"Antonia knew that if she looked back, she would see only the desolation and despair which lingered in the ruins of Swan's Nest. Burned ashes of rebel pride and fierce yearnings for the happier times which seemed an age ago.

In her mind, the picture of its glories shone beneath the undying sunlight of memory. As vivid and vital, as deeply woven into the fabric of her beating heart as Jackson's love and devotion."

Amy closed the book in her hands after reading these words aloud, a slight tear edging her voice. The gratifying applause from her listeners, an assembly of local literature critics and book club representatives, made her heart swell with pride once again, although she had grown used to the reception of fanfare over the past few months. Ever since the first time she read a glowing review or saw The Antebellum Heart on display in a bookstore window or first saw the twin posters which flanked her right now at the head of the room–the book cover of Antonia's wind-swept countenance in her signature gold ball gown on one side, her own flayaway blond curls and smiling-but-business-serious countenance in an author's black-and-white photo.

"Thank you for joining us today, Miss Pontelle," said the event's host, the head of Atlanta's chapter of the Historic Fiction Society. "Before we conclude, there are a few questions from some of today's participants..." Her eyes scanned the room, her lips hesitating before selecting the lucky questioner from the hands raised in the air.

"Hi, I'm the president of the Southern Sweethearts online book club and a huge fan, Miss Pontelle. Is it true that there's a new book in the works? Our readers would really love to know if the rumor's true." The woman beamed at Amy from her seat, her sweater and tweed skirt perfectly matched, the author noticed.

"Well, my publisher won't let me give away too many details," answered Amy, with a little smile that encouraged a few chuckles from the audience in response, "but I will say that I'm as eager as anyone to know if there's a happily-ever-after for Antonia and Jackson."

Another hand shot up, ushered into speech by the event host. "Did you have any inspiration for the setting and the scenes of Swan's Nest?" asked one of the few men present.

"No," answered Amy. "That is–I've never really had a chance to visit most of the South's more fascinating mansions. Not that I haven't wanted to be one of the guests in Swan's Nest more than a few times." Another ripple of laughter came from her audience in response, although this was an admission which Amy hated to make. It made her seem less genuine, she felt, that her work had so little inspiration in the actual scenes of the historic South's elegance.

"In your interview with Atlanta Today, you said that research isn't your strong point, but that some of the book was inspired by your own experiences," chirped up a woman in the front row. "Would those experiences be a real-life romance, by chance?"

For a brief moment, Amy's smile dimmed. "Let's just say that my romantic life is as happy and normal as the average reader's–and very separate from the fictional lives of my characters," she answered.

It was at this moment the paper's photographer chose to snap her photo, which, when Amy clipped the article from the paper a few days later, was relieved to see it didn't reveal any sign of regret on her face.

 

 

*****

 

 

"Look at me!" Amy's eight-year-old self had spun around the room in dizzying circles, reveling in the twirl of green and white skirts and a long green ribbon trimming the waist. Sure, she was the only girl her age who owned a plastic wire hoop skirt–or even knew what one was– but a difference like that didn't faze a true romantic at such a tender age.

Her heart had been gone with the Wind–the novelized version–since her earliest memories. For Halloween, she dressed in broad skirts and floppy straw hats and sewed her own version of the green velvet dress at thirteen. Instead of moody pop star posters, Rhett and Scarlet graced the head of her bed in a framed reproduction of the original theatrical poster. Pictures, clippings, ceramic figurines, jewelry boxes and paper dolls: nothing was too kitschy or cliché for her obsession.

Grown-up Amy Pontelle hadn't changed; at least, the interior of her apartment hadn't changed, although she was forced at some point to admit that hoop skirts and layered petticoats were impractical for everyday life. College-age Amy had collected antebellum novels and Southern romances, devouring them as the fuel which fed eager fantasies of romance amidst epic battles and elegant ballroom waltzes beneath magnolias in bloom.

Daydreams had become a manuscript after college, with Amy hunched over the keys of her laptop in her cramped Atlanta apartment. Dreams of an elegant plantation house and adventures of escaping slaves and spies from both sides became a more concrete story crafted between shifts at the coffee house and ventures to bargain bins and retail aisles for the necessary supplies of life.

It had begun as mere fantasy fiction for Amy, who blogged her stories with enthusiasm after work and during breaks. It evolved into something more serious, not just because of genuine interest from her first handful of readers and fans, but because it was the catalyst which had evaded Amy's yearnings for years. Antonia's plight as a young woman torn between her family's pride and her lover the spy grew epic, its scenes of glittering society life and war-torn struggle painted with bold strokes as Amy sank deeper into its world. Until one of its early drafts found favor with someone in the publishing world and suddenly The Antebellum Heart was no longer a mere fantasy.

"There's a definite sense of Mitchell in your work," said the editor who polished the final draft of the manuscript. "You can tell you're really a fan."

"Thank you," said Amy, with a modest shrug although she was deeply flattered by this remark. "It just...came easily to me, I guess. The characters and their motivations." Fantasizing about them, I mean, she mentally substituted.

Because fantasy was the right answer. It had built most of Amy's youth, most of her adult life, making reality seem more like a secondary existence. Jackson, the Deleroes of Swan's Nest, the conniving Captain Lerieux, were more than just clichés from genre fiction in her mind. She wanted them to be real, just as she wanted to run across the lawn of that stately mansion with her silk skirts fluttering in the wind.

Because Amy didn't just want Antonia Deleroe to be real. She wanted to be Antonia Deleroe.

The background of her computer was a random internet photo of a gorgeous Southern house which Amy secretly envisioned as the setting for Swan's Nest, although she had no idea what its actual name was or where it was located. Propped open beside her was a notebook in which she had scribbled several notes about Antonia and Jackson's reunion, alongside doodles of weeping willows and a badly-drawn Abe Lincoln sketch.

Her phone rang, prompting Amy's first instinct not to answer it; checking the screen, however, she flipped open the phone at the sight of Greg Willey's number.

"Greg," she said. "Can this be quick? I'm in the middle of a scene–" It was a business call, she knew, although he had plenty of reasons to call her socially. For some reason, however, he hardly ever did.

"It's about your email for information on Atlanta regiment uniforms," said Greg, whose voice was interrupted by a crackly-paper sound in the foreground. "I found the photos you wanted, but my scanner's broken. I'm thinking I may have to wait a couple of days and scan them off at the library before sending them to you. Or I could just loan you the book–"

"Which is quicker?" asked Amy. She envisioned Greg behind his university desk, no doubt arranging the little lead figurines on one of his fold-out battle maps, his research books propped open around him with various highlighted passages on great generals and secret military campaigns.

"Well, they'll both take some time. I guess I could bring the book to lunch one day–we are having lunch this week, aren't we?"

"We are engaged, aren't we?" Amy shot back. "Yes, we're having lunch, Greg. I called and told you I'd meet you at the cafe at one o' clock on Friday. That is, if this chapter works out." There was a slight note of worry creeping into her voice with this statement, as if the daunting nature of her next manuscript was making itself known.

"I'm sure you did and I just forgot," said Greg. "Where's my calendar? Oh, wait, here it is. Yup, you're penciled in...along with that auction house guy I'm supposed to meet. Uh-oh. Looks like a conflict–gotta call you back." He clicked off the line, leaving Amy listening to the silence of disconnection.

Greg Willey was an associate professor at Rudling University and a professional proofreader on the weekends–which was how Amy first made his acquaintance a few years ago, when he had offered her advice on tweaking her grammar and style structure on her blog. He had become her professional researcher by default when the manuscript became a project in earnest. A Civil War history extraordinaire, he knew every detail from major battles and minor theories, collected books by the hundreds and genuine memorabilia with a fanatical devotion which almost put Amy's Scarlett obsession to shame.

It was the history connection–and Amy's dismal research habits–which kept them associated professionally and, eventually, in a deeper personal sense. While there was no ring, per se, there was an understanding between them in the sense that a legal connection would be formed to seal these feelings in a permanent relationship. This romantic understanding had existed between them for over a year, although making headway on the subject of where and when was a process much slower than compiling information for a manuscript.

She flipped through Greg's notes on the subject of Atlanta's architecture, taking note of the penciled-in hints on points of invasion and key landmarks destroyed by fire. He didn't call back, a sign that his discussion with the auction house employee had pulled him in deep, as she had anticipated. Switching her phone off, she turned her attention to the onscreen description of a tattered roadside inn somewhere outside Atlanta.

Only three items survived the flames which consumed Swan's Nest; now they lay in Antonia's battered carpet bag. One was the family Bible, the delicate list of proud Deleroes inscribed by countless genteel hands in elegant script, from the generation which rose above mere cotton planting to a wealth which her young mind could scarcely comprehend as destroyed. The second, a cheap hand mirror, seemed a mockery of such times with its blackened glass and gilded handle twisted beneath the heat of flame.

The third item was the dress which she had last worn when dancing in the elegant ballroom. The last time she had felt Jackson's arms around her before the night he vanished into a world which she could not enter. Her name and her family pride forbid it; as much as the words he had spoken in such low and urgent tones had barred her forevermore from following in his footsteps...

 

 

*****

 

 

On Thursday, Amy had an interview scheduled with a daily feature writer from the Atlanta Voices section of the paper. At the library's local history reading room, a woman hardly older than Amy herself arrived armed with a digital recorder and a camera and very few questions regarding the book itself. Prompting Amy to wonder if this particular writer was actually interested in the story or merely in featuring the author's personal life.

"Your fans, of course, are aware that the sequel to Antebellum is in the works," she said, after a few warm-up questions about the book's overall theme. "A lot of them, however, are no doubt wondering why you chose to be a writer in the first place." She smiled expectantly at Amy across the table, where the author in question was busy trying to appear professional despite her pasted-on smile.

Why? In truth, Amy had given this question very little concrete definition in her thoughts. "I just love southern literature," she answered, after exhaling a deep breath. "And I feel that there's no better way to dream than on paper, since that makes it a little real, if you will."

"Do you do anything in particular which inspires you? Any experiences or hobbies?"

"I go for walks," said Amy, whose mind was racing for some sort of appropriate answer. "I read books. I–I spend time speaking and blogging about this genre of..."

"What about your personal life?" persisted the interviewer. "You seldom talk about your own relationships and experiences, leaving readers curious about whether you've found a happily-ever-after or are sort of ... dreaming one up in these books."

Amy's cheeks flared red in response. "Well, I'm engaged," she volunteered, a little more hotly than she intended. "I suppose that's what most people consider a happy ending in a relationship." She was careful to keep her smile in place as she spoke, her right fingers twisting the empty space on her left ring finger automatically as if there were really a metal band there– or to hide the lack thereof from another's eyes.

"Engaged? Your readers will be excited to hear that news. Any resemblance between the lucky fiancé and your hero Jackson McCormack?"

"Of course not," Amy laughed. "Jackson is fictional. There isn't anyone like him in real life." If there was some form of wistful longing beneath that laugh, she was careful to keep it hidden.

"I'm sure your fans can't wait to congratulate you–and can't wait for that sequel book, either."

"Neither can I," answered Amy.

 

 

******

 

 

She was sleeping in on Friday morning when the phone rang. Fumbling up from beneath the covers, she wondered for a brief moment if she had missed her shift at the coffee shop before remembering that she hadn't worked there in over a year. It was probably her mother calling, who never remembered that Friday was the one day that Amy indulged in complete rest.

She snapped up the phone. "Hello?" The sleepiness in her voice created a croaking effect.

"Is this the author Amy Pontelle?" A woman's voice was on the other end, but not her mother's: it was a high, exuberant female voice, with certain authority beneath its chirpiness.

"Uh-huh?" Amy answered, although her mumble was already lost beneath the caller's tide of speech.

"This is Mathilda Murray, Editor in Chief at Southern Elegance magazine. I trust you've heard of it."

"I have," answered Amy, feeling somewhat confused. Were they wanting an interview with her?

The editor plunged on. "I won't lie, Miss Pontelle–I am a fan of your book to the core, so when I read your interview this morning, only one thing popped into my head: Antonia's wedding."

The bizarre nature of this declaration caught Amy off-guard. "What?" she answered.

"Your wedding– the wedding of your readers' dreams–an authentic antebellum recreation at one of the most elegant Southern mansions available. All expenses paid, all arrangements made courtesy of Southern Elegance magazine and its creative design team. What do you say, Miss Pontelle?"

Amy's mouth was open, but the only sound issuing into the mouthpiece of her phone was a garbled gasping sound between a shriek and a scream. She clapped a hand over the receiver, her body performing a small, hopping dance of excitement. The winning lottery ticket, the ten millionth customer–they couldn't compare with this, an all-access pass to the land of her dreams.

"Just picture it: you, walking down the aisle beneath scented bowers of lilac and jasmine, waltzing to a full orchestra, bridesmaids dressed like Scarlett O' Hara–"

"Are you serious?" Amy's voice had emerged, in high-pitched, quavering tones, from its hiding place.

"Dead serious, Miss Pontelle–may I call you Amy? Like I said, I'm a fan of your book and the only price we would ask is exclusive access to your wedding and the behind-the-scenes process for our summer issue."

It was a moment more before Amy's brain processed this request and the reason behind it: her impromptu retort to the interviewer yesterday, the visions of her big day inspiring this generous offer. In the midst of her pounding heart, she could see the same vision with the clarity of a child envisioning Christmas morning. Yards of lace and silk, floppy-hatted bridesmaids, a row of soldiers in grey and blue flanking either side of the aisles–

"Well? Are you interested?" The editor's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I–uh, yes," said Amy. "Yes, I would love that. More than anything in the world." She sank onto the sofa as these trembling words escaped. Not envisioning yet the part where she explained all of this to Greg, only envisioning her fantasies coming alive with a swiftness beyond her comprehension. Was this real? Was she still asleep and dreaming?

"It would have to be in the next few weeks, of course–"

"That's no problem," answered Amy, more hastily than she intended. "That is, I can be ready whenever–"

"Then we'll start making arrangements and make this happen. My assistant will phone with a number where you can contact me at any time and we'll get the contact information for your agent–"

"Oh, but–" Amy hesitated, the doubts in her mind no longer content to be shoved aside. "But there's a little–a little hitch," she ventured. "That is–my next book is in progress." She winced inwardly in reaction to this statement as opposed to the words she had meant to say, namely, that she had no idea if her fiancé would agree. Chicken, she scolded herself.

"Surely you can get an extension on the deadline for something like this," said the editor. "I mean, we're talking your wedding, major publicity–bringing your book to life, for heaven's sake!"

"Surely I can," said Amy, weakly.

 

 

*****

 

 

Her lunch with Greg was at two, since he managed to correct the conflict with the antiquities dealer. When she arrived, he was waiting for her at their usual table, glancing up from his menu with a pleasant smile.

He was attractive; the sight of his smooth chestnut hair and faint dimple in one cheek had caused Amy's heart to swivel in his direction at their first meeting. His style, an artistic form of "messy business formal," was the casual contrast to his meticulous concentration and preoccupation with his work.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said, rising to kiss her cheek as she joined him.

"I'm surprised you're here so early since you had that antiques thing happening," said Amy, who was vague on details regarding his transactions.

"And miss lunch with you? Absolutely not," he answered, sitting down again.

She blushed. "Nice to know," she answered, her eyes tracing the familiar smile which curved his lips.

"Besides, he cancelled," said Greg. "Which I think is for the best, since I have to make sure Henderson isn't rivaling me on this. I mean, can you imagine losing out on General Jeb Stuart's sword to some hackneyed World War One expert?" As he asked this question, his cell phone trilled beside his plate.

Amy's brow furrowed. "Greg, there's something we need to discuss," she said. Until now, she hadn't figured out quite how to broach the subject. It was understood, of course, that they were supposed to be planning a wedding–eventually. Planning a wedding in the next two weeks might seem a little fast to him after this slow-and-steady approach.

"Greg Willey here–no, I can't make it until three at least," he said, startling her until she realized he had answered his phone. "Uh-huh. No. I'm having lunch with my fiancé. Call back by three-thirty." He snapped the phone shut.

"So what did you want to discuss?" he asked.

"You know how we've been thinking about planning our wedding?" Her fingers crumpled the edges of the narrow breadstick on her plate, a subtle gesture of nervousness which went unnoticed by her. "Well, I got this very interesting once-in-a-lifetime offer from somebody to plan it for me. A magazine feature at this amazing southern mansion."

"A southern mansion?" he repeated. "You mean, like Rhett Butler's home or something?" He tucked his napkin in his lap.

"Sort of," she answered, vaguely. "The catch is–and the whole thing is totally paid for and planned by these people–we have to get married in two weeks." This last bit she hurried into the open, as if hoping it would escape his notice.

"I know it's sooner than we planned," she continued, drawing a quick breath, "but things like this just don't happen, Greg. It's perfect, it's the whole Southern elegance package with the gorgeous setting, the gorgeous dress, a completely catered event. There's probably even a uniform thrown in if you want one."

He was staring at her–not with the look of pop-eyed horror or incredulous shock she had anticipated, but with a look of blank confusion. It lasted a minute before he shrugged.

"Well, sure," he answered.

She stared. "Sure," she repeated. "Then you're good with this? We can get married–at this gorgeous plantation."

"We were going to do it anyway, right?" he answered. "Why not do it now instead of eventually? It would mean you'd finally get out of that cramped apartment of yours and we could plan that Gettysburg honeymoon we talked about."

The smile on his face was so genuine that she didn't even breathe a sigh of relief, as if this was destiny clearing a perfect path for them. "I'm so glad you're open to this," she said. "Then let's do it."

"Let's do it," he answered. His smile had grown bigger as he gazed into her eyes, the two of them locked in this mutual look of love which ended as another expression crossed his face.

"Just one thing," he said, reaching for his water glass. "I won't be able to take much time off short-notice from the university–and, of course, that sword auction is coming up and it's down to the wire. I've been waiting all year for this opportunity and I'm this close to the final bid."

He took a sip, then set the glass aside. "But other than the few days I need to be here, I'm yours to command."

"I'm sure that's no problem," said Amy, "I mean, its' just a few days, right? So long as it's not the wedding day." Inwardly, she felt a twinge of disappointment over this slight setback. Wouldn't the southern elegance be more romantic if there was, well, two people sharing the experience? What if Greg's business delayed him for three or four days instead of–well, however long it took to buy a Civil War sword.

"Just let me know what days and I'll be there–rehearsals, whatever," he said. "Scout's honor. I'll have my cell phone with me twenty-four seven."

"Perfect," she answered.

