After the Rain

by Jane Lorenzini

  Belle chewed on her bottom lip. Oh, Lord. Was Poppy going to explain how she forgave her husband? Last year, Poppy had discovered Pastor Peck and Darla Johansen kissing in the bell tower of the church. She and a neighbor had climbed up to polish the bell and happened upon the pair. Word was that after Poppy moved out and spent a month with her mother—and the Bible—she agreed to return home to her repentant husband. Townspeople rallied behind the couple, but not before gorging on rumors up to their Adam’s apples. Darla was getting back at her sister, who Mitchell had chosen over her as church pianist. Poppy had flirted one too many times with the choir director. And on and on. Ultimately, if Poppy could forgive Mitchell, so could they. Darla moved away.

  “As I said at the last meeting, Belle, humans have always hurt each other, been hurt themselves, and struggled with the heavy burdens that come with having relationships.”

  Belle braced herself, certain the next thing Poppy was going to say was her husband’s name, or Darla’s.

  “That’s why the Bible is filled with verses about forgiveness. One of my favorites is ‘But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses.’”

  “That is a notable one,” Belle said, hoping to lead her toward another verse and away from the scandal. “Do you have any other favorites?”

  Poppy picked up the Bible and quickly found the page she needed. “Here it is. ‘Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamor, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice: And ye be kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.’”

  Belle added nothing and brushed a fly off her forearm.

  “Dear, is there something you’d like to talk about . . . specifically? Maybe I can help.”

  Belle lightly cleared her throat. “Well . . . I . . .” She took a moment to consider her struggle with forgiveness. Does evil deserve absolution? And what of those who aid evil with their blind eye?

  “I don’t know.” Belle shrugged. “I suppose I have trouble doling out forgiveness to people who’ve hurt me.”

  “I understand. Most of us do, Belle.” Poppy closed the Bible and set it aside. “Perhaps consider that we forgive others not because they deserve it, but because you deserve some peace. It allows you to move forward, beyond the hurt feelings.”

  Belle smoothed the sides of her blanket. “The peace part sounds good.”

  Poppy smiled. “You should give yourself some credit, Belle. Look at the loving relationship you have with Merle. You forgave him.”

  Belle heard the words, but they made no sense. She sat up straighter. “What?” Her chest tightened. She didn’t like the way Poppy’s face was changing, from pleasant to pale.

  “Oh. I . . . I assumed you two talked about it years ago.”

  “Talked about what, Poppy?” Belle wanted to run off, into the fruit groves. No more secrets. Please no.

  Poppy’s hands shook as she reached for the Bible. She placed it in her lap as if to anchor herself for the coming storm she’d just brewed.

  “I’m afraid I’ve spoken out of turn.”

  “Tell me what you’re talking about.” Belle stared at her, motionless.

  Poppy let out a puff of breath. “Oh dear. All right.”

  She began to tell a story Belle had never heard before—at least, not this version. The story started with what unfolded after Belle’s mother, Eva, died giving birth.

  When Clara returned from delivering Belle on Sanibel Island, she went straight to Constance Donner, a wet nurse in town. Baby Maybelle was in distress following the devastating delivery and stormy sail back to Fort Myers. When Clara was sure the baby was comfortable and feeding, she went to Merle, whom she would marry the following month.

  “Merle said Clara was exhausted and distraught having just watched Eva die, but would not lie down before she told him how much she felt called to keep you, Belle, and that she hoped together they would raise you.”

  It was as if Belle’s body had turned to stone; her limbs were frozen and heavy.

  “Why do you know this, Poppy?” Her tone was flat.

  “I promise I’ll get there,” Poppy said softly.

  Merle loved Clara and instantly agreed to her beautiful plan. Soon they’d be husband and wife, and parents to little Belle. But then everything changed. One week later, Clara sustained a fatal rattlesnake bite to her ankle while gathering kindling along the river.

