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  The seagulls called out to Emma with their familiar, shrill cry. From childhood she had loved their call. Living this close to the shore was such a blessing. Moonlit strolls along the beach’s edge had become commonplace, but nothing could compare to the ocean’s misty breeze first thing in the morning. However, this particular morning, she had other things on her mind, though the elusive dream just wouldn’t leave her alone.

  “You don’t have time to be thinking about men, anyway,” she scolded herself. “There are far more important things to attend to.” Emma shifted back and forth in her opinion. To marry and have a houseful of rambunctious children would be wonderful, but her career beckoned.

  Still reeling from the pride of having been chosen to attend Galveston’s school for nurses, Emma tried to remain focused. Only six years old, the school had graduated some of the finest nurses in the state. What an honor to be among them. But now that she’d graduated—actually had the certificate in her hand—the moment she had waited had finally arrived. She would walk into John Sealy Hospital and take them all by storm.

  ***

  Wednesday, September 5th, 6:42 a.m. St. Mary’s Orphan’s Asylum

  “Sister Henri, you’ve overslept again.”

  Henrietta looked up groggily at Sister Abigail’s stern face. “Oh no, not again.”

  The older woman glared down at her with narrowed gray eyes and thin, pursed lips. “Yes, again. And this is completely unacceptable. We are not running a hotel here, Sister. In case you’ve forgotten, St. Mary’s is an orphanage and an infirmary. There are children to be cared for, and patients to be tended.”

  As if she could have forgotten.

  “You have shirked your duties long enough and laziness, as we have so often told you, is not a characteristic we tolerate or admire.”

  “Yes, sister. I’m so sorry.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s just that I’ve had such a hard time falling asleep these past few nights.” The tiny cubicle of a room they had given her proved to be a far cry drearier than her bedroom at home. She did her best to adjust, but it was still a drab place.

  “A life of hard work will remedy your lack of sleep.” Abigail turned abruptly toward the door. “And the sooner you get yourself out of that bed, the sooner I can put you to work.”

  “Yes, Sister,” Henrietta said, standing quickly. “I’ll be right out.” She pulled the sheet up over her nightgown, remembering her modesty.

  The door shut firmly. A little too firmly. Abigail had made her point.

  Henrietta groaned loudly. A long day of work awaited her, one that could not be avoided. There would be no time for daydreaming about Virginia today. Instantly, tears came to her eyes. She brushed them away, determined. “Lord,” she prayed, “I know you created this Island and you love these people. Give me the same love for them. Help me, Father. I’ll never make it here without You!”

  ***

  Wednesday, September 5th, 8:42 a.m. The Murphy Villa

  Gillian Murphy ran her fingers through the warm dirt in the flower garden outside her back door, packing soil around the base of an exquisite rosebush.

  “Lovely. Just lovely.” She reached to pluck a loose brown petal from one of the yellow flowers. “Shame on you,” she scolded. “I need you healthy and strong. Take a few lessons from the Candytuft. She smiled at the robust lilac flowers to her right. Low and bushy, they had survived the summer months triumphantly. “See. They’re behaving quite nicely.”

  Gillian reached up with the back of her gloved hand to wipe the perspiration from her brow. Surveying her rather large garden, she couldn’t help but smile. To think that only two years ago, it had been a rather ordinary backyard. And now, with the help of a paid gardener and hours of work on her part—this place of beauty seemed more like a sanctuary.

  Oleanders beckoned with their wispy aroma. Rising to her feet, she drank in the heady scent. Though it had taken months of work to get them to this lovely state, Saturday night’s gala would make all of her work worthwhile. Saturday night, other upper class islanders would converge on this backyard for the garden party of the century. With tables and lanterns in place, the whole garden would spring to life.

  Mealy Blue Sage lined the beds to her left. They were hardy and abundant, an exquisite shade of violet blue. But her favorite, she had to admit, remained the Purple Horse Mint. Like Gillian, it was a native to the Southwest. Its deep purple flowers, arranged in whorls, stair-stepped up a single stem. They gave off an exotic citrus aroma that always seemed to captivate her. It would capture her guests, as well.