 

 

*****

 

 

The first time she and Greg met, it was over a seafood luncheon where they discussed her blog's epic story. The next few meetings were much the same, taking place either in Greg's office or her own apartment, where the conversation gradually shifted from writing errors to her antebellum passion, then, naturally, to his Civil War fascination–and thus, dawned their research relationship.

It might not have progressed into more, but somehow it seemed ... well, natural to be around him. It was comfortable, despite the fact she found him attractive and knew more than one woman in his acquaintance was pursuing him. They, however, did not have a reason to ask him over almost weekly for Chinese takeout and long conversations about Southern history.

One evening, when he was in the midst of highlighting passages from her manuscript, he glanced up at her with a look that anticipated a question–no doubt about her spelling choices, she assumed.

"Are you free on Friday?" he asked.

"Friday?" she repeated. "Uh, I was going to work on the manuscript when I got off at the coffee shop..."

"I didn't mean for the book," he said. He plucked the seam in his trouser, adding nothing else to this statement verbally, although Amy was swift enough to piece together the rest.

They saw each other socially more often afterwards; in fact, they began to reserve tables regularly at some of Atlanta's best restaurants–something more affordable to Greg's credit card than her own the first few months–and see movies together on the weekends. When Amy's book was released, it was with Greg she celebrated first, with an impromptu bottle of champagne at his apartment.

It was casual, fun, and very relaxed, something which Amy's former coworkers and current friends claimed to envy, although she suspected this was just their way of complementing something other than Greg's handsomeness. She didn't think anything serious was likely to happen between the two of them, either.

"So what do you think about us...making things official?" This was the question Greg popped on her one evening.

"What?" Amy raised her head from the map spread across her coffee table, one of Greg's vast collection which happened to depict a part of Georgia she was including in her novel.

Greg drummed his fingers against the state border. "I mean...talk about getting married." These words found their release on a slow tide of breath emerging, as if the only means of speaking them was in the form of a sigh. There was a nonchalant expression on his face, eyebrows slightly raised above a nonplussed gaze.

Amy was blushing to the roots of her hair. "I can't believe this," she answered, a slight stammer in her voice.

It came as a surprise to her, one big enough that she couldn't look at his handsome face at this moment. Sure, they spent a great deal of time together, but she knew she wasn't the prettiest girl in his circle of friends and probably shamefully possessed the least knowledge of major battle sites of any of them.

"What did you think this was about?" His voice sounded slightly hurt.

"I just didn't think–I'm just surprised. Not in a bad way," she assured him. The feel of his fingers touching hers actually sent a tingle through her skin at this moment. "I–I would like that. I would love that," she corrected.

"So would I," he answered, nodding along with her words. There was a slight shrug of his shoulders at this point, then they were both absorbed momentarily in the map again.

Talk of honeymoon destinations followed in the months afterward–he for Gettysburg, her for New Orleans–of whose apartment they would eventually choose, of what kind of venue they preferred. They got as far as possible invitation designs once, although they never reached the stage of an official announcement, of a ring on her finger and a champagne celebration of their coming nuptials. Instead, they celebrated with a one-year anniversary of takeout boxes and a map marking the capture of famous Civil War spies, as if recreating the same night as before by accident.

 

 

*****

 

 

"Sophia, guess what? No, you will never, ever guess I'm getting married at a Southern mansion in Georgia–in two weeks!"

Amy's excited phone rant was drowned out by a shriek on the other end from Sophia, who had been her best friend since high school and one of the few people who didn't mind a friendship relegated to emails and occasional visits.

"Ohmygosh! Amy–who is he? Does he own a Southern mansion? How did you meet? Oh, this is unbelievable!"

Amy's forehead furrowed with confusion at this response. "It's Greg," she said, hesitating. "Who did you think it was?"

"Oh. Greg. Of course." Perhaps it was her imagination, but Sophia sounded disappointed.

"We're still engaged, you know," said Amy, who sounded slightly irritable in her response. That fact had hardly been a secret, having been common knowledge among friends and family for over a year.

"Yeah, of course," repeated Sophia. "But does it matter? I mean, you're getting married! And in some big Southern romantic spot like you've always dreamed about. So spill the details before I go crazy waiting!"

Sophia had sat through countless movie nights of Vivian Leigh and given Amy paper dolls depicting Margaret Mitchell's characters for her eight birthday. Although not the undying enthusiast her friend was for this particular story, she shared her "romantic at heart" syndrome with a vengeance.

"Well, it's totally covered by Southern Elegance magazine, whose editor is apparently a huge fan of the book," said Amy. "They're planning it, they're paying for it, and all they want is to cover it in their next issue."

"So you'll be on the cover in some gorgeous white gown–"

"–at one of the most romantic sites in the world, yes," interrupted Amy, although herself on the cover was a bit of a stretch. "This house is huge–it's called Wild Egret, with these gorgeous pillars and a view of the river–and we get to stay there for a whole week."

"You mean me?" Sophia gasped.

"Yes, you!" said Amy. "You're my maid of honor. You'll be in some Scarlett O' Hara gown, walking down the aisle ahead of me and Mom–"

"Your Mom must be dying over this," said Sophia. "Imagine you getting to do this. It's the chance of a lifetime!"

Amy's mother wasn't as thrilled as she had hoped–in fact, her reaction was similar to Sophia's at first, until her daughter's enthusiasm convinced her that this was exactly what she wanted.

"It just seems so...rushed," said Barbara, after hearing the initial announcement. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Mom, I've been engaged for over a year now," said Amy. "Of course I'm ready for this. We talked about it and decided it's perfect. Why wait when you can have everything you want by just saying 'yes' right now?"

Her mother's biggest–and only vocally expressed–criticism of her relationship with Greg had been the longstanding nature of their engagement. Why wait? she had asked, countless times whenever she reunited with her daughter.

"Well, when you put it that way, of course," said Barbara, although this faint reply lacked any substance with regards to her feelings on the matter.

Much to Amy's disappointment, the full week was out of the question for her mother and only possibly for the maid of honor after a great deal of persuasion applied to the principal of the school where she taught. In fact, the wedding itself at this last-minute point was out of the question for all but a handful of friends and family for herself and Greg, including the possible loss of the best man to a minor surgery appointment.

But it was worth it. Worth it for this one breathtaking experience that would be hers alone. Hers and Greg's, that is. It didn't matter how many old college friends must decline or whether her agent already had a conference to attend in Tucson, so long as the handful of people who really mattered were there. And not just for the experience of seeing her in a hoop-skirted wedding dress, either.

She perused the mansion's website and the growing emails of preparations from Mathilda the editor, who had arranged for Amy's transportation to Wild Egret and for information packets to be mailed to the wedding guests.

"I hope this isn't too soon for you," said Mathilda, over the phone. "It was a last-minute idea and I just ran with it...I had assumed that you planned to be married sometime soon since you announced the wedding–"

"Of course," said Amy, hurriedly. "I mean, I've been engaged for over a year. I definitely planned to be married in the near future. Or at some point in the future, at least." She cringed with these words.

A reception on the lawn, an elegant tea for the reception, a catered Southern cuisine menu for the rehearsal dinner the night before–it was dazzling, the more she learned about her future a few short weeks from now.

Wild Egret was an authentic Southern mansion, she learned from its history page, only recently reopened to the public as a tourist destination. Elegant grounds, an inlet from the river passing mere yards from its gardens, spacious rooms still decorated with period furniture. The pictures were arranged in a slide show which played across the screen of Amy's computer.

"It's the only mansion available in this part of Georgia, which is where our whole issue is based for next month," Mathilda had explained. "We tried for something a little more famous, but no dice. We've got fairs to cover, a garden tour and horticulture show– in short, we were pressed for time in finding something. So even though it would disappoint me, I understand if you say no."

"No?" said Amy. "Why would I say no? It's perfect–it's beautiful. Believe me, I can't picture anything more amazing than this." She was staring at the photograph on the mansion's website, the stately black-and-white sketch from a historic homes book, the photos below of the original lobby when it was reopened to the public as a hotel sometime in the 1920's.

She had tried to phone Greg to share the details and the website address, but his phone was busy for the rest of the afternoon–no doubt with the antique dealer who was arranging his purchase. She fell asleep after redialing for the fourth time, dozing with her head mere inches from the images of Wild Egret's glittering ballroom.

 

 

*****

 

 

Amy's first glimpse of the Wild Egret was through the windows of her cab as it traversed the long driveway to the mansion. On either side of the lane were thickly-grown hedges of lilac and bright azaleas, towering trees with thick green foliage, obscuring the house until a sudden gap in this green wall revealed a glimpse of the manicured gardens and the house itself.

Three stories. Smooth white pillars like ancient columns perfectly preserved. Windows glinting in the sunlight, dazzling her eyes. In the distance, the sleepy curve of water flowing like a tributary to the river's branch. Weeping willows along the bank; thick, dark magnolias encroaching upon the mansion's seat, a pink cloud of crepe myrtles and smoke trees like a rosy haze in the sunlight.

It was gone from view in a matter of seconds, but it had taken Amy's breath away. Her reflection in the taxi's window glass revealed wide eyes and a speechless expression, as if she were Antonia herself confronted with her lover after months of separation.

The taxi rounded the driveway's curves and stopped before the house steps. The wide veranda was occupied by spotless white wicker furniture and antique side tables, Amy couldn't help but notice, all but hidden by the abundance of rich green foliage and bright blossoms springing from or hanging over antique gardening pots.

"Here we are, Ma'am." The cab driver parked, then glanced at her expectantly. Amy fished a handful of bills from her purse and pressed them into his hand.

"Keep the change," she said. She climbed out, waiting as he removed her rolling suitcase from the trunk before he drove away. Armed with her luggage, she stood before the imposing and elegant mansion steps.

Taking a deep breath, she moved towards the front door and pushed it open.

The sunlight in the lobby was filtered through heavy drapes of antique velvet and southern lace panels so delicate they resembled wedding veils in themselves. Polished wood furniture, antique floral prints and chintz covers, painted ceramics and crystal vases filled with cut flowers. Framed antique portraits in oil depicting the original family who owned Wild Egret, she supposed.

It was breathtakingly perfect; she might have lingered here longer, had she not become aware of a service desk positioned where an antique sideboard or sitting area might have once stood. Behind its surface was a man in a well-pressed suit and tie, studying an open ledger.

She crossed to the desk. "Reservation for Miss Amy Pontelle," she said. The clerk looked up with a smile, his face revealing several prominent and fine lines despite the reddish-brown hair parted in a concealing comb-over. A nametag affixed to his lapel read Mr. Fairfax.

"Miss Pontelle," he said. "We have you right here, I believe..." He turned the pages of the ledger, revealing sweeping handwritten lines which matched the soft and polite tones of his Southern accent.

"You are in the Savannah Suite," he said, taking a key attached to a velvet cord, one of several hanging on a board behind him. "Named for the birthplace of Louisa Sawtelle–she was the first lady of Wild Egret."

"Really," said Amy, who held the key in her hand, a sense of awe for its representation. "Is that her in one of the portraits in the lobby?"

"No, Ma'am. Those all belong to later generations of the Sawtelle family." He made a note in the ledger, then slid his hand beneath the desk.

"A Ms. Murray has left this message for you." He slid an envelope across the desk to Amy. "She says she'll see you first thing in the morning in the Magnolia Suite. Edward will take your bags upstairs for you, Ma'am."

He rang the desk bell, Amy glancing expectantly in the direction of the corridor leading to another part of the house. No figure appeared along its dim, curtained passage.

Mr. Fairfax rang the bell again. Still no action, although he didn't seem surprised by this. He pressed it one more time; this time, Amy detected a movement from the darkened hall, as if one of the chairs along its wall had come to life.

A figure shuffled forth slowly from the darkness, pondering steps which advanced with all the speed of a tortoise hurrying across the highway. Edward, thin and bent partway towards the floor, a shock of white hair and slightly sagging black and white uniform a confirmation of his age.

"Edward, take Miss Pontelle's bag to the Savannah Suite, please," said Mr. Fairfax. The elderly bellman shuffled forward to take the suitcase's handle, wheeling it slowly towards the stairs.

"Has he ... been with the hotel long?" asked Amy. Who was half-afraid the man might collapse on his way upstairs.

"Since nineteen forty-four," answered Mr. Fairfax, without any sign of concern for the man's capability. "Of course, we've been closed for the last fifteen years or so." He was scribbling a quick note in the margins of his ledger, which he then closed.

"Will there be anything else, Miss Pontelle?" he asked. "There'll be tea served out on the veranda at three in the afternoon every day and just ring the bell if you want something and we'll pop right up."

"Thank you," said Amy, half-hoping it was not Edward's job to "pop up" in response to the bell. She turned towards the carpeted walnut staircase climbing high to the floors above, her gaze traveling from the elegant portraits to the doors visible on the floor above.

She turned the key to the Savannah Suite and pushed open the door, revealing a canopied bed covered with a candlewick spread and pillows, lace curtains billowing in the breeze of an open window. A vase of pink hyacinth blossoms was in the middle of a table bearing an antique Remington typewriter and crystal candy dish.

Her fingers touched the typewriter keys, clicking a few of them idly. Perhaps it would be more fun to use this while she was here–type the pages of her sequel's manuscript on an antique which might have been in the possession of a once-grand Southern family. Here, in the chamber named for a city renowned for its romance and architecture.

There was a second door leading to a private washroom, then a door leading to a separate sitting room, a parlor with two antique sofas and a stiff chair with needlepoint cushions. Against pale green floral wallpaper, a smiling portrait of a dark-haired woman in a pink gown and jewel-pinned curls.

Remembering the note in her hand, she opened it, seeing the editor Mathilda Murray's handwriting for the first time. Welcome to the White Egret! Sorry it's in rough shape, but it was one of the few open historic houses totally capable of fitting our schedule and your description of Swan's Nest in the novel. First photography shoot for the mag is at one o' clock tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting you and the lucky groom!–Mathilda.

Amy refolded the note as she moved to the bedroom window and surveyed the landscape visible outside. Gardens alive with flowers in bloom and thick hostas like green fans, the curve of the water hidden by the trees except a brief glimpse of a boat in the distance.

Her fingers reached up and gently drew the tall panel of glass closed, latching it in place. Outside, the vision took on a blurry quality, the colors brightening as if an Impressionist painting of its splendors. The blur was her tears, she realized, a sob of satisfaction rising in her throat as she stood in this room, feeling the delicate lace curtain fan her cheeks.

It was a moment worthy of her epic romance–or maybe the one she dreamed about secretly on a more personal level. Antonia gazing upon the ruins of Swan's Nest couldn't feel more emotion than this.

There was a squeaking sound behind her, an odd scraping softened by the carpet. Turning, she saw Edward slowly entering the room, her wheeled suitcase in tow. Parking it on the floor, he stood in the same half-bowed position as before, his quavery, ancient voice emerging after a moment's effort.

"Your suitcase, Madam." With a bow which was merely a dip in his regular posture, he turned and shuffled away through the open door without bothering to wait for his tip.

 

 

*****

 

 

When Amy opened her eyes in the morning, it was with a momentary sense of displacement. The closed damask drapes, the blue willow vase on the bedside table–these weren't her things. The flash of yesterday's bus journey, the taxi ride to the hotel, the afternoon spent strolling along the garden pathways, came to her with a force of energy that propelled her from beneath the covers.

A southern mansion, a big meeting with the editor who planned to transform her wedding day into an antebellum fantasy. It was this perfect train of thoughts which looped in her mind repeatedly as she drew her robe over her nightdress and opened the drapes to the world outside.

The green lawn was glowing in the bright morning sunlight, red blossoms like spilled lipstick splashed across the manicured flowerbed. In its midst, a man in a pair of faded jeans and work boots, his back and shoulders shirtless and exposed to the sunlight as he tamped the dirt around the base of a newly-planted spindly tree of some ornamental species. He stood up and stretched, revealing noticeably firm muscles beneath his tan, thick sandy hair spiked beneath a layer of sweat.

His back was turned to her as he surveyed the lawn and she surveyed him with a breathlessness not entirely different from the view of Wild Egret from yesterday's taxi window. The inappropriateness of this moment finally struck her, followed by her hand yanking the drapes closed as she whirled away from the scene.

What was wrong with her? Ogling the hotel staff like some sort of–well, not like a woman here to plan her wedding, that's for sure. With more force than necessary, she yanked open the dresser drawer and pulled out a tank top and a skirt, raking her fingers through her rumpled hair.

She should call Greg after breakfast. He was probably working his fingers to the bone in his office, trying to clear his schedule so he could join her. She should show him she appreciated gestures like that, just as she appreciated the effort he made on the part of her novel more than once.

Downstairs, there were signs of breakfast being served on the veranda, but not of her fellow guests. Spreading jam over a toasted biscuit, she glanced around for any company besides the tottering figure of Edward watering a large fern beside the pillar.

"Mr. Fairfax," she said, as the manager emerged to survey the line of serving trays and juice pitchers, "is there–is there anyone else staying here? Besides me and the magazine staff, I mean."

"Oh, no," he answered, although not in a tone which suggested he was dismayed by this fact. "Would you like some more coffee, Miss Pontelle? I trust you had a good night's sleep since you’re out here enjoying the fine view."

"Just great," she answered. She was envisioning herself snuggled down in one of the wicker chairs with a plate of biscuits, a fantasy which beguiled her more than sitting here awkwardly waiting for Ms. Murray and company. Not that she was complaining in the midst of all this beauty. No indeed.

 

 

*****

 

 

"I know this place is a little bit of a rat trap, but it was a very last-minute decision, I assure you," said Mathilda Murray. "But it has charm, it has history, and it's gorgeous enough to look at." She was speaking to Amy as she climbed the stairs to their floor, not bothering to lower her voice for the sake of the employee dusting the lobby furniture below. Edward showed no signs of having heard anything.

"It seems fine," answered Amy, with a quizzical glance at her companion. "It's a little antiquated, but that's the charm."

"The estate's latest heir is having it renovated, but it seems to be a little behind," continued Ms. Murray, as she unlocked the suite's door. "Maybe they delayed just for us–wouldn’t that be an unlucky honor? The previous owner was a little eccentric and never let the hotel be modernized, kept the same staff forever, even worked as a bellboy himself before they closed down. Once it's restored, however, it'll be a tourist hot spot, I'm sure." She pushed open the door and ushered Amy inside.

It was a sitting room similar to the one attached to Amy's room, only bigger–and crammed full of people. Laptops on tables, fashion sketches pinned to walls, fabric swatches draped across chairs and sofas, as if the room was transformed into a design office.

