As was typical for June, marine moisture poured through the straits of the Golden Gate, sucked in by another scorching day in California’s Central Valley, fifty miles to the east. Amelia tried to remember the name of the wag who said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”He wasn’t joking.With a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, she peered through the morning’s mist at workers putting the finishing touches on seven levels of scaffolding—six stories, plus a seventh tier for access to the roof, which this day was shrouded in fog. The Fairmont’s sooty granite and terra-cotta shell was nearly all that remained of the monument to the beaux-arts style.For days now, Amelia, Ira Hoover, and Julia Morgan spent hours in a drafty shed erected on a corner of the property, plotting their plan of action for both hotels. They poured over the drawings created by the Fairmont’s original architect, James Reid, and his businessman-brother, Merritt. Word around town was that the pair weren’t interested in rebuilding a hotel they had so recently completed.
