17
Wreckers’ Cay
February 1840
Captain Lee and Al?e Dillon arrived with supplies several weeks after the Indians’ attack. The news of the raid came as a shock, but they were even more outraged to hear of Hannah’s death. Al?e’s face turned ashen as it registered dismay. Lee seethed quietly before he spoke. “Those bastards,” he whispered.
Before they left, I asked them for a new dog to replace our Brandy. The children missed her, and I missed the sense of security she gave me. I also needed to have a dog who would bark at the approach of strangers, for it was Andrew’s signal to hide. They promised me they would ?nd a dog and bring it on the next trip.
I gave them letters for Dorothy and my grandmother, so they would all know what happened to Hannah. Several days later, I had a visit from the lighthouse keeper at Garden Key, Jeremiah Weston, and his wife, Ruth, who brought us a rich chocolate cake and an adorable female puppy. Having heard our news from Captain Lee and Al?e, they wanted to pay their respects.
“We were so very sad to hear about your child,” Ruth said. She was a big woman in her ?fties, with ?abby arms and graying hair pinned back in a bun. The enlarged line of her hips and legs formed a comfortable lap for the puppy, who nestled there, not wanting to leave. The dog was a mixed breed, with ?oppy ears and black-and-white markings; we all loved her immediately. Andrew particularly took to her, and once she adjusted to his routine, she accompanied him to the tower every evening. Since she had clearly adopted him as her master, we persuaded Andrew to give her a name. “Bourbon,” he said, eyeing Timothy with a grin. “Just like Brandy.”
One afternoon, Bourbon’s barking alerted us to the approach of a boat I was not familiar with. I watched curiously as a distinguished gentleman and a much younger woman tied up at the dock. Andrew was caught unawares on the gallery at the tower, where he’d been painting window trims. He stopped quickly and hid inside.
From his boat, the gentleman called out, “Good day, Mrs. Lowry,” bowing slightly. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and pay my respects—and to offer my condolences.”
Speaking in a northern accent, he introduced himself as Josiah Peartree, and his daughter as Mary Beth. He was the new lighthouse keeper at Sand Key, replacing Rebecca Flaherty. I studied him. This dapper man was the disreputable old pirate she had grumbled about?
I welcomed them and accepted their gift of a lovely watercolor painting—tropical birds in ?ight—that Mary Beth had done. She was a young widow in her early twenties.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured sincerely, for she had captured the movement and contrast of a white heron in the mangroves. “Thank you.”
In spite of the discomfort Andrew had to be feeling in the heat of the tower, I felt constrained to offer them tea, and hoped they would not dally afterward.
From the beach, Peartree’s eyes scanned the island with both envy and admiration. “I’m truly impressed, Mrs. Lowry,” he said. “To think you have been keeping the light at this isolated location on your own, and looking after a family! It’s truly remarkable.” He began walking toward the tower, and I became nervous. “Is that fresh paint I smell?” he asked.
“Yes, we—I—have been touching up paint in the tower. Please, come this way and join me for tea or some lemonade.”
Peartree intrigued me. Despite his infamous reputation, I found him rather charming. We chatted for perhaps an hour or two before they took their leave. As he left, Peartree took my hand with a meaningful look. “I hope to see you again soon, Mrs. Lowry,” he murmured. “You must come over to Sand Key for a picnic with your children some afternoon.”
I thanked him and said we would try.
As the wind ?lled his sails, Peartree looked back with a lingering smile, and it was clear that he had visited Wreckers’ Cay less to take measure of the tower than to take the measure of its recently widowed keeper. I forced a smile in return, but my thoughts were of Andrew, who had been waiting all afternoon up in the overheated tower amid paint fumes.
I ran to the tower and called out, but there was no answer. Thinking he might have succumbed to the heat and fumes, I rushed up the stairs, but, to my relief, the lantern room was empty. I found him sitting under the gumbo-limbo tree near the lagoon, reading his geography book as he sipped lemonade. He had been in the water and now was covered only with a towel. His hair had grown back since he had shaved it initially, and the sun was infusing the black wires of his damp curls with light.
“Thank God you’re all right,” I said, sitting next to him.
“I needed a break anyway, and I managed to sneak around to the back while y’all were having your fancy tea and cakes. I went for a long swim.”
“You can swim with your sore shoulder?”
“It’s a lot better now,” he said, ?exing his arm. “You know we’ll always survive, you and I.”
“It must be the gris-gris bags,” I said drily.
He grinned. We sat there on the beach of the lagoon in comfortable silence, listening to the calls of squealing birds and the constant thrum of insects.
“So what was the old man like?” he asked.
“An old ?irt. He seemed to fancy me. Invited me to go to Sand Key for a picnic with the children.”
“Am I invited?”
I laughed. “Not likely.”
I leaned back, stretching, and when I looked down, I immediately noticed his arousal spring to life. When I heard sounds from the children in the garden, I began to rise. “Maybe you need another cool swim,” I said with a mischievous smile as I turned to go. He laughed.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “Can we smoke your plant tonight after the light is ready and the children are in bed?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes, but only if you promise to behave.”
I laughed then. “Of course,” I said.