  Poppy shook her head. “I’d never seen a man so devastated. When Merle showed up on our doorstep, it took me a moment to recognize him. No big smile, just sunken eyes and slumped shoulders. He was holding both sides of the doorframe simply to stay upright.”

  She explained that Merle sobbed through much of the time they spent with him. He was grieving Clara’s loss and now agonizing over a decision about the baby that would cause him even more pain. They prayed for him and with him, and after nearly two hours, Mitchell helped Merle up and walked with him back to Duggan’s. A plan had been made.

  “Belle, Merle just didn’t feel he could raise a baby on his own. He loved you the minute he laid eyes on you, but when Clara suddenly died, he was struggling even to breathe. The decision he made was for you, for your chance at life with a family, not a broken man.”

  Belle was scrunching her face as if weathering a rainstorm. Poppy’s words seemed to pelt her, a relentless barrage of new truths. She realized right then that the very few details she knew about her infancy—facts Merle had shared with her—were stunningly incomplete.

  “He told me,” Belle said, pointing her finger at Poppy, “that your husband asked the Carsons to adopt me.”

  “And that’s somewhat correct, Belle. They’d lost a baby boy, and Nelson was concerned about Betsy’s well-being. She was acting out of sorts, neglecting their other son. A month before you were born, Nelson had asked Mitchell to let him know if an orphaned baby was made known to the church, that the family would take it in.” Poppy placed her palms together. “The way it all unfolded, Belle, it seemed like God’s plan.”

  Belle stood up and grabbed her blanket, snapping sand off it. She looked down at Poppy and then at the Bible in her lap.

  “I’ll never forgive a God who made that plan. And neither should you.”

  She walked off, unsure of where she was headed.

  Chapter 20

  Merle cleared his throat and held open the Press with both hands. Surrounded by colorful seed packets, Henry Metzger sat nearby on the floor. From his seat behind the counter, Merle began to read aloud from an article titled “EDISON HAS LEARNED TO EAT.”

  “A few years ago, when wholly absorbed with his electrical experiments, Mr. Edison could hardly be induced to eat enough to keep himself going, as he could not spend the time for it, though often hungry. The only way he could be made to take proper nourishment was by leaving tempting edibles all over his laboratory and his house, on his worktable, beside his machinery, in his hat, on his shelves.”

  Merle peered over the top of the paper. “What do you think about that, Henry?”

  Without looking up, the boy said, “I never forget to eat. I guess I’m not that smart.”

  Merle laughed. “Well, you’re smart enough to alphabetize those seed packs. I never thought to do that for our customers.”

  The sound of boots pounding on the porch steps was followed by the store’s screen door opening. Belle was halfway to the counter by the time the door slammed shut.

  “Oh.” She stopped moving when she saw the boy on the floor. “Hello, Henry.”

  “Hello, Miss Belle.” He grinned and held up a packet of cucumber seeds that featured a man’s head atop a pickle body.

  She squatted down to see it up close.

  “I love that one,” she said, “and the tomato man, too.”

  She stood up and looked at Merle.<
br />
  “Do you think Henry could run an errand? I need to talk to you.”

  Merle put down the paper and popped open the cash register. “Sure, honey.” He fished out several coins from opposite ends of the drawer. “Please go to the cannery, son. Buy five cans of guavas and four orange marmalades. Grab a basket off the porch.” The boy took the money. “Millie keeps a jar of lemon drops on her desk.”

  Henry leapt over the seed packets and out the door.

  Merle walked out from around the counter but didn’t move toward Belle. “Is something wrong?”

  She crossed her arms. “Why did you lie to me?”

  He took a moment, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story . . . about you and Clara . . . and me.”

  He stared back at her, stunned by her question. How could she know?

  “What story?”

  “Poppy told me, Merle . . . by accident. She thought I already knew.”

  “Belle, I . . .” He paused, searching for words to explain. “I didn’t lie to you. I just left out that part of the story.”

