Dream of Orchids

by Phyllis A. Whitney

I knew about dreams. I’d had terrible ones sometimes myself. It didn’t do to dismiss them as having no meaning, but I wouldn’t give in to the fear they prompted either.

  “It wasn’t the orchids that killed your mother,” I told Fern gently. “She broke the glass flask herself and cut her wrist.”

  “She didn’t have to die! I want her back so much. I’d cut my own wrists if I could bring her back.”

  This time I ventured to touch her—a light touch on the shoulder where Poppy’s yellow lace scarf had slipped down. She turned to me almost fiercely, and in a moment she was sobbing in my arms, weeping brokenly against my shoulder.

  I held her, more deeply moved than I’d felt since I was a little girl and my mother had once wept with her cheek against mine.

  Fern’s outburst didn’t last long. She pushed me away and dashed quick fingers over her cheeks, brushing off the tears. “I mustn’t do that—I have to be strong. I’m glad you’ve come, Laurel. I’m glad we’re friends.”

  “So am I,” I said, and walked with her to the door.

  In the hallway she turned to face me again. “You’ll help me, won’t you? We need to stop this marriage, Laurel. Poppy didn’t want Derek to marry Iris, and she was right. Marcus is the one Iris ought to marry. She was engaged to him once, you know—before Derek came back to Key West. He’s still in love with her, so we’ve got to stop her from what she means to do.”

  I couldn’t help thinking with renewed amusement that Fern might have her own designs on Derek, however childish they might be.

  “What about Iris? What does she want?”

  Fern’s look was frantic, a little wild, and she ran from me across the hall and closed her door with a bang. Obviously, I’d said the wrong thing.

  I shut my own door and began to get ready for bed, keeping my eyes carefully averted from Poppy’s orchids watching me from the walls. I didn’t want to remember they were there, or think of Fern’s word “carnivorous.”

  Marcus in love with Iris? I had caught the way he looked at her and wondered. But clearly Iris would have no one but Derek, and I didn’t think Fern or anyone else could stop her. Perhaps no one should try anyhow. Yet I wondered how much Marcus had been hurt by her fascination with Derek.

  I was no longer an outsider, observing. There was no way I could remain uninvolved—or wanted to. I was in the middle now, yet still not knowing enough to take any sort of sensible action. I could only continue to play it by ear until there was some handle I could take hold of. Tomorrow I would begin with Marcus. It was his turn to answer questions.

  I was glad to turn off the light, grateful for the luminous dark that misted the room with faint moonlight and hid the orchids from view.

  Whatever my dreams that night, they were only mildly disquieting, and I couldn’t recall them in the morning. At least they had nothing to do with orchids.

  5

  I was awake at five, and I lay drowsily quiet, running through a make-believe dialogue in my head. I would tell Marcus everything that had happened, and I would enlist his help and support for whatever course it seemed wise for me to follow. Perhaps this time he would tell me whatever it was he’d been holding back. Perhaps we could begin to be friends. I felt quite peaceful thinking that was all I really wanted.

  At five-thirty I rose and put on beige slacks and a candy-striped shirt. When I’d slipped into a light jacket, I went downstairs and unlocked the front door. Marcus sat on the steps, waiting for me. He looked comfortable in jeans and a crew-neck pullover, but I found myself watching him warily—not quite as much at peace with myself as I’d been. I didn’t like the surge of response that had rushed up in me at the sight of him. If I couldn’t trust myself—!

  I’d expected that we’d drive somewhere in his car, but he came inside and pulled me toward the stairs.

  “Let’s hurry—the sun won’t wait. The best view is from the captain’s walk on the roof. Come on!”

  We ran up two flights to my father’s study and stepped around the oriental screen that shielded Alida’s desk from Cliff’s. We both heard a sound and looked toward the far end of the room. Alida sat at Cliff’s desk, her head on her arms.

  For a moment we hesitated, and then Marcus moved toward her. “Alida, what’s wrong?”

