by Janie DeVos
“Look,” Paroh said, pointing to the old small corral just ahead of us. Inside was a massive bull.
“You did it!” I said excitedly. I was thrilled that they’d finally been able to procure one. Without the bull, the cows were useless, unless they were good milkers.
“He’s a fine one, no?” Paroh said proudly. We walked over to the corral to inspect it. “He’s young, too, so we should have him around for many years to come.”
“Oh, he is a fine one, Paroh! Truly fine!” I was absolutely tickled that another small goal had been reached by the tribe.
“Who’s going with you to the halfway point tomorrow?” he asked, turning away from the bull to look at me.
“Charlie and Martha,” I replied. “Isaac was planning to come, too, but he’s working on that new church in town, and they’re hoping to have it completed for Christmas services.”
“That doesn’t give them much time,” Paroh said with raised eyebrows.
“And that’s why Isaac isn’t riding with us,” I chuckled.
“We’ll miss you while you’re gone,” Paroh said kindly.
“The children will miss the candy,” I quipped.
“Yes, they’ll miss the candy, but they’ll miss you far more,” he assured me.
I smiled humbly, though I knew he was right. I loved the children, and I felt that the feeling was mutual. “A lot has changed over the months, hasn’t it?” I rested my arms on the top rail of the corral and looked out at the growing herd.
“A lot has, yes,” Paroh agreed, resting his forearms on the railing next to mine. “It always does—whether we want it to or not. But it sure is nice when the winds of change smell sweet instead of fishy.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” I softly but wholeheartedly agreed.
Chapter 41
A Time to Heal, a Time to Grow
The main hall at the Royal Palm Hotel was elaborately trimmed with Christmas greenery, ribbons, and bows, transforming the room into a scene not unlike one found in some fantastical snow globe. In the center of every table was either a red amaryllis or white roses, while poinsettias lined the baseboards of every wall. Garlands of berries were threaded through the massive chandeliers, their bright color reflected in the crystal prisms. And in the center of the room was a massive Douglas fir tree, which had been shipped in from Banner Elk, North Carolina. As couples on the dance floor swept past it, they craned their necks around, trying to catch a glimpse of the various ornaments hanging merrily from the many branches. It was Christmas in the tropics at its finest, and my family and I took in the breathtaking opulence through child-like eyes as we dined on the Royal Palm’s most decadent dishes. After numerous courses, which included crab cocktail, consommé à la Royale, roasted turkey, sweet potato croquettes, creamed onions, sautéed mixed greens, and cranberry punch, our Christmas dinner was topped off with a stunning Nesselrode pudding. Looking around at my family as I enjoyed each luscious bite of the roasted chestnut and rum-laced candied fruit concoction, I admired how handsome each one of them was.
Mama had outdone herself in designing both her dress and mine. And though I’d felt a little awkward when I’d run into William Burdine because I was wearing a dress that had obviously not come from his store, I couldn’t help but enjoy the fact that it had been designed just for me. My gown was made from a deep gold silk that hung down to the floor in straight lines. Per the latest styles coming out of Paris and New York, bustles were a thing of the past, and corsets were optional, much to the delight of women the world over. Finally, we were able to breathe normally without restrictive binding, and we were far cooler without them, too. While women didn’t have hourglass figures any longer, they looked the way God intended them to look. And, as I overheard one man say to another one morning at Burdine’s, at least they could see the truth of what they were getting in a wife before the wedding night. I’d laughed to myself at that. They were right; corsets and bustles had been false advertising.
My gown had elaborate scrolled beadwork on the scooped-neck bodice and capped sleeves, but other than that, it was unadorned. The magnificence of the golden silk was statement enough. Mama’s dress was a deep green satin which played beautifully against the red of her hair, and Papa was wearing a handsome navy suit. Mama had tried to get him to wear a light gray waistcoat with it, but Papa said that he’d made enough of an effort wearing the suit and dark gray four-in-hand tie without the added layer of the vest. With or without it, my father was strikingly handsome, and Mama was beautiful.
Sitting to Papa’s right was Dylan, who had arrived nearly two weeks before. I hadn’t been told he was coming home, and I was thrilled to see him when he showed up along with my parents to meet me at the halfway point between Miami and Immokalee. Another surprise addition to our Christmas gathering was Kathy Baker, who sat to my brother’s right. When Striker and I had stopped at Alligator Light following the storm, she was the one who had told me about Dylan’s heroic efforts in saving her and her sister, as well as many of the other passengers from the ship that had hit the reef near the lighthouse. Since then, she and her sister had been living with their aunt and uncle in Miami, and Dylan and Kathy had kept in touch through letters. They’d even seen each other on a couple of occasions when Dylan had come home during leave from the Key West light. True to Warren Chaplain’s word, Dylan had been given the position there, and was now the fulltime keeper. Though we wished he was closer to home, we were glad he was no longer hopping from one reef lighthouse to another, and was permanently placed at a land-based light. Watching the looks that were exchanged between my brother and his lady friend was both amusing and endearing, and I couldn’t have been happier for them both. But Christmas and Kathy weren’t the only reasons that Dylan had come home; the trial of Ezra Asher and Adam Wilson had brought him back to Miami as well.
