After the Rain

by Jane Lorenzini

  “This used to be Mr. Edison’s dock, honey. Isn’t the river pretty?”

  Andi nodded and pointed at several gulls drifting overhead.

  “We see those at home . . . ”

  “We sure do . . . by the river.”

  They continued to the lily pond where they could also see a long, rectangular swimming pool.

  “Look, diving boards!” Kate said. “I’ll bet the Edisons had fun living here.”

  “Can we see where he lived?” Andi skipped along the pathway away from the pool area.

  “Yep. There’s a main house and a guesthouse.”

  They passed by a bubbling fountain and walked toward the residences. Majestic seventy-foot palm trees stood guard in a long row in front of the homes. A plaque explained that the structures were restored to appear as they did circa 1929, forty years after Belle lived next door. Too bad, Kate thought.

  “Do you want to peek inside, honey?” Kate hoped she’d say no. That way they could see more of the property before the little girl pooped out.

  “Let’s just go up on the pretty porch.” Andi ran for the steps.

  Where were Belle’s gardens? Kate pulled out a photo of pink rain lilies that she’d Googled. No sign of them. Again—of course the flowers weren’t there. Time had churned through countless generations of plants and people that once inhabited the space. She climbed the stairs and, from the sprawling porch of the guesthouse, spotted the neighboring Ford property.

  “Over there is where Mr. Ford lived with his family. He and Mr. Edison were good friends. They spent a lot of their winters here.”

  “Why?” Andi asked.

  “Because it doesn’t snow here. It’s warm, not freezing cold like where we live and they lived, too. Let’s walk over to Mr. Ford’s yard, okay? I’ll bet he has some cars in his garage.”

  They joined other visitors inside a structure that housed several vintage cars, including a Model T. The cars were roped off, but Kate snapped a cute photo of Andi pretending to hold a steering wheel.

  She guessed that her daughter had another twenty minutes in her, so they wandered the property, a botanical haven. Andi seemed drawn to the exotic orchids.

  “That’s the frilliest, Mommy.” Then she’d find a frillier one.

  Kate had no idea which species were growing in 1888 but was amazed by the current, well-marked array: a giant Mysore fig, an African sausage tree, trees that produced everything from bananas to avocados, star fruit, and jackfruit.

  “Let’s go see the coconut grove, honey.”

  The shady area along the river featured a half-dozen bent trunks. The trees’ swaying palm fronds gathered the breeze and tickled each other. Below, Kate studied the photo again. She looked over at Andi, petting a coconut and smiling.

  “It’s so hairy, Mommy!”

  “It sure is!”

  Andi began to roll the coconut around the ground, giving Kate a chance to search for lilies in the grove. She squatted down to get a closer look. Nothing at all appeared to be the plant, with or without blooms.

  “What are you doing, Mommy?” Andi stood next to her.

  She sighed. “I was hoping to get a photo of these pretty flowers for a friend, but I can’t find them.” She showed her daughter the printout.

  “What friend?” Andi asked, and traced a pink bloom with her finger.

  “You’ve never met her, sweet girl.”

  “Oh.” Andi took the paper. “Maybe I can find them for you, Mommy.” She skipped off, clutching the image.

  Kate sat down on a bench to watch her resilient daughter look for the lilies. She seemed curious and happy despite her parents’ breakup late last year. How adorable she looked, her little pink shoes darting from place to place. She stayed in sight but searched a wide area, turning back to smile and wave between stops. Kate briefly closed her eyes. She let the streaming sun soak into her winter-pale skin. The breeze off the river danced across her neck and then moved along. Maybe she would be okay. Maybe soon the hurt would lift. She slowly opened her eyes and marveled at the rich setting. Rough trunks rising from the smooth sand, vibrant bursts of color, gentle waves. You were right about this place, Belle. Kate could almost see magic sparkling around the edges of every little thing.

