The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

“How is Wynona?” Dave asked. “I miss her.”

  “She’s well, and she’s working on a case on the rez that’s taking a lot of time. Her birthday’s in a couple of days.”

  Nick grinned. “You gonna send her flowers?”

  “Already did, but I didn’t send them. I delivered them, personally.”

  “Damn, Sean. You still got the romantic touch. Who woulda thought?”

  “I bought some orchids from a grower I know. Guy lives off the beaten path, way back in Big Cypress Preserve. He’s probably the world’s foremost expert and grower of rare orchids. He’s got one that he says may be the rarest and most beautiful in the world, if it ever blooms.”

  “If?” Dave asked, stirring his drink. “What’s the problem?”

  “After he did whatever he did to cross-pollinate the hybrid orchid with some of the world’s most exotic pollen, he thought the first blossom would appear in ten years. He says it has been fifteen, and he’s still waiting.”

  Dave shook his head. “How old is this gentleman?”

  “He looks to be in his eighties.”

  Nick grinned. “A guy that age ought not to buy green bananas.”

  Dave said, “I read an article in Smithsonian Magazine recently about the lore and legend of orchids. The story focuses around the bewitching qualities of the flower. In the late 1800s, some of the most intrepid adventurers in England braved faraway jungles in search of orchids to bring them back to a European market that was mesmerized by the beauty of the blossoms. The story indicated many people develop an emotional connection with orchids unlike any other flower, including roses. One grower was quoted as saying it’s as if the orchid has eyes that draw us into it.”

  Nick chuckled and said, “Roses are red, violets are blue, look at an orchid and it looks back at you.”

  I laughed. “Nick the poet. Chester did say that, because of the flower’s bilateral symmetry, to some collectors, the orchids seem to have a human-like face.”

  Dave sipped his drink and said, “I read that way before Dolly the sheep was cloned, some growers were cloning orchids, which eventually increased production many times over, and they were able to deliver them to most markets. The one you buy in the grocery store may look identical to the one your neighbor buys from Walmart.”

  “Not so in the wild,” I said. “Chester and his granddaughter, who’s a college student studying botany and working with him for a few weeks, are venturing into the glades replanting native orchids. They’re documenting and inventorying the rare ghost orchids. Looking at natural propagation of the species and how the environmental changes effect these delicate plants that live on host trees, often cypress.”

  Dave nodded. “Which means water or the lack of it. So, the ghost orchids are the smoke alarms for the swamps and glades.”

  “Probably one of many.”

  Nick finished his beer. “If you keep Dragonfly, maybe you can rename her Ghost Orchid. Sounds spooky already. I agree with Wynona … keep the boat, Sean. It’s paid for. All you got is the boat slip rent and insurance. Maybe you ought to think about leasing her out. There are plenty of good captains who could do that. Split the profits with you. They could take people out for sunset sails. Something to think about.”

  “That’d still be using the boat, a gift, to make money. If I needed it that bad, maybe I’d consider that, but not now. I’d mull over selling Jupiter, but I think Max would give me the silent treatment for days. She has her nooks and crannies on that boat. Maybe I’ll take Dragonfly out tomorrow. It’s been a few months. I can do some day sailing out in the Atlantic for a few miles. I could use the diversion.”

  Dave nodded. “I sense that you’re having second thoughts about turning down Joe Thaxton and his wife, correct?”

  “No second thoughts about that. But I have been thinking about his mission and what he’s going up against.”

  “A David verses Goliath scenario, no doubt. However, this can become an oxymoron in that it’s called the Goliath Syndrome. It sometimes happens when large corporations become blinded by greed and their own vulnerability because they look at their size as an asset when it can become a liability. Guys like Joe Thaxton, with his ‘average Joe’ message, can generate momentum through an underdog public persona. It can become a lethal stone in the sling he’s carrying. And, when it’s flung hard in the right direction and under the right circumstances, the giant can fall to its knees.”

