The Dressmaker's Dowry Read online

  Dedication

  For my dad, Fritz. Thank you for your adventurous spirit, which

  brought you to America, and for making California my home. You live

  forever in my heart.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the author

  About the book

  Praise

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Sarah Havensworth

  Present Day

  A doorman ushered me toward the historic garden court inside the Palace Hotel, the sequins on my gold shift dress catching the light. Men in suits mingled with women in cocktail gowns. Beneath the grand crystal chandeliers and arched glass ceiling, I felt like I’d stepped back in time to the turn of the twentieth century. Hunter stood against one of the marble columns under the elegant dome. I admired the cut of my husband’s suit against his broad shoulders. His dark wavy hair was parted on the side.

  “Champagne, miss?” a waiter asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I took a glass flute from the tray. When I sipped, the sweet bubbles tickled my tongue. With enough champagne, maybe I could relax tonight. My mother-in-law’s charity events often made me feel like a fish out of water. For one, I didn’t do well with crowds, and I could already feel the heat of anxiety creeping up my neck.

  A gust of wind from the open door blew my bangs upward. I quickly brushed them down to hide the thin white scar on my forehead. Had anyone seen it? I took a deep breath through my nose. I was in a safe place. No one was paying attention to my scar. Except for me, of course. I exhaled slowly.

  After walking through the sea of people, I placed my hand on Hunter’s arm, giving it a squeeze. He smiled, dimples on full display, an adorable grin crafted just for me. “Hey, Kiddo. So glad you made it. How’s my favorite young lady tonight?”

  I chuckled. Judging from the number of blue-hairs who’d come out to the arts benefit, I was a young lady—a nice change from feeling ancient around Jen and Nick, my friends and former colleagues at Pulse of the City magazine.

  On my thirtieth birthday last month, I’d realized I liked my ten P.M. bedtime, along with waking up early on weekends to go to the farmer’s market sans hangover. More and more I felt estranged from hip twentysomething girls. Mostly, I didn’t understand Tinder, and had trouble convincing my younger friends that it was possible to get a headache after only two glasses of wine.

  Gwyneth appeared, gliding toward Hunter with a smile. She wore a long, pale blue dress, and a diamond tennis bracelet dangled from her wrist. I tucked my hands behind me, wishing I’d painted my nails for the event. My mother-in-law’s gel manicure was perfect as usual. She kissed Hunter on the cheek and then stepped forward to hug me.

  “Hello, Sarah. You look lovely tonight. I’m so pleased you could make it.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling the soft warmth of her arms.

  Hunter leaned down to whisper in my ear. “You do look gorgeous in that dress. I might be the luckiest guy in this place.”

  My body warmed, pleasant shivers working their way down my neck where his breath had touched me.

  “Sarah, you haven’t forgotten about the Canova by Moonlight gala?” Gwyneth asked. “I could use your help setting up the space before the big reveal.”

  Oh no. She’d told me about this. “Of course I’ll help,” I said, even though I had only a few weeks left to finish my MFA thesis, and I’d intended to spend them solely on writing. A hard knot formed in my stomach as I thought about my novel, languishing on my computer—a painful reminder of my writer’s block.

  “May thirtieth. Mark your calendar. The chair of the National Gallery of Ireland is flying in, and we’ll be hosting him.” She smiled proudly. “Walter is also on the board. The minister of arts appointed him for a five-year term. Walter and Colin attended the London School of Economics together many years ago. Old friends, you see.”

  I nodded, my father-in-law’s accomplishments never ceasing to amaze me. As much as I tried to impress him, I’d never live up to his standards. But who could? He was the executive director of his own investment banking firm, Havensworth & Associates, Harvard educated, and the president of Havensworth Art Academy.

  Hunter cleared his throat. “Mom, Sarah’s working on her master’s thesis. It’s due early next month. She’s pretty busy right now.”

  “Oh, hush,” Gwyneth said, winking at me. “She can make a little time in her schedule. We’re going to be serving vintage rosé, and someone has to help me sample it before the big night. You will, won’t you, dear?”

  I laughed. “You won’t have a problem there.”

  “Remind me again of your thesis project?” Gwyneth asked, smoothing an imaginary flyaway into her sleek chignon. “A novel, right?”

  I looked down at my hands guiltily. My square-cut emerald, set in rose gold, sparkled in the light next to my gold wedding band. Over three carats and wreathed in diamonds, the Havensworth family heirloom garnered compliments from strangers. But as much as I liked telling the story of how my engagement ring was over a hundred years old, the giant, valuable stone held an aura of mystery. No one in Hunter’s family could tell me whom it had once belonged to.

  I twisted the heavy ring upright. Thanks to my husband’s financial support, I’d been able to focus one hundred percent on my writing. Yet somehow I’d managed to squander the opportunity. I forced a smile.

  “Yes. It’s historical fiction set in San Francisco’s Barbary Coast, during the late nineteenth century. I’m writing about a widowed innkeeper and the quirky cast of characters who come to stay with her at the boardinghouse.”

