At school, she’d had few friends. Maybe she was too quiet, always huddled over a book. Other children talked and played around her but rarely included her. Even the teacher seemed to look past her. School was simply not a place where her sense of wonder or belonging was bettered. But thankfully, cherished spots did exist for her in town.
Behind the apothecary, discarded glass bottles lay in a heap, some with corks or stoppers, others with cracked necks. She loved to carefully rummage through the pile for her favorite tints and shapes. Off came the labels to ensure a collection that featured only smooth glass. At home, she’d set the handpicked treasures in an ever-growing row along a windowsill. She would track the exact time of day when sunrays brought the bottles’ colors to life. No one noticed her bottles on the sill, so no one bothered them.
On the town wharf, she shared in the excitement of anglers without ever dropping a line. She’d sit on the pine planks near enough to the action to watch a flapping fish break the water, hooked for supper. Neighbors yelled “Hooray!” or “The biggest yet!” She enjoyed the anticipation and the chance to secretly root people on. The variety of species yanked out of the river was thrilling as well. She learned quickly which fish were expected and which were coveted. Nearly everyone threw back the inky eels. Always, people left behind a variety of fishing lures. If any were painted with bright colors or fashioned with tiny feathers, she claimed them, something pretty to call her own.
By far, though, her favorite destination in town was Duggan’s. No matter when she visited, Belle loved the sameness of the noises and aromas in the store. Thick heels on the floorboards made the wood vibrate and murmur with deep echoes. The aroma of breakfast bacon always lingered well into the afternoon, mingling with the leathery scent of a two o’clock cigar. And there was no grandfather clock like there was at home, a towering brute that would sneak up on the hour with a startling bong. Everything at Duggan’s was pleasant and predictable, especially its owner.
The biggest smile she’d ever seen belonged to Mr. Merle, and he welcomed her with it every time she walked through his door. She’d grin back and begin her trip around the store to look at everything, even though she needed only a few items, listed by her father on a slip of scrap paper. Her route began at the decorative crocks and ended at the glass cases filled with razors, barrettes, hat pins, and fans. In between were bars of soap, jersey overshirts, and cut-crystal cruet sets. She touched nothing, except what Merle told her she could: seed packets with their clever art, clay marbles in a halved coconut shell, and his prized rattlesnake rattle displayed on the front counter. She’d listen intently each time he described how the snake must have shed its skin eleven times, the number of segments in the rattle plus the nub at the end.
“See here?” he’d say. “Eleven sheds, then a button.”
Every visit included food—a sweet or salty treat just for her. From behind the counter came an oatmeal cookie or a long strip of beef jerky. Other customers would watch him hand over the goody and smile lovingly at the gesture.
Over time she developed a sense of ownership at the store. Merle often let her make decisions and truly seemed to want her input.
“Should we stack the beans on top of the minced meat or the other way around?” he’d ask, his massive hands dwarfing the cans. And then he’d stack them as she suggested.
“What should be on special today, Belle?” If she said corn, then corn it was.
Her favorite task was helping him manage the mail. If the store was slow, he’d focus on his duties as postmaster, applying postmarks and cork cancels. She was in charge of the “fancy cancels,” a unique mark the postmaster created as his signature design. Merle’s was shaped like a diamond, carved into a cork bottle stopper. He taught her how to press the diamond into an ink pad and then onto the stamp, ensuring no one could reuse it. If she imprinted the cancel dead center, he’d declare, “Bull’s-eye!” or “Socked on the nose!” She would grin and sometimes even giggle.
The worst part of the visit was when she had to leave, when she ran out of reasons to linger. The only good thing that remained was how Merle looked at her. He’d wink and wave and make it clear he’d be waiting on her.
“We’ll see you next time, honey,” he’d say, even if he was busy checking out a customer.
She’d nod at him and leave with her small bag of wares, listening to her bootheels clack their way down the porch steps. How she loved going to Duggan’s, where she was always seen and heard.