  “I’m a shoe-in,” she bragged as she looked about. A shoe-in for presidency of the Grand Opera Society, she meant—a position she had craved for nearly two years, ever since Millicent Reeves had filled the position.

  Gillian hummed a piece from a recent production at the Opera House as she surveyed her colorful garden. “Millicent will cry with envy.”

  A delicious thought. Not that she necessarily enjoyed provoking jealousies. But someone with a house like this deserved a reputation to match. A deliciously large slate-blue home on Broadway in the very shadow of the island’s elite—who could have asked for more? Gillian lived the good life.

  Why shouldn’t she obtain the craved position? Her father had helped finance the island’s first opera house back in 1870. As a child, Gillian had wandered through the beautiful building, examining its intricate features, loving every nook, every cranny. It had captivated her with its beauty, its mystery.

  Of course, there was much to captivate the imagination on the Island. Galveston boasted many “firsts.” The first orphan asylum in Texas stood on the Western beach in what had once been the estate of Captain Farnifalia Green. Gillian’s connection with the Asylum ran far deeper than most know, but that remained her own little secret. The Island also erected the first medical college in the state in 1886, which her father had also had a hand in building. Yes, Galveston proudly hailed as the Jewel of the Southwest.

  Her husband, Douglas, although not quite the man of money her father had been—certainly didn’t lack drive or ambition. His years at the GH&H railroad had supplied him with adequate wealth. Now, with all this scuttlebutt about oil—who knew how much money could be theirs for the taking? Oil lay deep, ready to be struck. Everyone knew it. Time would surely prove them right. Douglas was going to be there when it happened. Even now, he had his hand in the pot. So what if it kept him away for days at a time? Money had long since replaced intimacy. Not that they had ever been terribly passionate.

  Gillian lovingly fingered the pearl necklace that hung around her neck, relishing the feel of the cold, hard beads. They always brought her such satisfaction. “Yes,” she thought to herself, “business will soon be booming.” She could feel it. Gillian lived the good life—and things were only going to get better.

  A twinge of guilt stopped her joyful thoughts.

  Better? No. Until her son arrived home, nothing would ever truly be better.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, September 5th, 12:01 p.m. Along the Strand

  “What will it be, sir?”

  Brent stared at the menu for a few moments, attempting to make a decision. “Roast Beef on Rye with a Vanilla Phosphate.”

  “Yes sir.” The waiter reached for the menu, and Brent settled back to watch the crowd make its way along the busy street. Through the large plate-glass window of the Confectionary, he could easily see those running to and fro along The Strand. People in abundance.

  Horses pulled decorative carriages with style and ease. From what Brent had been told, only two automobiles existed on the island, and both of them seemed to be content to circle the boulevard, drawing attention from curious onlookers. When the trolley wasn’t fighting them for street space, at any rate. No. No shortage of busyness here.

  The Strand. How I have missed it. It embodies the spirit of the Island. People shuffle to and fro, back and forth, as if they have no limits. And yet they are limited on every side – by the warm wat
ers of the Bay on one side and the cooler waters of the Gulf of Mexico on the other. They are held captive and don’t even realize it. They remain victims of their own choosing.

  Are there stories here? I see rumors in their faces. I choose not to ask for details—and yet details confront me at every turn. They are a busy lot, these Galvestonians. Men with thick handlebar moustaches strut back and forth in their tailored, three-piece suits and proper straw hats. Shoppers march about with packages under their arms. Mothers scold precocious youngsters who lick ice cream cones and nibble at taffies. Bathing beauties, still damp from the gulf waters seem content to ride up and down in Trolley cars.

  They are such a happy lot. Simplistically happy. And why not? Many have achieved the affluent lifestyle they dreamed of here on the island. On Broadway, European opulence and luxury abound. Ironically, those in the poorer areas have a contentment that seems to far outweigh fortune. These islanders are an amazing group.

