Galveston: Between Wind And Water (A Historical Literary Fiction Novel Filled with Romance and Drama) (8 page)

Gabrielle’s father tapped the bowl of his pipe on his palm, found it clogged and excused himself to get his cleaning kit from his upstairs study.

When his footsteps reached the second floor landing, Timothy cleared his throat and spoke in hushed tones. “You know I have complete respect for your father and his wishes, but I wish he would leave us alone more often.”

Gabrielle flashed a brief coy smile and stepped to the window. Already this business of having to choose between Timothy, Liam, and Hadlee was beginning to lose its attraction. Every prospect started with promise but after a few minutes of idle parlor chit-chat followed by the crafted casualness of a stroll down to the boardwalk, it was all she could do to keep from running headlong into the waves to revive her senses.

In the end, she always returned to her dressing table and dropped the lace-wrapped bouquets into the wastebasket. Would her meeting with Doctor Hellreich be something as easily tossed aside and forgotten too?

Timothy cleared his throat again. “I would like to sit down and talk with you, Gabrielle.”

She looked at the easy chair with plush comfort that always invited guests to stay longer than need be. “Father will be coming back.”

“Yes, but only after he feels he’s given us enough time to be alone.”

Gabrielle rubbed her middle finger against her thumb. “You say that as if it were an unwritten rule.”

“Your father only cares for your happiness as do I.”

“Do you suppose, then, that he might take time to find out what 
makes
 me happy?”

Timothy gestured with his hands. “Where in this magnificent home is there anything that doesn’t show the love of a devoted father for his beautiful daughter?”

Gabrielle had no ready answer to his question. She knew her father loved her in his way, and she adored him. She avoided Timothy’s penetrating gaze by adjusting the lace tablecloth on the rosewood table under the window. “It’s too hot inside for playing cards. I would like to go for a walk. I’ll see if father is ready.”

“Gabrielle? Please, I need to speak with you alone.”

She turned on her heel. “So what do you think about the seawall? I may not have any say in the matter, but I’m pleading with father to let me sit in on the discussions. I think the subject is fascinating.”

Timothy gazed at her for a moment longer. “I would like to accompany you—with your father’s permission of course—to the lecture on Thursday night. Doctor Hellreich sounds like the only man who understands how the twentieth century will bring powerful changes that will affect all our lives.”

Gabrielle stared at him, the ticking of the large clock the only sound in the room. “I understand that, Tim, but I don’t see why—Dear . . . Listen to me prattle on like an old ninny. I’ve completely lost track of the time. I promised to stop by and see how Hadlee is doing. Our friend has a touch of the fever.”

Timothy exhaled with noticeable frustration and glanced at the floor. “I see. As you wish.” He glanced at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. “Please give Hadlee my warmest regards. We all hope to see him at Bret’s party if he’s feeling up to it.” He lingered by her side in an uncomfortable silence. With out warning, he bent to kiss Gabrielle awkwardly on the cheek.

Gabrielle stepped away at the last moment, turning her head away to conceal her embarrassed blush.

Timothy cleared his throat and left the room.

Gabrielle waited for the sound of the front door closing then walked to the window and opened it. In the front yard across the street, a washing woman was folding laundry into a wicker basket.

From over the dunes came the faint crash of the rising breakers, and beyond the wharves and warehouses she pictured a ship riding at anchor with all its canvas spread to the first strong wind that could carry her over the waves.

To anywhere.

Anywhere but here. 

CHAPTER 8

Wednesday, August, 29

Bret leaned against a pillar on the veranda of his Beaux-Arts colonial home and tapped his fingers rhythmically against the wood. The family sanctuary—a pale blue, palatial mansion built of the best pine and Florida cypress—had been quiet during his absence save for the slow, measured footsteps of one old guest. 

The raised veranda offered him a panoramic view of the surrounding beach and the waves—a view many wished they’d had back in ’86 when the last bad storm hit.

Maybe they could have seen it coming.