"Meet the creative team of Southern Elegance, completely at the disposal of your wedding for the next week," said Mathilda. "Kay is in charge of fashion," she indicated a tiny dark-haired girl with hair cropped short, "Maurice is in charge of makeup and hair, and Elise is in charge of food and flowers." A pouty man in a business shirt and waistcoat stared at Amy, alongside a stunning redhead armed with a leather portfolio.

"The general staff had already helped the photographer set up a studio in the Willow Suite," said Mathilda, "so we'll get started if you're ready."

"Ready?" echoed Amy. "Of course I'm ready. I mean, I'll have to change..." She pulled the sides of her skirt out, a plain khaki choice she was fairly sure wouldn't meet with Kay's approval.

Kay and Maurice both laughed–too heartily for Amy's tastes. "Isn't she cute?" said Maurice. "Of course, we're going to fix all that." Waving his hand at her outfit for emphasis.

"Your dress is here..." began Kay, who was pulling a large white bundle from a nearby garment bag. It unfurled to reveal soft, swishing skirts with a green floral pattern, a green ribbon at the waist. Amy's mouth fell open in response.

"Oh, my...is that–" she began. There was no need to finish, because she would recognize that dress in the dark, if she touched the fabric while blindfolded, if she was presented with only the merest swatch of that Southern belle elegance. Not the cheap version her eight year-old self had worn for Halloween, but a version so real, so stunning, that it seemed as if someone had ripped it from a fabric warehouse in Hollywood under cover of darkness.

"Her hair won't do at all. We'll have to lose it." This announcement from Maurice was accompanied by a hairbrush seizing Amy's hair, yanking it back against her scalp as she yelped. Kay had joined in, unzipping a cosmetic bag with the swiftness of a medic opening a First Aid kit.

Amy's hair was pinned tight against her head, the metal tips digging into her scalp with a vengeance. Another staffer pulled a wig over her scalp, fluffing out its waves before Maurice shooed them away from his application of heavy mascara and lipstick. A dark red streak traveled just below the line of Amy's vision, her chin propped upwards along with her gaze as another hand slathered mascara across her lashes.

The dress was wrapped around her in the tiny dressing corner hidden by a foldout screen. Kay's swift fingers had peeled down the tank top, tugged a corset into place with a speed beyond Amy's comprehension until the laces were drawn tight.

"Oof," she said. This breathy protest had no affect on the designer, who cinched Amy's stomach against her spine with an extra tug before drawing the dress's bodice into place.

"Your bridesmaids are ready and waiting," she said, as the screen was folded back, allowing Amy to stumble into the main room again.

"Bridesmaids?" gasped Amy. "Who? I mean, there's only Sophia and she's not here yet–" A sense of dismay stole over her at the thought of the magazine selecting her wedding party.

"No waiting, no worries," said Mathilda. "This is just a glamour shot with some standard models from our best agency. Your friend Sophia doesn't have to be in it, necessarily." She was already gathering her things, no doubt ready for an en route procession to the photographer's makeshift studio.

"But–" said Amy, who was being ushered along to join a bevy of spread skirts in the hallway. Four girls in pink chiffon gowns billowing over massive hoops like Amy's own reproduction gown–only these women clearly had no need of corsets to trim their waists. The pouty lips and narrow cheekbones, the masses of curls flowing beneath floppy sunhats made Amy's heart sink.

How would she ever stand up beside these women? She passed for cute in an average crowd, but not in the presence of paid professional beauty, she was certain–even if Maurice had stuffed her blond wavy curls beneath a mass of hair that felt like a cape covering her shoulders.

"This way," said Elise, who held open the door to an adjoining room, its walls and floors draped with photography cloths concealing a two-tiered platform, a single stool sitting in the middle. A man was adjusting a camera on a tripod, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal a dragon tattoo.

"Andre, we're ready," said Mathilda. The man raised his eyes to appraise his future subjects.

"All right–Clarise and Mindy, towards the back, upon the second level. Giselle and Debi, foreground and either side–and you–"

"Miss Pontelle, the author," volunteered Mathilda.

"Miss Pontelle, on the stool, please." He was gesturing impatiently, already fiddling with his lens as Amy climbed on the stool, struggling to adjust the massive skirts to fall over the other side. A magazine staffer scrambled to adjust the mounds of fabric in a hopefully-elegant pose.

"Head up–chin down–eyes tilted my way, Miss Pontelle–"

"Amy," volunteered his subject, weakly. It felt strange to be addressed so formally when the professionals around her were not.

"Amy–smile. No, sultry smile. Smile like you know a secret that nobody else does ... and you're not telling unless they really want to know." The camera clicked away as the women beside her struck elegant poses, Amy remaining the wooden fixture in the center whose head only moved on command.

"All right, one more–one more... and there." Andre lifted his finger from the camera's button. "Beautiful, ladies, we're all done here." The models ceased to strike their intimidating poses and climbed down. Amy attempted to slump, something prevented by her sucked-in midriff.

"Not all our working days will be like this, just so you know," said Mathilda, who steered her down from the platform and towards a waiting Kay.

"Really?" said Amy, attempting to draw a deeper breath. The editor laughed in response.

"Heck, no! Most of them won't be nearly as fun." She released Amy, who was struck silent by this remark and incapable of reply.

On the veranda, she gazed into a glass of sweet tea, ice cubes floating before her beneath a wedge of lemon yellow. The hot summer sun transformed the air above the lawn into a glittering haze, fanned by a shadow from one of the overhanging trees.

It was beautiful. There wasn't a flaw in the place, despite Mathilda's little laugh about its "rat trap" status. She had just been dressed in a grownup version of the gown she adored as a child, which, while admittedly uncomfortable, was part of her dream, no? There was no reason for feeling this little sense of despondency that was hanging over her like the first signs of a winter cold.

The sound of footsteps slapping up the steps made her raise her head, a smile on her face at the sight of Sophia's thick dark hair and generous figure beneath a Foreigner t-shirt. Springing up from her seat, she came in second in the race for embrace as her friend's arms closed around her.

"This place is gorgeous!" squealed Sophia. "I can't believe we're here–I can't believe my principal gave me the week, off, either, but that's another story." When Amy released her from their bear hug, she dropped into the nearest chair.

"Is that sweet tea?" she demanded. "And are those–"

"–praline cookies? Absolutely," answered Amy. Her friend gave a little moan as she took a bite from one.

"Is this heaven?" she asked. Amy giggled.

"I think so, no matter what anybody says. It's like something from a dream. It's like any moment now, Scarlett could descend from the staircase inside in that gorgeous red dress she wore in the movie." This reflection brought the photo shoot to her mind again with cringing clarity in its contrast.

"So what have you been up to?" Sophia took a sip from a glass of tea she poured for herself. "Being pampered by the staff? Picking out bouquets?"

"Nothing like that," admitted Amy. "I don't even know how big the staff is in this place. I get the impression that some of them may have ... moved on." Her glance flickered in the direction of Edward, who was very slowly laying out a second platter of cookies at one of the magazine staff's favorite tables.

"Still, it has its perks here, right?" said Sophia. "All you need is some handsome Southern gentleman to sweep you up in his muscular arms and carry you across the lawn." She broke a second cookie in half and nibbled it.

This scenario brought something else to Amy's mind, which she batted away uncomfortably. "If your room is next to mine, it'll practically be like a sleepover," she suggested. "We'll go through bridal magazines, maybe watch a movie on your laptop–you did bring your laptop? Or we'll use mine, since I'm taking up an alternative means of writing." She had already cranked a sheet of paper through the antique typewriter's reel, tapping out the first few words of her newest paragraph: In her room, Antonia gazed through the tattered remains of the curtains at the view so little changed by the bloodshed of battles...

"I did," said Sophia. "And plenty of bug spray." She swallowed the last bit of cookie.

"Bug spray?" repeated Amy. Sophia glanced up as she poured a second glass of tea.

"When I called about arranging my room, the manager told me to bring it," she answered. "Something about the mosquitoes, I think." She shrugged her shoulders.

Another little moment of dismay crept into Amy's thoughts, which she failed to squash as quickly as the first one. Why were all these details jockeying for a place in ruining perfection? Why were they chipping away at the fantasy just when it was becoming real? It wasn't fair; and it wasn't going to happen, no matter how many bug sprays or corsets appeared on the scene.

"It really is beautiful," she told Greg over the phone that night. "You'll love it. There's a view of the water, a weeping willow–"

"There's a major battle site near there, right?" he said. "I thought I read something about it on the website." She heard the sound of papers rustling in the background.

"Uh, maybe so," she answered. That didn't sound remotely familiar, but they were reading different things into this experience, she supposed. "That sounds right."

"I can't wait to see it when I arrive," he said. "It'll be Thursday, probably; I give my last quiz in the makeup course on American History the day before." He didn't specify whether he was excited about the estate or the battlefield, although Amy preferred to think it was the former.

"Thursday," she said. "I can't wait." For the first time since she arrived, she hope for a romantic moment with a handsome man in this place–although sans sweeping ballgown, she supposed.

She lay beneath the covers afterwards, imagining the next week's parade of sweet tea and pecan pie, of strolling the landscaped grounds and gazing at the water by moonlight. A week of relaxation in elegant surroundings, capped by herself in a designer Southern belle gown walking down the aisle ... to what? A new life, a culmination of the last year's steadily-growing feelings. Nothing would be the same after that, she supposed, from the way she approached her novel to her morning routine.

Snapping off the light, she lay in the dark, trying to imagine what existed on the other side of happily-ever-after. Something she had never before pictured after the lights dimmed on the silver screen's picture.

 

 

*****

 

 

When she went inside, there was a distinct change in the lobby's atmosphere since early afternoon. Notably, the lack of cool air, Amy's shirt continuing to cling to her like a damp second skin despite the fact that she was indoors. She glanced in the direction of the reception desk, where Mr. Fairfax was sorting brochures into little piles.

"Is the air conditioning working?" she asked. He looked up.

"Is it not?" he asked, after a moment, as if the heat had escaped his notice until now. "I reckon it must have gone out again. That happens a lot, I'm afraid. Well, we'll have to get someone to take a look at it." His head turned in the direction of the darkened passageway.

"Edward," he called. "Edward, won't you see if there's a repairman who can come out and take a look at that old central unit?" A figure stirred in the dimness, Edward unfolding himself from one of the straight-back chairs on display there.

"It'll be just a little while, Ma'am," Mr. Fairfax answered, with a pleasant smile.

"Thanks," she answered, then went upstairs, taking note that hot air tends to rise–and that the few ceiling fans she had noticed in this place were antiquated, silent, and worse yet, completely still beneath a thin layer of cobwebs and dust. Ms. Murray's words returned with a vengeance.

There was a red sky at dawn when Antonia peered outside. A red sky like the blood which was spilled the night before, the volley of shots which echoed through her dreams like a clap of thunder haunting her child-self long ago. In the midst of these might be Jackson; or he might be laying dead beneath an unmarked stone, an unknown soldier. He might have been hung as a traitor by either side.

Unbearable thoughts, which were companions to another fear in her mind. It was the fear that he had found another's arms welcoming in a place far from all this suffering. His words as lies, his deeds to shield her only excuses for making his departure from Swan's Nest quickly to save himself from danger.

It couldn't be true. Not brave, honest Jackson, who would risk any battle, face any danger if his courage would prove his cause to be right.

The antiquated typewriter had a tendency to stick every third or fourth sentence, slowing Amy's progress. She propped her glasses on her head during these momentary delays and gazed at the twilight garden outside her window, the lawn with its new ornamental tree springing from the landscaped bed–a pussy willow tree, she had discovered, upon closer examination.

No sign of the shirtless gardener anywhere to be found, however, although she strolled at leisure all afternoon long. Not that she was curious; or looking, for that matter.

When she reached the end of the page, she pulled it out and added it with a flourish to the stack beside her machine. The heat in the room was not stifling, but without the relief of a breeze, forced her to open the window. Edward must still be in search of a repairman, she surmised.

Her satin gown clung to her as she lay on the unmade bed, eyes closed despite the relative brightness of daylight's final shades before nightfall. In another day, she would see Greg again. They would spend the afternoon holding hands and admiring the hard work of Elise when it came to the aesthetic appeal of their ceremony and living out her dreams of romance in the antebellum world. This once-in-a-lifetime experience would not be all hers–although she suspected in some strange way that she wasn't nearly as interested in the groom's cake design as she was in the satin dress being planned for herself.

Greg would understand that. He always understood, even if it was exasperating for him, that she did not remember battle dates or locations, or even the names of major tourist sites or landmarks. That her reason for working with him in the first place was his uncanny eye for minute details which her own brushed over in an effort to reach the big, sweeping picture. Their only problem–and it was a small one, she supposed–was that Greg could hardly ever see the big picture for the small pieces.

 

 

*****

 

 

The distant rumble of thunder invaded Amy's dreams that night. In the early light of dawn, she awoke in the stifling heat of the room, aware that the faint boom and pop in the distance had become louder. It had taken on the characteristics of a gunpowder report in movies–in fact, she could almost smell it as she opened her eyes.

The sound of human voices yelling, however, was what drew her to a sitting position. Through the open window, she could see a haze–not the mists of the early morning, but a definite veil of smoke.

The crack of a gunshot just below her window made her shriek with surprise. Outside on the lawn, a man in a blue uniform crumpled on the grass, several more running past him. A tide of grey and blue bodies were rushing in from all directions, accompanied by puffs of smoke from their rifles as they took aim and fired, felling uniformed figures across the grass.

"Don't let 'em run, but cut 'em down boys!" bellowed a portly general in a bushy beard and grey jacket. He plunged a sword seemingly into the torso of a blue-jacketed boy, who fell to the ground with a shrill scream.

Amy clapped a hand over her mouth as she turned and hurried to the room's door. In the hallway, Sophia had just emerged from her own room, screaming.

"What is it?" she shrieked, grabbing Amy's arm. "What is it–what are they–"

"I don't know, I don't know," Amy babbled, in an attempt to soothe. Behind her came the voice of Mr. Fairfax, his person positioned halfway up the staircase.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said. "It appears we had a little scheduling conflict this week..." He spread his hands apologetically as Amy turned towards him.

"Well, we were planning on shooting photographs of the grounds and house today, but that's all off," grumbled Ms. Murray. "Elise has already postponed it and sent Renee off to cover the local pie championship for next month's recipe section."

She stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene in the lobby below–which had been converted into a hospital for the reenactment, it seemed. Wounded soldiers were sprawled across the antique sofas and chairs, groaning in various stages of fake-blood wounds. A sea of head bandages, compresses over smoke-stained limbs, and rifles propped in every available corner.

Amy descended, casting a sympathetic glance at the nearest wounded soldier half-asleep in a chair. Veering towards the door, she narrowly missed stumbling over a pair of boots on a kneeling soldier, who was bandaging a Union soldier despite his own grey jacket. Something about the back of his head was familiar to Amy–something she realized a second later with a sense of horror.

"Pardon me," she said, as he glanced over his shoulder at her. Now she had a face to match the muscular figure from the landscaping crew.

"Don't you ... work here?" she ventured, with a swallow. Her gaze shifted to the room of amateur actors around them.

"Sometimes I do," he answered, with a faint grin. He tipped his cap, endeavoring to hide his bemused expression as he turned back to the body pretend-sprawled across the sofa. Amy crept away through the door to the veranda outside. Which was also occupied by the mock-dying, apparently.

"I can't believe I'm missing this." Greg sounded disappointed on the phone.

"It was a little loud at six in the morning," Amy answered. She sank lower beneath the suds of the bathtub. "I don't think you would have been so thrilled with it then."

"Try me. I can't believe they didn't tell you. You could've watched from the windows–"

"It was supposed to be two weeks away," she answered. "The magazine thought they had this place booked for themselves, remember? The editor wasn't exactly thrilled about having to delay their feature about the house because it was crawling in fake war wounded. Not that this place is generally crawling with anything," she admitted. The perplexities of Mr. Fairfax and the layers of dust in corners had given birth to the slow realization that this definitely wasn't one of the hottest tourist destinations in the South.

"The hotel hasn't been open in years, you know," said Greg. "Apparently, the whole place is scheduled for renovation before it reopens to the public. The owner just granted this as a favor to your editor when she couldn't find anyplace local. I guess they granted the same privilege to the local reenactment chapter awhile back, too."

She heard the sound of a beep in the background, a text received. Surprisingly enough, he didn't seem to answer it.

"So, is this place run-down?" he asked. "I've heard it's not exactly Tara..."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" she interrupted. "It's a little dusty, it's got bad air conditioning, but other than that it's fine." She didn't mean to sound defensive, but she was beginning to fear all those remarks about the mansion would somehow come true. As if words would eat away at its perfection, revealing termites and leaky pipes, cheap wallpaper and moldy carpets.

"Just asking," he answered, in a voice which suggested he was backing away from her. "Anyway, I'll see it for myself tomorrow, won't I?"

"Bright and early," she answered. There was another beep in the background.

"Isn't that your phone?" she said.

"It is," he answered, nonchalantly.

"You're not answering the messages," she said, suppressing the note of interest in her voice. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"It's just Malcolm," he answered.

"Malcolm?"

"The auction house employee. He sends me the latest word on who's moving in for the sword, who's dropped out. Keeping me informed."

"Oh," she answered. So that was the reason he ignored it. It surprised her that her first reaction hadn't been fear of a rival love interest–only a sense of awe that he would ignore one of his colleagues or Civil War contacts for her.

"Bright and early tomorrow morning, huh?" he said. "Be looking for my cab, it'll be there by dawn."

"I will," she answered. He hung up before she could say anything further. She clipped the phone closed, emitting a startled gasp a second later in response to a splash in the bathtub. Not her phone, but a piece of plaster floating to the bottom beneath the suds. Above her, a missing piece visible from the decorative sconce surrounding the hanging chandelier.

Okay, maybe there were a few spots in need of a little TLC. Nothing a good restoration crew couldn't fix in a day or two.

She had spent the better part of the hot afternoon soaking in a cold bath of vanilla-flavored salts and rose petals as the reenactment down below no doubt wound up its weekend excitement. Sophia had gone shopping for shoes for the wedding and a series of romantic comedies for nighttime viewing, given the lack of televisions in the rooms.

The water had grown warm in the afternoon sun, the moisture shriveling the tips of Amy's fingers in a sign she should climb out. She tossed her cell phone onto the chair and struggled into her bathrobe, pulling the plug to the deep tub.

The first thing she saw on entering the bedroom was a man hunched in the corner, something heavy in his hand. With a scream, she darted behind the door, pulling her robe closed tightly around her.

