Once more the terrifying faces and sounds retreated into the darkest cavern of childhood nightmares. Bret brushed his damp black hair behind his ears and glanced at the dark circles and lean face reflecting back from the full-length dressing mirror on the wall.
Although never one to be too concerned with personal appearance—rugged work makes for rugged men, as the saying went—he had to admit that he was looking more haggard these days; something, without a doubt, the rarified Contessa Da Rimini and the aristocratic ladies of her Italian Riviera circle would never have tolerated.
Easy to blame it on the long, hard hours out at the Beaumont field and the uncertainties of securing the necessary financing, but the faded luster in his intense, blue eyes told him it was something else.
Within a few months of his arrival the exotic allure of European women had already started to fade. Their perfumed finery and seductive glances slowly replaced, as he feared it would be, by his cherished memories of Gabrielle.
Bret closed his eyes. Although it had been over two years it sometimes seemed like only yesterday they were together. Gabrielle Mavis Caldwell, the clever, impetuous, and stunningly beautiful daughter of cotton magnate Arley Falkner Caldwell. How long ago had it been now since they watched the treetops stir with the whisper of a warming breeze?
Bret let his mind drift back to the spring of ’89, when the countryside around Galveston had been verdant, unblemished. In the early morning, faint puffs of vapor hung over freshly ploughed fields. He saw himself strolling through that beautifully wooded section of the waterfront park near the boardwalk with its low, rolling hills intersected by a clean running stream flowing to the Gulf.
He had first seen Gabrielle sitting on the bank looking into the cool spring water. Her long, bright auburn hair, tied back and pinned, gleamed with deep, gorgeous red shadows under her parasol.
Concealed in her summer finery he sensed a slim, wild beauty with hips that tapered smoothly into long, straight legs. Gabrielle looked up at him with warm brown eyes, flecked with gold that seemed to sparkle on the surface of the rippling mirror.
Bret lowered his eyes and shook his head. But that was all in the carefree past of another century. Those thoughts and feelings had no place in the shrewd, levelheaded business of the new millennium.
After hot coffee, a hot shave was all a man needed to set things right. While he was in town tomorrow he’d get a haircut and buy a few new shirts, and anything else that struck his fancy. Bret rose naked from bed. He stretched and walked up to the huge bay window of his bedroom.
Parting the fine white muslin drapes he gazed out on the Gulf of Mexico shimmering in the endless blue under the brilliant summer sun beating down on the sandy beaches of Galveston.
Bret gazed down at the gently swelling waves reflecting the beauty of the cloudless sky. A group of young women dressed in their brightest Gibson girl tailored shirtwaist blouses and long skirts giggled and laughed as they plodded across the sparkling white sand clutching their parasols, beach umbrellas, and wicker picnic baskets.
Bret winced from the intensity of the sunlight and stepped back. How long had it been since he enjoyed an untroubled, relaxing day at the beach?
Was it with Gabrielle?
He closed his eyes, letting the healing rays burn away the last remaining darkness of his dreams.
CHAPTER 4
Saturday, August 25
Gabrielle fanned herself as she sipped iced tea on the veranda of her family home. She was barely listening to the men discussing politics and business but still kept a keen ear open for any comment or important piece of news that could help her family’s business.
On a summer day such as this, she much preferred the vivid bloom of the rosebushes that accented the bright pinks and yellows of the freshly painted homes on each side of the clean, wide street.
It went without saying, of course, that Blue Haven, her family’s grand, Beaux Arts-style mansion, was one of the more magnificent homes overlooking the Gulf, although some would say her father had close competition when speaking of the McGowan’s property.
But few people cared to speak of the McGowans these days in polite company.
Gabrielle stared at the shining water brimming with sailing boats and pleasure yachts enjoying the late summer sun. In the heat she was glad to have her hair pinned under her hat in a small coiffure of French twists that suited her dollish curls. A few loose, long tendrils brushed against the soft, blushing rose of her cheek.
