Queen of Broken Hearts Read online

  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.

  “These are for permanently injured birds, mostly hawks and owls, that aren’t able to survive in the wild anymore,” I tell Lex. “Only a few of them are left now, but she used to have dozens of them.” We stop before a huge cage built around two trees and housing a one-eyed owl, and Lex reads Zoe’s carefully printed sign, describing the bird’s native habitat, feeding habits, and injury.

  “Pretty impressive,” he says, putting his glasses back into the pocket of his jeans. “So Zoe Catherine is the real thing, huh?”

  “Well, she’s just an amateur ornithologist, but it’s been a lifelong passion.” I point to the trail and the cages placed at intervals among the trees, each of them with a handmade sign describing either the bird in the cage or the kinds of birds likely to be spotted on the trail. “The trail wanders around an acre or so, then returns to this spot. Let’s go to the fish camp now, and I’ll show you what I hope to do with it.”

  I lead the way from the sanctuary back to the creek, then take the path to the original fish camp, the structure that Zoe has given me to turn into a retreat site. Perched at the edge of the creek, it’s a large building on stilts, the cypress-plank walls having weathered to a silvery color that blends like camouflage into the surrounding Spanish moss and dried marsh and grayish sand. Although it’s badly outdated, fortunately for my budget, the building comes equipped with all the things necessary for running a retreat: a serviceable kitchen, a sizable gathering room, two separate bunk rooms, and concrete showers. “Rustic” is much too kind a word; although it has the air of a summer camp, it’s rough and unfinished and will need a lot of renovation. Lex and I climb the river-rock steps leading up to a porch overlooking the creek, and I stop by the front door.

  “What do you think so far?” I ask, hoping for some encouragement before leading him to the part of the project that’s so daunting.

  Lex takes his time before replying. “It’s certainly a spectacular piece of property,” he says cautiously. “That’s a plus. Folks are bound to be impressed with how pretty it is out here, and how peaceful.”

  I
look around the grounds, trying to see it as others will. “Yeah, I really want its beauty to be part of the healing process. And even if I were designing a retreat from scratch, I’d want it to be rustic. But getting this place from just plain shabby to shabby chic is going to be both horrendous and expensive, don’t you think?”

  “Didn’t you tell me that you only have to finance the renovation? That Zoe Catherine is deeding it over to you free and clear?”

  “It was her idea, too. I would’ve never thought of it. I’d mentioned in one of the articles that my dream was to have a permanent site for the retreats one of these days, and Zoe Catherine called to say she had the perfect place. It was to go to Mack on her death, becoming Haley’s one day, of course. Haley was thrilled for me to have part of the property, and she’ll inherit the rest of it. Don’t worry; our lawyers made sure all of that stuff’s worked out.”

  Lex props himself against the porch railing and folds his arms across his chest, pen and clipboard in hand. “One thing’s for sure. It’s going to take a small fortune to get this old place up and running.” He scans the building with a critical eye, taking in the state of disrepair and disuse. Both of us stare in dismay at the tin roof, which is rusted and sagging in places.

  “I’ll find out when George Johnson gets here.” I’m more worried about expenses than I’ve let on, but I’m trying to quell my panic. I can’t let a lack of funding stop me from doing this, though I have no idea how it will happen.

  Lex is regarding me with a speculative look. “Hell, if I’d known you were so loaded, I would’ve been a lot nicer to you.”

  “Believe me, I’m not,” I say with a laugh. “Mack would’ve been, but he and his father were always fighting, and Papa Mack would cut him out of his will only to reinstate him when they made up. As luck would have it, Mack’s father died during one of their bad times, and the wicked stepmother walked off with the Ballenger dough. Mack was too blame stubborn to take it to court, like Rye … ah … some of his relatives begged him to.”

  A thrifty New Englander, Lex frowns. “Then how are you planning to do this, Clare?”

  “Dory’s talking about a fund-raiser, and I’m doing a lot of bartering.”

  “Bartering?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been doing it for years. The woman who cleans my house on Thursdays? She can’t afford therapy otherwise. I’ve done similar things with gardeners, handymen, caterers, hairdressers—works well for all of us.”

  He takes off his cap and fans with it. “What you’re saying is, if the construction guys have marital problems, you’ll be in good shape, huh?”

  “One can only hope.” I turn my head at the sound of an approaching truck. “We’re about to find out—here comes Mr. Johnson.”

  When George Johnson parks his truck in front of the fish camp and gets out, throwing us a wave, Lex says in a low voice, “While you’re going through the place with this fellow, why don’t I sneak off to his house and make a play for his wife? Naturally she’ll prefer a virile stud like me to an old fart like him, so he’ll be in dire need of a therapist. Who knows, you might get the whole place done for free.”

  “Hush—he’ll hear you. Don’t forget, I’m counting on you to do a lot of the work as well. You promised!”

  He grins. “Damn right I’ll help, now that I’ve found out about your system of bartering. Except it’s not therapy I’ll be wanting in return.”

  I poke him with my elbow, hard, then turn to greet George Johnson, who holds the fate of my retreat site in his hands.

