Angels, Sinners and Madmen

by Cate Masters

  Annie sashayed toward him, her grin lopsided. He set his coins on the counter, and then strolled outside.

  Sam stretched his aching limbs. “Time to go, Barnaby.”

  The dog leapt to its feet, falling in step, tail wagging like a metronome.

  The day’s humidity hadn’t lessened and would hold sleep at bay. Rather than heading toward Conchtown, where wreckers’ cabins lined the street in tight rows, the salty ocean scent lured him to the narrow beach. Feeling the sand beneath his boots, he slowed his pace. Through the limbs of the red mangrove, a crescent moon hung above the horizon. He stepped atop the tree’s tangled roots that appeared to tiptoe along the water’s edge. He leaned back, inhaling the sweet night air, perfumed by plumeria blossoms.

  The sea undulated toward shore, endlessly swelling, cresting, falling like the sighing surrender of a lover. Its unpredictability demanded clarity of thought, an immediate response to its force. Unlike his former life in Philadelphia, it required no forethought, no planning, no scheming or devising–such planning proved useless against such an opponent. It forced Sam to abandon his schooling. There could be no fallback position, no secondary level of victory. The sea demanded her due, and always collected it. The exhilaration of acting with precision in the face of extraordinary odds fortified his sustained efforts while diving. His every sense sharpened, not by fear, but in rising to the challenge, recognizing that responding inadequately to that challenge would cost him–possibly his life. The sea wanted his full attention. He willingly gave it.

  Tempered by awe and respect, the thrill of unleashing his skill against the rages of a storm only served to fuel his desire to go against it again and again, though no victor could ever be declared. He knew better than to claim victory over the sea, for she could snatch it back at any time.

  After he’d begun wrecking, Sam would have accepted without blame the sea’s demand for his all, even if rendered in his death. The thrill, the challenge, of acting in each moment against such a force drew his senses to unimaginable heights, soaring like a sea bird. Some men had been able to sustain their wrecking careers for decades, though many others met sudden, untimely deaths. Drownings. Shark attacks. Accidents involving equipment. Did they lose their focus for one moment too long, the sea sweeping in to claim her booty?

  Barnaby’s barking roused him.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” He stepped along the roots to where the dog stood in the water, snapping at something beneath. Barnaby gave a yelp, jumping away.

  “Ho now. Did you find a crab? I’ll wager its claw found you.” Peering into the shallows, he saw the prize. Using great care, he grabbed its shell to lift it. “Tomorrow we feast! Come on, let’s go home.”

  Holding the crab at arm’s length, he strode to his cabin. He put the sea creature in a bucket. After filling a bowl for Barnaby along with his wash basin, Sam stripped. He lay in bed, the dog stretched on the floor beside him.

  Despite his walk, sleep eluded him. The night sounds amplified his thoughts of the girl. He should make sure she’d fared all right, dissuade her worry before she embarked on a new ship. He hadn’t even learned her name.

  * * * *

  “Olivia.” The soft moan echoed down the hall.

  Stifling a sigh, Livvie tucked the pages into the drawer. “Coming, Martha.” How relieved she’d been to find Mrs. Locke at the Crowell’s boarding house, alive and well, with hardly even a bruise to show for their struggle. The doctor had declared the widow in fair health, even if her mental state remained more fragile after the shock. Hysteria overtook Mrs. Locke in the middle of the night, dissipating when Livvie read to her. From the boarding house bookshelves, she’d selected the first installment of Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. Someone, according to the proprietress, had saved the twenty publications during a shipwreck, only to later die. In New York, Livvie had already read the first seven installments. After Mrs. Locke’s pleading, she began again at the first. The intricate plot clearly overwhelmed the distraught woman, who fell into a fitful sleep after a few pages. Livvie took the opportunity to tiptoe away from the room back to her own.

  A soft knock sounded at her door. The housekeeper entered carrying Livvie’s dress. “It’s dry now, Miss Olivia. I washed it and mended a tear or two.”

  “You’re so kind, Florie. Thank you.”

