Spirits of the Pirate House (35 page)

“Why do you say that?” asked T.J., tipping
back his mask so it rested atop his brown locks.

“Are you serious? After wreck diving on the
reefs and making a historic discovery? All we’re doing is paddling
around in three feet of water and looking at pretty fish.”

“It’s still fun, Cuz. Maybe we’ll come back
someday.”

If there was any acknowledgement of T.J.’s
veiled insinuation, LouAnne didn’t show it. “I’m going back in,”
she said, adjusting her mask. “You coming?”

“In a sec.”

As she paddled away in her orange one-piece,
blonde tresses trailing behind, he felt that same warmth for her as
had occurred during the road race. It was so maddeningly
wonderful.

* * * *

“Bortnicker, so nice to see you again,” said
Claudette Goodwin, clasping his hands in hers. “I’m so appreciative
of the way your little band took Veronique in and made her feel
welcome.” Mrs. Goodwin and the teen were soon chopping peppers next
to the kitchen sink while Jasper and Ronnie ran over to the dive
shop to check on things.

“No problem, Mrs. G,” he said, his curls
partially obscuring his glasses. “We couldn’t have done it without
her. I mean, with her knowledge of the island and all the boat
stuff. I just feel bad about everything she had to go through with
her ancestry and Tarver.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Bortnicker,”
she said. “Veronique is a strong girl. She’ll come through this
just fine and be better for it. And I hope this isn’t the last
we’ll see of you around here?”

“You mean it?” he said, brushing the curls
from one eye.

“Without a doubt,” she answered, and gave him
a peck on the cheek. “You’re the first boy she’s really liked. Or
hasn’t she told you that?”

Lunch went by all too quickly, with Jasper
and Ronnie recounting some hilarious tourist-related diving tales
and Bortnicker sharing highlights of the previous summer’s
Gettysburg adventure that had brought the
Junior Gonzo Ghost
Chasers
together.

When it was done, Jasper looked at his dive
watch. “Two thirty. We should be getting Bortnicker on back
soon.”

“We’ve still got time, Daddy,” assured
Ronnie, taking Bortnicker’s hand. “See you in a bit.” She led the
boy out of the kitchen toward another area of the cottage. “Come
with me,” she said coyly, “there’s something we have to do.”

* * * *

“Where
is
he? It’s nearly four
o’clock,” moaned T.J. as the group of Americans stood around
Chappy’s minivan. “I had to pack his junk and everything.”

As if on cue, Jasper Goodwin’s battered
Toyota turned into the Jobson’s Cove Apartments driveway. Goodwin
switched off the ignition and got out. “All I will say is that I
had nothing to do with this.”

Ronnie was the next to exit, a mischievous
smile on her face. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the star of
the new program,
Bermudian Makeover
!”

Bortnicker emerged from the backseat, and his
friends’ mouths fell open. In place of the scraggly, out-of-control
curls that usually framed his face there were Rasta-style
dreadlocks. Sunglasses and a multicolored knit cap completed the
shocking tableau.

“Bortnicker,” stuttered Tom Sr., “Is that
really you?”

“Oh yeah,” he said confidently. “What do you
think, Big Mon?” he asked T.J., who was still in shock.

“I don’t know exactly what I think,” he
replied, “but I have a feeling your mom’s gonna
love
it.”

* * * *

The scene at the airport was fairly hectic,
with Mike overseeing the shipping of all the equipment and Tom Sr.
double-checking the transfer flights for Mike and LouAnne.
Weinstein would connect at JFK for a night flight to LA, where he
and the honchos from The Adventure Channel would review the tapes
and see if they had enough for a killer pilot episode of
Junior
Gonzo Ghost Chasers
.

Jasper Goodwin had said his goodbyes at the
hotel, with Chappy volunteering to drop Ronnie at home after seeing
off her friends at the airport.

The ride to Bermuda International Airport had
been surprisingly quiet, the usually talkative teens deep in their
own thoughts, looking out the windows of the minivan at the
wondrous landscape of Bermuda much the same way as they had upon
their arrival, trying to seal it into their memories.

