by Gwen Mayo
“We could shop,” Teddy said.
“No,” the Pettijohns replied simultaneously.
“Let me see that paper,” Teddy said. “Hmm. There’s a picnic for all former residents of Iowa. Plus, tonight, there’s all sorts of things planned for people from New Hampshire, New Jersey, South Carolina … the states all seem to have clubs here.”
“I have yet to see a Kentucky club,” the professor said. “I saw something you might like, Teddy, but we would be better off going there tonight. Tarpon Springs is holding a Venetian Festival, and most of the events are scheduled for the afternoon and evening. Our friends from Down East will be visiting it during the day, which leaves us with the evening. There will be art exhibits, music, and a floating stage in Spring Bayou.”
“You’re right, that does sound like something I would enjoy.”
“Meanwhile … there’s the alligator farm. The advertisement says they have one nineteen feet long.”
“Uncle Percy, didn’t we see enough alligators in Homosassa?”
“I didn’t see one that big, but I’ll concede the point. I understand that there is a gentleman not far from here who has a spectacular garden and nursery. He drained a shallow lake on his property and filled it with fruit trees and flowers.”
“And your agrarian sensitivities were piqued,” Teddy said.
“You always put things so nicely,” he said. “It should make a fair exchange—gardens for me, a festival for you.”
“Well, put that way …”
When Arthur dropped by Stevens’ office on First Street to take his intended to lunch again, he discovered that a crisis had arisen overnight. Instead of Stevens at the helm, he found Evelyn handling the calls from suppliers and developers herself. Meanwhile, the secretary was buried under her work and Violet’s.
He waited while she finished speaking to a lumber contractor, all poise and polish. It was one of the things he admired in her; they would be a formidable team once they were married. When she set the phone aside, he spoke. “What’s wrong? Is your father ill? And where is your sister?”
“Close the door,” she said.
He obliged her, then sat on the corner of the desk. Evelyn sunk into her father’s padded chair, hands grasping the armrests.
“Father got woken up by a call last night,” she said. “Violet was arrested at the Gangplank during a raid.”
“Our little Violet?”
“The same. She was with a man Daddy doesn’t like, either. He’s fit to be tied.”
“I imagine he was. So, she’s at the hotel, trying to get back into his good graces?”
Evelyn gave him a sardonic lift of the eyebrow. “More like house arrest. He has ordered her to stay with me in my room until they head back north.”
“Doesn’t she live with Mac?”
“Yes,” Evelyn said, straightening up in the seat. She began gathering the sheets of paper strewn over the desk. “Daddy caught him trying to bail her out of jail before he got there. Turns out she called Mac instead of him, so he was extra mad.”
“So, who called him, then?”
She poked his hip. “Stand up.” He obliged, and she swept the papers he’d been sitting on into the pile. “One of his business associates was at the station. I don’t imagine he was there to buy tickets for the Policeman’s Ball.”
“Probably not. So now Mac’s in the doghouse, too. Speaking of the devil, where is he? Why isn’t he here helping you and the secretary?”
Evelyn chuckled. “He’s touring the job sites. He figures a moving target is harder to hit.”
Mac tended to avoid the office anyway, Arthur thought. Always tinkering with his plane and his engines. Once the old man was gone, the Florida office would be largely run not by Mac, but by his sisters. “Once again, you are the golden child.”
“And my prize is a new roommate. We haven’t shared a bed since we were little girls. At least the suite we’re in is bigger than the one we had at the Princess Martha.”
He took one of her hands. “Perhaps we should move up the wedding date and get you out of there. It’s getting crowded.”
“Down, boy.” She withdrew the hand. “All things in due time. First comes lunch and a few errands.”
The ladies relaxed on the veranda after the morning’s trek through exotic gardens, followed by a long conversation about irrigation between Cornelia’s uncle and the owner of said gardens. The discussion left Cornelia plenty of time to enjoy the birds. They were quite accustomed to people and didn’t even pay attention to the camera. A pair of pastel pink spoonbills wandered within a few feet of where she and Teddy shared a bench. She could have spent the entire morning listening to the buzz of hummingbird wings as they flittered from one blossom to another.
