Boxed Set: Deep in the Heart of Texas: Hurricane, Mismatched in Texas, Christmas at the Crossroads

by Janice Thompson

  Everett paused, deep in thought. He knew Isaac Cline to be a good and loving man—a family man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Did he really have a right to question the authority of a gentleman who had meant so much to islanders?

  Yes, Cline was a good, Christian man. Thinking twice about the matter, Everett took the piece of paper into his palm and wadded it up. He tossed it toward the wastebasket.

  It missed.

  ***

  Friday, September 7th, 1900, 7:36 P.M. John Sealy Hospital

  “Emma, you’re needed in the children’s ward,” Nurse Phillips shouted abruptly. “There are beds to be changed.”

  The older woman’s words reverberated around the room. “I know, I know,” Emma grumbled, reaching for an armful of sheets. She shoved them under her left arm, leaving her right hand free to reach for more. “I’ve just been so busy, I haven’t had time yet.” It seemed no matter how she slaved, she could never please the old girl.

  Emma marched across the meticulously clean hallway to medicine closet, thankful for a moment alone. They were few and far between and she cherished them as prizes. Emma had worked the afternoon shift today, and would have to be back at the hospital early tomorrow morning. A planned picnic with Sadie would have to wait. Right now there was no rest for the weary.

  “I’m never going to get to see my family,” she muttered. “I might as well put a bed in here.” Somehow that thought didn’t sound terribly appealing, though there were plenty of beds to be found.

  “What are you up to, pretty lady?” a familiar voice startled her back to reality.

  Emma turned to see Rupert Weston, a new intern. Strikingly handsome, Rupert’s deceptively deep blue eyes twinkled merrily. They seemed to tease her – as he had for days now. She had grown rather accustomed to it, though he was certainly not the type to turn her head.

  “Dr. Weston. I’m about to give out meds.” Perhaps he would go away and let her get some work done. Little chance of that.

  “Here, let me assist you. And it’s Rupert, remember?” He reached to help her.

  “You know I can’t call you by your first name,” she whispered. “And don’t let Nurse Phillips catch you in here or it will be the end of me!”

  Rupert touched his finger to his lips, as if hiding some great secret. “So, what’s new with you?” he asked.

  “Nothing much. Just work, work, and more work. That’s all I ever do.” She paused. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain. I know we all work hard – you, the hardest of all. But it seems like the workload is growing daily.”

  “With more to come,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” She reached to push a defiant hair behind her ear.

  His eyes widened. “There’s a storm headed our way. Didn’t you hear?”

  Emma couldn’t help but notice nervous wrinkles creep across his forehead. “No.” She used the back of her hand to brush wisps of hair from her eyes. In the process, she nearly lost the sheets.

  “Careful, there.” Rupert reached out to clutch them before they hit the floor.

  “To be honest, I’ve been so busy, a cyclone could have ripped the whole place to bits and I probably wouldn’t have noticed,” Emma said.

  “Hope that’s not a prediction.” He laughed nervously. “But really, people everywhere are talking about it. It’s supposed to be a big one. The whole island’s bracing for it.” His eyes suddenly reflected a genuine fear.

  “No storms where you come from?” Emma asked.

  “Not hurricanes, anyway,” he answered. “I hail from Oklahoma, remember? We get tornadoes, plenty of ‘em, but no hurricanes.”

  “Don’t get yourself all riled up,” Emma said with a yawn. “We’ve weathered some pretty big ones here before. This one won’t be anything new.”

  He gave her a wink. “I hope you’re right.”

  “Right as rain,” she retorted, then walked away.

  ***

  Friday, September 7th, 1900, 8:42 P.M. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  Henrietta looked up into the sky. Her gaze rested on the moon. Full, and nearly as bright as the morning sun, it held her captivated for a few moments. Somewhere in Virginia her family probably gazed at this very same moon. Were they thinking of her? Sadly, even that thought couldn’t lift her spirit tonight.