Only Mike and Tom Sr. had made small talk,
and T.J. heard his father say that he and Ms. Cosgrove would
probably be visiting each other in the near future. He was
glad.

As they made ready to board the plane, T.J.
and LouAnne tried to look away as their dreadlocked friend said his
farewells to the island girl he’d obviously fallen head over heels
for. But Bortnicker was full of surprises, and today was no
different.

“Er, uh, Ronnie, I—we—want to thank you for
being a member of the team, and ... I have something to give you.”
He pulled a wad of tissue from his pocket and unwrapped it. In the
center was a thin, crudely fashioned golden ring.

“I found this on the very first dive, when I
thought we were going to end up with tons of treasure. When we
found the other stuff, the bad stuff, I figured I’d just keep it to
myself, maybe give it to my mom. But, the way I figure it, this
could’ve belonged to one of your ancestors. I’d like you to have it
... if that’s okay with you. Because if you don’t, you—”

He never got a chance to finish, because
Ronnie Goodwin embraced him and rendered a kiss that made the one
at Elbow Beach look lame. Many tourists in the area applauded.

“Wow,” said T.J. as LouAnne smiled
broadly.

“You go, Bortnicker!” she cheered.

After they had parted, Bortnicker a beet red,
Chappy spoke up. “Time to go, folks. Your plane’s boarding.”

“Chappy,” said Mike, “we can’t thank you
enough.” There were handshakes all around.

“I look forward to seeing you all again,”
said the amiable driver. “Bermuda is a magical place that calls you
back. And, Mr. B, if and when you do return, I’ll try to dial up
old John for another visit.” He put his arm around Ronnie, whose
eyes were glistening, and led her out of the terminal.

* * * *

The flight itself was uneventful, with the
teens, who sat together, dozing amid the stares from returning
tourists that Bortnicker drew for his Rasta look. But, as is
usually the case, there were delays coming in to JFK, and at
customs, and at the luggage carousel, so that both Mike and LouAnne
were going to have to hustle to make their connecting flights.

As they caught their breath, Mike bid them
farewell, assuring them that the show, when given the Hollywood
Treatment, would be a hit, and promising to let them know when
something was decided. “Problem is, dudes,” he said, high-fiving
them, “how am I ever gonna find another team like yours?”

“We said we couldn’t do a
series
,”
replied T.J. “An occasional special might be possible, though.”

“Solid! I’m outta here,” said the
Gonzo
Ghost Chaser
, running to catch another plane.

Tom Sr. and Bortnicker went to hit the
restroom, which left T.J. alone with LouAnne.

“Think they really had to go?” she said.

“Probably not.” He searched for words. “Just
think, tomorrow night you’ll be back at the Charney Inn, dressed in
your Civil War stuff, telling your tale of woe and making tips. And
Reenactment Week is around the corner.”

“Don’t remind me,” she smiled. “But I do miss
Mom and Dad. I feel like I’ve been away for ages. So much happened
in so short a time.”

“Did you have fun, Cuz?” he said
expectantly.

“No, T.J.,” she replied. “I had an adventure.
And life with you is
always
an adventure.” With that she
cupped his face in her hands and kissed him sweetly on the lips.
“Until our next adventure,” she whispered as her uncle and
Bortnicker exited the restroom. She produced the small glass bottle
he’d found for her on their first snorkeling dive at Treasure
Beach. “I’ll keep all my wishes in here until then.”

The intercom blared for the departure of
LouAnne’s flight to Philadelphia. “All right, guys, they’re calling
me. Gotta jet.” She hugged Tom Sr. and Bortnicker and shot her
cousin a wink. In a second she’d slung her carryon over her
shoulder and, with one last flourishing toss of her hair, was on
her way down the ramp, wearing the gorgeous sundress she’d sported
upon her breathtaking arrival in Bermuda.

“I love that dress,” said Bortnicker.

Epilogue

A soft, steady
rain shrouded the people who had gathered around the crypt of
Captain William Tarver on the first of July. No brass bands played,
and there was little in the way of pomp or circumstance.