Now, as we finished our dessert, our conversation turned back to the final verdict: Twenty-five years of hard labor for Ezra at Aycock Labor Camp, in Chipley, Florida, and life without parole for Adam Wilson, at the Chattahoochee Penitentiary in Florida’s panhandle. The only reason Adam didn’t receive the death penalty was because he’d turned state’s witness on the still-missing Owen Perry. He had also testified to Ezra’s complicity in the wrecking scheme. Ezra had helped to determine which ships should be targeted, and then made enormous gains from them as wreck master. There was much speculation as to where Owen might have run to, but I knew it was a mystery that would never be answered, at least not by me.
“Well, it’s a blasted shame Owen hasn’t been brought to justice,” Mama said, after swallowing a sip of coffee. “But whether he is or isn’t here on Earth, the good Lord will certainly get His shot at judgin’ him. And you couldn’t give me all the treasure in the world to be standin’ in Owen’s shoes when he is.” Murmurs of agreement were heard around the table.
“Has anyone seen or heard from Striker?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could.
“He came in just a few days ago, near the end of the trial, to testify about watching the light go out at Fowey,” Dylan said.
“Did he go back to St. Augustine?” I asked. Just then, the band began to play, and people started making their way out to the dance floor.
“Uh, apparently not,” Papa replied, looking past me with a bemused smile on his face.
“Evenin’, Harjo clan,” an all-too familiar voice said from behind me. Turning halfway in my chair, I looked up into the handsome face of Paul Strickland.
Striker was elegantly dressed in an ink-black wool suit. He wore no waistcoat, but with his black jacket contrasting so sharply against his stiff white shirt and maroon striped tie, he didn’t need one. Finishing off his attire were beautiful gray star sapphire cufflinks.
“Striker! Why didn’t you tell us you’d be stayin’ around?” Mama exclaimed.
“I wasn’t sure how long I’d be here.” He smiled. He and Mama had always liked e
ach other.
“Well, I wish we’d known,” Dylan said, standing and shaking hands with him. “You could have joined us for dinner. Have you eaten yet?”
“I did, with some friends in the bar,” Striker confirmed. “I’m sorry to interrupt y’all, but I wanted to see if I could borrow Eliza for a minute,” he said, looking down at me. Placing his left hand on that tender area between the shoulder and the neck, he squeezed ever so slightly. “Will you dance with me?” he asked.
“Uh, yes…yes, of course,” I stammered, finally finding my voice again. He pulled my chair back for me as I stood up, and when I turned around, our faces were within inches of each other for the first time in over a year. Still keeping his eyes on mine, he took my hand and then led me over to the dance floor, where gently but firmly, he pulled me into his arms and we began to waltz. Unfortunately, the tune the band happened to be playing was “Love Me and the World is Mine.”
“How’ve you been?” I asked, breaking our gaze and looking past his shoulder, but not really seeing anything.
“I’ve been well,” he replied. “And you? I hear you’re over in Immokalee teaching.”
“I am—doing well and teaching,” I clarified, looking back at him.
“That’s good—that you’re doing well and teaching,” he teased. Slowly, the smile faded as his eyes traveled over my face, slowing ever so slightly at my lips before moving on.
The countless number of candles in the sconces on the walls washed the room in soft light, giving Striker’s thick wavy hair a deeper golden hue, but nothing could soften the intensity of his dark eyes. They showed every bit of his emotion. They always had, and tonight was no exception.
“You look beautiful,” he said in a soft, husky voice.
He pulled me even closer, and I breathed in his scent as we danced our way around the room. He smelled of spice and the sea. The smell was clean and masculine and alluring. Forcing my mind to move on, I pulled away from him slightly so that I could look at him. “So, when are you returning to St. Augustine?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied. “On the 8:05. Let’s walk outside for a few minutes, okay?”
“All right,” I agreed.
Taking my hand, Striker led me away from the dance floor and out the side door, leading to an open-air promenade walkway that ran the length of the massive hotel. To the north was the main entrance, complete with an enormous circular driveway, great columns and a deep portico. Lying to the east was Biscayne Bay, and to the south, overlooking the river, were perfectly manicured gardens. Different areas designed for sitting and talking had been carved out among the vast numbers and varieties of flowers and plants, and surrounding all of it was a perfectly maintained high hedge that afforded the hotel’s guests some privacy. Though it was late December, the weather was relatively mild, but there was enough of a breeze that I was chilly without my shawl, which was uselessly keeping the back of my chair warm in the dining room.
“Here,” Striker said, slipping off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders. “If you’re too cold, we can go back in.”
“No, no.” I assured him. “I’m fine now, thanks.”
We continued into the garden, where we took one of many paths. This particular one led to a break in the hedge with a picket fence-style gate that allowed people to walk out to the river. Going no further than the gate, we looked out at the shimmering water that reflected a full moon and millions of twinkling stars.
“Nice, isn’t it?” I said, if for no other reason than I had absolutely no idea what else to say.
“It is,” Striker said, turning away from the river and facing me. “Are you sure you’re not too cold?” He pulled his jacket closer around me.
