After the Rain

by Jane Lorenzini

  Stunned, Belle whispered, “Oh my God.”

  “He was three years older, and we were close. We fought from time to time, but over stupid things, like whose horse was faster, who was or wasn’t afraid of lightning. But we had each other’s back. My father always told us, ‘Look out for each other because no one else will. I’m not going to be around forever.’”

  Boone stopped talking. Belle thought he might not be able to share the rest, but he continued.

  “One afternoon, we snuck a bottle of our father’s whiskey into my saddlebag and rode out to a hammock near one of our cow camps. After a few swigs, we decided to compare guns.” Boone shook his head. “Stupid, I know. Our rifles were tied to the horses, but we were sitting with our revolvers, across from each other. We both made sure to empty our chambers—we weren’t too drunk to forget that.”

  Boone twisted on the stool and turned away from Belle. He rested his elbows on his kneecaps. He put his head in his hands and spoke to the floor.

  “I’ve been over it a thousand times in my head, and it seems impossible. I know I removed all six bullets. Daniel was bragging about what better care he took of his gun, joking that he was amazed my dirty piece even worked. And so, I pointed it at him . . . and I pulled the trigger.”

  Belle flinched, almost hearing the blast.

  “I shot my brother, Belle. Right in the face.” Boone sat silently for a minute. “He had the best smile, and I wiped it off forever.”

  Belle could almost feel the pain surging through Boone, as she gently rubbed his back.

  “He was dead instantly. Blood was everywhere. I went to him and yelled at the top of my lungs. His horse had run off but Judith stayed. I crawled back over to where I’d left the bullets and counted. There were only five. I must have counted wrong, but I swear . . . before I pulled that trigger . . . I counted six.” His voice dropped. “There was nothing I could do. Daniel was dead. So I put a bullet in my gun and pointed the barrel at my leg. The bullet tore through my calf muscle. I didn’t even feel it.”

  The limp, Belle thought.

  “I was desperate to feel anything other than . . .” Boone stopped talking.

  Belle dragged herself up to a sitting position. She wrapped her arms around Boone from the back and hoped that every step, every day, was not an anguishing reminder of the accident.

  “I’m so sorry,” Belle said with her cheek resting on his bare back.

  Boone’s voice was barely audible. “My mother was sweeping the porch when I rode up with Daniel’s body draped across my horse. I’d wrapped his head with my shirt, but the bleeding was overwhelming.” He stopped talking and let the drumming of rain on the roof fill the cottage for a few moments. “I had to leave home after a few weeks. I couldn’t stand to see the black circles under my mother’s eyes and the anger in my father’s. In a way, when Daniel died, my parents went blind. They couldn’t see anything beyond his gravestone. They didn’t care that I moved away because I could come back. They focused on the one who couldn’t.”

  Belle said softly, “I see you, Boone. I see you.” He slowly turned back around to face her. She wiped away his tears with her thumbs, then gently held his cheeks. “Forgive yourself, Boone. It was a horrible mistake.”

  He hung his head. When he finally looked up, into her eyes, he said, “Please don’t push me away, Belle.” His hand shook as he placed it on his chest. “Shame was the only thing in my heart . . . until I met you. Now, there’s . . . everything.” He took both of her hands. “When Daniel died, I told myself I didn’t deserve a woman’s company and certainly not what I’m feeling toward you. But I can’t seem to stop myself. I care for you, Belle.”

  She slowly shook her head and pulled away. She drew the covers closer. “I’m sorry, but I won’t allow it. To be near me is to be near calamity. It keeps coming. I can’t break free.” With her eyes shut, she said, “You should stay with Paulette.”

  Boone wiped his cheeks and shifted on the stool. “What are you talking about?”

  “I saw you with her. She touched you. Paulette.”

  He squeezed his temples with a thumb and middle finger. “Paulette?”

  “By the river. You two were talking and—”

  “Ohhh, right. She came by to ask me if I’d be willing to build extra desks for the schoolhouse. Something about a project to help Seminole children.”