The group itself was a rather odd
representation of the social strata of Bermuda: the Governor was
there with some aides, as were Constance Tilbury, accompanied by
her niece, and the Police Commissioner; but the Goodwins were
present as well, joined by their driver of the day, Nigel Chapford.
They had been invited, somewhat surprisedly, by a rather contrite
Constance Tilbury, who had orchestrated the announcement of Jasper
Goodwin’s incredible underwater find that had, as predicted, made
front page news on the island and elevated both him and his
business to celebrity status.

As the pastor of St. Anne’s administered the
rites of burial, Ronnie Goodwin, dressed all in black,
involuntarily shivered, though her father’s free arm was draped
across her shoulders, the other holding a golf umbrella aloft that
barely sheltered the family huddled tightly underneath. She stared
down into the whitewashed crypt, whose cover had been slid aside
for the internment of the simple coffin that would house the bones
of the pirate. On her other side Claudette Goodwin emitted a
lilting sigh every few seconds.

At the end of the ritual the Goodwins and
Chapford turned toward the black minivan that would return them to
their cottage in Somerset.

“Ah, Miss Goodwin?” a voice called from
behind. Ronnie turned to face Mrs. Tilbury, whose niece dutifully
held a stylish, ivory-handled, black umbrella above her perfectly
coiffed head.

“Yes, ma’am?” she replied, an eyebrow raised
in curiosity.

“I am glad you and your family could attend,”
she said primly. “I realize that your ... connection to Sir William
has been a source of consternation for you, but I thank you and
your American friends for helping to return him to his rightful
place here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tilbury,” she managed, her
eyes filming. “The Captain was, I guess, a man of his times. But,
like it or not, a part of him lives on in my mother and me. As for
my friends, quite honestly, you might have been a bit more civil to
them—”

“Veronique!” broke in her mother. “This is
not the place—”

“No, no,” said Tilbury quietly. “Let the
child speak.”

“My friends came to our island with only the
best of intentions. They wanted to find the truth about a major
figure from our history. We should have done more to help
them.”

“I agree, young lady, and I want you to tell
them that they are always welcome to return for a more pleasant
visit.”

“Maybe you should tell them yourself,” was
her quiet but resolute reply. With that, she turned on her heel and
marched toward the minivan, leaving her parents to sheepishly say
their goodbyes and follow.

It was Chappy who reached her first,
suppressing a chuckle as he closed his umbrella in deference to the
sun, which had broken through, sending a cloud of steam skyward
from the wet pavement of the church parking lot.

“Well done, Miss Ronnie,” he quipped. “And do
you think we will, indeed, see your comrades again?”

“Come on, Mr. Chapford,” she replied,
breaking out a smile. “Don’t you know that Bermuda always calls you
back?”

“It does have that reputation.” He opened the
door of the minivan as Ronnie’s parents came up behind, then craned
his neck to squint into the brilliant deep-blue sky. “Ah,” he
grinned, “another day in paradise.”

Author’s Note

Many of the historic sites, restaurants,
beaches and resorts mentioned in this novel do exist, although
Hibiscus House and Dora’s Corners do not. I did play around a bit
with the date of construction for Fort St. Catherine, which was
initiated before William Tarver’s supposed existence. However, he
theoretically could have assisted in one of its renovations.
Constance Tilbury is a figment of my imagination, and the National
Heritage Trust does a wonderful job keeping their various museums
and facilities in pristine condition for habitual tourists like
myself. As far as the natural beauty of the flora and fauna, and
especially the beaches, you’ll just have to experience it for
yourself. But most of all, be sure to enjoy the warmth and
friendliness of the Bermudian people. It will, as Chappy says, keep
calling you back.

About the Author

Paul
Ferrante
is originally from the Bronx and grew up in the town
of Pelham, New York. He received his undergraduate and Masters
degrees in English from Iona College, where he was also a halfback
on the Gaels’ undefeated 1977 football team. Paul has been an
award-winning secondary school English teacher and coach for over
30 years, as well as a columnist for
Sports Collector’s
Digest
since 1993 on the subject of baseball ballpark history.
Many of his works can be found in the archives of the National
Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. His writings have
led to numerous radio and television appearances related to
baseball history. Paul lives in Connecticut with his wife, Maria,
and daughter, Caroline, a film screenwriter/director.