•••
Belle finished brushing her hair and decided to start her final cottage project: transforming the stark porch into a stage for a showy cast of plants. Abigail had given her permission to dig up some of the snapdragons, blanket flowers, and marigolds that were planted along the border of the vegetable garden to attract pollinators. Her blooms, though, would need only please passersby.
She left the cottage to search for pots in the storage shed. As she walked, she noticed a man on the Edison property bathing a gray mule. Even from across the yard, she could see the skinny animal’s backbone. The worker was turned away from her, offering Belle a chance to examine him from head to toe: thick, curly blond hair, broad shoulders under a white linen shirt, long legs in faded dungarees, boots. She stopped to observe the bath. What a gentle touch he was using on the aged mule, whose eyes appeared shut or nearly so. That must be Boone. He dropped a damp rag into a bucket and picked up a brush from the ground. Belle ran her fingers through her freshly brushed hair and watched him work through the mule’s wiry tail, clumped with snags that he untangled with patient strokes. Whenever she’d noticed Boone on Front Street, he was always alone, frequently making a stop at Dawson’s Cabinets or the lumber mill. Soon, Belle would meet him and work near him. As she began to imagine how their first meeting might go, a voice began yammering in her head: No man will ever want you. Belle closed her eyes. It spoke again, both whispering and hissing. Never. No man will ever want you. She gave her hair a slight yank, as if to punish the voice. Belle despised the sound of it and hated that the words were probably right. Why would a man want her? No one chooses the bruised apple or the fork with bent tines.
Dismissing any further thoughts about Boone, she walked to the storage shed and entered, leaving the door ajar for light. It was quiet inside but for the hammering of a woodpecker somewhere nearby. As she rummaged around for pots, Coquina wandered in, alerting Belle with half a meow. Her coat was laced with cobwebs.
“Hello there, Queen.”
Belle stroked the sticky webs off the cat, whom she sometimes called Queen Coquina because of the crown-like M on the tabby’s forehead. The cat padded into the small closet in the back of the shed while Belle looked for pots. There were plenty. When she’d located four suitable containers, she called out.
“Coquina.” No cat appeared. She needed to leave and shut the shed door. “Coquina?”
The response was a weak cry from the dim closet. Belle entered and saw cat eyes looking at her from a high shelf.
“Get down.” The cat blinked but didn’t move.
Sensing a long standoff, she stepped on a three-legged footstool and then onto a flat-top trunk. From there, she attempted to grab her pet, but before she could, the agile cat launched herself off the shelf, onto the trunk, and down to the ground.
Belle shook her head. “I would have helped you, cat.” As she turned to step off the trunk, she noticed an object pushed to the back of the shelf, turned on its side. Its oddness caught her eye. Long, spiraled wires appeared to have been partially yanked out of a tin container. Curious, she pulled it toward her. She eyed all sides of it, but even with a closer look the item was unidentifiable.
The black contraption, about the size and shape of a square coffee canister, featured a brass crank handle that jutted out from its right side. Lidless, the box was crammed full of snarled copper wires, some spilling out over the sides. She checked the bottom for clues—a brand or date—but there was nothing. She even smelled it. At Duggan’s, she was exposed to a wide variety of wares, but nothing that remotely resembled this. She couldn’t even hazard a guess about its function.
“How do you work?” she asked the odd container.
Abigail had mentioned the closet was used to store fishing or boating gear; this didn’t look related to either. The dark shed was not ideal for further examination, so she tucked the canister under her arm and got down from the trunk. She placed the object inside a small stack of pots and left the shed. Coquina was outside next to a coconut palm, so she shut the door.
On her way back to the cottage, she checked for Boone. He’d finished washing the mule and was leading it up the driveway, perhaps to the livery stable. She recognized his gait, long strides with a limp. His right boot dug into the sand more deeply than his left, compensating for the bum leg. Living with an injury—permanent or temporary—was not uncommon for townsfolk. Belle often saw Duggan’s customers with missing fingers, broken limbs, burns, and a variety of random scars. Life in the region required dealing with horses, cattle, fire, saws, axes, guns, alligators—an array of potential risks that could ravage a body. Still, she wondered what specifically had happened to Boone.
