“Of course.”
We slip away from the bonfire, following a path that winds through the resort grounds and into the trees. The night air is soft and warm, and somewhere above us the cypress canopy is full of stars. Max has a small flashlight — the kind that clips to a keychain — and he holds it low so we can see the path without ruining the dark.
The resort sits a couple of miles outside of downtown, Max explains as we walk. The hotel is close to the springs but separate from the town, its own world in the cypress. It occurs to me now what that means: the path we’re on is the connective tissue, the thing that makes the Magnolia Grand feel like it belongs to something larger. Here in the dark under the trees, I’m startingto understand why someone would build a resort here instead of anywhere else.
“So, a bit of history,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “Cypress Grove is one of the oldest continuously inhabited places in inland Florida. The spring has been drawing people here for thousands of years.”
“I know you said you're a businessman, but I like this professor side of you.” It's easy to picture him in a classroom, and I tell him so. He laughs, and the sound of it disappears into the trees.
“A small tribe of Timucua and Calusa peoples were the first known residents. Then, in the 1500s, a Spanish explorer arrived. He was trying to reach St. Augustine — that's on the other coast.” Max gestures vaguely eastward. “He never made it. According to the story, he found the springs instead, and he found someone at the springs.”
“Found someone?”
“A beautiful Calusa woman.” He glances at me sideways.
I smirk. “Implausible, and possibly the legend improving over time. Also possibly colonial whitewashing. But go on.”
He grins. “She was adventurous. More than anyone else in the area. She'd paddle alone to places no one else dared to go. She could read the springs — knew what the water was doing before anyone else could tell. The explorer thought she had magic in her, thought she might be a good witch. If you believe in that sort of stuff.”
“Go on, I’m intrigued.”
“She had the most extraordinary presence. The kind of person who makes a place feel different just by being in it.” His voice drops slightly. “The explorer stayed. Sent his crew on without him. Denounced the Spanish colonialists. He never went back and he fought against his former countrymen.”
“Because of her?”
“Because of her. And because of the springs.” We've reached the edge of the path where it opens up, and my breath hitches in my throat.
Paradise Springs at night is something else entirely. The water holds its own faint luminescence in the darkness — a soft turquoise glow, barely there but unmistakably real, as if something deep below the surface is lit from within. The cypress trees ring the edges and their reflections shimmer. The night is very quiet out here, just the sound of the water moving and the distant, faint pulse of the drum circle behind us.
“Oh, whoa,” I breathe. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” he says softly.
We stand there for a moment just looking. I've photographed springs in Europe and sacred wells in Ireland and thermal baths in Budapest, and none of them have made me feel quite like this — like the water is paying attention tome.
“What's making it glow like that?” I ask.
“Minerals in the limestone. The light catches it differently at night.” He pauses. “At least, that's the scientific explanation.”
“What's the unscientific one?”
He looks at me for a moment. “My mom and her coven have a few theories. They say it’s magic.”
I laugh softly. We've drifted closer to the water's edge, where the limestone shelf juts out over the spring. The rock is pale and ancient-looking, worn smooth in places by water and time. I crouch down, running my fingers along the edge.
Something catches my eye. Or pulls it, more accurately. It’s the way a certain quality of light draws the camera in before you've consciously decided to shoot. My hand moves to a small crevice in the limestone before I've quite registered why. Wedged into it, worn perfectly smooth by the current, is a small flat stone.
It's heart-shaped. Not vaguely, not if-you-squint. Unmistakably, almost absurdly heart-shaped, a piece of fossilized limestone no bigger than my palm.
I don't say anything about the shape. I just hold it out to Max.
He looks at it for a moment, then takes it. Turns it over in his fingers. Something moves across his face that I can't quite read — surprise, maybe, or something quieter than that.
He slips it into his front jeans pocket without a word, and we both pretend that's a perfectly normal thing to do.
“So the legend,” I say, straightening up. “Did they stay together? The explorer and the Calusa woman?”
“According to the story, yes. They built a life here, at the springs. And the legend says that's why the water does what it does — why people's walls come down here, why the right people find each other.” He's standing very close to me now. “The springs have been drawing people together ever since. Whether they wanted to be drawn or not.”
