After the Rain

by Jane Lorenzini

  On this Friday morning, inside Duggan’s, the two continued talking about Belle’s request to take off work the next day. She fiddled with wildflowers nestled in a small vase next to the cash register. “I hope to be at Baker’s by nine o’clock tomorrow so I can interview for the gardening job at the Edisons’.”

  Merle was surprised but didn’t show it. He’d seen the listing in the Press and knew Belle would be excited about the chance to create such special gardens. He wasn’t sure, though, if she’d be willing to undergo an interview.

  “I’ll make us breakfast before you leave.”

  He smiled at her, but his stomach dropped. If Belle landed the job, she would move out of the store and out of his daily life. Duggan’s would seem gutted of the very thing that had brought him joy for so long. And then there was the nagging truth—that he’d already let her go once, decades ago. His shoulders slumped as he turned away and pretended to work numbers on a pad.

  •••

  The next morning, Merle swallowed the last of a biscuit slathered in raspberry preserves and checked his pocket watch.

  “Plenty of time, honey.” He paused. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

  Belle gave him a tight-lipped smile, a habit that concealed a small gap between her front teeth.

  “Thank you, Merle.” She drew in a deep breath and released it. “Off I go.”

  She walked out and hoisted herself onto the seat of an adult treadle tricycle that Merle gave her when she moved in. It was always parked in front of the store’s hitching post like a three-legged horse. Her long chestnut-brown hair was wrangled into two thick braids, and a straw hat adorned with assorted fishing lures shielded her face from the warming sun.

  Belle spent many a morning aboard the cast-iron tricycle, traversing the town before work. The three-wheeler was equipped with buggy-like rear suspension, but the craggy streets of Fort Myers humbled the coil springs. A blue gingham seat cushion offered little relief from the jarring thumps and thuds that rattled her pail full of tools—a folding saw, hedging shears, and a hand hoe. Belle kept an eye out for small gardens that could use a light pruning or weeding, a small gesture welcomed by busy townsfolk, especially the business owners. Mr. and Mrs. Gibbs, who owned the Palms Hotel, always waved to her in thanks, sometimes with both hands.

  “You’re an angel!” they’d yell from the porch. A guest might wave, too.

  Sheriff Frederick Clark was rarely home, so Belle took extra time beautifying his small pinery. The sheriff kept the town safe, so the least she could do was check on his pineapples. She had the same compassion for the Abbotts, who seemed to always be doing for others; plants were the exception. Their neglected garden was a regular stop. Dr. Richard Abbott was frequently out of town, performing surgeries in Key West for extra income. His wife, Maude, was left alone for weeks with three young children. Often, the Abbotts’ yard was occupied by members of the Seminole Indian tribe who’d spent weeks trudging in from the Everglades to await the doctor’s return for treatment. Makeshift chickee huts shielded them from the blazing sun. Belle would weed and smile at the colorfully dressed families sitting under the open-sided log frames thatched with palmetto fronds.

  There were only two gardens that Belle wheeled right past. One was in front of Billy’s, the town saloon. She’d witnessed too many cow hunters watering that garden with what they’d drunk an hour earlier. The other garden belonged to Ida Cravin. Her husband owned the town’s rival general store, Cravin & Company, which currently housed the post office. Belle avoided both the store and Ida, who carried a Bible at all times and walked briskly, as if making a beeline for perfection. She always dressed in Sunday clothes and owned a stable of elaborate picture hats with broad brims. Each was festooned with garish plumes, and one with an entire stuffed bird. The hats were the worst of it for Belle. As a proponent of the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, Ida championed “total abstinence from all things harmful,” yet her millinery addiction supported the slaughter of millions of herons, flamingos, and roseate spoonbills. Each year, countless egret rookeries were wiped out by plume hunters so “little snowies” could embellish fashionable hats purchased by the likes of Ida. To Belle, fishing lures were by far a more civilized way to decorate a hat.

