After the Rain

by Jane Lorenzini

  Decker shrugged. “Dangle a big pot of money in front of people, even a cucumber and squash—in the same family—and the relationship ends up in the muck.”

  Belle was beginning to regret stopping by the garden.

  “Perhaps they’ll work it out one day,” she said, pulling weeds around her. “Good friends are to be treasured.”

  Decker followed her lead and ripped up clumps of grass. “Good friends don’t stab you in the back.”

  “Agreed, Mr. Decker,” she said, happy to hear him say something of merit. “Where is Boone today?”

  “Knee-deep in banana bushes on a channel somewhere up the river. Boone likes to dig.” He flipped his fingers toward the book. “Anything about creating banana beds in there?”

  “I’ll check.” Leafing through the book, she asked, “Did you hire Boone?”

  Decker stopped weeding and gingerly separated a stick of grass from its sheath. He chewed on the end, and said, “Yes, but against my better judgment.”

  Belle flipped pages and waited for an explanation.

  “He showed up with a bandage wrapped around his calf on the outside of his dungarees. I wasn’t impressed. What did I need with a gimp? There was an enormous amount of physical labor to be done over several months. I told him to move along.”

  She looked up, irritated by his use of the word gimp. “And?”

  “And, he refused to leave. He said something about outworking every man and animal in sight. He grabbed a pick and uprooted cabbage palms until dark. The bandage was soaked with blood, but he just kept tearing out palmettos, like they’d wronged him.” Decker shrugged. “No man I’d ever met worked as hard or as long. Even the mules fell asleep before he did. That bum leg? Didn’t notice it anymore. I just noticed how much work he got done.”

  Proud of Boone, Belle said, “I’d say right now that those banana bushes are losing the fight to stay in the ground.”

  Decker nodded. “I’ve got to give it to the boy,” he said. “He stays focused on the task at hand. Even the gal who lived in the Baker’s cottage before you couldn’t distract him.” He rubbed his palms together to shed the dirt. “She sure tried, though. A real schemer.”

  Belle pushed up the lid of her straw hat to better see Decker and fully focus on this new information.

  “Oh, really. Who was she?”

  Decker smiled, revealing a row of tiny square teeth, each violated by cigar smoke.

  “Elena Larkspur. That woman would think of any reason to get Boone over to the cottage.” He raised his voice to mimic hers. “‘Can you kill a spider for me? I think a squirrel is nesting in the roof. Will you fix this stubborn window, Booney?’”

  “Booney?” Belle repeated, the word blasting forth from her mouth. She was already annoyed by this Elena.

  “Oh, sure. She had lots of nicknames for him: Booney, Boone Boone, Bunny.”

  Ridiculous! Belle pulled her hat back down, retreating from the nicknames. She probably broke that stuck window on purpose.

  Decker continued. “She sometimes wore a black silky . . . thing . . . that seemed like it should be worn behind closed doors.” He shrugged. “Any man would have gladly done whatever she wanted. But not Boone. And that woman was persistent.”

  “And attractive?” Belle mumbled from behind her hat.

  “Oh my. Elena was head-to-toe beautiful, the kind of woman a man wants on his arm, and in his arms, and . . .”

  “Enough,” Belle said, interrupting.

  He stroked his tuft. “I don’t know how or why, but Boone showed that girl no interest, as if she was just another task to cross through on his chore list.” He swatted away a wasp. “About a week before you arrived, she moved out.” He shook his head. “Word was she had buckets of money.”

  Belle let out a long sigh as the truth washed over her. Elena wanted Boone, badly. How many other Elenas had tested him and his promise to swear off love after Daniel died? Boone had chosen her. My very special Boone. She knew now more than ever how lucky she was that he’d opened his heart to her.

  “Boone is a good man,” Belle said softly.

  “Boone is a good digger,” Decker replied.

  Belle removed her hat and eyed Decker. “Boone does not like to dig, and you know it.”

  Decker grinned. “Let’s talk about bananas.”