“I’ll bring in all those garden goodies to Duggan’s tomorrow, Belle.” Mrs. Richmond had returned, empty armed, drawing Belle back to the garden. “I’ll see you around lunchtime.”
Belle resumed weeding. “Thank you, Sally. I’ll be there.”
I’ll be there forever.
Chapter 5
Merle charged into the store, holding an envelope in the air as if it were a gold nugget he’d just discovered under a river rock.
“Lookee here, Belle!” He used a sleeve to wipe his sweaty brow. “Come see.”
Atop a footstool while dusting crockery, Belle looked down at Merle as he calmed his heavy breathing. When she saw what he was holding, her balance wavered. She grabbed a shelf to steady herself.
“That underhanded Ida Cravin hid it,” he said. “I knew something wasn’t right. When I reminded her that detaining mail was illegal, out came the letter.”
Belle remained on the stool, frozen. Merle walked over and helped her down. As the two stood face-to-face, he held up the white envelope so she could see its front.
“Look at the handstamp, honey. See? West Orange, New Jersey.”
Belle confirmed the stamp with her own eyes and looked back at Merle.
“Read the writing out loud to me,” he said.
After two slow blinks, she said, “Belle Carson, Duggan’s on Front Street, Fort Myers, Florida.”
Merle flipped over the envelope. “What letters do you see stamped into the seal?”
Belle reached up and ran her finger over the red wax circle centered on the back flap. “M, E, M.” She swallowed. “Oh my.”
The hinges on the store’s screen door squeaked, interrupting their inspection.
“Well, hello there, Eugenia.” Merle handed Belle the envelope and walked over to his customer, who was cupping two heads of cabbage she’d harvested from a wood-slat basket on the porch.
“Hello, Merle. Cabbage looks good today.” She set the produce on the counter and rummaged through her purse for change. Without looking up, she said, “Did you have a bee in your bonnet? I just saw you running up and down Front Street.”
Merle and Belle exchanged a glance. She now knew why he was out of breath after retrieving the letter from Cravin & Company.
“Let’s just say I made a happy lap, Eugenia.” He beamed. “I’m happy today.”
Eugenia continued to poke around in her bag. “Well, you did a fine job of hurdling that horse trough.” She located the coins and offered them with a smile.
When Eugenia left, the bell on the door jingled a goodbye. Merle returned to Belle, who handed back the envelope.
“Please open it,” she said, as if her shaking hands could somehow break it.
He did as asked, carefully separating the wax from the paper. Slowly, he pulled the folded note from its sheath and gave it to Belle. She lightly ran her fingers over the soft cotton paper and then brought it to her nose to see if she could detect gardenia. So many times she’d imagined this very moment.
“Here we go . . .” She began to unfold the note and then stopped. “Do you want to read it with me?”
Merle shook his head, watching her closely. “No, honey. You read it first.”
Belle opened the note. Two lines were printed at the top of the sheet:
GLENMONT
LLEWELLYN PARK
Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling her words. “Oh
my goodness.”
The name of the Edisons’ northern estate and community was followed by cursive writing penned in black ink.
January tenth
Dear Belle,
It was lovely to meet you and spend even just a moment in your southern sunshine. I trust you’ve been well. With pleasure, I am writing to offer you the gardening position we spoke of at Seminole Lodge.
Belle looked up, eyes wide, and threw her arms around Merle’s neck, clutching the letter and pressing her cheek to his chest. Relief and excitement surged through her, an unfamiliar heady mix. Mina had chosen her! Gardens she’d designed in her head could now spring from the sandy soil. And a riverside cottage was hers alone. Merle gently patted Belle’s back. Neither spoke until she finally let go.