  And the fashion! How things have changed in a few short years. Women in their cumbersome bicycling costumes roll by on two-wheelers. With their ridiculous puffed sleeves and accommodating skirts, they draw the eye of any young man who might choose to give them a glance. These same silly women scurry in and out of the Haberdashery, where they purchase large, impractical hats with ribbons and feathers or bonnets with huge satin bows. These bonnets protect their lily-white skin from the harsh sun, no doubt. Long-nosed women with their waists pinched by rigid corsets saunter by with dainty parasols in their hands to keep out the sun, as well. Dressed in the latest fashion, their backsides are blown completely out of proportion by layers of ruffled petticoats. Flowing skirts brush the tops of prim black boots or high-button shoes, which adorn their tiny, delicate feet.

  Islanders. Are they really worth writing about? Is any life without catastrophe worth writing about? Have I made a mistake, coming back here?

  “Well, if it ain’t old Boomer Murphy!” The familiar voice startled him. Brent looked into the eyes of an old school chum, Kevin Porter.

  “Kevin...” Discovery. The moment of truth.

  “Do your parents know you’re back?” His old pal pulled up a chair and made himself at home.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You sly dog, you—hiding out! What have you been up to?”

  Brent spoke carefully, almost afraid that once he started speaking, the whole story would tumble out in one mouthful. “I, um—I spent some time at The World. Did a little sprinting for Joe Pulitzer.” More than a little, truth be told. He had run himself ragged in search for stories.

  “Well, I guess we all knew that,” Kevin said with a grin. “Your mother’s done nothing but brag since the day you left.”

  “Really?” Those words suddenly gave Brent a surge of confidence. “To be honest, I...”

  “You mean you don’t know?” Kevin interrupted. “She’s all but blamed the Spanish-American War on you. In a proud sort of way, of course.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, come on, man!” Kevin laughed. “Don’t you read the papers? Those sensational headlines of yours provoked a war.”

  “They weren’t my headlines,” Brent reassured him, thought he had to agree sensationalism had probably played a role in starting the war. “If it isn’t a story, make it into one!” That had been the going motto. Not his. Brent never moved in that direction. Everything in him argued against it. He fought tradition all the way to the top, which had proven to be his undoing. Pulitzer wasn’t partial to individuals with strong opinions and Brent wasn’t fond of being told what to do. Together they made an impossible team.

  ***

  Wednesday, September 5th, 12:08 p.m. Along the Strand

  Henrietta strolled down the alphabetized streets of downtown Galveston, perspiration rolling down her back under the heavy fabric of the dark habit. She pulled at the large, white collar, trying to loosen its grip on her throat. She nodded at those passing by. A few friendly shoppers spoke a cheery “hello,” but most were barely cordial. A nod of the head seemed all they could offer. Who could blame them? Approaching a nun on a busy city street must be extremely embarrassing, especially one with an ugly, oversized straw hat perched atop her head. Henrietta had worn it at Sister Abigail’s insistence. “To guard you from the perils of the sun,” the older woman had said sternly.

  Henri refused to complain, at least aloud. A trip into town had been a welcome change. Here she would make a few necessary purchases for the orphanage—her very first venture into the island’s heart since her arrival. The first two and a half miles had been by buggy. She and Sister Elizabeth had parted ways at the livery, arranging to meet again in an hour. Just one short hour. She longed for so much more.

  Henrietta fought the temptation to stare at those walking by. How lovely the women looked, with their tightly cinched waists and romantic, flowing skirts. Lovely hats framed their creamy china doll complexions, still snowy white, in spite of the ever-present sun.

  “How do you do?” A curvaceous woman walking a large poodle spoke politely. Her nose tilted a bit too high. Henri nodded a silent response and pulled Abigail’s ridiculous straw hat a little lower to cover her face.

  An elderly man stood at the corner of The Strand playing an accordion—an odd site, she had to admit. Henri took it all in—part of her envious, the other part curious. She had heard all about The Strand from Sister Abigail. “It is a wicked, sinful place,” the older woman had warned. “Nearly as dreadful as the bath houses along the shore.”

