The Book of Eleanor (6 page)

I liked the rhythm of the elliptical and how my thighs bunched and released with every stroke of the flywheel. I glanced over at Cathy, noting how new musculature had developed in her upper arms and shoulders.

“Damn!” I panted. “What’s with the new definition? What are you doing that you’re not telling me about?”

Cathy looked at me and popped out her earbuds. I heard Bonnie Raitt’s plaintive voice emitting faintly through them. “What definition?”

I nodded toward her upper body. “Shoulders.” I breathed deeply, trying to get the proper oxygen to my thigh muscles.

“Mostly pull-ups,” she answered, panting as much as I was, but she never sweated the way I did. I invariably looked like a drowned rat by the time I left the workout floor, but Cathy always looked fresh as a daisy. Made me furious. Now I could also envy her muscular gain.

“How many?”

She grinned at me. “More than you want to do, sweetie.”

I scowled at her and picked up speed.

“How are things with the center?”

I shrugged. “What can I tell you? Frankee is relentless.”

Cathy slowed and checked the readings. She nodded as if satisfied and dismounted. Sighing with relief, I followed suit. Moments later, we sat at the juice bar sipping water. I propped a foot on an empty barstool and massaged my calf.

“What are you going to do, Ange?” Cathy asked, watching me.

“I don’t know.” I glanced at her and an idea exploded in my brain. Cathy saw my smile and recoiled.

“Uh-oh, I know that look.”

“Is your uncle still on the planning board?”

Cathy frowned. “You mean Lewis? Yeah, I think he is. What does that have to do...” Her eyes widened.

“You could talk to him.” I lowered my leg and turned my full attention on her. “I’m sure he could plead our case.”

Worry furrowed her brow. “But would he?” She shook her head. “I don’t think so, hon. You know how he is.”

“Yeah, but he’s always liked me. And what we’re doing is so important and so good for the community. Think about Fred. He’d be stuck up in that big house with only Gabby for company. And Frances. Oh, my God, she hovers. The boy can’t get in a breath while she’s around.”

Cathy eyed me with an exasperated expression. “I know how his mom is, Angie, and I know what you do is important, but it’s a marina, for God’s sake. It’s like trying to stop the spinning of the earth.” She paused and laid a palm on my sweaty forearm. “We are a tourist-based city. You should know that above all people, with your mama’s restaurant.”

I fumed inwardly, feeling her hopelessness for a few seconds, and then pulled my arm away. “Just talk to him, Cathy. What could it hurt?” I took a huge swig of water and wiped my mouth with my palm.

Cathy’s face took on that pouty look I knew so well. I also knew I’d gotten my way. “Fine. I’ll talk to him. He is such an ass, though. I hate having anything to do with him.”

She turned petulantly, and her knee pressed against my thigh for a few brief seconds. A wave of images swept across me. I stiffened. It seems that Uncle Lewis had once been way too familiar with a much younger Cathy Lloyd. How had I never picked that up before? Just as I was preparing to tell her to forget it, Cathy’s cell phone trilled and she turned away to answer it.

Some people called what I had a gift from God. I didn’t see it that way. I plucked at my T-shirt, trying to get some air beneath it to cool my sweaty body. The so-called gift never brought me much more than a lot of fancy footwork trying to explain myself.

There’s a good deal of B.S. in the mainstream media about how being psychic could help people, protect them from harm. It’s been my experience that the flashes usually come too late to do any good. I guess it could be useful after the fact. I had helped out the Los Fresnos Police Department a couple of times, looking for lost people and where bodies could be found. And like one of the bodies, floating bloated and discolored in a resaca near Blackfoot Drive, the images that came unbidden to me about people’s personal lives could be just as disturbing.

“It’s Nancy,” Cathy said. “She wants me to come over and watch the kids while she takes Eddie to the doctor.”

I was alarmed. Eddie was the youngest of Cathy’s sister’s four children and had been sickly since birth. “What’s wrong with Eddie?”

Cathy held up a calming hand. “Just a well visit, Ange. Nothing to get worked up about. He’s actually been doing pretty good, gaining weight even.”

