Chapter 1
June 1982, San Francisco
A white Rolls Royce Corniche rolled to a halt before San Francisco's birthplace,
the mission chapel of San Francisco de Asís. As Kymberlee Gardner stepped out onto
the curb and reached around to collect her train, a breeze snatched at her gossamer lace
bridal veil. Hurriedly, she reached up to press the antique comb more deeply into her
upswept auburn hair. So what if she took some scalp with it, at least it wouldn't fall
out. Suddenly she tottered, but a steady hand caught her elbow. She looked around at
her brother, Aaron, and smiled her thanks.
They were all there... the whole Gardner clan, massed on the steps of the squat,
whitewashed adobe church, so simple with its peaked, red tile roof and plain wooden
cross that it might have been a child's design. Each cousin, niece, nephew, brother,
aunt, and uncle gave her a tight hug and a careful kiss. Her best friend, Isabel, grabbed
her hand and swung her around, as they used to do as kids. "You got your fairy tale,
Kymmie," she said with glee.
Kym's mother squeezed her, as only mothers and grandmothers do, then gave
her hair an extra primp, and whispered into her ear, "I love you, sweetie.... You'll
always be my baby.... Be happy." Her father, distinguished in his navy suit with a
silver tie that matched his silver hair, stepped forward. To her surprise he removed the
pearl necklace she wore and replaced it with a tiny gold cross on the finest chain Kym
had ever seen. "Always remember... it will comfort you," he said softly as he kissed
her. "I do understand why you want to do this on your own... I don't mind," he added.
Then he took her mother's hand and entered the church.
Her sister, Cassie, Aaron's twin, handed Kym her small bridal bouquet of red
roses and baby's breath. Aaron took her hand to help her to the top of the steps, where
Cassie stooped to spread out her train, then rose to fluff her veil. Kym smoothed the
front of her gown and took a couple of deep breaths. She glanced up at the uneven
baroque bell towers of the Mission Dolores Basilica next door. Their ornate carving
shone golden against the June morning's brilliant blue sky. She sighed, feeling a bit
guilty that she would have preferred to have married in the more elaborate church with
its magnificent stained glass windows and mosaic covered dome.
Cassie pulled the veil down and reminded her, "Now wait until your eyes adapt
before you start down the aisle." Aaron swung the heavy oak door open for her bride's
maid to step through. From inside, Kym could hear the string quartet, members of the
San Francisco Symphony, playing a Bach concerto in the choir loft above the door.
She stepped over the threshold and blinked to allow her sight to adjust to the mission's
dim interior.
As she glanced about, she was amazed. The church had seemed musty and
dingy during the previous night's rehearsal. In the scant lighting she had been unable
to see the hand-cut ceiling beams, brightly striped in mustard, red, white, and gray, or
the festive chandeliers that hung above the aisle. But now, with the chandeliers ablaze
and shrines filled with flickering votives, flowers and their scent everywhere, she
didn't see how the basilica could ever outshine this small almost two-hundred-year-old
church.
Two centuries... she was used to such age in the east, but had never expected
to find it in California. The church was a miraculous survivor, as she hoped her
marriage would be. It had survived the 1906 earthquake, when the basilica beside it
had crumbled. The fires that raged through San Francisco following the quake had
stopped across the street.
She reached over to dip her finger in the holy water, said her own small prayer
and crossed herself. The quartet switched to Clark's Trumpet Voluntary... no Here
Comes the Bride for her. When she saw Cassie reach the third pew, Kym began her
slow walk.
* * *
At the first trilling note the wedding guests rose. Bruce Gardner turned to look
down the aisle at his daughters. First came Cassandra, his ice princess with blond hair
and blue eyes, tall, cool, and regal, in her simple sea-foam green gown. Then came his
youngest child, his baby girl... his Irish banshee. He smiled wistfully to recall her
flaming red fuzz and roaring wail. She had been his defiant one, who had questioned
everything. In his heart, he had never thought to see the day when Kymberlee would
walk willingly into marriage. His throat tightened... she was beautiful.
* * *
"Focus," Kym ordered herself, "smile." She felt as though she must be smiling
the most plastic smile ever seen on the face of a bride. As she scanned the filled pews
on either side, she spotted her Aunt Sophie... dear sweet, insufferable Aunt Sophie.
Kym nodded and smiled. To her left, when she reached the center of the nave, a
blazing wrought iron candle stand caught her eye. It illuminated the baptismal font, where
she had been told baptisms had been performed since 1776. Derek had been christened
there, as had his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, all the Raynes had
since the 1830's. Ahead, in the front pew, she saw her four brothers, Raymond, Kevin,
Quentin, and, of course, Aaron.
When Aaron flashed her a thumbs-up, she smiled a real smile. Then she
glimpsed Ariel, Quentin's wife, craning her neck and, doubtless on tiptoes, trying to
see over the crowd. Kym sympathized, since she often found herself in the same
situation. Beside them, on the aisle, were her mother, in what Cassie had thought was
a rather hideous lilac suit and plumed hat, and her dad. On the opposite side, she
spotted Derek's mother and his sister, Ingrid, a contemplative nun, who, though only
in her mid-thirties, assumed the old style habit with long gown, wimple and veil. She
didn't know how to approach this woman... in fact had never truly spoken with her and
would not today, since Sister Ingrid would return to her convent near Sonoma
immediately following the ceremony. Somehow, Kym found it odd... but now was not
the time for one's mind to wander.