  Wicked? Sinful? Henrietta’s curiosity peaked. Regardless, she must reach the Emporium. She must cross the Jordan in order to reach the Promised Land. Stepping out into the street, Henrietta found herself nearly run down by an automobile.

  “Careful, miss!” A young man reached out to grab her arm, pulling her back. He tipped his hat at her. Henri felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

  “Thank you. I think you probably saved my life.” Their eyes met briefly. His were kind, but a little distant.

  “Happy to be of service.” He turned to walk the other direction.

  The motorist, decked out with cap and goggles and linen duster, recovered his senses and moved on. Henri made her way across the street without further complication, pausing in front of the large Confectionary where folks sat inside eating and chatting. Chocolates and taffies, in full view through the large plate glass window, caused her mouth to water. Fine foods also awakened her taste buds. Chicken salad. Roast beef. Sweet ham. She could practically taste it all. How she longed for an afternoon out with friends—and a meal, a real meal. What a welcome change it would be from the daily allotments of food she dished out at the Asylum.

  The Strand drew her in, tugging at each of her senses. How could she resist such temptation? And yet she must. Henri took one last look at the candies then forced herself to look the other way. She quickly made her way to the large Emporium and stepped inside. An odd mixture of aromas greeted her – pipe tobacco, freshly ground coffee beans and vanilla concentrate. Henrietta immediately felt at home. Fans whirred overhead, providing some relief from the heat. She took her time inside the spacious store, looking at the colorful fabrics and lady’s pattern book – her usual routine in the Emporium back at home. But home did not exist anymore.

  Henri’s eyes traveled to the candy counter, shifting madly from licorice sticks to jelly beans to chocolate covered almonds. Finally she found what she had been looking for. “I’ll have one of those.” She pointed to a peppermint stick. What a rare delicacy! She’d have to hide it from both Sister Abigail and the children, but didn’t mind one little bit.

  “Certainly, Miss—Oh, I mean Sister?” The clerk couldn’t even seem to maintain eye contact as he spoke. Obviously uncomfortable with her presence, he wrapped the peppermint in paper, eyes shifted downward. “That will be a penny, please.”

  “Thank you.” She handed him a bright copper penny of her own – which she had brought for just such an occasion. “But I do need to make a few
other purchases.” She had been sent to fetch sugar, flour and two new mops.

  “Yes, Sister. Of course.” His trim moustache twitched nervously.

  She handed the clerk her list and he quickly bundled the necessary items together.

  “Would you like to have these delivered?” he asked.

  “No thank you,” Henri said firmly. “I believe I can manage.”

  She would look quite a sight marching up the road like this—mops in one hand, bulky bundle in the other.

  Henrietta stepped outside, sighing deeply as the heat overwhelmed her. She glanced up at the sky—clear, and as blue as any sky back in Virginia. The sky could not be blamed. Frustrated, she tugged at her collar. As always, it seemed to choke the very life out of her.

  ***

  Wednesday, September 5th, 8:01 p.m. The Galveston Courier

  “You might want to hear this, sir.”

  Everett Maxwell looked up from his work at the young red-headed reporter who stood in his doorway. “What is it, Nathan?”

  “You know that storm, the one off the coast of Africa?”

  “Yeah?” Everett mumbled, distracted. Truthfully, he had given the storm little thought, though the look on Nathan’s face now convinced him there might be a story brewing.

  “I just heard Florida took a pretty hard hit. Maybe we’ll be next.”

  “You think?” Now he had Everett’s attention. “It’s crossed over into the gulf? Are you sure?”

  “Looks like it. And you know what happens when they hit the gulf. They pick up speed—and strength, too. You know what happens when those storms come over the gulf.”

  He knew, all right. The warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico usually managed to strengthen storms, which allowed them time to build gradually before they finally slammed into land. Of course, where they would land was always a puzzle. But the waves, themselves, gave a few clues. The time between them lengthened whenever a storm approached.