  As she rode toward the interview at the Edison estate, she considered what questions might be asked. Why are you the best choice? What experience do you have? Do your hands always shake like that? Nervous energy powered her spirited pedaling. She drew in the crisp air, inhaling the smell of sawdust from Ritter’s Mill, tobacco from Varga’s Cigars, bacon and coffee from every kitchen. A January morning was unfolding, and so was her chance to secure the perfect job, if you could even call it that. To Belle, gardening wasn’t work. It was a slow, deliberate process that amazed and fulfilled her. She and the plants were partners. Their journey together began with her planting a seed. Next came watering, then waiting. One day, up from the dirt came a sprout, then a stalk, and finally, a brilliant bloom. They’d done it! To Belle, a bourgeoning garden was reassurance that she could—at least with nature—cultivate a healthy relationship.

  A five-minute ride had brought her to the entrance of Seminole Lodge, the grandest property in town. A board fence ran along the front of the compound, which was lined with Spanish bayonets, hearty plants with dark-green, daggerlike leaves. Press articles in years past reported that Mr. Edison himself had hand-drawn an extensive landscape and gardening plan for his winter haven, but the bulk of the project had yet to materialize. In the family’s absence, a New York man lived year-round on the property in a one-room caretaker’s cottage.

  Belle left her trike next to the fence and hung her hat on a handlebar. She nodded at Abigail, who was standing at the start of the long driveway, explaining the interview process to several women who’d arrived early. A loose line had formed, and Belle joined it. Several more women and a man were approaching, one carrying a trowel. No sign of the Baileys yet.

  “Folks, prepare to sit for the interview for no more than five minutes.” Abigail’s hands were tucked into the pockets of a pale-blue cotton apron. “Mrs. Edison is in the area briefly on personal business. She arrived here from Fort Ogden last night and will leave on the Patricia at noon.”

  Gasps erupted from the surprised interviewees. The woman ahead of Belle in line twisted her head around and mouthed, “Mina’s here!”

  Belle sighed and dropped her head in frustration. Talking about herself was foreign enough, but a sitting with Mr. Edison’s venerable wife?! Calm down, she told herself, but even the voice in her head sounded nervous.

  At exactly nine o’clock, Abigail motioned for the first candidate to walk down the driveway to the Edison home. A woman holding a posy of evening primrose shuffled forward, and the process was under way. As the minutes passed and others chatted around her, Belle studied the faces of the just-interviewed as they walked back up the driveway and past the waiting hopeful. Some smiled as if they were now best friends with Mina. Others wore poker faces. One woman put her palm to the side of her mouth and whispered, “She’s sitting on the porch.” When Ida Cravin’s daughter, Hazel—who Belle hadn’t noticed in line—returned, she was visibly shaking as she retied her bonnet strings.

  Within a half hour, Abigail nodded at Belle and said, “Go on down,” touching her shoulder as if to gently launch her. Belle smoothed her linen dress as she walked, unsure of what to expect other than apprehension. Within a minute, she reached two stately butter-yellow homes with white wraparound porches. The setting was quite inviting, if you had the nerves to focus on something other than the boxing match between your heart and chest. Mina was sitting on the porch of the home closest to the driveway. Belle froze, uncertain about walking up the steps without an invitation.

  “Good morning. Do come up,” Mina said, smiling and pointing her upturned palm at the two stairs.

  Belle offered a nod and made her way to the wicker cha
ir Mina gestured toward as she remained seated in an identical version. Oval cushions and pillows on both featured a sunny pineapple print.

  “I’m Mina,” she said, and held out her hand.

  Belle shook it with a quiet reply, “Of course. I’m Belle Carson.”

  “As you know, I’m looking for someone to develop a set of spirited gardens in front of both houses on each side of the porch steps. My family and I truly hope we can visit this winter, and a burst of color would be a wonderful welcome back.” She ended the sentence with a broad smile.

  Belle stared at Mina’s straight teeth. The Press ran frequent articles about the Edisons, and Belle instantly recalled references to Mina’s “good teeth” and “olive complexion.” Both were true. She’d seen Mina from afar several years ago when the Edisons held a town gathering at Seminole Lodge to turn on their house full of electric light bulbs. Belle had been transfixed by Mina’s poise as she glided slowly across the porch like a great blue heron. Now Belle was close enough to smell her perfume, an aromatic homage to the gardenia.

