He gently teased that she might be the one California wildflower who could survive the trip back East.

Charlotte smiled slightly in her way—the way that brought her upper lip to frame her chin and point to her cheekbones just so, with her eyebrows ever so slightly raised, but in amusement, never ever in mockery—she brushed away a wisp of reddish hair (a color that she wore far better than Sherman) and replied that he mistook her for her husband: she protested she was not a hardy enough specimen to make such a journey.

And, naturally, rather than blush and retire to her corner, like a good Eastern girl, or flirt with the juxtaposed shamelessness and chastity of a Southern belle, Charlotte proceeded to earnestly lecture Captain Sherman on the one subject I ever knew her to truly lecture on: the native cuisine of California. Sherman was yet in disbelief that California beef—the finest he had ever tasted—could only be bought by the carcass, not by the pound. Charlotte guessed that as a military man he might be in thrall to such things, but that he ought to look more closely at what the country had to offer, at its herbs and its produce.

Mrs. Hastings and Captain Sherman held one another rapt with talk of produce such as I have never since heard—such passion for citrus! Such ardor for the legume! They could have talked of leafy greens until the sun rose two days later! I could not help but smile, as I contented myself that this nominally Christian, yet practically pagan, young wife of mine had gotten religion—and, oh, I benefitted richly from her fervor.

Sherman left after dinner for San Francisco: the dishes were washed, the river tides waxed and the river tides waned as California slowly but surely shifted her geology as she always will. No one can be certain what those changes will bring millions of years from now and even Charlotte could not have answered that with her textbooks, but in the meantime, I was contented to know that at that very moment, the former Charlotte Catherine Toler loved me madly and could claim the same of me.

[He drinks]

We think back fondly on that cozy time: when we are told that love is matter of Compromise and see that as a simple price to pay for bliss. The young do not understand the sacrifice—the forsaken ways of life and the buried dreams until they are buried bodies. We did not understand Compromise—neither Sherman nor I—until we were failed practitioners of it, until the earth had shifted beneath our feet and decided on which side of the fault lines we each now stood.

We think of Compromise! Parallels! Parity! Henry Clay! Society ladies who paid admission to the Senate viewing gallery from where they might espy the Great Compromiser drawing lines in the land! Oh, the society ladies even watched from hilltops along the Potomac when the generals began spilling blood, until it soaked through every single celebrated parallel.

Only Charlotte, perhaps, would have sensed the tectonic movements in her lovely bones and in her sacred textbooks, but she...she didn't live to see it. And her books have sunk to the bottom of the Bay.