  I’m such a coward.

  Henrietta had to confess it. She hadn’t told them. She couldn’t do it. Fear kept her locked in its cage, a victim of her own choices.

  “Sister Henri?” Lilly Mae’s soft frightened voice startled her.

  “Lilly Mae, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  “I can’t sleep, Sister,” the youngster said. “I miss Mama.”

  “Oh, Lilly Mae,” Henri swept the youngster into her arms. “I’m here, baby. I’m here.”

  “Promise me you won’t go anywhere,” the little girl cried.

  “That’s not a promise I can make, dear. None of us can make that promise.”

  “But it scares me when people go away. Where do they go?”

  “They go to heaven, of course,” Henri said, trying to sound reassuring. She reached out to take the child’s hand into her own.

  “Not Papa,” Lilly Mae said, beginning to cry. “I heard Mama say he was going to the devil. She didn’t know I heard it, but I did.”

  “Oh, Lilly Mae.” How could she respond to such a statement? But she must. “Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean—when they’re upset or angry. I’m sure your mama didn’t really mean it.”

  “But what if...”

  “No ‘what if’s’ dear. Let’s not think that way.”

  “Oh, but Sister, it makes me so sad to think about Papa down there with the fire and the devil!”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Henri said. “Why don’t you sleep with me tonight.”

  “Really?” Lilly Mae’s voice was laced with a new energy.

  “Yes, really. But we mustn’t tell Sister Abigail. Promise?”

  “I promise,” the youngster said, eyes wide with excitement. Henri tucked Lilly Mae in then crawled in next to her.

  A direct violation of our rules!

  She could practically hear Sister Abigail’s stern voice now, but didn’t care. For once she had to follow her heart. This precious child needed her – needed the security of very real arms wrapped around her as she slept. She would give her that protection. Henrietta pulled the youngster close. They snuggled for a moment.

  Lilly Mae began to weep openly, which caused Henri a few tears of her own. Somehow she couldn’t help but think of her own little sister, Katie, back at home. How many nights they had spent, holding each other until they fell asleep.

  “Will you sing to me, Lilly Mae?” she asked.

  “What shall I sing?” The youngster’s voice sounded steadier than before.

  “Let’s see now... What was your mama’s favorite song? What did she teach you to sing?”

  After only a slight hesitation, Lilly Mae’s voice broke forth into an aria—gentle and yet as strong as any grown woman’s. For a brief moment, Henri worried that the music, which now seemed to dance against the night, might waken the others. Then, just as suddenly, she didn’t care any more. None of it mattered anymore. All that mattered now was this little girl—this gift from God.

  Chapter Seven

  Saturday morning, September 8th, 4:02 a.m. The Tremont Hotel

  “Mr. Murphy! Mr. Murphy!”

  A repetitive pounding on the hotel door awakened Brent from a deep sleep. He fought to focus, trying to make sense of it all. Where am I? What is that?

  “Mr. Murphy, wake up!”

  “What in the world?” Whoever it was certainly sounded determined. Brent reached for his robe in the dark. He stuck his arm in the sleeve—the wrong sleeve. Reaching for his spectacles, he accidentally knocked a glass of water off the bedside table. It soaked the bottom half of his robe.

  The pounding continued relentlessly. “Mr. Murphy!”

  “I�
�m coming,” he hollered. He fought his way toward the door in the utter darkness, stubbing his toe on the bedpost in the process. “Ooow!” By the time he finally reached his destination, anger had replaced any fear or curiosity. He yanked the door open with a vengeance. “What? What’s so all-fired important that you haul a man out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  The pale face of the young bellboy greeted him and Brent immediately smelled a story. This would not be a happy story. The young man spoke hurriedly. “I’m so sorry to disturb you Mr. Murphy, but we’ve been asked to inform all of our guests that we’ve got water up to the diner. It’s ankle deep and rising.”

  “What?” Brent looked frantically toward the window, imagining the worst. This made no sense at all. It wasn’t even raining.

