“Yes’m. Sure you’re right. I’ll get me up to a doctor soon. You wait ‘n see.”
“Yes, well.” Gillian looked at her sternly, then sighed. “Get cleaned up quickly so that you can help me.”
“I thought I was helping you,” Pearl muttered. She wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ve been downstairs workin’ in that kitchen from sunup till sundown, mixing and baking, getting things ready for this shin-dig. But don’t you fret now, Miz Gillian. You and me’s gonna get this get-together up and runnin’. If there was ever two women who could do it, it’d be us – cause we’re the best party-givers on this here island.”
“Pearl, you talk entirely too much,” Gillian said, exasperated. “Just help me, please.”
“Yes’m. I’m just sayin’ that you got nothin’ to worry ‘bout, Miz Gillian. That’s all. Don’t you be worryin’ bout me takin’ ill, now. I’m as fit as a fiddle and then some!”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” She turned to face the older woman. How could Pearl possibly understand? It was Gillian’s reputation that was at stake. Pearl knew nothing of such things.
The older woman scurried in and out with her arms full. She griped about the heat, the weight of the packages, and anything else she could find to complain about.
“I declare, Pearl,” Gillian said finally, “you’re about to wear me out with that whining.
“Oh, I don’t whine, Miz Gillian,” Pearl said with a grin. “I just trust the Lord. He gives me the strength to get through, day by day. That’s all.”
Gillian shook her head, more frustrated now than ever. “This is no time for a sermon, if you don’t mind. We have work to do.” She handed the last of the packages to the older woman then dropped down onto the settee in the front parlor for a much-needed rest.
“When you’re done with those packages,” she instructed, “please bring me a glass of tea. And hurry, Pearl. It’s been quite a day.”
***
Thursday, September 6th, 7:30 p.m. The Galveston Courier
“So, they say we’re having a storm. I don’t see a cloud in the sky, do you?” Everett peered out the large front window of his home.
His wife Maggie slipped an arm around his waist as she joined him. “Not a cloud,” she agreed
“Nothing exciting ever seems to happen on this island,” he grumbled. “Day after day, it’s the same old thing. The tide rolls in and rolls back out again. Predictable. Completely predictable.”
Maggie wrapped her arms around his neck. “But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? No news is good news.” She gave him a playful squeeze.
He turned to face her, knowing full well she understood his words. “Not in my business.”
“Poor Everett,” Maggie said with a grin. “Only happy when others are suffering.”
It was a hard statement, but true. He tried to explain. “It’s not that I enjoy seeing people suffer, it’s just that it…”
“Sells papers.” She finished the sentence for him. They had discussed this many times, so apparently she knew his thoughts before he even voiced them. He gave her a tight hug, choosing to ignore the hint of sarcasm in her voice. It wasn’t her fault. She had been awfully good about everything.
Perhaps a little too good.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and she disappeared into the dining room to clear the table. He stepped out onto the veranda, breathing in the salty evening air.
Everett curiosity about the incoming storm surfaced again. Whether it materialized into a story or not wasn’t his main concern. Stories were a dime a dozen, after all. One day’s headlines were the next day’s rubbish. Folks barely remembered anyway. They were far to preoccupied with the day in, day out stuff to pause for details, after all.
The Courier had a small audience, not much to brag about. They certainly couldn’t compete with The Daily or even The Tribune. And he would never win the acclaim of Clarence Ousley or Richard Spillane, to be sure. They were editors. Real editors.
He was, well…
He was an underdog – one who needed a break – a really great story to report that no one else had stumbled across.
But on Galveston Island? Such a story didn’t exist.
Chapter Six
Friday, September 7th, 4:14 a.m. The Tremont Hotel
Brent rolled over in the bed and fought a tormenting nightmare. The dream refused to release its hold on him. He stood face to face with his father, their eyes locked in a showdown. Who would break the ice first? Who would speak the opening word? What would they say? His father’s eyes were cold, hard. Brent began to tremble, and a sweat broke out on his forehead. “Just say it!” he cried out.
His father’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. No sound escaped his lips. Brent turned his face away, feeling the painful lump in his throat.
I’m your son. You can talk to me.
No response. Brent twisted and turned in the sheets, finally waking in a pool of sweat. He fought to forget the dream, but it would not release him. “I can’t do this,” he whispered to himself. “I can’t face him.”
He stumbled his way along the bed toward the window. He could not see the ocean from here, though he longed for it now with every fiber of his being. He found the breeze oddly soothing, though – truth be told—the waters had terrified him since childhood. He picked up his journal, writing rapidly.
The waves pound the shoreline. The glistening sand, like packed asphalt, takes the beating all too willingly. I have never been such an eager candidate. My father’s cruel words have lashed out at me over and over again, each time leaving their salty sting. Somewhere along the way, my emotions started to erode, washing away any feeling at all for the man.
Except fear. Fear lingers.
