Where The Orange Trees Bloom The cost of progress

Will the proud farmer’s daughter and the rail pioneer ever reach a compromise?

What!” Susannah cried. With his showy, newfangled automobile and swaggering manner, she’d distrusted Curtis Driscoll on sight. Barely minutes later, distrust threatened to turn to dislike. “You want to buy my land –”

“Part of it, Miss Barrymore. The strip alongside the lake.” “– and build your railroad through it?” Curtis Driscoll took off his panama, revealing thick, dark hair that gleamed in the sun. He stood in the yard, tall and at ease. Turning the hat’s brim in his hands, he met her glare with infuriating calm.

“Your pa would have understood the opportunity my offer represents.”

Susannah’s chin came up. “He’d have reacted in exactly the same way as me.” The loss of her father, so soon after her mother, was still too recent, too raw. “He loved this land. He’d never have wanted to sell it. Especially not for a railroad.”

She put him in his late twenties. Too young, surely, to own a railroad. There again, Florida was a young country. “If I could show you the plans –” “No.” All at once her mind was made up. “I’ll show you something.” She glanced over at the automobile. “Perhaps your chauffeur could take us there.”

It wasn’t far, a little over a mile. They stopped at the top of a low rise, the noisy motor giving way to birdsong and the drone of insects. Below them stretched row upon row of trees, glossy green leaves and a million tiny white flowers catching the spring sunlight. Beyond was the lake, long and thin like a river.

“The Barrymore orange grove,” Susannah said with pride in her voice. Driscoll narrowed his eyes, peering. “What’s on the other side of the lake?” “Swamp. Alligators.” Susannah stepped out onto the running board. “Come with me.”

She led the way down the slope. The flowers, hundreds of clusters of tiny blossoms, gave off a heady fragrance. The drone of honeybees was constant.

“Ma and Pa came here in 1893. I was five. They cleared the land, planted orange trees. Then came the big freeze of ninety-four.” Her voice caught. “They lost it all. But they planted again, worked hard. This is the result.”

“You’re right to be proud of all they achieved, Miss Barrymore. My own pa showed the same kind of grit when he was building the Driscoll hotel empire. I can’t help but admire people like that, just as I admire your determination to continue the work your ma and pa began. But railroads are the future –”

“– and yours will go ahead,” Susannah supplied, heart heavy. “To get people to your hotels.” Close to tears, she turned up the slope. Showing him the orange grove had failed to change his mind. But had she ever really expected it would?

Next day Susannah stood at the top of the low rise, watching the far bank of the lake as an alligator slithered into the water. An idea had been forming in her head. What if…?

She made her way down the slope, breathing in the fragrant, orange-scented air, twisting round as the noise of an automobile intruded. Her heart swooped; Curtis Driscoll was back. With an easy stride he joined her under the trees.

“Miss Barrymore.” He paused. “You can’t possibly lose all this.” The sweep of his arm took in the trees and the blue arc of the sky. “It’s too beautiful. Your family’s put too much into it.” Susannah looked up. He understood. “The land the other side of the lake. It’s swampy –”

“It would need draining, but I could build the railroad there.”

For the space of a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Driscoll reached up, snapping off several clusters of the waxy white flowers and handing them to her.

He smiled, and Susannah found that she was smiling, too.

“We think alike, you and I. A good sign for the future, wouldn’t you say?”