The town of Indianola was completely destroyed and never rebuilt—some said because it was built on an old Indian burial ground belonging to the savages who ate men.

Bret gave the wood siding a hard whack with his clenched fist. But she was a stout and sturdy one, this ol’ girl. And after the storm, he and his mother made sure she’d always stand tall and proud.

From his American castle by the sea, he looked out at the grass-topped sand hills, mixed with the yellow of black-eyed Susans, butterfly weed, and goldenrod, swaying against the warm evening Gulf breeze. Whooping cranes stalked the shoreline—looking for sand dollars, no doubt—against the brilliant red and orange streaks of the setting sun.

Bret shivered. Since returning to his beloved city, he’d felt exposed, as though standing naked to the elements. He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, and pulled out the small bottle of a new patent medicine purported to cure coughs. He unscrewed the cap and took two deep drafts in rapid succession then closed his eyes, trying to recapture the dimly remembered feelings of another lifetime in Galveston.

“I love you Bret and, if you feel the same, why do we have to hide it from our families any longer?”
The burning sincerity in Gabrielle’s eyes had made him turn away for as soft and soothing as she was, she could never drown out the drunken, carnal laughter of men who still haunted him like vengeful spirits. Cold, desolate nausea gripped Bret’s heart. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of medicine again.

A minute passed. The nullifying effects of the preparation worked their way through his fractured thoughts, coalescing everything into a single picture of the past. He swayed on his feet and leaned his back against a corner post on the veranda and looked up to the evening sky, trying to give a clear voice to Gabrielle’s unclouded face.

“What are you thinking about, Bret?”

“You.”

“Stop it. You’re still playing with my heart and I can’t take it anymore.”

“I would never do that to you, Gabrielle, but you must try to understand—”

Gabrielle embraced him, kissing him long and passionately on the lips, unconcerned about the shocked stares of the strollers passing by.

“I do, Bret. I do! I’ll be a good wife to you. Please, darling, don’t be afraid. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Bret drew himself out of the aching memory with a deep breath and turned away. “Gabrielle.” He relished the sensation of letting her name come to life again on his lips. Then, a moment later, a terrible sense of bitterness assailed him. The once-carefree air of this place had become moribund—a mausoleum with the open caskets of memories.

Bret pressed his hands over his face, ashamed like an older child caught crying. He could black out the sun, but the light of what went before still shone undiminished. He ground his teeth together as though he could have crushed an almond in its shell.

Enough.

He had to control his unfulfilled passion for Gabrielle. That could never be now and there was still much to be done before Friday night if he wanted to make the impression he needed to. 

Bret straightened his tie.
No one wants to miss a richly catered McGowan affair. How did they ever survive while you were away? 

Noting the time, Bret downed a final, quick swig. He slipped father’s gold watch securely into the front pocket of his brocaded vest and flung the empty bottle against the side of the vehicle shed.

His mother, Lorena, had given him every opportunity save one—the only one which truly mattered. The one she made him swear to on her deathbed.

All these years I’ve kept quiet so we could build our lives again.  I know I was only a boy but I’m sure I recognized some of the men.

The sharp sound of shattering glass brought Philip to the front door. “Mister McGowan, sir, is there a problem?”

“Sorry, Philip.” Bret rested his hand on the shoulder of his old, trusted man’s serving jacket. “Damn squirrels, worse than termites infesting the shed. They chew up the leather seats. I think I hit one on the head with my bottle.”

Philip glanced at the garage. He raised a gray eyebrow. “Uh . . . hmm. Then you should use a squirrel rifle, sir. Easier to aim with.

“And with the way things are going over at that God forsaken oil field in Beaumont that will end up in the pawn shop soon with everything else.”

Philip shook his head. “It’s more than money problems putting you in such a pucker.”

“Parties remind me too much about the way things used to be . . . things I try to forget.”

Philip stepped across the creaking wood planks and leaned on the railing beside Bret. “May I speak frankly, sir?”

Bret smiled. “And if I say ‘no’?”

“As you wish, sir.”

