“You said she actually grew that orchid she sent me—do you mean they raise orchids themselves?”
“Not commercially. Poppy had a greenhouse built out behind their home. Her home, really, since she belonged to an old Conch family that owned it from way back.” He saw my questioning look and sighed again. “You’d better understand about the Conchs before you set foot in Key West. If you’ve finished your tea, we can get going, and I’ll tell you on the way.”
We returned to the car, and during the rest of the journey I learned about Conchs.
“I do know,” I told him. “I know about those big shells found in the tropics.”
“Sea snails live in the shells,” Marcus said, “and they’re pretty tough creatures. You’ll meet them in every possible manner from now on. You’ll eat them ground up in stews and fritters and other Key West dishes. You’ll find the shells decorating doorsteps, and you’ll hear them blown on at sunset. There’s a Conch Train for tourists, and of course Conch houses and Conch people, since that’s the name that was given to the tough early settlers. It’s still used for those who are born there.”
“A lot of them came from the Bahamas, didn’t they?”
“Yes. When there was trouble in the islands, some of the settlers moved to Key West. They’re from Cuba too, from Virginia, and sometimes after a shipwreck they came from almost anywhere. There were a great many shipwrecked passengers who’d had enough of sea travel and settled on the island to watch it grow. Since Poppy was a Conch for generations back, so are Iris and Fern. There are even ‘honorary Conchs.’ Tennessee Williams was made one. There’s a phrase they use that I like—‘beloved stranger.’ Your father has lived here long enough to be given that name. Another term, ‘Freshwater Conch,’ isn’t flattering.”
This time Marcus had said “here.” Without my being aware of it, we’d crossed the last bridge and were in Key West, following a boulevard that ran along the gulf. The island was three and a half miles long, and a mile wide. Only a mile’s width of land separated the Gulf of Mexico from the Atlantic Ocean—alarming when one considered hurricanes. The whole place could be wiped out with one big tidal wave, it seemed to me, and it was so small that it would be lost in a corner of Long Island.
The time was late afternoon, and the sun was well down in the sky by this time. My first reaction was one of disappointment. I’d expected something more foreign to America and the rest of Florida, something more exotic. Here were the usual commercial buildings and a jungle of signs, wires, poles, and palm trees, edging the road. Sand. Flatness. That was the thing that had struck me especially about the keys—how flat everything was, how close to sea level. Yet here the island had stood, back into dim history. Except for the Indians, I knew the first settlement was fairly recent—in the 1800s.
The boulevard narrowed into Truman Avenue. President Truman had made Key West his vacation White House during his years in office, and there were many Truman reminders.
The road had narrowed still more. “We’re in Old Town now,” Marcus said. “Or Conch Town, as some people call it. This is the real Key West. This is where it began.”
It was hard to believe what I was seeing. The commercial aspects had vanished. Each side of the street was lined with white clapboard houses and white picket fences. The illusion of New England was startling, but I began to see the differences quickly. Lush tropical growth filled the gardens, and wide southern verandas graced many of the houses—though I was to learn that the word “porch” was used here. Along the sides, louvered shutters were propped open to let in air. Gables and towers abounded, as well as a great deal of Victorian gingerbread. Large rambling houses rubbed elbows with small shabby ones. Some of the structures were topped with captain’s walks, and most of them had what Marcus called “scuttles” in the roofs to let out warm air rising from the lower floors. These were houses that could be opened to every breeze that blew in from ocean or gulf. I saw fewer chimneys than at home, which made another difference. Yet the similarities were still striking, and it would be fun to sketch some of these houses and catch both likeness and difference.
“Now I know why my Bellport watercolor caught your eye,” I said. “What did you do with it?”
He smiled. “You’ll see.”
“Tell me about these houses. How do they happen to be here?”
