“You don’t even know where North Beach is,” he whispered into my mouth.

“I don’t know where anything is,” I laughed, daring to glance over his shoulder at all the people who were utterly unfazed by our embrace.

“You know where I am and where you are now,” he offered. “That’s something.”

I smiled because I knew it was everything.

32

December 1937

My San Francisco was full of growing pains, sex, and more happiness than I had ever believed I had the right to. Even in the most trying moments of my adjustment period, I never regretted the fact that I had left Chicago, and all it had encompassed, behind for the promise of Cal and the state he decided was named after him—California.

While I appreciated the weather and culture of my new home, I was the most taken by its proximity to the sea. I thought that since I had grown up by the lake, the ocean would fail to impress me, but I quickly realized how wrong I was. Unlike the lake, which was constrained and finite, the ocean was wide and free.

I had such an affinity for the sea that once I’d settled into the apartment, I’d asked Cal if he wanted to pour Rosie’s remains into the ocean and let them drift to wherever the chorus moll pleased, rather than keep him in an urn beside the bed.

“He would never want to be away from me,” Cal answered simply.

Knowing it was true, I never brought the subject up again, but sometimes, as I watched the waves lick the shore, I thought of Rosie, hoping he came back to Earth as one of the birds that dipped in the breaks for fish before gliding up toward the clouds.

As we lay in the sand, swathed in sweaters, I admired the plums and pinks blooming from the ocean while the saffron sun descended below the Golden Gate Bridge. Leaning on my elbows, I took a sip from the jar of moonshine I had chided Cal for bringing along. Regardless of how much I loved the taste of his efforts, I worried we were drinking too much of our profits. The small list of clients Cal had built during our time away from one another had provided him with just enough money to pay his rent, but my business sense had taken his operation to the next level. Not only did we provide shine to individuals, we also serviced a queer club around the corner from our studio apartment. The Ferry House’s patrons liked that the backyard brew was cheaper and more potent than beer, and Bernard, the owner, was glad to have something that set The Ferry House apart from the plethora of parlors in North Beach.