Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County Read Free

my little suitcase, just to keep from catching any snakes or gators by surprise.
    I found Dolores sitting on the step to the rickety dock that led to her two-room fishing shack. She was whittling a stick into a small weapon known as a “gig.” At any other time and place I would have been wary of someone crafting a spear, but seeing her there, knife in hand, made me feel downright nostalgic. I realized I’d been gone too long. This was the Everglades, the River of Grass. To the Seminole Indians, it was “Pa-hay-okee.”
    To me, it was simply home.

Three
    D olores spat out a big stream of tobacco juice. “Well, it’s about time you got here,” she barked, barely glancing up from her handiwork.
    This was not the greeting I expected. “I left as soon as I could,” I said, thinking that the least she could do was be impressed, maybe even grateful, that I’d done what she’d asked. “You know, Jackson, Mississippi, is a long way from here. I had to borrow money—”
    â€œI don’t care about that,” Dolores said.
    â€œWell, are you going to tell me what this is about?” My voice was high and squeaky. I hated that, especially when I was trying to sound confident and mature.
    She kept whittling.
    â€œLook, Dolores, I think you owe me an explanation.”
    She still didn’t answer.
    â€œIs this about Jackie Hart from the book club?”
    â€œThat woman’s a damn fool, and so is old Mrs. Bailey Whiteand that other gal—what’s her name, Plain Jane—who are helping raise that baby.”
    I had a terrible thought. “Is Priscilla’s baby all right?”
    â€œBaby’s fine,” Dolores said.
    â€œThen what is it?” I must have been on my last good nerve because I spoke sharply. “You sent me a Western Union! What in tarnation is the ‘big trouble’ you were talking about?”
    She finally stopped whittling and looked me eyeball to eyeball.
    â€œYour ex-husband,” she said.
    â€œDarryl?”
    â€œWell, that is his name, isn’t it?”
    I felt my face flush. “I’m surprised, is all.” Darryl was a pain in the hindquarters, to be sure, but I would never have put him in the category of “big trouble.”
    â€œWell, let me be the first to tell you,” Dolores said. “He wants to build houses on my land. And a shopping center! And maybe even a golf course! He’s going to fill in this whole stretch of the river and run us all out of here.” She dropped her head and took a sharp breath. Maybe, I realized, to cover up a sob.
    I felt light-headed. “Darryl doesn’t have that kind of money,” I said finally. “Besides, he’s dumb as a post. He doesn’t have the smarts to dream up a project like that, or make it happen.”
    Dolores scoffed so loud she startled a night heron nesting halfway up a tree about thirty feet away.
    â€œAw, shucks,” Dolores called over to the heron, “I ain’t going to hurt you. Now just settle down on yer ol’ eggs and stop your frettin’.”
    I looked over toward the mama night heron, my eyes searching until I saw the familiar shape of its beak and the markings on its little head. They were odd-looking birds on account oftheir yellow eyes with red irises. Plus, they didn’t sing. Instead, they made a sound like the cranky old crows that used to raid Mama’s sunflower garden the minute we turned our backs.
    â€œYour Darryl has got hisself help—people from up north will be paying for it.”
    â€œHe’s not ‘my’ Darryl.”
    â€œYou were married to the idiot for a few years. I thought you could try to talk some sense into him. Besides, who loves this here river more than you do?”
    Well, that was true. I was known for bringing all kinds of swamp and river critters home with me, which Mama, amazingly, tolerated. After a while, folks around the