Dream of Orchids

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  “Aren’t there sharks?” I asked uneasily.

  “We keep a lookout. Mostly they don’t bother us unless there’s blood in the water, or garbage thrown overboard.” Derek spoke matter-of-factly, but I could sense the fever that burned in him—treasure fever. And there was an echo of it in Fern—or perhaps only hero worship for Derek. Iris watched her sister, and they both made me uncomfortable.

  Iris’s reactions were cooler, more intellectual. “What sort of cargo do you hope to find?”

  Fern answered quickly, not waiting for Derek. “If it’s the Santa Beatriz there’ll be silver bars and gold bullion! Doubloons—pieces of eight too!”

  “That’s why we slog along with the search,” Derek said. “The archives, cargo records back in Spain, tell us what the ship was carrying. But look, Fern, while none of this can be kept secret, don’t feed the rumors and spread what I say all over Key West.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “I haven’t told anyone! Not a single person. I know there are always pirates ready to move in on someone else’s find. Treasure hunters watch each other like sharks. But I haven’t spread anything—you know I wouldn’t.”

  “Good. Then let’s leave it that way until I know what we have.”

  “I suppose the value could be enormous,” Iris said. “But it could also waste your whole life in the searching.”

  Derek’s eyes shone with their strange brilliance. “Money’s not the point. That will be split in a good many ways. There’s a lot of litigation that’s gone on in the courts. Mel Fisher won the right to the Atocha’s treasure, but somebody’s always trying to get new laws accepted. To say nothing of the historians and archeologists, who want to see everything preserved. So who knows what will happen? I’m in debt already, and the costs are enormous. Treasure hunting doesn’t make many people rich. We do it because it gets into the blood. I suppose it’s like gambling—a disease, once it takes hold. We can’t stop when we’re on the track of something.”

  Iris shook her head. “I hate all this. It’s horribly dangerous. Someone always dies in these expeditions.”

  “The curse of the gold!” Fern cried dramatically, as if it were a blessing.

  Iris ignored her. “You don’t need this, Derek.”

  His smile humored her, though there was a hard edge to it. Sometimes he looked at her as though she were treasure, but he didn’t give her objections an inch.

  Pedro came in to take away dishes, and Angela emerged from the kitchen with a savory platter of pompano. No one mentioned sunken wrecks for a while. When we’d begun to eat, Fern picked up Iris’s last words. “Of course Derek needs it! You just don’t understand. He’s a throwback to the old wrecking days. Aren’t you, Derek?”

  I picked up the term that I’d heard before from Marcus. “Tell me about the wreckers,” I said.

  Iris answered me, deliberately calm, as though she tried to counterbalance both Derek and her excited sister. “Wrecking was Key West’s first industry. Before the lighthouse, ships were constantly wrecked off the reefs. It was a major business here in the keys to watch for wrecks, since whoever reached a ship first had the right to everything on her. The laws of salvage were quite exact. That’s why we have a captain’s walk on the roof of this house. So someone in the family could always keep a watch out for ships aground when there was a storm. It was such a big business that warehouses were built in Key West to store salvaged goods, and buyers came from all over to purchase what was sold at auction. The men who risked their lives for salvage were called wreckers. There are a good many things in this house that came from wrecked ships.”

  “Sometimes,” Fern put in, “they say wrecks were deliberately caused, ships led onto the reefs by false signals. You know, lanterns—so the ships could be robbed of whatever they carried.”

  Once more Iris changed the subject smoothly to more current matters, and for a little while I hardly listened. My own questions were tugging at me, and while we were eating cheese and fruit, I asked the thing that had been troubling me ever since I’d seen Clifton York.

  “Is my father afraid of something?”

  I’d meant to startle them and I’d succeeded. All three stared at me, and Iris set down her paring knife. “Why do you ask that?”

  “It’s a feeling I had when I saw him. As though something is worrying him to a degree that has made him afraid.”

