“I’m not asking for you to help me with that,” she said. “But what I’m wondering is . . . what will we do? How can we be—”

“Together,” he finished. It wasn’t as if he’d never entertained that fantasy. Of course he had. But he could never quite get the puzzle pieces to fit correctly. He could try to find a legitimate job, but nothing would pay enough to keep her in the style she was accustomed to living in. And even if she was willing to make some sacrifices, where would they live? In his old apartment? Not likely.

As if she’d picked out his thoughts, she said, “Aida lived on that end of Grant, and she wasn’t the only white woman in her boardinghouse. Besides, I went to Sylvia’s apartment, and it was perfectly fine. The building isn’t run-down.”

“No, but my apartment doesn’t even have a proper bedroom. It’s not a place for families. I should know. I slept on a pallet in the corner when I lived there with my uncle before he died.”

Neither of them said anything for a long while. In the distance, he could see the dark shape of a large ship cutting to the north of them, heading up the coast. The wind picked up and blew golden strands of her hair across his jaw. He tucked them behind her ear and smoothed a hand over the back of her head.

“You know,” she said. “I was thinking about the night I drove you to Dr. Moon’s. Don’t say it—I know I need to get your fender fixed.” A small smile lifted her mouth, and that made him feel a little lighter. “Anyway, I was thinking how Nob Hill and Chinatown border each other, and how you can drive a few blocks from the Wicked Wenches’ million-dollar apartment and be on Grant.”

“That’s true of any neighborhood.”

“But I was thinking of the incident outside their apartment building with that horrible woman and her husband, the state senator. The Humphreys. Remember them?”

How could he forget? It was the first time Astrid hadn’t tried to smooth things over for public appearances, and like everything Astrid set her mind to, she did it with gusto. He smiled to himself as she continued.

“Anyway, she was upset because the ‘immigrants’ were invading her neighborhood. And I was thinking, yes, of course they are. Because neighborhoods aren’t hard lines. There are those blocks between, where you can still find Nob Hill money living next to a Chinese merchant. Or there’s someone like Ju, who owns that small house on the edge of Russian Hill.”

Which had been vandalized repeatedly, despite the fact that Ju traveled with thugs wherever he went. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m just saying, there are those gray areas between the neighborhoods, and that makes me think maybe that’s a place for us. We aren’t the first people to do this. Love crosses streets. It doesn’t realize it’s supposed to stay confined to one neighborhood.”

Tell that to the old WASPs who would be happier if people like him didn’t look them in the eye, much less stepped on their sidewalks. He pulled her head to his chest and laid his own head upon hers, tucking her tightly under his arm.

“What can we do?” she said.

“I could save up money while you go to school—or while you figure out what you want to do.”

“Or maybe I could figure out what I wanted to do here. Maybe I could work. I could, you know. Hadley said I could work in the de Young Museum offices. I could be a secretary, or assist her with paperwork.”

It took Bo several blinking moments to process just how far her conspiracy with Hadley had gone. He was surprised. And impressed. As for Astrid working with Hadley . . . well, that remained to be seen. But he tried to focus on the larger picture. Astrid could live at home and work—thereby allowing them to see each other—but if she did that, he couldn’t stay at the Magnusson house. He’d have to stay at his old apartment building and maybe find new work. New work meant less pay. But if she went back to school, perhaps they could keep things secret from Winter for a while longer—a thought that gave him such a pang of guilt, his stomach twisted. But if he could manage it, he might be able to save money faster. The price, however, was not just lying to a man who’d been like a surrogate father to him; it meant also not being able to see Astrid but twice a year.

And then there were always the deepest worries. The ones about class and race, and how he could not legally marry her. That if she got pregnant, their children would be under similar restraints. Where would they go to school? Would he take them to Dr. Moon if they got sick? Would they get treated with the same indignities that he’d faced? Or would it be worse for them, because they wouldn’t be accepted in either community?

He didn’t know the answers, and his heart grieved under the burden.

As the sun continued to climb a sky free of rain clouds, Bo urged Astrid to eat and began to think of less weighty problems in their immediate future, like the fact that the Magnusson household would already be awake and soon someone would notice that they weren’t home. He’d have to telephone the house and concoct a story. Pray that Greta or Aida answered the telephone, and not Winter. Sneak Astrid into the house.

Whatever he had to do, it had been worth it. All those years of wanting disappeared when he looked at the sun shining on the softly curving planes of her face and saw the joy he felt in his heart reflected in her eyes. It had been worth it all.

“This can’t be impossible, Bo,” she said as she swirled tea leaves at the bottom of her cup, peering inside as if she could read their future. “We have to make a plan. I can’t go back to a life without us.”