Grayton Winds

by Michael Lindley

  GRAYTON WINDS

  The Troubled Waters Series Book #3

  From Amazon #1 author, Michael Lindley, GRAYTON WINDS is a story of lost love, betrayal and murder set in Prohibition-era Atlanta and the remote Gulf Coast village of Grayton Beach, Florida.

  A novel by

  MICHAEL LINDLEY

  Sage River Press

  Novels by MICHAEL LINDLEY

  The Troubled Water Series

  THE SEASONS OF THE EMMALEE

  THE SUMMER TOWN

  GRAYTON WINDS

  LIES WE NEVER SEE

  A FOLLOWING SEA

  Michael Lindley Amazon Author Page

  https://michaellindleynovels.com/

  There is a wisdom of the head, and a wisdom of the heart.

  - Charles Dickens

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A Final Gathering.

  A Note From Michael Lindley

  About The Author

  Grayton Beach, Florida 1985

  In my life, there were choices that often cause me to lie awake at night and think back on how different things might have been. I try to remember there were always other people to consider, other consequences.

  As I sit on the deck of our house along the beach, the curve of cloudless sky stretches to the far horizon with nothing to stop the push of the outgoing tides and winds for a thousand miles. The brilliant white sand and storm-swept live oak nestled through the dunes give a sense of wild timelessness. Between lapses where I’ve dozed off for a time, I’ve found the memories of this place coming back to me in rushing swells of joy and regret. I first came to these quiet shores nearly sixty years ago as a young man searching for something new in my life. Behind me were the scars of war and lost love, and bitter memories of a family mired in deceit and corruption. I close my eyes against the glare of the late morning sun and think back again on all that came to pass in those early years after the first war in France and the people and events that led me to this little town of Grayton Beach along the northern Gulf Coast of Florida.

  Later today we will gather with family and friends to celebrate another collection of birthdays including my own eighty-fifth. It will be a joy to have so many of us around the big table again this year. My daughter will play the piano and lead us all in song. I always read a few passages from one of my books or short stories when we’re together.

  My last book was published shortly after my wife’s death ten years ago. I rarely put words to paper anymore. Arthritis in my hands keeps me away from my old typewriter and I haven’t the patience to work with anyone to have them transcribe any more stories. I felt it only fair the book not be released until some of the people in my life had passed on. I knew the threads of truth in the story may have been painful to some, but in the end it seemed important, at least to me, that this version of the story be told. I offer no apology at this late age for an act of clear selfishness.

  One of my granddaughters is calling me now to come downstairs. There is someone at the door to see me. With only one leg that works and old age doing its best to render that one useless, I make my way down the steps slowly and with great care. My granddaughter, Meredith, is standing at the open door and a woman is there on the front porch. She has a scarf on and with the bright sunlight behind her from the outside it’s difficult to see. Her face is only a shadow.

  “Is that you, Mathew?” she says softly, her voice barely a whisper. A gust of wind blows in from across the white dunes of Grayton Beach. When I hear her voice, I feel the burdens of the past lift from my heart.

  Chapter One

  Paris, France 1918

  Through the gauzy haze of the morphine I heard the American doctors agree my leg was beyond saving. I tried to sit up and yell out, but my body wouldn’t respond and the words caught in my throat in a thick, garbled moan. A nurse was instructed to administer more painkiller. I barely felt the pinprick of the needle. I tried with all my will to stay conscious, to fight back against their planned mutilation. I felt myself slipping away, powerless to stop them, until there was only darkness and echoes of the battle in the French countryside.

  Her name was Celeste. The badge on her nurse’s uniform was the first thing that came into focus. I watched the young woman move around my bed as she adjusted the blankets. Random strands of auburn hair fell out from her cap. She placed her hand on my forehead and I felt the warm softness of her skin.

  Then it all came back to me in a rush; the doctors and my shredded leg. I felt no pain anywhere, only a heavy sluggishness pushing my body down into the bed. I tried to lift my head and reach down, but was unable to move more than a few inches before I fell back. The nurse saw I was awake. She helped to lift me and prop pillows behind me. Then, I was able to see down to the foot of the bed.

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, my chest barely moving. I saw the form of two legs and two feet beneath the blanket.

  “They saved your leg, Private Coulter,” the young nurse said in a heavy French accent.

  I looked at her face and was unable to speak. Tears began to well up and my arms felt too heavy to lift. She took the corner of the sheet and dabbed at my eyes.

  “It was your brother,” she said.

  “My brother?” I was finally able to say.