  In the pause that followed, my cheeks heated. It was a stupid idea, and I knew it. In fact, I’d been staring at my blank computer screen for weeks, utterly lacking inspiration. My characters no longer spoke to me. I was nothing more than a fraud—a former journalist, wannabe novelist, wasting my time chasing a silly dream. I couldn’t believe Hunter had let me quit my day job to pursue this.

  I began to babble. “I’ve been reading newspaper articles from the 1870s as part of my research. It’s unbelievable the amount of crime that happened back then. I mean, imagine how terrifying North Beach must have been when all of the policemen and politicians were corrupt. To think I bought my beautiful Vera Wang wedding dress in the same place where people got murdered in the street!”

  “Our city certainly does have a colorful past,” Gwyneth said, smiling brightly as she patted my hand. “I hate to interrupt you, dear, but the chair of the De Young Museum has just arrived, and I must go over and say hello.” She waved at a woman with a bouffant hairdo, and walked away.

  “I think it sounds cool,” Hunter said, meeting my eyes with a reassuring gaze. “I know you, Sar. Any story you write will be a good one. You’ve got the talent, and you work harder than anyone I know. I hope you publish your novel someday, so I can tell the world that my wife’s a famous author.”

  �
�Thanks, honey,” I mumbled as he kissed my forehead. I didn’t have the heart to tell Hunter that I wasn’t a real author, and there would be no future book tours. Anything I typed, I deleted five minutes later. I’d spent my afternoons wandering around Jackson Square, the site of my former magazine office, waiting for inspiration to strike. While looking up at the brick buildings that used to be dance halls, saloons, and bordellos in the last century, I’d never felt so lost.

  I swallowed, realizing how many people had filled the garden court of the hotel. The walls seemed to close in. It was too hot in here. Why was everyone looking at me? I smoothed my bangs to make sure my scar was covered.

  I could still hear the whispers that followed me down the streets of my hometown and through the halls of my high school. I felt the dark, accusatory looks, like daggers in my back. The room spun like I was drunk, even though I hadn’t finished my champagne.

  Don’t think about it.

  “Hey,” I said, meeting Hunter’s eyes, warm brown with specks of green. “I’m going to find the ladies’ room. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right here.”

  I felt Hunter watching me as I tugged at the hem of my sequined dress, making my way quickly through the crowd. If I took deep breaths and looked at the floor, I wouldn’t think about the screech of the brakes, or the jolt of the impact.

  I stepped inside the ladies’ lounge, appointed with plush velvet and rosewood couches. Crystal chandeliers with gold accents glinted off the shiny marble floors. Walking over to the sink, I turned on the tap to splash water on my cheeks.

  My plain reflection stared back at me: a pale face with large brown eyes, dirty-blond hair, and a slightly too-big nose that sunburned easily. For Wisconsin, I was pretty enough, but I certainly didn’t exude the urban glamour of San Francisco women.

  I’d grown up on peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and tuna casserole. On summer vacations, my parents and I camped in an old smelly tent, and “fancy” meant bringing along an air mattress. Hunter brought me into his world of yachts, summer homes, and country clubs. Sometimes Hunter asked me if I’d like to take him to Eagle River, so he could see the town where I’d spent my childhood.

  My parents are dead, I told him. There’s nothing left for me there.

  Honestly, I ached to see the starry sky above the lakes, to spend the night with my husband in a rustic hunting cabin. But I could never go back. Hunter liked the person I was now, because he didn’t know who I had been. I had kept myself from him.

  When our two worlds had collided four years ago at the Best of San Francisco party hosted by my magazine, I’d been standing by the seafood bar, pretending I hadn’t already eaten at least five raw oysters, and Hunter had come up beside me.

  “Hey!” he said, grinning. “You’re wearing my T-shirt.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, my cheeks tingling. I cringed, bracing myself for some kind of terrible sexual joke that involved the removal of clothing.

  He pointed at my gray V-neck. “That’s from Have-Clothing, right?”

  I rubbed the smooth fabric between my fingers. I’d bought the shirt online, knowing Have-Clothing donated the proceeds from each purchase to homeless organizations, and I’d liked the fairly traded organic cotton. Because of its softness and beautiful feather design, it had become my favorite shirt.

  “Um, yeah?” I said. “How did you know?”

  “I cofounded the company,” Hunter said, an adorable dimple indenting his smile.

  I laughed. “No way! That’s awesome. I love what you guys are doing.”

  My body buzzed from oolong-tea-infused cocktails. Underneath the globe lights strung around the brick walls, his hazel eyes sparkled.

  “So,” he asked. “What do you do?”

  “I’m an associate editor at Pulse of the City magazine.” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice, I was so proud of my new title.

  He raised his glass. “Cheers! I really like your articles. What a cool job.”

  I took in his fitted flannel shirt, tailored jeans, and nice leather shoes. He looked the part of the founder of an innovative start-up. But he was free of the arrogance so pervasive among rich young tech guys.

  “You know, the best oysters aren’t actually harvested in San Francisco,” Hunter said, lowering his voice.

  A wave of heat rippled through me. Of all the cute guys in the room, there was something special about Hunter. “Don’t say that here,” I whispered. “It’s sacrilege.”

