by Janie DeVos
“Olivia, aren’t you bored to tears at that export office? For the life of me, I don’t understand how you can work there. That dreadful railroad embargo brought most everything coming in and out of here to a screeching halt. I know the embargo was lifted last May, but you can’t tell me that business isn’t slow. Lord, there’s been enough bad press up North about it…not to mention our over-inflated land prices, and apocalyptic hurricanes. It’s a wonder anyone wants to come down here anymore.”
“They will once the snow starts piling up,” Olivia replied as she lifted her coffee cup to her mouth.
“Exactly!” I said, slamming my hand down on the table, which caused my sister to jump and slosh some of her coffee. “Don’t you see, Olivia? If anything will keep the tourists coming down here, it’s the lure of the weather, not to mention the nightlife. It’s…well…” I glanced up toward the ceiling, looking for the right words to describe Miami after dark.
“Amoral and hedonistic?” Olivia offered with a smug smile.
“Exactly, again!” I beamed. “And that, dear sister, is what will save this place. Those looking to indulge need hotels, and Grandma and Granddaddy need you to help run theirs.”
“I’m just fine where I am, Lily, and I’ve told you why. I said the same thing to Daddy when he offered to give me a job in the marina office. So, please, let’s leave it at that.”
Mr. Burton’s phlegm-thick cough brought me out of my musings and I decided I couldn’t stand the old geezer another minute. “That’s all the time we have this morning, I’m afraid,” I said, abruptly interrupting our waltz and stepping back from the vile man.
“But, it’s only twenty minutes until eleven,” he complained.
“Yes, but…” I hadn’t thought up a reason for a shortened lesson. “I have…We have fresh seafood coming in, and Chef is…at the doctor’s office. I have to be at the receiving door to inspect it. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Ah, I do hope nothing much ails the chef,” Burton replied, his brows pinching together in concern. “I so look forward to his bouillabaisse on Wednesday nights, you know.”
How typical of him to worry about getting his belly filled, rather than the well-being of the one filling it, I thought. “Yes, well, I’m sure he’ll be at the helm tonight, expertly navigating through his culinary specialties,” I quipped. The name of the restaurant in question was the Helm.
My attempt at humor was not lost on him. “You’re a pistol, you know that, Lily,” he laughed as he pinched my bottom through my lavender satin dress. At that moment, I wished I was holding a pistol.
Slapping at his hand in anger, I started to tell him exactly what I thought of him, but I stopped myself before I could offend one of the highest paying and still-regular costumers we had at our hotel.
Smiling, though I was absolutely seething, I said, “That’ll be enough for today, Mr. Burton—enough of everything.” Turning on the heels of my purple pumps, I left him standing in the middle of our water-stained ballroom roaring with laughter. Before I started my second job of the day, as luncheon hostess at the hotel’s other restaurant, the Hibiscus Room, I needed to shower off the smell of that man.
Chapter 2
Blindness of Convenience
“Follow me, please,” I said as I took two menus from a stack on the maître d’s podium. I led the way through the Hibiscus Room to Floyd “Buddy” DeMario’s usual table in the corner. A woman was with him that I’d never seen before. She was an orangey-redhead, and towered over the short mobster from Detroit by several inches. The smell of her rose-scented perfume was enough to knock a person over. As I walked back to the front of the restaurant, the scent still lingered heavily in the air.
At 11:25 a.m., the restaurant wasn’t open, but Buddy DeMario always arrived five minutes early for his lunch. His daily reservation was listed in our reservation book under the alias “Sam Smith.” Oddly enough, the crime boss from Michigan chose to eat lunch at The Spinnaker every day even though he owned two burger joints. Additionally, he had partial ownership of a couple of the hotels on Miami Beach and the Lemon Tree speak-easy. I couldn’t come up with a reason for his loyal patronage, other than that he loved the food. He sure made it easy for one of his enemies to find him if they chose to, and I assumed he had plenty of them. He usually sat with his back to the wall, and we seated him before any other patrons arrived. It was not his usual habit; however, to show up with a woman who was not his wife.