  She looked up in dismay, her cheeks streaked with tears. Her close-cropped gray hair was rumpled from its usual neat combing, and her face looked pale, with no touch of blush this morning. As she stood up abruptly I caught the faint, exotic scent she wore.

  When she chose, she could summon her own rescuing dignity. “I didn’t expect anyone up here this early. I wanted to transcribe some pages that I fell behind with yesterday. Is there something I can do for you?” All quite haughty and remote, not explaining her collapse into tears at my father’s desk.

  Marcus didn’t push the matter. “We’re going up to see the sunrise,” he told her. “I’m sorry if we startled you.”

  He drew me toward the narrow upper flight that led to a trapdoor in the roof. When he’d raised it with both hands he climbed out upon the platform and pulled me after him into the wind.

  We were just in time. Gut of the eastern Atlantic a bubble of gold was rising against streaks of orange and gray. Above, the sky brightened as the sun slowly took command of the morning. The view was immense in all directions, and I savored it a bit at a time.

  There were more tiny keys—coral islands scattered southeast across the ocean. Clear to the Marquesas, Marcus said. The green water of the Gulf of Mexico was cut across by the islands that made up the Florida Keys. Key West would be caught between Atlantic storms that crossed into the gulf—a tiny wedge of land to stand against great forces of wind and water.

  Marcus pointed out nearer landmarks in Old Town—the naval base on the southern rim of the island; the fashionable Pier House, long and white, near the foot of Duval Street.

  “That’s Mallory Square down there to the left of where Duval Street ends,” he said. “The busy heart of Conch Town. Do you see that big red brick building—the old customs house? Walk down there this morning, Laurel, and get a feeling of the town.”

  “I will,” I promised. Now, looking out across pitched roofs and other captain’s walks, with the wind whipping my hair, I could glimpse the intricacies of this older Key West. There were indeed a myriad of lanes and little alleys cutting in from the orderly checkerboard of the streets. Mostly the pavements were empty at this hour, with only a few pedestrians stirring. The town would begin to wake up soon, along with the rest of the more distant East Coast.

  What I had seen downstairs worried me, however, and I found myself thinking of Alida’s weeping. This might be one of the undercurrents I should be aware of.

  “Why do you suppose Mrs. Burch was crying?” I asked. “And what is Cliff so worried about? I know now how Poppy died, and everything seems to be connected with that. You’re still holding out on me, Marcus.”

  He gestured toward a bench set against one white railing. When we sat down, he began to talk. “I’m sure Alida blames herself for Poppy’s death—perhaps for not hearing when her friend must have called for help. When Cliff is playing the piano, he can be so absorbed in his own imagination that he doesn’t see or hear anything around him. But Alida feels she should somehow have known that Poppy needed her. Useless regrets, of course, since they make her suffer and can’t change anything. Who knows what Cliff blames, besides himself?”

  “But this is nearly a year later. Isn’t it time to try to accept? Time for healing to at least start? Maybe we all need to try to forgive ourselves first?”

  “The anniversary of Poppy’s death is haunting all of them. If they can get past this safely—”

  “What do you mean, safely? You told me before that anniversaries can be dangerous. Just what do you mean?”

  “Emotionally dangerous, that’s all. Hard to get through psychologically. What happened still bothers everyone. If Alida could open the door to the orchid house when it jammed, why couldn’t P
oppy?”

  “What did the police think at the time? They must have been called.”

  “That door really can swell and become damned hard to open. They accepted that, and also the fact of Poppy’s frightened, weakened state that made her even more helpless. Panic always makes things worse. There were cuts and bruises on her knuckles where she’d pounded on the door.”

  And blood as well, Cliff had said.

  Marcus looked out over long shadows cast by the early morning sun, and his hair seemed more fiery than ever. I mustn’t wonder how it would feel springing under my fingers, or what its texture would be like.

  I went on. “I’ve begun to make friends with Fern—I think.”

  “Making friends with Fern can be tricky, fond of her as I am.”

  “Because of her crush on Derek?”

  “That’s part of it, poor kid. She doesn’t adapt well to the real world, and it’s hard to deal with someone who sees everything through a colored mist of fantasy.”

