Queen of Broken Hearts (6 page)

At first he shrugs dismissively, then he rubs his chin. “I don't know her well enough to say. But it seems like …” He stops himself, shrugging again, and his green eyes darken. “Even if she wasn't on good terms with him, I'd think a picture of happier times would upset her.”

“Yeah, you're right. Maybe I need to think about it.” I'm quiet for a long minute, then say, “Let's get going, okay?”

When we go through the house on the way out to Lex's Jeep, I stop by the foyer table to pick up my purse and the carrot cake, then open a drawer and drop the photograph in. What was I thinking, I wonder as I step out on the porch, where sweet-smelling jasmine hangs like clusters of grapes from the latticework of the arched entryway. A carefree, smiling picture of Mack, taken long before the day that changed all of our lives forever, disturbs me so much I can hardly stand to look at it. Why would his mother want those painful memories revived just as she's beginning to heal from her terrible grief?

As I'd told Rye when I ran into him downtown, Lex's Jeep is perfect for getting to Zoe Catherine's place, which is located on the banks of a meandering, marshy creek several miles south of Fairhope, near Weeks Bay. We bump along the washed-out road so roughly that I grab the door handle and hang on. Lex glances my way to ask, “Didn't forget my notebook, did I?” I release my death grip on the door and pick up the clipboard and attached pencil, holding it aloft for him to see. “Good,” he says, maneuvering the steering wheel to avoid the worst of the potholes. “Write this down. Number one, get the damned road paved. You'll lose half your customers before they can get out here. Though I warn you, paving it's liable to cost you a pretty penny.”

“Not really. I've talked to the county about doing it with crushed oyster shells. I'm using native material as much as possible.” The briny smell of Weeks Bay blows in the open window, and I inhale it, closing my eyes in sheer pleasure.

“Oyster shells. Hey, that's good.” Lex grins his approval. He has the same appreciation of the wild beauty of this coastal area as I do. “Does Swamp Woman know I'm coming with you?” Although he knows Zoe Catherine's name among the locals is the Bird Lady, he won't call her that because he says it's an insult to birds the world over.

“She's been anxiously awaiting your recovery so I could bring you out,” I assure him. “She couldn't be more pleased that you'll be helping me.”

Although I, too, am pleased by Lex's input into the process of turning the property Zoe is giving me into a retreat center, I'm a little nervous about throwing two strong personalities like Zoe Catherine and Lex together. Both of them are so strong-willed and opinionated that they're bound to clash. Zoe has always said exactly what was on her mind, regardless of the consequences. The first time she met Lex, a week or so before his heart attack, I invited the two of them to dinner, since she'd pestered me to death about meeting this man I'd become such close friends with. Before dinner, however, Lex's beeper went off and he had to leave. The dockmaster at the marina had called with a bit of an emergency, something about a leaking fuel line on one of the boats. As Zoe Catherine watched Lex walk out the gate, I knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth, and she didn't let me down.

“So that's your Yankee boyfriend, Clare,” she said, leaning so far out of her patio chair that she almost toppled over. “Good-looking fellow, isn't he? And I can tell he's good in the sack, too. Guess you have to be on top, though. You're so little, he'd squash you flat as a pancake otherwise. Myself, I'd rather be on top anyhow.”

Before I could open my mouth, aghast, she continued nonchalantly, wagging a finger my way. “Glad to hear him say he was a linebacker in his college days at the naval academy. Stick with the defense, I always say. Best lover I ever had was a lineman at FSU. Been way over fifty years ago, but I won't ever forget his blitz. And honey, could he cover a zone.”

“I've told you, Zoe Catherine, that Lex and I aren't lovers. We're just good friends,” I protested. “
Not
that it's any of your business.”

She hooted at that. “Oh, bull. No such thing as being friends with a man. They're only good for one thing, and it ain't being your girlfriend.” She straightened up in her chair and eyed me suspiciously. “Don't tell me he's queer.”

“You're too smart for us. Truth is, he only hangs around because he wants to redecorate my house.”

She shook her head, her dark eyes thoughtful. “Naw, he couldn't be a fairy. Nobody from Maine is queer.”