Brent paused to look at his reflection in the mirror as he turned back toward the bed. His sandy hair stuck up all over his head. He worked it with his fingers, trying to force it into position. Everything had to be perfect. He leaned in for a closer look at his eyes. They were deep brown, tinted with flecks of yellow and gold. Nothing like his father’s deep gray ones. Nothing. But, then again, they wouldn’t be, would they?
“You are nothing like me!” How often I’ve heard those words. They strike me as odd, all things considered. I wouldn’t be like him. I couldn’t be like him.
Gazing once again into the mirror, Brent couldn’t help but notice how young he looked tonight. Too young to ever face a formidable foe like his father.
***
Friday, September 7th, 1900, 5:32 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum
Henrietta tossed and turned in the bed, arguing with herself about the inevitable. She should have risen over half an hour ago. Wonder of wonders! Sister Abigail hadn’t come and pulled her from her blissful sleep. For whatever reason, she had a few moments alone. God, in His infinite mercy, had given them to her as a gift and she would cherish them.
All seemed still this morning—a blessing in disguise. But the stillness must be broken – not for the sake of the call, but out of desperation. Still weary from another sleepless night, Henri slipped down onto her knees for private morning prayers. She made the sign of the cross more out of habit than devotion, but her words were heart-felt. She meant them with every fiber of her being and she depended on an answer from the Almighty to sustain her through this valley.
“Oh, Lord, I’m such a failure. I know you’ve called me, but I’m not worthy of this call. I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. I’m not ready. I ask for your forgiveness, Father. I didn’t mean to waste your time or bring shame to the other sisters. They are amazing women, Lord. But I’m not one of them. I’m ready right here, right now, to admit that I just don’t have it in me to live a life of service. It’s not that I don’t love you – or the children.”
Pictures of Lilly Mae suddenly entered her mind. Her heart ached unbearably whenever she thought of leaving the little ones, especially that precious little girl. She loved them and they loved her, perhaps more than any of
the other sisters. She had pledged her life to these dear ones, and now she would break that pledge. Henrietta’s heart wouldn’t allow her to fulfill her obligation to them. She didn’t have the strength, the stamina.
She was a failure. The word drove her to the floor in defeat as the tears poured like a river. Failures didn’t accomplish things. They gave up. They had no other choice. Surely everyone would understand. But the children… How would they take the news of her leaving when they had already lost so much?
She took a deep breath, trying to regain her strength. Regardless, she must do the right thing – for herself. The call on her life seemed to be fading and she had to return to what she knew to be true – what felt most logical. She must return home, to the arms of her own family. They loved her. They needed her.
She needed them.
Now all that remained was telling the other sisters the news.
She was going home
***
Friday, September 7th, 1900, 12:11 p.m. The Galveston Courier
Everett paced his office, looking out of the window, searching for...
Funny, he wasn’t quite sure what to search for. Some sign of impending doom, perhaps? Dark skies? Violent, rushing winds? A few clouds would have brought him some glimmer of hope. Instead, a bright noonday sun glistened overhead. It seemed to laugh at him. Any approaching storm – any approaching story – seemed miles away.
Not too many miles, he reminded himself. And a storm of great proportions would mean evacuation for islanders. Should he go ahead and suggest that now, even without knowing? Would they leave, even at his bidding?
With the sun shining overhead, it was unlikely. Galvestonians had grown accustomed to weathering the storms. They didn’t take such things with any gravity. They would board up their houses and businesses, perhaps, but they would not go. They were tough. They had made it through others. So had he, in fact.
Everett decided to wait until he heard from Isaac Cline at the weather station before offering any advice to the public. At that point, things would out of his hands.
***
Friday, September 7th, 1900, 1:14 p.m. The Tremont Hotel
“You’re not scared to go home, are you?”
Brent Murphy pondered the desk clerk’s words. They were laced with wisdom, but he would never acknowledge such a thing. Besides, this fellow was far too nosy.
“I’m not afraid.” He avoided the man’s gaze. “I’m just...” The rest of the words refused to come.
“Well then, what’s keeping you?” the older man continued, his unusually large chin jutting forward mockingly. “You been put up here two days now. Thought you said you were going home.” His protruding brown eyes started in Brent’s, making him uncomfortable.
That’s none of your business, old man!
Brent couldn’t deny the fact that he had spent the last two and a half days shuffling back and forth between his room and the dining room downstairs. Anxious hours had been spent staring out his second floor window – worrying and wondering.
“Course, if you’re scared to go home... well then, that’s another story,” the desk clerk guy continued with an undeniable smirk on his face.
I’ve had just about enough of you now. Any minute now I’m going to put you in your place.
“I told you. I’m not scared. I’m just....” Brent stumbled over his own words.
“Just what?” The man leaned on the counter, looking down his nose at Brent.
Just avoiding the inevitable? Just rehearsing the speech over and over in my mind? Just trying to imagine how the parents I left behind six long years ago will respond to my unexpected arrival back on the island? Trying to envision their response when I tell them of my escapades in New York’s newspaper frenzy? No, not when they were so opposed to my leaving. “I don’t know,” he mumbled finally.
“For a newspaper fellow, you sure don’t use a lot of words.”
Brent shrugged. “So I’m quiet. So what?”