  The woman laid it on the bed. “No need to thank me. I do as I’m told.”

  “I appreciate it all the same.”

  Florie turned. “I best go. Don’t know how I’ll do all my chores before nightfall.”

  “Isn’t there anyone to help?”

  “Oh no, Miss. I have to hurry to the market. Miz Crowell will be angry if all the best fruits are sold. She don’t like to hear about my sore feet.”

  “I’ll go.” Livvie clutched the bed post.

  The housekeeper hesitated near the door. “No, no. You’re not even dressed.”

  “I will be. In two minutes. Oh, please Florie, I need to get away for awhile.” Before Martha awoke, and her soft pleadings tied her to her bedside.

  “Well….” The woman bit her lip.

  Seeing her opportunity, Livvie stripped off the nightgown. Wriggling into her dress, she bent for her shoes.

  Florie chuckled. “Let me help you button up. We can’t have you rushing off half undone.”

  More than half undone, Livvie wanted to say. Too much had happened these few months. The shipwreck had stripped her of her last hold on the past. All her belongings, all her regrets; the sinking ship had cracked open the world to reveal a new place, one of untold history. One she wanted to explore.

  * * * *

  Sam walked to the market in the square. Visitors often found oranges a rare treat, so he went to a table laden with fruit. He’d bring her the best oranges she’d ever tasted.

  He smiled at the rotund woman behind the table. “Good morning, Mrs. Simmendinger. How’s Ullrich?”

  “He’s home, suffering a touch of the gout today.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Hope he’s well soon.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimmer of gold shining in the morning sun. He lifted his head, stilling at the vision in the street.

  The girl. The sun appeared to favor her, to gather around her in concentrated illumination. The rays kissed her skin, outlined her features in softness. The light blue of her dress glowed like a cornflower in summer, glorious in its peak. Her hair fell thicker than he’d imagined, flowing in long waves to the middle of her back. She walked toward him, looking left and right at the market wagons or tables, her bearing as regal as a princess.

  Her gaze swept across him and snapped back. Mouth agape, she slowed uncertainly.

  He held up a hand in a wave, afraid to call out for fear his voice would fail him. He could be at her side in five long strides, but held back. A thickness filled his throat. His thoughts scattered as though swept clean by the brush of her skirt’s hem. When her gaze met his again, his heart leapt against his ribs.

  She ducked her head, walking to the fruit stand where he stood, clutching a small basket in front of her. She nodded to Sam. To Mrs. Simmendinger, she said, “May I have fifteen oranges? Twenty lemons too.”

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest. “Pick which you want.”

  The girl’s slight took him aback. He might well have been invisible to her.

  He stepped to her side. “Hello.”

  Selecting an orange, she glanced at him, placing it in her basket. “Hello.” She squeezed another, set it down.

  Momentarily flustered by her abruptness, Sam persisted. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” Dropping the last orange in her basket, she moved to his other side, where the lemons crowded in bushels.

  Perhaps she didn’t recognize him. Shock was common in rescued folk, particularly women. He bent to bring himself to her eye level. “Do you not remember me? I’m the one who—”

  Her gaze flicked to his. “Who brought me ashore, yes.” After a moment’s pause, she ad
ded, “Thank you.” She held out the coins to Mrs. Simmendinger. “Good day.” She turned, her strides long for a genteel girl.

  He followed, confused and intrigued by her rebuff. “I hear they found your companion. She’s doing well, I hope?”

  The girl’s gait had equal purpose and grace. “She had quite a shock. However, the doctor says she’ll be fine.”

  “Good, I’m glad to hear it.” The woman’s death would have been a permanent barrier between them, yet now provided a link. A tenuous link, still, a link nonetheless.

  She appeared intent on not looking at him, nor breaking her stride.

  Hadn’t he used the right mix of concern and sympathy in asking about her friend? He’d practiced several versions. How could she show no gratitude? At least, a bit of interest, as other women did.

  “I’m Samuel Langhorne.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her pace increased slightly. Sunlight filtered through the coconut palm trees lining the streets. The rays glinted off her hair, turning her honey-colored tresses brilliant.