  Belle reopened the book and began to search for more information. As she scanned the pages, she wondered if there was a chance that Decker was a bit like a banana—tough peel, soft center.

  Chapter 28

  Abigail was doing two things she never did: sitting still and thinking about her life before Baker’s. She found neither pleasurable, but seeing the contraption in the cottage—and listening to it work—drove her to the riverbank to reflect, undisturbed. The last meal of the day had been served, and a full pot of coffee was on the stove for the boarders.

  Her girth made sitting cross-legged uncomfortable, so she was lying on her back on a thick blanket that she’d fished out of an armoire reserved for winter gear. Typically, in this position, she fell asleep instantly after a long, strenuous day. But tonight, her eyes were wide open, watching dusk give way to a sky full of eager stars.

  I’ve got it, Papa! I’ve got it right here! Abigail smiled, thinking about her father’s toolbox. He used to let her tote it around whenever he wasn’t using it. She was allowed to tinker with whatever tools she wanted. Just be careful, Abi. At nine years old, she was building the fastest sleds in the neighborhood and fancy pull-along wagons, some with a roof. Her brothers adored her creations and collected scrap wood to keep their toymaker busy.

  And then her father died suddenly. He dropped to the floor with a thud that Abigail could still hear in her mind, as if she were twelve again. Widowed with three children, her mother pulled her and her brothers out of school and—in desperation—secured jobs for them at the town’s cotton mill in Springfield, Massachusetts.

  The work was deafening and dangerous. Still, Abigail was fascinated by the towering machines—some with sharp metal teeth, others with large rollers or bobbins. Hired as a doffer, she spent her workday removing fully threaded bobbins on spinning frames and replacing them with empty ones.

  One day, a woman running a loom was nearly killed by a heavy, steel-tipped shuttle that flew off the machine when a thread broke. A thud was followed by a scream that even the churning machines couldn’t drown out. It wasn’t the first time a flying shuttle had injured a worker; others had even died. The fatal flaw in the process engaged Abigail’s mind. At home, she sketched drawings and built a wooden model of what she deduced would solve the problem. The shop assistant, eager to keep his mill workers working, agreed to try her solution, a small piece of wood screwed into the loom’s frame close to the spring where a thread could break. An added wooden bar kept the shuttle from ejecting itself. Her invention worked! It was immediately added to all six hundred looms in the mill and also in factories across New England. She knew nothing of patents at the time, only that she’d used her brain to protect people. The achievement was exhilarating.

  Abigail now drew in a deep breath and groaned as she rolled her thick body up to a sitting position. There was no need to share those details with Belle. She left the blanket on the ground and walked toward the cottage. She wanted to see the box up close, and if Belle was interested, share the story of why she’d moved from Boston to Fort Myers.

  •••

  “I certainly didn’t mean to disrespect your privacy when I looked through the cottage window that afternoon, Belle.”

  Abigail was sitting on the bed in the cottage, across from Belle, who was gripping both arms of the rocker.

  “I don’t see it that way at all, Abigail. In fact, I disrespected your privacy by taking the box out of your shed. My apologies.”

  “None necessary, Belle. It’s high time I talked about that blasted box.” Sh
e gestured toward it, dormant on the dresser.

  “I’m glad we can talk about it.” Belle paused. “Honestly, I’m still a bit in shock.”

  “Me, too,” Abigail said, and smiled. “If you’d like, I can explain.” She lightly touched a yellowed roll of paper beside her.

  “Yes, please do.” Belle would never have guessed that her discovery would lead to Abigail sitting in the cottage discussing an invention of her creation. Then again, so much had surprised and challenged her since she’d moved to the Baker property.

  “When I was your age, I worked at a plant in Massachusetts that manufactured paper bags.”

  She explained that all day long she stacked bags made by a machine that formed what she deemed an inferior product. The bag was designed as a narrow sheath, flat like an envelope. The user had to hold the bag upright while awkwardly stuffing items into it.

