Gifted Heart

By Michael R Emmert

In 1947, Ray Petriani flees Texas in the middle of the night with a wife and young family. Desperate for work, he takes a job in California and is sent to inland China on a business venture. A gift exchange with the local potentate provides him with two things he doesn't want, things he cannot reject, and things he is forced to protect. Those gifts transform his life.

Through his research of the first item, a gilded antique music box said to have belonged to a Chinese Emperor, only uncovers additional shrouded historical doubts which raise further problems as to its real intent. Ray refuses to give up his investigation and believes the meaning of its significance lies hidden in the way it was presented.

But it's the possession of the second gift, a pretty female slave, which rocks his world and generates friction with his wife that reaches atomic proportions, and plants a minefield of impossible complications. Town's people, officials, family, and associates, all full of righteous-hatred toward Orientals due to the recent war, seek to purge the area of this Asian beauty who clearly doesn't belong, but who is forbidden from returning to her homeland.

Can Ray, his family, and this newly freed slave navigate the corridors of bitter animosity from the people of their two countries, attempts on their lives from both sides of the Pacific, and bungling government bureaucracy, to uncover the deep Chinese secrets that have come to entwine their lives?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael R Emmert
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201912505

Book preview

Chapter 1

Apartment Kitchen, Sacramento, California

Tuesday, September 16, 1947

Lynn plopped into a chair across from me and slapped the kitchen table. Confound it, Ray, get a job. We can’t live like paupers.

Had my wife gotten out of bed on the wrong side?

The red clock above the window reached the half-hour.

She flexed her hand and glared. And get one today!

I rotated the newspaper and pointed to yesterday’s want ads. Come on dear. There hasn’t been steady work for the past two months, only an occasional day job. I can’t dig trenches with my bum knee and haven’t the foggiest idea how to safely cut down a tree. My pencil scratches encircling the newspaper ads resembled a half-finished crossword puzzle.

Lynn grumbled, We’re flat broke and you mope like a cur with a tail between her legs.

She was definitely in a bad mood. Dear, I don’t sulk and yesterday I called on five businesses. Nobody ... I tapped the paper, is hiring.

My wife snatched the empty Skippy peanut butter jar from the counter and swiped a finger inside the rim. The oily scent flooded through the room. The boys asked if there’s something else to eat besides sandwiches ... She pointed at the bowl of last night’s stale kernels. ... or popcorn. Her brown eyes squinted. Find a job Ray or I’ll take the boys back to Texas. She banged the jar down. The spoon beside my cereal bowl wobbled.

I cringed. Dark circles protruded under her eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping well. She always made me the fall guy for our problems. Lynn, I’ve been walking the streets every day, knocking on doors, and answering ads for any kind of work. Nothing’s available. You know that already.

Her face grew red and her neck veins turned purple against her pale skin. You better try harder or I swear, I’ll hitchhike back. The police will love it if I talk about what happened. They’ll blame you for—

Stop it! My hands balled under the table. We agreed not to discuss what they did!

Our fathers had colluded in their illegal activities. The local newspapers were filled with allegations of them stealing from clients. The stories dominated the headlines. No one would have discovered anything except for my unexpected intrusion into the scheme. If Lynn returned home, the authorities would implicate me by association.

Her eyes hardened into slits. Watch me. Our situation is that bad. She tapped Dad’s diary perched on the table beside me. If you hate him so much, why do you read his journal? He’s dead.

"Because some of his advice is solid, like this line: Never seek a job through newspaper adverts. But I’m forced to do it anyway."

I mean it, Ray. You better find a job. She tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear as her lips thinned.

Edward R. Murrow’s voice crackled from a radio in the apartment next door.

I’m looking for work. You know that.

Maybe you should accept the janitorial job at the warehouse, she said, fiddling with her wedding ring.

No. You said you didn’t want me cleaning toilets after midnight. You and the boys wouldn’t see me with those work hours.

She leaned forward and squinted. "You have to swallow your pride, Raymond. We need money, and we need it now." Her final word exploded like a gun blast.

Her mood was more unsettled than I thought. She never called me by my first name.