Bret squeezed the butler’s shoulder. “I’m pulling your leg, Philip. You know I respect your opinion on these matters.”

“Then best you leave the earth covering Jean Lafitte’s treasure for the time being and get yourself ready for your guests, sir. If the oil is there, like you say, it sure isn’t going anywhere soon.”

Bret laughed and ran his fingers through his hair.

“And, sir, if I may say so. Go to town tomorrow and get yourself a natty haircut, hot shave, and a new suit, like you
promised.
You show up at your own party looking like that and folks will think you’re the pirate’s ghost come looking for his gold.” 

Philip adjusted his cufflinks. “That’s not the way to impress the Mr. Caldwell or Colonel Hayes and his friends. They’re the only ones who get things done in this part of the state, like the seawall
and
your precious oilfield.”

“Thank you, Philip. I always seem to profit equally from your honesty and your manners. And what do you think of this Doctor Hellreich everyone is talking about?”

Philip’s mouth hardened into a straight line. “Educated men sure like to use a lot of fancy, frilly words to hoodwink plain folks into doing what they want, and it’s usually someone else who’s made to suffer for it. I’d stay clear away from that one if I were you, Mr. McGowan.”

Bret scratched the side of his forehead. “Something about him intrigues me, but I can’t put my finger on it. All I know about him is what I’ve read in the papers.”

A small smile curved the corners of Philip’s creased mouth as he examined the tips of his white serving gloves. “If I may say so, sir, you should be more concerned about your own business and leave that foolishness alone. When I was in charge of your father’s house, he could make a gentleman’s agreement at his parties with just a smile and a handshake.” 

He dusted off the shoulders of Bret’s crumpled jacket. “You were just a sleepin’ baby—no more than knee-high to a nipple—but now, you’re a man who’s got to keep his eyes wide open all the time. That McGowan smile and handshake helped your daddy out of more fixes but—”

Bret stepped away from the old colored man and brushed off the front of his own jacket. “And in the end, that’s all he had left.” He strode toward the front door. Bret paused to study the burnt and corroded brass plate where once his family’s engraved name appeared clearly as though it was a commandment to be obeyed before entering.

It was the same plate from their first home in Cooke County. After moving to Galveston during the uncertain years of the Reconstruction, Bret’s mother was firm in her belief that her son should view the plate crest as a symbol of honor and sacrifice. To her, it signified his father’s fortitude and determination, just as the raised foundations of their new family home promised fresh abundance and wealth.

Bret scratched the mottled black metal with his fingernail. He’d ask the workman for a new, polished brass plate before the party. This one seemed better suited now for the lid of a coffin.

CHAPTER 9

Thursday, August 30

The air behind the closed drapes of the Theogenesis lecture auditorium hung as inert and heavy as the material that concealed the stage. Doctor Caden Augustus Hellreich steadied his breathing and concentrated on the task before him. He parted the drapes behind the lectern and peered out at the audience.

The lecture hall was filled to capacity. At least two hundred men and women and not a seat empty that he could see. 

His serious and dedicated personal assistant, Edward Wallace, stood by the open doors waiting for his signal as several other male followers escorted people to the few remaining empty seats. Arley sat in the front row with his business associates to his left, and . . . 

Caden drew a breath, remembering her photograph.
It was her.
Yes, the alluring and fetching Gabrielle Caldwell seated on his right. It could be no other.
Photographs do not do her the justice she deserves.
Caden raised his hand. Edward nodded and greeted the last guest before closing the front door.

Arley glanced up to where he was standing and tapped the bowl of his pipe against the side of his chair.

Caden nodded to his generous benefactor and stepped back from the drapes to complete his final mental preparations. He parted the drapes and strode across the podium to the sound of polite applause. Standing behind the lectern, he gazed out at the doubting, troubled faces of men searching for answers to questions they were afraid to ask. Caden smiled respectfully at Gabrielle and tipped his head in admiration.

Blushing in response, she adverted her eyes as she touched the lacy frilled collar of her peach, silk blouse.