  “Everyone sees me as a workhorse,” Abigail said, “but I have a very active brain. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been on the lookout for something to create or improve upon. I don’t know . . . I suppose it’s like your passion for gardening. We all have a golden compass inside of us, one that points us toward our best selves.”

  “So true,” Belle said. Astonishing. An altered Abigail was emerging before her like a cicada from its split shell.

  “Every day at work, I stared at that bag machine and its process,” she said. “I knew there was a better way.”

  Abigail said she mulled over what could and should be altered on the existing machine. Ultimately, the answer was a device that could fold and glue a bag with a flat bottom. The new rectangular base would allow for the bag to stand on its own when filled with food or wares.

  Abigail grabbed the rolled paper and unfurled it on the bed. “I haven’t looked at these in so long.” Belle got up to help her hold the corners and to examine the images on it.

  “My goodness,” Belle said. She marveled at the detailed images. “Did you draw these?”

  Abigail nodded. “They are quite something, aren’t they?”

  The paper included two drawings of the same machine. Fig. 1 featured a side view of what she’d labeled “bag machine.” Fig. 2 was a drawing looking down on the same device. The side view made more sense to Belle. It appeared that a series of interlacing gear wheels would move several metal arms tasked with folding responsibilities.

  “Such intricate work,” Belle noted.

  Abigail said that from the drawings, she had built a wooden model of her invention. After more than a decade of work experience behind her, she realized the need for a patent to protect her design and the potential earnings the machine would generate.

  “I moved to Boston and found factory work. I needed to be there to supervise the manufacture of my prototype in a machine shop.” She let loose the paper, which rerolled itself. Belle seated herself back in the rocker.

  Abigail sat without speaking or moving. Belle had never seen her look so forlorn.

  “What is it, Abigail?” Belle asked softly.

  She shook her head. “He stole my design. That bastard stole it.”

  Belle placed her palm on her chest. “No.”

  “Yes. When my machine was perfect, I applied for a patent. It was rejected. I couldn’t believe it. I knew I’d invented a machine that didn’t yet exist.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “That patent belonged to me.”

  She explained that an inventor in the Boston machine shop had memorized the basic design of her prototype, built his own, and received the patent first.

  “Oh, Abigail. I’m so sorry.” Belle wanted to go to her but stayed seated, listening.

  “I tried to fight back. I took him to court but lost the lawsuit.” She closed her eyes. “That horrible man said in his defense, ‘A woman could never design such a sophisticated machine.’ Based on his ruling against me, the judge agreed.”

  “Shameful!” Belle said, popping her fist against the armrest. “But, what about your drawings?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Didn’t matter.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Belle sat quietly as Abigail wiped her eyes with her apron. She looked away, down at her cat, busy taking a bath next to the rocker. As Coquina licked an errant stripe back into place, Belle considered that perhaps everyone and everything was constantly trying to manage the disorder of life. It was unavoidable, embedded in the very germ of being.

  Abigail let out a long sigh and continued. “I was so enraged and disgusted that I decided to leave Boston and move south. Better weather, a fresh start.”

  “My, my,” Belle said, “that’s quite a move. Did you know anyone here?”

  Abigail crossed her arms atop her large breasts. “I knew a woman who was hired here as the town’s first paid schoolteacher. She wrote me several letters. I guess the way she described the tropical setting and friendly atmosphere gave me the confidence to move. Plus, she mentioned that the boardinghouse was up for sale. Owning my own business appealed to me because I’d worked for someone else since I was twelve years old. I had money saved, enough to buy Baker’s, and I quickly taught myself how to make food that would keep the boarders coming back. Cooking is tinkering, and baking is science, right?”

  Belle tilted her head to one side. “Abigail, who else knows this about you?”

  “No one. Not even Merle.” She released her arms. “I’m not one to dwell on the past, especially the painful parts. But”—she looked over at the box—“when I saw that thing working, I had to see it. I wanted you to know its story.”