Our need for money was a correct assessment. She couldn’t handle the stress of being poor, at least not very well. In Dallas, money was never a problem. Since moving to California, the past two months had distorted me into a freeloader with a family. We were paupers possessing sixteen dollars and thirty-five cents, all jingling in my pocket. The rent was due in a week, our food would be gone before then, and the car’s tank was empty. What were my choices?

I said, I’ll fetch today’s paper. Let’s pray to the Lord he’ll open up something.

Yeah, good, she sneered. Go buy one. But that god of yours has absolutely nothing to do with getting a job. He’s nothing more than a fairytale in the wind.

My Christian faith was a point of contention between us. Would she ever understand?

I’m going. I shrugged into my denim jacket with the tattered collar and ignored her glares boring into me. She could stare holes through a stone wall.

I passed our boys in the other room. Four-year-old Dennis remained focused on his favorite picture book, and little Joel, two years younger, smiled up at me.

Outside, the nippy air bit my ears as I trudged toward downtown Sacramento. A gray 1941 Dodge whizzed past, towing a cloud of leaves and spinning them in a whirlwind. As always, the tawny mutt growled from behind the picket fence in front of a neighbor’s green clapboard house.

The past two months had been difficult. Because our fathers were deeply involved in the firm’s shady dealings, we decided to leave Texas. My wife couldn’t stomach the blackened family name.

I sauntered along a row of gray, ticky-tacky prefab houses. Two women chatted while hanging laundry on ropes threaded between their two buildings. Further down the street, the new soda fountain at the Rexall Drugstore looked busy. If we had the money, I’d take the kids for an ice cream cone, get Lynn a cherry Coke, and myself a root beer float.

A block later, at a corner on Sixth Street, a scruffy, unshaven street vendor with down-at-the-heel shoes pocketed my coin in exchange for the most recent edition of The Chronicle.

I rubbed my chin whiskers. How long before my appearance equaled his? If I didn’t find a job, my car would be our rusty residence under the bridge. I lifted my eyes to the sky. Lord, we need help and we need it now.

The newspaper’s headlines screamed about people in the film industry being subpoenaed before the HUAC for anti-American activities. The whole nation was in an uproar, and Congress was on an active quest for Communist sympathizers.

After a quick turn to the last two pages in the newspaper, I browsed the want ads. My finger froze mid-page on two lines of block type.

Wilson Industries. Immediate sales opening.

Call for an interview. Ph CH3-8331

My heart leaped at the possibility, no matter how remote. Help me, God.

Chapter 2

Sacramento, California

Tuesday, September 16, 1947

I sat rigid before an enormously girthed Willard Wilson. A narrow band of brown hair encircled his large head. Blue eyes twinkled above rosy cheeks, carrying an intelligence surpassing anyone I knew. If this man had sported a white beard, a red floppy hat, and clamped a pipe between his teeth, he could pass for an overgrown jolly elf.

Wilson’s head canted sideways like a loose banister knob as he examined my application. Perched a scant inch from his cocked elbow, a stack of papers threatened to topple. Strewn about the room were stacks of boxes and books which would take a week to organize. A light breeze flirted through the curtains behind him and carried a hint of cinnamon, probably from the bakery down the street.

He glanced at me. Sorry about the messy office. We moved here earlier this week and are still getting settled. He resumed reading. Hmmm. Interesting. You have lots of sales knowledge. His low voice and soft rumbling words carried a gentle tone.

My rehearsed spiel of five years of sales experience almost tumbled from my mouth. He resumed reading, so I sucked back the words and sat square-shouldered with my hands folded. Lord, I’m begging you to let this man hire me.

Mr. Wilson’s oak desk contained enough scratches, dents, and cigarette burns to look as if it came from a Salvation Army thrift shop. The absence of ashtrays or smoky haze implied he was a non-smoker. Would my avoidance of tobacco be an advantage in acquiring this job?

He eyed me from over his wire-rimmed glasses. Are you married, Mr. Petriani?

Yes, and we have two boys.

He pursed his lips, returned to the document, and said, There’s a gap in your work history. What have you been doing for the past two months?

We traveled from Texas to California. I’ve been looking for work since we arrived.

Wilson’s finger traced under something I’d written. Why did you leave your other job?

I tensed. Because it was time to move on. Had he noticed my hesitation?