  Derek smiled reassuringly. “I know what you mean, Laurel. But I think it’s just Cliff’s manner these days. He’s been in a state of anxiety ever since Poppy’s death. He feels guilty because if he’d known, he might have saved her that day. We’ve all talked to him about it and tried to make him feel less to blame, but I’m sure this will haunt him for a long time. Perhaps your coming will give him something new to think about.”

  The explanation didn’t satisfy me. “Does Mrs. Burch live in this house?” I asked.

  Again I sensed surprise. Perhaps even a guarded surprise.

  “Of course not!” Fern cried. “I love her dearly, but we couldn’t stand all that gloom around every minute.”

  Iris said smoothly, “Alida is a splendid secretary. And she was Poppy’s friend. That’s how she came to work for Cliff ten years ago. But she has a house of her own on the south side of the island away from Old Town. She doesn’t live here.”

  “Is there a Mr. Burch?” I asked.

  “She’s divorced,” Iris said. “It was a young marriage that didn’t work. And now, if we’ve finished, perhaps we might sit outside for a while. Usually we prefer the privacy of the garden, but tonight, Laurel, you might like to watch from the porch as a bit of Key West goes by.”

  For me, nothing had come out of the dinner hour with these three except a sense of further concealment. But to what purpose, I had no idea. What could anyone fear from me? Their discretion was carried to an unnatural degree.

  We sat outside on the wide white porch in the tropic evening, and I was aware of an open window in the tower room at the far end. I wondered if my father was there listening, and if he cared what we said.

  No mosquitoes came to pester us, though I’d seen screens on all windows and doors, and I commented on the fact that we could sit outside so pleasantly.

  Iris explained. “We have inspectors who come around to check our yards for any standing water—in flower pots, bottles, even discarded tires. Old, unused cisterns all have fish, to eat the larvae, or have a top layer of kerosene on the water. And of course there’s spraying—by trucks in the evening, or sometimes even by planes that fly low over the keys in the early morning. Scary, because you can think they’re going to crash. Mosquitoes can be bad after a heavy rain, or if a rare high wind drives them from the Everglades down the keys. Mostly, thanks to good control, we can sit outside comfortably.”

  Fern seemed restless now and unable to be still. In contrast, her sister sat quietly, poised and controlled.

  Derek stayed only a little while longer. “Thanks for dinner,” he told Iris. “I want to stop in at the Banyan bar before I go home. I’ll see you tomorrow sometime.”

  “A room will be ready if you’d like to come back and stay here tonight,” she said.

  “A boat’s coming for me, so I’ll go out to the island as soon as I can get away.”

  Fern broke in, explaining to me, “Derek owns his own island—Doubloon Key! You’ll love it out there, Laurel. Wait till you see his house! Invite us out soon, Derek.”

  His smile was easy, but I knew he was perfectly aware of Fern’s crush. “You’re already invited, remember? And of course Laurel must come too.”

  When he’d gone, Iris spoke in her cool, light voice. “I’ll never understand treasure fever. Derek’s been hunting the oceans for years. There’ve been other times when he thought he’d found something big—and nothing happened. I hope it’s really true this time, for his sake.”

  “You don’t understand anything about him!” Fern cried. “He really has found something. If it’s the Beatriz he’ll bring up fabulous treasu
re. That’s why he keeps the workboat on guard all night, with the men sleeping on board and taking watches. He can’t risk having pirates move in.”

  I had the feeling that I’d been plunged into a foreign country—perhaps even into an older time. This talk about sunken treasure and pirates was almost casual, taken for granted. As Iris had suggested, Derek was a bit like a buccaneer himself. You’d only need to put him into costume with a black patch over one eye, and he’d pass on any movie set. Perhaps it was this very aura of excitement and adventure that appealed to Iris, being so far removed from her own reserve. I wondered for the first time how Clifton York’s novels had affected his other two daughters. Had they grown up immersed in his adventurous tales, as I had?