  Dear Reader,

  My fascination with the Edison property began thirty years ago when I worked as a television reporter and anchor at WINK-TV in Fort Myers, Florida. I was hired as the Backroads reporter, tasked with finding unique regional characters and sharing their compelling stories with viewers. I was lucky to work for a news director who valued human-interest stories and to be in the industry at a time when good news was still allowed on the rundown. The beat would become my favorite in the course of a thirteen-year career in broadcast television.

  One of the stories I chose to cover for Backroads was shadowing a horticulturist who cared for the expansive gardens at the Edison winter estate. (The current name of the destination is the Edison and Ford Winter Estates, listed on the National Register of Historic Places.) I wandered the lush gardens with my skilled guide, captivated by the countless specimens, from all over the world, and the reasons Edison chose them. Some were for research, like goldenrod, grown for its latex content and possible role as a domestic source for rubber. Others were selected for fruit, to attract birds and butterflies, or for privacy. Specific details from that day are vague, but I recall the horticulturist discussing the pollination process of prehistoric cycads. Remarkable!

  Perhaps the overall setting so appealed to me because I grew up in a family interested in tinkering, building, gardening, birding, creating, and learning. Whatever the case, my time in the gardens planted a seed that lay dormant for three decades. But when I was considering venues for my first novel, that little seed sprouted in my brain.

  I chose to place the story during a year the Edisons did not visit so I could showcase the folks you met on the pages of this book. (The family resumed their seasonal visits in 1901 and vacationed regularly at Seminole Lodge for decades.) In 1898, twelve years after Edison’s promise to the town, electricity arrived for all in Fort Myers. The town finally had lights and, eventually, additional superstars of industry: Henry Ford, Harvey Firestone, and Edison spent many winters enjoying each other’s company in southwest Florida.

  Concerning the mix of fact and fiction, I took great delight in researching Belle’s dot on history’s timeline, when the only thing stored in a cloud was rain. I studied the region, the infrastructure, the Edisons, what was and wasn’t available in 1888. I wore out the internet and well-footnoted books that identified, for instance, shipping invoices outlining the Edisons’ belongings Boone describes being unloaded at the estates. The words Mrs. Abbott exchanges with the elderly Seminole woman are derived from research on the tribe’s Mikasuki language. The Dixie Cook-Book (revised 1885 edition) guided me on what to cook, bake, and serve. I took some poetic license on dates—within a year or several—just to make sure you met people I thought you’d enjoy.

  I made some small discoveries, like a map of Fort Myers hand-drawn in 1886. I pored over the location and variety of businesses and residences that formed the town that year. The ding-ding discovery turned out to be the labor of love that is the Thomas A. Edison Papers Project, a research center at Rutgers School of Arts and Sciences. For four decades, editors and scholars have been wrangling millions of documents related to Edison’s personal and professional life and compiling them into an organized look-see for the public. Because of this incredible resource, I had access to a vast and varied set of facts during the time stamp of my story—clippings from the Fort Myers Press, letters Edison wrote to his caretaker at Seminole Lodge, his illustrated notebooks from the laboratory in Fort Myers. I am extremely grateful for the hard work of others that made mine easier.

  Along with the Edisons, characters in the book who retained their real names are (in order of appearanc
e) Ezra Gilliland, Professor James Ricalton, Edward Weston, Nellie Bly, William H. Wood, and John Tomlinson. Abigail’s character is based on Margaret Knight, a prolific American inventor known as the “woman Edison” of her time. When fellow inventor Charles Annan stole and patented her design for a flat-bottom bag machine, she sued him for patent interference. Knight won the lawsuit and was granted a patent for her invention in 1871. You may be interested to know that in 1889, prominent New York journalist Jane Cunningham Croly organized a conference to gather delegates from women’s clubs around the country. The following year, the General Federation of Women’s Clubs was founded with sixty-three clubs, its mission to promote the viewpoints of women and community enhancement. Shortly after, a motto was adopted: “We look for unity, but unity in diversity.” Today, the GFWC estimates a membership of eighty thousand representing women from more than twenty-five hundred clubs around the world.