His head remained down, but I sensed he’d stopped reading. You can be headstrong.

He’d opened a verbal shot. Job or no job, a man has his pride. But I’d never lie like my father. Mr. Wilson, maybe I’m headstrong, but I always tell the truth and would follow your instructions.

I liked his candor, soft demeanor, and self-assurance. He wasn’t a proud man, only someone with a precise understanding of his abilities and limitations. But would he think my experience matched the job’s requirements?

Wilson read for another minute before shoving away from the desk. He leaned back and his chair groaned under his massive weight. He steepled his hands atop his rotund belly and tapped his chubby fingers together. This says you’re more than qualified. How many contracts have you negotiated?

I thought back. Just shy of a couple of dozen.

His brows arched. You’re kind of young for that many.

Did my youthful looks belie my job history? Mr. Wilson, I’m twenty-six. I pointed to my application. If this is about honesty—

He held up his hand. I’m a fair judge of people. Your truthfulness wasn’t in doubt. However, it’s a bit unusual for someone your age to have this amount of negotiating skill.

The number of my contracts is more than twenty. If you need an exact count, I can dig it up for you.

No. That’s not necessary.

The pendulum clock on the wall ticked away. I figured he measured me against a mental yardstick.

He tapped the application. Your skills are exactly what I’m looking for and I’d like to put them to use. The job is yours if you want it.

Want it? I’d be his delivery boy. You haven’t discussed pay. Is it on commission or a salary?

You’d begin with a base salary. The bulk of your earnings will be from a percentage of each sale. From the looks of your application, you’ll do well.

When do I start?

Tomorrow morning. I’ll personally train you because there’s a special job in the future.

Thanks for giving me this chance, Mr. Wilson.

He flicked his hand. Call me Willard. Since you’re new to the area, I invite you and your family to my farm on Saturday. It’ll give Ruth and me a chance to meet your wife and boys.

We’ll be there. Lynn would be ecstatic that I’d found work. Tonight, we could splurge for a restaurant meal. The boys could enjoy a dish of vanilla ice cream, and Lynn her Cherry Coke.

That evening, Lynn’s whole demeanor altered when I came home with the news. The next morning, she shooed me out the door and said it was time to start my new job with a regular income.

Wilson tutored me in his style of business. The man was a marvel at analyzing people, almost like he could read minds. His best skill was anticipating market trends and capitalizing on minuscule swings of the economy.

I would work hard to surpass this man’s every expectation. He’d placed his trust in me, I wouldn’t give him anything but my best.

Chapter 3

Wilson’s Farm, Sacramento, California

Saturday, September 20, 1947

On Saturday, just before noon, Lynn and I arrived at Wilson’s farm.

He and his wife came outside to meet us. His wife said, Welcome to our home. We’re glad you could come.

Our boys piled out of the car. Wilson’s dog, a brown Collie, brushed up against Dennis while wagging her tail. Our son petted the dog and Joel joined him. Joel avoided being licked by a wet tongue and patted the dog’s head.

The dog barked and I pointed toward her. What’s her name?

Willard chuckled. Brownie. She’s eleven years old and thinks she owns the place. She never gets enough attention in her estimation. He squatted beside my sons. Boys, don’t pull her ears or she’ll nip you. If you throw a stick, she’ll fetch it and bring it right back. That’s her favorite game.

Dennis picked up a stick and tossed it.

Brownie bounded after it and returned with the treasure, wagging her tail, and depositing it at Joel’s feet.

Joel tossed the stick. Brownie ran and latched on to it and returned it to him. Our boys laughed at this new game.

Wilson’s white house was outlined with yellow trim. Someone could have showcased it in Better Homes and Gardens. A whiff of paint said he’d recently painted it. He kept the yard manicured with flower beds and shrubbery. A thick layer of crushed rock covered the driveway like a white carpet surrounded by a green lawn.

Ruth hugged Lynn. Let’s go inside and we’ll chat while I finish getting lunch ready. We’ll leave the men out here to talk. They climbed the steps to the back porch and disappeared inside.

Wilson touched my elbow. Come with me. I want to check on my filly, Rachel. She’s about ready to foal.