“Most of the old conch houses are wooden. They were built by ship’s carpenters who could be as whimsical as they chose. A lot of the architecture was borrowed from the Bahamas, where people knew how to live with tropical heat. But some of the builders were remembering New England too, and the South. Old Town looks like a simple enough, square-set area, but you’ll find there are mazes of alleys and tiny lanes that confuse a stranger. And not all of them are pleasant places to wander in. But there’s nothing quite like it anywhere else.”
His enthuasiasm for his adopted town came through. Now he pointed. “There’s your father’s house—ahead on the right.”
I studied the house we approached, and butterflies started up again. I dreaded all the uncertainty that lay ahead of me.
The house was large, with wide porches and balusters below and above. A tower with a pointed roof rose at one corner, and slim white pillars supported porch ceiling and roof, all edged with still more fanciful gingerbread trim. These steeply pitched roofs, Marcus explained, had once sent rain pouring into cisterns that furnished the only source of water for the islanders until the pipeline came in forty years ago. Above the attic floor a captain’s walk with a white railing crowned the roof.
“Captain’s walks were useful,” Marcus said. “In the beginning the main business of the islands was what they called ‘wrecking.’ People watched for shipwrecks from housetops, because of the salvage value.”
The house he indicated was set farther back from the street than its neighbors, and the front garden was alive with what looked to me like jungle growth. A huge banyan tree spread its roots in one corner, and a breadfruit tree grew in the other. In between, a riot of red, pink, and purple decorated bushes and vines. I was no longer reminded of New England, and both my sense of excitement and my anxiety increased.
When he’d pulled up to the curb, Marcus put a hand lightly on my arm. “Don’t expect too much right away.”
I must expect nothing, I told myself sternly.
The sun had slipped toward the gulf, and shadows were long when we left the car.
“I’ll take you in and stay a few minutes to see how things are going,” Marcus told me. “My place isn’t far away. You can call me any time.”
I hadn’t expected to be abandoned so quickly, and my misgivings increased.
“Take it easy,” he said, and then spoiled what I thought was concern with his next words. “Don’t be upset if things don’t go your way.”
I was already upset, but the white gate stood open, and Marcus went ahead up the walk, carrying my bags. Since conch houses were raised from the ground on piers to save them from dampness and flood, several steps climbed between white balustrades. A graceful fanlight topped the front door, and long windows with open green shutters fronted on a stretch of porch that ended at the bulge of the tower.
As we reached the steps, a woman came through the door, and Marcus murmured, “Iris,” in my ear.
She was tall and dark and cool. The simple lines of her lime green linen set off her figure beautifully. Great dark eyes and a creamy tan with just a hint of rose at the cheekbones—all added up to striking beauty. Her long black hair was drawn back from her forehead and folded close to her head with a severity that only such dramatic beauty could support. I was aware of the contrast with my short, windblown crop that was quickly untidy. Her mouth seemed generous in size—something her lipstick emphasized—but there was no generously welcoming smile lifting its corners. She watched my approach as though she stood apart, remaining remote. If she had any curiosity about me, she was certainly hiding it.
I thought, my sister, and felt nothing—nothing at all
—which in itself was chilling.
“Hello, Iris,” Marcus said, putting my bags down on the porch. “This is Laurel.”
She held out a cool hand to me, and as I stood beside her, not quite as tall but just as dark, I felt suddenly hot and dowdy and provincial. A silly and unjustified reaction. My suit was fine for travel, but not for the tropics, and that could be taken care of from my suitcase. No, it wasn’t my clothes or my background that made me uncomfortable. I’d probably seen more of New York than she had, and I owned and ran a successful bookstore. So why should she make me feel at such a loss as her dark eyes considered me?
“I’ll show you your room,” Iris said. “Will you bring up Laurel’s bags, please, Marcus.”
The central hall was narrow, borrowing no space from the gracious rooms I glimpsed on either side, and a pine staircase rose on the left. Marcus had told me that most of these houses had used pine, brought from the mainland, with some of the mahogany from Honduras.
The halls were bare of rugs—one didn’t clutter a house in the tropics—and Iris’s heels clicked ahead of us up the stairs and down the upper hall to a door at the rear that stood open.
