After the Rain Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 by Jane Lorenzini

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Nest Press, Nashville

  Edited and Designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Editorial: Alexander Rigby, Amara Holstein, Carrie Wicks, Sharon Turner Mulvihill

  Cover and Interior Design: Paul Barrett

  Cover Image Credits: © Shutterstock/grop; © Shutterstock/Hulinska Yevheniia

  ISBN (Hardcover): 978-1-7323248-1-7

  ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-7323248-0-0

  e-ISBN: 978-1-7323248-2-4

  First Edition

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Hoda

  My world got brighter the day we met.

  Chapter 1

  Several doors down from Duggan’s general store, Belle Carson was spending her afternoon break in the company of sunrays on this still winter day. She’d chosen a bench with a back to lean against so she could sit comfortably with her eyes closed. Her hands lay folded in her lap, finally at rest after a morning of sorting store goods—buttons, pins, and needles. She turned her face slightly, tracking the sun. On the street in front of her, a buggy rattled by, its driver clicking at the puller. A day drinker war-whooped from inside the nearby saloon. Fort Myers at noon had signs of life, but on balance was quiet, townsfolk either eating lunch, serving it to visitors, or working straight through it.

  “Wake up, Miss Belle.”

  She opened her eyes to see Augie Morgan smiling as he moved toward her, his hands jammed in his pants pockets.

  “Well, hello, you.” Belle greeted him with a head bob but sat perfectly still, her body relaxed and content to do nothing but accept the sun’s embrace.

  Augie took his place on the bench, always to her right, closer to the door of the local newspaper shop where he worked as a printer’s devil. Fifteen years old, he was an apprentice to Stephen Fitzgerald, editor of the local paper, the Fort Myers Press.

  “What’s in the news today?” she asked, as usual.

  “My fingers,” he said, also as usual, and held out his ink-stained hands.

  The pair sometimes sat together to chat a bit and watch the daily doings. This afternoon on Front Street an oxcart loaded with sugarcane was parked not far from their bench. A burly bearded man straddled the cane, rebalancing his load. From atop the mound, he hailed a passerby. “What about this year? What’s the word?”

  The passerby stopped in front of the oxen, sleeping on their feet. “Depends on who you ask, but my word is—they’re coming.” He winked at a young girl lying across the thick cane stalks. “That’s two words, isn’t it?”

  With 1888 under way, residents of Fort Myers and nearby communities had begun to speculate if world-renowned inventor Thomas Edison and his family would once again spend a few winter months in their little slice of paradise, boosting community pride and exposure for the remote region. Last year, the family traveled south from New Jersey to vacation at their grand estate along the Caloosahatchee River. When Edison purchased the property nearly three years ago, he’d assured residents that he would equip Fort Myers with electricity, a luxury known only to privileged individuals and businesses up north. To date, only the Edison property had been wired for lights.

  “What’s your guess, Augie?” Belle asked. “Will the Edisons visit this year?”

  Augie poked his thumb toward the newspaper shop. “Mr. Fitzgerald sure hopes so. The Edisons sell papers.”

  Nodding, she said, “We do love their doings, don’t we?”

  He smiled at her wordplay.

  Belle always walked away from Augie pleased that they’d crossed paths. He was enthusiastic and confident, everything she wasn’t at his age. His mother and father were hardworking and well-mannered members of the community and, from what she saw in their son, fine parents.

  The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Across the street, at Duggan’s rival store, people pawed at a prickly mound of pineapples unloaded right onto the ground. Next to the pile, a man stood atop a mammoth dead turtle, clutching rope reins looped through the reptile’s shriveled mouth. A cow chewing greens from someone’s garden wandered past.

  “I’ve got some news of my own,” Augie said, his shoes tapping the sandy ground.

  Belle swiveled slightly on the bench toward him. “Good news, I hope.”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald said I could start writing copy for the business card section,” Augie said.

  “Well, now,” Belle replied. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s about time,” he answered, “in fact, well past time.”

  The teen reached into a hip pocket. He pulled out a small piece of torn newspaper and read it aloud.

  “The Palms Hotel: The popular hotel is situated on the bank of the Caloosahatchee River and has a wharf and all the conveniences for boaters.”

  He looked at Belle and feigned a yawn, patting his lips with his palm.

  “Needs some work?” Belle asked, amused.

  Augie ran his thumb and pointer finger across the air, creating an invisible business card.

  “The Palms Hotel: Boaters and all who enjoy the best are welcome at this riverfront palace, where you will dine like royalty and want for nothing but perhaps another day in paradise.” He poked the air, a period on his sentence.

  Belle nodded in approval. “Much better. Now the Palms is booked solid.”

  Augie shoved the ad back in his pocket. “I just hope Mr. Fitzgerald sees that I can be a reporter one day.”

  Belle patted his knee. “You’re on your way, Augie. Don’t underestimate how far even a small step can take you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Belle.” Augie looked down at his inky fingers.

  Belle turned her head to again fully face the sun. It’s time, she thought. Well past time, in fact, that she took her own advice.

