The World at Home, page 1
Praise for
THE WORLD AT HOME
“Moyer brings wartime San Francisco to life in a coming-of-age story packed with romance, temptation, and a flash of mystery. . . . Irene shines as a young woman finding her voice and spirit during one of the most complex, adrenaline-fueled moments in American history.”
—Meghan K. Winchell, author of Good Girls, Good Food, Good Fun: The Story of USO Hostesses during World War II
“Moyer has written a richly detailed love letter to the city—its fog, its views, and its potential for romance and loss—with beautifully drawn characters that grabbed my heart. The world seen through Irene Cleary’s eyes is one I won’t soon forget.”
—Kirsten Mickelwait, author of The Ghost Marriage and The Ashtrays Are Full and the Glasses Are Empty
Praise for
A Golden life
Named a Best Indie Book of 2024 by Kirkus Reviews
“. . . a delightful escape into the golden age of film, with compelling characters that make the novel simultaneously enthralling and contemplative . . . irresistible . . . will enchant until the final page.”
—Library Journal
“The author captures 1930s California with meticulous detail and has masterfully created characters with depth and authenticity. . . . A delightful human drama about accepting the past and forging a future in 1930s Tinseltown.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“In the expert hands of Ginny Kubitz Moyer, A Golden Life is a dazzling story set in Hollywood’s dream factory. . . . a fabulous read!"
—Adriana Trigiani, author of The Good Left Undone
“Ginny Kubitz Moyer writes with quiet authority and strong prose, creating a novel that is hard to put down and characters that remain long after the book is read.”
—Laura Spence-Ash, author of Beyond That, the Sea
Praise for
THE seeing garden
2023 Foreword Indie Book Awards Silver Winner in Historical Adult Fiction
“This well-written and captivating novel about social manners and stifling expectations imposed on women shines a light on a piece of California history that has been overlooked. A delight for the senses with Moyer’s artistic descriptions of gardens and mansions, The Seeing Garden is a page-turner of a story that is sure to inspire today’s women who seek creativity and love.”
—Ann Weisgarber, author of The Glovemaker
“This luscious literary romance has whiffs of a marriage between D. H. Lawrence and Rosamunde Pilcher. The Seeing Garden is a finely drawn portrait of a woman torn between two diametrically opposed worlds. The unforgettable setting is the icing on the cake in this truly captivating novel.”
—Laurel Davis Huber, author of The Velveteen Daughter
“[Catherine’s] struggles to fashion a compromise among her confused feelings and her aunt and uncle’s pressing desires are beautifully evoked among the slow revelations of Moyer’s well-crafted novel of society and American cultural shifts.”
—The Historical Novels Review
“The prose and dialogue flow naturally, with the author spinning phrases that beautifully capture the passion of youth and love.. . . a moving story with strong female characters and twists that will satisfy readers who enjoy well-researched history alongside their romantic narratives.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Copyright © 2025 Ginny Kubitz Moyer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, except for brief quotations in reviews, educational works, or other uses permitted by copyright law.
Published in 2025 by
She Writes Press, an imprint of The Stable Book Group
32 Court Street, Suite 2109
Brooklyn, NY 11201
https://shewritespress.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2025908967
ISBN: 979-8-89636-018-6
eISBN: 979-8-89636-019-3
Interior Designer: Stacey Aaronson
Printed in the United States
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be used to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) models. The publisher and author reserve all rights related to the use of this content in machine learning.
All company and product names mentioned in this book may be trademarks or registered trademarks of their respective owners. They are used for identification purposes only and do not imply endorsement or affiliation.
For Scott,
who showed me the magic in the city
ONE
___________________
1944
I met Max and Cynthia Burke on the kind of day that makes you never want to leave San Francisco. If you know this city, you can picture the sort of day I mean. Walking up the steep street toward their apartment building, I felt that lift of spirits you get when the sky is blue and clear and the windows reflect the sun like little bursts of crystal, a day where the city seems to be showing off, flaunting the beauty of the bay and the hills beyond. Even in wartime, with gray battleships brooding in the water, it’s a lovely place.
Admittedly, I don’t have much to compare it to. I grew up here and have hardly ever left the city, to be honest. But there’s always something new to admire, and on that September day the object of my admiration was Nob Hill, home to more luxury apartments per square block than anywhere else in the city. The Mark Hopkins Hotel, with its rooftop bar the Top of the Mark, was the only place in that expensive neighborhood I’d ever actually been inside.
Going up the street I quickened my pace, which wasn’t easy; this hilly city makes you work. I was wearing heels and my latest creation, a dove-gray suit with deep red trim around the edges, consisting of a peplum jacket and skirt with a kick pleat. I’d saved hard to buy the hat, a red one with an upturned brim that seemed to be saluting the sky. I had one pair of good nylons left, and I carefully skirted the edges of a small hedge, for to snag them would be a tragedy.
It was my best outfit, and I needed to wear my best, for I was about to meet with Mrs. Cynthia Burke (formerly Miss Cynthia McNeil) about a dress she wanted altered. She had phoned my shop the day before, surprising me in the middle of a fitting. “I’m trying to find a seamstress who will be able to come tomorrow,” she said. “I’m quite eager to start on remaking this dress.”
