I live on Amelia Island, Florida. With such a wonderful view of the Atlantic Ocean, I had to set my Goodbye Lie
historical novels on and near the water. Speaking of wonderful, I just
received an email from a follower who shared that Presque Isle State
Park in Erie, Pennsylvania, my hometown, has been voted by USA
Today/10Best readers as the number one Fresh Water Beach in America! USA Today-10 Best Fresh Water Beaches. I knew it was beautiful long before any votes were taken. I spent many a teenage summer on those beaches.
That, in part, is why I took the fictional Dunnigan family from Amelia Island up to Erie in my Amelia Island's Mark of a Man, to honor the place I lived and still love.
Amelia Island's Mark of a Man Excerpt
Erie, Pennsylvania - 1898
No
discussion of her lack of culinary skills took place as they rode to the tavern
in the small covered buggy with Pat on horseback beside. He answered questions
about his new career and the family, filling in all he knew from letters he'd
received, including a couple of short uninformative notes from Marie. He was
sure their mother had guilted her into writing them. So, except for Uncle
John's discourse about a long ago teaching career and cutting and selling ice
blocks from Lake Erie in winter, nothing but chatty talk was offered this time
or any of the other times Pat had visited. He was curious about Uncle John's
first wife, whom he'd never met. All Pat ever heard was that she had died
suddenly after birthing the last of four children. One by one, each had become
estranged from their father. The reasons varied from his being too tough a
taskmaster, to blaming him for their mother's death. Whatever the grounds, Pat
felt sorry for his uncle and was glad, after years of solitude, that he’d found
a woman to love again.
Aunt Jency was a youthful thing, barely
older than Pat, himself. In the short while he'd known her, he decided he liked
her. She seemed a fine and caring person, even if she wasn't much of cook. From
the looks of her husband's belly, he was finding sustenance somewhere.
They caught sight of the rough,
painted sign spelling out Crusty Anchor Pub in faded red letters. Pat
envisioned it rowdy with mariners and didn't want to see Aunt Jency put in an
uncomfortable position. To his pleasant surprise, the small place was mostly
crowded with families. The chatter was high and the aroma wonderful.
They sat at a table in the center
of the room with two dozen or so customers enjoying their meals. Twenty feet
from the window, they crooked their necks to get a glimpse of the darkening sky
and deep gray of Presque Isle Bay.
"You know, y'all," Pat
commented, "the scene outside reminds me of Florida, with the boats, I
mean."
"You'll be having your fill of
water by the time your hitch is up in the Navy."
"I know that's right, Uncle
John," Pat agreed, but silently hoped he was wrong, since water was what
floated his family's business.
"Hear that accent, y'all,"
mimicked a booming male voice. "Sounds like we got us a dirty Grayback
clear up here in Erie."
Tightly and quickly, Pat blinked,
hoping that menacing voice behind him spouted only an empty challenge.
Hags-teeth! Brawling got him where he was today. He tossed a glance toward
Uncle John who was polishing his utensils on the sleeve of his plaid shirt and
seemingly paying no mind. Jency, bending over her child, shielded the baby with
her body. Pat stood, spun on his boot, and stepped away from the table, in case
there was trouble. He tensed, saying, "The war's long past, man. If you
still want to do this, I'll give you one free swing. After that—"
Fortified by the contents of the stein
in his fist and the pretty girl seated beside him, the man with the wild
buttery-color beard and no mustache raised his voice further, while all others
quieted. "Your kind killed my people at the Battle of Olustee."
What was Pat to
say? He'd been to that particular battlefield, west of Fernandina, with
his father when he was a boy. He'd heard the story of how close to a thousand
Rebs and almost two thousand Yankees died, with it ending in a Confederate
victory. Hell, Waite, himself, fought in that very skirmish.
Then his mother's
voice drifted through his head, telling him to soften his tone to defuse a bad
situation. It made the angry person have to listen hard and, in the
listening, it sometimes calmed matters. "I'm sorry you lost family. I
honestly am. But y'all won the war, didn't you?"