  “Your brother, the captain. He came in as they were preparing to take you to the surgery.”

  “Jess?” I asked. “What did he do?”

  “Oh, he raised a terrible fuss,” she said. “He demanded they wait and then a general came with a new doctor.”

  “A general?”

  “Your brother said he was a friend of your father’s back in America.”

  The next day there was a medal on my chest. It was the first thing I saw when I woke up. The medal was lying there on the white hospital gown. It wasn’t pinned, merely lying there. It was a ribbon of many colors with a dull gray metal heart attached. Memories of the night along the scarred battle line outside Verdun came back to me; the flash of flares in the dark night sky, the deafening sound and concussion of the shells exploding all around us. I winced as I remembered the relentless fire from the German machine guns cutting into our line and the sickening wail of men hit and dying. I covered my face as the smell of gunpowder and death swept over me again.

  “Private Coulter?”

  I heard the soft voice of the nurse, Celeste. She had come up quietly beside me, checking on all of the men in my ward lined up in beds along both walls of the long room.

  “How are you feeling this m
orning, Private?” she asked and placed the medal on the stand beside me.

  “It’s Mathew,” I said as I pulled my arms away from my eyes. “My name is Mathew.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said with a smile.

  There was a glow on her face from the soft morning light coming in through the window. Tiny brown freckles spread beneath her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were a pale green and stood out against the drab grays and whites of the hospital ward. The sound of her voice and her accent were like a soothing melody.

  “Your brother tells me you are from Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta, Georgia. That’s right,” I said.

  “Is that near New York?” she asked.

  I laughed, unable to remember the last time I had reason to feel happy.

  “My father visited New York once before the War,” she said.

  “No, it’s quite far from New York, in the South,” I said. “Does your father have business in America?”

  She looked down for a moment to gather herself. “No, he had no business. He was visiting his brother’s family.”

  “Will he go back?” I asked.

  She paused again. “No, he was lost in the first weeks of the fighting.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you have other family?”

  “Yes,” she said, brightening some, “my mother and two little sisters. We live north of the city in a village called Les Mureaux.”

  “Was there fighting there?” I asked.

  “No, no, it was further to the north and the east. We have been fortunate.”

  “You speak English quite well,” I said.

  “My father taught us to read English when we were very small,” she said. “He wanted me to go to school there some day… in New York.”

  “Then you’ll have to go when this is all over,” I said.

  “No, I think not.” She pulled the bedding back to check the bandages on my left leg. I saw they ran from my ankle to the top of my thigh. There was an ugly blue color in the skin that was exposed at the edges. Blood had seeped through the white dressing overnight in dark red splotches.

  “We will have to change this again,” she said.

  “Why does it look so bad?” I asked. “Is it infected?”

  “No, this is only normal. Your leg was very badly hurt.”

  Her words gave me some comfort, and then I thought again about what she had said earlier. “Why won’t you go to America?”

  “I must wait for someone,” she said. “Is there any pain?”

  “You all keep shooting me full of medicine. I can’t feel anything.” I managed to reach over and placed my hand on her arm.

  “I must get the doctor to look at this,” she said and began to turn and walk away.

  I held her arm a moment longer. “Can you tell me who you’re waiting for?”

  She paused, considering the request, then quietly she said, “His name is Jules. He is away with the Army.”

  “He hasn’t returned since the Armistice?” I asked.

  “No, he has been lost since the early days,” she said. “There has been no word.”

  There were too many times when the truth would find its way back. There had been no glorious act of heroism that night on the attack outside Verdun. It’s one thing to know in your heart you carry a weakness of spirit, that when you were really tested you had failed to measure up. It is another to have others believe just the opposite of you.

  The surge of our attack had been pressed back. Our men were falling all around us under the murderous onslaught of the German guns. Some had started to run back to the cover of the fence behind the small farm. Through the chaos and dim light from the flares overhead I saw our sergeant yelling and waving us on. A shell exploded at his feet and I fell to the ground as his body was hurled lifeless across the field. When I looked up I saw another man from our unit fall to his knees, holding his face and screaming out into the night before he fell over into the mud.

  As the images and sounds passed again before me, I felt someone touch my arm and I opened my eyes to see my older brother, Jess, standing there. He was dressed in a clean U.S. Army uniform and several medals and ribbons adorned his chest. He took off his hat and smiled down at me.

  “You look a little better today, brother,” he said, and then looked down at my legs. “Looks like you’ve still got all your parts, too.”

  “Jess,” I started, “how did you ever find me here?”