It was no secret that as powerful as Buddy DeMario might be in Detroit, Eunice DeMario ruled the roost. She was a tiny, sweet-looking brunette who ruled with an iron fist. Rumor had it, she arranged permanent departures for her beloved Floyd’s past conquests. Today, as Buddy sat in the corner eating Shrimp Louie with Miss Rose Hips, his small dark eyes darted furtively around the room. I figured Buddy would be better off locked in a room with his enemies, than facing the wrath of his wife.
As if he’d read my mind, Peter, the restaurant’s manager, said, “If Eunice finds out, he’s a dead man.” I didn’t hear him come up behind me, and his voice made me jump since I was picturing a nasty death for Buddy.
“Lord, you scared me,” I laughed, turning to face him.
Peter Nielsen looked as Scandinavian as his name implied, with his blond hair framing a tanned face, making his bright blue eyes stand out brilliantly. Peter had been employed at The Spinnaker for a little over two years. Prior to that, he managed Keens Chophouse in New York. My grandparents considered hiring him a coup. Now, with Miami’s economy in such a downward spiral, I wondered how long they could afford to keep him.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Peter, if my grandmother catches Mr. DeMario in here with any woman who isn’t his wife; the man’s going to be in just as much trouble as if Eunice had caught him.”
“But your grandmother has no problem feeding a mobster,” he laughed.
“She has her limits, you know.” I smiled, turning back to see if the waiter assigned to Buddy’s table had seen him arrive, and he had. At that moment, he was filling Buddy’s water glass.
I understood Peter’s confusion over my grandmother’s contradictory ethics. Grandma knew that if they didn’t feed Buddy, another place would, and they’d make good money doing so. Besides, the man didn’t conduct his illegal business practices in her hotel.
Having said that, she couldn’t turn a blind eye when the man brought one of his “hussies” into her establishment, especially since she knew Eunice. When I questioned her about her convenient moral blindness, she replied that it was a “woman thing.” She explained that women needed to draw a line when it came to allowing men to walk all over them, as many were quick to do. As women, we had to watch each other’s backs. I remembered that credo when I heard Peter welcome Dr. Neil Aldrich and his wife, Laura, to the Hibiscus Room.
My heartbeat increased immediately, and I felt my face flush. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I turned around and greeted the tall, auburn-haired doctor.
“Good mornin’, Dr. Aldrich,” I said, glancing up at him but not quite meeting his dark brown eyes. I quickly looked down to greet his tiny raven-haired wife. “Mornin’, Mrs. Aldrich.” The first time I saw the alabaster-skinned, dark-eyed beauty, I couldn’t help but think of the song, “My Irish Rose.”
“Morning, Lily,” Neil replied, and when I glanced back up at him, his eyes met mine.
“Lily?” Laura said, drawing my eyes back down to her. “Is there a table available out on the veranda? It’s such a lovely day, and I was hoping…”
“You can have your pick, Mrs. Aldrich. It’s early and there’s no one out there yet. Follow me, please.” Though I tried not to, I liked her. I didn’t know a soul in town who didn’t. Laura had come down from Ocala to join her husband two months after he arrived to help with the hundreds injured in the hurricane. She immediately rolled up her sleeves and got waist-deep in the misery without complaint. Though she was a music teach
er by training, she unselfishly set aside her sheet music for bed sheets and bandages. There wasn’t a bad bone in her body. Unfortunately, I knew the same couldn’t be said about me.
Chapter 3
Balm to the Soul
“Are you here as a spy, Miss Strickland, or merely a guest?” inquired a voice from above my comfortable lounge chair.
My sister was sitting by me, but I guessed the question was posed to me. Pulling down the edge of my large-brimmed straw hat to shield my eyes from the sun, I caught sight of Anthony Perazzi. The slim man with the greased-back black hair wasn’t worth the risk of burning the corneas of my eyes, so I released the brim, closed my eyes and settled back comfortably in my lounge chair at Fisher’s Roman Pool and Casino.
