Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  Sometimes, idiots who found the bottle heaved it away. He wondered how many people over two thousand years had thrown him away or passed him by and lost the chance for three golden wishes.

  He had known the moment he’d landed. It was like riding a bounding camel and suddenly slamming into a stone wall. And something else was always the same. The inside of the bottle was a mess.

  His gold silk pillows were everywhere. Leather-bound books and a stack of yellowed newspapers littered his Persian carpets. Everything he owned from an ancient brass hookah to a baseball bat and cap had toppled in a jumble on the floor. He was sporting a large knot on his head from the bat.

  Each new master and new decade and new place brought with it new inventions. Muddy had managed to slip many of the more fascinating items in his bottle.

  In recent years, he had collected quite a library of the latest dramatic adventures; an ivory chess board, and checkers, but he had to play by himself; a badminton racket and birdie, which he frequently batted about the bottle; his baseball paraphernalia; and some photographic equipment.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor of his bottle and placed his spilled chess pieces back in their box. For just a moment he looked up at the stopper. If wishes and prayers helped, someone would find him soon.

  Margaret set the sleeping baby in the makeshift crib she’d made from a trunk and turned around. She raised a hand to shade the glare of the sun and looked at the beach.

  Earlier, Hank had sent Lydia and Theodore to gather driftwood. They were stacking wood on the beach. The goat stood by Theodore, probably because Hank, the goat’s target, was nowhere nearby.

  Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen much of Hank, not that that particularly bothered her. Asking for Hank’s company was like wanting to dine with the devil.

  A second later she heard the devil whistling.

  He came swaggering out of the thick jungle, his arms loaded with a bundle of green and yellow bamboo. He was whistling something that sounded like Home on the Range. He walked past her, stopped, and looked around, then dropped the bamboo.

  Margaret stared at the pile of green sticks. “Are those for the hut?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why did you put them there?”

  “Because this is where we are going to build the hut.”

  Margaret pointed to the spot she had chosen. “Not there?”

  He shook his head.

  She took a deep breath. “I realize that we’ve had this argument before, but I think you should be aware of the fact that I have given this project quite a bit of thought.”

  He looked at her as if she couldn’t possibly know what she was talking about.

  “It seems most reasonable that we should build closer to our water and food supply.”

  He squatted down and began sorting through the bamboo. “We’ll build it here.” He started whistling again.

  She changed arguments. “Look. You’ve said this island is deserted, so we are stuck together. It’s less than an ideal situation.”

  He grunted.

  “I would like you to treat me as an equal and consider my opinions and suggestions. It’s only fair and right. I am not a man, but of course there is no scientific proof that men are superior to women in anything other than brute strength and muscle capacity. And since I am an educated professional woman who thinks things through thoroughly and analytically, I believe my opinion benefits us all. I make no rash decisions and believe that we should have a fair and equal partnership on everything that affects us.”

  He stood and walked a few feet away, then stopped. “Yeah, well, I’d like to find buried treasure but that’s not bloody likely.” He began to coil the rope she had gathered into a pile.

  She watched him for a moment, her arms crossed. “Just what makes you so certain that your way is the only way?”

  He glanced up from coiling the rope around his elbow and over an open hand. With that male cockiness that set her teeth on edge, he tapped a blunt finger against his temple. “Instincts. I get by because of mother wit.”

  “And I suppose it was mother wit that landed you in prison.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have been there if it weren’t for some stupid pissant attorney.” He jerked the rope into a tighter coil, his movements angry and stilted as if he were throwing punches or wanted to.

  She didn’t say anything.

  He tied off the rope and tossed it to the ground. “And those guards called convicts scum of the earth. They ought to put the attorneys in cells and let the prisoners free.”

  She waited, then said, “I expect you’ve known your share of attorneys.”

  “I know attorneys. The most idealistic, word-twisting, egotistical, and argumentative group of horses’ asses alive.”

  She chewed on her upper lip as she watched him storm around in front of her, moving a trunk and then opening and closing it for no reason. She sighed. “And I suppose you’ve never done anything illegal.”

  “Laws were made to be broken.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yet you blame your attorney for your situation.”

  “I told the little paper shuffler that there was no such thing as a fair trial in an island court.” He threw down the lid of a trunk and stomped past her, muttering, “Fool.”

  “You are innocent,” she said in a wry tone.

  He stopped in front of her and scowled down. “I’m innocent.”

  “Hank Wyatt is innocent.” She tapped a finger against her cheek. “Now why does that sound oxymoronic?”

  He looked at her for a minute, then went over toward the bamboo. “Yeah, well, I’m not half as stupid as an attorney.”

  She looked at him, blinked once, then burst out laughing.

  Squatting on the ground, he glared up at her. She laughed harder. She couldn’t stop.

  “You’re crazy,” he said.

  She shook her head, then took a deep breath. “An oxymoron is a phrase of incongruous words.”

  He was rigidly silent.

  “You know . . . two contradictory words?” She bit back another smile and explained, “The last thing I’d call you is innocent.”

