Scarlet Butterfly

by Sandra Chastain

  “Go on,” Rogan said, filling their glasses with more ice and sweet tea. “You ran away from home and went to college. What was wrong with that? Did you run off with a guy?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was toward the end of my senior year when I got into trouble. I passed out, and my friend called my father, who accused him of not taking care of me—as he’d been paid to do. This time I had to go home.”

  “Your father paid someone to look after you, and he got you in trouble? No wonder you didn’t want to marry him.”

  Carolina took a big sip of tea as she considered his question. Then she began to laugh. “Marry him? You thought—?” She laughed again, then turned serious. “No, Rogan, this time I really was sick. My passing out started with a seizure. All those years, when Father told me I was too sick to live a normal life, I wasn’t. Then, when I finally broke away, all his predictions came true.”

  “How? What happened?”

  He looked at her closely, touching the feathery ends of her short hair, and lifted his eyebrows. “Your head really has been shaved.” His fingertips found the scar at the base of her skull and paused.

  “No—well, yes, I had surgery. But that wasn’t the only reason I lost my hair. They finally found out that I had a kind of tumor, a cyst on my pituitary gland that messed up my thyroid, my hormones, all my controls. First they operated. Then came the radiation therapy.”

  “And? Are you all right now?” He knew his voice was harsh, that he was ordering her to say she was all right. As he waited, he realized that he had no right to be angry or to care. But he did, and that shocked him.

  “They think so, with medication,” she whispered. “I’ll probably never be more than five feet two inches tall. And if I weigh more than a hundred pounds, I’ll be overweight. But otherwise, I’ll probably be fine.”

  “Damn!”

  “Damn!” the parrot repeated. Somewhere in the cabin below there was a loud thump, and the ship rocked as if a barrel had rolled from one side of it to the other.

  “There it goes again,” Sean said, striding out of the galley and into the cabin below. “Poltergeists.”

  Carolina sat in the galley, the small lamp casting long shadows across the small room. She imagined her great-grandmother six times removed, sitting in the same galley with Jacob. She didn’t know how Sean would feel when he learned that over a hundred years earlier, their ancestors must have been lovers. Did that mean she and Rogan were related? Then she decided it didn’t matter.

  Carolina knew little about the first Carolina because she’d died shortly after her child was born. To their child, Jacob had been a stern, unbending man. The journals had clearly shown him to be dictatorial and possessive—something, she’d decided, like her own father.

  “Nothing down there. There never is,” Rogan said as he entered the galley once more. “Sounds, movement, tobacco smoke—I don’t know.”

  “Tobacco smoke? Have you given any thought to the possibility that there might be somebody here, watching?”

  Everything went still. The ship seemed to pause in mid-rock. Bully hushed. For a moment neither Sean nor Carolina could hear the other breathe.

  “There’s nobody along this river for ten miles, other than Harry upstream who brings me fish and old Lucy who sends me fried pies. Nobody is watching us, I’m certain!”

  This time the boat rocked, and Bully cried out in alarm.

  “And furthermore, I think it’s time that you told me the real truth. Why are you here?”

  “There is no other reason, at least not one I’m sure of, Rogan. During the time I was sick I discovered the journal in my father’s library. I became fascinated with it. My father explained that my mother had read the journal and that after learning Carolina was an ancestor, she’d named me for her. I can’t explain why I came, but I think maybe it was because I really was sent for.”

  Sean couldn’t conceal his amazement. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” When she nodded, he asked, “By whom and for what reason?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you come here? Why did you raise the ship? How did we come to be together, here, in this time? Almost a hundred and fifty years later, Rogan and Carolina together again?”

  “I’m not buying that, Goldilocks. You’re here, but not for long. I don’t know anything about Jacob Rogan and don’t want to. The Rogans have spent the best parts of their lives reliving past glories and trying to capture new ones. I put that behind me two years ago. I’m here, and I’m living my life in this minute. I don’t have much use for fate. I don’t believe in the Ouija board, and fortune-tellers are only for the fanciful who want an excuse for failure. I’ll take care of me and my future, and I’ll do it alone.”