  “Yes, I’ve glimpsed some of that.”

  “What about Iris? Have you made friends with her?” He spoke her name more gently.

  “Iris doesn’t want me here. Nor does Mrs. Burch. They’ve both made that plain.”

  “I’d like you to stay,” Marcus said.

  I looked at him quickly—into grave, unsmiling eyes. Iris or not, he was looking at me, and for just an instant there seemed a current between us that I’d felt once before—a touching that was almost physical.

  Then he went on as though nothing had happened. “I want you to stay because Cliff needs you here. And maybe Fern does too. So don’t go into all that defensive stuff about how your father wasn’t there when you needed him. That hasn’t anything to do with now.”

  This real conversation was nothing like the one I’d imagined earlier this morning. The hint of electricity in the air was gone at once, and I was relieved to find that Marcus could still irritate me.

  “You’re the one with tunnel vision!” I told him, and felt it was true. He saw clearly in the one direction of his own intent, his own indebtedness to Clifton York, and he wouldn’t hesitate to bend everything else to that purpose. I suspected that he might even be as ruthless a character as Derek Phillips if he chose. So I mustn’t let him compel and manipulate me—as he’d already done to some extent.

  He took no offense at my words—which in itself was disarming, if I allowed it to be. “That’s possible. I expect most of us keep our heads in tunnels part of the time. Though I do try to look outside once in a while. What’s really troubling you, Laurel? You’re edgy this morning.”

  I still needed to talk to him. Whether he understood or not, he would at least listen, so I began with the orchid photographs and went on to the episode with Iris in the orchid house, when Fern had overheard us. Marcus seemed concerned about Iris’s outburst, but he let me finish.

  I didn’t tell him about the request my father had made, since that was between Cliff and me.

  “Who do you suppose is playing tricks with the orchid picture?” I asked.

  “I haven’t a clue. It doesn’t seem too serious.”

  “That depends on how I react, doesn’t it?”

  He irritated me further by laughing. “I already know the answer to that. You’ll set that chin you got from your father, and you’ll refuse to budge.”

  “How can you say that? I told you I didn’t come down here to fight for anything.”

  “Battles don’t always ask the consent of the participants. I think you’re caught and you’ll stay. Maybe that’s what I’ve counted on. You do have an inside edge that I don’t. I want to know why Poppy was against Derek’s marriage to Iris. Once I know that …”

  He didn’t finish, and I wondered if he would try to stop the marriage because of his own interest in Iris.

  “I thought you’d already explained the reason,” I pointed out. “Derek’s age, his reckless past.”

  “Those are the obvious reasons. I think Poppy knew something more about him. Something that might even be dangerous to Derek if it were known. But she died too soon to use it.”

  “You can’t possibly think that—that anyone had a hand in her death? Surely that doesn’t seem possible.”

  He was silent and I knew he wouldn’t answer. I stood up, and wind whipped around me as I started for the stairs. Marcus had only pretended to open up. There was more he hadn’t told, and didn’t mean to tell me.

  He stayed where he was, and his next words stopped me. “Would you like to go out to Derek’s wreck this afternoon and watch some treasure diving? I think I could arrange it.”

  I turned and saw that his expression had changed. The challenge was there again—as though he dared me.

  “That might be fun,” I said.

  His smile was the same brief flash I’d seen before. He was much too attractive a man, and if I had any sense I’d resist.

  “It’s amazing what the word ‘treasure’ can do to the imagination,” he went on. “Not that I’m the real thing in a treasure hunter. I don’t have the fever for the search the way Derek and some of the others who work for him do. I can get caught up in that crazy exhilaration—especially when there’s a find. Or even the promise of one. But then I can leave and come home, to set it down on my typewriter. I can feel just as excited living it over again in my head.” Even his voice quickened as he spoke.

  “You’re writing about treasure diving?”

  “It’s Cliff’s subject right now, for his new novel, and I’m helping on the research. He’s especially interested in piracy and hijacking in the Caribbean, since this will come into the story. Of course I may use some of this material eventually for a nonfiction book of my own. Recently I did a piece for a sports magazine about the danger these days of hijacking for cruisers and yachts.”