  Belle lightly knocked a knuckle on the rocker’s armrest. “Well, I still don’t.”

  Abigail slapped her hands on her thighs, as if signaling a shift in mood. She stood and walked to the dresser. With the box in hand, she sat back down on the bed.

  “Hmm. It was still on the top shelf when you found it in the shed closet?”

  “Yes, but as I said earlier, it was lying on its side with the wires cascading out.”

  “Uh-huh,” Abigail said. “And Coquina was up on the shelf?”

  Belle nodded. “She was. Who knows? Maybe she fiddled with the wires . . . like she was playing with strands of yarn.”

  “Could be.” She looked at the cat. “Maybe that rascal is the reason this thing finally works.”

  Abigail laid the box on the bed. She explained that when Mr. Edison moved in next door, a yearning stirred inside her, a desire to think deeply and tinker again.

  “It was as if the passion I’d packed away for so long demanded to see the light of day. It was so powerful that I couldn’t focus.” She chuckled. “I kept burning food and dropping plates.”

  Belle smiled. “Unimaginable.”

  One evening, knowing she was violating the Edisons’ privacy, she snuck into the laboratory. She’d seen Boone—and the Edisons during their honeymoon—use a key hidden under a turtle shell on the ground.

  “Belle, when I walked into that lab, I nearly fainted. All of the blood rushed to my head, as if the biggest part of my brain had reignited. It was all I could do to leave the machines alone. I wanted to fire them up, see how they worked.”

  That first trip wasn’t her last. She’d snuck back into the lab several more times, again while the family was up north. Careful to leave no trace of her trespasses, she touched nothing. Inhaling the air in the lab was enough to stimulate her mind.

  “Well, I have to admit, Abigail, you’re a better woman than I.” Belle sighed. “I looked through one of his notebooks when I took the Dragons Blood to the lab. It was sitting out on a worktable.” She shook her head. “That was very disrespectful of me.”

  “How can I possibly be better, Belle? I repeatedly visited the lab without permission!” She nodded. “I saw those notebooks, too. The only reason I left them alone was because of what happened to me at the machine shop. Inventors should have the utmost respect fo
r the hard work of another.”

  Belle shook her head. “There’s certainly no risk of me running off with one of Mr. Edison’s ideas. Nothing made sense.”

  “Mmm. I’m sure it was wildly fascinating.” Abigail’s eyes lit up.

  “It truly was,” Belle said, “but you’re a better artist.”

  Abigail grinned and then continued.

  During what she vowed to herself would be her last visit to the lab, she told Belle how she came across copper wire heaped in a corner. Knowing it was utterly wrong, she smuggled the bundle into Baker’s and for weeks pondered its use as an electrical conductor. She barely slept.

  “I was exhausted and invigorated at the same time.” She twirled a finger around her ear. “The gears in my brain were spinning at high speed. I filled page after page with drawings of a coffee canister equipped with wires, several cogwheels situated along the interior base. The handle would drive the wheels.” She tapped the canister. “I painted it black to look more like a machine.”

  “And, did you know its purpose?”

  Abigail picked up the box. “My goal was to create a more compact telephone for use on desks. The user would have easy access while working.” Her shoulders slumped. “I never meant for it to intercept active phone calls. That’s an invention that probably shouldn’t exist.”

  “Well,” Belle offered, “I’ve certainly been the benefactor of your brilliance, Abigail. The conversations I’ve listened to have been quite enlightening. They’re the reason I created the Circle Club.”

  She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the box somehow connects with a telephone that’s being used by a young woman in New York City named Kate Hallock. She’s involved with a growing movement up north to encourage women to support one another. The idea is that together women can uplift themselves and their communities.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” Abigail said. “I’m glad you’ve found it helpful, Belle, but let me be honest.” She picked up the box. “This invention? I put it on that shelf to forget about it. I was so ashamed that I’d stolen from Mr. Edison.” She added softly, “I was actually glad it never worked. I deserved that.”