  He looked so pained, so desperate. She understood his need for freedom. “I know; I’ll be leaving soon. I’m sorry I intruded.”

  “You’re not the complication, Goldilocks. The bad guys are my loving family; and the power players, the politicians, the crooks are the complications. Now I’ve got the State of Georgia breathing down my back, claiming the Butterfly. And you didn’t have a thing to do with that.”

  “I heard you tell Harry about their claim. How can they do that?”

  “It seems there is a law about antiquities belonging to the state.”

  “But the Scarlet Butterfly is yours.”

  “I know, but without a bill of sale I really can’t prove it, and there’s a law that says any object found in navigable waters legally belongs to the state. And the St. Marys River is navigable.”

  “But you said this is a lake.”

  “A saltwater lake, fed by both the river and the Atlantic, which makes it part of Georgia.”

  “Can’t you fight it?”

  “Oh, I intend to, but I’m told that I’m not likely to win.”

  “Oh, Rogan, I’m so sorry. I wish I could help. You’re welcome to my records. Carolina’s daughter’s journal refers to her father, Jacob, and the Butterfly.”

  “You really have a journal that says Jacob Rogan owned the Scarlet Butterfly?”

  “Not exactly. It just refers to the boat and the captain sailing the Butterfly. That ought to mean something.” Carolina thought about the journal for a moment and began to smile. “Hey, that has to be the answer—why I’m here. It really is fate. I was meant to come here, to bring you the journal.”

  Rogan shook his head. He didn’t believe in fate. A man made his own choices and set his own course of action. Like his brother had said, the woman was a fruitcake. Well, not a fruitcake, maybe just a disillusioned child who needed magic in her life. And, he decided, she was leaving the next day. He had to stop her fantasy before it became contagious.

  “Oh, Rogan. I just remembered. The journal was in my suitcase.”

  “And your suitcase is gone. So much for your being my angel of mercy.”

  “But we can find it. It’s red, and it ought to be easily seen.”

  “That suitcase could be caught in the swamp, the marsh, or have already washed out into the Atlantic. Thanks, but I doubt it would have helped anyway.”

  “Oh, Rogan, I’m so sorry.”

  He was sorry too. And if he didn’t get his mind on something else, they’d be comforting each other in a way that would not be smart. She was too trusting, and his newly discovered spot of compassion was still clinging desperately to life.

  “There is a shower on the side of the galley, if you’d like to take a bath, Carolina. I’ll get you something to sleep in. Then I suggest you turn in. Tomorrow we’ll go into town and make arrangements to have your car towed.”

  His voice was gruff again. She’d come to realize that this stern manner appeared anytime his emotions were touched. She understood. She’d found a way or two to hide her own over the years.

  “A shower? A real shower?”

  “Yes. It’s a crude affair, nothing more than a tub of rainwater with a pully release system, but it works. You clear the table, and I’
ll set up the tub for you to stand in.”

  It was a shower, and it was crude. But Carolina washed her hair and her underclothes. Later, dressed in one of Rogan’s oversized T-shirts, she felt better than she had in two days.

  Rogan was busy in the galley when she came to say good night. He appeared determined not to look at her, and she was glad. The boat seemed small and the space confining. He didn’t have to say so for her to know that he was feeling the constriction too.

  “Are you sure about the hammock?” she asked.

  “I’m sure. I often sleep on deck. It’s cooler.”

  She didn’t know how he’d react, but she padded barefoot to his side, instinctively stretched up and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Then I won’t argue, Captain. I’ll just say good night. And thank you for everything. I don’t want to be a burden to you. I like you—even if you are a lawyer.”

  “Carolina?” His voice stopped her at the cabin door. “What did you study in school?”

