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“We can’t get here at high tide anymore,” he said. “You got your skiff all tuned up, and there’s a can of gas in the shed if you gotta get out when the road is covered with water.”
“When did it happen?” she asked, frowning. The high water table was part of living at Cypress Cove, but the trail had always been dry, as it was at the highest point.
“Unpopular topic around here and all. Just say the water level has risen. You’re lucky your place is already on stilts. Dry as a bone even during storm season. I checked up on the place, and it did fine last storm, not a drop o’ water out of place.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” she said. Yet another issue she hadn’t given much thought to: what to do during hurricane season. “I guess I’ve got a lot to learn.”
“You’ll do all right,” he said. “You’ll be mighty fine.”
He told her about the latest additions in the last few years, the storm shutters both inside and out, the steel strap on the chimney in case of high winds.
Cypress trees grew close and he carefully drove the big car through the narrow lane. Up ahead at the end, she saw the rusted ornate fence and gate that enclosed what was now the Angel homestead, acres and acres of marshland and fishing and hunting ground, deep-forested land that was so dense you had to squeeze through trees in some places. You just needed waders in parts during high tide.
“Wow, here we are already,” she said, her heart skipping a beat. “The old gate still stands.”
Floyd approached slowly and stopped. “It’s all greased up and ready to close if you want to do that while you’re here alone. Your auntie kept it closed twenty-four seven.”
Aunt Elizabeth had never seemed frightened to Maggie.
“She did? Was she frightened?”
“She was just being wise,” he said. “People get lost back in this swamp, and they might come a-knockin’ at your door.”
He winked at her and got out of the car to open the gate. Back behind the wheel, he continued, “I keep it closed for more than safety though. I don’t want no one thinkin’ they can squat here.”
“Squat! Is that really a concern?”
“Squatters was a problem before you came. Now if anyone is foolish enough to wander down this path at night, they’ll see it’s occupied. You’d best get a dog. A few been hanging around here lately; you might offer them a bone or some grub and they’ll keep watch for you.”
“I’d love a dog. Since I won’t be going anywhere, it won’t be left alone, which is why I never had one before. I like the idea of having a dog.”
“You’ll need a gun, too. Your auntie has a .22 shotgun. I took it home, cleaned it, got fresh ammo. I’ll show you how to use it. But remember, don’t get it out if you don’t intend on using it.”
“Jeez, I definitely won’t get it out,” she said, grimacing. Was Floyd trying to discourage her?
Soon the cottage came into view, and it took her breath away a little bit. She bit her lip and pretended to fuss with her hair on the left side so Floyd didn’t see that she was teary. The clearing went to the water in front of the cottage, and blue water extended out to the horizon as far as the eye could see. Along the perimeter of the cove, cypress trees sprang majestically from the surface of the water, their arms outstretched to the neighboring trees.
“Do you know the legend of the cypress?”
“No.”
“InGreek mythology,Apollo, who’s the god of prophecy, among other things, loved a boy named Cypress. Cypress’s best friend was a tame deer, which he accidentally kilt as it lay sleeping in the woods. The boy’s grief was so huge that it transformed Cypress into a tree, which is a symbolof mourning.”
“Oh, how sad,” Maggie said, thinking Floyd’s MO was doom and gloom.
“Yes, ma’am. Those Greeks loved a good story.”
The car came to a stop.
“The locals have our own legend,” he said. “You want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“The story goes that when Native American ancestors occupied the cove, a band of white men came in their boats to kill the tribe and take over the land, but the native men banded together on the banks, holding hands, and when they were murdered, the trees sprang up in the crescent you see now, their branches intermingled, making an impenetrable wall, protecting the women and children behind them.”
Maggie listened, watching his entire countenance changing, even the inflections in his voice, when he told the awful story. Nostrils flared, she thought the sooner Floyd went on his way, the better.
There was the wonderful cottage in spite of its slightly ramshackle condition. It hadn’t changed at all, maybe a little more moss on the roof, but it looked perfect. Floyd’s depressing stories quickly forgotten, all she could do was smile. This was the culmination of her childhood dreams.