  Boone took back her hand and lightly kissed the top of it. “My heart wants you, Belle. Only you.” He added softly, “Now, please. Tell me what happened today.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. For him—so he could stop caring about her—she told the truth. “I just lost a baby, Boone. I got pregnant the night Julius attacked me.”

  Boone’s shoulders slumped. He rested his forehead in one hand and shook his head. Belle saw that she’d made her point. He now understood that loving her was not an option.

  “You’ve been through too much, Belle.” He looked up at her. “He’s done too much.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She looked away. “Surely, you’re disgusted by me.”

  He gently turned her chin back toward him.

  “Belle, you now know I killed my own brother. Can you care for me?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and brushed away a tear.

  “You’re strong, Belle. Stronger than anyone I know. But please, let me in. Something about you . . . is healing me.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly. “I thought that was impossible.”

  Her body seemed to melt into the bed, suddenly relaxed, maybe for the first time in twenty-five years. A good man sat before her, honest and vulnerable. Can you care for me?

  She wanted nothing more than to tell Boone yes, that they could care for and even love each other. She in fact already loved him—her Knight of the Two Rescues. But instead, she gave herself a moment, a chance to put some sleep between the ghosts of her past and the guardian angels of her future.

  “I’m going to rest for a while,” she said. “Will you watch over the world while I sleep?”

  Boone nodded. “Always.”

  Chapter 26

  Baker’s was never completely quiet. Even when every boarder was out and about, there was still noise. Abigail didn’t mind, though, because today—and every day—it was the sound of progress. The cover on a simmering pot was lightly clanging, a new fire in the stove was popping, and she was banging a jar against the counter. She’d promised her “famous” bread-and-butter pickles to George, and he was going to get them. When the lid finally released, she twisted it open and sampled a pickle.

  “Mmm. Good batch.”

  As she buzzed around the kitchen, stacking clean plates and gathering ingredients for lemon fritters, Abigail thought, Merle’s right. She was always on the move, all the while feeling behind schedule. Cooking kept her from cleaning, which kept her from yard work, and so went her days. Over the years, Merle would tease her about her state of perpetual motion. “Stand still at your own risk, Abigail.” And then he’d let his bent arm fall flat, like a tree toppling. She would laugh, knowing he respected her determination to run an esteemed and successful business. He’d certainly told her so and also sang her praises in town. A boarder might tell her, “That Merle over at Duggan’s sure seems sweet on you,” or “Merle from Duggan’s says you outwork everyone in town.” And so, Merle knew very well how busy she already was when, eleven years ago, he’d asked for her help with a personal matter.

  “The Carsons’ daughter Belle is going to live with me now. Can you stop by Duggan’s a little more often . . . get to know Belle?”

  Abigail remembered being startled at first, shocked that the Carsons would release Belle from their care. She didn’t know the family well, only that they were reliable churchgoers. Betsy struck her as quiet or tired, or both, often leaning into the arm of the pew with her eyes closed. That Merle would permanently take in the fourteen-year-old ha
d surprised her, but she’d come to know him as kindhearted and a sound decision-maker, at least when it came to his business. Once Merle relayed the disturbing details of Belle showing up at his door, scared and injured, and with no explanation from the Carsons about what had happened, she’d understood why he wanted to protect her. Word of Belle’s new living arrangement had caused a brief stir around town, but whenever Abigail heard gossip about the Carson-Duggan arrangement, she’d say, “I imagine you’ve shared those thoughts with Merle?” shutting down the conversation.

  Before Abigail met Belle at age fourteen, she hadn’t had but one or two brief exchanges with her over the years at Duggan’s. Once, the little girl offered her raspberries from the handful Merle had just given her. Then, when Belle moved in with Merle, Abigail quickly grew fond of the quiet, curious girl. She stopped into Duggan’s as often as she could to visit with her or check on what she might be sewing or drawing. If she had time, she’d walk with Belle to Baileys’, the girl swinging her pail of gardening tools, a notebook in her other hand. Ever since she’d begun spending time with Belle, plants were the way to get her to talk the longest and light up with excitement, a passion that blossomed as she grew older. Abigail wasn’t surprised when Mina shared Belle’s comment to her about “being a plant in another life.” Mina seemed pleased by her recommendation, referring to Belle as “just lovely.”