  “I got word from your unit you had taken a shell,” he said.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Your commander told me you were carrying a man back during the retreat,” he said, and then sat softly down on the bed beside me. “You’re quite the hero, little brother.”

  I shook my head. “They tore us up, Jess.”

  “I know,” he said. “But the next night your unit broke through.”

  “I heard the bastards finally surrendered.”

  “Yes, two weeks after you were hit the Armistice was signed.”

  “So, you’re all in one piece?” I asked.

  “Got a little shrapnel in my back,” he said. “You can feel it if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said, and then smiled as I reached out to see one of his medals. “Looks like you did real well.”

  He just shook his head and I saw the surge of memories that were taking him back. “They kept you in the field hospital shot up with morphine for a couple of weeks,” he finally said. “Couldn’t get your damn leg to heal, so some asshole sends you up to this meat locker. Damn good thing I got here when I did.”

  “Yeah. Thanks, brother,” I said, and felt the tears beginning to well up again. “They’re telling me it won’t bend well, but they’ll be leaving it on.”

  “Damn right,” he said. “Brought in General Morris. The old man knows him from back in Georgia. He got the best doctor in the damn city to work on you. You’re gonna be okay.”

  Jess turned his head. Celeste was coming into the ward for her shift. Several men along the way called to her and one always whistled at her when she came into the room. She walked over to my bedside and stood beside Jess.

  “Hello, Captain,” she said.

  “I forgot you’d met,” I said.

  She reached down and held my wrist, counting out the beat of my pulse as she looked at the clock on the wall.

  “You two seem to be getting along just fine,” Jess said, and then he went on in French talking to Celeste.

  I was surprised he knew the language so well, but we had been apart for most of two years. When he finished, she laughed and her face blushed a bright red.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “I asked her if you two were lovers.”

  I laughed out loud, looking down at my lifeless leg. “I’ve been a bit occupied. And a gentleman would never say.”

  “They’re bringing the breakfast, Private Coulter,” she said. “And then I want you to get some more rest.”

  “Please call me Mathew,” I reminded her.

  She smiled and then moved on to the next bed.

  Jess leaned in close as we watched her walk away. “She’s magnificent, Matty.”

  “Yes, she certainly is.”

  “Are you feeling any better?” Jess asked.

  “With the drugs there’s just a dull ache,” I said. “I feel like I’m in a deep fog most times.”

  “We need to get you home. Get some of Velma’s good cooking in you.”

  Velma was the black cook who had worked for our family back in Atlanta for many years and my mother’s family before that. She had practically raised us Coulter children; Jess, my middle sister Margaret and me. My parents were often too busy with social and business obligations.

  Jess saw the medal lying on the table beside my bed. “I’m proud of you, Mathew,” he said, reaching for the ribbon and inspecting it more closely. “Just glad those damn Krauts didn’t get a big
ger piece of you.”

  I couldn’t answer him, knowing what had truly happened that night during the battle. The memories were a harsh reminder we all must carry some burdens in life. Shame and guilt can be a heavy load.

  When he left me that day he said his unit may be shipped home soon. We hugged as he left and I tried my best to smile, wondering if I would ever be able to face my brother again without a shameful heart.

  When a woman feeds you and changes your clothes and your bedpan several times a day, there is a strange intimacy that grows. Celeste was also the first to take me outside when I was finally able to be moved into a wheelchair. It was spring in Paris by then and in spite of the remnants of war, the city was in full bloom in the gardens and the trees, moving on in its own relentless pace. The American Hospital of Paris was a beautiful old school converted to care for the wounded during the War. It was located in Neuily-sur-Seine along the northern stretch of the city.

  Over the weeks, I learned Celeste had come to Paris and been trained as a nurse. She hoped to continue in the profession now that the fighting was over. On that first day outside she pushed me along the walks through the hospital property. Ford Motor ambulances lined the drive with young attendants milling about. I asked her how to pronounce something in French. She leaned close and whispered the answer, and then laughed at my awkward pronunciation before we continued on.

  When I was well enough, Celeste got permission to take me in the wheelchair for a tour of more of the city. As she pushed me along another bustling street she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “How do you like our city of Paris?”

  When I turned, I saw the delight in her marvelous green eyes. “It’s magnificent,” I said.

  “My parents used to bring me and my sisters to the city on special occasions to see a museum or visit friends,” she said. “It was always our favorite times together.”

  “I’d like to meet your family,” I said. I watched her face for a response, but she hesitated a moment.