"What are you doing here!" Even as this garbled shriek emerged, she recognized the landscaper, whose face was averted from her general direction with an instinctive reaction to their situation.

"Your air conditioner," he said. The wall unit was partly disassembled, a series of tools scattered around it.

"I'm taking a bath–" she said, frantically.

"–they told me you were out," he said, at almost the same time. "They thought you were in town so I–I came in here after I finished looking at the one next door."

The hasty politeness of his speech proved he was as uncomfortable as herself–that, and the way he held his hands spread as if she had a pistol trained on him instead of an offended glare. She softened slightly in response.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice muffled slightly as she ducked further behind the door. "I was just surprised."

"Do you want me to go?" he asked. Sneaking a glance in her direction as he reached for his tools.

"No, no," she said. "I mean, I would really love some cold air in this place again." She pulled the robe more firmly into place before ducking out of hiding. His gaze flickered in her direction briefly, then away again.

"I'm decent," she said, slipping across the room to the dresser and pulling open a drawer, rifling for her sundress. He had turned his attention to the open unit again.

"These things are pretty old," he said, peering around the cooling system with a flashlight. "Looks like the pipes are a little rough."

"I'm sort of surprised the owner hasn't replaced all this stuff, since the place is supposed to be under renovation," said Amy, who ducked into the next room to dress.

"These things take time," answered the repairman, who was whistling under his breath as he banged around inside the unit.

She peered around the doorway. "This morning's activity was sort of ... surprising," she said. "Are you a regular member of that reenactment group?" This was a personal question, with no good reason to ask it except out of curiosity.

"I am," he answered. "Captain James Jackson, as they call me in the Civil War Preservation Society.” Her heart skipped a beat at these words–no, it was simply a coincidence.

"Did your family fight in the war, I take it?" She had emerged from behind the door, conscious of how her yellow sundress fit, her eye catching a glimpse of her somewhat rumpled curls made flat from the water's steam. Inwardly, she winced at the sight.

"They did," he answered. "My great-great-great grandfather fought for the Union." There was a clank as he dropped a wrench into the pile of tools. He glanced back at her briefly, a hazel eye flickering over her for a moment before he returned to his work.

"The Union?" she asked.

He laughed. "I had relatives fighting on both sides, don't worry." He offered her a little wink with this statement, which caused a blush to suffuse her cheeks momentarily.

Her hands were folded on her lap, although there was no reason for her to linger here and watch him work. And yet, somehow, she didn’t feel a need to leave.

"I see you're a writer of some kind," he ventured, as he snapped the front onto her unit again. "At least, Mr. Fairfax said that's why the magazine wanted to camp here for awhile. And I'm guessing it must be you from that stack of papers by the typewriter there."

"I'm a novelist," she answered. "Amy Pontelle. I wrote The Antebellum Heart. Not that you've read it."

He wiped his hands on a rag from his pocket. "I might have," he answered, slowly. "I have a lot of books. Haven't read all of them I want to–a lot of 'em piled up and waiting at home for me to get time."

"And what do you spend your time doing?" The perky voice which asked this question did not seem like her own, she realized, as if another person had taken over her personality temporarily.

He smiled. "I plant things," he answered. "That's what I'm doing here these days. Spend all my time in the dirt and greenhouses. Got a place to go home to and catch up on a little reading before bed. All I do these days since I gave up traveling for a bit." Bending down, he gathered his tools.

"So you traveled before now?" she ventured. "Where?"

"Everywhere," he answered.

"Lucky," she answered. "I've practically never left Atlanta before this week."

He surveyed her with an expression of interest. "You wish you had, I'm guessing."

She shrugged. "I guess we all want something else sometimes." Recalling herself, she stood up and made a pretense of putting things away in her drawers.

"Your unit's still not working," he said, after a moment. "I'm gonna check the others, then see if I can't find a clog in one of the lines somewhere that might be holding things up..."

"That's all right," she answered, although it was far from all right in terms of her personal comfort. Something in his expression made him seem genuinely sorry that he couldn't fix her problem, a look of disappointment deep in those hazel eyes, perhaps.

"Sorry about barging in on you," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Next time, I'll shout out before I start working." The friendliness in his voice, a kind of casual warmth in those Southern tones, had the capacity to melt her indignation entirely.

"It was just an honest mistake," she answered, attempting not to blush for the second time in so many minutes. "Could have happened to anyone." She lingered on the other side of the door as he disappeared down the hallway to another open door–where, no doubt, the air conditioner was also a thing of the past.

Closing the door behind him, she leaned against it, closing her eyes momentarily to erase the images of his muscled arms beneath rolled-up sleeves, the smudges of grease on his face. A little like the stains of battle smoke from when Jackson the fictional character slipped across enemy lines...

This was ridiculous. This Jackson was attractive, obviously–and well-rounded and interesting, perhaps–but he wasn't a Civil War hero or the dream-like fantasy in her stories. He wasn't the familiar face of her fiancé; he was without any connection to her life except with regards to the flower bed visible outside her window.

Apparently, Jackson the handyman/landscaper had failed to get any of the units in working order, for Amy's room was still sweltering by evening. Her fingers sticking faintly to the keys of the typewriter as she pounded away on the scenes of Antonia's life.

 

 

*****

 

 

Elise the creative coordinator's main focus on Thursday was flowers: gorgeous, scented blooms which were coincidentally also being featured in the magazine's garden feature when not in use for the wedding design. She had been up since three in the morning, Mathilda informed Amy, working to finish her display for the upcoming ceremony.

True to his word, Greg arrived bright and early, if not at the crack of dawn. He emerged from his cab to embrace an excited Amy before retrieving his laptop case from the passenger seat.

"Where's your luggage?" she asked, confused by the small size of his bag.

He shrugged. "I can't stay tonight," he answered, with a disappointed smile. "Two of my students have advisor meetings on Saturday and I'm supposed to deliver a summer lecture on Civil War military theory Monday evening and haven't written more than a couple of lines yet." His arm wrapped around her shoulder as they strolled towards the house.

"It's something, isn't it?" he said. Her fingers squeezed his own in response.

"I know," she said. "Aren't we lucky? It's like ... it's like..."

"It's like that picture in Lee's Surrender," said Greg. "You know the one I mean...it was near the site of a major campaign by McClellan."

Amy had no idea what he meant, since the general's career was nothing more than a vague fact in her knowledge. "I don't remember," she answered.

"Sure you do. I loaned you the book," he said. Since this could be any number of volumes with highlighted passages which had passed briefly into her possession, she chose to let this remark slide past.

With her arm tucked through Greg's, she felt more secure as she strolled the grounds. Her heart lightening in response to being a romantic couple as opposed to only herself enjoying it. The aura of the lonely woman tourist wandering in search of a handsome hero was erased by the presence of an attractive fiancé, she imagined.

"We're having dinner in town with Sophia tonight," she explained to him. "I've sworn off working on my book for this weekend, so today is entirely ours. The creative team is going to show off the flowers for the ceremony, we're going to have tea on the veranda..."

"It sounds like something out of a novel," he said. "Having tea, I mean. I didn't realize people still did that anymore." He looked at her, a quizzical smile on his face.

"It's part of the charm of this place," she answered. "I mean, it's iced tea, but still..." His cell phone trilled in the midst of this statement. He whipped it out and snapped it open.

"Willey here. Yes–yes, I am still in the market. He did? No, that's not a problem, I can match that..." He held up one finger pleadingly to Amy, who refrained from rolling her eyes as she imagined the antiquities dealer in some vast metal warehouse of treasures, his desk stationed right next to the Civil War sword's case as he took interested inquiries down like a bookie taking bets.

"All right, I'll call you back by then." Greg closed his phone and turned to Amy. "Would you believe it? Now Ferguson is horning in on this sword. Something about a gift for his college mentor. I mean, I would've expected his competition on that surgeon's kit from Bull Run–"

"Could we ... maybe talk about this later?" Amy pleaded. "Greg, we're here in one of the most romantic places I've ever been and I would prefer to talk about us instead." She interlaced her fingers with his, gazing pleadingly into his face.

He relaxed. "You're right. No swords. Banished for the rest of the day." His hand waved as if to cut off the topic by slicing through its imaginary form in the air.

"What time do you have to call back?" Amy asked, attempting to avoid the note of suspicion threatening to creep into her voice.

"By five." He pocketed his cell phone and followed her lead in the direction of the garden walkways bordered by trimmed rose shrubs.

A tiny sigh escaped her, dispelled only by the sunlight and the roses, the reassuring pressure of Greg's hand in her own.

"You really think it's beautiful here?" she asked, sneaking a glance at him. "You're not just saying that to cut me off from waxing eloquently about the place or anything?"

"I do," he answered. "I mean, I wouldn't want to live here or anything. But it's got a lot of appeal as a vacation spot." He glanced at her. "That's what you meant, right?"

"Right," she answered. It wasn't as if she intended for them to live in a place like this–after all, how did one come into possession of one of these? Not on an associate professor and genre writer's salaries, that was for certain. No wonder this place had spent most of the modern era as a hotel; undoubtedly the modern-day Sawtelle family was planning to pawn it off as a museum in the future, since they probably didn't have the means to live in a mansion of a dozen bedrooms.

The greenhouse was just beyond the hedges, where rows of rose trees were visible in ornamental beds. A pleasant hum filled the air, as if the blossoms were alive with activity in the morning sunlight, although Amy's attention was fixed on the scene just beyond them.

Elise had created a virtual canopy of lilac. Thick lavender-colored blossoms woven together, affixed to wire hoops which traveled to a ceremony stage decked in pink roses and long sprigs of abelia blossoms. Her team was stringing pink ribbons along the archway, strewing white petals along the carpet until the approach of Amy and Greg drew their attention.

"Welcome," said Elise, whose red hair was in a long ponytail as she bent over a table piled with showy flower displays. "Perfect timing. This is the finished design for your Southern extravaganza wedding march, the altar where you'll exchange your vows–and your bouquet design, Amy."

As she spoke, she unfurled a thick bouquet of yellow and lavender blossoms. Sprays of white baby's breath were mixed in, miniature pink roses studding the bundle of flowers spilling over a cut crystal vase.

"It's amazing," breathed Amy, as the coordinator beamed.

"In your book, Antonia's favorite color is yellow, so we incorporated as much of it as we could in the design," Elise said. "Now, Sophia's bouquet is a little smaller but very similar, as you can see. And while we're still tweaking the flower canopy, I think by the wedding day you'll be very, very pleased with the results. As will our editor, who needs these photos to be perfect for the piece."

"They're nice," said Greg, who propped his sunglasses on his head as he bent closer to the maid of honor's bouquet. "Did you design all these yourself?"

Elise blushed–a common reaction women had to Greg, Amy had noticed over the years– and glanced away modestly. "Well, I have a creative team at my disposal–and the gardening staff of Wild Egret was really helpful this time. In fact, one of the employees selected the forsythia blossoms that we're using in the bouquet." She pointed in the direction of a gardener busy pulling weeds from a flower bed beside the greenhouse. He lifted his hand and waved, his familiar figure causing Amy to avert her eyes momentarily from the scene.

"Incredible," said Greg. He snapped a cell phone photo as Amy lifted her bouquet from the vase and inhaled the lavender blossoms deeply before lowering it again.

"What's that sound?" she said, for the first time taking notice of the drone in the air around them.

"Oh, bees," answered Elise. "The place is crawling with them today due to some kind of pollen count, I guess. The hotel manager told me to be glad it's them and not the mosquitoes." She laughed.

"Bees?" repeated Greg, who looked slightly alarmed. "How many?" He glanced around at the rose shrubs and mimosa trees around them, half-fearfully.

"Um, a lot," answered Elise. "Does that matter?" She frowned.

"He's allergic–" began Amy, but trailed off as a little yellow ball emerged from one of the blossoms in her bouquet. Then another one, their small fuzzy forms bearing brownish stripes beneath transparent wings.

"Oh," said Amy, softly, her voice trembling a little. She moved to put the bouquet down–but not before the first bee drifted upwards and landed on Greg's nose. He twitched–violently– then uttered a little yelp and swatted as the bee took off again.

"Greg?" she asked, concerned. Elise swatted her hand at a couple more bees which had joined them from the nearby roses.

"I've always heard if a bee stings you, it dies shortly afterwards," she said, "Is that true?"

"I hope so." Greg's voice was faint with this response, due to a sudden breathlessness. He pitched forward in a faint as a shrieking Amy dropped her flower and dove beneath the cloud of random bees drifting around the canopy of flowers.

 

 

*****

 

 

"Feeling better?" Amy held her fiancé’s hand in the ambulance as it gently swayed en route to the nearest hospital. His nose was swollen to twice its normal size, she couldn't help but notice, squeezing his eyes into two small dots.

"I've been worse," he answered, thickly. "Outdoors is not for me." After these two short statements, he closed his eyes.

"We've given your fiancé two allergy shots and he seems to be responding," said the medic. "He'll probably have to stay overnight for observation, then he's free to go."

"He'll miss his flight," she answered, vaguely, her mind elsewhere. In response to this statement, Greg squeezed her fingers.

"Seven or eight a.m.," he said. "Book it." He had moved his oxygen mask aside again for this statement, then fixed it in place.

The doctor at the hospital confirmed the medic's statements, leaving Amy only a few minutes to reassure Greg before booking a morning flight for him at his insistence. Apparently students with a crisis of conviction over their future major couldn't be postponed, although she had a glimmer of curiosity to know if he was really rushing back to secure General Stuart's sword against further plans by the surgeon who was undercutting him in its purchase.

She phoned Greg's friend to tell him not to show up at the airport until morning; she phoned Sophia to cancel dinner, then the antiques dealer who had an annoying habit of dialing Greg's number repeatedly with updates about rival inquiries and the auction's schedule.

"I was under the impression he wanted to know the minute I heard anything," the man informed her, defensively.

"Well, he's in the hospital for the next fourteen hours, so I think you can let it go for awhile," she snapped, feeling irritable with herself and this innocent party as she hung up. These small tasks consumed most of her day, until thoughts of flower arbors and bouquets streaming past a Southern belle wedding dress were long forgotten.

She called a cab from the hospital, enduring a long and silent ride back to the Wild Egret. Sunset had settled over the plantation except for the faint glow of twilight spreading overhead like a dome creeping slowly over the brilliant horizon.

"Keep the change," she told the driver, after handing him a bill from her purse. He tipped his hat before shifting into reverse and pulling away.

Her feet, instead of carrying her in the direction of the Wild Egret's front entrance, drifted in the direction of the river walkway beyond it. The shrubs lining the path rustled against her blue chiffon dress spreading over its crinoline petticoats, the gravel crunching beneath her low-heeled sandals.

Weeping willows hung in pale curtains beaded with leaves, almost touching the water along the edges. Where they parted, a dock was visible extending over the waves, the water tinged with gold glints from the dying light as it lapped against the posts.

Amy crossed the weathered boards and stood on the edge, letting the breeze fan her ruffled skirts and draw her curls softly away from her face. Eyes closed, face tilted up towards the faint pink light as it disappeared from view beneath the growing darkness.

The first stars above, a yellow moon glowing above the trees ... now was a perfect moment for a romantic whose fantasies included moonlight and southern breezes. Except for the fact her romantic partner had departed via ambulance only a few hours ago.

She lingered there a moment longer, then opened her eyes. The moonlight seemed brighter, now faintly reflected in a wavering circle on the water's surface. She turned and walked towards the house again, leaving behind the lulling motion of the water.

Crossing the green lawn, she gazed at the rear view of the Wild Egret, the interlocking branches of smoke trees and glossy dark magnolias. Did a part of her want to be in a place like this forever? It did, she realized; there was no tie in Atlanta other than the fact she had lived there practically forever, even when her mother had moved elsewhere. Her cramped apartment filled with mementoes of the ultimate Southern romance–she would trade it for this, if she could.

"Why can't life always be like this?" she asked, although in a voice which was modulated for an invisible companion beside her. Standing before the house, her arms spread as her face tilted upwards to the moonlight and soft Southern breeze. The magic, the beauty, the possibility that epic love stories could come true in a place like this–

Her thoughts got no further, cut off by a sudden shower of cold water. Sprinklers leaping to life in a wall of frigid droplets sucked from a deep, cold cistern, apparently. With a shriek, she veered away from it, only to be struck full-force in the face by another tide. They fired to life on all sides as she shielded her eyes with one arm.

"Great," she sputtered. She took a step towards the house, then felt her foot slide on the slick grass. Her high-heeled sandal slipped, toppling her backwards onto the wet lawn.

Crawling to her feet, she winced as she tried to put weight on her foot. The ankle was throbbing, the smarting pain of muscle and joint bent in an unwilling direction, requiring a little time and a soothing soak to unwind. Her arms spread out as she hopped forward a step, trying to balance her weight.

That's when she felt the curve of a strong arm beneath her shoulders. With a gasp of surprise, she veered away, only to feel a hand tighten its hold around her midriff.

"Hang on," said a male voice near her ear. "I'll just help you out of this." Jackson the handyman gardener was steering her gently in the direction of the house, supporting her weight against his own.

His muscles were as strong as she had imagined, causing a blush of indignation to infuse her cheeks. Not that he would notice in the dark, in the midst of an icy storm of water.

"Thank you," she gasped, now that she was free of the sprinkler's aim. She tried to draw away from him, the heels of her sandals rolling as her slick feet maneuvered for traction beneath the straps.

"You're not gonna get far with those," he answered, continuing to support her. "Come on, I'll get you inside so you can sit down."

"I can't go in like this!" she protested. "I'm soaking wet, I'll ruin the furniture."

He snorted. "It's just a chair, it'll be fine."

"Is that what Mr. Sawtelle or whoever would say?" she said. "Maybe you should think about that before you give such a quick answer about someone's stuff."

He smiled, faintly. "I don't think anybody'll care," he answered. As she tried to limp away on her own, he slid his arm beneath her shoulders again. "But if you feel that way, let's get you dried off first." He half-carried her as her spiky heels wobbled and sank, in the damp lawn. Her weight resting against a figure firm and swoon-worthy, she thought, with the appreciation of Jackson the spy-turned-hero's creator.

Shoving open a door on the back veranda, he helped her into the dark interior. In the gloom, her eyes made out the shape of a stone bench, several large plants looming like shadows with broad leaves and pale blossoms. The hotel conservatory, she surmised.

He lowered her weight onto the bench. In the reflection of moonlight through the glass panes, she could see the contours of his face, the presence of a muscular form beneath the plaid work shirt plastered against his skin.