As she came even with her father, Bruce Gardner extended his arm and escorted
her the final few steps to the altar. It was then that she permitted herself to look for the
first time at her groom. Derek Rayne seemed so tall and thin in his black cut-away
coat, dove gray double-breasted waistcoat, and striped charcoal and black morning
trousers. He reminded her of photos she had seen of Victorian gentlemen... only his
ascot didn't fit the image. He had chosen a golden yellow fabric with a dotted pattern,
which seemed quite modern to Kym, and an engraved lapis lazuli stick pin that didn't
quite belong.
* * *
Derek had watched his bride slowly walk the length of the white carpeted aisle.
"She's absolutely stunning," his mind whispered. He smiled to himself when he
noticed that she had chosen an ivory colored silk, rather than virginal white, for her
flowing gown. He saw, too, that she had changed her mind about the pearls. She had
been undecided, saying that she feared that the pearl choker was too dominating for
the delicate, sweetheart neckline and overall simplicity of the princess cut gown. He
had been a bit bewildered, but now he understood what the sweetheart neckline and
princess cut were. Much to his surprise, his heart did a double beat when she finally
looked up at him and smiled as she handed her bouquet off to Cassandra. Derek took
her hands and noted that her knuckles were white from her intense grip on her
bouquet. He squeezed her fingers, as the archbishop began the Latin mass.
* * *
Finally, Archbishop Seguin was asking, "Do you, Derek Emrys Rayne, take this
woman, Kymberlee Lynnette Gardner, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and
to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, for all the
days of your lives?"
Derek placed his right hand on the cross of his father's sword. "I do," he
responded firmly. He took the gold wedding band that lay on the pillow to the right of
the blade and turned to slip the ring on his bride's trembling finger, then returned his
hand to the sword's hilt.
* * *
Throughout the mass, Cassie Gardner's mind had focused on the ornate, gilded
reredos behind the carved altar. She had studied each brightly painted statue standing
in it's niche... there was the Virgin Mary and her parents, Saints Anne and Joachim,
and Saint Francis of Assisi with his youthful love, Santa Clara. All represented love
and family, yet at the apex, directly above a rather small Christ on his cross, stood
Saint Michael, God's warrior and general of His angelic armies, brandishing his great
sword high above his head. It dawned on Cassandra... Saint Michael and his sword
were what drew the eye from anywhere in the church. Her gaze fell to Derek's sword
laying upon its purple velvet cushion. How truly bizarre, she thought, amazed at the
parallel her mind was drawing. She had barely heard Derek repeat his vows. She found
the glinting weapon with its ruby-eyed lions' heads and embossed crescent moon
hypnotic. It seems almost violent... the warrior archangel above... this sword, here. The
truth was that she had never understood the Rayne family... few did. They kept to
themselves most of the time, yet her father swore that they were somehow an
absolutely crucial Legacy family.
* * *
Archbishop Seguin turned toward Kym. "And do you, Kymberlee Lynnette
Gardner take this man, Derek Emrys Rayne, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to
have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health,
for all the days of your lives?"
She placed her left hand over Derek's and could feel his joy flood into her
through her fingertips. She looked up at the man by her side. Derek had explained his
family's tradition to her... she felt honored to be a part of it. Swearing upon the cross
of the sword, he had said, was like swearing upon the true cross itself... once sworn
there, the vow could never be broken. He had told her that the sword had represented
something different to each of its bearers, who, upon assuming the weapon's
stewardship, had spent the night in contemplation and prayer, like the knights of
another age, to ponder what the sword would mean to him, or her. To his father it had
stood for strength, both of spirit and purpose... to him it meant the continuity of
heritage, commitment, family, and honor. So it had been for generation after generation
of Raynes.
"I do," she replied in a soft, clear voice. She picked up the remaining gold band
from its place on the blade's left side and slid it onto Derek's finger. I do... forever
and ever, by this bladed cross, I swear.
The archbishop smiled at them both. "And now, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Delighted, Derek raised the veil from his wife's face and bent to gently kiss her.
He could hear the guests applauding and Kym's mother, and his own, weeping softly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," concluded Archbishop Seguin, "I have the immense
privilege and joy to be the first to introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Derek Rayne.
* * *
From their niches, high above the door, the three ancient Mexican bells,
dedicated to Saints Francis, Joseph, and Martin began a rapturous peel. They were
joined in the cacophony by the great bells in the basilica's towers. A score of cameras
flashed as the bridal couple emerged into the bright California sun. Kym noticed that
they weren't just family, friends, and the hired photographers... some were press. For
the first time she understood her husband's duel roll... privately, a leader in a secret
society at war with hell itself... yet publicly, the multi-millionaire chairman of an
enormous philanthropic foundation.