  Chapter 2

  The coffee on the side table was lukewarm, shown the same disinterest as everything else in the room. Belle sat cross-legged in the center of her bed, focused solely on the newspaper. Ignored, her cat napped against the pillow. Once again, she read the job description listed on page 2 of the Press.

  “GARDENER NEEDED AT SEMINOLE LODGE!”

  Thomas and Mina Edison needed help, and that was the good news. Her worry, though, was how many others were reading the very same words and planning their own perfect pitch to land such a coveted position? Probably dozens. Right now, neighbors were pacing in their kitchens, the paper tucked under their arms as they practiced singing their praises aloud. “No one will outwork me . . .”

  And then there were the Baileys. If the owners of Baileys’ Nursery showed up to the interview, everyone else may as well head back home and tend to their ho-hum gardens. Gus and Grace Bailey had taught her everything she knew about gardening. The Edison job was theirs if they wanted it. Belle pressed on her temples. If only, somehow, she could tear the listing out of every newspaper in town.

  Butterflies stormed her stomach. Who would interview her? No name was offered. What should she say about herself? Should she bring along one of her plants or her gardening tools? Somehow, she had to make sure her hands would dig in the soil at Seminole Lodge. Belle closed her eyes and imagined standing
up straight. She heard her strong voice: I’m the right choice because I’m creative and efficient . . . the gardens are already planted in my mind. Then, nothing. Her bold words spiraled downward, losing volume until they lay in a heap of silence. Her squared shoulders slumped. She opened her eyes and popped the paper with a flick of her fingers. Clearly, showing up and showing off would be daunting. But the prospect of waking up each day with a purpose—instead of simply yearning for one—was absolutely compelling.

  “I’ve got to try,” she whispered to the page.

  At twenty-five, Belle was living under someone else’s roof in a converted storage room, dabbling in her passion and silently managing ghosts—one a haunt, the other a distant wisp. She was ready for the wind to shift and carry the haunt far beyond the horizon.

  She traced her finger under every word, reading again.

  “GARDENER NEEDED AT SEMINOLE LODGE! The distinguished Thomas A. Edison requires an accomplished gardener to create a set of dazzling flower beds on his thirteen-acre riverfront property.”

  She stared at the capital letters and their urgent call to action. They may as well have read, “BELLE CARSON NEEDED AT SEMINOLE LODGE!” Finally, thankfully, her talent had aligned with a need. The qualifications listed described the best of her, especially “an affinity for all things botanical and a flare for artistic color combinations.” Belle focused on the line that excited her nearly as much as the chance to get paid for what she loved to do.

  “Whoever is hired will also receive complimentary room and board at Baker’s Boarding in the cottage on the property of owner Abigail Baker.”

  Belle drew in a breath of musty air and looked around the room. Over the years, she’d transformed it from a stark rectangle to comfortable quarters, potted sweet potato vine and petunias spilling over the edges of wooden shelving, borrowed books stacked neatly under her narrow bed. A floral print curtain hung over a small window that interrupted the north wall. She’d done her best to disguise the room’s true self—a place where pickles and kerosene lay in wait—but anyone could tell she lived in a storage area. While she was grateful for her makeshift room, the chance to move out of it and into a cottage of her own at Baker’s Boarding was exhilarating and worthy of much preoccupation. She’d already looked away from the paper twice to cozy up the cottage in her mind. I’ll sweep and dust first . . .

  Baker’s neighbored the Edison property, fully inferior in grandeur and one-third the acreage of the famous couple’s winter retreat along the Caloosahatchee River. In 1885, Thomas Edison, along with his friend and business partner Ezra Gilliland, strayed from a family holiday in Saint Augustine to explore Florida’s less developed Gulf Coast. After several days in Fort Myers, he purchased an expansive riverfront property where he could relax and work for several months, away from the public eye and frigid northern climate. The Press heralded Edison’s miraculous decision to its readers: “HURRAH FOR MR. EDISON!” The Wizard of Menlo Park, an internationally recognized man with nearly six hundred patents, was now a part-time resident of Fort Myers.

  From a boater’s view, Baker’s sat to the right of the sprawling Edison estate. Abigail Baker, a single woman, purchased the boardinghouse a decade before the electrical wiz happened upon Fort Myers. Now, Belle had a chance to work for the Edisons, live in her own cottage, and plant a seed of hope in her heart for a more meaningful life.

  She stood, stretched, and walked out of her bedroom into Duggan’s. Merle Duggan owned the general store, set in the heart of the town’s business district on Front Street. One of the building’s walls still had a mail slot carved into it from when he served as the region’s postmaster. Much about Merle was oversized, including his broad smile. So large and numerous were his teeth that a person might be amazed that his lips, when closed, could conceal such dental abundance. His sizable hands matched his unyielding compassion. He routinely left baskets of necessities from his store on the doorsteps of struggling families, waving off gratitude with fibs like, “I just needed to make some room on my store shelves, Iris.” Tall and stout, the fifty-two-year-old lived above his business in a small room chock-full in the evenings with tossed clothing, bulky boots, and heavy clouds of loamy cigar smoke. Widowed in Georgia before settling in Fort Myers, he was known as a prudent, fair businessman and a reliable, contributing member of the 375-person town.