  The day had been a long one, and when I could excuse myself I went inside and started upstairs. I was no more than halfway to the floor above, when a door opened at the foot of the stairs and my father spoke to me.

  “Will you join me for a moment, Laurel?”

  He stood waiting in the door of the tower room, and I saw a sadness in him, an uncertainty that hadn’t been there before—as though he’d not be surprised if I simply went on up the stairs and refused to talk with him.

  But here was another chance to know him a little. I went down again and walked through the door of the tower room, into Clifton York’s private quarters.

  4

  Tonight he looked different—rather distinguished in his blue silk dressing gown, with a maroon ascot at his throat.

  “I wanted to talk to you alone for a few moments,” he said.

  By “alone” he undoubtedly meant when Alida wasn’t around. That was understandable, from what I’d seen of her managing ways.

  I stood in the doorway trying to see Clifton York in his own space—as a man apart from his work. The man I wanted to find. Yet I could never forget what he had done to my mother, and to me. The fact that he’d helped with money, and had even written to me, wasn’t enough. Sooner or later there must be some resolution between us—whatever direction it might take. Only then could I go home in peace.

  The room I stepped into was large, filling the circular tower and opening from it. It had been furnished as a sitting room, as well as bedroom. Poppy’s colorful taste hadn’t prevailed here, though it wasn’t a somber room. Sisal rugs and beige curtains had been used, and there was no heavy mahogany, or even rosewood. The furniture had a look of the tropics about it, and my eye was caught by a tall wicker chair, its flaring peacock back beautifully woven.

  He saw my look. “That was Poppy’s favorite chair. Sometimes I can still imagine her sitting there. It set off her perfection. Come over here by the window, Laurel, where there’s a breeze.”

  Mention of Poppy made me stiffen again—a reaction I couldn’t help. I skirted the chair with its unseen ghost and sat down in a plain wooden chair with wide, flat arms. Outside it was dark, but I could see streetlights, and lamps in houses across the way. The front windows were open, and a smell of the sea came through. A warm smell, a spicy scent, as if from more exotic shores. Not the sharp smell of northern waters. I was glad to be aware of these contrasts. They kept me from forgetting who I was and where I belonged.

  My father finished lighting his pipe and waved it at me. “Author’s prerogative. Or anyway, it used to be.” Tonight he seemed more at ease, less tensely watchful. It was I who felt more tense than ever since I’d seen something of Iris and Fern.

  “Tell me about Janet,” he said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What was she like in her later years? Was she happy?”

  “How could she be? How can you ask that?”

  “A person who is determined to be unhappy will manage to be. But perhaps I’d like salve for my own conscience. What I did wasn’t easy, you know.”

  “I don’t know! How could I know anything about you, or why you behaved as you did?” Earlier restraint was gone, and I was ready to attack now, to tell him how I felt.

  He answered me quietly. “I suppose I deserve your anger—though not all of it. Never mind about Janet. I think she had very little talent for life. I hope you have more. It’s a rare gift and not to be lightly dismissed. What were your growing-up years like? Were you happy?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. There’d always been that dark unease in me, that feeling of waiting for something, without knowing what it was. I’d thrown myself fervently into various activities, and at college I’d gotten myself into an escapade or two. Mother had been terrified, seeing my father in me. Perhaps there were times when I’d struck out at her in my pain over not having what other girls had—blaming her. Sometimes I turned furiously to my painting—and had been dissatisfied with the results. I’d worked all hours to make my bookstore a success, and there I’d done well. But all the while there’d been a rage deep inside me—a hunger that had never been fulfilled. I wasn’t even sure what it was I was hungry for. I couldn’t tell Clifton York any of this. But I resented his saying that my mother had no talent for life.

  In the face of my silence, he sighed. “It takes a long time to be rid of resentment. Perhaps I’ve never let go of my own. I wish there could be some sort of peace between you and me. But first that means facing a few truths. Both yours and mine. I’m not sure either of us can do that yet.”