“Now, Antony,” I emphasized dryly, leaving the h out of his name and pronouncing it in the affected way he preferred. “Do you think if I were spying I’d make it so obvious? Surely my hat isn’t enough to throw anyone off.”
“But the question is, why are you here?” he asked, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms across his chest.
“Because I enjoy the sun, and at the moment, the pool at the Spinnaker is being resurfaced. By the way, I hear birthday wishes are in order, so happy fortieth.” I smiled brightly, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.
Much to my delight, the pool manager turned a deep shade of red under his olive-colored skin. I heard he’d turned thirty-nine the week before and was crying into his illegal beer at the speak-easy, Tobacco Road, about being on the verge of turning forty. I decided immediately that I’d poke at that tender spot whenever the opportunity arose.
“I beg your pardon, but I’m only thirty-nine!” he replied in an obvious huff.
“Close enough.” I grinned.
My comment had hit its mark. The flustered man started to say something in response, but quickly walked away instead, leaving Francine Hollister, who was sitting to my left, cackling with laughter.
“Lord, Lil, you’re gonna get us thrown out of here,” our small blond friend admonished.
Olivia, who was sitting to my right, looked more like Francine’s sister in size and hair color than I did, but, unlike Francine, she was trying to hold back her own laughter. “Sister, I’m comfortable and enjoying myself, so please don’t get us kicked out of the place. Besides, the band will be startin’ soon, and I’ve been dying to hear them. They’ve come all the way from Baltimore, and they’re all the rage there.”
“Oh, whoopsie do,” I said, rolling my eyes. “When they’ve come from New York, Chicago, or L.A., then I’ll mind my manners. In the meantime, when ol’ Antony annoys me, I’m gonna remind him he’s old Antony in return.” I changed the subject. “So, Francie, where’re we going to celebrate your birthday tonight?”
“I was hoping we could go to Joe’s Stone Crabs for supper,” she said, looking hopeful.
“That’d be lovely to start the evening, but what about afterward?” I figured our friend’s nineteenth birthday deserved more of a celebration than just some crab claws, even if they were divine.
“Hmmmm.” Her brows pinched together. “I hadn’t thought past dinner.”
“Let me think on it,” I said, removing my hat so my face could get just the right touch of color. “We’ll pick you up at five-ish for an early supper; then we’ll go someplace from there.”
“Look!” Olivia said excitedly. “There’s the band!”
I looked toward the other end of the pool and saw the musicians walk out onto the raised stage. A smattering of applause began as other sunbathers spotted them. After the band members sat, they warmed up their instruments for several minutes. Finally, the band’s leader bounded out from behind a curtain at the right side of the stage. More polite applause followed as he stood there encouraging it, dressed in a black tuxedo with his arms spread wide and baton in hand. After taking a slight bow, he turned to his band and counted aloud, setting the tempo for the wildly popular Louie Armstrong song, “Muskrat Ramble.” Immediately, couples moved out to the dance floor and fell into step, dancing the Lindy, or the Charleston.
“Ladies,” a voice said from behind us. Craning my neck around, I saw Randall “Rusty” Hollister, Francine’s older brother, walking toward us.
Rusty was a mechanic on some of my father’s speedboats, and in the last year had raced a couple of them. Though he and Francine looked a lot alike, Rusty had flaming red hair, thus the nickname. He looked like a mischievous little boy with his cocky grin and a smattering of freckles across his nose. In truth, Rusty was nothing short of a man’s man, and he could be as tough as nails if the situation called for it. I’d seen him take on a much bigger fellow than himself. The man accused Rusty of putting a crack in the propeller shaft while he worked on the man’s boat. Rusty claimed he hadn’t, and the situation almost came to blows until Daddy broke it up, telling the man to find another marina to work on his boat.
Rusty walked around to the front of Olivia’s chair, and after we all made small talk about the weather being so nice and the band sounding good, he asked her to dance.
“Oh, I…well…maybe in a little while.” He caught her off guard.