"If we get these off, then you'll have an easier time getting around." Instead of standing, he dropped to a crouching position at her feet. She felt his fingers fumble with the straps of her high-heeled shoes. Slipping one off, then the other, the leather and metal buckles clattering against the stone floor.

"Thank you," she said. There was something subtly different about her voice, she realized. He glanced up at her, meeting her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. She could see the droplets of water clinging to his skin, to the damp hair spiking away from his forehead.

Kneeling at her feet in this fashion, close enough that they could touch, she felt a shiver travel through her frame. Not from the coolness of the sprinkler's water, either. She held her breath, as if afraid to break apart this moment. The cliff's edge of romance, even with the wrong person in the wrong place, with every thread of her conscience knowing it was wrong.

Instead of replying to her words, Jackson climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness. She could hear his footsteps pass from this room into another, the flash of light from an open corridor. A moment later, the sound of him returning, a soft fabric fold draped across her shoulders.

"Dry off with that," he said. Her hands reached up and touched the edges of a blanket.

"Where is this from?" she asked, drawing it around her.

"Linen closet's just on the other side of that service door," he answered, moving into view again.

"You know your way around here pretty well," she said. "For a guy who spends most of his time in the gardens, apparently."

"I've known a lot about this place since I was a kid," he answered. "I may not have lived here, but you can learn a lot about a place from books and articles." He sank down on a bench across from her, pushing aside the leaves of a thick elephant ear plant.

"So what are you doing here with this Southern wedding magazine?" he asked. "You writing an article for them or something?"

"I'm getting married," she answered, surprised that she only now noticed the discomfort of her clingy gown, the rough edges of the stone bench. No doubt because this place's temperature was cooler than the mansion's main dwelling.

An expression of surprise flittered across his face momentarily. "That so," he answered, softly.

"They wanted to write an article about it," she said. "They offered for me to get married on a Southern plantation–at their expense–if I would let them design the whole thing and write about it. So I said yes." She drew the blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

"Some sort of childhood dream, I guess?" he surmised.

She shrugged. "I just ... just love the culture," she answered. "The romance, the elegance. That's why I started writing. To make places like this real, to make sweeping love stories real..." It was a lame response, lacking the eloquence which she wanted, which was why she allowed these words to trail off after a moment.

She avoided his eyes, gazing off in the direction of the wall of greenery between the glass doors leading to the main hall. His eyes were studying her, she was aware, giving rise to another blush.

"Well, I should let you get on inside." He rose from his seat and opened the outside door. She watched him cross the threshold to the outside lawn, closing it behind him. He struck off in the direction of the river path, until he was nothing but a moving speck in the moonlight.

Amy rose from her seat, letting the blanket fall onto the bench. Gathering her sandals from the puddle on the floor, she padded slowly across the stones in the direction of the mansion's door. She glanced back, but he had already disappeared from sight. Turning away, she entered the main hall, and limped upstairs to her room.

 

 

*****

 

 

 

She was afraid he would be in a place like this. The dank, squalid walls all but weeping with human despair, the rattling cough and groan of illness drifting from its recesses of human suffering as she crossed the threshold.

Would she find him suffering? Altered in such a manner that she would never know his face or voice without another to tell her it was him? Jackson had survived the impossible before, but it was not possible to survive every chance which Death dealt in a game such as this. All she knew was her heart could not rest until she was with him again...

"I think we're nixing the uniforms." Mathilda's voice interrupted Amy's train of thought as she re-read the passage on her typewriter's page. "The whole North-South conflict seems a little–dicey. We need a more neutral focus for this event."

"Fine with me, but Greg will definitely be disappointed," said Amy, who turned her attention to the editor, who was seated on the suite's sofa, reviewing a list of assignments for the next magazine's issue. With her, Kay and Elise, who were equally engrossed in their portfolios and planners.

The windows were open in both rooms, but the heat was sweltering despite the faint breeze from outside. Every few minutes a clunk or bang was audible as handyman/gardener Jackson attempted to bring life to at least one of the units. The elusive repairman had never been mentioned again, prompting Amy to wonder if Jackson was the repairman Mr. Fairfax had in mind after all.

"Maybe we should feature an excerpt of your new book, if the publisher agrees," mused Mathilda. "It would be a nice way to wrap the feature...the emphasis will be on the dress and theme, anyway."

Something about this statement struck Amy as sad–wasn't this event supposed to be about something more? Not that she hadn't been equally as obsessed with those details.

"I'll see what I can do," she answered. "I have to phone my book editor in a few days to see if they can extend my deadline anyway. Then call Greg about this list of battle sites that doesn't make any sense..." She held up a printed-off sheet of paper, which featured a lot of information she suspected was fairly useless for her novel.

"Greg who? Oh, wait, you mean your fiancé." Mathilda glanced up from her planner. "I keep forgetting his name, I'm sorry. For some reason, I always think of him as your assistant."

Amy snorted. "It would be the other way around, I think," she answered. "He's the one with all the social contacts and all the answers. I'd be lost without him when it comes to the historical stuff." Or forced to be less lazy about it, she admitted inwardly.

"That's what every boss says about their assistant, more or less," Mathilda called back. Amy fanned herself with a sheath of papers from her manuscript, too warm to reply.

There was a sputtering from the unit, a low hiss as it sprang to life with a rattle of cold air from its bowels. Amy sat up in her chair, aware that the same reaction was happening in the suite.

"Jackson, is that–" she began. There was an element of triumph in his grin as he withdrew his hands from the pipe system within. With a faint sputter, the cold air died away to a chorus of groans from the suite's occupants.

He cleared his throat. "How 'bout I go get you ladies a fan?" he asked.

The oscillating fan was parked on the bedroom window, where Amy stood in front of the breeze which swept against her skin and the sundress clinging to her. With her eyes closed, she could imagine it was a breeze sweeping off the cool coastline of the Carolina beaches, perhaps. A lonely beachside Southern mansion falling into ruin, a post-war widow stranded there ...

"Found another one." The birth of this romance was interrupted by Jackson's return, a box fan in his hand. "Your friends might could use a little breeze, too."

"They're back in the Magnolia Suite," she answered. "But the staff crammed in there would appreciate a fan, I'm sure." She turned towards him as he stooped to collect his tools piled before the broken unit.

"How's the book?" he asked. Shoving the wrench and screwdriver into a metal toolbox.

"Good," she answered, a tad too brightly. "Just great." That wasn't entirely true, she supposed, since she was feeling distracted by the pressure of the deadline looming. Not the manuscript's deadline, but the more personal one destined for next week.

"Feeling inspired by this place yet?" he asked, as he stood up.

"You know, it's funny; but this is sort of how I pictured the house in my book. Only it gets burned at the end, which I suspect won't happen to this place, unless it's an electrical fire."

This morning when she plugged in her hair straightener, a volley of sparks had erupted from the outlet.

Jackson laughed. "Well, this place hasn't had much attention for the past few years. And it's wiring is pretty old, so I'd say the chances of that are good unless a crew gets in here pretty soon."

"I'm surprised the owner even let us stay here with it like this," she said. "I get the impression there haven't been many guests here for the last decade or so. Except for the armed-and-not-so-dangerous types in uniform." The teasing nature of this last remark took her by surprise, even though her own lips spoke it.

"Maybe he felt sorry for the lady in a bind," suggested Jackson. "Your editor's pretty keen on this project, I get the idea. A little obsessed with Southern belles and magnolias."

Amy smiled wryly. "That's partly true," she answered. "I guess she saw the perfect occasion and couldn't resist. We all want to make a fairytale come true, right?"

"Lucky her, finding somebody with a romance in the right place," he answered. Lifting the tool box and the fan, he moved towards the door.

She rose from her chair and followed him, a little distance between herself and his own easy stride carrying him down the hall to the Magnolia Suite. Voices battling with the general sound of an office hub reached her ears as he rapped on the door and opened it. Mathilda was on the phone with someone, arguing about the cake tasting article.

"But I told you that we needed pictures of the top three!" she protested. "No, I don't want you to handle the county fair story–clearly that's Joanne's department. You only had one job to cover this time–" she put her hand over the receiver and motioned for Jackson to put the fan near the window.

"Do you mind if we schedule the cake tasting for Sunday afternoon, Amy?" asked Elise, who was cross-legged before an open book of bakery designs. "I'm having some creative samples whipped up by the local bakery using my sketches."

"That sounds fine," Amy answered. "My mother will be here by then, so she'll finally get to see a piece of my wedding in action." Picturing herself and her mother sampling desserts on the veranda seemed perfect, and a far better way for the two of them to experience her wedding than arguing over whether it was badly timed.

"Perfect," said Elise, scribbling something on her planner. Jackson was untangling the fan's cord, adjusting its settings once it was plugged into the wall.

There was a rap on the door, followed by Mr. Fairfax peering around the edge. "So sorry, Ma'am," he said to Mathilda, "but the deliveryman left a box downstairs for you. Said it was those bakery pastries you ordered." He entered all the way, a white cake box in both his hands.

"Finally," said Mathilda, "it's those mini cupcakes for the guest tables at the wedding. I tried to get them to create something using Antonia's flowers to top it, maybe you and Greg's initials woven together like the scene in the book where her sister spells out Jackson's name on the cake right before–"

As she spoke, she popped open the box, the sight of its contents rendering her speech into a strange croaking noise. It was not decorative cupcakes inside–and definitely not Antonia's tiger lilies in miniature–but a sheet cake like no other Amy had ever laid eyes on. A lurid green icing battlefield populated by miniature Civil War soldiers made of decorative plastic. Small splashes of red icing here and there beneath fallen figures.

"Is that one–decapitated?" ventured Elise, her face paling slightly.

"Oh, dear," said Mr. Fairfax. "I believe they got your order mixed up with someone else's, Ma'am. Maybe the local historical society, who's having their summer celebration of famous Southern events, I hear."

"Well, let's just take this back downstairs, shall we?" suggested the handyman, who seemed to have forgotten about the fan as he closed the box lid and pried it gently from Mathilda's frozen hands.

What surprised Amy was not the eager editor's momentary lapse in speech, but her own reaction. Which held not the least bit of curiosity or disappointment with regards to the cupcakes representing the romance of her own imagination.

 

 

*****

 

 

"Well, isn't this nice?" Mathilda's tone was less-than-convincing even in its chirpy state. Perhaps the cupcake debacle still weighed heavy on her mind, despite these very different surroundings, as she instructed, "All right, let's snap a few photos and see if this works." She spoke to the photographer at her elbow.

A tea table set for two, beneath a white lattice arbor draped in clinging vines. Soft green leaves and a mist of petals which showered delicately below with each rare summer breeze. A tea service of polished silver and delicate china cups bearing gold plate and hand-painted rosebuds.

It was supposed to be Greg across from Amy, who was seated in the first whicker chair with her yellow sundress spread wide over its crinoline petticoats–but that was before he canceled due to an emergency faculty meeting, or due to a fear of further bee stings, Amy suspected.

So it wasn't a furtive Greg watching the bees buzz and checking the pollen count on his cell phone. Instead, it was the hotel maintenance man, lifting a delicate tea cup like it was a baby bird fallen among the shrubs.

"Try to look a little less slouched, Mr. Jackson," said the photographer. "Just ... lean in. I think I can get them both in the shot, but those vines really need to be trimmed," she added to Mathilda, under her breath.

"Look alive," she instructed, this time more loudly, in Amy's direction. "Try talking, Miss Pontelle."

Amy forced a smile into place. "So, do you see this as the perfect right hand corner photo for a magazine spread?" she asked. "I mean, with Greg of course. Not that you would look bad in the photo, it's just–well, you know." She wondered if her lips' movement in the photos would look blurry–Greg hated blurry motion in photos and became like carved stone whenever someone photographed him.

He would never go for this–unless maybe he was wearing a Civil War uniform in the bargain–and even then, it would be a hard sell.

"So how long you been engaged?" Jackson's question caught her off-guard. A little of the tea in her cup, a mere splash in the bottom for effect, was suddenly airborne and landed in her saucer.

"Um...awhile," she answered. "I, uh, guess you could say ... two years or so. I mean, since the whole idea came up." There were grounds in the tea, she couldn't help noticing. Maybe Mr. Fairfax wasn't too careful in his preparation...or was it Edward's job?

"Tilt your head to the side, Miss Pontelle," suggested the photographer. Amy's head twisted at an angle which felt impossible to maintain.

"You mean, since he proposed," Jackson corrected her.

Proposed? He meant Greg with a ring and a formal declaration of his love, of course. Something that was almost as fictional as the scenes between Antebellum Heart's characters. For the first time, she felt an open blush over the notion of how their engagement really came into being.

"Yeah," she said. "I mean proposal. It wasn't conventional, of course. But Greg's not a conventional guy. He's a scholar, a historian. He's ... sensitive." There was definitely too much teeth showing for this photograph smile, she suspected. No doubt smeared in lipstick, too. As for Jackson, he was making no pretense of a sensitive smile in Greg's role.

"Try something a little more friendly, Mr. Jackson?" suggested the photographer. In response, the handyman's lips formed a smile more like a patient one offered to a difficult hotel customer.

"He must've done something special," said Jackson. "Probably took you up to the tallest building in town or some four-star restaurant. I'd guess it would take a lot to impress a romantic like you into saying yes."

"A romantic?" she repeated. "That's just for the books," she answered. "I'm not really that romantic. I mean, my life is hardly some big adventure. Mostly a lot of takeout and research and really boring television reruns. No celebrations or round-the-world tours." And, of course, the weekends spent rearranging her curio cabinets of memorabilia.

He looked puzzled. "You mean, you wrote a best-selling book and you didn't do a thing to celebrate it?" There was an incredulous smile on his face with this question.

"Try to look a little more ironed-out or something, Mr. Jackson," said the photographer, who was switching the settings on their camera as sunlight pierced the arbor canopy more brightly. "Remember, you're an art history professor or something like that."

"I don't think he looks natural in this role at all." Mathilda pursed her lips. "We should have gotten Mr. Fairfax to help us–or put Jackson here in uniform again."

Amy jolted momentarily in response to this statement, eerily similar to her own thoughts–except those thoughts had been crowded to the back during this q & a, especially the last question.

"I did celebrate it," she answered, a trifle defensively. "I had champagne–"

Champagne with Greg, she recalled. A restaurant party for the two of them, a quiet affair which lived on only as a moment of creeping further into his life. There were no photos or souvenirs of the occasion, no mementoes of any kind, not even a bottle cork.

"Miss Pontelle, you're slouching now, which looks like an ape in my lens," interrupted the photographer. "You and your fiancé are going for something a little more elegant for this shoot–"

"Enough," said Mathilda. "I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Jackson's time and this whole exercise will be worth nothing until what's-his-name is here again. We may have to come back to that uniform idea after all–Miss Pontelle having tea with her hero."

Amy rankled at this remark–uncertain why, because it wasn't for the reason she wanted it to be, Mathilda's momentary lapse on Greg's name. She pooled her indignation into this facet of the editor's irritated rant, forcing herself to concentrate on it. Didn't Greg have feelings? Wasn't he half of this wedding, after all? Shouldn't his name be on the tip of everyone's tongue, not just the author-turned-Southern-belle whom they dressed up every other day?

She stood up even before Jackson, her yellow sundress skirt almost flouncing with the act. The gardener had returned his teacup to the saucer with an ease that surprised her.

"The cases of champagne arrived for the reception yesterday, Amy," said Mathilda, more kindly now as the photographer stowed her camera in its gear bag. "Feel free to pop a cork early and sample some–the bottler and I are friends, so this supply is my little wedding present to you."

"Sounds nice," said Jackson. Neither his smile nor his voice in their politeness gave Amy any clue if he meant this as she brushed past him and continued on her way.

 

 

*****

 

 

Amy's feet dangled in the water off the edge of the dock, feeling the faintest degree of coolness below the sun-warmed surface. She wished she had remembered to bring her sunglasses, but the thought of a trek through the hot sun to retrieve them seemed distasteful at this point.

It was hot outside; but it was hot inside also, where her manuscript awaited her, growing more daunting by the day. For some reason, the longer she was here, the less capable she was of writing anything. As if the reality of her southern romance was somehow interfering with her process of thought.

So instead, she gazed out on the water. Where a boat was visible bobbing in the distance, someone out for a row in the heat of the afternoon, their oars sweeping past a flock of semi-tame ducks bobbing on the surface.

As the boat drew nearer, she realized it was Jackson rowing it. Beneath a ball cap pulled low against the summer sun, a faded white shirt pulled over a t-shirt bearing graphics too worn to read. The boat turned slowly on the water, rocked by the waves until he faced her only a few yards offshore.

"Want a ride?" he yelled.

The question caught her off-guard as she sat there. The stiff demeanor from the magazine shoot had vanished in this casual state, his invitation apparently sincere. He was drifting closer, giving her no excuse to pretend she didn't see him or hadn't heard him speak. After hesitating, she called back.

"Yes," she said. "I mean, a short one." It wasn't as if she didn't have things she should be doing–such as writing her book or consulting with Mathilda's team on the subject of planned photographs on the big day. Instead, she took Jackson's hand as he held it out, steadying her as she eased into the boat.

"A short one," he repeated. "Just a little tour of the shores. You haven't had a chance to get out on the water yet, I'll bet." His oars pushed further away from the docks, in the direction of the open channel.

"Is this the river?" she asked, after a moment.

"Tributary," he answered. "You go about a quarter mile down and that's the mouth of the river. This isn't as deep or as long. Just a big creek that never dries up, so to speak." The boat turned in a graceful curve, swinging in a new direction so Amy was facing a long ribbon of green visible over Jackson's shoulder, the ragged line of trees following its curves.

"It's beautiful," she said.

They drifted beneath the shade of a willow overhanging the water. Sliding to the floor of the boat, Amy found a more comfortable position propped against the back of the seat. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting the water and the steady splash of the oars lull her into a sense of comfort. That her escort might find it rude that she didn't speak occurred to her after several minutes had passed.

"I'm sorry," she said, automatically. Opening her eyes to see him gazing at her with apparent interest. Over his shoulder, something new was visible. A structure like a house sinking into the water, a rusty white balcony wrapped around its upper level.

"What's that?" she asked. He glanced back.

"My home away from home," he answered. "My houseboat. Floated pretty far down this place before I moored it. Now I wish I'd stayed closer to the river–water's too low right now to move it out."

"You live on a boat?" she said. When he told her he traveled, she had pictured something involving flight, not floating.

"I do," he answered. "For now, anyway. Moved my worldly possessions there awhile ago." He looked down at her. "You can go aboard if you like. Have a look around. A little messy, but I promise I won't do anything more friendly than offer you a little lemonade."