  If you did, I appreciate you embracing the spirit of wonder regarding the black contraption Belle found in the shed. The box was rooted in my desire to see what Belle would do with an opportunity, with a chance to be inspired by “women testing the shifting winds like a bevy of kites.” Heck, I guess I got caught up in the magic of the Edison property, too.

  If you ever have the chance to visit the Edison and Ford Winter Estates in person, I encourage you to make the trip. Of course, thanks to the internet, a visit is possible day or night. I’ve included the website below.

  Finally, I offer my heartfelt thanks to you, the reader, for giving me a reason to share my writing. I truly hope After the Rain was meaningful to you in some way.

  With gratitude,

  Jane

  For more information, visit edisonfordwinterestates.org.

  Acknowledgments

  My beloved parents and sisters can’t help but be a part of this book—they’re a part of me. If you find a lovely quality in something or someone herein, that’s from them.

  Hoda, remember when we were running in Florida and I was sharing an idea I had for a copyediting service? You stopped in your tracks and said, “Janie, you’re not a copyeditor. You’re a writer.” You’ve always believed in my relationship with words, and for that—and for a million other things about you—I’m grateful. And beyond lucky.

  A smooch to Jim, who kept reminding me that I had a story idea worth sharing. Your strong belief in the concept (and me) bolstered mine, especially when that gray cloud of doubt showed up. You took my hand and walked me toward the blue patch.

  Christine Pride, editor-extraordinaire who gave me the road map to Fictiontown when I was completely and utterly lost. I will never forget who showed me the way, C. You so kindly told me, after reading my epically crappy manuscript, “Every project has hope.” (Thanks for Christine, Kerri!)

  Two Janes are better than one, Jane Rosenman. Your astute editing is outmatched only by your powerfully positive attitude. I’m very grateful Jake led me to you, and I’ll always remember our email sign-offs: TOJ (The Other Jane).

  Adri Trigiani—you’re a force of nature who willingly and generously blows life into other people’s dreams. Thanks so very much for championing mine. And for the path to Jake and Jane.

  To the team at Girl Friday Productions: thank you for guiding this girl! Christina Henry de Tessan, Alexander Rigby, and Emilie Sandoz-Voyer—you answered my endless questions with patience and grace. Paul Barrett—from your creative brain to my book cover. It’s beautiful, and I thank you. Amara Holstein—I’m so lucky you were my developmental editor. You truly cared about my characters and gave me all the right problems to solve. I so loved hanging out in 1888 with you! To the eagle eyes, thank you, Carrie Wicks, for copyediting, and Sharon Turner Mulvihill for proofreading. I’m indebted to you both and the entire GFP team.

  Thank you to my not-so-secret reader, Sharon Miller. Your early and ongoing input energized me. I value any chance to hear your insightful thoughts . . . about anything, friend.

  My childhood pals—Christine, Amy, and Laurie—thank you for your astute eyeballs, and even more valuable, your five decades of friendship.

  Susan Chapman, my thanks to you for identifying gaps and for loving my tale. Nicki Dangleis, you had no time to read, but you did it anyway, for me. Thanks, John McCoy, for reading while riding the rails to work. Your extensive and valuable critique was worthy of an invoice.

  John Emmert—thank you for hiring me to explore the lesser-known pockets of southwest Florida. Because of you, my time at WINK-TV and on the back roads was the very best of my career.

  Thank you to all my beautiful friends, near and far, who cheer me on and hold me dear. I feel like I have pockets full of rabbits’ feet.

  And finally, to the alphabet—I love you.

  About the Author

  © David Boyer

  Jane Lorenzini spent thirteen years as a television news anchor and reporter. Jane went on to cowrite two New York Times bestselling books, Hoda: How I Survived War Zones, Cancer, Bad Hair, Cancer, and Kathie Lee and Ten Years Later: Six People Who Faced Adversity and Transformed Their Lives, plus a third book, Where We Belong: Journeys That Show Us the Way, with Today coanchor and dear friend Hoda Kotb. After the Rain is Jane’s first novel. She lives in Tennessee and writes everywhere.