  He smiled again. “Ever been to Hog Island in Tomales Bay?”

  I tilted another oyster down my throat, silky smooth flesh and sea brine. My mouth was full, so I shook my head.

  “It’s a short drive from here, up the coast through Marin. You can shuck your own and eat them right there at picnic tables overlooking the water.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Want to go with me?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, setting down my drink. “Why not?”

  After Hunter took my number and went to circulate the party, my coworker Jen came up behind me. She grabbed my arm.

  “Ow! What’s wrong with you?”

  Jen’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know who that is?”

  We both turned to look at Hunter. I grinned. “Cofounder of Have-Clothing, maker of the very T-shirt I’m wearing tonight. He’s cute, and cares about ending homelessness. What a seriously nice guy.”

  Jen brought her palm to her forehead. “Sarah. That nice guy is Hunter Havensworth, as in Havensworth Art Academy and Havensworth & Associates investments. Of course he has his own start-up. He’s loaded! Starting to ring a bell?”

  I’d passed the art academy buildings a few times on my jogs through the Financial District, but the name hadn’t registered. “Like, his family owns it?”

  Jen ran her fingers through her shiny black hair. “Yes, they own it! Hello? Do you know how many campus buildings that art academy has? They own this entire city. He’s like San Francisco royalty.”

  Hunter smiled at me from across the room.

  “That’s not why I’m interested in him,” I said, feeling a knot in my stomach.

  “Well, good luck with that. Every other straight girl in this city is trying to get her claws in him. Watch out, he might be a total player.”

  A rich, handsome guy who didn’t have to work for a living could be a red flag. But he did work for a living, helping those less fortunate. I didn’t get the playboy vibe from him at all. Hunter seemed nice and normal.

  And he was. On our first date at Hog Island in Tomales Bay, we shucked oysters and talked about everything from our childhood pets to our favorite books and sushi restaurants. Hunter was sweet, laughing when my oyster knife went flying into the water, and kissing the tip of my finger when I cut it on the rough shell. Being with him was easy and natural. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could trust again.

  Reemerging into the ballroom, I scanned the sea of suits and sequined dresses, looking for Hunter. I found him waiting right where I’d left him. He looked up and smiled, sending a warm wave of relief through me.

  “Hey, Sweetie,” I said, touching Hunter’s hand. “Would it hurt your mom’s feelings if I left early?”

  Hunter’s fingers curled around mine. “You okay, Kiddo? You just got here.”

  “I think I must’ve eaten something at lunch that didn’t agree with me. I feel sick.”

  My eyes locked on his, silently pleading for him to understand. Hunter knew I had panic attacks, but he didn’t know their root cause. My scar was throbbing, and my stomach churned. I had my bottle of Klonopin in my purse, just in case my anxiety started spiraling out of control. It was my fault. My fault.

  Hunter’s smile faded. “Can’t you stay for an hour? I don’t want to be here alone. C’mon, I’ll get you some sparkling water to settle your stomach.”

  “No,” I said, biting my lip. “I’m sorry. I really don’t feel well.”

  Guilt surged through me, but I couldn’t stand the
feeling of all these eyes on me in this crowded room. I’d felt them before. There were support groups for people with alcohol and shopping addictions, groups for people strung out on heroin and cocaine. But there weren’t any resources for people like me.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked, pulling me closer. Hunter’s grip felt like a lifeline, anchoring me to solid ground.

  What if I just embraced him? Or told him the truth?

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “You stay.”

  Hunter let his hand drop, and I saw the disappointment in his eyes. I was the problem here—the reason we were drifting apart.

  “Tell your mom I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll see you at home.”

  As I walked away, I wondered what kind of person I was, leaving my husband alone when he’d reached across the divide, promising me he’d take care of me, like he always did. My panic had already begun to dissipate, and I could easily turn around. But I wasn’t going back inside. I’d already made my choice.

  Back at our apartment in the Marina, I listened to the peaceful lap of the waves and held a mug of chamomile tea in my hands. We had a chrome Italian espresso machine sitting in the middle of our granite kitchen island, but I never drank caffeine after noon, even if I needed to work late. What had San Francisco Style called our apartment? Modern chic? It looked nothing like my childhood home, with its Formica countertops and patchy brown carpet.

  Redford crept into my lap and settled in. I stroked his orange coat. He kneaded my thigh, purring like a tiny motor. His claws snagged the fabric of my favorite skinny jeans, but he looked too content for me to set him down. Fog hung heavy and thick outside my floor-to-ceiling windows while red lights on the peaks of the Golden Gate Bridge blinked through the mist. Across the bay, the hills of the Marin Headlands cut a sharp silhouette against the purple-gray sky.

  A foghorn sounded long and low. Here in the quiet comfort of my home, I was able to breathe again. I opened up a Word document on my laptop, wincing as I looked at the blinking cursor. My thesis advisor at USF had asked to meet with me next week to discuss my “progress.” And all I had to show for myself were fifty lousy pages of a novel I no longer felt invested in. My main character, Mrs. McGeary, a widowed innkeeper in her forties, felt as flimsy as cardboard. Who was she, and what did she want?