I stared at her in astonishment. “That is one of the most outrageous things I've ever heard from you, which is saying a lot.”

“It's true! There are no fairies in Maine. You can look at them and tell. All the men up there look like moose. Or mooses, meese, whatever you call 'em.”

“You've never been to Maine, Zoe Catherine Gail-lard!”

She tossed her head and snorted. “Shows what you know, Miss Priss. Papa Mack and me, we went to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon. Then we drove up and down the East Coast and visited Kennebunk, Boston, Cape Cod—all sorts of Yankee places. So don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about.”

Recalling that conversation now, I catch myself sneaking speculative looks at Lex as he drives, observing not for the first time the unexpected grace of his large body, the span of his wide shoulders. He's fit and well muscled for a man of his age, and he takes pride in not working out in a gym but staying in shape with hard work, the way he's always done it, he brags, having come from a long line of lobster fishermen. Though rough and callused, his hands on the steering wheel appear not only competent but also gentle, and I suspect he'd be a thoughtful lover. Blushing, I look down at the notebook I'm clutching, aggravated at myself for allowing my mind to wander in such a direction when I've been so determined not to think of Lex that way. Damn Zoe Catherine—it's her fault.

“You've gotten awfully quiet,” he says, startling me out of my musing. I turn to him guiltily, hoping my expression won't reveal my salacious thoughts. He pulls the Jeep under a low-hanging live oak next to the creek and turns off the ignition.

“Well, well,” he says as he looks around in wonder. “So
this
is the famous Landing.”

Although the Landing is now a bird sanctuary and nature preserve, at one time it was a popular fishing camp, built by Albert Gaillard, Zoe Catherine's father, a man even more eccentric than his daughter. Zoe earned her nickname because of her passion for and work with birds; Albert was famed throughout the Gulf Coast for his skills as a fisherman. The Gaillard family came to this area in 1817 as French exiles, no longer welcome in their country after the fall of Napoleon, whom they'd supported. Our government gave the exiles land grants, and though many failed to prosper and eventually returned to France, the Gaillards stayed. Blacksmiths in their native country, they expanded the smithy to manufacture much needed tools, making a fortune in the process. A few generations later, Albert Gaillard preferred fishing to managing the family business, and he allowed the business to fold, losing the family fortune. According to Zoe Catherine, her father had gotten himself trapped in a miserable marriage with the daughter of another French family from Mobile, and he was branded a ne'er-do-well and failure by all the relatives except her. In a pattern ironically repeated years later by his daughter and only heir, Albert gave up wealth, privilege, and prestige to spend the better part of his life at the fish camp. He named the place the Landing because of the way a bend in Folly Creek, a tributary of Weeks Bay, formed a secluded inlet and a natural boat landing, where he'd built a dock and boathouse for his many fishing vessels.

In addition to building a small breezy cabin near the boathouse—Zoe's residence for several years now—Albert Gaillard also constructed a rambling building of rough-hewn cypress planks and river stones that served as the main part of the fish camp. Albert's lifelong friend and business partner in running the fish camp was an old Cherokee called Jubilee Joe, who was legendary in the Fairhope area for his ability to predict Jubilees, a fishing phenomenon occurring in only two places in the world, one of them being Mobile Bay's Eastern Shore. During the unusual conditions that cause a Jubilee, which might occur once or twice during a summer or once or twice a lifetime, hundreds of blue crab, shrimp, and all sorts of fish suddenly appear along the shoreline, as though waiting to be scooped up.

Zoe's current boyfriend, a wild man with the improbable name of Cooter Poulette, is not only a descendant of Jubilee Joe's, he also boasts the ability to predict Jubilees. Zoe says his gift has appeared only since she took up residence at the Landing. The way she tells it, on Jubilee nights when Cooter is bedded down with her, old Joe appears to him in a dream shortly after midnight, and Cooter promptly wakes her up with the news. They place a few strategic phone calls before leaving the Landing and hightailing it to Mobile Bay (evidently Cooter has some sort of mysterious radar that sends him to the right spot). Then the two of them send out the cry of
Jubilee!,
a call that spreads up and down the coastal area, from Point Clear to Daphne. The anticipated herald brings people out in droves, toting buckets, coolers, nets, and lanterns, to gather the gifts from the sea, which magically appear in the shallow waters in such numbers that all you have to do to fill a bucket is reach down and scoop them up.