In the distance, the bustling waterfront was crowded with cargo ships and commercial fishing boats. Before her mother fell ill, she used to bring Gabrielle to the dock fish market to buy fresh seafood. As a little girl, Gabrielle was enthralled watching the dock men hoist pulleys, lift bushel after bushel of fresh produce, and haul nets up overflowing with the daily catch.
She liked to pet the workhorses and give them apple and carrot treats when her mother was busy bartering for the best price on sea trout and flounder. She felt sorry for the big, kind-hearted animals as they stood patiently hitched to their flatbed carts waiting to receive their loads. With a crack of a driver’s whip they were off, hauling their goods to market.
“That’s why you have such a strong, sensible head on your shoulders. Melissa, bless your mother’s soul, could always drive a hard bargain and win,” her father was fond of saying, usually in his more melancholic brandy moods.
Gabrielle heard one of the men refreshing the ice in his glass. “Ahh ... A seawall? A colossal waste of time and money,” Hadlee said behind her. “What Galveston needs is more beachfront vacation property. That’s where the future is.”
“Yes, but I agree with Mr. Caldwell too,” Timothy replied. “We need to protect what we have as we prepare and build into the twentieth century. Isn’t that true, Gabrielle?”
Gabrielle watched a white sailboat glide by, the happy, laughing couple seated at the rudder as though steering their craft on a drifting dream of promise and hope the way Bret and her once—
“Gabrielle?”
Gabrielle turned as though shaken from a pleasant memory. She smiled at her two earnest, well-to-do suitors dressed in their most colorful, debonair summer attire. Always-serious Timothy DeRocha ran his finger along the tip of his freshly waxed moustache. He waited politely for her answer as he glanced nervously at the slimmer, taller, more relaxed Hadlee Foster leaning on the veranda rail, twirling the ice in his glass.
“Yes, of course. Father is always right in these matters.”
Timothy flashed a quick, triumphant grin at his rival.
“Of course. You’re right as always, Gabrielle.” Hadlee glanced away and adjusted his red striped tie. “Say, I am looking forward to Doctor Hellreich’s next lecture though—Eugenics and Social Engineering. Fascinating, but he has some folks quite riled up and fit to be tied.”
Timothy brushed the sleeve of his light yellow shirt. “To be honest, I find his opinions practical and refreshing. You know he favored passing the ‘Chinese Exclusion Act’ into law?” He lifted his head proudly to Gabrielle as though seeking her approval like a faithful pet. “I can see why your father values his opinion.”
Gabrielle smiled. “Yes ... he does cut a dashing figure and the ladies who have met him cannot say enough kind words about the man.” She turned to hide the flush she felt building in her cheeks. “And I confess, gentlemen, that I might count myself among them.” It was cruel, she knew, but oh how she loved to tease men like Hadlee and Timothy who were only a few years older but regarded themselves as wise, worldly men of experience.
And she did hate how they talked down to her sometimes, although in her heart she told herself it wasn’t their intention.
Hadlee cleared his throat. “I see . . . and how does your father feel about even bigger news than that?”
Gabrielle strolled over to the pitcher of iced tea and poured herself another glass. She sipped her drink without looking at Hadlee or Timothy. “What on Earth are you talking about, Hadlee Foster
?” She turned to face the men. “What could be more important than our safety and future?”
Hadlee, obviously embarrassed, glanced awkwardly at Timothy. His friend made a sweeping gesture with his hand as though batting away some bothersome fly. “I, for one, believe he should have stayed where he was.” Timothy’s chest seemed to puff up like a seagull with every word. “If he fancied himself such a Bohemian adventurer, let the damn Europeans have him.”
Timothy strode toward Gabrielle. “He’s certainly not a gentleman, at least not the one he used to be. Lord, I’ve heard he even keeps a loaded pistol in that infernal contraption of his as if any self-respecting person would want to steal it.”
Hadlee nodded, seeming quite relieved. “You don’t say? Mmm . . . two years is a long time, my friend. People change, and sometimes not for the better. Isn’t that right, Gabrielle?”