She should say no, she knew. There was no reason to encourage his friendliness in any form or to know anything more about him than that he possessed a green thumb and no skills as a repairman.

"I'd love to," she answered.

When the boat drifted close enough, he tied it to a ladder alongside, then climbed up, holding his hand down to take hold of her own as she stood up in the rowboat. She climbed to a deck covered in boxes and containers of bright red blossoms and sprawling green leaves hanging over the edges, a worn metal lawn chair parked in the sunniest spot.

"Wow, it's ... different," she said, not quite sure whether she liked it or not. It had a certain charm, it was true, even in its roughness. White paint peeled from the decorative metal rails, revealing rust beneath, the boards of the walls more weathered lumber than blue paint.

"It takes a little getting used to," he conceded. He bent down and popped open a small bridge plugged in on deck.

"Cold soda? Iced tea?" he asked. She wandered away from the rails to touch the walls, the circular window like a porthole.

"No thanks," she answered, with a smile. She turned to peer through the open doorway, greeted by the sight of books. Dozens and dozens, possibly hundreds, spilling from shelves.

"My library," he said, gesturing towards it with an open beverage can. "As I said before, I've got quite a bit of catching up to do. You can go down and look, if you like." He lingered in the doorway as she stepped down into the boat's main room.

A half-made bed was in the center, surrounded entirely by bookshelves from floor to ceiling. It was as if a library had tumbled into the cramped bedroom of a cruise ship, with only a few garments draped over a kitchen chair and an untidy begonia plant to break the monotony of paper and color. She bent down and lifted a paperback from a stack on the floor.

"This one is just like mine," she said, turning it over to read Margaret Mitchell's name on the cover. "This was the first copy I ever owned."

"There's some Faulkner down there, too," he answered. "A little Hemingway, a little Welty. Not many modern authors, I'm afraid." She couldn't help but notice the cover peeking out from beneath a faded denim jacket. The familiar yellow flowers from The Antebellum Heart.

"How long have you lived like this?" she asked. He had disappeared from the doorway behind her, somewhere on deck.

"For about three years," he called back. "Stayed on when I decided to do some work over at the house. Didn't make sense to move into a room at one place in need of repair when I already had another." She could sense a joking little grin must accompany these words.

She crossed the threshold to the deck again, finding the sun's light fierce after the darker walls of the roomful of books. "So what will you do when the Wild Egret's no longer a hotel?" she asked. "When it's converted into a residence or museum or whatever. Will you stay there?" She suspected a more polished staff would follow the house's renovations, with no more Mr. Fairfax and Edward.

"I don't know," he answered, fingering the surface of his can where drops of condensation slid down the metal surface. "A place like that can be quite a handful. It takes a lot of responsibility to keep it up–make it a place to be proud of. Sometimes I think it should just be a headache for the local historical society, instead of some kind of home." He took another sip.

"I think living in a place like that could make up for it," she said, gazing out on the waters. "You live in a piece of history–keep it alive for someone else to enjoy. Every time there's some tour or event, it makes a memory for somebody else that must be unforgettable."

"That's some pretty romantic talk," he answered. Taking a final sip from the can, he placed it in a bucket of similar ones, flattened amidst other recyclable bits of metal.

"It's my way to make a living, remember?" she answered, spreading her hands as if helpless with this confession. He didn't say anything in reply.

A few feet from the shore, there was a rustling noise as a bird flapped from the edge of the water to the bank. Long legs beneath white feathers, a snaky neck and bill pointed like a long sword.

"Is that a native bird?" asked Amy, who felt a slight sense of fear at the sight of something bigger than a city pigeon, an armed version of a flamingo, perhaps.

"You've never seen an egret before?" he asked. "They're out here all the time on the rivers and creeks. All kinds of 'em. Like terns and herons, just wading the shores and eating fish and little snakes." He lifted a pair of binoculars from beneath the chair and handed them to her.

"Go on," he said. She raised them hesitantly and peered through the lenses.

"It's huge," she said. "I didn't know that there were birds in America that actually grew that big." The bird spread its wings in a curve as it hopped into the water again, flapping a little before wading further down the shoreline.

He laughed. "You really haven't been out of Atlanta before, have you?" he asked.

She lowered the binoculars. "I told you I've been in the city my whole life," she answered, shoving them in his hands again. "There's not a lot of wildlife there unless you go to the zoo. Which I haven't spent much time doing, so your friend the egret–or heron or whatever–looks a little exotic after a lifetime of sparrows."

"So what do you think of it?" he asked. "Think it's pretty? Scary? Worth seeing again up close?" He seemed genuinely interested in her reaction, which surprised her.

She glanced towards the bird again, its white feathers aglow in the sunlight briefly before it disappeared around the water's bend. "I think all three," she answered, after a moment. "Part of the charm of this whole place, I suppose."

When she looked at him again, she didn't trust herself to meet his eyes, avoiding them for the view of the water just over his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, during which time he stowed the binoculars away again.

"I guess I should get you back to where you belong," he said, taking hold of the rail to climb down the ladder.

She laughed. "I wish," she answered, before thinking about that statement. Belonging to a place like the mansion festooned with willows and moonlight walkways wasn't part of her destiny, but she had never before said aloud with any trace of genuine feeling that she wished it was.

He was silent in response, his hand gripping the rail. "I guess that'll be possible for you in another week, won't it?" he said, before climbing below. "If you'll give me your hand, I'll help you down, Miss Pontelle.

As they rowed back to shore, he gazed at the distant glimpse of the river beyond the tree-lined shores. "I guess I hadn't thought about your being attached to Atlanta," he said. "It's quite a city."

"Atlanta?" she repeated, with surprise. "Of course. Lots of culture, museums, smog..." She ticked off the usual list of features, wondering if he spent much time there in his travels. Was he thinking of visiting? Her skin tingled with the thought of him showing up on her doorstep, that half-humorous smile on his face as he asked her to show him the town. She shivered, then dismissed the thought swiftly.

"You've seen a lot of cities, I'm sure," she said. "I suppose they're all alike in some ways."

He nodded. "There's some places that are just different from others," he said. "I've been a lot of places, but never anywhere like here. Sort of strange, I know, but I guess some places just have a certain charm for certain people."

"That's true," she answered, her voice soft with these words. A preoccupation with this vision of Wild Egret's mansion and weeping willows ended as the boat bumped against the plantation's dock.

"Miss Pontelle," he said, holding out his hand. She realized he was helping her out of the boat; her cheeks burned with a mixture of embarrassment and eagerness as she took his hand, feeling the roughened skin gently touch her own.

"Thank you," she said. Scrambling up on the dock, she turned and watched him row away again, waving her hand to him once, until all excuses for standing there were gone.

She realized he had interpreted her words to mean she wanted to go back to Atlanta, as opposed to her room at the Wild Egret. Something she didn't realize until she was back at her desk again, staring through the window at the landscaped gardens outside and wondering if it was her imagination that he seemed a trifle disappointed by that response.

 

 

*****

 

 

An arbor of flowers stretched from the steps of the Wild Egret in a long canopy, the petals falling against the surface of the white ball gown billowing around Amy, the veil trailing majestically behind her.

Elegantly attired guests flanked the aisle, friends and acquaintances from her Atlanta life decked out in flowing gowns and floppy hats. Sophia raised a gloved hand in greeting; beside her, Amy’s mother cooled herself with a lace fan. Rows of men in blue and grey uniforms were visible behind them, swords sheathed at their sides.

The hum of the orchestra’s waltz accompanied Amy’s march to the altar, where a figure arrayed in a Confederate general’s uniform waited. Surprise darted through her at the sight of her novel’s tragic hero come to life; the strong jaw and steely gaze of Antonia’s lover suddenly as familiar as the vision swept into existence by her furiously typing fingers.

A smile cracked his stalwart features, his fingers reaching for her hand. She hesitated, her gaze returning to the sea of admirers. A gasp escaping her lips, as she found the crowd of Sothern elegance suddenly replaced by a mere handful of familiar faces.

Sophia–now sporting a plain T-shirt and jeans–gave her a sad little wave before disappearing behind a sea of hoop skirts worn by the pouty models from the photo shoot.

“Don’t slouch!” barked the voice of the photographer, his camera trained on the models instead of the bride and groom. “More pout, less boredom, ladies.” Beside him, Mathilda fanned herself with a copy Southern Elegance. Amy squinted to make out the image of herself plastered on its cover, dressed in the same white ball gown. Romance Author a Fraud! Truth Behind Best-selling Love Story! screamed the captions below.

A loud rattling sound drew Amy’s attention across the aisle, where Edward’s fragile hands balanced a tray of sweet tea in glass tumblers. As she watched, the tray began to rattle and shake, the contents sliding helplessly about. A moment later, a tumbler slid to the ground with a crash.

The orchestra stopped playing as Amy’s heart skipped a beat. Whirling round, she found her fingers firmly twined with Jackson’s stronger ones. Only this time it wasn’t the Jackson of the sweeping, historical Antebellum Heart that stared back her, but rather the muscular handyman who shared his name.

With a start, Amy awoke. The sheets clung to her despite the cooler temperatures of nighttime. The clock beside the blue willow vase read three forty-five. With a groan, she fell back against the pillows.

"So how are you feeling?" she asked Greg, shifting the phone closer to her ear as she sat on the mansion's steps. It was early to phone him, but she knew he was an early riser, preferring to chug half a pot of coffee before leaving for the university.

"A little better," he said. "My nose is still a little swollen, of course. But they said it'll come down in a couple of days. " There was a slight grumpiness in his voice, suggesting that this was one of the mornings he had chosen not to wake up early.

"I guess I won't see you for another few days, will I?" she said.

"I'll be there before the wedding, I promise," he answered. "At least, I'll be there on the wedding day. That counts, right?"

"Of course," she answered. When she hung up a few minutes later, she felt an aching disappointment she couldn't explain.

"So what do you think?" asked Mathilda Murray. She stood behind Amy in the doorway of the Magnolia Suite that morning, where the wedding dress was on display in all its glory.

There were no words emerging from Amy's lips. A billowing skirt of white satin trimmed in lace, a fitted bodice with shoulder sleeves puffing with elegant tulle. Elegant lace trailing from the cuffs, where tiny seed pearls were visible along the edges. A cloud-like veil draped across the surface like a mist gathering along the edges of a pearl-encrusted hair comb.

It was the picture of elegance. Exactly what Antonia would wear if she were marrying in the splendor of Swan's Nest in Amy's novel. Except, of course, Antonia was wandering the burned streets of southern cities in search of her wounded lover.

"Beautiful," said Amy, when the words emerged. Kay had joined them at this point.

"Let's try it on," she said. "Andre is here to shoot the photo that will be used for the article's spread, so we need to get you into costume." She shook out the dress's folds.

The horrible corset wasn't needed– it was built into this dress, as Amy learned, when the fashion coordinator helped her tug it into place. The cords pulled tight like iron bands around her ribcage, squeezing her into a bodice which even her thinnest weight had never aspired to match.

"Isn't there anything in Civil War fashion made for breathing?" she asked, with a grunt.

"This is the look," said Kay, giving the corset one final tug before zipping the dress over it. "No pain, no gain, as they say." She lifted the trail of skirts to avoid Amy stepping on them as she emerged from behind the screen.

"Oh, Amy, you look gorgeous," breathed Sophia, as Maurice and Kay applied the finishing touches of hair and makeup. The veil in place, they turned her towards the mirror– revealing herself in a stunning reflection almost like the dream version in her head.

No. It was her imagination projecting last night's crazy ideas. It was making her think of other things she would rather not acknowledge right at the moment, such as the ludicrous doubts which had been prodding her mind more than once. Her breath was coming in small gasps beneath the corset's squeeze, possibly shutting off oxygen to her brain.

"Amy, you look pale as death," whispered Sophia. "What's the matter? The dress is perfect, your hair looks ten times better than mine ever will–"

"It's not that," she whispered back. "It's just–it's just I don't know anymore. About any of this. It's crazy, but for the last couple of days something just isn't right–"

"What?" Sophia looked puzzled. "You don't mean you regret this, do you?" She cast a glance in the direction of the magazine staff, who were too busy consulting Andre about the setup on the grand staircase to notice the bride and maid of honor lagging behind.

What did she mean? Amy wasn't certain herself, except that this moment was far from her imagined wedding scenario. Where was the romance? The breathlessness of feeling as opposed to corsets? Her head was swimming with the thought that the closest thing she had experienced to a romantic moment was when Jackson had been kneeling before her moments after the sprinklers' mists.

"I don't know," she answered weakly, with another gasp for air. The room seemed to be spinning around her, the memory of the real-life Jackson's hazel eyes and touch becoming fused momentarily with the fictional visions of the Civil War hero. Why wasn't Greg here in the midst of this to rescue her from these thoughts?

"I think I'm making a mistake," she said, with another attempted gasp before she fell to the carpet in what her mind vaguely hoped was a graceful swoon.

 

 

*****

 

 

When she woke up, the corset's strands had been loosened enough that she could breathe again, her eyes opening to see the concerned staff surrounding her. The water splashed on her face and shoulders had come from a pitcher in Mr. Fairfax's hands, she realized. Kay was moaning about the dress's cost and the fear of water spots.

Too bad it wasn't Edward bringing the pitcher, she thought. "I'm fine," she said, weakly, drawing herself into a sitting position. The moment of doubt seemed to have passed as they helped her up.

"I think we'll reposition the shot on the sofa downstairs," said Andre, after studying her shaky appearance. "We'll move the lights to the foyer and set up there– take twenty." He motioned Amy away dismissively as he turned his attention to the staff again.

Afterwards, she lay on the bed upstairs and stared at the ceiling. Cold feet was natural, of course, and she expected Greg to feel that way after springing this idea on him, but not herself. She had been engaged for a year, presented with the opportunity she had dreamed about for a lifetime–so what on earth was wrong with her?

"Amy?" The sound of her mother's voice made her sit up at once.

"Mom," she said, springing from her bed and opening the door. In the hallway, Barbara Pontelle dropped her bags outside the door across the hall.

"Mom, you're here!" She wrapped her arms around Barbara. A ground force she could cling to at this moment.

"Of course I am! My plane was early, so I hailed a cab outside. All the better to be here and see my lovely daughter for a few extra hours before she becomes–becomes–"

"Mrs. Willey," prompted Amy. "Remember? It's been over a year now and you still can't remember?"

"Well, I always think it's Wiley," her mother answered, defensively. "It's only because I don't spend as much time in Atlanta as I should. This is all my fault, really, for not getting to know him better." She fumbled with her room key and unlocked the door.

Her mother's classic psychological trick: make you feel guilty by blaming herself for whatever problem existed. Usually, Amy fell victim to the ploy, but not this time. After all, Greg had feelings which deserved defending, too.

"Did you carry these bags all by yourself?" asked Amy, huffing slightly as she lifted an oversized duffel bag. What could be inside was a mystery to her, since her mother was only here for three or four days at most.

"Well, they offered me help downstairs, but I didn't think I'd live to see the day he reached the top of the stairs," answered Barbara. "I just thought I'd save myself some time and trouble by doing it myself." She carried her suitcase across the threshold and placed it on the bed.

Turning to survey Amy, she placed a hand on either of her daughter's shoulders. "So it's official," she said. "You're getting married. And getting to become Scarlett O' Hara for a day, just like you always wanted." Her smile was tender with these words.

"I wanted to be Scarlett for more than a day, Mom," Amy reminded her. "But if that's all I get, I guess I'll take it." This tone of voice was more careless than she meant it to be, as if disguising other emotions.

"Mom," she said, "Do you really dislike Greg as much as it seems?" She glanced at her mother. "Maybe it's just me, but you hardly ever mention him. You sounded like I was making a date with the Grim Reaper when I told you we were taking the next step."

Her mother rolled her eyes. "I like Greg just fine," she answered. "It's just your attitude I don't like." As she said this, she popped open the suitcase on her bed and removed a stack of blouses.

"My attitude?" echoed Amy. "What do you mean by that?" She sank down on the bed, arms crossed in dismay.

"I just think this was a little last-minute. I know it's the opportunity of a lifetime ... but don't you think it makes your wedding seem more like a dress-up party than a serious ceremony?" Barbara eyed her with these words as she closed her suitcase again.

"Greg doesn't think so," Amy answered. "He's fine with it. We both love history, so this was a perfect fit."

"You mean he loves history," Barbara laughed. "I seem to recall that you just love the dresses and glamour of it all. You flunked history in sixth grade, as I recall."

"That was a long time ago," Amy answered, defensively.

"So what does Greg say about all this?" asked her mother.

Amy's tongue was momentarily tied. What did he say about any of this? Only that it was lovely, of course. And that it was perfectly fine with him if this was what she wanted. Beyond that, nothing–not even when she told him that there was no possibility of guests in uniform or a major battle site for the reception or anything like that.

"He just says it's fine," she answered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Although she wasn't looking at Barbara, she felt her mother move in front of her, placing her hands on Amy's shoulders again.

"I don't want you to think I'm not happy for you." Barbara's voice had taken on its tender tones again. "If this is what you want, I am. All I want is for you to be happy." With that, she wrapped her arms around Amy and drew her close.

They were planning to have dinner with Sophia in town–the sound of Sophia and Barbara laughing in a reunion conversation in the suite drifted to Amy's ears as she sat at the typewriter. She was supposed to be finishing her chapter, although no words came to mind. Her head suddenly seemed empty of any thought except the one of taking solemn vows in the very near future.

There was a rap on the door, followed by one of Mathilda's assistants poking his head inside.

"Thought you'd like to see the winning proof of your big photo shoot," he said, "courtesy of the editor herself." He handed a manila envelope to Amy.

"The wedding dress photo is ready?' she asked, confused, as she popped it open. The messenger was already gone, leaving her alone as she slid the photograph forward.

It wasn't the photograph of herself in the wedding dress: it was the shoot from when she first arrived. Four sultry models posed against a grey backdrop where she was the central focus, seated in the white and green gown.

She was momentarily breathless, struck by her own appearance as if viewing a stranger superimposed in her place. The dark wig, the inscrutable gaze of her eyes, the tilt of her chin. It was as if Antonia Deleroe was peering back at her with all the moody elegance of a Southern belle.

Strange, that she shouldn't know her own face at first sight. As if she had become someone else entirely these past few days.

 

 

*****

 

 

Until now, Amy had not understood the nature of Mr. Fairfax's warnings about mosquitoes. When she woke up the next morning, however, she was aware of a high-pitched, whining sound in the air above her blankets.

