Belle smiled. “Please bring him a plate when we’re through, Boone, for allowing this. He said he’s too busy to join us, but he’s certainly missing out. This is just perfect.”
“More eating, less talking,” Abigail commanded.
Everyone laughed, happy to obey such a mouthwatering order.
•••
When they finished eating, Boone reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. Merle and Abigail glanced at each other. Boone presented it to Belle. “For you on your special day, from me.”
She smiled and accepted the gift. “Thank you, Boone.”
As she lifted the flap on the pouch, Boone warned, “Don’t reach in. Dump what’s inside onto the table.”
She turned the bag upside down and shook it. Her eyes widened as two items dropped out.
“Oh, Boone!”
She stood and went to him. She bent over and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I love them!” When she pulled back to kiss his cheek, he turned his head so her lips landed on his. Merle and Abigail laughed and clapped.
Belle laughed, too, and returned to her seat to study her gifts: two unique fishing lures.
“I found them in the river when I was pulling up water lettuce,” Boone explained. “They were caught in the roots.”
Belle decided to first examine the spoon lure. Its treble hook dangled in the air, a kidney-shaped metal spoon hanging above it. She tilted her head and held the lure closer. Stamped diagonally across the polished spoon was “CHAPMAN & SON.” Directly under those words: “THERESA, N.Y.” The number “1” was pressed into the metal at the top of the spoon. She shook the little lure as if it were a bell, the sound of metal on metal barely audible. Belle imagined it flashing through the water, beckoning a fish to eat its words and hooks. She laid it down and picked up the second lure.
“You’re a beauty,” she said, as she studied the detailed creation.
This one also featured a treble hook, but a fish was lured by something trickier than a shiny spoon. The designer had crafted the bait in the shape of an insect, a combination of a bee and a fly. The bug had four wings, spread in flight, complete with dimension lines pounded into the metal. Two large mounds on each side of the head served as eyes, antennae atop those. Small dots were indented in the thorax, and five black horizontal stripes ringed the copper-colored abdomen.
Belle shook her head. “I wouldn’t blame any fish for mistaking this for a meal.” She put down the lure. “Thank you again, Boone. I know right where I’m going to put them on my hat.”
“Well, I can’t think of a better place for them . . . except inside a grouper’s mouth.” He smiled.
“Good work, Boone,” Abigail said, then excused herself to put the coffee back on. Merle followed her with a tray of dirty dishes.
Alone at the table, Boone and Belle shared a longer kiss. When they parted, Boone sat back in his seat.
“You look beautiful.”
Belle was getting better at accepting his compliments. “Why, thank you.”
“I have one more surprise for you.”
She reached her hand out to him. “I don’t need anything more.”
He squeezed her hand. “You can’t say no to this. I told Decker I’d finish the landscaping by myself if he’d allow it . . . and he did.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” Belle said.
Boone smiled, and they both turned their heads to watch Merle and Abigail returning. She was carrying a large white cake; he held a stack of small plates.
Belle shook her head. “Coconut cake? You didn’t, Abigail.” Belle had seen her create the cake before, hammer and chisel in hand. Cracking eggs was far easier than cracking open a coconut.
“Of course I did. It’s your birthday, and your gardens look beautiful.” She set down a flawless double-layer cake with white frosting. Grated coconut on its top and sides made the cake look dressed for a party. Merle cut the cake with the Edisons’ silver knife and served up slices. The table was quiet as they indulged in the moist, sweet dessert. Belle took one more bite, then stood and raised her cup.
“I want to offer my thanks.” She looked around the table. “You have all saved me. I hope you know how much I love and appreciate each of you.”
“We love you, too, Belley.” Merle reached forward and clinked his cup on hers. Abigail and Boone joined in.
Belle sat back down and realized her napkin had fallen from her lap when she’d stood up. She bent over to pick it up and froze midgrab. Merle and Abigail were holding hands under the table! Smiling, she nearly bumped her head on the way back up. She sat motionless and let the image of their clasped hands sink in. Finally!