  “Yeah, maybe I’ve had my share of trouble, but I am innocent.”

  “There is a saying that in prison all convicts are innocents.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” he shot back so quickly that they both fell silent. He looked as if he wanted to eat his words.

  She just stood, frozen. But her mind was not frozen. Murder meant a life sentence or death.

  “Were they going to execute you? Is that why you escaped?”

  “My attorney said I was lucky. I got a life sentence.” He looked up at her from his squatting position as if he expected her to scream and run.

  She wouldn’t run.

  Finally he said, “You have nothing to fear.”

  “I know that.” She reached out and touched his shoulder. “A murderer doesn’t risk his life to save three children and a woman from a sinking ship.”

  He looked at her hand on his shoulder with a confused and wary expression. She’d once seen the same look on a Chinese client who didn’t speak English. Then Hank slowly rose from the ground.

  She let her hand fall away.

  He watched her a long time as if making a decision about what it was he saw. He stepped closer, giving her the same direct look she gave him.She waited.

  “You are a smart woman.” He paused, then turned and slowly walked away. After he’d gone a few feet, he turned around and said, “Another oxymoron.”

  Margaret persisted.

  He refused to compromise.

  For the last hour he’d oxymoroned her to death. He wouldn’t listen to her suggestions, and he spent a wealth of time tossing off a plethora of rude comments about attorneys, judges, prison guards, and the law in general, all things he held in contempt.

  “Look, sweetheart. I’m not going to agree with you. Give it up.
I say we build the but here and here is where we will build it. A smart woman would have figured that out by now.”

  There were moments when she actually liked sparring with Hank. This was not one of them. She waited, then casually strolled past him. “Actually, I’m more than just a smart woman.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a laugh, “I forgot. You have a profession.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And a brain,” he added as if it were another joke. “I think we need to work on your attitude.”

  “You can do me a big favor, Smitty.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t think.”

  “I’m paid to think.”

  “Then don’t talk.”

  She laughed and walked around him. “Actually, I’m paid to talk, too.”

  He gave her another long look that said he didn’t believe anyone would pay her to do anything.

  She refused to make this easy for him.

  They played a waiting game. He raked her with a hot look she saw for exactly what it was. A look that reduced the two of them to a man and a woman. An elemental look that cast her into the weaker role.

  “I don’t offend that easily.”

  “I’m learning that, Smitty.”

  And you’re going to learn another lesson, she thought, but she remained silent.

  “So,” he said after a few moments, “what is this profession?” He stressed the last word as if it were a joke.

  She crossed her arms and gave him a look that said he could figure it out.

  “Ah, I get it.” He stepped closer and stared down at her. “You’re not going to tell me.”

  He was trying to intimidate her, standing close and using his height to his advantage. She used a square look and stubborn silence to hers.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. I’ll play your guessing game.” He began to pace in the sand. “You can’t be a nurse.” He turned and paced back. “Your touch is about as soft as cement.” He stopped and turned again, then gave her a narrowed look. “What was that you just muttered about my head?”

  “Nothing.” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I can figure this out. You said you’re paid to talk,” he repeated.

  She nodded.

  “A schoolteacher?”

  She shook her head.

  His cocky expression should have warned her. He glanced at the rope looped around the trees and bushes, then he shot a look at Annabelle sleeping in the trunk. “After this morning, I’m certain of one thing. You’re not a nanny.”

  If she hadn’t already known she was going to come out the winner in this contest, she might have done something rash and emotional. Instead she gave him a blank and unaffected stare.

  “A librarian.”

  “Not even warm.”

  “A seamstress.”

  She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t sew on a button.

  “Hatmaker? Nah.” He shook his head and rubbed his hairy chin thoughtfully. “I remember that ugly brown hat you had on in the marketplace. Couldn’t possibly be a hatmaker.”

  “You are so witty.”

  He smirked at her. “I try.”

  “You need a shovel, Hank.”

  “Why is that?”

  “So you can dig that hole you’re standing in a little deeper.”

  “Which hole?”

  She strolled past him. “I’m neither a teacher, a nurse, nor a nanny.” She gave him a pointed look. “Nor a librarian, a seamstress, or a hatmaker.”

  He snorted.

  She paused and turned. “I am . . . let me see if I can remember the more polite words. Ah, yes. I am”—she stopped right in front of him and looked him square in the eye—“an idealistic, word-twisting, egotistical, argumentative”—she took a deep breath, then smiled—“attorney.”

  He stared at her. His usually tight jaw went completely slack.

  “With the law firm of Ryderson, Kelly, Huntington, and Smith.”

  He frowned as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “Sutter Street, San Francisco.”

  One could have heard a bird’s heartbeat, it was so absolutely and utterly silent.

  Then he said that truly foul word again.

  Chapter 10

  By late that afternoon they had reached an agreement not to kill each other. Hank was building his hut on the best spot while Smitty was building hers on the worst spot.

  “Hand me that rope, kid.”

  Theodore shuffled over and handed it to him.