“Oh, go ahead, Olivia!” I said. “You’re a hotsy-totsy in that new suit of yours. Show it off a little,” I teased, which did not go over well. She turned a bright shade of red and her eyes flashed blue fire at me. Having no excuse not to dance with him, she threw on her new rose-colored bathing frock over her rose and gray striped one-piece jersey swimsuit, then hooked her left hand through the crook of Rusty’s right arm and they made their way to the now-packed dance floor.
“He’s sweet on her, you know,” Francine said as we watched them go.
“Lord, Francie, I know that, as does the whole world.” I laughed.
“I s’pose you’re right,” she laughingly agreed.
“Daddy’s sure glad your brother is workin’ for him,” I said, smiling over at her. “He’s talked about what good work he does, and he’s glad to have Rusty there to race his boats whenever he needs him to. He says he’s a real good driver. And with more experience, he’ll be great.”
We settled back into a comfortable silence and watched Rusty and Olivia dancing the Turkey Trot. As I watched them, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about Daddy not wanting to race as much as he once did. There was no denying that he had a lot on his mind these days. The stress showed in the little lines that etched their way onto his face. With the decline of the economy, people weren’t indulging in expensive luxuries as freely as they had. As a result, Daddy was building fewer boats. For that reason, my parents had to reinvent the wheel to help keep their heads above water. They began hosting boat races, and as more and more national and international drivers participated, the crowds grew. Races or not, things were leaner than they had once been when Miami was flooded with winter millionaires who had more money to spend than ways to spend it.
I sat up to take a sip of my iced tea and saw Neil and Laura Aldrich step onto the dance floor. Unlike most of the young women wearing the latest one-piece bathing suits, or two-piece suits with shorter shorts, Laura still wore the old-fashioned sailor-style suit. It didn’t matter what she wore, though; she was beautiful and tiny, like a porcelain doll, which made me feel large and awkward next to her. As Neil pulled his wife into his arms and began waltzing, I settled back into my chair and thought about the summer before.
Neil arrived in Miami two days after the hurricane. He was one of several doctors summoned by Miami’s well-loved doctor, James Jackson, to assist in taking care of the hundreds of injured. Neil wasted no time in answering the call.
Most able-bodied people were helping in whatever way they could, and my family was no different. Since the kitchen at the Miami City hospital suffered great damage, we’d helped in preparing food for the patients and staff. There were so many patients— more than seven hundred in all—but only a limited numbe
r of doctors and nurses caring for them. Making matters even more difficult was the fact that the hurricane destroyed the power lines. The lack of electricity forced staff to revert to using kerosene lanterns. On more than one occasion, I had been asked to hold a lantern as a doctor cleansed and sutured a patient’s wounds, and even during nightmarish amputations.
Before the removal of a patient’s limb, I had the unpleasant task of holding a cloth saturated with chloroform over his or her mouth. The chloroform’s sickeningly sweet smell nauseated me to the point that I was afraid I’d either vomit, or pass out on top of the patient. Once, during the removal of a four-year-old’s crushed foot, I did pass out, not because of the smell of chloroform, but because of the stench of the gangrene. Almost as soon as I hit the floor, I came to, just in time to hear the surgeon heatedly calling for someone to drag me out of there. The doctor was Neil Aldrich, and he had no patience for women with weak constitutions—women who couldn’t hold up under pressure. I mumbled that I didn’t need help and stumbled out into the hallway where I promptly threw up. Afterward, while sitting outside on one of the benches, sucking on one of the peppermint sticks kept for young patients, Dr. Aldrich came out to check on me.
“It’s Lily, isn’t it?” he asked as he sat down by me.
I could do no more than utter, “Uh-uh.” He caught me off guard and I was mortified that I’d failed so miserably at my task.
“Had a little trouble in there, didn’t you?” I was too embarrassed to look up at him, but I could hear the amusement in his voice.
“I’m sorry I…It’s just—”
He finished for me. “It’s just that a little girl’s blackened foot is not only enough to overwhelm the senses, but overwhelm the heart as well.”
I finally looked up at him and saw dark brown eyes filled with compassion.
“How do you stand it? I-I don’t mean just the smell, but the horror of it all?” I’d asked.