I followed him to his barn that needed a serious repaint. The red color on the vertical planks had long since faded. Maybe the barn was his next painting project. We entered via a Dutch door on well-oiled hinges. Sunlight streamed through two casement windows. Bridles, horse blankets, and saddles lay strewn along the wall on the hard earth just under the windows. Other than the riding equipment, the barn wasn’t cluttered.

We peered over a wooden gate into the horse pen. A thick layer of yellow straw covered the floor. A five-gallon bucket supplied drinking water for the horse and he’d anchored it against the wall with a wire to prevent the mare from tipping it over.

Willard said, See how she’s bagging up and her abdomen is swollen.

I rested my arms atop the gate. Now that you mentioned it, I can see it. I’m not good with animal husbandry. Do you expect a colt or a filly?

I’ve got no idea what she’s carrying. I prefer a filly to breed her when it’s grown. But I’ll accept any healthy foal.

How many horses do you have?

Just two. Rachel here, and Sharon. She’s out to pasture right now.

Through the window, I spotted his gray horse grazing not far from the barn. How large is your farm?

Not very big, about thirty-nine acres. Twenty of that is tillable. The rest is too steep for farming and I use that portion for horse pasture. There’s also a small wooded area down by the stream.

Compared to the Texas spreads of several hundred acres, the ranchers there would consider this farm a backyard garden plot. What do you grow?

Wilson chuckled. I don’t grow anything. The man a half-mile down the road farms it on fifty-fifty shares. This year he grew potatoes. Last year it was corn. The year before that he raised carrots. I stay out of the way with whatever he selects for a crop rotation.

I was impressed. Willard utilized his land well, was organized, and was not frivolous.

Dennis and Joel entered the barn and peered between the gate’s wooden slats at the horse.

Brownie halted at the door, panting. Wilson must have trained her not to enter the barn. He treated his animals with respect.

I squatted beside the boys. Joel hopped into my lap and leaned against my chest. I said, This horse will have a baby soon.

Willard picked up Dennis and set the boy’s feet on a middle gate rail so he could look at the horse from over the top.

Rachel approached and allowed Dennis to scratch her forehead. She pretty.

Wilson said, She’s a beautiful bay horse. I bought her three years ago because of her white stockings. It was her appearance that caught my attention.

I reached across the gate and rubbed Rachel’s nose. God made her into a lovely animal.

Wilson said, If you believe in the Bible, where do you attend church?

I wrinkled my mouth. We haven’t visited a church since we came to California. I’d like to find one and take our sons.

You’re welcome to visit ours, the Glenwood Lane Church. It’s a nice-sized congregation, about eighty-five in attendance. We’d love to have you come.

Thanks for the invitation. I’ll consider it. Lynn wouldn’t attend. She avoided anything dealing with the Bible or a church.

He asked, How did you and your wife meet? Was it in a church?

We met through our fathers’ business deals. It’s a long story that’s better shared at another time.

Wilson grunted. I won’t pry. He waddled to a sack of oats, dipped a gallon can into it, and poured the grain into Rachel’s feed trough. There you go, girl. He spoke to me. She’s doing fine. It shouldn’t be much longer before she’s ready to foal.

He lifted Dennis down from the gate before ambling toward the door. Let’s go back to the house. Ruth should have lunch about ready.

The more I learned about my new boss, the more I respected him. His gentle manner maintained a soft heart toward children and animals. Also, he wasn’t one to snoop into other people’s affairs. His Christian faith was a huge plus. Thank you, Lord, for bringing this kind man into our lives.

Back at the house, we enjoyed our lunch at the kitchen table. Ruth passed hamburgers, potato salad, and baked beans to everyone. Dennis devoured a complete burger and followed it with a glass of milk. Joel ate the meat on his burger and tasted his helping of beans. The adults washed down their food with iced tea. Afterward, everyone retired to Wilson’s living room.

Ruth dragged out a cardboard box from a closet, set it in a corner, and dumped it on the wood floor. Dennis, Joel, let’s see what you can build with these Lincoln Logs.

Both boys scurried toward the pile of unexpected toys and began to assemble a fort.

Ruth and Willard didn’t have children and they weren’t old enough to have grandchildren. Yet Ruth had produced building blocks for our boys. I’d seen other toys and games in the closet before she closed the door. Perhaps they had nieces and nephews. Maybe they entertained business clients or neighbors who had youngsters.

