Excerpt: By Heart

Alyson flinched as she heard the first shovelful of dirt hit the wooden coffin. She didn’t see it, of course, because she had her eyes squeezed shut. She’d sat in her parlor all night, focused on keeping her eyes closed as tightly as possible the next morning so she wouldn’t have to see the coffin lowered into the ground, or dirt being piled on top of it. She hadn’t cried. She kept thinking that as long as she didn’t have to see it, maybe it wasn’t real. She hadn’t counted on hearing it. When she heard the dirt hit the coffin, it was definitely real. She shuddered.
Hands gripped her shoulders and she felt warm breath near her ear.
“It’s all right, Alyson, I’ve got you.” Myles’ voice invaded her brain, intruding on her desperate effort to hear Roland’s voice in her mind. She shrugged away from him and reached for Celia’s hand. Myles may have been her husband’s best friend and business partner, and maybe he meant well. But if he touched her again, she would vomit.
Celia caught Alyson’s ice-cold hand in both of hers, rubbing it to try to bring some life back into it. She leaned back and caught Myles’ eye behind Alyson’s bent head. “Not now,” she mouthed silently to her husband. He nodded briefly but inwardly he scowled.
Alyson swayed toward her best friend. “Ceil,” her voice shook. “Ceil, please take me…”
Where? Take her where? Home? How could she live in that house anymore, with Roland dead? She couldn’t go back there. But she had nowhere else to go. Not until she could arrange to have another of her houses prepared for her, or build one. Her knees buckled but she still did not cry. She simply went weak. Myles reached for her but Alyson tensed away from him and into Celia’s arms.
“Come with me, Allie,” she whispered. “You can stay with Myles and me until you are ready to go home. Celia put an arm around the shaking woman and smoothed her hair back from her cold forehead.
Alyson nodded and allowed her childhood friend to guide her away from the cemetery and toward the St Augustine city gate, covering her ears so she didn’t have to hear the dull thuds coming from Roland’s grave. Celia wrapped both arms around Alyson’s shoulders and helped her walk the short distance to St George Street, where Alyson looked south toward her own street – and the house she shared with her husband until yesterday.
Myles walked behind his wife and her girlhood friend, noticing the ragged band of Minorcans approaching. He scowled again, openly this time. He had been vehemently against Governor Tonyn’s decision to allow the workers from the ill-fated New Smyrna plantation south of St Augustine to seek refuge in the city. Dirty, starved, weak, needy – what would they do with all those people? Tonyn should have found Turnbull and made him go back to his plantation and take care of them himself. After all, it was his fault they were there at all, and now he had abandoned all those people for someone else to deal with. Greedy, worthless bastard.
He directed his wife and Alyson to the right side of the street so the Minorcans could pass on the other side. He didn’t look at the straggling group of ragamuffins; he couldn’t bear the filth and disease they must be carrying. One of the women had a baby on her hip and he winced at the child’s incessant howling. He swore under his breath.
Celia turned to him. “What did you say, dear?”
Myles glanced at the group on the other side of the street. “Can’t she shut that brat up? I suppose we’ll be subjected to a lot of that now that Tonyn has let those wretches into St Augustine.” He shook his head. “There isn’t enough work for the people who belong here and now we are saddled with this bunch too? Absurd.”
Alyson’s stomach clenched. Roland had taken pity on the Minorcans and their plight. “It’s not their fault,” he’d said to her the night before he died. “Dr. Turnbull wanted a huge plantation of his own and he thought indentured help from the Mediterranean was the way to populate it. He thought he was doing the right thing. He underestimated what he was getting into, is all.”
Roland hadn’t minded helping them when he could. He had given work to several of the men who had already arrived in St Augustine, and helped some of them find places to live. Alyson had done as he asked and not ventured out without him, or tried to get to know any of the Minorcans yet, but Roland had spoken of them with genuine respect and admiration for what they had survived. Hearing Myles talk that way felt like a direct slap at her husband. Her temper flared.
She whirled on him, shrugging Celia’s arms away. “How do you know they are wretches, Myles? Maybe the child cries because he is hungry and his mother has nothing to feed him! Maybe they relied on someone who promised to provide for them and now they are alone, sick, and abandoned. Maybe they can’t help it! Did you ever think of that?” The birthmark on the back of her neck glowed deep red with her anger.
She hated herself for speaking like that to Myles but Roland cared about the Minorcans. One would think that as best friends, Myles would honor Roland at least a little by not speaking harshly of the group if not actually helping them as Roland would.
Myles took a step back in shock and stared at the woman facing him with her fists clenched. Her vivid blue eyes blazed under her black hat and he made sure to peek at her birthmark. Just as he suspected, it was deep red. He could feel the rage flowing off her in waves. Damn, but she was beautiful! He shook off the intrusive thought and quickly arranged his face in a placating smile.
“Now, Alyson,” he began. “I am under some stress too, you know, because I have lost my best friend. I spoke thoughtlessly, true; I should be more understanding. I will try.” He smiled encouragingly at her but she continued to glare at him.
A commotion across the street startled them all. Alyson whirled away from Myles to see a Minorcan man staggering, eventually slumping to the ground. The others in his group were gathering closer to him, chattering to each other in a Spanish dialect she understood only a little. She caught Celia’s hand and hurried across the street, ignoring Myle’s admonitions. The other Minorcans scattered as they approached, the mother covering the head of her bawling child with her apron.
Alyson knelt by the fallen man. She felt his pale, dry forehead and turned to the people standing near him.
“What is wrong, do you know? Is he sick?” She thought hard, trying to recall the word for “sick.” Roland knew some words in their language. Peo, that was it, or at least she hoped it was, and how did you say it? Pay-o? Pay-ow? “Peo?” she asked, gesturing to her own stomach. “Sick? Peo?”
The men guffawed, in spite of their weakened state. The women hid their faces behind hands, and tittered. Alyson wanted to stamp her foot in frustration. The man could be dying for all she knew and she wasn’t getting any help from his friends. Thankfully, a short, stocky man stepped forward and knelt beside her.
“No peo” he said. “Faquesa.” He thought for a moment and then pointed to his mouth and spread his hands helplessly and shook his head.
“He is hungry!” His eyes lit as he thought of the word. He stared at her for a moment, uncertain. Then he spoke again.
“Gabriel.” He pointed to the man on the ground, then to himself. “My brother.”
Ah, the fallen man’s name was Gabriel, this man was his brother, and he was hungry. Well, of course he was. They were all hungry. She leaned over him again, and brushed his black hair back from his forehead. It felt supple and full beneath her fingers.
“Gabriel,” she said his name and he opened his eyes. Startled by their clarity, she sat back on her heels. They were dark golden brown, almost the color of the honey Roland loved on his biscuits. In fact, they looked like liquid gold, like honey. His eyes locked with hers for a moment and then he blinked slowly and his mouth turned up in a smile. Alyson felt her own mouth curving upward as she touched his forehead once more to be sure he wasn’t feverish. The smile didn’t reach her heart, but her facial muscles appreciated the opportunity to stretch upward for a change.
“Why are you smiling?” She sat straight and folded her hands in her lap. One would think that a man collapsed from hunger wouldn’t feel much like smiling.
He looked directly at her again with those liquid eyes. “Because I thought I was dead, and I opened my eyes to find an angel welcoming me into heaven and telling my friends and family she had gas.”