It was difficult for her to believe that he was the same man in the lifeboat. She looked at him for a moment and suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt because she realized something else.
What she had just thought about him was incredibly unfair. Hank had saved their lives before they even got into that lifeboat.
She was guilty of doing to him what had been done to her. A preconceived notion that the outer shell was the person. Because Hank was rough, he couldn’t have a heart. Because she was pretty, she couldn’t be smart. Because he was poor, he didn’t deserve respect. Because she was rich, she couldn’t hurt. Because he was a convict, he couldn’t be of value. Because she was a woman, she couldn’t be a lawyer.
She had fought those prejudices by trying to be perfect. He fought those prejudices by trying to be exactly what they thought—trouble.
“Where do you want it?”
That deep voice caught her as it always did. The sound seemed to wash right over her skin. Margaret blinked, then his words actually registered. He was holding the Christmas tree and asking her opinion. She almost laughed at how things had changed. “Right there is fine.” She stood and walked over to the tree. She ran her fingers over the fresh needles, then turned to him. “Where did you ever find it?”
He shrugged. “There are island pine trees all over the higher hills of the interior.”
She glanced at the children, who were wide-eyed and excited. She placed her hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Hank.”
He seemed a little embarrassed but didn’t say anything. He turned to the kids. “Come on. I need some help.” As he strode toward the doorway, Lydia and Theodore were right behind him.
They came back laughing and lugging a fat barrel filled with wet sand. He potted the tree, talking to both children, letting them help and telling them about island trees—how they grew and where they grew. He would turn every now and then and wink at little Annabelle, who touched the tree with a child’s look of awe, who clapped her hands and giggled and laughed.
Margaret watched with a strange kind of comfort. This tall man with the massive shoulders, his back criss-crossed with whip marks, a man who in the beginning had all the gentleness of a runaway train.
He was a man who had value, who deserved respect even if he tried to make people believe it didn’t matter to him. It did.
Looking at him now, she knew with certainty that he had a heart. No matter how hard he tried to hide it.
27
The morning of Christmas Eve arrived without fanfare. Another cloudless sky where the sun was a lonely stranger and a light trade wind rustled the leaves, cooling the sun’s heat from humidity-dampened skin.
A few hundred feet inside the thick jungle was a small area where the ebony trees weren’t as thick and a small brook of fresh water trickled down a rock wall.
Spread upon the thick tufts of monkey grass were a menagerie of handmade toys—the sort of stuff that might plump up Santa’s bag were Santa stranded on a tropical island. Ball and cups were carved from ebony with long handles that had rocks attached to them by long pieces of string. Tops were not symmetrical, but nature-made from thick seashells with tiger stripes that blurred when they were spun on the shell tips.
Clappers weren’t made of wood and colorful cloth but instead made of coconut shells and thick leaves. A flat plank of wood had little niches hand carved with a penknife—an island version of a Wahoo game—only since there were no marbles, small pearls made do.
Hank glanced at the board game. He figured it was worth a fortune. He and Smitty had dived for two days to get enough pearls in each color—blue, black, pink, and white.
He found none of them. She had found all of them, including the last pearl, which was too big to use in the game. It was a deep rose color, perfectly spherical, rare and huge, as big as his thumbnail.
She’d grinned and tossed it in the air while he’d buried his head in his hands and groaned. The woman had amazing luck.
Early that morning, she had brought him some things she had made for the kids. An Indian headband she made of woven grass with a thick row of gull feathers, a tomahawk made from a flat sea rock tied with coconut twine to a driftwood stick, and two dolls with coconuts for heads, coconut fiber for hair, seashells for eyes and noses, and pieces of string for smiling mouths.
Their bodies were squares of cloth filled with sand and tied to a stick that served as necks. Driftwood twigs formed the stiff arms and legs. Compared to the bisque dolls in the fancy city toy stores, these dolls were primitive. But they had been made with love by the hands of an attorney whose expertise lay in the courtroom, not in a toy workshop.
Hank picked up a canvas sack and filled it with the toys, then slung the sack over his shoulder. He stopped at a nearby rock and picked up the fishing pole he’d made for Theodore. He tied another knot in the line and tested it for weight, then set it down. Next to the rock was a spinning toy he’d created for Annabelle and a set of ebony combs he’d carved for Lydia. These were his gifts to the children.
He’d made an identical set of hair combs for Smitty. But even after he’d finished them, something told him that wasn’t what he wanted to give her. The right gift, however, escaped him. He stared at the combs but still couldn’t think. He shrugged, slung the sack over his shoulder, and walked back toward the beach.
* * *
Not too farfromthe clearing stood a large Poinciana tree in full bloom. At first glance it looked like a giant red umbrella. The lush red blossoms parted like the Red Sea, and a purple turban poked through the blooms.
Muddy sat on a sturdy branch, watching Hank pace and mutter in front of his silver bottle. It sat in the sand, isolated and alone. The stopper lay next to it.
But apparently Hank hadn’t noticed. He stopped pacing and stared down at the bottle. He picked it up, his expression tense. “Hey, you!”
Muddy laughed silently and gripped the branch in his hands. He leaned slightly forward and waited.