Once on her porch, she left the pots behind and took the black gadget inside. Planting flowers could wait. A proper inspection of her find was in order. Settled into the rocker, Belle ran a cloth over the box, which was covered in a thick layer of dust. How long had it sat undetected on the shelf? When was the last time it was activated, if ever, and by whom? If she turned the handle, what would happen? Maybe nothing, maybe something breathtaking. She imagined the eruption of a glowing arch, a rainbow that would wash the cottage walls in a kaleidoscope of color.
As she continued to wipe down the box, the bong-bong of a ship’s bell rang out from across the yard. In just the short time Belle had lived in the cottage, she’d grown to anticipate the deep, rich tone. It not only signaled a meal, but also that strangers were about to gather under the same roof for food and fellowship. Belle chose to sit in the kitchen, where she could watch Abigail cook and listen to boarders chat in the dining room.
She got up from the rocker. As much as she wanted to continue examining the device, she didn’t want to miss a meal. Should she ask Abigail about her puzzling find? Show her? Would a boarder from up north recognize it? She opened a dresser drawer and hid the box under a nightdress. For now, she would stay quiet and keep a secret. Why not? Her other secret caused her shame, but this one intrigued her.
When she entered Baker’s, the dining room was buzzing with chatter and laughter. As usual, the aromas floating up from steaming pots and skillets were heavenly—buttery fish and spicy greens.
“May I help with anything?” Belle asked.
She was getting used to talking to Abigail’s bun. The cook was always facing the stove, jostling heavy skillets and peeking under lids, fully engaged in the chaos of coordinating a hot meal.
“No, dear,” she replied. “I’ll dish up the boarders, and you just help yourself when you’re ready.” The oven let loose a yeasty belch as Abigail pulled out a tray of golden biscuits.
Belle stayed out of the way until all of the loaded plates disappeared into the dining room. She prepared one for herself and took a seat at the kitchen table. Abigail soon reappeared and plopped into a chair across from her.
“Hear that? Not a peep. Sign of a good meal.” She smiled at Belle, who chewed and nodded in agreement. “Irwin caught a slew of redfish this morning in the river. And he cleaned them for me. Bless that man.”
A wide range of clientele rolled through Baker’s. Naturalists like Irwin and Collette visited to enjoy the region’s exotic plants and animals. Northern physicians often sent patients like George to warmer climes to recover or even relocate. Others arrived to explore investments in citrus groves, while through-travelers simply needed a place to stay as they awaited steamers bound for Key West or Tampa. In recent years, wealthy sportsmen came to battle tarpon in the waters off southwest Florida, heralded in a national magazine article as “the premier place to catch, by rod and reel, abundant silver monsters guaranteed to test an angler’s resolve.” Comings and goings kept Baker’s busy and Abigail in a constant state of exhaustion.
Belle put down her fork. “I saw a man next door with blond hair washing a mule. Boone, I suppose.”
Abigail stifled a yawn. “Boone and Byron . . . in that order.”
Belle grinned. She resumed eating and waited for more information.
“Mr. Edison’s caretaker doesn’t like Byron, so Boone tries to at least keep that poor mule presentable. Norville Decker doesn’t like anything that complicates his budget, and Byron eats more than he works.” Abigail lowered her voice to avoid offending any of her boarders. “Decker’s a crusty grump of a Yankee who looks down his nose at the ‘crackers’ who’ve lived here a lot longer than he has.”
Belle raised her eyebrows and ran a napkin across her lips. “So, Boone works for Mr. Decker?”
“Works with Decker. They both work for Mr. Edison, who tells Decker what he wants done, who tells Boone, who gets it done.”
