Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County (13 page)

I had to hide a grin that was creeping up the corners of my mouth. Darryl was handling this all wrong. I knew it before he did; I could feel it in the crowd.

An old-timer with skin like cowhide elbowed his way to the front and struggled up to the platform. “Don't you go talking down to us,” he shouted into the microphone. “We gonna believe what we want to believe. You're a dog-gone fool. You're playing games with the devil and we aren't going to allow it!”

The crowd cheered like their team had just scored a touchdown against Punta Gorda High. Clearly, Darryl was losing. If everyone continued on this path, the people of Naples were turning their anger from Jackie and the newspaper to Darryl, where it belonged.

I peeked at Jackie and could see she was biting her lower lip. Poor gal, it was killin' her not to get into the fray.

Just when it seemed the sheriff might need to tell everyone to settle down, the mayor stood up and prevailed upon us to behave in a more Christian manner. “We are civilized people,” he scolded, holding the microphone so close that it screeched and hurt our ears. “Sorry about that,” he said. Then, “We must remain calm and listen to our speaker. These are the leaders of our community, and we should be respectful.”

“Darryl Norwood ain't a leader!” a youthful voice called from deep within the crowd. “We never elected him to nothin'!”

The Reverend Wesley Whitmore from Sweet Savior Baptist Church took the microphone from the mayor, who didn't look at all sorry and retreated quickly to the back of the stage. “I have something I would like to say,” the reverend said in a voice deep as a bullfrog's in mating season. “Talking about haints and conjuring and black magic and whatnot is not worthy of this community.” He received a polite round of applause mostly, I noticed, from his parishioners.

Darryl tried to take advantage of the preacher's comments. “Thank you,” he said, leaning into the microphone, still in the
clutches of the preacher. “Y'all should listen to Reverend Whitmore here.”

But the good reverend snapped back. “Now just a moment,” he said to Darryl, “don't presume to pretend that I'm endorsing your project. I'm just saying that folks should stop this nonsense about . . . well, about an Indian spirit. And another thing,” he added, “I don't think it's nice that you're planning to call the place Dreamsville Estates when Mrs. Jackie Hart doesn't approve. She's our Miss Dreamsville, and it's disrespectful to use a lady's name against her wishes, and to profit from it.”

This was a surprise. Of course, Reverend Whitmore was new here. He'd never heard Jackie's at-times risqué radio show and had missed the uproar she had caused.

Defending a lady's good name was a surefire way to stir up a crowd anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, and it most definitely had that effect in good old Naples. The crowd applauded warmly. Jackie, seizing the moment, waved and mouthed, “Thank you.”

Then another preacher stood up and the Reverend Whitmore handed over the microphone. “My name is Reverend John McDaniel,” he said politely, “and I'm the new interim pastor at Airport Road Methodist. I am from North Florida and I was educated in Chicago. I am in full agreement with Reverend Whitmore here, but I'd like to add something else, if I may. Last month, as I traveled nearly the length of our great state with my family to arrive here at my new appointment, I was alarmed at the pace of development in so many places. Why is this? I asked myself. Is it
progress,
as some would say, or is it worship of that false God,
money
? And, what are the consequences? These undeveloped areas are a gift from God, my friends. Remember your scripture—we are
stewards
of God's earth.”

The mayor jumped up from his seat and grabbed the microphone a little roughly from Reverend McDaniel. “Now let's get back on track here,” he said. “This project is a mighty good thing for Naples. Dreamsville Estates will attract people from all over the United States. The Chamber of Commerce has already agreed to sponsor Welcome to Dreamsville signs at every entrance to Naples. Our airport needs work, and we are fortunate that one of our most eminent citizens, Mr. Toomb, has agreed to oversee some improvements there. Neapolitans, we must think of the big picture! We already have two major assets—the fishing pier and the swamp buggy races. Three of the world's great religions—Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians—are represented right here in our little town. We are a welcoming place and it's about time we move forward into the nineteenth century.”