I looked in to see a charming bedroom, but before I could step in Marcus stopped me in the hall.
“Is this where you mean to put Laurel?” he asked, and I heard surprise in his voice. An awareness of the way he watched her struck me. There seemed affection in his look, but a questioning as well.
“Why not?” Iris’s dark eyebrows lifted. “It’s my favorite of our bedrooms.”
Now I stepped in and looked around. Two louvered windows along the far side were open, and long, shuttered doors stood ajar upon a rear porch, so that a gentle flow of air stirred through the room. The walls had been left in their natural pine, with a pleasing result. A four-poster bed was covered by a white spread with a flowered border of Chinese poppies. These were not the little poppies of California, but more exotic opium poppies, with their deeper, purplish red.
Suddenly I knew.
“This was my mother’s room,” Iris said gently. “You won’t mind?”
I met her eyes directly—and held them. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s a lovely room.”
“Will you stay for dinner?” Iris asked Marcus. “Angela’s in a good humor today, so we should fare well.”
He shook his head. “Thanks, but I can’t stay now. I’ve a date for an interview tonight. You’ll be all right, Laurel?”
I sensed his hurry to escape, to get away, to leave me to whatever fate awaited me in this unwelcoming house, and I stared at him indignantly. He grinned, and I caught a hint of that challenge once more. He would throw me—to the wolves?—and find out later how I’d managed.
“I’ll be fine,” I told him stiffly.
“Of course you will. And I’ll see you soon.” He went off, leaving me in Iris’s hands.
“Perhaps you’d like to rest awhile,” she said. “The bath is just across the hall, and it will be mostly yours. Only Fern’s room is at this end of the house. We’re having dinner late tonight. Come downstairs in an hour or so and it will be fine.”
“When will I see my father?” I asked quickly, before she could leave.
She widened dark eyes. “I suppose when he decides to see you,” she said, and went away.
At least Poppy’s belongings had been removed, so that except for the flowered spread the room was impersonal. Nevertheless, I believed that Iris had put me here deliberately to make me feel as uncertain as possible. I wouldn’t satisfy her—or Marcus! My mother and I were the injured ones, and Poppy the interloper. Never mind about my sentimental notion of finding a sister. Even though this was her home, I had a prior claim to Clifton York, whether anyone else recognized it or not. Nevertheless, I found myself wondering about the woman who had slept in this room. Apparently apart from my father?
The mahogany bed, the rosewood dressing table, the two Chippendale chairs were all good pieces, though I didn’t learn until later that many of the fine furnishings and collectible items in Key West had originally come from wrecked ships. Small rugs—squares of sea grass sewn together—lay across the floor, and gauzy curtains framed the windows.
On one wall hung three silver-framed color photographs of orchids. Two of them were vivid blooms in contrasting shades of yellow and lavender, rose and cream. The center picture was also of orchids, but strange, and not like the two simple flower photographs. A woman’s long-fingered hands were clasped about the small pot that held a green and crimson orchid toward the camera. A spot of blue flashed from the sapphire ring on the woman’s right hand. She herself was not visible, for a curious reason. Covering her head and face was a large replica of a green and crimson orchid patterned after the one in the pot, and probably made of papier-mâché. She was in some sort of fancy dress, undoubtedly, but as I looked closer I could see her eyes peering from the flower mask, staring eerily from among its petals. Eyes that had the quality of following the viewer. The woman could be Poppy York, I thought, and somehow I didn’t like to have her staring at me from that weird disguise here in her room. I turned my head and went through a door onto a rear porch.
The sun had gone down, and night came swiftly. The area immediately below formed a bricked expanse that was now softly lighted. White iron tables and chairs invited one to rest and enjoy the garden. Behind the house, the space was larger and deeper than I’d expected from the street, and again there was the usual lush tropical growth that hid fences and other houses.
