Miss Dreamsville and the Lost Heiress of Collier County Read Free Page A

county had gotten to recognize I had a special talent with turtles. After I rescued an Everglades snapping turtle the size of a truck tire from the middle of U.S. 41, folks started calling me the Turtle Lady. From then on, people brought turtles to me that needed help. Three of them stayed on as pets—Norma Jean, Myrtle, and Castro.
    I looked again at the mama heron. A heron nest was a messy-looking pile of sticks, and I remembered, with a flush of shame, that years before I had made fun of one when I’d been out for a walk with Mama in these very swamps. She’d said to me, “Now, it may not look like much to you but no doubt it is perfectly suited to the heron. The heron knows what it’s doing, rest assured.”
    Dolores followed my gaze. “Huh, she’s giving you the stink eye,” she said of the heron. “She don’t like being stared at, especially by a stranger.”
    This seemed a surprising side of Dolores. It didn’t fit with her reputation. It was hard to imagine tenderness of any kind in her heart, but then again, she had raised Robbie-Lee and he was the nicest man I ever met. Go figure.
    â€œDolores,” I said, trying to get back to the problem at hand. “What do you expect me to do about it? About Darryl, I mean?”
    â€œDon’t you go rushing me, girl,” Dolores snapped. Her raised voice was met with two sharp squawks, like warning shots, from the heron.
    â€œAw, will you just stop worrying yourself to death?” Dolores called to the bird. “Do you think I’m going to cook you for my supper? If I was going to do that, I’d have done it already.”
    â€œDolores, look, I want to help, but I don’t know if I can stop Darryl,” I said. “I’m just one person, and I haven’t even lived here the past year, and—”
    She hurled her whittling to the ground and jumped up with clenched fists, her arms flailing like a toddler having a tantrum. For a split second I thought she might run straight for me and strangle the life out of me, so I stepped backward, tripping over my suitcase and landing on my rear end. The heron, apparently unhappy with the commotion, burst from its nest, wings a-flapping, in what struck me as an almost-perfect imitation of Dolores.
    â€œYou can’t let him do this!” Dolores screamed. Half sprawled in the sand, I felt like a turtle that finds itself upside down. I heard the sound of fast-moving footsteps heading away from me—thank you, Jesus. A door slammed, and I felt momentarily relieved. She’d gone inside.
    Then it dawned on me that I was in a fine pickle. Soon it would be dark in the swamp, and I wasn’t about to walk back to the Tamiami Trail with no flashlight or torch. Moonbeams had a way of illuminating sandy paths that weren’t visible during the daytime, making it easy to get confused—and lost—at night.
    I’d been so eager to talk to Dolores I’d scurried right over to see her, right off the bus. I guess I thought she’d invite me inside and we’d talk. It hadn’t occurred to me that we’d have a big fuss and she’d leave me outside all night.
    The fall had knocked the wind out of my lungs. I spent several long moments just looking around me. Dolores had made some improvements to the fishing shack since her son had left home. The front door, if you could call it that, had been painted shocking pink. A hand-carved sign, stuck in the ground and tilting wildly like a forgotten grave-marker, read Home Sweet Home. Off to the right, brush had been cleared away from the outhouse which now featured the words “Powder Room” painted in a girlish script.
    But the ’Glades were coming alive with evening sounds. I soon decided that gators, snakes, and panthers were, in fact, scarier than Dolores—although frankly I wasn’t 100 percent sure. I struggled back to my feet and edged my way carefully along the