  “I’ve read about piracy in Caribbean waters. Is much of that going on?”

  “It happens. Most of the expensive craft go out with firearms aboard. Derek keeps a constant guard on his workboat—and guns on his cruiser. Word gets around in a seaport town like Key West, and usually that’s enough to keep off marauders. They like easy targets—not ones that can defend themselves forcefully. If you want to go out this afternoon I can come back for you around one o’clock. Wear old clothes, if you’ve brought any along.”

  “Do you suppose I could go down? Diving, I mean?”

  “Since you’ve done some scuba diving, I’m sure it can be arranged. Providing Derek says it’s all right.”

  “Would you have equipment I could use?”

  “Sure—I’ll manage that.”

  I went to the rail and stood for a moment longer, held by the view. It was like looking at a colored relief map of Key West. Everywhere there were exotic tropical greens splashed with red and purple, where royal poincianas bloomed and bougainvillea climbed the walls. Trees and plants I’d never heard of all thrived lushly in this tropical climate.

  North Roosevelt Boulevard, on which we’d come into Key West, looped around the island and became South Roosevelt on the southern shore. Marcus said the commercialism vanished on that side, where there were expensive modern homes. The sun was growing warm, the sky cloudless. Even in winter the sun down here could burn the skin quickly because of the nearness of the equator.

  “Key West,” I sounded the words aloud. “When did it get its name?”

  “There are stories about that. Some people say it was given the obvious name of Cayo Oeste. But others claim that it’s a corruption of Cayo Hueso, for ‘Bone Island’—because of the Indian bones found here in early days. Anyway, you can see why the wreckers liked to have these platforms on their houses, so they could watch—scan the reef for vessels foundering in a storm. Key West is the end of the line, Laurel. The end of a continent, really—the southernmost part. Nobody goes on by land to anywhere else from here. You can only go back. So unless you’re going to cut and run, you might as well relax and let it get to you. I promise you it will.”

  It w
as already doing that, and so was this man beside me. I could remember all those warnings my mother was full of—beginning with always distrust first attraction. Had she been right—or very wrong?

  When we went downstairs, Alida was busy at her word processor, and she merely nodded as we passed her desk. Undoubtedly she resented our catching her in tears.

  I saw Marcus to the front door and then wandered toward the back of the house. In spite of my continued questions and doubts, I had a sense of freedom that I’d never felt before. In the past whenever I’d met a new man, old training had made me see him through my mother’s eyes. She had doubted most men as she doubted life itself and warned me to be on guard, lest I be hurt as she had been. Few boys I’d brought home in my teens had met with her approval. So I’d grown up more wary than I wanted to be. Now restraint was gone and all the old advice was fading. For the first time I could admit to myself that I didn’t really like the sort of man my mother would approve of. Perhaps I didn’t know yet what manner of man I could fall deeply in love with, but I was beginning to have a sense of him.

  He would probably be exciting, puzzling, irritating—because he’d always do the unexpected. Nor would he be fatuous about me. Maybe I’d never be quite sure where I stood with a man like that, but he would stir my imagination, fire my emotions. He might very well be a man like Marcus O’Neill.

  A mirror near the end of the hall caught my expression and startled me. The woman in the glass was a stranger who looked enormously alive—as though she’d begun to reach out for life. A woman who would make something happen and never run away. She was the secret woman who had lived only in my fantasies. Now it was time for us to blend into one. I remembered when Marcus had said I was afraid of my shadow. He was wrong. I was only afraid that someone would find out what the real woman inside me was like. Or that I wouldn’t be able to cope with her myself. Now it was beginning not to matter.

  The big, modern kitchen at the back of the house was empty. Without paying much attention to what I was doing, I dropped bread into a toaster, found butter and marmalade, sliced a banana, and made a pot of coffee. Then I put everything on a tray and carried it to a small white table outside. The garden was still in shade this early, but the morning air smelled fresh, and birds were singing.