Here, however, the trees had been cut back to an outside rim so that the central space was left open to the sky—undoubtedly to give room for the long structure of the orchid greenhouse. Its pitched roof was made of plastic panes that could be propped open. Glass, of course, would have been too hot for Key West. Light glowed softly under the roof of paint-smeared panes, and topping the whole as an awning was stretched a black screen cloth.
I stood at the porch railing where I could look down, and as I watched, the door of the greenhouse opened and a woman stepped outside. She lifted her head at once and saw me. For a moment she seemed startled, and then, mysteriously, she put a finger to her lips and looked around.
“Come down here. Quickly!” Her whisper carried eerily through the quiet evening. “Come down the back stairs. And do hurry before someone sees us!”
I found the stairs and obeyed the urgency in her voice. When I reached the garden I found her waiting near the door to the greenhouse, and now I could see her more clearly.
Fern was not at all like her sister, but more like a fragile orchid herself. The garment she wore was of some thin, floaty material of pale yellow, and her hair was a light, tawny brown, not dark like her sister’s and mine. It curled thickly over her forehead and hung long down her back, caught carelessly at the nape with a gold ribbon that was coming untied. Her eyes that examined me openly were an odd golden brown as well—a shade darker than her hair. Everything about her seemed small and precise—her delicate features, her graceful, tapered hands, the small, sandaled feet on which she ran toward me.
For an instant I thought she would embrace me, but she stopped a foot or so away and peered into my face, as though she might be nearsighted.
“Isn’t it strange that we’re sisters and we’ve never met? I’ve been waiting for you ever since Marcus told me you were coming. I thought I’d feel something when I saw you. Something, oh—sisterly, I suppose. But I don’t feel anything at all except curiosity. You’re just someone new in the house.” She sounded disappointed and much younger than her twenty-two years.
I found myself trying to reassure her. “It’s too soon. We need to know each other better before we can feel like sisters.” The reassurance was for myself as well, and I added, “Thank you for the lovely orchid you sent me.”
“That was a hybrid dwarf I grew myself. I’m pleased if you liked it.” She regarded me searchingly for a moment. “I’m really glad you look like Cliff, and not like her.” She glanced toward the hous
e, and I knew she meant her sister Iris. So there was rivalry here. “Why haven’t you come before?” she added.
“Perhaps I’ve always wanted to come,” I said, and wondered in surprise if this might be true. “Of course I could never come while either your mother or mine was alive.”
“I understand.” She looked pensive. “Marcus told us about your mother. I hope she died quietly, peacefully.”
“She died in her sleep,” I said. “And I was thankful when the pain could stop.”
Fern gestured toward the greenhouse door, her draperies fluttering. “Poppy died in there, you know. Right in the midst of all her beautiful orchids. But it wasn’t peaceful or quiet. It was frightful—terrible!”
Her eyes brimmed with tears, and I could offer nothing in sympathy, when I knew so little. Marcus had remarked that Poppy’s death had been senseless, and he’d put me off when I’d asked about it. Nor did I feel I could ask now.
Fern brushed a streak of tears from her cheeks. “I still remember how excited the orchids were that day before she died. I think they knew.”
I glanced at her quickly to see if she was serious. She caught the look and laughed lightly.
“Poppy taught me how to understand them. You have to work with orchids all the time and really care, before you can sense their feelings. They never tell Iris anything. She only wants to use them in her ways. But they’re my orchids now. Poppy would want it that way. Would you like to see them, Laurel?”
She sounded older now and less childlike, and I wondered how much of her ingenuous quality was used as a pretense—perhaps even as a shield for childish prerogatives she still liked to use.
“I’d love to see your greenhouse,” I said.
She corrected me quickly. “We don’t call it a greenhouse. It’s our orchid house. Iris said I wasn’t to bother you with them right away, but I don’t always do what I’m told.” Her sudden, sidewise look was impudent, a little wicked. She opened the door and drew me inside. “We try to keep the temperature right for our darlings. They like air circulation, indirect sunlight, and lots of moisture—the way it used to be in the jungle where their ancestors came from.”
Dream of Orchids Page 4
