Galveston Between Wind and Water - By Rachel Cartwright Page 0,22
hushed tones. “You know I have complete respect for your father and his wishes, but I wish he would leave us alone more often.”
Gabrielle flashed a brief coy smile and stepped to the window. Already this business of having to choose between Timothy, Liam, and Hadlee was beginning to lose its attraction. Every prospect started with promise but after a few minutes of idle parlor chit-chat followed by the crafted casualness of a stroll down to the boardwalk, it was all she could do to keep from running headlong into the waves to revive her senses.
In the end, she always returned to her dressing table and dropped the lace-wrapped bouquets into the wastebasket. Would her meeting with Doctor Hellreich be something as easily tossed aside and forgotten too?
Timothy cleared his throat again. “I would like to sit down and talk with you, Gabrielle.”
She looked at the easy chair with plush comfort that always invited guests to stay longer than need be. “Father will be coming back.”
“Yes, but only after he feels he’s given us enough time to be alone.”
Gabrielle rubbed her middle finger against her thumb. “You say that as if it were an unwritten rule.”
“Your father only cares for your happiness as do I.”
“Do you suppose, then, that he might take time to find out what makes me happy?”
Timothy gestured with his hands. “Where in this magnificent home is there anything that doesn’t show the love of a devoted father for his beautiful daughter?”
Gabrielle had no ready answer to his question. She knew her father loved her in his way, and she adored him. She avoided Timothy’s penetrating gaze by adjusting the lace tablecloth on the rosewood table under the window. “It’s too hot inside for playing cards. I would like to go for a walk. I’ll see if father is ready.”
“Gabrielle? Please, I need to speak with you alone.”
She turned on her heel. “So what do you think about the seawall? I may not have any say in the matter, but I’m pleading with father to let me sit in on the discussions. I think the subject is fascinating.”
Timothy gazed at her for a moment longer. “I would like to accompany you—with your father’s permission of course—to the lecture on Thursday night. Doctor Hellreich sounds like the only man who understands how the twentieth century will bring powerful changes that will affect all our lives.”
Gabrielle stared at him, the ticking of the large clock the only sound in the room. “I understand that, Tim, but I don’t see why—Dear . . . Listen to me prattle on like an old ninny. I’ve completely lost track of the time. I promised to stop by and see how Hadlee is doing. Our friend has a touch of the fever.”
Timothy exhaled with noticeable frustration and glanced at the floor. “I see. As you wish.” He glanced at the grandfather clock near the fireplace. “Please give Hadlee my warmest regards. We all hope to see him at Bret’s party if he’s feeling up to it.” He lingered by her side in an uncomfortable silence. With out warning, he bent to kiss Gabrielle awkwardly on the cheek.
Gabrielle stepped away at the last moment, turning her head away to conceal her embarrassed blush.
Timothy cleared his throat and left the room.
Gabrielle waited for the sound of the front door closing then walked to the window and opened it. In the front yard across the street, a washing woman was folding laundry into a wicker basket.
From over the dunes came the faint crash of the rising breakers, and beyond the wharves and warehouses she pictured a ship riding at anchor with all its canvas spread to the first strong wind that could carry her over the waves.
To anywhere.
Anywhere but here.
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