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.