  I was silent and he went on, musing out loud.

  “You’re attractive, spirited. You had the gumption to come down here and beard me in my den. But I still don’t know anything about what motivates you, and I’d like to know. For instance, is there a man back home you care about?”

  He’d touched a sore spot. Of course I’d had men friends. Once or twice I’d been quite passionately involved. But nothing ever worked out. Now there was only Stan, whom I didn’t really want, for all that Mother had approved of him so thoroughly. Probably because he was what she regarded as “safe.” But I wasn’t ready yet to settle for safety.

  “There’s no one right now,” I said, sounding grim.

  He smiled without amusement. “I seem to have a knack for asking questions that ruffle you. And of course I have no right to ask.”

  That was true—he didn’t have. “I don’t know you,” I said. “How can I talk to you about my life?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw his sadness. I didn’t want to be disarmed—and weakened. At the moment all I had between me and wild tears was the anger I needed to hold on to.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll let all the questions go, and I’ll begin again. You have a talent for painting, Laurel. Key West is a wonderful place for an artist. Go sketching tomorrow and find out. I like the Bellport watercolor Marcus brought me. I remember those houses from the time when I lived there.”

  I was always self-conscious about my painting, since I didn’t think it was all that great. Mainly it was a hobby I enjoyed. To fend off any more probing, I asked a question of my own.

  “I don’t even know where you grew up,” I said. “Mother told me once that you were born in New York City, but she would never really open up about you.”

  “We lived in Greenwich Village for a while. For a long time I was footloose. A writer can work anywhere he can hang his hat. After I met your mother, I followed her to Bellport, and we lived there for a time.”

  A time—yes. Until Poppy crossed his path. But I wouldn’t ask about that. All conversational roads seemed to have barriers across them—danger points past which I didn’t want to go. Nevertheless, I had to say some of what was troubling me.

  “You needn’t have kept the pact you made with my mother! Giving your word on something that was so unfair to me—and then holding to it for all those years!”

  “I didn’t keep it,” he said gently. “As you’ve seen by those letters I wrote you. And if we’d corresponded, perhaps I’d have been able to see you. Janet might even have relented. In the face of her opposition it was hard to get through.”

  “I think you could have, if you’d wanted to! Less than a
year ago my mother came to Key West—and you refused to see her. She was only able to talk to Mrs. Burch.”

  He took the pipe from his mouth. “Janet came here?”

  “Mrs. Burch didn’t tell you?”

  “Exactly when was this?”

  “I think it was soon after your wife died. It’s hard to believe that your secretary would keep my mother from seeing you. How could she dare?”

  His laugh didn’t sound amused. “Alida would dare, all right, if she saw it that way. She was Poppy’s friend long before she worked for me, and she’s been more a member of the family than a secretary. She might have thought she should protect me from something else disturbing at a very bad time. Perhaps she was right, though I would have talked to Janet, if I’d known she was here.”

  Now I had something to settle with Mrs. Burch as well.

  “What do you think of your sisters?” he asked.

  “I haven’t been here long enough to have an opinion.”

  “I don’t know you, either, but I suspect you develop strong opinions rather quickly. Isn’t that so?”

  He was all too right, but I didn’t want to tell him my uneasy reactions to Iris and Fern. “I don’t want to leap to wrong conclusions,” I said lamely.

  “First impressions are often true, even if we revise them a bit later. So tell me.”

  “All right then. Derek Phillips can’t take his eyes off Iris. He’s certainly in love with her. It’s harder to tell how she feels about him. Mostly she watches Fern, who watches Derek with her heart in her eyes.”

  “I know.” He spoke sadly. “Fern will break her heart over this if she can’t be turned in another direction. She was frail when she was little, and we all spoiled and protected her. Fern attracts affection, as Iris seldom does.”