“Let’s read it together,” Belle said, and stood beside him. She began again, this time aloud:
January tenth
Dear Belle,
It was lovely to meet you and spend even just a moment in your southern sunshine. I trust you’ve been well. With pleasure, I am writing to offer you the gardening position we spoke of at Seminole Lodge. I do hope you are able to begin your move to the Baker cottage upon reading this, and when settled, start work on the set of gardens. I will rely on your creative sensibilities but would like two species to be included for certain: black-eyed Susans and a rose variety that blooms abundantly. If we can coax butterflies and hummingbirds to visit, that would please me as well.
In advance, thank you, Belle. We are eager to visit and do hope that we can this winter.
My best,
Mina Edison
Merle put his arm around Belle’s shoulder and squeezed it. As she looked back over the letter, she noted the date. “January tenth? That’s quite a while ago.”
“Exactly.” Merle pointed to the date marked on the envelope’s handstamp. “The letter was delivered weeks ago, but Ida hid it.”
“Ahh,” Belle said. “I saw Hazel at the interview.”
“Such utter hogwash.” He continued to mumble harsher words under his breath.
Belle took the envelope from Merle and trapped the incredible news back inside. “How did you know to look for the letter? That I would get the job?”
Merle tugged at his minimal beard. “Because Mina’s husband isn’t the only genius in the family.”
His answer was rewarded with Belle’s unabashed smile, the small gap in full view.
•••
The distinctive chirp of an osprey cut through the whiny racket of gulls navigating the airspace over the Caloosahatchee. On the water, anything with sails was speeding past everything powered by steam.
“I’ll bet this wind will blow in some weather,” Abigail said as she looked up at the hazy morning sky. Her barrel-shaped body was always wrapped in an apron, as if she was just seconds away from preparing a meal.
This afternoon, she was leading a tour of her property, Belle and Merle in tow. Her vacant cottage would house Belle while she created the Edison gardens. Merle was familiar with the Baker grounds; Belle hadn’t spent much time there over the years. The trio passed a large wooden cistern built on stilts and several barrels topped with muslin designed to collect rainwater. Geese and ducks waddled about the yard, oblivious to several chickens poking around in the sand for fleas and pebbles. Peck marks pocked every inch of low-lying wood. Abigail pointed to several small A-frame wooden coops layered with pine straw and sawdust. Cleverly hinged roofs allowed for easy access when bedding needed to be changed or eggs retrieved.
“I feed my geese figs in the fall, and then when they’re four months old”—she made a slitting motion across her throat—“they’re dinner. The figs make their livers rich and sweet.”
Merle laughed. “You’re ruthless.”
The fun-loving relationship between Merle and Abigail had always comforted Belle. Their bond was solid, rooted in a friendship spanning thirteen years. She’d never heard the pair argue. Instead, they’d poke fun at each other or share what ailed them, everything from sore joints to business challenges. Years ago, Merle had explained Abigail’s nickname for him. He said on her first visit to Duggan’s she’d marveled at the vast inventory, saying, “You’ve packed every inch of this place with everything under the sun! I’m going to call you Squirrel instead of Merle.”
As deep as her love was for Merle, Belle’s fondness for Abigail was as unshakable. Over the years, she could always rely on Abigail to walk into the store and head straight for her. “There you are,” she’d say. Twice Belle’s age, Abigail would sit with her for a bit and talk about plants or look over something she was drawing or embroidering. And somehow, Abigail knew when her day was gray, even if the sky above was bright blue. The two would simply sit quietly snapping string beans or shelling field peas. The fact that Abigail never missed a chance to give Belle’s cat, Coquina, a spirited stroking made her even more endearing.
The tour of Baker’s continued, now moving away from the boardinghouse. As the three walked into the backyard toward the river, the ting-ting of a hammer striking nails rang out from next door.
“That’s Boone working on Mr. Edison’s house. There’s always something leaking or creaking,” she said, shaking her head. “He worked with the original crew that assembled both houses and the laboratory. Good man.”
Belle turned toward Merle as they walked. “I’ve seen him around town but never in Duggan’s. Why not?”
“From what I understand, Cravin & Company set up some sort of”—Merle wiggled his fingers in the air—“special account for the Edisons.”