Gabrielle knew what they were trying to do but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. She raised her chin proudly. “I can’t remember the last time his name or business affairs were mentioned in the paper yet Bret McGowan is always the favorite topic at every social event.”
She twirled a loose tendril between her fingers. “And quite frankly, I’m bored to exhaustion with the subject. There are so many more important things happening in the world than the return of Bret McGowan, although Mr. McGowan would beg to differ I’m sure.”
The men laughed with Gabrielle.
“And what about this business out at Beaumont?” Timothy asked.
“I heard Bret has some foreigner digging around for oil,” Hadlee said. “My God, the man must be more ill than rumor says. Can you imagine?”
Gabrielle frowned with annoyance. “Gentlemen, if you insist on prolonging my fatigue I will seek more stimulating conversation elsewhere. Perhaps I should pay a surprise call on Liam or . . .” A mischievous thought suddenly came to her. “Perhaps I should finally make Doctor Hellreich’s acquaintance.”
Gabrielle beamed with eagerness. “Yes, that’s it. I’ll ask father to take me at once to be introduced. The good doctor may feel like a stroll along the boardwalk. I wonder what we’ll talk about.” She swayed toward the front door.
Timothy hurried to one side. “Gabrielle, I’m sorry . . .”
“Yes,” Hadlee rushed to the other. “Please, we apologize . . .”
Gabrielle stopped and sighed. Sometimes they reminded her of children afraid of being scolded by their nanny. “Fine, but only ten minutes more then I must go to town with Verna.”
The bells of the new Galveston electric trolley cars clanked and jingled faintly in Bret’s ears as he drove past in his new French automobile. He took a deep breath. The scent of oleander wafted by and the palm trees swayed lazily in the balmy breeze. The vivid bloom of the rosebushes on each side of the clean, wide street accented the bright pinks and yellows of several freshly painted homes.
He slowed his vehicle, smiling and nodding to people on the street he recognized and grinning slyly at the women he did not. Bret knew the many people had already complained about the sputtering and chugging noises made by his “infernal contraption” as it rumbled its way down the street, but he didn’t care.
Folks could stare all they wanted and cover their ears. After all, didn’t they know they were watching the future drive by?
Sunlight glinted off the polished bronze trim and the shining red body of the vehicle. Bret glanced at his distorted reflection in the polished, lacquer surface of the metal and adjusted his goggles.
An approaching cart driver pulled his horses off to the side. Many an animal had been known to rear and bolt at the sight and sound of the mechanical monster.
Bret spotted his old friend Liam walking on the sidewalk toward him. He hadn’t seen his friend in more than two years and although Liam was several years younger, he was not as slim and muscular, which made him appear older when standing beside Bret.
He drove up beside him and pulled back on the brake lever. Liam, obviously startled by his clamorous arrival, jumped a few feet to the side. The engine backfired, and the automobile jerked to an abrupt stop. Bret raised his voice over the din of the idling engine. “Liam Dawson, you no-account lecherous bastard. Out buying posies and Yankee notions for our latest strumpet, are we?”
Bret lifted his glass goggles. Liam had definitely put on a few pounds since last they’d met and his thinning hair only aged his appearance more. Bret swept back the dark brown hair of his pompadour, and looked down at his friend, still wide eyed like he’d just been visited by an angry ghost.
Liam folded his arms across his chest and took a step forward. “I should be so lucky to find anything left after you’ve been through the shops, but at least I don’t court the ones who are already married . . . or soon to be.”
Bret threw back his head and laughed loud enough to make several pedestrians shake their heads. “Since when did you turn into a school-marm?” Two young women covered their smiles with dainty lace gloves as they hurried by.
Liam raised his eyebrow. “A gentleman over the age of forty should live up to his name.”
“If only I could, my friend, but I confess. Every beautiful woman is bewitching to me.”
Liam shook his head. “Even Gabrielle? Any man in town would have gladly given his soul for a woman like that. But you—”
Bret held up his hand. “Easy, old friend. After being away for two years I’m in town only a few weeks and folks treat me as if I broke off my engagement to Gabrielle yesterday. Tell me, Liam. Have you ever been in love?”