She had actually called for Anna Orlova, who used to own the shop. When I told her that Anna had passed away in December—an awkward thing to say over the phone—she said with earnest sympathy, “Oh, I’m so sorry. It was my hairdresser who gave me this number. Miss Orlova made a dress for her once. But you’re a seamstress as well? Perhaps you would be free.”
I explained that I’d been an apprentice to Anna and the shop was now mine, and that I’d be delighted to come the next day at any time that was convenient. So we settled on three o’clock, and I said a poised goodbye as if I were used to making dresses for the socialites of Nob Hill, managing to contain my wild excitement at the astonishing opportunity that had just appeared on my doorstep.
On the sidewalk opposite the imposing Fairmont Hotel I paused, taking a moment to catch my breath. Just beyond the hotel was the Burkes’ apartment building. It was L-shaped, with ornate entrance pillars and a paved forecourt, its doorway flanked with manicured trees growing in fancy planter boxes. I had seen it once before, coming back from the Top of the Mark in April, but had never dreamed I’d ever be invited inside.
My confidence began to waver, so I paused and opened my compact. The red precision of my lipstick gave me a quick shot of courage. Beneath the hat my light brown hair, dressed in Victory rolls, looked as neat and glossy as the hair of a woman in a magazine.
“You walk like you’re someone,” said a soldier I danced with my first week at the USO. I tucked that comment away in my memory and bring it out anytime I need a little confidence. My posture has always been excellent (I have the nuns to thank for that), and when you grow up as I have, without the benefit of family, you learn to compensate for it in how you carry yourself.
Overall, I’m fairly pleased with my looks. I don’t have a pinup’s figure, but standing up straight makes up for that. My light brown hair is thick, and I’m good at styling it. I’ve got hazel eyes that taper a little at the corners, and I like my mouth and teeth. The one thing I’ve always disliked, and it’s a big thing, are my freckles. They’re not like my friend Trixie Dubuque’s freckles, cute cinnamon-colored ones which lie sprinkled across her nose as if someone tapped them out of a sifter. My freckles are more the rule than the exception, one leading into another, as if someone has laid a whole sheet of them over my skin; even the fronts of my arms and legs are covered. I’ve found that when I meet people for the first time, there’s often a beat of surprise in their eyes, as if they need a moment to absorb what they see. My friend Louise likes to say that people (by which she means men) talk to her chest instead of her face. For me, they talk to my freckles and always have.
I patted a little powder on my nose, appraising myself with a critical eye. A twenty-year-old woman with her own business doesn’t want to look any younger than she is, which was why I’d chosen my most sophisticated hat. Tilting the mirror, I took a moment to admire its crimson elegance.
My watch said it was five minutes to three, so I put away the compact, snapped shut my pocketbook, and happened to look up right into the eyes of a sailor who was stepping onto the sidewalk in front of me. He had golden blond hair and brown eyes, a combination so startlingly familiar that for a moment my heart seemed to stop. I froze there on the sidewalk, staring at him. Then he nodded and said, “Good morning, Miss,” and he and his companion continued on, their voices floating behind them as they walked in the direction of the bay.
It was good that a woman pushing a baby carriage came up behind me and asked, “Pardon me, are you crossing?” for I had to smile, say yes, and collect myself enough to start walking. And I was caught up again in the currents of San Francisco in wartime, a busy city that does not stop, that hardly lets you think.
The Burkes’ apartment building had a doorman wearing a double-breasted coat and a peaked cap. He tipped it to me as I entered and gave me a welcoming smile, which I needed, for in the courtyard I’d just passed what looked like a Rolls Royce gleaming in the sun.
The lobby was a glorious blend of mirrors and marble and floral arrangements on pillars. As I pressed the button for the elevator, trying not to look obviously impressed by my surroundings, I couldn’t help but marvel at the surprising twists of fate. It didn’t seem possible that I, Irene Mary Cleary, was about to meet Cynthia McNeil Burke.
In some ways, I felt I already knew her. For years I’d seen her photos in the newspaper: Cynthia McNeil at the fashion show, at the opening night of the Opera. She was often with her father, Harrison McNeil, who owned a shipping company, or with her mother Eleanor, who was a slightly less slim double of her daughter. There was a younger sister and an older brother, but it was Cynthia who had always fired my imagination. I’d been aware of her ever since she was eighteen and had a lavish coming-out party, which had been given its own full-page article in the San Francisco Chronicle. Trixie and I, both thirteen years old, had lain on the floor with our faces inches away from the newspaper, admiring Cynthia’s white dress with a diagonal line of rosettes on the bodice.
The elevator was taking its time, apparently going nearly to the top floor before coming back down. Watching each number light up in turn, I thought about Cynthia’s most recent appearances in the newspaper. The last six months had certainly been a whirlwind for her, beginning in March, when she had been a bridesmaid in the wedding of Fred Gibson and Betty Sweeney. The wedding was a big event by wartime standards, for the Gibsons, like the McNeils, were old city money. Photos had been taken on the steps of St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, and the Chronicle had included a huge picture of Cynthia alone, smiling at the camera from underneath her cloud of blonde hair, in a gorgeous floor-length dress with what looked like darker piping on the bodice. “In sea green chiffon, Cynthia McNeil almost upstages the bride,” said the caption.