Lynn and I settled on the couch facing Wilson in his over-stuffed chair. My wife placed her hand in mine. She was comfortable and enjoying the fellowship in this home. I assumed she and Ruth had had a good conversation before the rest of us came in for lunch.

Ruth, after reclining in a hardbacked chair, said to me, Lynn said the two of you married about five years ago in Dallas and that you had had a good job. What made you uproot your family and come to Sacramento?

Lynn squeezed my hand.

Her warning was understood, be careful. I said, Both of us have lived our whole lives in Dallas. It was time to start a new stage in our lives. Neither of us had been to California and had heard reports of this beautiful area. We chose to strike out on our own and leave our families.

My wife said, It was hard on the boys to leave their grandparents. But we explained it would be an adventure to explore new places and find new friends.

Have you found many friends here in Sacramento? Willard asked.

Lynn said, Not yet. We’ve been focusing on finding work before we became settled. Thank you for giving Ray this job. Now we can concentrate on establishing ourselves in the community.

Ruth shifted in her chair. Our church has young couples who’d love to include you in their circle of friends. And they have children about your boys’ age. Why not come tomorrow. It’s the Glenwood Lane church, not far from here. You’d be welcomed with open arms.

Lynn stiffened, jerked her hand out of mine, and said, Thank you for the offer. She looked at me, her eyes had lost their luster. We’ll keep that in mind, won’t we, dear?

Before I could respond, Willard, looking from me to Lynn, said, Our congregation is open and friendly. Pastor Miller tries to accommodate everyone while remaining true to the Bible. Please join us tomorrow. Ruth and I will help you get settled.

I knew Lynn wouldn’t go, regardless of how appealing the Wilson’s made their church sound. She wanted nothing to do with the Lord but would be open to finding playmates for our boys. It had been two months since we uprooted from Dallas, and I wanted to fellowship with believers again. I said, Sure, we’ll come. What time do you want us to be there?.

Lynn’s lips thinned and she gave a tiny shake of her head.

I reached for her hand. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t clasp my hand either.

Ruth said, Great. We start at ten o’clock. Willard and I will arrive early to introduce you to the pastor.

Lynn smiled at the Wilsons with tight lips. Thanks for the invitation. We’ll get the boys ready on time. Her voice held a disguised edge.

While we were in Wilson’s home, my wife would display her southern charm but her sensitive nature didn’t include room for Christianity. Tomorrow, Lynn wouldn’t be at church with me and the boys. I prayed that when we got home today, our talk with the Wilsons doesn’t start an argument.

Chapter 4

Apartment Kitchen, Sacramento, California

Sunday, September 21, 1947

The next day after church, I and the boys returned home. While carrying Joel inside, Dennis bolted past me, barged through the doorway, and exclaimed, Mommy, we have new friends.

She hefted him into her arms with a smile. That’s good to hear. What are their names?

Billy ‘n Eric. Can we go to church again?

Her gaze flicked to me before returning to Dennis. You can go if your father takes you.

I came up to her. Dennis and Joel couldn’t sit still in the car. They bounced and chatted about inviting their friends over to our apartment to play with them. Do you think it’s possible?

Perhaps we could. She set Dennis down. You and your brother go play while I talk with your father.

Joel wiggled to get down, and I let him slide out of my arms to the floor. The two of them scurried off to their room.

I kissed Lynn. I wish you’d come to church with us. It’s not good to have a divided family.

Lynn shook her head. I don’t want to go to church. When I was a girl, a preacher called my father a reprobate. My father hated him for it. The other kids heard the preacher say Dad was a sinner. They taunted and mocked me as if I were one, too. Mom cried at the way they treated me and vowed she’d never go back.

My wife often brought up that incident, almost like the event defined every church.

I said, Not all churches are like that. Don’t evaluate others because of one bad apple.

She wrinkled her lip. Sorry. I don’t agree. If God allows people to treat others in the way that church treated me and Dad, then God can’t be good.

She always claimed any problem within a church was God’s doing.

I said, "How people act shouldn’t reflect on what God is like. People are flawed, and they don’t always do what’s right. It’s why they go to church to learn how to live. God is