Throwing back the covers, she caught one glimpse of the cloud of tiny insects hovering above before emitting a shriek and pulling them back over her head.

Using the blanket as a shield, she sprang out of bed and closed the window–thus, ending further invasion from the colonies visible outside, but trapping the current menaces in her room.

She needed spray–and an insect net–something to protect her. Her bare feet padded against the carpet as she exited the room and dashed to the desk downstairs.

"Mr. Fairfax," she said, leaning against it as she caught her breath. "My room–is full–of mosquitoes."

He released a little sigh of comprehension. "Ah, that'd be the drains," he said. "The river ditches are backed up again. That always breeds a lot of mosquitoes. Until they dig 'em out again, we'll be putting up with quite a number, I'm afraid."

She stared at him with a look of incomprehension. "There must be something you can do," she said. "Some spray, some sort of insect trap–something."

"I reckon you left your window open," said Mr. Fairfax, with a sympathetic tisk. "That happens to guests sometimes."

"I left my window open because there's no air conditioning!" said Amy. "Can't you understand that? Now my room is full of stinging insects–this is far worse than the bees–"

"Oh, well, the bees are just here when the wisteria's in bloom, mostly," said Mr. Fairfax. "Now, I do think we have some flypaper..." Reaching over, he rang the service bell. After a moment, he rang it again.

"Edward," he called. "Where is that flypaper we keep handy?" He didn't seem to notice as Amy's forehead thumped against the desk, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

Sophia's voice called from the upstairs landing. "Amy!" she shouted. "I have bug spray–come quick!" She brandished the aerosol can in her hand as if warding off vampires with garlic.

"I'm phoning all over town for more citronella candles and torches," grumbled Mathilda. "I don't know where I'll get enough to pull off tonight's party. I just hope after Renee and Elise drive around a fifty-mile radius we'll be able to pull off something halfway decent in these conditions."

She was descending to breakfast with these words, already armed with an armload of article proofs and photographs as she swatted at the surviving insects. Amy, fully dressed was waiting in the hallway fifteen minutes after the annihilation of a hundred or so mosquitoes, now scattered in corpses across her rug and bed linens. Edward was fumbling with the cord of a vacuum cleaner in the slow process of plugging it in to remove their traces.

She had phoned Greg extra-early, hoping to catch him before his flight. He answered on the third ring, his tone the business-like one he reserved for colleagues and the head of his department.

"Greg," she said. "It's me. Amy. I just wanted to see if I should meet you at the airport this evening before the party. So we can see each other before the crowd arrives."

She was hoping he would say yes, if nothing else so she would find herself arriving hand-in-hand as part of a couple instead of lingering in a crowd of semi-familiar faces, making conversation while she waited for him to complete the picture.

"Don't worry about that," he answered, "I'll take a cab. That way you have plenty of time to dress and catch up with your mom."

"If you say so," she said, reluctantly. "I just thought maybe we'd stop off for coffee or something, since it's such a short flight. You are leaving by three, right?"

He could take a bus and be there more quickly, but Greg possessed an abundance of frequent flyer miles from conferences and lectures, a loathing for public transportation, and a reluctance to drive himself more than twenty miles from home.

"Yeah, of course," he answered. "What did you think, I'd move my flight and be late?" In the background, she heard the sound of another voice murmuring, a series of unfamiliar sounds nothing like the rattle of paperwork and beeping printer of Greg's office.

"Are you at work?" she asked. Picturing him grading the stack of remedial quizzes and viewing thesis outlines for history majors approaching their senior year assignment.

There was a slight cough on the other end, one of Greg's reluctant 'tells.' "Uh, actually, I'm kind of meeting someone right now," he said.

"Who?" she asked, before realizing that there was only one subject–besides this wedding–which interested Greg at this moment.

"I'm at the auction house," he said, his voice lowered. "It's just a quick meeting, I swear. They put the sword on display today, I'm just making sure that authenticity is in order and that there's not any obstacle to making this bid–" His voice cut off momentarily; she could hear him speaking to someone in the background. "No, I'm convinced, Marty. Trust me, I am ..."

A moment later, he was back on the line. "Listen, I have to go. Talk to you tonight, okay? Can't wait to see you."

"Me, too," she answered. There was silence on the other end as Greg hung up.

Barbara, amazingly enough, had slept through most of the racket. She was cold-natured, Amy knew, meaning her window had no doubt remained firmly closed against the winged invaders. Long flights always left her exhausted for half the day.

“Do you remember what I said the other day on the stairs?“ Amy glanced at Sophia from across her plate of lemon-layered custard cake.

True to her word, Elise had arranged for a cake-tasting the day before the wedding. The winner she intended to collect by five in the afternoon and have on display first thing in the morning. Sophia was thrilled by this aspect of preparation, the generous sample slices on the table ranging from coconut cream to a decadent chocolate buried beneath buttercream frosting and white chocolate truffles.

Sophia licked her finger. “What did you say?” she asked.

Amy toyed with her fork. “Right before I had that little fainting episode,” she said. If Sophia had forgotten, maybe it was no big deal. Maybe she only imagined saying those words.

“About you having doubts?” With this statement, Sophia lowered her voice slightly, although Barbara had gone upstairs to retrieve her medication.

“Yes,” said Amy. “Those words, exactly.”

“Why?” Sophia asked. “Are you still–having doubts?” She asked this question, tentatively waiting for an answer.

Her outer calm was melting more quickly than the custard on her plate in the warm atmosphere of the dining room. Amy felt her fingers trembling as she laid the fork beside her cake slice.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Yes–no–it’s just...” She trailed off, feeling tears gather beneath the rim of her eyes. “I don’t know what I think anymore. I’m starting to think I rushed into this without thinking ahead.” Her vision blurred the view of Sophia’s face, rendering her friend’s doubtful expression a haze of pink.

“It’s a little late, Amy,” she answered. “You’re getting married tomorrow, you realize that?”

“Of course I realize that,” Amy snapped. “That’s the problem. Now is not a good time to have doubts and I’m having them.” She didn’t say why. To say the other problem aloud, the problem of thinking of someone else, was not possible.

“It’s just cold feet, maybe,” said Sophia. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Amy. Think about this before you–”

“Hush,” said Amy, a sing-song voice emerging between clenched teeth at the sight of her mother re-entering the dining room. Barbara plunked down in the chair across from her, setting a bottle of pills beside her plate.

“Well, where were we?” she asked. “I don’t know about your girls, but I think this butter pecan swirl is the winner.” She patted the plate in between them, the layers pieced together with fluffy ivory-colored icing.

Attempts to finish her chapter were aborted later that afternoon in frustration. The more she typed, the worse it grew. Why wasn’t Antonia moving on from the ruins of Jackson’s hideout? Was she actually afraid of finding him? It didn’t make any sense. With frustration, she ripped the page from the typewriter and balled it up, tossing it across the room.

It bounced off the door, brushing the skirts of the blue and white chiffon dress hanging there before landing in the pile of paper wads beside the dresser.

 

 

*****

 

 

As a child, Amy had formed a vivid memory of a tree in a public park she had visited once, whose limbs brushed the ground like a skirt surrounding it. She had crept beneath it and spent the whole afternoon there, assembling little rows of pinecones and pebbles like treasures in her "playhouse."

The branches of the estate's magnolia were not quite that low, but they were low enough. Beneath them, head ducked low and hair snagged by a stray and sharp twig here and there, she had found a remote spot to tuck herself against the trunk, where only sunlight penetrated the thick, green leaves.

Until her best friend found her. Sophia, who had a loathing of earthworms, grunting as she stuck her head under the branches, limbs on all fours.

"Are you under here?" she asked. A pointless question, since Amy was immediately before her, her legs ending in a pair of red sandals visible even if her face was obscured by her knees. Sophia crawled forward, brushing aside the pine needle mulch and dead leaves as she joined Amy.

"Talk to me." She poked Amy gently in the arm.

"I'm fine." Amy's voice was muffled. "Just chilling a little before the big day."

Sophia snorted. "You're not 'fine'," she said. "You passed out. You have doubts about your wedding. This is big stuff, Amy."

"No, it's not." Amy lifted her face and brushed away some of the debris clinging to her bangs. "I just had a crazy dream, that's all. And a weird week, and the two of them together are conspiring overtime in my imagination."

"This is about the handyman." Sophia studied her intently, a witness to the scarlet blush on Amy's cheeks.

"No, no," said Amy. "Nothing like that. He's a stranger. Just a nice, very attractive, very sensitive stranger, whom I will never see again after this experience is over."

"Sensitive," repeated Sophia, whose lips had threatened a smile during the use of the word 'attractive'. "More sensitive than Greg?"

More sensitive? Amy pondered the truth of this statement. For all of his personal sophistication and charm, Greg had never woven a tapestry of grand gestures or sentimental moments out of their courtship, it was true. Whereas, Jackson ... well, there were aspects of his understanding, even from a bogged-down houseboat existence and handyman's career, which suggested he didn't treat those moments as casually.

But why did she think that? Why was she thinking about any of this as if it mattered?

"He's a different kind of sensitive," she answered, vaguely. "I'm just a little ashamed of myself. This place has gotten into my head. Probably because Greg isn't here, reminding me why this whole thing is so important."

Sophia sighed. "Why is that?" she asked. "Why couldn't you guys just elope? That's what we all expected from you for the past few years anyway. You could've tied the knot ages ago if you had."

Ages ago. Sophia was right. Amy buried her face in her knees.

"Let's just forget it," she said. "There's a big day on the horizon and as you pointed out, it's been in the making for awhile. I need to clear my head of everything else so I can concentrate on the only moment that matters."

"The big declaration," said Sophia, crawling out from beneath the branches. "Or maybe the kiss afterwards, right?" With a wink, she stood up and strode towards the hotel again.

The wrong kiss threatened Amy's thoughts now. One that had never happened except on paper, in a scene that had never needed Greg's help or expertise to come into fruition. Only there was something wrong with Antebellum's characters' faces, something familiar about them which made Amy banish them from her mental sight.

 

 

*****

 

 

Mathilda’s fears of citronella candles and lawn torch shortages had been unfounded. There was a blaze of blue and white candles on stands across the lawns, in decorative pots and holders on every table. Torches blazed along the pathways, a series of decorative paper lanterns strung across the party site like glowing cylinders of fireflies.

Amy suspected they contained bug zappers of some sort, but didn’t want to know for certain and spoil the romance. Because romantic it was, strolling along below these glowing lights, her crinoline petticoats swishing with each movement. The smell of grilled crab legs and lobster, the expensive buffet the magazine sprang for on its final night in a pseudo-rehearsal dinner for Amy and her fiancé.

She suspected it was because of the small size of the wedding, the number of guests confirmed not even touching twenty without counting the magazine staff there to supervise and photograph the event. Minus the dress and cake, the cost of flowers and renting this site of shabby elegance, there was only the on-site magazine staff to be paid, not a stampede of guests racking up costs for champagne or additional food, let’s say.

The charm was what counted, she decided. The sound of bubbly conversation, of speakers playing a crooning love song in the background as one of the employees played deejay for the party. The bubbling glasses of champagne and seltzer punch lining the hors d’ouvres tables.

It was perfect. Well, almost perfect. Greg was late, despite his promises to show up before the party started. The flight was probably delayed, making her wish he had bent his own rules just this once for the sake of driving such a short distance.

“Congratulations, Amy.” Kay raised her champagne flute to Amy as she passed, then turned back to her conversation with someone from the photography staff. Beneath the canopy of lights, she could see the smiling faces of the magazine staff, her mother complementing a member of the catering staff on the stuffed crab rolls.

Amy passed through these scenes to the path that stretched just beyond the party, leading to the water. There were fewer lights present, a handful of torches spaced at intervals, blazing fiercely in the darkness. The sound of crickets chirping, her heels crunching in the gravel, then falling silent as she crossed the grass to the shore’s edge.

Hugging herself despite the warm air, she gazed up at the moon visible through the trees. Now is the perfect moment, she thought. In Antebellum, this would be the moment Antonia and Jackson met secretly after the ball. Now, it was merely the moment to imagine their reunion in her latest work. Meeting by firelight at a rebel camp, perhaps. Or in the darkness outside a makeshift hospital, where he was hiding as one of the scarred faces and deformed limbs therein.

Oh, the possibilities. That was all she had in this moment of moonlight and gently lapping waves. Her eyes closed, as she tried to picture these scenarios playing out in the pages of her manuscript. The sound of wood scraping against rock made her open them again to see a boat drifting to the dock’s edge.

“I must be late.” The real-life Jackson climbed out, stowing the oars beneath the bench. “The party’s not over, is it?” He held a bottle wrapped in tissue paper and ribbons–no doubt an engagement present–but it was the appearance of his figure in a tuxedo which held her attention.

“No,” she answered, with surprise in her voice. “I just went for a little walk.” A lame excuse for standing here while music and food waited just beyond the darkness. He didn’t comment upon this, instead moving closer with his gift in hand.

“I thought I’d drop this off and say hello,” he said. “After tomorrow, I figure you’re leaving for somewhere a little more ... grand. If I could’ve known what authors you read, I would’ve gotten you something along those lines instead of a vintage.”

She blushed. “That was nice of you,” she said, gesturing towards the bottle. “I didn’t expect it. I mean, you didn’t have to give me anything.”

He shrugged. “It seemed like a friendly gesture. Given that I couldn’t fix the air in that personal sauna you call a room.” They were only a little ways apart now, the bottle in his hands extending towards her. Her eyes, however, were raised to his own.

“I should say thank you,” she answered. “For the boat ride. I know we didn’t get to know each other very well, but I ... I appreciated how kind you were.” The words seemed far from what she wanted to say as she gazed at him. The remembrance of the night in the conservatory, the look in his eyes as she gazed into them in the moonlight, was almost overpowering her.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, softly. He hadn’t pulled away from her stare; lingering with a warm, intent expression that ended her self-possession in a moment’s time.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his own. Fiercely. Taking him by surprise as much as herself–although he was the one who stumbled backwards beneath the force of their kiss and into the river’s waves.

Their lips broke apart, leaving Amy tottering forward on the bank above. Had he kissed her back? That was what an ordinary love-struck victim would wonder, but Amy’s brain had no opportunity for that thought. Her eyes had popped open to the sight of Jackson up to his shins in water, a look of surprise on his face which was surpassed by her own look of horror.

Without speaking, without even thinking, she turned away, hand clapped over her mouth in shock as she moved swiftly away from the river. What must he think of her? A woman on the eve of her wedding, kissing a comparative stranger in the darkness. Either he must think she was cheap or else fickle–or crazy, after all her romantic notions about this week’s events.

Tears gathered in her eyes, turning the party’s lanterns to a glowing orange haze. In the midst of the party guests, she glimpsed a familiar figure moving through the crowd.

“Amy!” Even without a clear glance, she knew his voice immediately. Greg had arrived, dropping his carry-on to close the distance between them. She stumbled in his direction, the high heels of her tan sandals sinking in the lawn as her legs trembled.

She felt his arms around her, embracing her gently, her face pressed against the lapel of his jacket. If he noticed something was wrong, he didn’t say.

“Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “There was a delay in Atlanta. But I made it here.”

“You did,” she answered. Forcing back her tears as she lifted her face with a smile, feeling his kiss on her cheek in response. For once, she was glad he didn’t kiss her lips, as if her betrayal was still lingering there.

 

 

*****

 

 

Dark clouds obscured the morning sunrise, a thick curtain of grey which did not allow the first light of dawn to appear as anything more than a faint glow. Amy felt as if dark circles had sprouted beneath her eyes, her hands trembling as she pulled on her robe and sat on the edge of her bed.

It was not the moment for doubts. She had made a promise and convinced Greg to rush their lives to this point. Now, she was sitting here contemplating whether a spark–a mere minor attraction, probably–to a complete stranger was enough to postpone it all.

This place was making her think crazy thoughts. It must be the peeling paint on the outside pillars, the cloud of mosquitoes which invaded her room, the wet blanket of summer air which permeated the mansion. It had somehow erased all her notions of Southern romance and charm, replacing them with a feeling that everything was going horribly wrong for her.

“What is with this weather?” Mathilda Murray demanded. Her fingers clicked repeatedly on her computer keyboard, where the internet connection was struggling to stay alive. “I can’t get the weather site to pull up. Rain is the last thing we need today.”

“Try the front desk,” suggested Kay. She was tucking the pearl-studded comb into Amy’s elegant hairstyle. The lacy veil trailed past the shoulders of the bridal gown, brushing against the spread skirts–no hoop, thank heavens, only a crinoline petticoat.

Amy didn’t notice the bind of the corset’s strands this time, her attention focused on the reflection in the mirror. Was this her? This elegant figure with such pale features and trembling hands?

“All perfect,” said Kay, zipping the garment bag closed. From the doorway, Barbara watched, hands folded.

“You look gorgeous,” she told Amy. “I can’t believe it–where’s my camera? I have to take a picture...” Her hands fluttered briefly to touch Amy’s shoulders, a few tears visible in her eyes as she hurried towards her room.

Through the window, Amy glimpsed the flower canopy assembled on the green lawn, the satin ribbons traveling maypole-style down the sides of the ornamental trees. A row of metal chairs decorated with flowers, an altar eerily like the one in her dream with its heavy bower of roses and jasmine sprigs.

A lump formed in her throat. She lifted her bouquet from the nearby sofa and slipped from the room while Kay was busy pinning a corsage to her blouse.

Downstairs, Mathilda was waiting anxiously at the desk as Mr. Fairfax turned the dial on an antiquated radio. The stations buzzed and snapped through multiple stations, a flurry of music and snatches of words.

“There’s got to be a weather report somewhere,” Mathilda challenged.

“I’m sure there is,” answered Mr. Fairfax, comfortingly. “They’ll be issuing one out of Atlanta if there’s anything real dangerous expected, I assure you. Bound to be sudden storms if there’s a cool front movin’ in.” His countenance was serene as he turned the knob.

“Maybe it’ll kill the mosquitoes,” grumbled the editor. Her words were the last ones which reached Amy’s ears before the bride gently closed the door behind her.

A few members of the magazine staff were busy weighing down the white tablecloths and centerpieces as the wind from the incoming storm began tugging the fabric folds of the tent, whipping small objects with the snapping motion of a flag in a summer breeze.

The same strong movement tugged the veil around Amy’s face, billowing her skirts as she strode in the direction of the landscaper busy securing the lilac blossoms to the wedding arbor.

“Jackson,” she said. At the sound of her voice, he turned around.

“Morning,” he said. He was gazing at her appearance with a look which seemed more significant than mere politeness–or was it her imagination.