“Gosh,” I remember Trixie saying as she studied the photograph. “That’s a terrible thing to say. They’ve managed to insult both women at once.” I’d been so enraptured by Cynthia’s dress I hadn’t even noticed.
The bride, Betty, was not a native of San Francisco. She was from Florida, the daughter of an admiral who had come west due to the war, and the photos showed her to be pretty in a sweet, cute way, like the fresh-faced girl in the movies whose unconscious charm defeats the more glamorous femme fatale. In the photos, Fred Gibson, a surgeon at Letterman Army Hospital, held her arm and looked down at her proudly.
It was disappointing that Cynthia’s own wedding had been a civil one, in another city. A month after the Gibson wedding, she’d gone to Chicago, where she’d met and married Max Burke. He was the owner of a string of successful nightclubs, described by the paper as “watering holes for the local elite.” The Chronicle had run a photo of the two of them on the steps of Chicago City Hall: Cynthia in an elegant suit, holding a massive bouquet; Max Burke, a tall man with a solid build, holding her elbow. “Cupid Strikes in the Windy City!” the paper had exclaimed.
They were a stunning couple, her blonde elegance paired with his dark good looks. It’s proof that beautiful people seem to find each other, I mused as the elevator pinged and the doors slowly opened. Wealthy people did, too, of course. It was a world I didn’t know, one where you had a family solidly behind you, where you had a home on Nob Hill and a country estate on the Peninsula—a world where your money would open every door.
Was I envious? Not exactly, for the world the Burkes inhabited was one I’d never presumed I could enter. It had always seemed too far away for envy. I knew I would never have Cynthia’s cool refined beauty or a penthouse apartment. I’d never have my photos in the society pages.
There was a time you thought you’d have a family, though, said a tiny voice inside as I entered the elevator, but as soon as my thoughts drifted into that familiar and dangerous groove I shied away from it, like you do when your tongue hits a sensitive place on your tooth. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, although the memory of Johnny drifted back to me often, like an unwelcome phantom. I pushed the button and stood waiting, making myself stand even taller than usual.
Focus on the present, I told myself as the doors closed, and on the future. After all, I’d never have imagined my life would ever intersect with the Burkes, and yet I was about to enter their apartment, to walk quite literally into their world. Maybe the boundaries in San Francisco were more porous than they’d seemed. Today could change my life, I thought with a thrill as the elevator moved me noiselessly upward.
Cynthia Burke herself opened the apartment door. I’d have recognized her anywhere: the hair styled in immaculate blonde waves, the perfectly arched eyebrows above wide-set eyes. But it was her complexion, more than anything, that filled me with awe. It was the sort you see in advertisements in women’s magazines, rose-petal skin without a single blemish.
It was a mark of her exquisite manners that she did not visibly react to my freckles. She smiled warmly and said, “Miss Cleary? I’m Cynthia Burke. It’s lovely to meet you. Please, come in.”
The paneled foyer led into a living room with a huge window overlooking the city and the bay. I’d never been in an apartment with such a view, and I suspect few people have. Curtains in a light blue print framed the window, with walls the color of oyster shells and carpet a touch darker. There was a beautiful formal portrait of Cynthia over the fireplace, a crystal vase on the mantel, and an arrangement of lilies, looking like porcelain, on the polished coffee table. Everything was delicate and feminine.
Cynthia indicated a place on the divan and offered me tea. She sat down in a small gilt chair opposite, smart in her gray skirt and light blue cashmere sweater. I couldn’t help noticing her ring; it was a single diamond, almost cartoonishly large, like the kind mined by the dwarves in Snow White.
“I’m so glad you could come today,” she said as we drank the tea, which appeared so quickly it must have been prepared and waiting. “I’ve an event coming up, and nothing in the stores appealed to me. I know it’s not patriotic to complain, but good material is so hard to come by now.”
I nodded my sympathy, putting my cup down carefully in the saucer. It was white china with a silver filigree, subtle and elegant.
“So I thought of remaking this dress I wore once, five years ago. I’ve always loved it. And the fabric is better than anything I’ll find now, I think.”
“I’d be happy to take a look at it, Mrs. Burke.”
“Here it is,” she said, going over to a standing screen by the fireplace and unhooking a hanger from its edge. She held the dress up, and I caught my breath.
The fabric was exquisite, dark rose satin, the rich kind that looks like cool water rippling in a brook. It was a long evening dress with a high scoop neck and a fitted bodice, tight through the hips then flaring out gradually from there to the ground. The sleeves were long and full, falling gracefully to a band at the wrist. It was a design of five or six years before, pretty but no longer stylish, and I was immediately thinking about how to transform it. Cynthia watched me silently, waiting for my assessment.
“What if,” I said, “you cut down the neckline?”