I sighed with relief. “Oh, I’m glad. So you’re going over there?”

“Yeah, wanna come help?”

I shook my head. “Gotta work at the center all afternoon.”

Cathy rose. “Well, let’s go shower. Good workout, huh?”

I hesitated. “Listen, you go ahead. I want to stretch out this calf.”

Cathy studied me. I knew she knew I still wasn’t comfortable being naked with her. A small glint of victory shone in her dark eyes, which angered me. I hated that she still thought she was irresistible to me. Cathy really believed it, and she also believed that, although it was certainly over between us, I’d be hard pressed not to take advantage if she offered. As if.

I leaned back and smiled at her, determined to knock her down a notch. “Besides, I just saw Steph go into the locker room. You better jump on that. You know she has the hots for you.”

Cathy swiveled her head toward the locker rooms. “How do you know that?” she asked eagerly.

“Trust me,” I intoned importantly. Actually, I was fishing, but beautiful Stephanie Rutherford had recently broken up with her longtime girlfriend, Molly. It wasn’t hard imagining Cathy and Steph hooking up.

Cathy glanced at me and frowned before she walked toward the locker rooms.

I wondered what she was thinking. Sometimes I wish my so-called gift worked across long distances.

The books were unpacked at last, surprising because I’d had to pause and deal with several business phone calls during the morning as well. All the books were not placed perfectly yet, but at least the packing crates were empty and stacked in a corner near the front door. The local branch of the trucking company I had used would pick them up the following day.

I rested my forearms on the long coffee counter in the back and studied the space. I was pleased. It was large and wide open, but I had made it cozier by trundling in and utilizing some of the antique wooden displays from the side storeroom. They provided interesting focal points down each side of the room as well. Some of the larger, educational books had found a nice perch there and their covers intrigued me.

I had shelved the books in the categories Mary had set for them and placed handwritten labels on each of the shelves. I would print more permanent ones on the computer before opening day. I grabbed my phone and made a note to pick up shelf placards on my next trip into Harlingen or Brownsville.

I also began counting. Altogether, I planned to set up six conversation areas in the main room and three in the storeroom. I studied the room, visualizing as I furiously typed into my phone. I would need about ten floor lamps and a half dozen table lamps. I mentally placed four sofas and a good dozen easy chairs, as well as coffee tables, end tables and accent tables. Plus the two counters flanking the back of the room would each have two Keurig coffeemakers with racks of K-cup possibilities.

I tapped my phone against my chin, still undecided about how the customers would pay for coffee or tea. I knew I had to hire an attendant, at least one, so I needed to pay his or her salary, plus the cost of the beverages and the expensive cups. I envisioned a chalkboard behind each counter, listing the usual costs plus daily specials. That would work. I added them to my list.

I agonized over whether to buy a fancy computerized cash register, but decided to table that issue for now and just keep physical books for a while to see how things went. I did not want to charge a reading fee, never would, because in honor of Mary I wanted to provide her books to everyone, no matter their ability to pay. I realized suddenly that I hadn’t thought of her all day. I’d been busy enough to set aside my grief. I sighed.

Checking my Facebook account, I saw that several friends had commented on the pictures I had uploaded earlier that day, some wondering how I’d managed to “shop” in such an effect. Frowning in puzzlement, I called up my mobile uploads and saw the photos.

Not seeing much beyond a shelf of books, I walked to the front of the store closer to the daylight brightening the front windows. I rotated my phone to make the photos larger and that was when I saw what they meant. If you looked at the photo just right, you could see a ghostly hand reaching out to touch the spines of the books. The effect was only in one of the photos, so certainly had to be an errant shaft of sunlight that looked hand-like.

I laughed at the illusion and typed in a joking response even as I stretched my shoulders and neck, deciding I’d had just about enough work for one day. I glanced toward the sky, through the front windows, and saw there was still a good bit of daylight left. With my back and legs cramped from lifting stacks of books, I quickly left the Bookmark and locked up, eager to walk off the stiffness and explore my new home.

