Annabel frowned. "What are you talking about?" she asked.
"Right here." Vickie stepped closer to the photograph and reached out to actually tap with a fingernail the glass that covered it. "This guy. Don't you think he's good-looking?"
"Hey, don't touch the exhibits," a deep voice said from behind the two women. "You'll get us kicked out of here."
"And it would break your heart to get banned from the Fire Museum, wouldn't it, Earl?" Vickie said over her shoulder.
"Well, yeah," Earl Tabor said as he slouched up next to Annabel and Vickie. He was a big, affable bear of a man with a beard and rather long brown hair. "I won't deny that I'm a fire buff and a history buff. C'mon, girls. I want to take a look at that Amoskeag pumper they've got on display."
"Go ahead, you two," Annabel said. "I'll catch up to you. I'm sort of a third wheel on this date anyway."
"It's not a date," Vickie insisted. She glanced at Earl. "No offense."
"Oh, none taken," he assured her. "I'm confident you'll come around sooner or later." He took her arm, not so much in a romantic fashion as out of sheer boundless enthusiasm for a subject that fascinated him. "Wait'll you see this Amoskeag. It's really something the way it's been restored . . ."
Vickie cast an imploring look back at Annabel, who just smiled at her and then turned back to the large photograph her friend had pointed out to her. She wanted to give her two best friends some time alone together; Vickie could deny it all she wanted, but this was a date, and there were definitely sparks between her and Earl, mismatched as they might seem on the surface.
But in spite of her motives, Annabel found herself growing interested in the photograph. She had been a member of the San Francisco Fire Department for several years before going to work for the U.S. Forest Service as a smoke-jumper, and the photograph was a bit of history.
It showed the men of Engine Company Number Twenty-one standing in front of their station, gathered around a horse-drawn steam pumper. The firemen—in that day and age, nobody would have called them "firefighters"—were wearing military-style uniforms and round caps with short, stiff leather brims. The one Vickie had pointed to was standing at the end of the group, a serious expression on his face. He was pretty good-looking, Annabel supposed. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a lean waist. It was hard to tell much about his body because of the uniform, but Annabel would have been willing to bet that his legs were trim and muscular if he had spent much time in San Francisco. Muscular legs were a by-product of navigating the city's famous hills. The uniform had several decorations on it, probably medals of commendation, and a pin of some sort was fastened on the lapel of the jacket, reflecting brightly in the sun.
The fireman's face had a rugged cast to it. A strong jaw and chin, and eyes that looked out at the camera with honesty and intelligence and courage.
She wondered who he had been. He was surely long dead, since April 17, 1906 was written in the lower-right-hand corner of the picture. Almost ninety-five years had passed since then. It had been a whole different world in those days . . .
Of course, things had changed quite a bit just in her lifetime. For one thing, back around the time she'd been born, in the seventies, there had been very few women in the SFFD, and for another, there had been even fewer female smoke-jumpers. Her dad, a captain in the department, had surely never even considered the possibility that someday his little girl would grow up to follow in his footsteps and fight fires.
Annabel had surprised Mike Lowell quite often over the years.
She leaned closer to the photo, intending to study the medals on the fireman’s uniform. There was something interesting about that pin on his jacket . . .
"Taken right before the earthquake," Earl said, breaking into Annabel's thoughts.
"What?"
Earl pointed a strong, blunt finger at the photograph. "I said it was taken not long before the earthquake. Those guys probably helped keep all of San Francisco from burning down."
"Why do you want to go to Fisherman's Wharf to eat?" Vickie asked, changing the subject. "We're not tourists, you know. We actually live here in San Francisco, Earl."
"I know, but the food's good there," Earl said.
"Why don't we go to my cousin Donnie's restaurant on Columbus Avenue," Vickie suggested. "The caponata . . ." She kissed her fingertips. "The best you ever ate. And it's right around the corner from the apartment."
Earl shrugged his massive shoulders. "All right, whatever you say, Vickie. As long as I get some of that focaccia bread."
"Sure, sure." Vickie looked at Annabel. "You ready to go?"
Annabel turned back to her friends, the photograph that had interested her a moment earlier now forgotten. "I guess so," she replied. "If you're sure you've seen enough of the museum."
"We can always come back another day," Earl suggested, "What do you say, Vickie?"