She had no complaints about where they were now, though. Memories of this long, shaded veranda with its rocking chairs and magnificent view would provide warmth on those cold spring mornings in Colorado. Cornelia spent the rest of her morning engrossed in her book, while Teddy worked on embroidering more curtains for Mr. Scroggins’ house, which she considered too spartan to be a real home.
The professor came to fetch them shortly after noon. He’d had a nap and was ready to play. Wherever they went, Cornelia prayed it would not be on foot.
Her prayers were not answered. The professor wanted to film the ocean. It was too late for the beach, so after a negotiation they agreed on the park next to the hotel, which wasn’t that far. Teddy changed shoes and applied more Hinds cream to her face before they left.
“I really should have gotten a new hat while we were at the store; the ones I packed are more practical and less suited to these upscale surroundings,” she said.
“Perhaps you could look for a new one tomorrow while Uncle and I are playing golf,” Cornelia replied. They’d invited Teddy to join them, but she’d declined, saying she was a flower that bloomed best in the afternoon.
“An excellent idea.”
Vinoy Park had broad, paved paths that led to the sea wall. The wind was cool and would probably become cold at sunset. Clusters of newly-planted palm trees dotted the landscape, with a sparkling band of blue as the backdrop. Despite her tiredness, Teddy felt excitement and awe at the sight.
She waited with the professor while Cornelia caught up to her with the camera. It was unfair that Cornelia was the designated Sherpa, but she had been overprotective of her uncle since his bout with pneumonia, and he was happy to let his niece stay that way if it benefited him.
“Where do you want to set up?” Cornelia asked her uncle, and they wandered off into the grass together.
Teddy parked herself on one of the green benches provided and stared out across the waves. Watching the shifting colors, cool and jewel-toned, eased the pain inside. A group of pelicans skimmed low over the water, looking for a meal.
Nearby, an artist sketched at an easel. Well, the beautiful setting should inspire the creative spirit. Teddy visualized how the scene would translate to needlepoint. Along the horizon would be the deepest blue, a navy perhaps. Closer to shore, the colors became more azure, taking on hints of aqua. She leaned forward, studying the play of light and shadow. How many shades of blue did she have in her sewing tin?
Arthur couldn’t believe how prudish Stevens was with his youngest child. Becoming angry when your daughter was arrested was normal, but the ‘crime’ was a peccadillo with few real consequences. Instead, he occupied a central location in the suite, surly and radiating hostility.
Evelyn had not helped matters by getting a bob so short that she looked like a boy. He’d delivered her to Lucy’s salon and went to call on some local businesses, since women’s beauty talk bored him. When he returned, he’d thought the slender figure approaching his car was a stranger. He tried to hide his surprise, but she sensed it anyway.
“Don’t worry, dear, it will grow out before the wedding. We can do me in ringlets then, if you like. I just wanted a change.”
Arthur accepted it with her caveat, bu
t Stevens hadn’t. He was still angry with his youngest daughter, and when Evelyn took off her cloche, he’d exploded. He was wroth with fury, as the saying went.
“First Violet, and now you? What’s gotten into you both?”
“Many women cut their hair when they get married, Daddy.”
“Not like that, they don’t. Next, you’ll be wearing pants like those schoolgirls we saw the other day. Maybe their fathers don’t care, but I do.”
“If I wanted to wear pants, they would already be in my wardrobe,” she retorted. Her gray eyes had become angry slits.
“No, they wouldn’t. I would rip them up and burn them. What about you, Downs? You’re going to be her husband. Did you permit this atrocity?”
Downs hesitated, put in the bad position of displeasing either his bride-to-be or her father.
It must have been during the argument that Violet slipped out.