  Standing on the porch of the fish camp, estimates in hand, I watch the cloud of dust behind George Johnson’s truck as it disappears down the road, and realize that the whole time we were making up the list, I held my breath, figuratively if not literally. My once unattainable dream of a permanent retreat site is actually going to happen, and I can’t quite take it in. At first it looked impossible, and my heart sank. George Johnson shook his head sadly as we walked through the building and I pointed out what needed to be done. Although he said nothing, I could tell he was appalled by the condition of the camp. After the walk-through, we stood on the porch, and Mr. Johnson went over his notes as I studied him nervously. On impulse, I blurted out what I intended to use the building for, unable to hide my despair at the thought that it wouldn’t happen. When my voice trailed off, Mr. Johnson stared off into the distance for what seemed like forever, scratching his head thoughtfully. I dared not glance at Lex, who scribbled in his notebook as he awaited the verdict.

  George Johnson is a gruff, uneducated black man who worked for Mack before leaving to open his own construction business, which prospered once the building boom hit the Gulf area. I’d never have imagined him swayed by his emotions, but he turned to me with watery eyes and said, “My youngest girl is going through the worse divorce you ever seen, Miz Ballenger. It’s ’bout to kill her, and the wife and me, too. Maybe if she had somethin’ like them retreats of yours …” I jumped on it, saying quickly, “Oh, I’m sure we can work something out, Mr. Johnson. Matter of fact, I’ll be glad to exchange therapy, retreats, whatever she needs, as part of our dealings.” He thought for a long moment before nodding, then offered his hand, saying, “We’re gonna make this happen. I’ll give you a good estimate, and we’ll work out a payment plan to suit both of us.” I shook his hand formally, even though I wanted to throw my arms around him and plant a big kiss on his cheek.

  I can’t help myself: After the truck disappears, I’m so relieved that my eyes fill with tears. I wipe them with the edge of my T-shirt. Turning my head, I see that the sun is disappearing behind the dark silhouette of treetops, and the waters of Folly Creek have become fiery red. Beyond the bend in the creek, I spot a familiar shape.

  “Lex!” I call out. My and Mr. Johnson’s bartering must have inspired him, because a few minutes ago he returned to his measuring. “Finish what you’re doing and get out here—you’ve got to see this.”

  He sticks his head out the front door, a pencil behind his ear. “What on earth you yelling about?”

  “Hurry.” I grab his arm and begin pulling him down the steps. “This you’ve got to see.”

  “Whoa, woman,” he groans as he stumbles behind me, almost losing his footing. “The sunsets around here are something, granted, but not worth me busting my ass on these loose steps. Remind me to add them to the list.”

  “It’s not the sunset I want you to see. It’s Zoe Catherine.”

  Lex stops in his tracks. “She’s sure not worth me busting my ass.”

  I roll my eyes in exasperation. “Trust me, okay?” I hurry across the driveway, making my way to the creek as I look over my shoulder and motion for Lex to follow. Grumbling under his breath, he rambles behind me, and when I reach the creek, he comes to stand next to me, huffing and puffing in an exaggerated manner.

  “This better be good—” he begins, but I hold up a hand.

  “Hush! You’ll have to shut your big mouth to get the full effect.”

  An old wooden canoe comes into sight, rounding the bend in the creek. It’s what I had spotted from the front porch, way off in the distance. Zoe Catherine is seated at the helm, grinning at me as I stand there waving, Lex beside me with his hands on his hips. When Zoe dips the oars into the sunlit waters of the creek, it looks as though she’s dipping them into molten lava. I’m tickled to see that she’s in all her glory this afternoon. When she came to my house for dinner, she was pure Southern belle, in an antique white dress that looked like something she’d snitched from the wardrobe of a Tennessee Williams production. Today she’s decked out in army fatigues, and with heavy boots laced almost to her knees, she looks like an extra from an old World War II movie. Her white hair is in a braid down her back, and before docking the boat, she removes a wide-brimmed hat that’s tied on at a rakish angle. After a spry leap, she secures the boat to a post and removes a bucket of fish and her fishing gear, placing them on the dock. Zoe heads our way as though to greet us, but ins
tead she stops and places two fingers at the corners of her mouth, letting out a sharp, loud whistle.

  “Watch this!” I say, clutching Lex’s arm again.

  In response to Zoe Catherine’s whistle, we hear the rustle of hundreds of wings, and the once quiet setting comes alive with the sound of birds. From the trees, droves of silver-gray doves descend on Zoe as though part of some ancient biblical ritual, called forth by the Almighty Himself. The cattails sway as they release scores of ducks, which scramble up the creek bank, waddling and quacking as they make their ponderous way toward the figure in fatigues, calling them to their supper. From the yard, the guineas gobble joyously as they hurry down to the creek, their pear-shaped, awkward bodies rocking from side to side. Even the penned birds join in the cacophony, fluttering their wings against the confinement of their cages as they squawk. Then the magnificent crescendo—the peacocks and peahens, crying their terrible but majestic cry as they strut toward us, the peacocks dragging their great long tail feathers behind them. Zoe pulls out a covered metal can kept in the lean-to next to the dock and begins to scatter their feed far and wide, the motion causing the doves, which have perched on her shoulders, to lift their wings and float downward, cooing as they land at her feet. She stands poised among her beloved birds like some unholy statue of Saint Francis, decked out in boots and army fatigues by pranksters.

  I turn to see Lex’s expression, and it doesn’t let me down. “Holy shit!” he says, eyebrows shooting straight up. His eyes meet mine, and he raises his voice to be heard over the deafening clamor. “Guess that’s why she calls this place the Landing, huh?”