  “How long have you been gardening, Belle?” Mina touched a stray, wavy bang and coaxed it to rejoin the rest of her sideswept hair.

  “Well, for as long as I can remember.” Belle’s mind went blank, but she heard herself say, “I think I may have been a plant in another life.”

  Mina grinned. “Kindred spirits.” She recrossed her legs, shifting the silky fabric of her ivory dress. Thick, dark hair spilled across its collar.

  With no question to answer, Belle remained silent, in awe. Mina was not yet her age, and at twenty-two lived a life far more advanced. She was a mother, a trained pianist, a socialite, and a loving wife to a world-renowned inventor.

  “Do you have time to devote yourself to the project and maintain it until we arrive?” Mina’s voice was warm with no hint of hurrying along the interview.

  “Oh yes,” Belle answered. “I don’t have children or a family.” Blood rushed to her cheeks. The only thing the two had in common was the color of their eyes: dark brown.

  “And you can relocate to the Baker cottage?”

  “Easily,” Belle answered. Fearing she’d again revealed her few connections with people and possessions, she added, “I do have a cat. She’s a good mouser should you have any need for that.”

  Mina folded her hands in her lap.

  “Oh, but of course,” Belle said, placing a palm on her chest, “I would never allow her in your house. And I’m sure you don’t have mice.” If she could have buried her face in the pineapple pillow, she would have.

  After gently clearing her throat, Mina continued. “As you might expect, we value our privacy.” She paused. “Our daily life up north is quite hectic and . . . observed.”

  Belle struggled with whether to simply nod or talk. She did both. “Oh yes. Our newspaper is quite interested in your and Mr. Edison’s every move.” She squinted, trying to somehow make everything smaller, especially her missteps. She added quietly, “I . . . um . . . don’t read all of the articles . . . just sometimes.”

  Mina smiled and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Belle.” She stood. “Thank you very much for coming by. I’ll be sending a letter to the gardener I choose.”

  Startled the interview was over, Belle stood but didn’t speak. She grabbed the bottoms of her braids as if to shake loose a sentence.

  “Safe travels home, Mrs. Edison.” She turned toward the stairs and on the way down added, “Thank you.”

  Belle made her way back up the sandy driveway, her eyes firmly fixed on the ground. As she passed people waiting in line, she could feel their gazes upon her, searching for clues as to how they might do better. Belle walked behind Abigail, who was busy answering questions about the cottage from the remaining six applicants.

  “It has two windows, one that faces the river.”

  Belle mounted her trike and began the quick trip back to Duggan’s. A knot in her stomach had strangled the butterflies. What a fool she’d been to think she could hold her own in an important conversation with a stranger, a luminary to boot. She cursed the bumpy street and squeezed the handlebars. Every push of the pedals took her further and further away from a more purposeful life, and she was to blame.

  Chapter 3

  The current batch of boarders liked one another well enough to linger at the dining room table in Baker’s Boarding. That didn’t always happen. Abigail had seen plenty of chairs quickly push back from a meal to escape a heated conversation or due to basic disinterest in the other travelers. Not this afternoon; bellies were full and bottoms were firmly planted in their seats.

  “The birds here are simply swoon-worthy!” A woman named Colette brought her hand to her neck and caressed imaginary feathers. “We saw snowy egrets with wispy white neck beards.”

  “And the black skimmers looked like they were wearing white shirts with black dress jackets!” Her husband’s voice was as animated. “Absolutely glamorous!”

  Abigail entered the room to clear the dessert plates. “You two are a good reminder that we locals tend to take our beautiful bird life for granted.”

  The professor at the table spoke. “I’m a member of the Audubon Society, and I take pride in shooting photographs, not birds.” He smiled as he turned to the man next to him. “How are you feeling, George?”