  “Art. I wanted to paint all the beautiful things in the world. Then I found out the world wasn’t so beautiful.”

  “I should have known.”

  “And, Rogan, I think you ought to know that the first Carolina was an artist too. I realize this will sound unimportant to you, but Jacob didn’t want her on board either.”

  “That’s the trouble, Carolina,” he said, just under his breath. “I think I do.”

  • • •

  The next morning the dock and the bank beyond were exposed by the receding water. After breakfast, Rogan offered to drive Carolina into town. He seemed preoccupied and cross. Of course she had to go; she’d never called her father. But she didn’t want to leave. As if in agreement with her, the soggy ground sucked at her sandals as she walked along behind Rogan.

  “We’ll stop at Ida’s and have a real breakfast,” Rogan said. “Then you can pick up something more practical to wear.”

  “Clothes?” Carolina started.

  “You’ll need a swimsuit, some shorts, and maybe a bright-colored dress, for a special occasion.”

  “A special occasion?”

  “Well, you never know what fate might have arranged for you, Goldilocks.”

  It wasn’t what fate had arranged that interested her so much as what Rogan was arranging.

  The marsh was alive with sound. Birds and insects were in constant movement through the grasses and tree limbs. Here and there, caught in the brush, were the ugly signs of civilization; paper cups, soft-drink cans, and wrappers. Those within reaching distance Rogan retrieved. He’d brought along a plastic bag for that purpose.

  “The trappings of civilization,” Carolina commented. “I think I like the jungle better. Natural, without refinement.”

  “Sure, I can tell you’d enjoy living out here without hot water, without restaurants, without a cook.”

  “Please don’t remind me of those eggs,” she said brightly. “But I really love it.” She did. There was something so free and easy about the boat and the river, though she couldn’t expect him to believe she felt this way. “Oh, there’s a path. Where does it go?” “To the house.”

  “There’s a real house out here?”

  “What’s left of it. Old Jacob must have gotten tired of living on board at some time, or maybe it was his descendants. At any rate, one of the Rogans built a very grand house overlooking the water.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Not now. It’s falling down,” he snapped, pressing on down the road. “Besides, we need to get into town.”

  “Oh, I see.” He didn’t want to share the house with her, even for a moment. She didn’t understand, but she could accept that. So far she’d inserted herself into his life freely, with little regard for his privacy. She’d done more than she’d ever expected to do when she left Texas. She’d found the Scarlet Butterfly. And she’d found her Rogan.

  My Rogan. There was a nice sound to the words. She hurried to catch up with him. This morning he was wearing crisp khaki trousers and a blue shirt with only a few wrinkles. On his feet were a pair of scruffy running shoes. Once again his hair was pulled neatly back and caught with a rubber band.

  With a little imagination she could see him in a captain’s navy pea coat, dark-colored trousers, and shoes. He’d be wearing a beard, or possibly just a mustache. He would have—in another life. And her? She couldn’t quite get a picture of what she might be wearing; then she realized with a start that it might be because she wasn’t there at all.

  “There. You can see the problem.” His voice broke through her thoughts. She struggled to focus on what he was saying, then caught sight of the red car. It was resting at a crazy angle against a tree in a swampy area about ten feet off the road. “Yes, I can see. It’s a good thing that I took insurance on the rental.”

  “Did you pay for it with a credit card?”

  “Yes, it’s paid in advance.”

  “Then you didn’t need insurance. That’s covered by your card.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t suppose it matters.” I’m not paying for it, she could have said. All the cards were in her father’s name. “At least your truck isn’t hurt.”

  “No, thank goodness for big tires.”

  They reached the battered black truck farther up the road, and Rogan opened the door. She could see where the waterline fell, just under the edge of the fender. The engine cranked easily, and with great skill Rogan backed up the vehicle until he came to a place where he could turn around and head toward town.

  “I wish we could travel on the river,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “So do I. But I like the marsh, too, and the moss. It’s so lush and green, so different from Houston where I grew up. Is St. Marys very old?”