Derek patted her hand and whispered, "Don't worry... flavor of the moment."
She smiled up at him. "Since you consider yourself too dignified to throw my
garter at the reception... maybe I should give them a good photo now." She turned and
tossed her red bouquet over her left shoulder into the crowd gathered at the base of the
steps.
* * *
Aaron Gardner had followed the wedding procession out of the church. He truly
didn't know whether to be happy for his sister, or sad. At first he had thought that
Kymmie had been forced into this marriage, but, as time had passed, he had begun to
hope that maybe he'd be as lucky one day. He smiled shyly at a pretty brunette in a
peach frock. She smiled back.
"Careful," said Ariel, smoothing her red hair back into place as the wind caught
it at the church door. "She's dating a line-backer with the Forty-niners."
A cheer went up from the crowd. They turned in time to see the bride toss her
bouquet over her shoulder. The red roses landed squarely in Cassie's hands. He
grinned again... Cassie had been trying to avoid the bouquet, but it looked like she was
going to be next.
7 p.m., Paris
Marie Broulet casually picked up the remains of the early pique-nique supper that she had enjoyed with her husband, Claude. She cut off an extra bit of sausage and tossed it to Zola, who stared at her with great, round eyes and wagged his tail in hope. Then she wrapped it, along with the cheese and left over bread, and stowed them in the back pocket of little Emil's pram. She poured the half-glass of wine that remained for herself and sipped it as she watched her daughter, Giselle, harass their good-natured spaniel.
She wished that Claude's work shifts at Gare du Nord would return to normal. She hated this double duty, but until the security alert was called off all railway guards were doing double shifts. Three terrorist bombings in as many weeks had made all of Europe nervous.
"Giselle, Zola, allez!" she called as she placed Emil in his carriage and flipped the top over to shield him from the evening sun. He giggled at the sight of the bouncing plastic birds that dangled from the canopy's edge. Marie folded the plaid blanket and tossed it on the rack under the carriage. "Giselle... the dog minds better than you... allez... maintenant!"
Finally, Giselle tottered over. Marie dusted the grass off her seat and inspected the stains on her pant knees. C'est la vie. To be three again. She took the little hand and placed it on the side of Emile's blue denim carriage. "Hold tightly... don't let go," she said. Then she hooked Zola's leash onto his collar, tied him to the other side, and they began their stroll home.
The walk along the Rue d'Alsace, was always a pleasant one... short enough for Giselle, yet sufficient for her to enjoy the trees and warm evening breeze. She was Parisian and like most Parisians, she loved her city. It was a good neighborhood... everyone knew everyone... with the exception of the tourists, who stayed at the hotel on the east side of the street and would sometimes go exploring.
"Bonsoir, Madame Dupais," she greeted the proprietor of the local boulangerie, as madame enthusiastically swept the sidewalk beneath her bright red awning.
"Left over bread is half price, Marie... good selection today."
"Non, merci, peut-être demain," the young mother responded and strolled on. Suddenly, she noticed that Zola was on alert. He had his nose in the air and was growling under his breath. She couldn't hear him, but could feel the vibration through the leash.
"It's OK, Zola.... What's wrong?" She stroked the dog's head, but he paid her no attention. "What is it? The bus? It's only a noisy, stinking tour bus... you've seen those before." She tugged on his leash and forced him to continue, but he shied as far from the curb as he could. "Is it Jean-Baptiste's taxi? You know him. He gives you cheese when he takes his lunch break." She could see Jean-Baptiste asleep in his taxi, parked in the shade. She glanced at her watch... right on time.
The dog had laid his ears back, slicked his fur down, and tucked his tail. Marie knew the dog well enough to know that there was a scent in the air that he did not recognize. Perhaps it was the tour bus.
Across the street American and Canadian tourists laughed and talked with excitement as they searched through the rows of luggage being unloaded from the bus's undercarriage. Marie smiled. She envied them seeing Paris, perhaps, for the first time. She would like to see New York one day.
Abruptly Zola pulled back, jerking the pram to one side. Emil screamed. "Zola!" Marie cried as she turned to correct the dog.
A flash of light and heat blasted Marie Broulet into the brick wall of Madame Dupais' shop, killing her instantly. The heat charred her yellow print dress and set the mangled dog's black and white fur on fire. Shrapnel splintered the trees, denuding and toppling those closest to the ten-foot deep crater where Jean-Baptiste's taxi cab had sat. Hot metal tore through shattered windows and walls.
Across the Rue d'Alsace, the remains of the tour bus had been smashed into the wreckage of the hotel lobby. The five story hotel itself still stood, but was leaning dangerously toward the street. The explosion and the bus had ripped away the porte-cochere and the entire front wall of the building.
An eerie silence followed the blast's echo as it died away. Within moments it was replaced by screams and cries of anguish, and the sound of rubble tumbling from the hotel and shops that had lined the street. Debris continued to rain down for several minutes. No longer could the quiet Parisian street be recognized even as a street in devastated, war ravaged Beruit.
| Photos of Mission Dolores |
| CHAPTER 2 |
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