The moment he realized that his younger daughter was no longer in the suite, Stevens had gone to the window to check the yacht basin. He must have seen a vessel he recognized, because he became furious and insisted that they all go downstairs immediately.
A shriek brought Teddy out of her reverie. “Father, no!”
Ansel Stevens was there, grasping his daughter’s arm. Arthur Downs took the other, albeit more gently. The girl wailed and twisted as they dragged her away from the water’s edge and the young man from the Gangplank. He headed towards them, rage in his dark eyes, but the girl shook her head at him. “No, not now.”
“Violet!”
“Stay there, Brockman,” Ansel ordered the young swain. “I haven’t finished with you.”
Teddy watched Ansel drag the girl to her mother and another young woman. A friend, perhaps? Then she realized that the second woman with the short, slicked-down hair was Ansel’s older daughter. How daring, to get an Eton Curl! Her father must have been apoplectic.
The women enfolded Violet in their arms and turned her towards the hotel. She stopped fighting and trudged between them. Poor child. Ansel still had the ugly, domineering side he’d had when they were young. He’d grabbed his daughter’s arm the way he’d grabbed Teddy’s arm that night, when—
The girl had slipped off to see her young man. He didn’t seem to be a bad sort, but he was Jewish, and that wouldn’t fly in the Stevens’ social circles.
Arthur assisted his soon-to-be father-in-law in separating the pair, but that wasn’t the end of it. Stevens indicated that Arthur should remain by his side. Once Violet had been taken away, the older man rounded on young Brockman.
“I told you to stay away from my daughter,” he snapped, waving his finger. The sun glinted on his gold pinky ring.
“She’s of age, sir. She has the right to see whomever she wants,” Brockman replied. His accent wasn’t local or even Southern; he was from New York, Arthur knew, or a kissing cousin of it.
“I’m surprised you had the nerve to sail over here, especially on a Friday.”
The young man shrugged. “The sun hasn’t set yet.”
“Oh, yes it has,” Stevens hissed. “You’re going to leave my daughter alone from now on.”
“That’s for her to say, sir; not you.”
“My daughter doesn’t know what’s best for her. What will it take for you to go away?” Stevens pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket and toyed with it. He took out a cigarette, then put it back. “You’re doing brisk business right now, but you’re dangling from a shoestring. I might be persuaded to grant you a loan.”
The lad jerked his chin up. “This has nothing to do with money.”
“Money will have very little to do with you if you don’t take my advice. I’ll ruin you. What do you have to say to that?”
“If you could have ruined me, you would have done it already,” Brockman said. He took a step towards the men, and Arthur moved closer, ready to intercept. The young man’s eyes flicked from one to the other of them. “Look here. You’re her father; I’d rather have your blessing than fight. What can I do to get your permission to see Violet?”
Stevens put the case back in his pocket. “Nothing. You’re the wrong sort for her. She’s too young to realize how many bridges a relationship with you would burn.”
Arthur became aware that people were gathering around them. A screaming young woman and her indignant father were much more interesting than the gentle charms of an afternoon near the ocean.
“Sir, I think we might want to take this inside,” he said, but Stevens waved him off.
“There’s nothing more to say, nothing you can give her. You’d make a poor husband for any young woman.”
Brockman’s brows rose, but he mastered himself. He took off his fedora and ran his fingers through his dark hair before responding. “That’s not true. I’m a hard worker, I come from a good family, I did well in school, and I’ve built a decent business from the ground up. Violet tells me your father did the same.”
The older man was unmoved. “My father would have felt the same way about it. You’re not our kind.”
“Then … I’ll challenge you.”
The old man sneered. “Challenge me to what?”
“I’ll challenge you for the right to see Violet. I’ve seen you sailing your tub up and down this side of the harbor.”
Stevens clutched a fist. “Tub? That’s a fine vessel, and I paid a pretty penny for it.”
“Too bad you didn’t buy the oars to row it.”
