Chapter 2 #2
Marco's smile revealed a slight gap between his front teeth. "My grandmother came here in the 1940s. She used to tell me stories about this building when it was a general store that served the farming families on the island."
Before Isabelle could respond, Gretchen rounded the corner carrying two large, iced coffees and a paper bag that smelled of cinnamon.
"They were out of the oat milk, so I got—" She stopped mid-sentence, noticing Marco. "Oh. Hello."
"Marco Bernal," Isabelle said. "He works with Trevor and Steven."
"And apparently has family connections to our building," she added, interest piqued.
Gretchen handed Isabelle her coffee and extended her free hand. "Gretchen Lawrence. Co-owner and chief coffee enthusiast."
As they shook hands, Steven's truck pulled up to the curb. He hopped out, carrying a roll of blueprints.
"I see you've met our historical expert," he called, walking toward them. "Marco's the one who restored the original elements in that historic cottage on Sanibel last year."
"The Bailey Homestead project." Marco nodded. "Though this building has its own unique history. I understand you found some artifacts during the demolition?"
Isabelle exchanged a glance with Gretchen. "We’ve been trying to keep it quiet, but it’s impossible on this island to keep anything secret. I have a feeling word has already spread.”
Gretchen nodded. “We were hoping to keep it quiet until we know what we're dealing with."
"Smart." Marco approved. "Once word gets out about historical finds, everyone has an opinion. If others know about it, there isn’t much we can do. Let’s just focus on containing the situation as best we can."
"Too late," Gretchen said, nodding toward the street where Linda St. James was marching determinedly toward them, accompanied by an elderly man Isabelle didn't recognize. "We've got incoming."
Linda looked particularly purposeful, clipboard in hand and a serious expression replacing her usual disapproving frown. The man beside her moved more slowly, leaning on a carved wooden cane, his weathered face partially obscured by a straw Panama hat.
"Isabelle, Gretchen," Linda called, her voice carrying that particular tone that suggested she was about to take charge of something. "This is Phineas Whitaker. He's our local historian, and when I mentioned what the workers found, he insisted on coming to see for himself."
Annoyed, Isabelle stared at Linda. “We were hoping to keep this as quiet as possible, Linda.”
Linda ignored Isabelle instead focused on Phineas Whitaker.
The elderly man stepped forward, his bright blue eyes sharp despite his advanced age.
"My father was here during the agricultural days of Captiva, before the tourism boom.
Worked the key lime groves and vegetable farms that once covered these islands.
This building stood through the '26 hurricane and the big one in '44. "
Marco's expression brightened. "Mr. Whitaker. It's been a while."
"Marco Bernal." Phineas nodded. "Still restoring old buildings, I see. Your work on those Sanibel cottages was something special."
Isabelle glanced between them. "You know each other?"
"Captiva is small," Marco explained. "And the historical preservation community is even smaller."
"Practically microscopic," Phineas agreed. "Now, are you going to show me what you found, or do I need to stand in this heat all afternoon?"
Linda nodded enthusiastically. "The Chronicle readers would be fascinated by a piece on historical artifacts discovered right here on our island. Human interest with local significance."
Gretchen shot Isabelle a questioning look. Isabelle hesitated, then nodded slightly.
"We've kept them secure," she said, leading the small group toward the temporary office trailer at the edge of the property. "Chelsea photographed everything, but we haven't shown anyone the photos."
Inside the air-conditioned trailer, Isabelle unlocked a small cabinet and carefully withdrew a shallow archival box. She set it on the work table and gently removed the lid.
Phineas leaned forward, adjusting his glasses. His breath caught audibly.
"Well, I'll be damned," he whispered.
Inside the box lay several items: a tarnished Spanish coin with worn edges, what appeared to be a shell tool with notches along one edge, a small leather-bound ledger with faded handwriting, and a piece of pottery with distinctive patterns that suggested Calusa craftsmanship.
Linda gasped. "Is that—is that a Spanish coin? And Native American artifacts?"
Marco leaned closer, examining the items without touching them.
"The coin looks like Spanish colonial currency from the 1700s, possibly from trade routes through the Gulf.
" He pointed to the pottery shard. "And this definitely has Calusa design elements.
They were the dominant tribe in this region before European contact. "
"It is," Phineas confirmed, his voice suddenly reverent. "The Calusa were master shell craftsmen. This particular pattern—see these zigzag marks?—is consistent with their pottery from around 1500 to 1600."
Gretchen looked between the elderly historian and Marco. "So these things are...important?"
"Important?" Phineas laughed, a sound like dry leaves rustling.
"What you've found here is evidence of what some of us have suspected for years—that this site was once part of the island's early trading history.
The Spanish explored these waters extensively, and the Calusa controlled this region for centuries before being displaced. "
Linda was frantically taking notes, her earlier complaints about construction noise apparently forgotten. "This could be a significant historical discovery!"
"It needs proper examination," Marco cautioned. "These items should be documented by experts before any conclusions are drawn."
Isabelle carefully replaced the lid on the box. "Which is exactly why we've kept this quiet until now."
"I know someone at the university in Fort Myers," Marco offered. "An archaeologist specializing in Florida's colonial period. She could help authenticate these items, give you a better understanding of what you're dealing with."
Linda's pen paused over her notepad. "And when might this authentication happen? My readers will want details."
"Your readers," Isabelle said firmly, "will have to wait until we have those details. We won't be publishing speculation."
Phineas chuckled. "Still trying to control the narrative, eh, Linda?"
Linda straightened her shoulders. "I'm simply representing the public's right to know about significant discoveries in our community."
"And we appreciate your interest," Gretchen said, guiding Linda toward the door with surprising diplomacy. "We'll be sure to give you first access to the story once we have expert confirmation."
As Gretchen ushered Linda outside, Phineas lingered, his gaze still fixed on the box.
"You know," he said softly, "there were always stories about this building. That during the Depression, when banks weren't trusted, some island families hid valuables in the walls or under floorboards for safekeeping."
Isabelle exchanged a glance with Marco. "Do you think there could be more?"
Phineas shrugged. "Who knows? But I'd watch those walls carefully during your renovation. History has a way of revealing itself when you least expect it."
He tipped his hat and followed Gretchen and Linda outside, leaving Isabelle alone with Marco.
"You know," Marco said thoughtfully, "if these items are what Phineas thinks they are, your café might become more than just a business. It could be a window into Captiva's past—from the Calusa days through Spanish exploration and the agricultural period."
Isabelle looked out the window where she could see Gretchen animatedly explaining something to Steven, her hands gesturing in wide arcs the way they did when she was excited about an idea.
"That's what Gretchen has been saying," Isabelle admitted. "That we're not just opening a café—we're creating a community space with a soul."
Marco smiled. "Smart woman, your partner."
"She is," Isabelle agreed, surprised by how easily the admission came. "Though if you tell her I said so, I'll deny it completely."
As Marco laughed, Isabelle found herself thinking that perhaps Linda St. James's interruption had been fortuitous after all. The café was already bringing people together, and they hadn't even served their first cup of coffee.