“By mid-February,” Boone said, “both homes were assembled and the lab was under construction. A landscaper from Pennsylvania was hired to spruce up the property. He planted lime, lemon, and coconut trees. In between the two homes he put a set of century plants. They’ve since died, unfortunately.”
“Did you also put up the pretty windmill?”
“I did. Mr. Edison shipped that in later, though—about two years ago—along with two cisterns and a pump to create an artesian well. He also shipped two dynamos, one for his personal use and one to light up the town. But as you know, that hasn’t happened yet.”
“Someday soon,” Belle said.
Boone explained that by April most of the men were let go, the majority of work finished. Their temporary living quarters were torn down.
“That’s when I moved onto my boat. I was kept on to help Decker manage the property, and as you know, the family returned last winter for a visit.”
“That’s the visit when the newspaper claimed Mr. Edison was wreaking havoc with the fish by running a wire to the bottom of the Caloosahatchee,” she said. “He electrocuted the poor things and they rose to the surface.”
Boone chuckled and pointed to her straw hat, resting atop the dresser.
“Quicker than using lures, right?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said.
“Mr. Edison has two boats here for fishing. Rifles for hunting, too.”
“Oh, good. I’d like to think he has all he needs when he visits,” Belle said.
“Trust me, if he doesn’t, he finds a way to get it. He managed to have sacks of ice and strawberries delivered during his last trip.” Boone smiled and stood up from the stool. “Well, I’d better get going.”
“Nice to meet you, Boone. Thank you for the repair . . . and the Edison tidbits.”
He lingered for a moment. “Would you like to take a ride on my boat sometime?”
Belle stared at him, silent.
“Good day, Belle.” Boone touched the brim of his hat and quickly left the cottage. What did you just do, fool? He’d stunned them both. Damn. He fixed the window but broke his own rule about enjoying the company of a woman.
•••
When the door shut, Belle got up and watched Boone through the repaired window as he limped toward the caretaker’s cottage. His offer to take her sailing had paralyzed her. Was he asking her on a date? They’d just met, for goodness’ sake.
But what if she had agreed? I’d love to, Boone, answering immediately as if she’d been accepting invitations her whole life. She imagined floating along the Caloosahatchee with such a gentle, handsome man. The wind played with her hair, and he held a protective arm around her shoulder as he navigated the river. She laid her head on his warm, firm chest and listened to his soft humming mix with the rustle of the working sails. A feast of fresh blueberries and smoked chicken tucked inside a wicker basket awaited their first stop, perhaps a shady bend where they would lunch and talk.
Oh, just stop. Stop this gibberish.
Belle gathered her garden sketches and left the cottage to clear her head. On a downed palm trunk along the riverbank she sat to continue formulating garden plans—real plans, not pretend.
Days earlier she’d talked with Gus and Grace Bailey about new plants in their nursery—ornamental roses and other showy varietals, trees imported from Cuba and New Orleans that bore exotic fruits like loquats, Japanese persimmons, tangerines, and satsumas. Grace had pointed out a striking plant called a caladium, its large leaves splashed with vibrant colors and intricate patterns.
“A real beaut,” Grace had said. “Lights up a shady spot.”
She sketched the plant’s unique, heart-shaped leaf on a piece of paper. Beside it she wrote: “BOONE?”
Stop wasting time!
She knocked the pencil against her head. What was it about moving onto the Baker property? Her imagination had ignited as never before, sparked by the unexpected discovery in the shed. More seemed possible here; though more of what, she wasn’t sure. Often now, her mind’s eye would peer through a fanciful lens and delight in the view: tiny mermaids that leapt from the mystery box, gardens that grew shiny glass flowers, and now, a romantic boat ride with Boone. It was as if magic was all around—as deep as tree roots, as high as shooting stars that sailed across the sky. She squinted toward the river. Perhaps far-fetched thoughts weren’t a waste of time.
Belle lifted her sore bottom off the palm trunk and walked toward the cottage. Maybe she could coax out whatever magic was crouching inside that nest of copper wires.
•••
Sparks showered the dresser, and the cottage smelled as if matches had been extinguished. Belle’s vigorous cranking had caused the box to finally fire up again after several botched tries in recent days.
She leaned closer to the black canister, which was vibrating lightly and emitting sparks at a steady rate. This was promising. As she turned to sit down on the bed for whatever might come next, a voice entered the room, muted at first but amplifying quickly to a perfectly clear tone.
“. . . departs in November. Oh, I can hardly wait the eight months!”
Belle froze in midsit, concerned any movement might interfere with whatever was happening. A second female voice responded.
“It’s so exciting! The World says it will report on her journey every day. Did you read about the contest?”
“A trip to Europe! Can you imagine? We need to submit a time. How long will it take our Nellie Bly to circle the earth?”
Belle eased herself down onto the bed, her eyes never leaving the dresser. She gripped her kneecaps to steady her hands. Who were these women? Where were they? Was the box some sort of telephone? She’d read about telephones, but they were available only in the bustling Northeast.
“They say she’ll travel by ships, trains, sampans—whatever those are—even horses and mules. She’s so brave! What do you think, BB . . . could you do it?”