The retort brought laughter, and Stevens became aware that they had an audience. He raised his voice. “Yours is barely a sloop. It doesn’t deserve to have a slip in this marina next to real yachts.”
“If my boat is so lousy, what are you waiting for?” Brockman said. “Race me. Race me to Boca Ciega and back. If I win, I get to see Violet.”
“Your boat isn’t in the same class. It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
Brockman half-smiled. “And yet you hesitate. Perhaps the problem with isn’t the yacht’s class at all. Maybe it’s the class of its captain.”
This brought hoots and more laughter.
Ansel Stevens brought himself to his full height and glared down at Harry Brockman.
“You know what? I’m going to accept your challenge. But I’m going to up the ante. The loser of the race must also leave town. No, more than the town—they all run together here. Not only Saint Petersburg, then, but the entire state of Florida.”
“Done,” Brockman said, and the assembly cheered and clapped.
Dinner felt more public than usual. Arthur watched the furtive glances made to the Stevens’ customary table in the dining room. He also caught a few people whispering to one another. News of the challenge had quickly made the rounds.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” Mrs. Stevens said in low tones to her husband. “We’re the main attraction tonight.”
“Good,” Stevens said, looking over the choices on the evening menu. “It will give that young upstart a larger audience to lose in front of.”
“Harry is a good sailor,” Violet said. “He’s been to New York and back with his yacht to visit his family.”
“Perhaps he needed another loan from his church, or whatever they call it,” her father retorted. “Living on a boat may be fine for a single man playing at business, but it doesn’t suit a man who is serious about things, including courtship. He probably has a girl in every port.”
“Not with those ears,” Evelyn said, bringing a chuckle from everyone but Violet.
Arthur’s short-lived relief at the levity didn’t last.
“You should have dinner with him,” the young woman said. “Then you could get to know him and ask him what his plans are for the future. He’s more practical than you think.”
Ansel made a gesture for the waiter to come forward. “Where would we go? The galley of his boat? Certainly we couldn’t sup in any respectable restaurant.” The waiter arrived at his shoulder. “I’ll take the ham.”
“Oh, Father!”
Violet sputtered. “You disgust me.”
“She’ll have the ham, too. We’ll all have the ham,” he told the waiter, waving him away.
Once the confused waiter had left, she leaned forward. “You may force us to eat ham, but you’re the one acting like a pig.”
Arthur’s eyes shifted to Mac. The son and heir looked strangely untroubled by the rancor at the table. Was this normal talk for the family? His own family had always begun dinner with a prayer and finished with a glass of wine and discussions of what work needed to be done on the farm the next day. He hoped that Evelyn would not bring this tradition into their own family.
Stevens fixed his youngest child with the glare that meant he was not to be questioned.
“I am forbidding this for your own good,” Ansel Stevens said. “You don’t realize how many doors will be closed to you if you marry into that religion. In Miami, they have restrictive land covenants to keep Jews out of the good areas of town. They can’t even rent hotel rooms at the beach there. This area isn’t much better, and neither is New York, where they live cheek to jowl in ethnic neighborhoods. I don’t want that for you, or for my grandchildren.”
“You haven’t beaten Harry yet,” Violet said.
Chapter six
The morning was clear and, truth be told, a little on the chilly side. Cornelia slung the bag of rented clubs over her shoulder and followed her uncle out of the pro shop. She was glad she’d purchased a modest golfing outfit with a light sweater. The colors were a bit brighter than she would normally wear: light pink with a mint green diamond pattern. Teddy always said that pink was flattering. It was no more colorful than those worn by other golfers, even with the pink pom-pom topping her cap.
Uncle Percival was wearing two-tone shoes, knee-length acreage trousers, argyle socks, a bow tie, and suspenders. The short pants were a shock. When he’d taught her the game, his golfing trousers were the proper length. She was surprised no one was laughing at the old coot, even if the other men on the course were dressed in equally outlandish attire ... minus the suspenders.