But what above love? my mother will want to know, because even though Da has been gone for too many years, Mam still loves him. She still feels like she is married to him.

What about love?

What about it?

The ferry is closing in on its slip, easing its way to the dock and the men who stand ready to tie up its moorings. Beyond the ferry building, the spread of the city beyond looks like an aspiring snip of Manhattan, with towers and multistoried structures lifting themselves skyward. The sun is beginning to dip below the buildings, casting a rosy glow that tinges everything with haloed light. The passengers in the main cabin behind me are already making their way downstairs to queue up to disembark.

I slip Martin’s photograph back inside my handbag and straighten my hat. It was Mam’s years ago, and made from the prettiest blue velvet and satin trim, both of which still hint at their original luster. Even slightly out of style, the hat pairs nicely with my dove gray shirtwaist, the only good dress I own, and I’d written Martin that I’d be wearing it. I reach for the travel bag resting at my feet.

Every step toward the ramp to the pier is taking me farther away from who I am and closer to who I am going to be. As I step off the ship and join the throngs moving toward the ferry building, I look to see if Martin Hocking is outside it studying the crowd of passengers, searching for me. Is his little girl with him? Is Kat wearing a pretty little frock to meet her new mother?

I don’t see him in the sea of faces awaiting the arrival of passengers. Maybe he is waiting inside.

Dusk is descending like a veil and the electric lamps surrounding the ferry building are hissing as they come to life. The crowd starts to thin.

And then I see him. Martin Hocking is standing just outside the entrance, in a pool of amber light cast by a lamp above him. His gaze is beyond me and to the right of where I stand. Even from many feet away I can see he is as stunning as his portrait. Not merely handsome, but beautiful. He wears a coffee brown suit and polished black shoes. His hair, as golden brown as toast, is perfectly in place. He’s tall, nearly six feet, I’d wager. He is not overly muscular and yet he has strength in his arms and torso, I can see that. He looks like royalty, like a Greek god.

And those eyes.

My seatmate was right. Martin Hocking’s eyes look like they could peer into my very soul.

Time seems to stand still as niggling questions that I’ve ignored for days again needle me. Why does such a man want a mail-order bride the likes of me? This man could probably court any woman in San Francisco looking the way he does. He wrote to me that his desire to secure a new wife was for practical purposes—he needs a mother for his daughter—but also because he needs to be viewed as a fortunate businessman rather than a pathetic widower and father. Appearances matter when you work for a life insurance company and interact with their wealthy clients. And yet why send away to the East for someone, a stranger no less, and why choose a bride as uncultured as myself? And why doesn’t he want the intrigue of romance? I know why I’m not keen to wait for it, but why isn’t he?