  I sipped my drink, a soft breeze coming from the ocean across the scent of Nick’s grilled fish and shish kebabs, settling its fragrant mist over the marina. “Often corporate greed and political expediencies mix into a cocktail sipped by crony capitalists that can cause a bad hangover when they wake up. I think Joe Thaxton, a man who has nothing against capitalism or entrepreneurship, but has a real problem with wholesale pollution, is going to cause quite a headache for those responsible.”

  “I wish I could vote for him,” Nick said. He lifted the top of the grill and used tongs to put the fish and kababs on a large platter. “Let’s eat, fellas.” He glanced down at Max. “You might be one of the guys, Max, but you’re always a little lady to us.” She followed him to the table in the salon, tail wagging. He set the platter in the center of the table.

  We filled our sturdy paper plates with red snapper and grilled lamb kababs. Nick brought a Greek salad from the refrigerator. I made Max a small plate, setting it on the teak floor next to my chair. In the background, I heard a news story begin on television. The anchorman said, “New polls out for some of the hotly contested political races in Florida.”

  Dave reached for the remote control and turned up the sound. “Let’s see if Thaxton is among the candidates polled by registered voters.”

  I turned and looked at the screen. The anchorman said, “There is a dramatic shift in the polls this week. Fishing guide, Joe Thaxton, has a double-digit lead over incumbent State Senator William Brasfield. In a random sampling of a thousand registered voters in District twenty-five, people were asked, if the election were held today, who’d be their preference for the state senate seat. Joe Thaxton appears to have pulled ahead of William Brasfield, some seven out of ten sampled in the poll giving their preference to Thaxton. With three months before the election, and ads hitting the airways, all of that can change. But, for a newcomer to politics, a man who insists he’s the average Joe and speaks for the middle class, it’s quite an accomplishment.”

  The video cut to an interview with Thaxton standing near the waterfront bay in Stuart. “We’re thrilled with the news,” he said. “I attribute a lot of that to the hard work my campaign volunteers are doing to get our message out to voters. People are tired of misrepresentation or no representation in Tallahassee. It’s as if some politicians who were voted in office to represent the people, forgot the people and prefer to hobnob with lobbyists and the money they spend. In a nutshell, that’s really wrong.”

  The video cut back to the live shot of the anchorman who said, “We reached out to State Senator Brasfield. He was said to be traveling and not available for immediate comment. His campaign manager told Channel Three that, quote: ‘Pollsters don’t decide elections. The voters do, and it’s way too early to give polling any real validity.’ End quote. In the race for governor, polls indicated that Republican Hal Duncan is in a statistical dead-heat with his opponent, Democrat Antonio Perez. All of that, of course, can quickly change. In other news today …”

  Dave muted the sound and said, “Thaxton is doing more than resonating with voters. He’s galvanizing them to take a stand against those who willfully pollute Florida’s beaches and rivers.”

  Nick sipped his Corona and pushed back in his chair, his fingertips glistening in olive oil, lips wet. “I can identify with a guy like Thaxton. But if somebody slashed his tires ‘cause they don’t like want he’s sayin,’ what’s gonna happen now that he’s way up there in the polls? Sean, maybe he’ll take your advice and hire a company to keep an eye out for his property and family.”


  THIRTY-THREE

  A few hours later, near midnight, I took Max for her last walk of the night before hitting the sack. We were coming back from strolling near the beach, the breakers rolling louder under a full moon and a high tide. We walked down L dock to slip 41. I thought about my conversation with Joe Thaxton, thought about what he said on the newscast, giving credit for the success of his numbers in the polls to the hard work of his campaign staff and calling it like he sees it. It’s as if some politicians who were voted in office to represent the people, forgot the people and prefer to hobnob with lobbyists and the money they spend. In a nutshell, that’s really wrong.

  Maybe Thaxton’s running for the wrong office, I thought. Davy Crocket was elected to congress, so maybe Joe Thaxton might want to eventually set his sights on the White House. If he had a million people each donating one hundred dollars … who knows. The night air turned cooler, Nick’s brushstrokes of flavored smoke long since blown out to sea. I watched the light atop the Ponce Lighthouse punch out into the darkness, boats in the marina rising on the tide, the collective groan of tie-down ropes like the disjointed snore of sleeping marine behemoths.