“Time for a quick spin,” Boone announced. He stood and walked behind Belle’s chair. “Up you go.”
Belle tipped her head backward to look up at him, then glanced over at Abigail. “You didn’t tell me he was so bossy.”
“What are you up to, Boone?” Abigail said.
He led Belle to the bottom of the Edisons’ porch steps, bookended by Belle’s gardens.
“Stay here.” He walked up the stairs and disappeared into the house.
Belle turned and shrugged her shoulders at Merle and Abigail.
Boone soon walked out, grinning and carrying a phonograph, its large horn yawning open like an oversized angel’s-trumpet blossom.
Belle lightly gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.
From the table, Merle said, “Now this I want to see.”
“You mean hear,” Abigail said, and patted his arm.
Boone bent down and set the phonograph on the porch. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, dropping her hands and sweeping her long hair off her shoulders.
Boone cranked the handle on the side of the rectangular wooden box.
Another magic box, Belle thought.
As Boone walked down the porch steps, music began to play, a small wax cylinder rotating on a rod.
“Come to me,” Boone said softly, his upturned palm awaiting hers.
She took a deep breath and tucked herself against his frame. She smiled up at him, one hand on his back. “This is very special.”
With his arm slipped around her waist, holding her raised hand, he began to sway, turning her slowly in a circle. “The Lost Chord” featured a trumpet melody accompanied by piano, the most prominent sound the rhythmic churning of the rolling cylinder.
“I can’t believe this,” Belle murmured into Boone’s chest. She laid her cheek against him and closed her eyes.
Boone hummed softly, out of tune. “I like you right here,” he whispered, and gently pulled her closer.
The music ended after two minutes, well before the pair was ready to part. The sound of Merle and Abigail clapping drew them away from each other.
“You two are next,” Belle said as they approached the table.
Merle looked at Abigail. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” Abigail said, and slid her chair back through the sand.
Belle caught Merle’s eye and made her eyebrows dance up and down. He smiled and led his dance partner toward the porch. After more cranking, the phonograph again came to life, serenading the next couple to enjoy Edison’s remarkable, perfected invention. Merle and Abigail laughed throughout the song, especially when she spun him as he squatted below her raised arm.
At a small, round table in the middle of a yard, beside a river, on a clear afternoon, Belle was certain she was happy. Her body was strong, her heart was open, and for the first time she could imagine what life could offer, not take away. Once unrecognizable, hope now showed itself daily with the rising sun, a fresh start to do battle with whatever challenge came her way. Belle was ready—she’d proved herself a warrior.
“I’m very glad the Edisons have agreed to your staying at the cottage,” Boone s
aid. He leaned forward and crossed his arms on the table. “I want you near me.”
She tapped her finger on the table. “We’ll see how long they’ll keep me on.”
Boone pretended to slip something into his shirt pocket. “Maybe I’ll just carry you around in my pocket.” He gently patted his chest.
Belle smiled and lightly shrugged. “You never know. Sometimes precious things are tucked away in the strangest places.”
Epilogue
Driving north on I-75, Kate looked down at the clock in the rental car. They were making good progress from the airport and would have plenty of time to wander around the property.
“Do you need a snack, honey?” Kate reached over and touched her daughter’s arm.
“I’m tired, Mommy.” The little girl leaned her head against the stuffed manatee in her arms. Kate had bought it for her in the airport gift shop. The five-year-old chose it from a shelf filled with stuffed alligators, flamingos, and dolphins.
“I know you are, honey. I thought you might sleep on the airplane.”
The child’s eyes were closed. She was wearing a pink sundress with capped sleeves, dotted with bright images of lemons and limes. Halfway through the drive, she’d kicked off her pink Chuck Taylors.
“You rest. We’ll be there in a little bit.”