“Of course. As many times as there are days in a week, maybe even a month. But you’ve loved as many as . . .” He paused and scratched his head. “How many countries did you visit?”
Bret grabbed his chest in feigned pain. “You wound me to the quick. Have I not served my penance, suffered the ostracism of polite Galveston society long enough, all for the crime of misplaced affection?”
“I believe Arley Caldwell is of a different opinion about what you misplaced in his daughter.”
Bret laughed and slapped the side of his suede knickerbockers. “Never going to let me live down my one indecorous moment, are you, Dawson? Climb aboard, and I’ll give you a ride wherever you’re going. My Parisian cherie is getting skittish.”
Liam raised his hands and stepped back. “Not on your life. I wouldn’t—” He stopped and tipped his hat to someone approaching from behind the vehicle.
Bret turned and saw the exquisite back of a well-dressed young woman in pink and white strolling around the front tires. The lady planted the tip of her parasol in the dirt and spun around.
Bret jerked back in his seat, shocked by Gabrielle’s presence. His mouth dangled open as he searched for an enchanting greeting, but his quick tongue failed him, and he could not fill the awkward space. She was even more beautiful than he imagined she would be.
“After two years, I guess I should expect a man like you to be making a loud, showy display upon his return,” She parted the folds of her hat veil and crinkled up her nose and eyes at Bret. “And I see you’re not above conducting your shady business in the open street like a vulgar Yankee money bag.”
The faint shadows under her eyes were the unmistakable marks of tears. Bret had forgotten how many times he had seen her like this, which was usually the result of some selfish, pig-headed thing he had done.
Gabrielle fanned her face rapidly as if trying to prevent him from noticing. “Lord, your horseless carriage makes more racket than a hen house and fouls the air so it’s not fit to breathe.”
Her attendant, a colored girl no more than fifteen, came up behind them. She giggled and turned away, covering her mouth with her apron hem.
Bret swallowed, trying to moisten a dry throat as Gabrielle strode up beside his door.
Whatever he might say to her now would sound like playful jesting compared to the damning silence behind her scornful glare. “Well, if this isn’t a huckleberry above a persimmon,” Bret finally said, unable to bear th
e scrutiny of her probing stare. “Gabrielle, or should I say Miss Caldwell, as your father would prefer.” He bowed his head and nodded politely to both of them. “Ladies. It’s been so long since you’ve graced me with your presence.”
Upon his leaving, Gabrielle’s virtue was still intact at twenty-seven, though her pride may have been frayed around the edges. Now, judging by the determination of her stance, she could still hold her head high anywhere in Galveston society.
The colored girl turned and smiled. “P’shaw, Mister McGowan. You always say the nicest things.”
Gabrielle cast a stern look at her impetuous servant girl. “Did you know, Verna, that in Europe the word ‘Lady’ is usually reserved for women of the aristocracy?” She turned back to face him. “Sweet talk always flows from you like honey, doesn’t it, Bret? I had hoped you would have learned something of cultured life while you were away, but you still look and sound like the same reckless fortune-hunter.”
The porcelain splendor of her skin was the smoothest and softest Bret had ever touched and kissed. The mere sight of the black beauty mark on her neck forced him to make an extra effort at presenting a disinterested demeanor. “Yes, Miss Caldwell. European high society made a valiant attempt to reform my boorish manner. But alas, there will always be some necessary coarseness in a man’s character that even the most sophisticated woman’s gentle touch will never smooth away.”
Gabrielle huffed and looked away from him. Bret lowered his gaze and forced himself not to smile. He liked the thick curls of Gabrielle’s new French twist hairstyle. A few loose, long tendrils brushed against the soft, blushing rose of her cheek. She pushed the tresses back and looked up, seeming to defy him with the full brightness of her brown eyes.
There was a time Bret would have met her challenge and taken her in his arms, but that opportunity had been washed away by time and tide.
Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama) Page 3