“Thought you said you were a big-time reporter,” the older man said with a laugh.
Big-time? Big talker was more like it. Brent’s days in New York had more than proven he wasn’t ready for big-time anything.
The clerk chuckled. “Bet you never even seen the likes of New York City.”
“Of course I have. I just don’t feel much like talking, that’s all.”
“Well, if I were you, I’d be headed home. We’ve got a storm brewing over the Gulf. Won’t be long now.”
“We’ve weathered some big ones before,” Brent stretched and yawned. “I suppose we’ll get through this one just the same.”
“Too close to shore here. I’m headed up to my sister’s place if the waters start rising.”
Brent yawned once more. The last few sleepless nights had left him in a foul mood. “I’ll read about it in the papers, old man,” he mumbled, turning toward the door.
“You will at that,” the desk clerk said smugly, eyes boring down on him. “You mark my words.”
***
Friday, September 7th, 1900, 1:23 P.M. The Murphy Villa
“So much to be done and so little time.” Gillian looked across the spacious dining room with its beautiful stenciled walls. A large oak table, with all three leaves in place, took the place of honor in the center of the room. Adorned with a hand-tatted ivory tablecloth, this piece of furniture was her pride and joy. Douglas had paid a hefty price for it. A few grumbling words on his part had only shaken her slightly at the time. She was determined to have it, and what Gillian wanted…
Well, what she wanted, she usually got.
A silver candelabra stood in the middle of the table, surrounded on every side by fresh flowers. Bright silver forks, knives and spoons, recently polished, glistened at each place setting, carefully placed on delicate lace napkins. She beamed, taking it all in.
“What should I do next, Miss Gillian?” Pearl wiped her hands on an already dingy apron and took a couple of gaspy breaths.
“Pull out the fine china, Pearl,” she instructed. “And then wax the floors. I gave you a list.”
“Yes’m. I’m just tired, that’s all.” The older woman planted her backside in a chair. “We been working nigh on three weeks now getting ready for this-here party of yours, and I’m just plum tuckered out.”
Gillian scrutinized her, then chose her words with care. “You need some vitamin tablets, Pearl,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been saying it for quite some time now. I’ll pick some up next time I’m at the Emporium. Vitamin tablets can make a world of difference. Strong blood is necessary for strong work. That’s what I always say. Now, in the meantime, you get on in there and get that china laid out the way you know I like it.” She nodded firmly, to emphasize her words.
“Yes’m,” Pearl muttered.
Gillian watched her walk away then shook her head in disbelief. “It is so hard to get good help these days.” She turned her attention back to the house. The handmade oak floor panels, laid in a complex herringbone pattern, shone brightly. Imported carpets showed virtually no sign of wear. She looked up to the electric lights along the wall, reaching up to wipe a hint of dust from one. “Pearl, you’ve missed a spot,” she called out in disbelief.
A smile crossed her lips as she caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the large pier mirror. Despite the heat, her hair remained in a clean upsweep. No proper woman on the island would dare be seen in a state of disarray, despite the weather. Gillian had grown accustomed to the high temperatures over the years, but regretted the fact that her beautiful home had no wallpaper because of the island’s battle with extreme humidity.
“Oh well.” She primped in the mirror. “It’s just as well.” The plastered walls were carefully stenciled in the most contemporary style. Perhaps one day she and Douglas would be able to afford gilded cornices in the parlor. They were the latest fashion along Broadway.
“No time to worry about that now.” She tried to stay focused. There were far more importan
t details to attend to. The butler’s pantry must be carefully arranged, with all of the china and crystal in place. Downstairs, in the large kitchen off of the servant’s quarters, the menu must be meticulously carried out.
Hosting the party of the century was no small matter.
***
Friday, September 7th, 1900, 1:52 p.m. The Galveston Courier
Everett flipped through the messy stack of papers on his desk, looking for the necessary quote to go with his article. “Ah, here it is,” he said, pulling it out to have a closer look.
“Isaac Cline, employee of the newly founded U.S. Weather Bureau, has stated that the potential of a hurricane posing a serious danger to Galveston Island is ‘an absurd delusion’,” Everett typed. “His expert opinion weighed heavily into the city’s decision not to erect a seawall, though many felt, and still feel, such a wall may be necessary to save lives, homes and businesses.” Should such a storm hit, Cline had concluded, it would do little damage. This opinion he based on the shallow slope of the Gulf coastline, which would allow the incoming surf to be broken up – causing it to become less dangerous.
Everett shook his head, questioning the weatherman’s confident stand on the matter. He knew many depended on this man for their very survival. Still, Isaac Cline remained one of the most skilled weather reporters of their day—a man who knew his business. If he felt the island was safe from hurricanes, surely there was little to worry about. Not that Cline would have called them hurricanes. Never one to romanticize, the ever-businesslike weatherman had taken to calling them tropical cyclones instead.
Everett paused, deep in thought. He knew Isaac Cline to be a good and loving man—a family man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Did he really have a right to question the authority of a gentleman who had meant so much to islanders?