“Oh my, no! I got lost the other day just walking to the ferry. Gerald says I shouldn’t go out of the house without him. I just hate when I prove him right!”
“Pshaw. That man would keep you in a fishbowl if he could. He’d demand you put on a water show for him until he needed something. Only then would he fish you out.”
Giggling. “I know. But he’s as sweet as a Huyler’s molasses. I just want to eat him up.”
“Oh, BB, you’re hopeless. You need to come to a club meeting with me.”
Belle listened intently but stared at a growing galaxy of sparks hovering over the box. They were changing color from orange to pale green. Please don’t stop working! She needed more clues as to what, where, who—all of it.
“Well, you’d have to slip me into your purse, Kate. Gerald and my mother would never let me hear the end of it if they knew I spent time at a women’s club.”
“Which is exactly why you should go! Women are stronger together, BB. It’s not as if we gather to plot against men. We exchange ideas about how to better our lives. We talk about books and art.” She paused. “And then we set several pairs of men’s trousers on fire.”
Belle found herself grinning despite her shock.
Laughing. “My funny Kate. You’ve always been the more independent gal. I like tradition; you like progress.”
“I like taking care of myself, just like Nellie. Oh, BB, I hope she makes the trip faster than Phileas T. Fogg.”
“On that we agree, my dear.”
“Let’s get oysters tomorrow and determine a number to submit to the World.”
“No to the oysters—too unladylike—and yes to guessing her finishing time.”
“Oh . . . of course, Mr. Long. BB, Mr. Long needs to use his telephone. I’ll call you sometime tomorrow, Prissy.”
“All right. So long for now.”
Immediately, the circle of fl
oating sparks dropped down into the canister, which stopped vibrating. The cottage was silent but for the din of the feathered flock wandering the yard. It seemed odd, to suddenly be alone again. The room was just filled with three people, wasn’t it? She jiggled her fingers inside her ears, the two voices still bouncing around inside. She’d overheard a telephone conversation—somehow, somewhere—many miles north of Fort Myers. The only reference she recognized was to Phileas T. Fogg, the main character in Jules Verne’s book, Around the World in Eighty Days. One of Fort Myers’s original founders brought books with him from Key West, including Verne’s acclaimed work, which was read each year to the town’s schoolchildren. Belle recalled the gripping plot, filled with nail-biting foibles like a herd of buffaloes blocking a train track and confusion at the international date line. She marveled at the concept of a real woman attempting to beat the imaginary eighty-day record. Or at least that’s what it sounded like.
When the box had fully cooled, Belle placed it back in her dresser drawer. She wanted to know more about these friends. Never before had she heard women talk about men or independence, and she certainly hadn’t done so. The most intimate conversations she had with women revolved around books. They’d chat over coffee about favorite characters or twists in the story. But, talk of relationships or aspirations? Never.
Belle concealed the box with clothes and gently shut the drawer. Instead of a mere gadget, she now knew that something unique and unexplainable—at least by her—was tucked inside. She walked to the bed and flopped onto it. Could Kate and BB have heard me if I’d spoken? The thought never crossed her mind until now. No matter—she’d been too shocked to utter even one word. With another lucky handle crank, she’d get a second chance to find out more about the pair and whether she could—or would—join their intriguing conversation.
Chapter 9
Abigail spoke to Belle over one shoulder as she washed dishes. “I thought you’d like to hear more about the professor’s travels before he leaves today.”
“If he has time, I’d enjoy that.” Belle finished the last bite of her lunch, venison stew.
“Good. I’ll ask him to sit in the kitchen with us, while I clean up and you both enjoy some lemon pie.”
Belle walked her empty plate over to Abigail. “Delicious, as always.”
“I can confirm that.” Professor Ricalton stood in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling and clutching the lapels of his three-button sack coat. He was slight with a head that looked like a skull covered by skin only, a thick gray mustache his only hair. He wore a brimless black cap and thin wire spectacles.
“Abigail, your cooking makes it hard for a boarder to board a boat home.”
Belle smiled and Abigail waved him into the kitchen. “Do you have time to talk plants with Belle, Professor?”
“Of course,” he said, and walked over to her.
She noted his thin neck, untouched by the stand collar of his shirt. A narrow bow tie helped bolster his neckline.
“Abigail told me that you’re an avid gardener, Belle.”
“Well, I certainly do enjoy the company of plants,” she said.
Abigail wiped her wet hands and gestured toward the small kitchen table. “Why don’t you two sit down in here, and I’ll wrangle dessert.”
“A very sound idea,” he said, dropping into a chair. “The new boarder I was sitting beside in the dining room went on and on about sponging and plucking slimy black masses from the Gulf floor.” He patted his nonexistent belly. “Not so appetizing.”
Belle liked Professor Ricalton already. He seemed comfortable and confident with no air of self-importance. She sat down across from him and fidgeted with a tiny spoon in a saltcellar. He looked back at her with his hands folded on the table. Abigail walked over to the table without dessert.
“So, Professor Ricalton is here as a guest of Mr. Edison, who wanted to reward him with a week of sun and relaxation. The professor spent a year traveling on his behalf, conducting scientific research on thousands of plants.”
