Spirits of the Pirate House

by Paul Ferrante

  * * * *

  The flight itself was uneventful, with the teens, who sat together, dozing amid the stares from returning tourists that Bortnicker drew for his Rasta look. But, as is usually the case, there were delays coming in to JFK, and at customs, and at the luggage carousel, so that both Mike and LouAnne were going to have to hustle to make their connecting flights.

  As they caught their breath, Mike bid them farewell, assuring them that the show, when given the Hollywood Treatment, would be a hit, and promising to let them know when something was decided. “Problem is, dudes,” he said, high-fiving them, “how am I ever gonna find another team like yours?”

  “We said we couldn’t do a series,” replied T.J. “An occasional special might be possible, though.”

  “Solid! I’m outta here,” said the Gonzo Ghost Chaser, running to catch another plane.

  Tom Sr. and Bortnicker went to hit the restroom, which left T.J. alone with LouAnne.

  “Think they really had to go?” she said.

  “Probably not.” He searched for words. “Just think, tomorrow night you’ll be back at the Charney Inn, dressed in your Civil War stuff, telling your tale of woe and making tips. And Reenactment Week is around the corner.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she smiled. “But I do miss Mom and Dad. I feel like I’ve been away for ages. So much happened in so short a time.”

  “Did you have fun, Cuz?” he said expectantly.

  “No, T.J.,” she replied. “I had an adventure. And life with you is always an adventure.” With that she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly on the lips. “Until our next adventure,” she whispered as her uncle and Bortnicker exited the restroom. She produced the small glass bottle he’d found for her on their first snorkeling dive at Treasure Beach. “I’ll keep all my wishes in here until then.”

  The intercom blared for the departure of LouAnne’s flight to Philadelphia. “All right, guys, they’re calling me. Gotta jet.” She hugged Tom Sr. and Bortnicker and shot her cousin a wink. In a second she’d slung her carryon over her shoulder and, with one last flourishing toss of her hair, was on her way down the ramp, wearing the gorgeous sundress she’d sported upon her breathtaking arrival in Bermuda.

  “I love that dress,” said Bortnicker.

  Epilogue

  A soft, steady rain shrouded the people who had gathered around the crypt of Captain William Tarver on the first of July. No brass bands played, and there was little in the way of pomp or circumstance.

  The group itself was a rather odd representation of the social strata of Bermuda: the Governor was there with some aides, as were Constance Tilbury, accompanied by her niece, and the Police Commissioner; but the Goodwins were present as well, joined by their driver of the day, Nigel Chapford. They had been invited, somewhat surprisedly, by a rather contrite Constance Tilbury, who had orchestrated the announcement of Jasper Goodwin’s incredible underwater find that had, as predicted, made front page news on the island and elevated both him and his business to celebrity status.

  As the pastor of St. Anne’s administered the rites of burial, Ronnie Goodwin, dressed all in black, involuntarily shivered, though her father’s free arm was draped across her shoulders, the other holding a golf umbrella aloft that barely sheltered the family huddled tightly underneath. She stared down into the whitewashed crypt, whose cover had been slid aside for the internment of the simple coffin that would house the bones of the pirate. On her other side Claudette Goodwin emitted a lilting sigh every few seconds.

  At the end of the ritual the Goodwins and Chapford turned toward the black minivan that would return them to their cottage in Somerset.

  “Ah, Miss Goodwin?” a voice called from behind. Ronnie turned to face Mrs. Tilbury, whose niece dutifully held a stylish, ivory-handled, black umbrella above her perfectly coiffed head.

  “Yes, ma’am?” she replied, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

  “I am glad you and your family could attend,” she said primly. “I realize that your ... connection to Sir William has been a source of consternation for you, but I thank you and your American friends for helping to return him to his rightful place here.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tilbury,” she managed, her eyes filming. “The Captain was, I guess, a man of his times. But, like it or not, a part of him lives on in my mother and me. As for my friends, quite honestly, you might have been a bit more civil to them—”

  “Veronique!” broke in her mother. “This is not the place—”

  “No, no,” said Tilbury quietly. “Let the child speak.”

  “My friends came to our island with only the best of intentions. They wanted to find the truth about a major figure from our history. We should have done more to help them.”

  “I agree, young lady, and I want you to tell them that they are always welcome to return for a more pleasant visit.”

  “Maybe you should tell them yourself,” was her quiet but resolute reply. With that, she turned on her heel and marched toward the minivan, leaving her parents to sheepishly say their goodbyes and follow.

  It was Chappy who reached her first, suppressing a chuckle as he closed his umbrella in deference to the sun, which had broken through, sending a cloud of steam skyward from the wet pavement of the church parking lot.

  “Well done, Miss Ronnie,” he quipped. “And do you think we will, indeed, see your comrades again?”

  “Come on, Mr. Chapford,” she replied, breaking out a smile. “Don’t you know that Bermuda always calls you back?”

  “It does have that reputation.” He opened the door of the minivan as Ronnie’s parents came up behind, then craned his neck to squint into the brilliant deep-blue sky. “Ah,” he grinned, “another day in paradise.”

  Author’s Note

  Many of the historic sites, restaurants, beaches and resorts mentioned in this novel do exist, although Hibiscus House and Dora’s Corners do not. I did play around a bit with the date of construction for Fort St. Catherine, which was initiated before William Tarver’s supposed existence. However, he theoretically could have assisted in one of its renovations. Constance Tilbury is a figment of my imagination, and the National Heritage Trust does a wonderful job keeping their various museums and facilities in pristine condition for habitual tourists like myself. As far as the natural beauty of the flora and fauna, and especially the beaches, you’ll just have to experience it for yourself. But most of all, be sure to enjoy the warmth and friendliness of the Bermudian people. It will, as Chappy says, keep calling you back.

  About the Author

  Paul Ferrante is originally from the Bronx and grew up in the town of Pelham, New York. He received his undergraduate and Masters degrees in English from Iona College, where he was also a halfback on the Gaels’ undefeated 1977 football team. Paul has been an award-winning secondary school English teacher and coach for over 30 years, as well as a columnist for Sports Collector’s Digest since 1993 on the subject of baseball ballpark history. Many of his works can be found in the archives of the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. His writings have led to numerous radio and television appearances related to baseball history. Paul lives in Connecticut with his wife, Maria, and daughter, Caroline, a film screenwriter/director.

  Website:

  www.paulferranteauthor.com

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