With such a colorful history, it is impossible not to be affected by the Landing, and I watch Lex in amusement as he stands outside the Jeep with his hands on his hips, looking around. Even though it's time for our appointment, no sign yet of the builder, George Johnson.

After I climb out of the Jeep, my slamming of the door is the only sound disturbing the late-afternoon stillness. Even Zoe's peacocks are nowhere to be seen, although normally their raucous cries provide the background music for the peaceful setting. With a rush of excitement, it hits me anew why we're here, and I throw my arms above my head and shout, “I'm getting my own retreat site!” My cry shatters the stillness, and a snowy egret at the creek's edge lifts his wings and rises high, landing in the branches of a dead tree to glare at me.

Lex raises an eyebrow. “You scared the shit out of that poor bird.”

“Just saying hello,” I mutter as I walk around the Jeep. It's difficult to keep my excitement under control, though, and I resist the urge to throw up my arms again and dance a jig. The setting of the Landing is one of heart-stopping beauty, made up of moss-draped oaks, towering palm trees, acres of yellow and green marsh, and a lazy, brackish creek with sandy banks fringed in cattails. Beyond the creek lies the dark and mysterious swamp. We've parked near the dock, where Zoe keeps an assortment of canoes and sloops and rowboats rocking on the gentle waters of Folly Creek. Albert's old boathouse holds a jumble of fishing equipment, and I figure that's where Zoe is, on the creek fishing for her supper. I know she's here: Her truck is parked by one of the many outbuildings clustered around the boathouse. Cooter Poulette's pickup isn't there, so she's alone. Thank God. I adore Cooter, but he and Zoe together can be a tad overwhelming, to put it mildly.

Shading my eyes from the glare of the yellow sun, which will soon sink into the treetops on the other side of the creek, I walk down to the sandy bank. To my left is a bend that disappears into the foliage overhanging the creek, and even though I lean as far as possible without falling in, I can't tell if a boat is there or not. A silver mullet jumps into the air, startling me, then turns a couple of backflips before plopping back into the water with a splash. I once remarked to Zoe that no one knows why mullet jump like they do, and she said that's not true: They jump for the pure joy of doing so.

“Swamp Woman's not on the creek?” Lex calls out to me, and I walk back to stand beside him, shrugging. He's still looking around with wide eyes. Zoe Catherine's cabin is hidden by a thicket of sweet-smelling tea olive bushes and sheltered under another of the magnificent oaks that dominate the property like monoliths. The low-hanging branches of the oak seem to cradle the weathered house like a mother holding a child in her arms. Because of Zoe's assortment of birds roaming everywhere, on the grounds and roosting in the tree branches, the quiet is unusual. She allows them free rein, except for the ones that won't stay put, and for them she's provided screened pens, aviaries the size of an average room, furnished with branches and stumps for roosting. Nothing too good for Zoe's birds. Several of her black-and-white guinea hens are scattered about the yard, pecking the sandy ground, but they are noiseless as their little heads bobble up and down in their search through the scraggly grass.

“She'll be along,” I say. “While we're waiting for Mr. Johnson, I'll show you the nature preserve, then the fish camp. We won't have time to walk the trails today, but next time you're here, I'll take you through them.”

The entirety of the Landing covers almost fifty acres, some of it swamp. Zoe set up the bird shelter and nature trails in a sparsely wooded area to the south of the creek and her cabin, to provide her some privacy from visitors. As Lex and I walk down the driveway toward the sanctuary, I explain how Zoe established it as a nonprofit organization several years ago, and used to lead visitors through the trails herself. When she was in her prime and able to devote herself full-time to running it, it flourished, a hot spot for school field trips and bird-watchers. Over the last few years, Zoe has pretty much let it run itself. It hits me that the badly washed-out road indicates how she's had to let go of it. She still gets a few injured birds, though, which a retired veterinarian cares for and Zoe houses. When we enter the fenced-off area, I point out the cages.