  “But, why would you do that? It’s my story, too.”

  “Belle,” he said, moving toward her until she put her palm up.

  “Please. Just tell me why,” she said.

  Merle looked down, running the back of his hands over his beard for a few moments. When he raised his head, Belle was still looking at him. That dear, sweet face.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I thought you’d be angry with me, or even worse, think less of me.” He shook his head. “When Clara died, I collapsed inside. I could barely function, the grief was so deep. And then there was you, brand-new to this world. My heart wanted to keep you, but it was so broken that I couldn’t be sure what was best . . . for you.” He blew out a prolonged puff of air. “The Pecks helped me through a very difficult time, Belle. We agreed in the end that you should be raised by a family, as every child should. The Carsons were willing, and it all seemed for the best.” He wrung his hands. “And then, so many years later, you show up at my door, terrified and injured. When I found out Julius had hurt you, I was devastated . . . and angry at myself. When you came to live with me—when I got you back—I wanted to protect you from any more pain. How could I tell my . . . ?” His throat locked up for a moment. “How could I tell my beautiful Belle that I was the reason she got beaten up?”

  Belle stood, squinting at him. He watched her expression slowly soften as she took a few moments to work through all he’d said.

  “No, Merle. What happened to me was not your fault.”

  He exhaled loudly. “Well, honey, thank you for saying that. But when I saw you that night, I told myself it was.” He added quietly, “The sight of you, shaking and bleeding. How could you be the same curious little girl who’d wander into the store, eager to learn . . . about anything.” He walked over to her. “I am so sorry, Belle.”

  She took his hand. “You couldn’t possibly have known, Merle. No one could.”

  Lightly squeezing her hand, he said, “Thank you.” He grimaced and asked softly, “Had he hurt you before that night?” He’d always wondered but was too afraid of the answer.

  Shaking her head, Belle said, “No. That was the worst of it.”

  He pulled her to him and wrapped her in his arms. As he felt her hug him back, relief washed over him. She was all right. They were all right.

  When they parted, Merle saw a tear rolling down Belle’s cheek. “Let’s sit down.”

  He led her to a stool at the counter and walked behind it. She sat and reached into her pocket as he poured two glasses of water. Squeezing a bit of orange juice into hers, he said, “Just the way you like it.”

  Belle nodded and dabbed her eyes. Merle gestured toward a letter C embroidered on a corner of her handkerchief.

  “I know this is making my dear Clara happy. She’d want us to remain close . . . no matter what.” Through the years, Merle had rarely talked about Clara with Belle, or anyone, but at that moment it seemed like the three of them were together. “Clara loved you dearly, Belle. ‘My tiny fighter,’ she called you.” He smiled, picturing Clara holding Belle in the air, singing to her or kissing her wiggling baby toes. “Clara was the first person to see you enter the world.”

  Tracing the stitches of the pink C with her finger, Belle said, “My mother . . . Eva . . . she didn’t make it long enough to see me?”

  “No, honey, I’m afraid not. Clara didn’t share many details with me—she was so torn up about losing Eva—but she did say the ether offered your mother relief . . . from everything . . . before she passed.”

  Belle took a sip of water. “Have you told me all you know about my mother?”

  Merle blinked and thought. “Yes. Unfortunately, Clara had very little time to talk with the bean farmer. By the time she arrived, Eva was in bad shape. She was small-boned like you, and childbirth for any woman is dangerous. Clara told me she’d lost other mothers, and babies, too.” He leaned over and rested his crossed arms on the counter. “I wish I knew more.”

  “Well, what I do know is that I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Clara,” Belle said. She sat quietly for a moment or two. “How did you meet Clara . . . if you don’t mind my asking.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t mind.” He pointed at Belle’s handkerchief. “I’ve given you things that were special to Clara but haven’t talked very much about her.”

  “I certainly don’t want to make you sad.”

