down the walkway with fistfuls of her skirt hiked up to her knees. She was chasing a man.

In truth, what caught my attention was the lady’s bloomers. Shenanigans are expected in such an area, but I could tell by the pastel brocade lace that the owner was not one of the regulars. I watched as the woman pursued the fleeing man around a corner. When I then heard her scream, I sprang into action like a mother cheetah.

To avoid the crowded walkway, I darted around a hitching post and hurled myself into the street. Just as my feet hit the dirt, a chuck wagon swerved and I scrambled back into my haystack. Ignoring the driver’s profanity, I regained my balance and charged down the center of the road, leaving a feed trail.

My pulse quickened until I no longer heard the awful music. As I ran toward the scream, my jacket caught on a piece of wood jutting from one of the buildings. I spun with the grace of a discus Olympian and slipped free in one fluid motion. A few more steps and I rounded the corner. My pounding heart seized as I skidded to a stop.

The woman stood ten feet down the dim alley with her hands raised over her head. Her back was to me, but at the sound of my entrance she turned to glance over her shoulder. I smiled. It was her.

The young lady and I, shall we say, met at the hotel’s newcomers gala. If repeated I shall deny this account, but because I respect your usual good humor I admit colliding into the stunned woman while examining the ballroom’s ceiling. The Crown Room is topped with a marvelous hand-fitted arch made of imported sugar pine, and I was captivated by the elaborate carvings. The young lady, however, was startled and I was indeed thankful for my tanned cheeks. After apologies I hoped she would consider a dance, but she slipped into the crowd before I could ask. You can imagine my surprise to find myself staring at her across a foul alleyway.

She fixed her eyes on mine. “This young man,” she said, nodding toward her assailant, her arms still raised over her head, “was just telling me that his sister is very ill and he needs money for medicine.” Then she addressed the young man. “You said your name is George, isn’t that right?” He gave a slight nod. “Well, I’m sorry, George, there’s no money in my handbag.” Her voice was refined and tranquil. If not for the sound of scurrying rodents and the smell of trash, she might have been at a society luncheon.

My eyes adjusted, and I saw George was a slight boy of no more than fifteen. A pistol quivered in his hand and sweat trickled along his hairline.

The lad was scared, not stupid. If the handbag was empty, he wanted to know why she had chased him. I too wanted an answer to that question, but when he snarled and waved the gun I chimed in, “Ladies are very particular about their handbags. She likely has a container of rouge she can’t part with.”

The woman ignored my comment and explained she always carried a special hair comb from her sister and hated to lose it. “It’s not worth anything but has great sentimental value. When I was a little girl, my sister and I would look through our mother’s dressing table while she was out. We tried on her hair pins and gloves and pretended we were debutantes. Well, one night …”

George was mesmerized. As she continued with her story I inched toward the pistol.

I found the woman’s voice inviting so I risked sneaking a glance at her. She was dressed for a daytime outing in a starched white ruffled shirt over a full navy skirt. A thick belt accented her narrow waist and her chestnut hair was piled under a curved-brimmed hat she wore tilted forward.

“So I understand not wanting to lose someone you love, George. Please let us help you,” she ended.

His arm went slack. I surged forward, grabbed the muzzle of the gun, and pulled it from his hand. Tears slid down the boy’s cheeks as he took what I offered from my billfold then returned the stolen handbag. Before we could ask any more questions, he rushed from the alley with his head lowered.

Expecting the delicate beauty to swoon and collapse in my arms, I steadied myself. Instead she turned to me with her hands planted on her hips and said, “Rouge? You think a woman would chase a bandit for a tin of rouge?”

In my shock I stammered, “I … don’t know. I … didn’t think a woman would chase a bandit.”

She raised her hand to cover a devious smile. “I’m not sure why I did it. There isn’t any money in there, or a hair comb for that matter. It was just instinct.”

Though