  We walked up to my two boats, Jupiter, which I’d bought years ago at a ten-cents-on-a-dollar DEA auction. And Dragonfly, a ship of dreams that never materialized for a married couple who’d put their heart and soul into restoring the 42-foot Beneteau and sailing the Caribbean for a year. Max and I stood at the very end of L dock, the marina and its twinkling lights behind us, the Halifax River and its short journey to Ponce Inlet and the Atlantic Ocean in front of us.

  The breeze came in from the sea, causing the halyard on Dragonfly to tap against the tall mast like a windchime with only one note, the compelling beat of a distant drummer. I looked back at the sailboat in silhouette under the moonlight, Wynona’s words soft as the wind across the water. Dragonfly was a gift to you because you saved the lives of two people. You absolutely love sailing. There’s no mandate that says you must get rid of things you love, Sean. Why do you feel that way? I’d sensed there was something on Wynona’s mind that she didn’t want to discuss … at least not yet. I would be patient and wait for when she felt like talking about whatever was on her heart.

  I walked over to Jupiter, Max trotting next to me, her nose testing the wind. I picked her up, stepped into the cockpit and climbed the ladder to the fly bridge, Max tucked under one arm. I’d left the windows open, isinglass unzipped and folded up. I set Max on the bench console and sat down in the captain’s chair, the briny scent of the ocean in the air. The marina was quiet, the Tiki Bar closing, no traffic in the parking lot, lights from moored boats swaying off the water.

  Max curled into a half circle. I looked at her. “It’s been a while since we sailed. Too long. What do you say we take Dragonfly out in the morning, catch a sunrise over the Atlantic? That sound appealing?”

  She lifted her head, her snort sounding more like a sneeze.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, little lady.”

  • • •

  Joe Thaxton lay in bed, moonlight coming through a slit in the bedroom drapes. His thoughts raced. The general election was just around the corner, and win or lose, his life had changed. The task is to sustain the momentum he’d built. The attack ads against him had turned his detractors into zealots, posting scathing character assassinations on social media platforms. But his supporters, at least to this point in the race, managed to drown out the shouters who called him an uninformed tree hugger. Joe turned his head, looking at Jessica fast asleep in bed near him. She is such a trooper. Always has my back. Always there with compassion and advice that helped his message resonate with more women.

  He thought about the news story he’d recently watched on television, a woman interviewed who’d lost her husband to a waterborne bacterial infection that had spread through his body faster than doctors could treat it. My husband didn’t deserve this. If there are high levels of pollution and bacteria in the water, why aren’t there warning signs posted? I will never step into that water nor will my child. What’s in our rivers, bays and estuaries? Why does the water turn green sometimes? Who’s responsible? All I know, right now, is my son has lost his father, and I lost my husband … forever.

  Thaxton closed his eyes for a moment. Maybe he could somehow help the woman—do something to honor her husband and not let his name be forgotten.

  There was a sound.

  He opened his eyes, his heart beating faster. The noise sounded like it came from his driveway in front of his home. He looked at his wife. Sleeping. He got up, careful not to wake her. The family dog, Rodeo, slept on the carpet near the bed. He stood, stretching. He walked quietly through the house, barefooted, listening for more sounds, Rodeo behind him.

  In the kitchen, the dog uttered a low growl.

  “Shhh, boy,” whispered, Thaxton. “Let’s take a look out the window.” He walked through the kitchen toward the living room.

  The sound came again. Loud, as if someone was trying to open his truck. He stopped at the blinds, opening one slat at eye level, looking at his truck in the moonlight. He could see no one, outdoor floodlights covering most of the front yard in a bright wash of light. A large raccoon waddled backwards out from the garbage can it had knocked over, a ripped white garbage bag scattered like confetti near the can.