“What? Don't you mean twentieth century?” someone hollered from the back of the crowd, which exploded into laughter, the kind with a mean edge to it. Emboldened, the heckler added, “Just what century do you think we be livin' in, Mayor? I thought this was 1964. Are you saying this is 1864?”

The mayor looked upset and ruffled like a hen that's being bothered by a rooster. “Aw, heck, you know what I mean!” he said. Now that even the mayor had been set back on his heels, it was fair to say that Jackie, the
Naples Star
, and Seminole Joe had won the day, with Darryl the loser. So far, so good.

•  •  •

JUDD TOOK OFF FOR CIVIL
Air Patrol, and Jackie and I, feeling a little triumphant, went to Mrs. Bailey White's house. Our good mood soured immediately, though, because, of all things, Mrs. Bailey White was peeved that Jackie had mentioned her
in the newspaper column. Jackie admitted that the line about the “model citizen who has lived in Collier County for all of her eighty years” and who feared the return of Seminole Joe was indeed a reference to Mrs. Bailey White. What I didn't get—and I could see that Jackie was puzzled, too—was that Mrs. Bailey White's name had not even been mentioned.

“I do not like the whole world thinking of me as eighty years old,” she said, brushing a piece of lint off her skirt.

“But no one will know it's you,” Jackie said, trying to sound reassuring.

“Well, I know it's me, and that's enough,” Mrs. Bailey White sulked. “A woman should never reveal her true age. Do you know what they say about a woman who will reveal her age? That she'll reveal everything else, too! And I wasn't raised like that.”

Plain Jane, who had been reading the final pages of
To the Lighthouse
, set down her book.“Mrs. Bailey White, I don't see why—”

“And I'll tell you something else,” Mrs. Bailey White interrupted. “A woman should only be in the paper two times in her life—when she gets married and when she dies.”

“But Mrs. Bailey White,” I started but stopped short. What I wanted to say was,
But you must have been in the newspapers plenty of times when you were arrested, tried, and convicted for shooting your husband back in the day.

“Please believe me, Mrs. Bailey White, I am very, very sorry,” Jackie said, as I prayed silently for an end to this uncomfortable conversation. “It was stupid of me. I should have thought of it. And it won't happen again.”

“Well,” Mrs. Bailey White said slowly, “I guess maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'm being too thin-skinned. All this talk
about Seminole Joe is getting on my last good nerve. And, yes, I know it's my fault because I'm the one who brought him up—”

“Oh, no,” Jackie said quickly. “This is my fault.”

“No, it's not,” I said, wondering why women were always quick to blame ourselves. “It's that no-good, good-for-nothin' former husband of mine. That's whose fault it is. He started all this mess and everyone's in an uproar because of it. And you know what? The louse is getting married again.”

There were sighs and groans enough to fill a graveyard on Halloween. “Oh, Dora,” Plain Jane said, speaking for the rest. “That's too bad. Or, at least I think it must be . . . Oh dear, how do you feel about it?”

“Not great, especially because she's a Northern gal,” I said miserably.

“Why does that make you feel worse?” Jackie asked.

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because I just assume she must be smarter and prettier than me,” I said.

“She's probably meaner than a wet hen,” Mrs. Bailey White said. “Where's she from?”

“Some town in New Jersey called Basking Ridge. That's what Darryl said.”

“Oh!” Jackie said. We looked at her in alarm. “Basking Ridge—that's the place where Darryl's investors live! That's what Ted said.”

We were puzzling through the implications of this until Plain Jane finally put it into words. “So maybe Darryl is marrying into the family that is paying for his real estate development?” she said aloud.

That was a disgusting thought. The possibility of Darryl marrying for money could mean he was even more of a low-level creep than I thought.

I hadn't even thought of bringing up the topic of Darryl and his remarriage but I was glad that I had. Sharing my distress about Darryl's remarriage reminded me that I loved my friends. I
needed
my friends. And, despite the depressing reason for my return, at this moment I was thrilled to be back. I was still a member of the Collier County Women's Literary Society, and it felt awfully good.