  As her relationship with Belle grew deeper over time, she and Merle further bonded as friends, supporting Belle in their own unique ways. She admired Merle’s steadfast commitment to Belle, determined to guide her as best he could as she matured. He shared with Abigail how grateful he was that Belle could go to her with any “womanly” concerns. When Belle was seventeen, Merle asked if he could talk privately with Abigail. Because of how close she and Merle had become, she wasn’t surprised that he’d developed feelings for her.

  “I find myself wanting to hold your hand when we walk together,” he’d said.

  She’d quickly pushed back. As much as she liked the idea of truly becoming “his gal,” she wouldn’t allow it. Five years earlier when she still lived in Boston, a man had betrayed her and the pain still lingered. But she simply told Merle that she couldn’t risk losing their friendship if a relationship failed.

  Abigail pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. She wiped flour off her apron and sighed.

  “Oh, Merle,” she said quietly.

  How she marveled at his open heart. Twice now he’d invited her into his life in a way that could change everything, but still he was willing to take the risk. Both times she was flattered but wary. Rubbing her neck with both hands, she made herself sit a while. Maybe she did owe Merle a longer look at whether their dating was a sound idea, even a wonderful idea. After all, the man in Boston had indeed broken her heart, but not because she’d once loved him.

  “One thing at a time,” Abigail said softly.

  She was already wrestling with another big decision—whether to tell Belle the story behind the black box.

  Chapter 27

  Norville Decker was hard to miss. If you spotted flailing hands, they were Decker’s. If you noticed pacing feet, they were Decker’s. Belle could see a man in the distance pounding the sand with his fists and shaking his head.

  Decker, she thought.

  Returning from a quick visit to Duggan’s, she was peddling down River Street when she saw him planted firmly on his hands and knees in a long row of sugarcane. He and Boone had been working on the new garden for weeks, located across the street from the Edison property. The board fence around it was incomplete, just two of the three levels of horizontal slats in place. She’d watched the garden take shape in fits and spurts, Boone and Decker at times working alone, sometimes together, surrounded by mounds of slips and potted plants awaiting their chance at a future. Always the men were making large piles of fertilizer disappear with their rusty spades, the muck spread liberally across all four acres. Maybe no one else noticed the haphazard layout, but she did. Instead of tidy rows there were random patches, as if plants fell out of the sky and rooted themselves wherever they landed. Perhaps those were Edison’s instructions, but she doubted a scientist would prefer such disorder. Then again, chaos was likely a part of experimentation.

  Belle pulled her tricycle to the roadside and waved at Decker.

  “Hello, Mr. Decker,” she said from the trike’s bench.

  She’d only spoken to him a half dozen times in the course of her stay at Baker’s. More often than not he was hidden away in his cottage doing whatever he did, which apparently wasn’t eating very much. His clothes appeared as slack sails, with no meat or muscle to fill them. His long, thin neck served as the mast. When the two did have a conversation, it was brief. He’d always end the talk with “I’ll take those,” as he snatched nursery receipts from her hand.

  “Can I help you?” he replied without looking up from a mound of withered strawberry plants.

  “Well, actually, I was wondering if I could help you.” She remained on the trike.

  Decker looked up and eyed her, his face skewed sideways. “Help with what?”

  She chose her words carefully, Decker’s tone clearly defensive. “Well, as a fellow gardener, I know there are always more weeds and work than there are hands.” She raised hers in the air and wiggled her fingers. “Mine aren’t busy right now.”

  She hoped Decker would accept her help. Since the miscarriage, a deep sense of relief had washed over her. She had endured—and herself done—a horrible thing, but she was now the grateful owner of her life and future. A renewed energy compelled her to support the people she cared about more than ever, even Decker and especially Boone. Mr. Edison had them both scrambling to keep up with his projects.

