Or their mother. Their father was seldom home. He drove a truck for a big corporation and the more he drove, the more money he made. Naomi was happy to keep the girls during the summer months. It was free babysitting for her daughter and precious time for Naomi.
She told them to stay in the house when they finished eating. As she did seven days a week, she left her modest home, walked off the porch and down the front sidewalk to a street called Rigg Road. It was a mix of asphalt and gravel, same as most streets in The Docks. She spoke to her neighbor across the street and waved at a kid on a bike.
This was her neighborhood, and each morning she asked God’s help in guiding her to make it a better place. Two houses down, she turned in to a gravel alley, one barely wide enough for a small car, though she had never seen a vehicle going to Lovely’s place. It was a small four-room home that had been built decades earlier for storage. Lovely had painted it bright yellow, her favorite color. The trim changed every three or four years. Now it was a royal blue, same as the boards on the narrow steps. Baskets of flowers — petunias, lilies, roses — hung in small clusters around the porch.
Naomi called out, “Say, Lovely, are you alive in there, girl?”
The reply came through the screen door. “Alive and kicking. Working on another lovely day.” Naomi walked through the door and the two clasped hands. “Thanks so much for coming. Would you like coffee?”
“Of course.”
Seven days a week she arrived at 8:00 a.m. The coffee was not only brewed but already poured and mixed with a little cream. They sat on the dusty sofa and took a drink.
“How are your girls?” Lovely asked.
“Bright and beautiful as always.”
“I’d like to see them today.”
“We’ll go in a moment if you want.”
Lovely had miscarried at the age of eighteen. After that, her husband lost interest in her and went to live in Jacksonville. After he died, she never remarried and, having no kids or grandchildren of her own, enjoyed doting on Naomi’s granddaughters.
Then it was on to the weather, followed by a summary of the ailments currently afflicting their neighbors. Naomi grew more serious and said, “Mr. Cable from the bookstore called again yesterday, said he would like to see you.”
“He’s such a nice man.”
“Yes he is.”
“Did he say he’s sold some more of my books?”
“Didn’t mention that.”
“Why is he calling?”
“I don’t know, but he did say there were some people who wanted to meet you. Said there was something about Dark Isle.”
One of their rituals was to read the island’s newspaper together three times a week. They especially enjoyed the church news and obituaries. They had read the stories about the proposed development. “Tidal Breeze” was already a dirty word.
Gertrude lived two streets over and had been dying of cancer for years. Her illness had become so protracted that many in the village suspected she wasn’t really that sick. Nevertheless, she was continually talked about and prayed over by her friends.
To move away from the unpleasantness of Dark Isle, Lovely asked about Gertrude and they spent a few worrisome minutes on that, which led to an update on Abe Croft, their former minister, who was nearing one hundred years old and definitely dying.
Miss Naomi said, “I need to check on the girls. Won’t you stop by for lunch?”
“I’d like that. Thank you. And tell Mr. Cable I’ll see him in the morning, if that’s okay with you.”
“Wonderful. The girls will be excited. They love the bookstore.”
Lovely’s two black cats eased into the room and eyed Naomi suspiciously. They kept their distance and perched themselves on a windowsill while watching the women. They didn’t tolerate guests in the house and Naomi loathed them as well. It was time for her to leave.
“Thank you for the coffee. I’ll call Mr. Cable and arrange a meeting.”
Both women stood and walked through the screen door and onto the porch. They hugged tightly and said goodbye as if they might never see each other again.
3
At dusk the heat began to break and Lovely needed her walk. As usual, she’d spent most of her day with her plants. She tended her flower beds in the front yard, and around back she grew more vegetables than she could ever consume. When the sun was high and she needed to rest, she retired to the front porch where she sat beside a window fan and read books from the library. And napped. At eighty, her naps were getting longer.
But so were her walks. Her favorite was a stroll through the streets to the harbor where the old canneries sat idle and neglected. She had worked there as a young woman, shucking oysters for ten cents an hour. She walked past two shrimp-packing plants that still ran all day and night and paid a lot more. At the end of the pier she gazed at the still water and enjoyed an orange sunset. In the distance the bridge to the mainland was busy with vehicles coming and going. Below it the Camino River moved slowly. When she was a child there was no bridge, only a ferry.
And far away, or as far as she could see at that moment, there was a dark speck of land. Dark Isle, the place of her birth, the resting place of her people, sacred ground for her. She owned it, as her people had for many years. They had fought off the white men with spears and clubs and then guns. They had shed tears and blood and never surrendered.
It was no surprise that the white men were back now, threatening once again. It would be her last stand. She was too old to fight much longer. And, if they were successful now, and they flattened and paved the island and threw up buildings, there would be nothing left for her, nothing to keep fighting for.
The fight would not be fair. They had the power and the money.
She had nothing but the curse. Nalla’s curse.
4
After a rigorous day of loafing on the beach, the newlyweds retired to the shade of their porch and a glass of lemonade. The July sun was still white hot and had scattered most of the beachcombers. It was time for either a nap or a swim in a pool. Mercer’s cottage had no pool, so she settled on the notion of a nap. Thomas, after a month of matrimonial bliss, was worried that being married might cause him to gain weight. They were certainly burning their share of calories around the house and they ate and drank as little as possible. Most of his married buddies, though, had gradually chubbed-up over the years. Mercer assured him he looked just fine. Nevertheless, he had bought a new dirt bike and enjoyed riding in the surf at low tide. He said he’d be back in an hour.
She dozed for moment, then had a thought. Nalla’s story was fixed in her mind and hard to shake. At random times, Mercer would remember a scene and practically stop in her tracks. She was working on a book proposal to send to her agent but it was far from finished. In fact, she still wasn’t sure how and where to begin. Thomas had convinced her to tell the real story and stay away from fiction. The truth was fascinating enough, and the twist of a corporate land grab made it so compelling it was almost irresistible.
One scene haunted her.
5
Nalla and the other women and children were fed and clothed. One of the men was Joseph, who was slightly older and seemed to command the respect of the others. He was also from the Kongo and spoke Bantu.
Nalla told their story of the slave ship and the storm. The capture, kidnapping, and voyage across the ocean were experiences they knew well. How could they forget?
Nalla had plenty of questions of her own. Joseph explained that they, the only inhabitants of the island, were runaway slaves from Georgia, where slavery was legal. They were now in Florida, Spanish soil where slavery had not been legalized and runaways were safe. Nalla and the others from the Venus had been lucky enough to wash ashore on Spanish territory.