  “Now hold this,” said Hank, showing the boy how to hold the canes of bamboo and then wrap them together with rope so that the hut would have a solid frame.

  Hank tied it off and glanced at Smitty. She was trying to hammer a rod of bamboo into the sand with a rock. Annabelle was running in circles around her, twisting the rope that kept them tied together around Smitty’s knees.

  He crossed his arms and watched, thinking it was a fitting situation for an attorney, being tied up with rope. Now if he could only find a way to gag her.

  She fussed at the baby, then tried to unwrap herself. Her blond hair hung down her back in a loose knot, and as she bent down, her ragged skirt went up high enough so he could see her calves.

  He exhaled in a half whistle. She had great legs. Hell, she had a great body and a great face. She also had a big mouth.

  And he had a big problem. He was an escaped convict, and he was stuck on a deserted island with a female attorney. Hell, he didn’t even know women could be attorneys. Didn’t say much for the state of the world.

  Theodore tugged on his sleeve. “What do we do next?”

  “Suicide,” he muttered, never taking his eyes off Smitty.

  “Huh?”

  He looked down at the kid. “Nothing.” Hank glanced around the bamboo frame of the hut. It was sturdy and secure. “We need to gather some filler for the walls.”

  “What’s filler?”

  “Palm fronds. Big leaves.”

  “I saw some really big leaves on a bush by the stream.” The kid took off running.

  Hank started across the clearing. He stopped a few feet away from Smitty. She had three bamboo rods stuck at cockeyed angles from the soft wet sand. If he walked by too fast, the draft might blow them over.

  He stood, waiting for her to turn around. Two of the poles began to tilt slowly toward each other. He fought back a grin.

  Muttering, Smitty grabbed them. Annabelle crawled between her legs, and the third pole rattled against the other two.

  He gave the poles a pointed look. “Building a tepee?”

  She glanced up at the bamboo poles, cringed slightly, then gave him a cool look just as Annabelle let out with a holler. The kid was caught in the rope knotted around Smitty’s ankles. Smitty dropped the poles. “Now, Annabelle, just hold still, and I’ll fix this.”

  “Annabelle stuck!” The kid cried and struggled. Smitty was stuck. He chuckled to himself and moved on. When he was a few feet away, he stopped. The kid had quit hollering. He looked back. Smitty was sitting in the tangle of rope and bamboo, the kid in her lap.

  “Hey, counselor!” he said.

  She looked up.

  “I hope you build a legal case better than you build a hut.” He walked away laughing.

  She didn’t build a case.

  She didn’t build a hut.

  She built a tepee, as he had sarcastically suggested.

  Margaret stood back and appraised their work. Not bad. For a frame she had tied the poles together at the top when the dratted things refused to stay upright in the sand. She and Lydia had woven wide flat leaves into mats, then she’d tied them together in a thatched covering.

  She stepped back, then walked around and eyed it from a couple of directions. It wasn’t exactly symmetrical. But it worked. She looked at Lydia. “What do you think?”

  Lydia shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  Margaret dusted her hands together, then wiped them on her skirt. “I think we did a good job.” She smiled at Lydia. “Thank you
for helping.”

  Lydia didn’t respond. She was watching her brother and Hank. Margaret turned and looked across the clearing. Hank was lifting Theodore in the air so he could lay palm fronds on top of their square hut. It looked very sturdy. The walls and roof were stuffed loosely with palm fronds between the bamboo frame.

  She looked back at the tepee. She thought their thatch looked stronger. She laughed. “I’ll have to thank Mr. Wyatt for his suggestion.” She looked at Lydia, who just shrugged.

  Margaret thought of Hank’s nasty words as she studied the tepee. “The perfect rebuttal,” she mumbled to herself.

  Lydia looked at her. “What’s a rebuttal?”

  Margaret hadn’t thought she was paying attention. “In court, when someone raises an assumption of a fact, the opposing argument is a rebuttal. Proof they are wrong. It is like winning an argument. A way of showing that something is true or false.”

  Lydia seemed to think about that, then after a moment she looked at Margaret strangely. “Are you really an attorney?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You go to a court and everything?”

  She nodded.

  Lydia bent down and picked up Annabelle, hugging her sister tightly. “My mother stayed home with us.”

  “Many women stay home with their families. But more and more women are working and quite a few are professionals. Doctors, lawyers, journalists. We have a woman editor on the paper at home.”

  Lydia bounced Annabelle. “Mrs. Robbins, who lived next door, was a teacher. I asked Mama once if she ever wanted to be a teacher or something like that. She said we were enough for her.” There was a note of challenge in her tone.

  Margaret was used to arguing with hard-headed men. Hank wasn’t the first one she’d encountered and he probably wouldn’t be the last. Most men thought the world was theirs alone to manage. She had learned a long time ago that her father and uncles were the exception rather than the rule.

  Under their tutelage, she had grown up believing that she could be anything she wanted to be as long as she earned it. Her father respected her mind and helped her sharpen it, and not once had he said she couldn’t be or do something because she was female. If she worked hard, she could become anything. She had lived thirty-two years exactly that way.