  She turned her head his way, only to look down the street before crossing.

  He doubled his pace to step in front of her. “Might I be so bold as to ask your name?”

  Her tawny eyes searched his briefly. “Olivia Collins.”

  Such stiff treatment stung. Perhaps she suffered from shyness. Or perhaps she sought to increase his attentions with her lack of interest.

  He’d play along. “You’re looking very well today, Miss Collins. I’m glad you are as fit as ever. And as fast.” His chuckle came out breathlessly. He could dive four fathoms repeatedly for six hours, but wasn’t accustomed to walks at such a pace.

  Halting, she whirled to face him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Langhorne. I don’t mean to be rude. Mrs. Crowell’s expecting me back. I shouldn’t dawdle.” Her light brown eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes, bore into his bearing with no pretense of flirting.

  Speechless, he glanced away. The Crowell’s Boarding House sign hanging above the porch entryway re-oriented him. That was why she’d stopped. They stood outside her temporary place of residence.

  She wanted him to leave.

  “Of course. Maybe I could stop by later, to visit?”

  “I don’t know….” Her wide eyes had the look of a trapped animal searching for an escape.

  He knew the look. He’d affected it many times himself when conversing with the opposite sex. Women he wanted to avoid.

  “To make certain you’re both fine. You and...Martha Locke, wasn’t it?” Including her friend’s name surely would calm her fears. Waiting those few seconds for her response, he arranged a line of arguments in his head should she refuse him.

  Straightening, she looked him in the eye. “All right. I’ll let Mrs. Crowell know to expect you.”

  It wasn’t Mrs. Crowell he wanted to visit. “Very well. I’ll see you tonight.”

  A lightheadedness overtook him. He stepped backward, already anticipating tonight.

  Turning abruptly, she walked down the stone path alongside the house. Strong-willed as a filly, her movements as graceful, even if less dainty than other ladies. Perhaps she hadn’t been broken to the school of feminine wiles yet, though she wasn’t so young as he’d first perceived. Maybe nineteen or twenty. Luscious as a ripe orange. He nearly drooled at the thought of peeling her stiff outer skin away to reveal the sweet and tangy flesh beneath, aching to be tasted.

  Tonight.

  A sense of victory struck him. He’d spend the night sitting on the sofa beside Olivia Collins, sipping lemonade in Mrs. Crowell’s parlor. Such a mundane activity would usually seem torturous. If it led to even a touch of her skin, the torture would be sweet.

  * * * *

  Livvie forced herself not to glance back, to continue following the stone walkway that curled around the main house to the small outbuilding that served as the summer kitchen. She was sure he’d still be standing there, watching her.

  The past two nights, she’d relived the shipwreck in nightmares. The chaos of the ship bucking its passengers off one by one, like a wild mustang. The horror of seeing Peter disappear forever, coupled with her terror at being unable to find Martha Locke, of finding herself utterly alone. Her movements slowed by the turbulent seas. The strong grip of hands at her waist, the sight of him–coming for her, and her alone—a sea god intent on plucking a pearl from the waters.

  In her dreams, she swirled into his arms, clinging to him. Each upward thrust rippled his muscles and resonated inside her, drew her closer so by the time they broke through the surface, she required his touch more than air. His arm tightened against her ribs, his hand atop her beating heart while he carried her to shore. The waves pushed them to the sand, chest to chest, legs tangled. His voice low, murmuring her name like a prayer, like salvation: Livvie, Livvie; the weight of his body against hers somehow freeing, rather than trapping her.

  She awoke from each dream breathless, shoving aside the bed sheets, her breast dampened by sweat. Not owing to the heat of the night, but from within herself.

  No one except her father had ever called her that name. Hearing it from his lips, even in a dream, was like finding home in this strange, strange place.

  Seeing him at the market had made her head light. She could not trust her own thoughts. He showered his insistent attentions in too practiced a manner. She had no desire to be the target of any man’s conquest for sport alone. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of a backward glance, she forged ahead toward the summer kitchen house.

  Lilting humming sounded within.