  A sudden coughing fit shook the man’s slight body. When it stopped, he laughed. “Forgive me, Professor Ricalton. I guess I just answered your question, though.”

  Abigail took George’s plate, stacked it with the others, and headed for the kitchen’s washbasin. George had assured her upon arrival that his illness was not contagious, but simply a case of wet lungs that his doctor said needed drying out. His young son had accompanied him from Pennsylvania.

  “Every day I can draw a bigger breath, so I must be on the mend,” George said. “Jamison, will you go ask Miss Abigail for some water for me?” The boy nodded, slipped off his chair, and disappeared into the kitchen. “I hope to venture into town soon.”

  “Irwin and I have. We took a stroll to the wharf the other day, and two men were fighting,” Colette said. “I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Jamison because I didn’t want to laugh about a fight, but—”

  Irwin interrupted. “But we couldn’t help giggling. Two men in band uniforms were rolling around on the ground, pummeling each other while the rest of the musicians just kept playing, as if the composer had written a brawl into the score!”

  Abigail entered the room, filled with laughter. She was holding a cup of water and Jamison’s hand. “Oh, those two.” She shook her head and gave George the water. Jamison took his seat. “They fight every single time they talk about our town coffers. The equipment Mr. Edison needs to light our town was expensive.”

  George tousled his son’s hair. “Now, I’m the town cougher, right?”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “So, where are you all headed this afternoon?” Abigail noted two empty coffee cups. “I’m listening . . .” She turned toward the kitchen to quickly grab a pot off the stove.

  “The boy and I are going to sit by the river and watch the boats . . .” George’s voice trailed off, starved for air by his soggy lungs.

  Professor Ricalton stretched his bony arms over his head. “I’m off to take a nap. I can’t seem to close my eyes enough these days.”

  “Of course you can’t,” Colette said, her cup raised for Abigail to refill. “From what you told us about your travels for Mr. Edison, sleep must always be tugging at your sleeve.”

  Irwin accepted more coffee, too. “Thank you, Abigail. Are the Edisons planning to visit this season?”

  “We’ll see. We prepare as if they are.” She wiped a brown drip trickling down the pot.

  Jamison looked up at Abigail. “Will there be a parade?”

  She smiled. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it, honey.” />
  “I imagine Mr. Edison would dismiss the idea,” the professor said. “In my experience, he’s a man who likes productive endeavors, not pomp.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” Abigail said. “He declined the idea of a parade during their honeymoon visit. He suggested we focus instead on smoothing the bumpy road from downtown to their property.”

  The professor winked at Jamison. “A parade would be more fun, though, right?”

  “It certainly would,” Irwin declared as he stood and took his wife’s hand, leading her off her seat. “C’mon, son. We don’t need the Edisons for a parade!”

  “You’re right, Irwin!” Colette began to swing her bent arms back and forth and high-step behind her husband.

  The others watched as the birders and the boy marched around the room, the professor pounding a beat on the table. George waved his napkin in the air and cheered until he coughed.

  Abigail chuckled and banged a knife against the metal coffeepot. There were days she missed her life before Baker’s, but this was not one of them.

  Chapter 4

  “Thank you, Belle.” Mrs. Sally Richmond passed by with an armload of clean laundry, headed for her clothesline.

  “Of course.” Belle tipped back her hat and looked up from her squatting position. “Looks like I have the easier job today.”

  “Well, thankfully, once I hang everything, the sun and breeze do all the work.” Her voice trailed off toward the backyard.

  Belle was weeding the Richmonds’ small vegetable garden that provided the produce they sold to Duggan’s. Every other row was planted with flowers to attract lady beetles and lacewings whose larvae dined on garden pests. Much was ready for harvest—beets, broccoli, collard greens—but Belle was there simply to weed, a favor to a loyal supplier.

  While she worked, thoughts of the botched job interview and living the rest of her life with Merle bounced around in her head. Maybe that’s for the best. I’m safe and sound there. Merle needs me. Her poor showing with Mina was probably a good thing. With a sigh, she stopped weeding. How lucky she was to live comfortably in a place that, as a child, she loved to visit.