  Decker unearthed a clump of wilted strawberry stems and leaves, talking again to the ground. “Boss wants twenty by one hundred of these.” He sighed. “I’m quite sure he wants them alive, too.”

  Belle dismounted and invited herself to the edge of the garden.

  “Strawberries love cooler weather, but they have to stay warm. You just need to plant them in full sun.” She knelt down. “The sugarcane is blocking their light.”

  Decker sat back on his knees and looked up at the cane. “Ugh.” He reached for a book buried in a thick nest of ryegrass.

  “I’ve got so much to do and so many instructions that I can’t keep it all straight.” He shoved the book toward her. “Mr. E sent a dozen books, but you know what he didn’t send? Clocks with more time on them.” He sneezed twice. “He calls this a truck garden; I call it the devil’s backyard.”

  Belle grinned and took the book, The Florida Agriculturist.

  “So, we’ve solved the strawberry problem. What else are you planting?” She flipped to a random page.

  Decker removed his spectacles and rubbed the lenses with a clean patch of his dirty shirt. Belle thought he favored a mouse with them on, now a mole without them. One might call his look distinctive, a staccato of sharp features including piercing brown eyes, their lids devoid of lashes. Whether he wanted it to be or not, the upright tuft of black hair in the middle of his bald head was his signature feature.

  Gesturing toward a grouping of seedlings, he said, “I’m supposed to plant something called poor man’s dish-rag. Pff—could be named after me. I haven’t been paid in a year.”

  Belle pursed her lips. She wanted nothing to do with disparaging words about Mr. Edison. He was her boss, too, and she found Decker’s complaining unbecoming. They were all extremely fortunate to work for the renowned family.

  “Let’s see here,” she said, and began to leaf through the book. “Poor man’s dish-rag . . .” She soon tapped a page. “Here it is.” She read aloud from the guide. “Poor man’s dish-rag is also known as bonnet gourd, dishcloth gourd, and vegetable sponge.” She hummed lightly as she skimmed the article for pertinent information. “As the plant is tropi
cal, it can stand the full heat of the sun all day without drooping and grow all the better fruit.” She looked up and smiled.

  Decker’s face showed nothing but a slight sunburn on his sunken cheeks.

  Belle continued, “The luffa is fully entitled to membership in the cucumber family and is in no sense a gourd, as it has sometimes been called.”

  “Boss called it a squash,” Decker spat.

  Belle hugged the book to her chest. “Mr. Decker, I’m sure they are all in the same plant family.” She abandoned any effort to curb her tone. “Our boss has changed the world for the better, for goodness’ sake. We can give him ‘squash,’ can’t we?”

  Decker narrowed his eyes until the whites disappeared. “You don’t know the stress I’m under . . . because of him.”

  Belle put down the book, marking the page with a wide blade of grass. She decided that perhaps Decker could use an ear.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?” she said. “The stress. You’ve made it clear you’re owed a chunk of money. Fair enough.”

  Decker stared at her. He sneezed into the crook of his arm and then began to vent.

  “If you must know, Mr. Edison and his close friend who owns the guesthouse are at war, something about a business deal with a phonograph contract. Word is that Ezra Gilliland worked a deal behind E’s back.” He muttered “idiot” toward the ground. “I’ll bet the firm of Edison and Gilliland will soon be”—Decker cut the air with a palm—“no more.”

  Belle said, “Oh dear.”

  “And ‘no more’ means more work for me. Now I’m doing two sets of books instead of one.” He raised and lowered his palms like scales. “Wharf repair: one-third Gilliland, two-thirds Edison. Posts for the main gate: fifty/fifty. And on and on.” He groaned. “Why people go into business with friends, I’ll never know.”

  “Well, I’m sure the math is pesky, but it must be devastating for Mr. Edison to lose a dear friend over a business deal,” Belle said.