Second Nature

Chapter 12

12 

The red sun turned the gulf waters into rippling lava; clouds ignited above the western sea like sculptures on fire. Even the white sands reflected a ruddy glow along the shoreline of Coolahatchee Bay. Cade took the helm from Jimi and eased the throttle back until the engine burbled. The dive boat cruised slowly past a rugged wall of coquina that formed the bay's wide mouth. Riding high on the surge tide, the boat cleared the reef at the bay's entrance by a dozen feet. Cade looked down through clear water at jumbled slabs of coquina as big as Cadillacs sliding under the keel.  

On the northern arm of the bay's nine-mile crescent of shoreline, a forest of masts bobbed lightly at Coolahatchee Bay Yacht Club, and Cade heard mast lines jingling against hollow aluminum. Willingham Marina, located mid-point in the crescent, catered to middle-class recreational boaters. And at the bay's southern end, rust-stained shrimp trawlers and grubby fishing boats docked at Taylor's Wharf while their crews unloaded catches.  

Several travel writers had pointed out that from north to south, the three tiny beach communities along Coolahatchee Bay slid from rich to middle-class to poor as neatly as a line graph in a sociology textbook. At the northern end, called The Palms, fancy vacation homes on stilts and a twelve-story condominium of flamingo-pink stucco (Cade thought it looked like a giant Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat) crowded the shore near the yacht club. By contrast, the trailers and clapboard cabins sprawled around Taylor's Wharf were architectural classics of the Southern poverty school. And between these two extremes, the houses in the Marina neighborhood were modest cinderblock shoeboxes. 

Nearly all the residents at The Palms-the lawyers, golf pros, surgeons, bankers, and CEOs-were white, and nearly all the folks at Taylor's Wharf-the shrimpers, oyster harvesters and grouper fishermen-were black or Hispanic. Any one of the floating castle motor yachts of the moneyed class cost more than the entire fishing fleet anchored off Taylor's. 

Cade's mother, Elaine Fairchild, had been wealthy and white, a daughter of The Palms; his father, Samson Seaborne, poor and black, a son of Taylor's Wharf. They met on the bay when her parents' 160-foot motor yacht ran aground at low tide on the reef at the bay's entrance. Samson Seaborne owned a marine salvage business and had managed to stabilize and rescue the luxury vessel after the reef tore a four-foot gash through the hull. Eight months later, the interracial lovers defied both sets of parents by getting married-the scandal of the times. Their further act of defiance was to stay on the bay instead of fleeing the battle, although the couple did settle in Marina, the town in between the war zones. 

Cade sighed. He wished he had gotten the chance to know his parents as an adult. They were still his heroes. Always would be. 

Peering beyond the crescent beach, Cade could just make out the Victorian wedding cake architecture of Cool Bay Inn crowning a hill above the town of Marina. His sister, Lana, owned and operated the inn, converted from a turn-of-the-century mansion called Stanton House. 

The mansion had been built in 1901, when the sprawling Fairchild plantation had dominated the north end of the bay and former slave shacks still dotted the south end. In the unpopulated midland, the railroad tycoon, George Stanton, had ordered his workmen to build Stanton Hill to set a summer home upon, so that guests could overlook the bay from its wide porch. The tons of dirt excavated to make the hill created Stanton Pond, a popular local swimming hole a quarter-mile behind the house.  

The house had been George's wedding gift for Lady Francis, his 18-year-old English bride. The Stantons had hosted Parisian-style soirées and elegant dinner parties with European string quartets as entertainment. Henry Ford and Thomas Edison had been among their regular guests. Throughout the 1930s, rich Yankees considered Stanton House an oasis of culture on the Florida Gulf Coast. But after the death of her husband in 1939, followed by the start of the Second World War, Lady Francis had given up on humanity and withdrawn into solitude. The mansion, deprived of its life force, had fallen into decline like the childless widow herself. 

While in high school, Lana had become the old curmudgeon's caregiver, and over time, her intimate friend. Lady Francis died at home on her ninety-seventh birthday, bequeathing Stanton House to the teen-age girl who had restored her faith in people. 

At age nineteen, armed with How-To books and videotapes and a crew of hired workers, Lana had turned Stanton House into Cool Bay Inn and injected the new bed & breakfast with her soul. The major travel guides to inns in the U.S. ranked Cool Bay Inn among the best. With its name painted on its dark, shingled roof in large white letters, the landmark welcomed home sailors as they returned from sea. 

It welcomed Cade now. He glanced back at the mystery woman he was bringing home to his sister. He smiled. Lana the Earth Momma would know what to do with such a tragic creature. Hmm, edit that thought-she'd know how to greet Gen. 

* * * 

The sun had turned into a molten crimson ball rolling down the edge of the world. Gen marveled at the colors of sea and sky. She had enjoyed works of abstract impressionism in coffee table art books, but the scale of this canvas was the dome of heaven, and the art was beyond the scope of human hand and brush. 

A feeling of awe returned that she'd encountered many times since awaking on the beach. Again, she wondered if others felt the same thrill she experienced at the beauty of nature. Maybe they gloried in it quietly, even as she was bowing now in her heart.  

Did Cade treasure the sunset? Did he feel tears of joy welling up? She looked at his broad back, muscles rolling under light brown skin with the relaxed strength of a tiger. Cade himself was a work of art. Did he appreciate that? 

As if in answer to her thoughts, Gen heard, "Gorgeous sunset." She looked as the girl, Haven, plopped down beside her. "I've never seen one prettier," Haven said, "and I watch them all." 

Sun-streaks shot through Haven's wavy brunette hair like lightning bolts. Her skin was rich, smooth caramel, and her lips were puffy slices of plum. Gen thought she looked adorable. 

"Cade's my daddy." 

Gen smiled. "Yes, I know." 

"My Aunt Lana says all the women in Cool Bay think he's pretty hot." 

Gen's stomach gave a little twist. "I'll bet they do." 

"See the Cool Bay Inn?"  

"Yes." 

"Aunt Lana owns it, and we all live there. Well, Jimi doesn't stay in the big house; he has his own separate cabin in the back that used to belong to servants." 

"It looks lovely." 

"Yeah, and I bet my aunt asks you to stay with us for a while. She's always taking in wounded things." The girl's face froze. "I mean..." 

"It's okay." Gen's heart sank. "I know what you mean." 

"Sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," Haven said. "I'll even be your friend if you want." 

Gen smiled tightly, self-conscious of her over wide mouth. "I'd like that." She reached out and touched Haven's cheek. With one brush of her fingertips, Gen gathered Haven's genetic blueprint. The Abundance thirsted for such essential information, instructions on how to build starfish and dolphins and a gorgeous man and his little girl. It wanted Gen to collect more and more genomes. It urged her to touch every new thing she encountered in the whole living world.