  Following it, Livvie pushed open the door. “Hello, Florie.”

  The warm tones of the Cuban woman’s mocha skin glowed when she smiled. “Miss Olivia. Back so soon?”

  Going about her duties, Florie sang–rhythmic tunes matching the stroke of the knife while she cut, her movements across the kitchen house floor became swirling dance steps. As though having to cook for ten people each day were no chore at all.

  Livvie set the basket on the table, sorry to add to Florie’s work. “I hoped to return before the heat set in. It’s such a lovely day.”

  “Mmm hmm. Goin’ to be a beautiful day.” Florie glanced out the window.

  Apparently the sunshine-filled view was enough to satisfy her. The only time she spent outside was in walking between the small outbuilding and the main house to deliver meals.

  Livvie rested her hands atop the table watching Florie slice the fruit. “Do you have any hobbies, Florie? Besides preparing excellent meals?”

  Florie’s sharp knife halved the lemons with speed, releasing their citrusy scent. “What do you mean, Miss Olivia?” She squeezed the juice from the lemons into a pitcher.

  “What do you do when you’re not cooking for the Crowells and their boarders?”

  “I take care of Mr. O’Hanlan.” By her matter-of-fact tone, the woman didn’t understand the question.

  “What about you? Is there nothing you do for yourself?”

  The housekeeper gave a whooping laugh. “This is what I do for myself.”

  Livvie wanted to take the woman by her shoulders, ask if she never walked outside just to feel the sunshine warm her face, to stand by the ocean just to feel its vastness stretch far away to unimaginable places.

  The cook must have sensed her confusion. “I come from Havana many years ago, Miss Olivia. My family was poor, too poor to feed nine young ones. I met Mr. O’Hanlan when I was years younger than you. He promised to take care of me. He has, so I take care of him too. I made him quit the wrecking business, now he’s much happier sponge fishing. Much safer, too, and a good living. Because we both work, we can help my family back in Havana. All my brothers and sisters are married now with their own families. Gives me a good feeling to know we still all depend on one another.” Humming, she stirred the lemonade.

  Florie’s circumstances were beyond Livvie’s comprehension. The woman who’d kept house for her father while she was growing up ne
ver took pleasure in her work. Livvie was sure her father had treated her better than the Crowells treated Florie.

  The confines of the kitchen constricted Livvie’s nerves. “I should go check on Martha.”

  The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “If you’d like to bring the lemonade, it’s ready.”

  “Thank you, Florie.”

  A wide smile crossed her face. “No need to thank me, Miss Olivia. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

  “You deserve thanks for doing it so well.”

  Her joyous laugh filled the kitchen house. “You go on now, Miss Olivia. You’ll fill my head with nonsense.”

  At a loss to explain how her praise was far from nonsense, Livvie lifted the pitcher. “I will see you later.”

  Florie’s rich voice echoed through the windows while Livvie strolled the walkway to the house. The song’s peculiar beat intrigued Livvie, made her wish to hear it rendered by musical instruments, though she guessed even those would be beyond her limited experience of pianos, violins, and guitars.

  In the parlor, Mrs. Crowell looked up from her sewing, clucking her tongue. “Why did Florie have you carry the lemonade inside?”

  “I offered to bring it. I was coming in anyway.”

  Mrs. Crowell pursed her lips. “We pay the woman to work, Miss Collins. You are not obliged to assist her.”

  “I’m happy to do anything I can to assist any of you. To repay your kindnesses.” She stressed the last word, hoping the lady would recognize its inclusive meaning.

  “We are a boarding house. We earn our living by our kindnesses.” Mrs. Crowell’s tone suggested just the opposite. Did no one in Key West act except for financial gain? Perhaps Mrs. Crowell suspected Livvie’s actions were intended as a ploy to reduce her six dollar a week payment for her stay.

  “I’ll bring some to Mrs. Locke, if you don’t mind.” Hurrying into the kitchen, she opened the cabinet.

  Mrs. Crowell’s voice floated through the hallway. “If you please, I’d like a glass, also.”