Kate had waited to make the trip from New York to Florida until Andi was old enough to enjoy Disney World. The plan was to spend the day and night in Fort Myers, then tomorrow make the less-than-three-hour drive inland. The flight to Fort Myers was cheaper than flying direct into Orlando, so the decision to land here made perfect sense. Maybe the other reason didn’t, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to see where a woman named Belle once wrote a letter to her very distant relative.
Kate veered off I-75 North and took exit 138 toward Fort Myers. Her heart began to beat a bit faster. Why the adrenaline? It could be the divorce, she thought. Her little family of three had been recently pared down to two. She’d found a secret phone in her husband’s gym bag filled with bad decisions. He admitted to everything and wanted nothing, except to remain in Andi’s life. They’d worked that part out. The rest was messy, at least for her. She was still rearranging living room furniture, not to mention emotions. Anger here, sorrow over there. Where the hell do I put loneliness? That was a pesky one. Maybe this stop in Fort Myers was her way of searching for a connection with someone, even the “friend” of a long-dead relative.
Weeks ago, as she was sorting through her father’s belongings, she came across a box labeled “family stuff.” He’d always been interested in genealogy, poring over faded photographs or studying family-tree charts, his parents’ names, Andrew William Hallock and Kate Ann Robertson, always underscored in red ink. In one file folder, a letter dated 1888 had caught her eye. After reading it, she remembered that her family called it the “odd” letter, referencing a word used by Belle, the writer, and also because some of the content was indeed odd. When she and her brother were young, her parents would encourage them to take turns guessing at what Belle was concealing and why, and what the long-ago Kate must have thought when she read the letter. Over the years, “family stuff” was talked about less and less until finally her father was the only one still interested, which Kate now regretted. She’d kept the letter, wishing she could discuss it—and everything—with her dad. Losing him on the heels of the divorce was an unexpected second blow that knocked her into a corner where she wanted to stay forever. And if not for her precious little girl, she would have. Someone had to be present for Andi, full-time and full of joy, even if she faked the last part. On days when despair pummeled her resolve, she’d reread the letter, left lying out on her desk. Even though Belle wrote the note more than a century earlier, Kate found her words of hope timeless:
April 5, 1888
Fort Myers, Fl.
Dear friend to the north,
Do forgive my penmanship! My hand is better served sketching than writing, but I’m compelled to continue and will trust that my words are discernable enough. I must begin by introducing myself, as you don’t know me or even that I exist. My name is Belle Carson, and I live many miles south of you in the state of Florida in a small river town called Fort Myers. Perhaps you’ve heard of it because of our famous winter visitor, Thomas Edison. We are quite proud to claim him and his family, although neither has found time to soak up our sunshine of late. More about them in a bit.
I should say straightaway, Kate, that my letter may confuse you. I know things about your life, which will seem quite odd since we’ve never met. I don’t understand it myself. But none of that matters. Somehow your enthusiastic words reached me, and for that I am grateful. I learned from you that the northern winds are shifting for women, and that you and others are testing them, as if you’re a bevy of kites! I must say, the opinions of your mother (who no doubt loves you) must feel like scissors constantly snipping at your kite’s string. The way you stay the course and command even more string is inspiring. You’re flying higher and higher! One day, you will bump right into your dreams.
The reason I’m writing is to thank you, Kate. Because of you, I formed a women’s club in my little town, the first and only of its kind. I’d been trying to open my heart to more meaningful relationships, and then, I heard yours, longing for more. So I took a chance, and it paid off. Our club is now eight women strong! Our purpose is yet to be determined, but each time we meet there is laughter and candor and fellowship. Perhaps those are reasons enough for all of us to gather. I know they are for me.