  “No, I want you to know more about her.” He smiled. “Actually, a stamp brought us together. Clara came into the store one day when I was still running the post office out of Duggan’s. She was holding an envelope and asked to buy a stamp, but I didn’t hear her. I was too busy surveying this beautiful woman before me.” He shrugged. “She just looked perfectly designed—hair swept to the back, warm smile, skin the color of her pearl earrings.” He grinned. “The poor thing had to shake her coin purse to get my attention. She kindly asked me a second time for a stamp. So I sold it to her and asked her to go for a stroll with me sometime.”

  “Merle!” Belle said. “You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

  “I sure didn’t,” he said, smiling. “Honestly, I surprised myself. When I lost my wife in Georgia, I never thought I could love again, then in walked Clara. As I got to know more about her, she revealed herself as much more than just beautiful. That woman was so smart and passionate about her work. She loved babies dearly.” He added softly, “Clara couldn’t get pregnant—something to do with falling ill with yellow fever as a child—but she did everything she could to bring any and every baby into this world.”

  Belle folded her hands on the counter. “I know how much you still love Clara, Merle. I love her, too, and I never even met her. But you lost her decades ago. Surely, it’s time for another love in your life.” She tapped one thumb against the other. “What about Abigail? You two are so good together . . .”

  Merle opened his mouth to respond just as Henry came bounding into the store with a jam-packed basket and a mouthful of lemon drops.

  “Look who’s back!” Merle said. He winked at Belle but didn’t answer her question, one he’d often asked himself over the years.

  Chapter 21

  Weeks after the attack, Belle’s face was healed, her nerves calm. When the Press reported that the search for Julius had been called off, she was convinced his body would never be found. Thankfully, her anxiety had lessened, stripped of its oppressiveness like an autumn breeze. This afternoon, she was enjoying the growing sense of relief with Boone by her side.

  The two were working together in the Edisons’ driveway, unloading plants she’d bought at Baileys’ for the gardens. Byron’s collared neck hung low as he tried to sleep off the fifteen-minute return trip that any other mule would’ve completed in five. As Boone removed a pot of caladiu
ms from a flatbed cart, Belle admired their heart-shaped leaves and thought, Those are for you, Boone. She stuck her nose into a pale-pink bloom and let out a long, “Mmmmm.” Gus Bailey had recommended a Souvenir de la Malmaison rose to please Mina. The ornamental was a prolific bloomer and would grow no taller than three feet. Belle would give it an extra dose of Abigail’s fertile compost.

  “These are heavenly for any nectar lover,” Belle said, waving her hands over a group of flowering plants already being visited by petite blue butterflies. From atop the cart she handed Boone orange-and-yellow lantana, oxeye daisies, and fuchsia pentas. For Mina’s vases she’d chosen plants that would provide hearty, long-lasting blooms when cut—tickseed, purple salvia, and her requested black-eyed Susans.

  “You’re practically floating back and forth across that cart,” Boone said, smiling. “Happy?”

  “Very,” she said, and indeed she was. Flowers and all plants had always served as family, the ones she could rely on and delight in.

  She next handed Boone a plant that was now unavailable at the nursery. She’d bought every last one. It featured vibrant pink blooms on long stalks that shot up from grasslike foliage. “This is my very favorite find,” she said. Each flower had six pointed leaves and a lime-green center. Bright-yellow stamen burst forth from the middle of the blooms.

  Taking the pot, Boone said, “Pretty. What are they?”

  “They’re called pink rain lilies.” Her fingers caressed a petal. “Gus told me they explode with blooms after heavy rainstorms.” She said softly, “I just love that.”

  Boone reached a hand up to Belle. She took it. “They’re strong and beautiful.” He laced his fingers through hers. “Like you.”

  When the cart was nearly empty, Boone put his hands on his hips. “How about that sail? The wind is perfect.”

  She ran a sleeve across her sweaty forehead. “That sounds wonderful.”