“I’m fine,” I laughed, touched by his concern. It was good seeing him again, and I told him that.
“It’s good to see you, too, Eliza,” he replied, his eyes locking onto mine. “I stopped by your house a couple times to see you, but no one’s been home.”
I was surprised that’d he’d done so. “I guess with the busyness of Christmas, we’ve all been out.”
“How long are you here?” he asked, before turning back toward the river again.
“I leave tomorrow,” I replied. “Just like you.”
“And you like Immokalee, and being with your aunt and uncle, I guess?” he asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.
I looked up at him and smiled. “Not really and very much.”
“Explain.” He smiled, confused.
“I don’t much like Immokalee—the place, I mean. I miss the water, and being right on the coast. And I miss my parents. Things like that. But getting to know Aunt Ivy and Uncle Moses better, not to mention my cousins, has been wonderful. They’re special people, and they’ve watched over me like I’m one of their own children.”
I didn’t want to talk about me anymore. “How ’bout you?” I said. “Do you like working at the St. Augustine light?”
“I do. But I won’t be there much longer,” he replied.
“Why’s that? Have they transferred you to another lighthouse?” I asked.
“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “The keepers at the land-based lights aren’t moved around nearly as often as the ones who work offshore. Unsurprisingly, the keepers who work on land are more content. They have a life.”
His statement made me wonder how much of a life he’d been living. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Have you been seeing anyone?” I could have kicked myself.
He looked at me for a couple of seconds and smiled slightly as if trying to decide how much to tell me. “I’ve gone out some. Yes. How ’bout you?”
“Well, if you’re asking me if anyone is courting me, no, not really. Listen, enough about me. You said you wouldn’t be at the light in St. Augustine much longer. What will you be doing?”
“Building boats,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Striker, you don’t mean it!” I cried, thrilled that he’d be putting his wonderful talents to use again. “What changed your mind?”
“Several things,” he said. “One of them was time.” Suddenly, he looked very serious, almost pensive.
“Listen, Eliza, finding out what really caused the death of my parents lifted a weight off me that I pray you’ll never be able to fully understand. Living with the guilt of thinking you killed two of the people you care most about in this world is enough to break you for the rest of your life. It about did me.
“There’s nothing worse,” he continued, “than being out at some isolated lighthouse while you keep telling yourself over and over again that if you’d designed the boat more like this, or if there’d been a little less of that, then the outcome would have been entirely different. Staying alone out there, with nothing but guilt for company, does things to a man’s head—and heart. That’s why keepers come and go so quickly.
“Anyway,” Striker said, taking a deep breath, “I drew up some designs and sent them over to my old bosses at Merrill-Stevens boatyard in Jacksonville. They got back to me right away and said that if I’d build two of the boats I designed under both my name and theirs, they’d pay for me to open and run another boatyard for them anywhere I wanted.”
“And you took ’em up on the offer, of course,” I said, unable to imagine him not jumping at such a wonderful opportunity.
“No, I didn’t,” he corrected me, smiling. “I want to build boats under my own name, but I need capital to do that. So, I sold Merrill-Stevens one of the two designs and gave up all rights to claim it as my own, as well as the rights to profit from it.”
“But couldn’t you have figured out another way?” I asked, aghast that he’d give up his design so easily.
“Eliza, if I told you how many zeros were on that check, you’d understand that I made a very nice deal for myself. I have a lot more designs I’m workin
g on that will be mine alone. In the meantime, this has given me more than enough to open my boatyard and marina.”
“So, where are you thinking about building it?” I asked as nonchalantly as possible.
“Here—in Miami,” he said, watching me closely as he did. “And I was hoping you’d be by my side when I do. I was hoping maybe we could start all over again, building a life together and—”
“How can you say that to me, Striker?” I angrily interrupted. “Did you really think you could show up after all this time and expect me to throw my arms around you, like I’ve been pining away for you since you left for St. Augustine? Did you just assume that I’d wait around until your head cleared and you were finally able to feel something other than guilt again? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I didn’t stop living just because you did. I’ve moved on!”
Striker’s eyes flashed like dark shards of fire. “All right, Eliza. That’s fine,” he said in a controlled voice, but I could hear the anger mounting anyway. “But understand this: I never assumed anything. I never assumed that you were pining away for me, nor did I assume that you would wait around for me.”
“You’re absolutely right. I stand corrected. You wouldn’t assume that since you made it perfectly clear I could never expect anything from you. Ever!” I cried.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Striker looked at me as though I’d lost my mind.
“In the Keys, Striker! What you told me then!”
“What, Eliza? What was it I said?” He didn’t just sound angry now, he sounded frustrated, too.
“You told me to stop trying to make you love me!”
“Eliza!” Striker said, grabbing me by my upper arms and holding me in place so that he could look me in the eye. “You never had to try to make me love you! I always did!” He lessened the grip on my arms, and repeated more softly, “I always did.” Then he let go of me and turned away. Planting his hands on his hips, he looked up to the sky as if searching for guidance or patience, or both. Finally, he turned around and studied me for a few seconds before calmly saying; “What you couldn’t see was that I needed time to heal. And you needed time to grow up, Eliza.”