Belle recalled the town’s excitement when Edison purchased the thirteen-acre riverfront property known as the Summerlin tract for a reported $3,000. The Press proclaimed, “EDISON IS COMING!” and ran frequent articles updating progress on land clearing, wharf construction, and the assembly of two residences and a laboratory. When the inventor moved into his self-dubbed Seminole Lodge, he’d already improved both the stock ticker and the telegraph, created the first phonograph, and most astonishing of all, had developed the first electric light bulb and commercial electric power station. Belle had caught glimpses of the visiting genius during his first winter in Fort Myers. Twice she spotted him chatting with Oscar Powell, the town’s telegraph operator, outside the Western Union office, which made sense since the Press reported that Mr. Edison was a “brass pounder” himself during and after the Civil War. Belle noted that he was always well dressed but a bit frumpy: hair combed but with his fingers, crooked ribbon tie, dusty shoes. She liked that—a man with his mind on bettering the world, not his appearance.
“Have you and Boone met yet?” Abigail asked.
Belle shook her head no.
“Would you like me to introduce you two tomorrow?”
“Oh my, no,” Belle replied immediately. “He must be very busy.”
Abigail chuckled. “Even a busy man makes time for a beautiful woman.”
Deflecting the compliment, Belle teased, “If that’s the case, I’m sure Merle would love you to invite him for dinner.”
Belle had secretly hoped for years that the old friends would become a couple. Their friendship seemed a kiss away from evolving into romance. Merle always lit up when she entered the store. “My gal, Abigail!” he’d call out as a greeting. She never stopped by without bringing oatmeal cookies baked his way—with walnuts—and teasing him about a tear in his dungarees or a crooked row of spices.
She studied Abigail’s face, round with soft skin exposed more often to kitchen steam than sun. Her eyes were the color of a light-blue marble and were rarely still, always observing what problem needed solving. Now that Merle lived alone at Duggan’s, Belle’s desire to pair up the two friends was even stronger.
Both palms on the table, Abigail raised her bulk up and out of the chair. “Squirrel knows he has an open invitation for dinner. I just think he gets tired of losing to me at cards after the meal.”
Belle smiled and hoped Merle would come by soon. He’d lost Clara more than two decades ago. Surely, a man with such a loving heart was overdue for a companion he could treasure and gather into the folds of his daily life.
Declining dessert, Belle thanked Abigail and walked outside. She moved toward the river, wide and wondrous. The Caloosahatchee was, for as long as she could remember, a place where townspeople gathered. They strolled along the public wharf and watched the river move its water southwest to San Carlos Bay. Belle preferred to experience the river by herself, along its bank. During daylight, boats of all shapes and sizes plied the water along with floating flocks of ducks, geese, and swans. Massive live oaks and slanted cabbage palms overhung the river. From shore, anglers fished for mullet, catfish, and snapper. If Belle was lucky, they’d leave behind an interesting lure: a spinner adorned with a skirt of hair from a squirrel’s tail or—better yet—a rare, lifelike, luminous minnow with baked-on paint, shiny glass eyes, and multiple treble hooks dangling from head to tail.
At night, the river made its presence known with noises—the light splash of a gator slipping into the water, the lapping of soft waves created by a mail boat making up lost time, croaking frogs hunting for crabs sheltering in the marsh grasses. When the sky was clear and full of stars, the river might play with a bright, boastful moon. It used the light to decorate itself, aglow with a shimmering current. The enchanting image nudged Belle back toward the cottage to revisit the box. Maybe she could make it glimmer like the river or bring it to life.
Inside, she sat on the bed and examined the machine’s brass handle, its shine indicating little or no use. What if flames shot out of the box when it started? She set it on top of the dresser. Standing with the box at arm’s length, she slowly but consistently cranked the handle, squinting her eyes in preparation for . . . something. She cranked and waited, but nothing emanated from the box—no heat, light, smell, or sound. She upped the speed of her circular motion, vigorously turning the handle. She kept at it for several minutes with no developments other than a tired arm. The second before she decided to give up, a tiny spark rocketed forth from the ball of wires. She jumped backward and released the handle.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “What did you do?!”
Never before had she seen such a thing, nor caused such a thing. Stupefied but concerned the momentum she’d built would be lost, Belle moved again to the machine and resumed churning the handle at a fast rate. Within a minute, an orange spark launched to eye level trailed by two and then three more spitting sparks. She forced herself to continue operating the handle, even as the box began to generate heat. A burning smell hit Belle’s nostrils, but she stayed the course, too intrigued to quit now. Round and round she spun the handle, a steady fountain of teeny sparks rising from the belly of the box.