  “It’s the swell,” the anxious young man explained. “From that big storm out in the gulf. And it’ll only get higher. That’s for sure. Probably won’t bother any of you up on the higher floors, but I thought it would be wise to let everyone know, just in case they wanted to find refuge elsewhere.”

  “Good grief. This must be a bad one.” Brent headed over to look out of the window, amazed at the water in the street below.

  “It’s bad, alright.”

  “Is that so?” Brent was more than a little curious now.

  “Yep. But you can’t tell these islanders anything. They’ll all sit tight and wait it out.”

  “I understand. But what about the hotel? You shutting down or something?”

  “No Sir. We’re just asking people to move to higher floors or to find another place to stay till this blows over.” He stepped outside the door and glanced at his watch. “Do you have someplace to go, or will you be staying on with us?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve got someplace to go,” Brent said. “But could you hold a room for me, just in case?”

  “I’ll do my best, Sir, but I can’t guarantee anything. We’ve already got refugees pouring in. We’re sending them up to the spare rooms on the third floor just above you.”

  “Well, do your best. I’ll be back by later, I’m sure. In the meantime, can you send a carriage around?”

  “No Sir. I’m sorry, but the water’s too high for that. You’ll have to go by foot.”

  Brent nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation. With water that high, he would have trouble making it several blocks to his home. Perhaps he should just stay here. He wrestled with the idea as he dressed. His mother would need him at home if a storm struck. With his father away on business much of the time, she was sure to be alone.

  He took one more look out the window before heading out. From here, he could barely make out the street, but what he saw sent a shiver down his spine. Brent headed toward the door. Like it or not, it looked like he was going home.

  ***

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 7:45 a.m. John Sealy Hospital

  As Emma arrived at the hospital, she still reeled from her journey. Lightning had danced across the morning sky, casting an eerie green over stark white exterior of John Sealy Hospital. Now safely inside, she stood to speak briefly to Dr. Weston. “I hear they’ve already got water rising in the streets down off the Strand and Market.” She reached for a chart on the wall.

  “It’s barely raining!” Rupert responded. “Besides, I thought you Islanders didn’t get all riled up over storms, remember?”

  Leave it to an outsider to give a Galvestonian advice. “You’ve never been through this before. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

  “You’re sure singing a different song this morning, that’s all,” he said with a shrug. But it looks like we may have more to worry about than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve got an influenza epidemic on our hands. I admitted another three children just this morning.” He gestured down the hall.

  “Poor little things. Are their parents with them?”

  “No. These little ones were found out on the street by one of the men from up at the cotton mill. Lucky he stumbled across them.”

  “I see.” She leaned against the wall, deep in thought.

  “Don’t you have work to do, Nurse Sanders?” The abrupt voice of Nurse Phillips snapped her back to reality.

  “Oh, I... uh,” she stammered.

  The older woman glared at her, no hint of compassion in her eyes. “I thought I made it abundantly clear to you, Miss Sanders, that there was to be no—shall I say fraternizing—with other staff members here at John Sealy Hospital. Any attempt to do so will result in your immediate dismissal.”

  Emma felt her cheeks heat up immediately. She tried to answer but the words couldn’t seem to squeeze past the anger.

  I’d like to tell you a thing or two, you old bitty!

  “Your comment was entirely inappropriate, Nurse Phillips.” Rupert said sternly. “And I take it as a personal insult. For your information, I was briefing Nurse Sanders on our new influenza cases.”

  Emma’s gaze shot straight to the ground and she clutched the chart as tightly as she could. “I’m headed to children’s ward now.”

  Her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears as she turned. Imagine the nerve, to insinuate such a thing. And what must Rupert be thinking? Did she look like an immature schoolgirl with a giddy crush? Nothing could be farther from the truth.