T
he airline business was far more complex than Ted Hart had anticipated. First of all, there were the unions, the most obstinate being the pilots' organization which made it difficult for Ted to create schedules that made any kind of sense from a financial point of view. Then there was the government (pronounced
guv-mint
up in Tallahassee, Ted's new home away from home). The state didn't have many regulations when it came to commercial airlines but at the federal level, administrators kept close tabs.

To Ted it seemed like interference until one of the pilots, who had flown so many missions during the war that it was a miracle he survived, gave him a wake-up call on the tarmac in Orlando. “All you talk about is profit margin! What do you want us to do, kill the passengers?” the pilot yelled. And for a moment, Ted thought he was about to get shoved straight into a propeller of a DC-3. Afterward, he realized the pilot had been right. He—Ted Hart, a blue-collar son of Fall River, Massachusetts—had put money ahead of people. It was one of the worst moments of his life.

He walked away from the runway and lit his new pipe, which he'd purchased after breaking the old one. He hadn't been able to give up smoking but at least he quit a cigarette habit. If only Jackie would do the same. The woman smoked like a chimney. The kids complained about it all the time. The Surgeon General's announcement earlier that year about a strong link between cigarettes and cancer had an impact on him, but not Jackie.

Maybe, Ted thought, he should throw in the towel. All he really wanted was to go home, not that Naples was “home,” exactly, but that's where Jackie and the kids were living and waiting for him. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He'd done so much of that in the Army. He'd thought that once the war ended he would no longer have the feeling that the present was to be endured. The future was when life would really start. But it didn't feel that way for a New England boy living mostly in a hotel in Tallahassee, Florida.

Things were not going well for Jackie. She was upset, and he didn't blame her.

Darn that guy Darryl Norwood. Ted was furious, not so much about the possible destruction of the river but the fact that some lowlife redneck was exploiting his wife by calling the new development Dreamsville Estates. That was nerve, even by Yankee standards. So much for Southern honor! Ted had a strong desire to settle the dispute the way it was done in the Army—by presenting Darryl Norwood with a knuckle sandwich right to the jawbone.

On Jackie's behalf, Ted had swallowed his pride and talked to his boss Mr. Toomb. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the old geezer refused to interfere with Darryl Norwood, shrewdly pointing out that if Darryl's development was successful, the airline would be, too.

Mr. Toomb, however, agreed that Ted could use his connections and time on the job to try to find out more about Darryl's backers. So Ted figured that on his monthly trip up north, he would make the short drive from New York to this place called Basking Ridge, New Jersey, and see if he could get some background and, ideally, maybe even meet the investors—information that Jackie wanted as well.

Ted wondered what it was about Jackie that made her get in over her head. He wanted to help her, and he wanted to be on her team, but he'd come to realize that part of being married to her was coping with her impulsive side. Had she been like this in Boston? He couldn't even remember anymore. The past two years in Collier County overshadowed all the years that came before.

Meanwhile, the kids were getting older. His daughters were in a perpetual state of warfare with Jackie, and although this was worrisome Jackie assured him it was normal for teenage girls. Judd spent much of his time steering clear of his sisters and Jackie when he could, but the result was that the boy was basically raising himself. He'd joined Civil Air Patrol, and he'd been looking after Dora Witherspoon's turtles, so he was busy. But he needed a father's guidance. A father who was home.

Ted had hoped his family would adjust, and until this new problem with Darryl Norwood there'd been some progress. When they arrived in the summer of '62, he and Jackie had the worst fight they'd ever had. If only she hadn't encountered that palmetto bug sitting on the toilet seat on the very first night in their new home. After the screaming was over she'd said, “Ted, we need to talk about this
palace
you've brought us to
here
in this
cultural mecca
.”

Judd had settled in fairly quickly. But for Jackie and his
daughters, it was a struggle. At least, Ted reasoned, the girls had each other. After all, they were twins. But they were not happy; anyone could see that. As for Jackie, she'd had some spectacularly bad moments but at least she'd made some friends with that book club. And ever since she'd put Naples on the map with her
Miss Dreamsville
radio show—which, thank God she wasn't doing anymore—the local people seemed more tolerant. For a while, she'd even been something of a hero.