Abigail added, “Boone ships oranges and grapefruit up north to them so it’s easier to also do his shopping at Cravin’s. One stop.”
They passed a large vegetable garden that fed Abigail and her boarders, and soon Belle, too. Beets, broccoli, carrots, peppers, collards, and strawberries all outgrew their orderly rows, ready for harvest. They next moved toward a small wooden structure painted barn red and topped with a brown shingle roof.
“This is my storage shed,” Abigail said. She yanked open the door and small brown lizards scattered to every corner. Windowless, the shed was dark but sunlight from the open door revealed the space to be tidy. Abigail entered the shed and brushed sand off a counter. Merle ducked his head and stepped in behind Belle.
The shed appeared equipped with items that accommodated common and repeated tasks, filled with everything from produce baskets to a willow fishing creel. There were shovels, trowels, two hatchets, hand tools, rope, and a crock of clothespins. A vase filled with pheasant feathers and arrows shared the space with a Winchester rifle, a ladder, and a wooden stool. Abigail righted a crooked set of mounted deer antlers, then pointed to a small nook at the back of the shed.
“That’s a closet I leave empty in case boarders need a bit of extra room for something—fishing tackle or boating gear.”
She palmed the perfect bun atop her head and put her other hand on her indiscernible hip. “Now, let’s head over to your cottage, Belle.”
Your cottage, Belle repeated in her mind. Goose bumps stippled her forearms.
From the shed they walked to a small house painted white with a brown roof. On the front porch, a straw broom leaned against the wall. A watering can with a dented spout sat next to it.
“The Edisons are paying for your room and board here, as promised in the job listing. They don’t like anyone but family to stay in the residences when they’re up north,” Abigail explained. “Norville Decker manages the estate and lives in a caretaker’s cottage on their property. Boone lives aboard his boat anchored in the river beside their dock.”
“Mina mentioned their need for privacy. Completely understandable,” Belle said. She couldn’t wait to see inside the cottage, walking up the porch steps before the others.
Merle mouthed, “Thank you,” to Abigail.
She nodded and
whispered, “Mina welcomed my input.”
Inside the cottage, natural light spilled through two windows on opposite walls. One offered a fine view of the Caloosahatchee and was open halfway, allowing fresh air in. A fuzzy bumblebee attempting escape buzzed on each collision with the windowpane.
“That stubborn window is stuck,” Abigail pointed out. “It’s on Boone’s to-do list.” She shook her head. “My last renter was a real pill, a handful. Boone couldn’t keep up with all her requests for repairs.”
Merle walked over and jiggled the frame but nothing budged.
“Does Boone work for you, too, Abigail?” Belle asked.
“When he has time. Decker keeps him busy, but I think Boone enjoys our trade: when he works for me, I cook for him.”
“I see,” Belle said, her eyes scanning the particulars in the one-room cottage: a bed with a linen coverlet and a goose-down pillow, a dresser, a tin washbowl atop a stool, a water cask that hung on a peg, a rocking chair, and an elegant bedside table with a small drawer on both ends.
“This side drawer has a secret,” Abigail said, standing near the drawer closest to the bed. “See how it’s locked?” She pulled on the knob, but the drawer remained closed. “If you reach underneath and push up from the bottom, it will open. It’s a good drawer for keeping something safe.” She explained how a boarder visiting from Boston gave her the clever table. He’d overbought on his travels, and the returning steamboat was at maximum weight. “The best of Baker’s furnishings,” she said, “are all castoffs from travelers.”
Belle was already noting where to put her minimal belongings and what improvements she could make. Curtains would be a nice start.
“It’s such a pretty cottage, Abigail. I can move in this afternoon.”
“Very good.” Abigail drove her hands down into the pockets of her apron. “Squirrel, I hear Captain Metzger’s boy threw up one too many times on the mail boat. He may need work on land . . .”
After the Rain Page 3