  “Merle?” Belle looked around the store.

  A “yup” floated up from the floor behind the front counter. Merle popped up holding a penny and grinning.

  “Got it.” He opened the cash register and added the coin with a clink. “Hope you had a solid breakfast. We need to shuffle the bushel baskets, freshen up things on the porch.”

  Belle hadn’t touched her coffee or oatmeal. “Agreed. I’ll start with the turnips and eggplants.” She tidied a stack of postcards on the counter. “So, I know Saturdays are our busiest days, but I’d like to take tomorrow morning off.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

  Merle never missed a chance to support and encourage Belle, as he had for quite some time. Eleven years ago, on a rainy summer evening, he awoke to loud pounding on the front door of Duggan’s. Standing on the porch was a drenched teenager, shaking despite the August heat and humidity. Her long hair was plastered to her face, which was swollen on one side, her lip split and bleeding. The girl’s dress was ripped and she wore one boot, the shoeless foot covered to the ankle in sandy muck. Within seconds, Merle recognized the panting figure as Belle Carson, adopted daughter of Betsy and Nelson Carson. Over the years, she’d made countless trips to Duggan’s to pick up sundries for the family: coffee, thread, sodium bicarbonate. He enjoyed having the subdued but curious girl in the store. She sometimes asked politely to shake the rattlesnake rattle on the front counter or quietly requested his dated Old Farmer’s Almanacs. But on that stormy night, the fourteen-year-old’s voice was loud and firm.

  “I won’t go back there.” Her dripping fists were clenched at her sides.

  Merle gently pulled Belle over the threshold and quickly locked the door.

  “My God. What happened?” He glanced through the window into the darkness.

  “No.” Belle vigorously shook her sopping head. “No talking about it.”

  Merle fought back tears as he placed Belle’s feet in a bucket of water and gave her thick cloths to clean herself off. He towel-dried her hair, but she wanted no part of him touching her skin. After guiding her up the stairs and tucking her into his bed, he locked Duggan’s and walked in the downpour toward the Carsons. Halfway there, he spotted someone calling out for Belle. He soon recognized the man as Nelson Carson.

  “Belle’s with me,” Merle said. “What the hell happened to her, Nelson?”

  “I don’t know,” Nelson said, his palms cupped around his eyes to divert the rain. “Not yet.”

  “She’ll stay with me tonight,” Merle said, his tone squelching any discussion. “I’ll come by tomorrow, without her.”

  Nelson opened his mouth but didn’t speak, exhaling instead. He nodded once and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  •••

  The next morning, Merle knocked on the Carsons’ door and Nelson answered. Betsy stood behind him, holding a small pile of clothes and a sack. Their twenty-two-year-old son, Julius, flanked her, his face covered in scratches, one eye swollen shut.

  Nelson tipped his head back toward Julius. “I gave him what he had coming.”

  “For what?” Merle said.

  The two men stood motionless. No one welcomed Merle inside.

  “What happened, Nelson?”

  “That’s our family business. Like I said, I took care of it.”

  Took care of what? Merle glared at Julius. Over the years, he’d had little interaction with him or the rest of the Carson family, one of the more private in town. Nelson was frequently away for days at a time, tending to avocad
os upriver. Betsy kept to herself but did her part when it came to town customs—dropping off food for the bereaved or attending monthly meetings. Merle glanced around the Carsons’ kitchen. Something had happened in the house to terrify Belle, launching her into the storm.

  “All right, then. She won’t be coming back here,” Merle said.

  Nelson nodded and motioned to Betsy. She walked to Merle and handed him Belle’s belongings. “Should be everything,” she said softly.

  With that, the longest conversation Merle ever had with the Carsons was over.

  Since then, for more than ten years, Merle had sheltered Belle and delighted in her company. Not once had anyone questioned their arrangement, to his face anyway. Early on, comments made their way to Merle: “That girl needs a mother,” or “Why would the Carsons give away their daughter?” But he’d dismissed them all, long immune to the constant chatter in town. People traded gossip like recipes, hungry for even an ounce of intimate or unflattering news about a neighbor.

  Merle ushered Belle through her teens guided by routine—three meals a day, store duties, frequent visits from his good friend, Abigail Baker. He came to realize that Belle wasn’t a shy girl as much as someone who’d accepted herself as nearly invisible. He tried his best to slowly help her reappear, to view herself as a valued partner in the rhythm of their daily life. “Flapjacks or eggs for us this morning?” he’d ask. Or, “Why don’t you hand out our fruit samples today?”

  By her twenties, Belle had engaged more frequently with people besides just Duggan’s customers. He could almost hear her thinking, I don’t like this, but I can do this. She’d grown better at accepting offers to have coffee in someone’s home or even take an afternoon walk along the river with a man. Joseph Yount, who sometimes skippered the mail boat, got a “yes” for one walk, but that was it. Merle laughed with Belle when she returned from the stroll and said, “Joseph talks an awful lot about the mail when he’s nervous.” His pride in her evolution was outshined only by his gratitude for their close relationship.