  “Dating back to Oglethorpe and the first settlers, somewhere around 1733.”

  “Did a Rogan come along with Oglethorpe?”

  “Probably not. They claim to have migrated to Georgia from Charleston, but my guess is that they were residing in some English prison when they accepted the invitation to come here.”

  Maybe it was Sean’s imagination, but Carolina’s face seemed to have more color in it this morning. Or maybe it was just the light of interest in her eyes. If he could get her out of that prim white blouse, he reflected, and into some bright clothes, she’d look … beautiful and alive.

  That thought sent a jab of sensation down his leg from the point where they touched, and he inadvertently gave the truck a spurt of gas before he turned his mind to the question she was asking.

  “What on earth did the early settlers do here? I can’t see them growing cotton on this land, and I thought cotton was king.”

  “They grew cotton farther inland. Along the river it was rice. And timber. There were plenty of vessels sailing upriver from the town of St. Marys then. But St. Marys is the only one of the river towns to survive.”

  Sean drove slowly as they came into town, following the main street until it dead-ended into the docks by the river.

  There were shrimp boats and pleasure craft anchored at the docks. She could see warehouses and, farther down, a small ferryboat.

  “That’s the Cumberland Queen,” Sean said. “It takes visitors over to Cumberland Island. Shall we shop first, or go to Ida’s for breakfast?”

  “Shop,” she said, “if you’re not too hungry. Then maybe an early lunch. Oh! Oh, dear!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  When they’d started out, Carolina hadn’t considered precisely what buying new clothes would mean. Now it occurred to her that not only had her suitcase washed away, but so had her purse, with her credit cards and her money.

  “I’m afraid that I have a small problem, Rogan: I have no money. Remember, my purse was in the car.” What she had chosen to ignore was that her medication was also in the purse. Having the prescription refilled would mean contacting her doctor, and that would give her location away. Going without medication for a few days would probably do her no great damage, for the thy
roid replacement lasted for as long as thirty days. Still, she’d have to make arrangements to get more medication soon or run a real risk of unpleasant side effects.

  But not yet. She’d take a chance. Staying with Rogan for a few days was worth it.

  Rogan drummed his fingers against the center of the steering wheel. “Tell you what: I’ll be glad to make you a loan. Where would you like to go to shop?”

  “Well, Ida told me there was a warehouse that has been converted into small shops and boutiques. Have you been there?”

  “Nope. The hardware store and the grocery store are the extent of my shopping excursions here. But I think I know the building.”

  It soon became apparent that while Rogan professed to no great knowledge of shopping, he had a keen eye for women’s clothing. She’d never been shopping with anyone who let her make her own choices. Still, his enthusiasm was hard to resist, and when they were done she’d followed his wishes almost completely.

  Finally, Rogan left Carolina as she was changing in to one of her new dresses. He returned shortly carrying a parcel of his own. Carolina was wearing a bright blue sundress with matching shoes. She looked like sunshine, and a smile of approval replaced Rogan’s customary frown.

  They walked back along the docks, listening to the squawking gulls, watching the tourists snapping pictures, and buying souvenirs. Rogan bought her a pair of funky earrings that clamped on the side of her ear and sounded like musical bells when she moved her head. Time passed so pleasantly that she protested when Rogan said that it was lunchtime and she needed to rest. They headed back to the truck and Ridgeway Inn, where Ida welcomed them warmly.

  “Come inside. Carolina, I was worried about you when that storm blew in and you didn’t come back. Then Harry turned up and said you were with Rogan. And you”—she hugged Rogan and gave him a sharp look—“are you behaving yourself?”

  “After the glowing lies you gave Carolina about my character, why would you ask such a question, Ida?”

  “Because I’ve seen the wild beast hidden in those eyes, and you weren’t expecting Beauty here to drop in. I’m glad to see you’re getting along. I wasn’t sure that the sheriff hadn’t arrested you.”