  Rodeo growled again. Thaxton petted him. “It’s just a hungry coon. I’ll have a mess to pick up in the morning. Let’s go back to bed. And this time, we’ll leave the floodlights on, okay? We don’t want the coon or anyone else coming back.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Except for the charter boat captains and crew, most of the marina was still asleep when I released Dragonfly from her mooring lines, starting the Yanmar diesel engine. The water under the stern bubbled as I pushed off and guided the 42-foot boat out of her slip, motoring quietly between L and M docks. Nick’s boat, St. Michael, was gone—out to sea for a day of fishing. Gibraltar was dark, Dave probably fast asleep. A sliver of pink and orange light emerging in the eastern sky casting off the shrouds of night, draping the marina and its hundreds of boats into a pastel dawn. Beads of dew on the docks captured the morning light into crimson jewels.

  Max stood on one of the cockpit seats, watching a white pelican soar over the marina. I made a wide, right turn into the passage, moving through the channel to join the Halifax River and its short run to Ponce Inlet. I sipped hot black coffee from a large mug. It was good to be behind the helm. The tide was flowing out, which would make the run through the inlet even easier, less current, less drag on the boat. Once we cleared the pass, I’d hoist the sails and head south, sailing along Canaveral National Seashore, maybe to Cocoa Beach before returning.

  In the receding tide, it didn’t take us long to reach the pass. We entered it just as the sun rose over the Atlantic Ocean, a flock of sea gulls soaring in silhouette above the dark blue water. I looked at Max. “Don’t trot up to the bow while we’re going through here. I don’t want to have to fish you out of the pass.” She watched the birds, ignoring me and my warning.

  A shrimp boat was returning from sea, it’s outriggers straight up, the big boat entering the inlet as we were about to exit. I waved to the captain, a boney man with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, one hand on the wheel. He waved back and went by us. Within ten minutes, we’d motored through the wide pass and entered the ocean under a glorious sunrise. Max jumped off the seat and trotted to the bow, the wind now coming across the sea and lifting up her ears.

  After cruising two hundred yards straight out, I hoisted the sails and let mother nature take the reins. I shut off the engine and steered a course due south. In less than ten minutes, Dragonfly was sailing at seven knots, the sea caressing her bow in a soft hush of spray, the main sail and jib billowing. I refilled my coffee cup from a thermos bottle, holding the helm with one hand, Dragonfly performing like a thoroughbred.

  I kept the course heading south and two hours later, I could see the northern section of t
he national seashore to the west. I sailed closer to the beach, staying a hundred yards off shore. From that distance, I could see breakers rolling up on the sand, a few people walking on the beach, and less than a half-dozen, large, white cumulus clouds drifting against the indigo blue sky. Max rejoined me, under the canvas canopy, seeking shade from the hot sun. She lapped water from her bowl and jumped up on one of the bench seats.

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I was wearing shorts, T-shirt, no shoes. For a second, I debated even looking at the screen. After the third buzz, I took it from my pocket, not recognizing the caller ID. The number started with the area code 772. I knew it was the area code for the Treasure Coast of Florida, covering cities, such as Fort Pierce and Vero Beach. The city of Stuart was in the bunch, too. I hit the green receive button and answered.

  A woman’s voice said, “Mr. O’Brien, this is Jessica Thaxton. My husband doesn’t know I’m calling you, and I apologize for doing so.”

  “No apology needed. And you can call me Sean.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot. My parents raised me to use more formal greetings than are often needed in this day and time.” She paused for a few seconds and then continued. “I really appreciate the time you spent with us. I understand your reasonings for not taking the job. Joe and I met with the police again—specifically the sergeant in charge of our case, and we’re just as frustrated as ever. He calls the vandalism cheap pranks that will go away and for us not to worry too much.”

  “He might be right.”

  “And, he could be wrong. Look, I’m not the type of woman who’s ever paranoid. But I know I’ve been followed. And the weird thing is this … I believe the guy who followed me, as I took my daughter to and from school, knew that I’d spotted him. But, it was as if he didn’t care, staying far enough behind my car and, yet, taking all the turns I took. When I stopped at the school, he went down a side street and drove off somewhere—probably didn’t want to be on the school’s surveillance cameras.”