“A fine man, Mr. Edison,” the professor said, nodding. “And I’ve been honored to stay at Baker’s, Abigail. You’re known throughout town as its finest cook and host, and now I know why.”
Abigail said as she turned, “Now that will get you an extra-large slice of lemon pie.”
Belle smiled at the professor, who grinned and rubbed his palms together as Abigail walked away.
“So, how does this all fit together, Professor? You, Mr. Edison, plants?”
“Well, I suppose I got very lucky, Belle. A great man noticed an average man, and so our partnership began.”
James Ricalton explained that Mr. Edison was in need of a seasoned world traveler who he could train to test for levels of carbon in various species of bamboo. The professor certainly qualified as an experienced trekker. A schoolteacher and principal in Maplewood, New Jersey, he spent his summer vacations wandering the world with his beloved photography equipment. He described a covered wheelbarrow-like apparatus he’d built to transport gear during the day and to sleep in at night.
“Through my camera lens, I explored Iceland, the Amazon, and northeastern Russia. I was alone but never felt that way. My constant companion was the utter newness of the surroundings and people I encountered. Always I returned home with photos, mineral specimens, and curios handmade by native folk.”
“How exciting,” Belle said, “and what fun to share it all with your students.”
“Indeed, Belle,” he said. “Why see the world if you can’t share its wonders? The children are so curious about what exists beyond their little valley.”
The professor continued, describing the day a messenger showed up at his school with a letter from Mr. Edison requesting a meeting that day—no reason stated—at his new laboratory in West Orange, six miles north of Maplewood.
“When I arrived, he had a gleam in his eye. He said, ‘You like to travel, I believe?’ When I confirmed with an ‘Indeed,’ he explained, ‘I want an experienced traveler to ransack all the tropical jungles of the East to find a better fiber for my electric lamp. I expect it to be found in the palm or bamboo family. Would you like that undertaking?’” The professor threw his hands up in the air. “Can you imagine, Belle? As I said, I got lucky.”
Belle smiled up at Abigail, who brought two plates of pie topped with fluffy egg-white peaks browned in the oven. The professor’s piece was twice the size of hers.
“Thank you . . . for this.” Belle gestured back and forth between herself and the professor.
Abigail nodded at her and moved into the dining room to serve dessert.
“I must tell you, Belle, how much I respect Mr. Edison’s infinite thoroughness. He’d already discovered that bamboo grown in Japan was a very desirable carbon for his lamp.” He held up his pointer finger. “Yet, he believed that somewhere in God’s great laboratory superior varieties—even longer burning—might be found.”
The professor explained that he received a leave of absence from school and reported to Mr. Edison the following day to learn the details of drawing and carbonizing fibers in the jungles of the Orient. While Edison’s workers created a set of suitable tools for his fieldwork, he was directed to do research in the laboratory’s library.
“I studied the geography of where I would explore.” The professor ran his finger along the table and around his pie plate. “I drew maps of the tributaries and rivers I planned to visit—the Ganges, the Irrawaddy, the Brahmaputra.”
Belle wished a map were spread out on the table to help her visualize his journey. “Were you at all afraid, Professor?”
He poked at his pie with a fork. “Yes and no, Belle. Experience is an effective antidote to fear, and I’d already traveled extensively by myself. Honestly, my biggest fear was that I would disappoint Mr. Edison, that I wouldn’t find what he needed.”
Belle nodded. “I feel the same way
about Mina. I don’t want to disappoint her with the gardens she’s asked me to create.”
“All we can do is to give our very best, Belle.” He smiled, pushed the narrow bridge of his glasses toward his eyes, and began eating his pie.
She started in on her slice and sorted through the many questions she had for the professor.
“My students gave me a fine bon voyage and I was off, sailing to Ceylon by way of England and the Suez Canal. Ceylon is tropical and rich with a wide variety of bamboo and palm species. I visited every part of the island and tested nearly one hundred species over the course of three and a half months.”
“The working conditions,” Belle said. “How did you find them?”
“Well, they certainly found me,” the professor replied with a chuckle, sweeping a napkin across his mustache. “Insects were abundant and merciless. The most revolting specimen was the land leech. I had at least twenty removed from my body after emerging from the jungle.”
Belle winced. “All filled with your blood.”
The professor’s eyes widened. “None of that unpleasantness mattered, though, because of my eureka find in Ceylon: Bambusa gigantia, an enormous bamboo.” He held an invisible reed. “It measures twelve inches in diameter, grows one hundred fifty feet high, and tests the highest as a carbon. Eureka!”
Belle raised her eyebrows and pronounced aloud, “Bambusa gigantia.”
The professor continued. From Ceylon, he trekked to India, then on to China. In Japan he tested extensively in a Tokyo museum, which contained a classified collection of every bamboo species in the empire.
“I returned exactly one year later to Maplewood, where my sweet boys and girls welcomed me with cheers and hugs.” The professor beamed. “My students were in my thoughts throughout the trip. And of course, my wife, Barbara.”
“What an accomplishment,” Belle marveled. She added softly, “I can’t imagine wandering the world on my own with such an important task at hand.”
After the Rain Page 7