The foot traffic in Lighthouse Square had lessened markedly as the day eased into afternoon. Though the parking slots in front of the lighthouse were all filled, I knew the passengers were likely settling in at the string of restaurants surrounding the area.

As it was getting late, I made a beeline for the crosswalk and crossed over the four lanes of highway. After walking two blocks, I came to the mesquite-shaded entrance of the Port Isabel Museum, a place I had read about in a brochure picked up at The Fat Mother.

I passed through a small gift shop and paid seven dollars to enter. As soon as I stepped into the museum proper, I was surrounded by shell artifacts from the 1500s. My interest was piqued as I’ve always been something of a history buff. I studied the conch shells the natives and early settlers used as hammers and the sharpened shells they used as scrapers and knives. The ingenuity of early man never failed to amaze me. I also saw a fossilized mammoth tooth as big around as my thigh. The thought of a creature that size was daunting.

Settling the lower Rio Grande Valley had been hit or miss for a good while, it seemed. The Spaniards had numerous deadly encounters with the natives. Not until the late 1600s was a successful colony set up near Port Isabel. The next case held photographic and artistic displays about the development of ranches and the establishment of the
vaqueros
or Mexican cowboys.

I was intrigued to see that most of the ranch land in the lower Rio Grande Valley had been granted by Spanish royalty to a select handful of families. These families set up huge cattle ranches throughout the area, including what would become Padre Island. I had no idea the island had been a cattle ranch for so long.

I learned that Texas and Mexico fought for independence from Spain using pirates and smugglers to get valley products to ports such as Corpus Christi and New Orleans. Land disputes led to the Mexican War of 1846 which set the Rio Grande River as the boundary dividing the two nations. I studied lists of soldiers’ names and imagined the young, eager faces falling under enemy fire.

I followed the serpentine layout of the museum and chased the history of Point Isabel which became Port Isabel in 1927. I learned about the steamboats on the Rio Grande, transporting cargo north and bringing back goods to the valley. The Civil War placed South Texas in a strategic tug of war that caused it to suffer a good bit of destruction. The 1870s brought the rise of railroad barons and the 1900s saw South Texas dealing with the Mexican Revolution, and later becoming a prime fishing and tourist destination. My head was spinning by the time I finished the last display and stepped out of the coolness, back to the steaming sidewalk of Port Isabel.

I made my way back across Highway 100 and entered the old light keeper’s cottage where the Port Isabel Chamber of Commerce had established a tourist bureau. I checked out a few brochures, picked up a detailed history and a phone book, walked across the lawn, mounted the ten or so steps, and walked into the dimness of the lighthouse. Black iron stairs spiraled into the air above me.

“Think I’ll make it?” I asked the young college student minding the table just inside the entry.

“I think so,” she said with a shrug. “You look pretty fit.”

I laughed at her. “Okay. Well, I’ll give it a try.”

“Just remember to hold onto the railings,” she cautioned.

I took one more glance at the cautionary placards, especially the fact that there were almost seventy steps to the top, and began the trek.

By the intermediate landing, I was breathing hard and feeling just a touch claustrophobic. I made it all the way to the supply room level, and up the ladder into the lantern room. From there, the view was breathtaking.

The Queen Isabella bridge stretched into the distance. South Padre Island, with its friendly fat hotel fingers reaching toward the sky, hovered on the horizon like a peaceful daydream. I noted the huge fishing pier that stretched into the bay and the stylized pirate ship moored at the end, and made a mental note to check it out on my next exploratory foray.

Over to my right, I saw a huge smiley face and realized it was a parasail following a speedboat, both small from my vantage point.

I moved to the other side of the lantern room. The town of Port Isabel sprawled before me in all its historic waterfront glory. I saw bristling, needle-masted shrimpers off in the distance, resting at dock in the many little inlets that made up the calm union of land and ocean. I stayed there enjoying the beauty and the movement below until I heard a young couple mounting the stairs beneath me. When they entered the lantern room, I greeted them and made my way carefully back down to terra firma.

I strode down the grassy knoll and let myself into the Bookmark, my mind whirling with the information I now knew about my new home. Port Isabel had a strange and wonderful history, and I was glad I’d chosen to live there.