And that brings me back to the Edisons, Mina in particular. When she kindly hired me to create a set of gardens on their property, I moved into a pretty cottage right next door. I don’t know how to fully capture the setting except to say that there seems to be some sort of magic in the air, a potential for everything and everyone to grow in unexpected ways. I’m pleased to say that both gardens are flourishing, and if I do say so myself, they’re quite beautiful. I chose a variety of flowers for the beds, but there is one in particular that I want to share with you. There’s a plant called a pink rain lily, quite a stunner. It features vibrant pink blooms with bright-yellow stamens that beckon the bees. But what makes this lily so special is when it chooses to bloom, to showcase its best and brightest. It waits and endures, and then explodes with blossoms after a storm, after the howling wind and driving rain finally relent. I find that so hopeful! We can all bloom, after the rain. I feel that I am doing just that, and I can sense that you will, too, when a challenge comes your way. Something we can share, Kate, is faith that the strongest storms in our lives will fling us into the arms of goodness. We must hold on tight, waiting and trusting.
I will finish now with a hint of sadness that we will never meet. I won’t soon forget you, and I offer my well wishes for your road ahead. Keep writing and laughing and inspiring those of us who need a glimpse of fearlessness to begin our own search for it. To find where it may lie within us.
Your grateful friend to the south,
Belle
Kate had Belle’s letter with her, tucked in her suitcase in a Ziploc bag. Perhaps she would read it again tonight after their day of exploring. The sentiment that most moved her—We must hold on tight, waiting and trusting. Yes, she must.
Andi was awake by the time they arrived at their destination. Kate helped her daughter put on her sneakers in the parking lot. The March day was gorgeous—warm but dry. Before they’d parked, Kate had checked to see what was on either side of the expansive property where Belle once lived. One side was a private property she couldn’t access; the other side housed a large church. But no “pretty cottage right next door.” Of course a dozen decades of progress had erased Belle’s footprint. Of course, but alas. The twenty acres she was about to explore would have to suffice.
Mother and daughter walked hand in hand toward the property’s main office. Kate’s membership and Andi’s age allowed f
or a free tour. She’d been happy to pay for a membership, to support such a special and important piece of American history—the Edison and Ford Winter Estates.
“Mommy, look at all of those arms!”
Andi was pointing at a huge tree with countless thick, woody shafts that extended down from the branches, creating a forest of trunks that covered an acre.
“Isn’t that neat, honey? It’s called a banyan tree.”
Kate had browsed the Edison-Ford website when she bought the membership. She recalled seeing a photo of the tree, both magnificent and bizarre. Apparently, Henry Ford gave it to Edison in 1925.
“Here, honey—stand next to Mr. Edison.”
Kate walked backward and snapped a shot of her daughter next to a cast-aluminum statue of Edison that stood in front of the massive banyan.
Preferring to simply wander and enjoy the sights, Kate declined self-guided tour headsets and instead picked up a map. She would keep an eye out for Belle’s special pink blooms.
They started off at the Edison laboratory. The wooden structure was filled with long tables topped with beakers, mortars and pestles, scales, and plastic tubing. Glass cabinets housed shelves packed with corked bottles. Large machines with various functions were showcased throughout the expansive room. Andi reached up for Kate’s hand. The space was somewhat dark and perhaps a bit intimidating to her forty-two-inch-tall daughter. Not much would look familiar to her.
“This is a laboratory, honey. See all of the tools and instruments? This is where Mr. Edison invented things.”
“What things?” Andi asked, hugging her stuffed animal to her chest.
“Well, things like the light bulb and the record player. People used to listen to music on record players.”
“Did he live here?”
“Nope. He just worked in here. We’re going to cross the street and see where he and Mr. Ford lived. Mr. Ford invented a car called the Model T.”
The two left the lab, walked past various plants for sale near the information booth, and crossed McGregor Boulevard. They were now on the main property that included both the Edison and Ford estates. Kate decided to head for the river. The map showed a lily pond she thought Andi would like. On the way, Kate pointed out a long line of old wooden pilings sticking up in the river. A sign indicated they were looking at where Edison had a long wharf built.
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