The bartender
called out. "Horace Tagum. The sailor's right about that. If anybody's got
a heart full a hate, it should be him. His side lost. Your kin, whoever
they was, done what any able man should and that's fight for his cause, for his
country. I'll wager this Rebel will soon be doing that, himself."
Taking pride in
his heritage and grateful for the bartender's help, Pat answered, "Yes,
sir. I'll be on my way to Cuba, shortly."
The girl tugged
at Horace, her face pleading for him to sit down. "Hmpf!" he spit,
defeat in his tone.
"How about
we give you and Miss Julie some German chocolate cake, on the house," the
barkeep offered. "No hard feelings?"
Sizing up the
seaman, Horace was half-glad for the interference and more than delighted he'd
earned himself some free dessert. "I guess we're good," Horace said,
as his Julie squeezed his hand. Tonight would be a good night after all.
"Thanks,"
said Pat, nodding his appreciation to the barkeep.
"You're
plenty welcome. A little sugar and flour is cheaper than buying new furniture
for my place."
Pat winked as he
returned to his table in time for a beefy waiter to deliver steaming bowls of
their ordered stew. Uncle John, giving nary an acknowledgement of the incident,
sliced the loaf of accompanying beer bread and slathered each piece with butter
before passing the first portion to Jency, who still smiled in relief that
there was no altercation. They ended their meal, appreciating their vanilla ice
cream drizzled with honey and walnuts.
Perpetua stirred,
fussed, and Jency pulled forth a tea towel wrapped baby bottle. "Good,
it's still warm."
"It had best
be," the child's father said. "We don't want our little girl to be
unhappy."
"My daddy
always says girls are made for spoilin', Uncle John. I see you both have the
same philosophy."
Their attention
turned from one another and back to the baby when she let out a huge wail as
the bottle slipped from her mother's hand and pulled from Perpetua's mouth to
crash to the floor. Spikes of glass glistened in the light of the oil lamps on
the surrounding square tables.
"Oh
dear," Jency murmured, the worry heavy in her tone. "Perpetua may
still be hungry. I never imagined this happening. I haven't another bottle with
me." She lifted the baby over her shoulder and patted the child's
back. A soft burp erupted and Perpetua calmed down.
"As we're
always saying down home," Pat comforted, "another crisis averted.
Just in case, though, shall we get more milk from the kitchen?"
The man from
behind the bar was on his way to their table with a mop and broom. "We got
the milk and a place to warm it," he said. "It's the baby bottles
we're out of. Sorry."
"Shall we go
before the poor thing realizes she hasn't had a full meal?" Uncle John
ordered in the form of a question.
The buggy ride
jostled Perpetua back to sleep. Pat talked softly so as not to wake her until
her mother had prepared more milk. "Thank you both for a wonderful taste
of home." The moment he'd said it, he realized the thoughtlessness of his
remark. He would never intentionally hurt Jency's feelings about her cooking.
"I mean—being with you has reminded me of my family in Fernandina. I miss
them a great deal."
Riding up to
their front door, Pat dismounted and helped Jency and the baby down from the
buggy. He didn’t go inside, but shook his uncle's hand and kissed the back of
his aunt's on their front stoop.
"Well, son, we'll write to your
father and tell him what a fine man he has in you. Be sure and come visit us
again when you get leave. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't, sir." On his
horse, "Thanks again, Uncle."
"Goodbye, Pat." A tender
smile lit Jency's face. Perpetua whimpered. "I must see to my little one.
Goodbye."
Riding away, Pat
turned his ear in the direction of Uncle John's house. Curious, he
thought, how similar a child's cry was to that of a woman's...
So
if you're in the deep South, stop by and see the clean, bright sandy
beaches, and walk where the Dunnigans walked in the late 1800s. If
you're keen of eye, you may spy a shark's tooth, too! Should you be way
up North, say, in Erie, be sure to drive to Presque and imagine some of
those same Dunnigans looking for lucky stones, small, white oval rocks
on the shore, in the warm spring and summer or even between the dazzling
snowflakes!
Dear Readers, aka Friends,