“I need to talk with you,” she said, avoiding his eyes with this speech. “About last night.” From the corner of her eye, she could see a shift in his posture to something more uncomfortable.

“I didn’t read anything into it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he began, in a hesitant tone. His eyes were fixed on the ground, she noticed, when she looked at him. A blush spread across her face.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” she answered. “I am ... accusing me of something. Of thinking about you–of wondering if you–”

She stopped speaking, aware of how idiotic this sounded. She was also aware that he was gazing at her again, his hair being ruffled by the swift wind.

“Of wondering if I what?” he asked. “If I was attracted to you?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she answered. “I guess so, yes. I’m imagining it, but it’s been driving me crazy, I think. And I need an answer, although it makes no sense to do this right now.”

The veil was tearing away from her hair, forcing her to hold it on with one hand. There was a terrific crack of thunder in the distance, a faint roar from the storm which would surely drown out his response before she could hear it.

“Amy,” he began, raising his voice to be heard above the winds. He had not called her Miss Pontelle this time, she noticed. Despite the lack of tender emotion in his voice, there was something in those hazel eyes which made her heart skip a beat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what for, exactly. His face registered concern, his hands taking hold of her arms with a fierce grip that made her lose her breath with expectations of what might come next.

“We have to go,” he said, his voice urgent.

“Where?” she asked. “Are you saying–that we should run off together?” Her mouth had fallen open in shock–this was not the development she expected in even her wildest probabilities of how this would play out.

“Amy, we have to get out of here!” It was in this moment she realized the urgency in his voice was not for their mutual attraction, but for something else. She looked behind her, following his gaze of concern, and saw dark clouds descending over the river in a strange, rotating motion.

“What the–” she began, but never got the chance to finish. Jackson had seized her arm and spun her around, hurrying her along with him as he ran in the opposite direction. The magazine staff members on the lawn were also running, she noticed, sounds of panic audible despite the rumble of a train descending on them. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of some yet-unseen force lifting the white cloth from one of the tables, sending a shower of champagne flutes onto the ground in a heap of glass. The first row of metal chairs flipping backwards, propelling others along with them in a domino effect.

“What do we do?” she screamed. Jackson shoved her into the narrow channel where the stream ran through the ornamental garden near the river.

“Get under the bridge,” he shouted. He pushed her beneath the small stone arch, his body pressed over hers as they crouched there. She could hear a high-pitched whistle amidst the deafening crush of winds above them, so loud she could no longer hear herself think. The wind was tearing at her dress, as if sucking her body forward despite the pressure of the landscaper’s weight against her. His hands were clutching the stone supports with white knuckles.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, reading the fear and determination in his features. Now was not the time to be looking into someone’s eyes for answers, she realized, with a sense of shame. They might be mere seconds from getting crushed by a piece of the Wild Egret–on the day she was supposed to be a mere hour from saying ‘I do.’

She closed her eyes tightly as the sound raged around her, until it seemed as if an age had passed. The roar grew quieter after a moment, the pressure of Jackson’s arms around her relaxing slightly. She opened one eye.

“Is it over?” she asked. Her voice emerged after a long second, as if it, too, had been hiding from the storm.

“It is,” he answered. He crawled to his feet, then held out a hand for her.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. Taking hold of his fingers, she let him draw her to her feet again, avoiding glancing into his eyes by looking in the direction of the Wild Egret. Where she beheld a scene not unlike the devastation of a wartime raid in the 1800s.

The storm had passed over them and taken the wedding with it, apparently.

 

 

*****

 

 

White fabric tablecloths were strewn across the lawn, broken glass and shattered plates at intervals like missiles hurled from above. The long canopy had been stripped of its flowers, their petals scattered wildly, the twisted metal arbor caving inwards towards the ground.

A metal chair was twisted around one of the smoke trees, peeling the bark from its trunk in a semi-circle. The rest of the seats were tossed on their sides across the wide lawn, as if bodies left in the wreckage. Thankfully, no actual bodies were in sight, Amy realized, through the tears which were threatening to obscure her vision.

She had taken a few steps forward after climbing out of the shallow stream. Limping in the direction of the mansion, realizing that somehow one of her white heels had gotten lost in the melee, wondering if the storm had taken it as well.

Jackson took hold of her arm. “There’s broken glass,” he said. The implied meaning in this was made more evident as he lifted her up, carrying her across the lawn.

She was too tired to protest. Too numb to think of anything at all.

The magazine staff was trickling forth from Wild Egret’s rear entrance: two or three had already attempted to pull the mangled tent over its poles again. She noticed the windows of the house were shattered, the plants in the conservatory lying in heaps of dirt and broken pots, as if the tornado had lobbed rocks at them in a carnival game.

Jackson lifted the dragging edge of the tent’s white fabric and carried her inside, where a lone chair and table, amazingly enough, were still upright despite the rest of the missing pieces.

“Here you go,” he said, gently easing her onto the ground. He stood there for a moment, lingering awkwardly as she gazed at the grass below.

“I should go help,” he said. “Make sure everyone’s okay.” She didn’t say anything in reply, glancing up only briefly as he ducked outside the tent again.

Sinking down in the chair, she buried her face in her arms at the table. Had she even thought of Greg in those few minutes of terror? Of anything besides concern for herself and the person cocooned against her beneath the stone arch? It was wrong, she knew. There was something terribly wrong with that.

At this moment, Greg himself appeared in the lopsided doorway, his head tilted back with a piece of cotton pressed over his nose. His appearance was less disheveled than her own, proof that he had been inside when the twister passed over the grounds.

“Are you all right?” she asked, seeing crimson spots on the cloth he was holding.

“Nose bleed,” he answered, thickly. “You remember–sensitive. Air pressure.” That was all he volunteered at the moment. They were both silent again.

She stirred after a long moment. “I can’t do this, Greg,” she said. “I can’t get married. This isn’t right.”

He drew the piece of cotton away from his nose, lowering his head slightly. “Of course not,” he said. “This whole place is a disaster. We’ll just have to wait.” He plugged the cloth in place again.

“No, it’s not just that.” She stared at her hands, noticing chipped nails from clinging to the stones. “It’s us, Greg. I don’t deserve you. I really don’t.”

It was true enough, given the feelings she had allowed to slowly creep into her thoughts the last few days. In those terrifying minutes, it had ceased to be an excuse and become fact.

“Amy, what are you saying?” Greg had lowered the cloth in seriousness now. “Are you crazy?”

“If I had gone through with it today, I would be so ashamed of myself,” she answered. “I know you don’t understand. It just hasn’t been the same these last few days. Something’s changed me.”

“Into what?” He was clearly confused, traces of pain in those incredulous tones. “It was a storm, Amy, not a–a sign.”

There was no ring to hand back to him. It occurred to her that she never even planned to purchase a wedding ring for him. Did he have one for her in his pocket? Until now, she had not even given it a moment of curiosity. A strange thought, since they were now moments from the original hour of their wedding.

“We could talk about it when we’re in Atlanta again,” she said. Her voice was low and timid, aware that things were not going to improve once they were home again. When she looked at Greg, she could see the first signs that he, too, understood. He turned away from her.

“I should go,” he said. “Let you have some time to figure things out.” He left the tent, moving towards the hotel again with his shoulders held in a position which Amy recognized as a sign of frustration. He passed Edward, whose slow figure was visible scraping the remains of her wedding cake smashed on the steps of the mansion. Elise had no doubt been carrying it forth triumphantly when the funnel touched down.

It was too late to change things now. She had passed the point of no return. With her face buried in her arms, Amy allowed herself to cry as stormily as the winds which had carried away the contents of this tent and her dreams of an elegant wedding.

 

 

*****

 

 

In her room, she stepped over the broken pieces of glass scattered across the floor as she collected the pages of her manuscript. Several had been pierced by shards of broken pane, pinning them to the surface of the opposite wall.

Her laptop, on the other hand, was unscathed in its carrying case.

Slipping the pages in her bag, she zipped it closed. She had changed out of the damaged wedding dress, into a blouse and skirt again, two solid leather loafers on her feet. Tucked in the front case of her laptop, a bus ticket printed off the website downstairs at the reception desk.

Crossing the hall to Greg’s room, she rapped on the door and received no answer. When she knocked on her mother’s, all she heard was the sound of a vacuum cleaner on the other side. Fumbling for a moment, she slipped a note between the door and the frame, where Barbara was certain to see it when she opened the door.

Of course, the wedding was cancelled–everybody was aware of that–but she wasn’t ready to admit the deeper reasons why in person. It was better to sneak away before her defenses crumbled altogether beneath her mother’s questions.

An open bedroom door had allowed paper debris to scatter across the carpet. She crept towards the Magnolia Suite, aware that Mathilda was on the other side.

The editor was seated on the sofa, a glass of something obviously from the liquor family in her hand as she gazed out the shattered windows. The sketches and photographs, the articles for the issue on regional Southern elegance scattered all around her by the force of the windows.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” she said. Aware of Amy’s presence in the doorway.

“Yeah,” she answered. Stepping across the threshold, she avoided a design book, its pages scattered on the floor.

“You’re leaving, of course,” said Mathilda. “No sense in trying to put things back together today. Unless you plan to run off to the local Justice of the Peace.” She glanced at Amy, her expression shifting subtly at the sight of the bride-to-be’s face.

“Um, there’s probably not going to be a wedding anytime soon,” Amy answered. Mathilda studied her intently, silent for a long moment in response.

“I see,” she answered. “I guess maybe there’s been a change in the weather overall.” She turned towards the window again, taking a sip from her glass.

“I’m sorry,” said Amy. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. I’m so sorry for all of this–” Her voice cut off abruptly beneath a tide of emotion.

“You couldn’t help the weather,” Mathilda answered. “As for the rest of what you’re suggesting–it’s not like it matters now, does it?” She rose and set her glass on the table.

“We’ll salvage the rest of the issue, don’t worry,” she answered. “As for your part–send us that book excerpt, will you? We have to have something to go with that Southern belle photo if we don't have a dream wedding to write about.” With a brief smile in Amy’s direction, she began gathering up the remains of her work.

Amy turned to leave, glancing one more time in the direction of Greg’s room, where all was still silent. She wondered if he would call her when he returned tonight, or wait a few days. She wondered if when all of this was over, if they would be right back where they started–or not even friends anymore.

There was no sign of Jackson as she crossed the veranda to her waiting cab. The driver peered out the window, craning his neck to see the damage curving around the house’s lawn, the twisted tree limbs and debris of paper and wood. With one final glance in the direction where Jackson had walked off earlier, she climbed inside the cab.

“Bus station, please,” she said. The driver shifted into reverse and began pulling down the driveway.

“Bad storm, huh?” he said. “Hit a few places in town, too. Good thing nobody was hurt–but I’m guessing it left a real mess here, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she answered, with a sigh.

 

 

*****

 

 

“It’s you,” Antonia said. “I know it is you. Don’t deny it, Jackson.” She followed the wounded soldier as he limped hurriedly away from her. His injuries slowed his movements, so much so that she caught him by the arm and faced him.

“Do no refuse me,” she said, her voice breaking. Her hand touched his face, the scars which he was endeavoring to hide beneath a scarf wrapped around his face as if for warmth.

“Antonia,” he whispered. “Please go. I can’t have you here. Can’t have you see me like this.” He tried to turn away, even as her arms clung to him.

“I will never leave you,” she said. The iron had entered her voice with these words, her face white to its very lips as her eyes burned darkly. “I will never go. You know that I won’t– you know that you can’t make me.”

He stared at her, the first sign of weakness visible in his own features. He spoke no protest, nothing but a cry of longing as she embraced him in the midst of the muddy road traversed by the war-weary refuges around them.

Amy’s fingers paused above the keys of her laptop, her breath suspended as she read these words, rereading them to herself under her breath. This was it: the end she had waited for, had envisioned a hundred different ways before now.

This moment was anticlimactic to her after so many weeks of work and waiting. Would it have been different if it had been typed on the old Remington in the plantation guest room?

Usually, this would call for a celebration, but it was unlikely, since she and Greg had only distant speaking terms these days. He still sent her research for her book, still answered her questions about names and dates in history, but there were no more luncheons or dinners.

While he didn’t bring up renewing their engagement, she didn’t expect it to be mentioned. She suspected that he was working on moving past it as well as herself, buried in work and interests until the wound healed.

In the first few weeks of fall, she tidied the manuscript and mailed it to her editor. She sent Greg a thank-you gift for his research efforts and rearranged her collectible ceramic figurines from the MGM classic film. She watched a marathon of documentaries featuring romantic sites in the U.S., turning it off when it reached the episode about southern locations. She made peace with her mother, who was more disappointed by her daughter’s pain than her actual failure to reach the wedding vows.

At the end of September, the envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to her from the Wild Egret. She popped it open, expecting to see a newsletter or a bill for some sort of room services– the attempted air conditioner repair, the vacuuming of the dead mosquitoes.

Instead, she found a letter.

Dear Miss Pontelle, it began, I am sorry that your stay at the Wild Egret was apparently not the best experience in Southern hospitality. As you know, we’ve been endeavoring to improve the place a little for its future as a popular tourist destination. That’s why I want to invite you back as our personal guest to stay as long as you like, in hopes of erasing the first impression the Wild Egret has made.

Sincerely, Mr. Sawtelle

“I’m thinking of taking them up on the offer,” she said.

Over the phone, she heard Sophia’s cry of surprise. “What on earth for?” she asked. “Amy, you were miserable there! Your wedding was ruined, you broke off your engagement, you spent a whole week being melted by humid temperatures–what could possibly make you want that kind of punishment?”

“They feel bad about it,” Amy answered, defensively. “At least, the Sawtelle descendants think I should let them make it up to me for their bad plumbing and cooling systems. Maybe they think I’ll give them some free PR or something.”

She knew there was a strong possibility that Jackson’s houseboat had already floated off to another site, especially after what had happened. The slim chance that he hadn’t, however, was pulling her with the slow and strong persistence of a magnet.

“I can’t believe this,” said Sophia. “Celebrate your book’s finish in Hawaii or something, but don’t go back to that place. I think it’s affecting your brain.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” said Amy. Who, in her mind, was picturing the first moment she glimpsed the house through the cab window. “I can’t blame what happened on the place, you know. And it had a certain charm in spite of it all.” Maybe it hadn’t been the Southern mansion of her fantasies, but it had been as close as she would ever be to such a dream.

“Just don’t call and complain to me if the roaches start eating you,” was Sophia’s reply before hanging up.

Roaches? For a split-second, Amy wondered what all creeping and crawling horrors had failed to visit her own room the first time. There was still time to reconsider, of course. But there were reasons enough not to change her mind, even if she didn’t want to speak them aloud.

She packed her bags and bought the bus ticket, watching the scenery of Georgia’s countryside and sleepy towns roll past before she arrived at the station. She hailed a cab and began the final stage of her journey to the Wild Egret all over again. It might have been the first time she was ever here, except for the first signs of autumn in nature, the subtle change of the seasons which all of the human senses detect in the first few weeks of transition.

As the cab wound the final curve to the Wild Egret, she saw the house once again through the window. Her eyes widened, her lids blinking once or twice as if to dispel an imaginary picture from their sight.

The house was ... different. Not just the new glass in the windows and veranda doors to replace the storm damage: the very essence of the house seemed different. Majestic pillars glowing white in the late afternoon sun, a smooth marble structure flawless and in perfect repair. A polished light fixture hanging in massive proportions above the door, the perfectly manicured lawn sloping onwards to a series of elegant flower beds blooming with fall plants.

As the cab rolled to a halt, she opened the door and climbed out. Her eyes detected no sign of the weathered paint or subtle decay of age which she had grown accustomed to in her weeks here before. Was it her imagination? Or a trick of the lighting?

The sound of a door opening turned Amy’s attention in the direction of the front entrance. A man in a perfectly-tailored suit had emerged, gazing at her expectantly as he stood in position to greet her. Not the hotel’s manager, but Jackson the gardener.

She stared at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, when she found her voice.

“Waiting to greet my guest,” he answered, with a nonchalant shrug.

“Where’s Mr. Fairfax?” This response was croaked out after a hesitation.

Jackson raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “He retired,” he answered. “Last month. Lot of years on the job, we thought it was time he had some relaxation.”

“Edward?” she ventured. Jackson thumbed in the direction of the house.

“He’s polishing silver in the kitchen,” he answered. “I’ll get him for you if you want. ‘Course, it’ll take awhile, so you’ll have to be patient.” A faint grin began creeping into place with these words, as if he was enjoying himself.

“Are you–” she began.

“Funny thing,” he continued, “the local chapter of the Confederacy Civil War Reenactment Society wasn’t too keen on having a Union captain’s name in their regiment, even if it was Sawtelle. So I have to drop it when I’m with them. And I never did go by Jim much as a kid, either...”

“Mr. Sawtelle,” she said. “I didn’t realize. That is, I–I don’t know what to say.” She felt helpless at this moment, as if she were stranded here with her luggage before this pristine structure and the well-dressed man in its doorway.

He held out his hand. “Do you want to see the rest of the improvements?” he asked, softly. “We made a lot of changes. New air conditioning, new pipes, restored antiques–the works. New management to greet visitors, too. Without the muddy boots and gardening gloves.”

She pinched her lips inwards as she listened, not daring to meet his eyes yet. “I thought it was pretty great the way it was,” she answered. “The same goes for the new manager.”

She felt his hand close over hers, pulling her close. “I was hoping if you came back, you might say that. That you might take to the place with a little more time.”

It was impossible for her to take to it any further, since it had been love at first sight. The vision swimming in her tears a moment ago had been her idea of Tara; the man in front of her a vision even better than the fictional Jackson in uniform Antonia first laid eyes on.

In response, Amy closed the distance between them, letting her hand rest on his shoulder, her cheek almost touching his own. “I should have brought my hoop skirts and ball gown,” she answered, her voice teasing even as it trembled. “I won’t fit in here like this.”

“You’ll do just fine,” he answered. As if they were in a novel and not standing in present-day reality, he tilted her back and kissed her.

Arms wrapped around his neck, eyes closed, as she allowed this moment to enfold her with the comfort of happily-ever-after, the thrill of love’s confession, the unmistakable reality of Jackson’s arms and touch.

It was real, this moment of herself in a swoon-worthy kiss, on the veranda of a beautiful Southern mansion. All that was missing was a breeze fluttering her flowing ball gown and a rugged uniform for Jackson–although these were details she would gladly part with for this moment. For once, the screen would not go black, nor would the cover close on this moment. She would live it out to the fullest and to all the equally real ones beyond it which awaited her in this place.