Then, a remarkable development: the vibrating machine emitted a faint but undecipherable sound. A voice? Was someone talking? How strange! She released the handle and collapsed into the rocking chair as if she’d taken a punch to the chest. What was this box? Belle stared at the mystery machine and watched it slowly calm, absorbing the small constellation of sparks it had generated. Why in heaven’s name was something so intriguing hidden away on a shelf in the shed?
Chapter 7
Boone had ridden horses his entire life, but in 1885 it was the South Florida Railroad’s #8 that carried him across the miles, for the worst reasons. The chuff-chuff of steam thrusting the locomotive forward sounded to him like the massive machinery’s heartbeat, steady and strong. Passengers around him slept, chatted, or watched the passing view out the window. Flocks of wetland birds led to still ponds, then scrubby prairie land as churning wheels rolled across steel rails. The bench where he sat may as well have been a pew, the coach car a rickety rolling church. If his prayers were answered, God would toss him into the engine’s firebox.
He’d gathered just enough money to cover the fare from Kissimmee to Trabue and for several meals at eating houses along the route. The last thing he did before leaving the house was add biscuits, salt beef, and apples to his sack of clothes. He had no appetite but knew his body would need food, even if his soul was dead. His parents had been awake when he left but offered no send-off. Why would they? He was now invisible to them.
Staying home in Kissimmee was not an option. That was the only thought he knew to be true; all others were suspect. His thinking brain had vanished, scared off by angst and guilt. When it became clear he needed to uproot his life, he’d boarded the #8, the words of a young cow hunter ringing in his head. He remembered the teenager, gangly and loud. During a long cattle drive, the teen had made a prediction to him and the other men.
“Trabue is my next move,” he’d said. “Charlotte Harbor is deep, and there’s no question it will become the new boomtown for shipping cattle.”
Now, here he was, ro
lling toward Trabue. He pulled the rail pass from his pocket and examined the year printed in red in the lower left-hand corner. He was a twenty-three-year-old man running away from home like a boy who’d been scolded. If only he’d been yelled at by his parents, even beaten to a pulp by his father. Instead, there was a sickening quiet that hung in the house, rotting its timbers. He had to leave before everything collapsed.
The train slowed as a steam whistle screeched, announcing the stop—this time, a sawmill. The air smelled of coal and cut wood. He stayed in his seat, his calf throbbing under its bandage, the only part of him in the process of healing. From his seat next to the window, he watched workers in tattered clothes dart around a flat freight car unloading lumber bound for sawyers and their whirling blades. People moving on, off, and around the train made efficient trips, seeking out food, loading mail, checking the connecting rods on resting wheels. Only the clouds seemed lazy, sheer white smears across the blueness. When a well-dressed man walked down the aisle toward him, Boone shut his eyes, pretending to sleep.
He pictured Daniel. He could have been looking at himself. They shared the same mop of sandy-blond curls and blue eyes. Their frames, though, were different; Daniel’s was more commanding in height and bulk. At twenty-six, he was an exceptional cowboy. The only thing Daniel did better than move cows was serve as a loyal, protective older brother. Their father had taught them the basics of riding horses and working cattle, but doing both alongside Daniel for years across endless miles of thick underbrush had inspired Boone to improve. He grew to crack his whip among the loudest in the crew. The curs executed his commands flawlessly, wagging their tails upon return from herding a stray cow. Endless hours of blasting tin cans sharpened his aim. But he and Daniel were different in ways a brother could never practice his way into. Daniel was somehow able to shed the rawness of life, like a palm tree dropping a dried husk to the ground. To him, discomfort and loss were natural, something to be learned from and then forgotten. Boone, on the other hand, struggled with the inevitable hardships of the trail. Shooting a coyote stayed with him for days. He named all the calves in his mind—Fiona, Buttermilk, Gem—and wished he hadn’t when one died. At night, he secretly scratched poems in a notebook.
After the Rain Page 5