  Rupert disappeared in the opposite direction as Emma headed to Jimmy Peterson’s bedside. Only six years old, he bore the marks of the flu ravaging his tiny body. Diagnosed with influenza just three days ago, pneumonia now appeared to be setting in. Emma reached inside the tent that surrounded the bed to take his temperature. “How are we doing today?” she asked.

  He answered with a frown.

  “Would you like me to read you a story a little later?” She forced a smile as she placed her hand on his forehead. He’s burning up!

  The youngster squeezed her hand and nodded his response. “Thank you, miss,” he whispered, then dissolved into a fit of coughing. Emma waited until it subsided, then placed the thermometer in his mouth. She gripped his delicate fingers tightly, fighting back the tears which suddenly overwhelmed her. Where they came from, she had no idea.

  ***

  Saturday, Sept. 8th, 7:45 a.m. The Galveston Courier

  Everett Maxwell paced nervously around his office, stopping to look out of the window every few moments. Less than a mile from the bay, this window gave him an undisturbed view. For the most part the skies were completely overwhelmed with an ominous yellow-gray. He had seen that color before.

  Everett felt the swell of the tide from here. It filled the air with a tremor, an energy that couldn’t be explained. It seemed to rise, then fall – as did his heartbeat. He vacillated between excitement and fear as all of these things sank in.

  “What’s the story on the Kodak?” he asked anxiously.

  “I’m working on it, sir. The shutter’s giving me fits.” Reporter Nathan Potter grumbled, tossing his unkempt red hair out of his eyes.

  “We’ve got to get pictures,” Everett mumbled nervously. “I hear Cline’s getting restless. This is gonna be a big one. I can feel it. But what good will any of it be without pictures?” He twisted his hands together and turned back toward the window.

  “Yes, Everett. I know. Have I ever missed a story?”

  Might be best not to answer that. “I’m just saying -”

  Nathan interrupted. “Cline’s out in his buggy urging people to get away from the beach. I’m gonna snap of photo of him if I can ever get this ridiculous thing fixed.”

  “Just do what you can,” Everett said. “Is anyone talking evacuation besides Cline?” He hadn’t printed the story – the one that would have asked people to leave the island voluntarily. Not that they would have left, anyway. The guilt tore at him as he turned back toward the window. Folks fought the rush of water that now filled the streets ankle-deep as they scurried up and down The Strand.

  “Everyone’s talking, but no one seems to be listening,” Nathan replied.
“We’ve got tourists gawking at the waves.”

  “People sure act crazy at a time like this,” Everett mumbled. Droplets of water fell steadily, and the wind picked up. Even so, things really didn’t look too bad, at least not so far.

  “Got it!” Nathan waved the camera in the air.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Everett asked. He turned to face the young would-be photographer. “Get out there and get to work.”

  Nathan answered with a salute. “Yes sir!”

  “That’s the trouble with young people,” Everett mumbled to himself as the door slammed shut. “They’ve got no gumption.”

  ***

  Saturday, September 8th, 7:55 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian stared anxiously out the kitchen window. Rain plummeted from the skies. What had started as a light mist had escalated into an unimaginable deluge. What a terrible distraction. A wet lawn would never do for a party. The flowers could use the moisture, naturally, but if the yard took in too much water, it would become completely saturated. The gala couldn’t be out of doors if the rain continued.

  It wouldn’t continue. She would will it away and the festivities would go on, as planned. Those who cared about the role she would soon play at the Opera Society would come, regardless. They could brave a few raindrops, after all. She smiled and settled the issue once and for all in her mind. The show would go on, as planned. Nothing would stop it.

  “My poor flowers,” she moaned as she looked at the Candytuft – her sturdiest plants. Their lilac petals drooped heavily toward the ground, weighted down with raindrops. “It’s simply pitiful.”

  “Miz Gillian, you care far too much about them little flowers of yours,” Pearl said sternly. “And I’m weary to the bone with hearing about them.”

  “Pearl!” Why, the very thought. Pearl had often spoken her mind, but never this forcefully. Or rudely.