fourteen

ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON Joelle sat on a stump in the middle of Shake Rag, surrounded by laundry and children. She couldn’t think when she’d been much happier. “And that’s why the king never ever again, in all his born days, ate dandelion soup!” Flicking imaginary fluff over her shoulders, she smiled at her rapt audience. “The end.”

Olivia Pogue, mama to the church dolly found hiding in the corner after the fire, leaned forward, big brown eyes wide. Her full lips parted to display a generous gap where her teeth had recently resided. “Mith Joelle, you made that up.”

“I surely did,” Joelle admitted. “Did Polly like it?”

Olivia held the doll to her ear and reported, “She wanth to hear it again.”

“Olivia, that’s the third time Miss Joelle has told that story. She’s got better things to do.” India Pogue, boiling a mess of collard greens in a large iron pot over a fire nearby, gave her daughter a censuring look.

Uncowed, Olivia grinned at Joelle. “Pleath?”

Joelle was saved from having to deny that adorable lisp by the arrival of a wagon coming from the direction of town. “I’ll tell it again later, honey-pie. Let’s see what Wyatt brought, okay?” She held out her hand, the little girl took it, and they skipped toward the road.

Wyatt pulled up the mule and wagon with a big grin on his freckled face. “Want a ride on my chariot, ladies?”

Joelle curtseyed, then boosted Olivia onto the back of the wagon and hopped on herself. They rode the remaining few yards to the church on top of a pile of sawn lumber brought over from the mill at Daughtry House. The Shake Rag men had been working from dawn to dusk in an effort to rebuild the church before Sunday. They just might make it.

The first two days after the fire had been spent clearing away the mess, sorting what could be salvaged from the ruins, and drawing a design for the resurrection. The Daughtry sisters pitched in to provide supplies, purchasing with their own funds what could not be built locally. Shug and Nathan shared the responsibility for bossing the project. More than once, Selah wished for Levi’s engineering skills, but Joelle thought they were managing just fine. The roof was on, the building framed, and this load of lumber would go a long way to finishing the walls.

When Wyatt stopped the wagon again, Joelle and Olivia jumped off and moved out of the way so that the men could unload the lumber. Old Reverend Boykin sat on a salvaged pew under a tree, fanning himself with his hat. Leaving Olivia to make mud cakes near a convenient puddle, Joelle walked over to the pastor and sat down beside him.

He had risen respectfully as she approached, but she waved him back to his seat. “Sit still, Reverend,” she said. “You’ve been at it since sunup. India’s close to having dinner ready. I imagine we’ll eat after they empty the wagon.”

He laid the hat on one knee and smiled at her. “You girls been working just as hard as the men, keeping everybody fed.”

“We want to help.” She picked at her skirt, frayed from the hours she’d spent sanding that ugly word off the pulpit. “Reverend, I’ve never been much good with practical things, but I want to learn. Your wife has been good to let me sit with her and listen while the women cook and quilt. You know I’m going to marry our preacher?”

“I heard that,” he said cautiously.

“Yes, well, I need to tell you something. I think it’s my fault this happened.”

“It’s your fault you got engaged?”

“Well, that too.” She laughed, then sobered. “No, I meant this.” She gestured toward the skeleton of the church.

The minister gave her a long, silent look. “I think you’re gon’ have to tell me what you mean.”

She took a deep breath. “Last Sunday—the day of the fire—I tried to get my—my fiancé to speak to our congregation on your behalf. For the congressional campaign. He said he’d think about it, but he didn’t do it.” She looked at the old man, noting the grizzled wiry hair, the smile wrinkles around his deep brown eyes. There was wisdom in that face, and grace. She felt ashamed but somehow took courage in confession. “It made me so angry, Reverend. I didn’t want to be led by him. I wanted him to do the right thing, and when he wouldn’t, I took it in my own hands. I started talking to the ladies about how they should influence their husbands to vote for a good man like you.”

After a short silence, Reverend Boykin said, “And you think instead they went home and told their husbands to burn down my church?”

“I don’t know.” She twisted her skirt in her hands. “I hope not, but I’m afraid—”

“Sugar, there’s two things tangled up in what you just told me, so let’s separate them out. First of all, you right that anger will sometimes lead us to improvidence.” He grinned. “That’s a word I learned from one of those books you loaned me last week. But seems to me the kind of anger you felt in that situation might be closer to what Jesus would call ‘righteous anger.’ The kind where the Savior took a whip to the money changers in the Temple. Now you can probably ask my wife about a wiser way to manage your man than embarrassing him in front of his congregation, but we all got to learn things the hard way sometimes.”

She laughed at the twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, sir. That’s true.”

“Now the other thing you’re worried about is, I’m both glad and sorry to say, completely out of your control. It’s rooted in a man’s fear of what he don’t know. And, frankly, selfishness and pride.” He turned his head to look at the burn pile made of the remnants of pews and holy walls. “The men who did that will reap what they sow, ’cause the good Lord is a God of justice. Psalm 94 says, ‘He shall bring upon them their own iniquity, and shall cut them off in their own wickedness; yea, the Lord our God shall cut them off.’” When his gaze returned to Joelle, it was full of sorrow. “May not be soon, may not be in fire. But hatred creates its own hell, you know, child?”

Joelle thought about her father’s mind and heart, ravaged by rage. Yes, by pride and selfishness too. It had been horrible to witness his fall at the end. “Yes, sir,” she said, drinking in this man’s love and mercy. “I just don’t know what to do, going forward from here. I don’t know that I can respect or trust Gil Reese anymore. And I don’t trust the women in my church. Even if it wasn’t my fault, I hate that somebody did this. I don’t want to worship with them anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment, his lips moving as if in prayer. Finally he said, “Stay as long as you can, without damaging your spirit, child. They need truth-speakers, but you got to speak in love, not disgust or contempt. Somebody got to be a go-between. As to your preacher-man . . . you take that to the Lord. He’ll let you know when or if it’s time to part ways. But I’ll tell you one thing. There ain’t no perfect man out there. Least of all this one.” He tapped his own chest.

Joelle sighed. She wanted a man she could talk to like this. Or none at all. “Are you going to pull out of the election?”

“The Lord hasn’t told me to do that yet.”

“How will you know? How will I know when it’s time to break with Gil?”

“God has a way of using Scripture and events and his prophets to guide us. You be sure you stay in his Word and on your knees every day.”

“I can do that. I have been.”

He nodded. “Then stop worrying. Walk in one step of light at a time.”

Joelle tucked that bit of advice deep into her heart where she wouldn’t forget it. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

“Miss Joelle, I forgot to give you this!”

She looked up to find Wyatt approaching, waving an envelope overhead. A letter? Maybe it was from Schuyler. She hadn’t heard from him since she and Selah left Mobile last Saturday morning. He hadn’t even gone to the station with them. He’d just waved goodbye, seated at the breakfast table, with his eyes on the newspaper in his hand.

On the other hand, she couldn’t think of any reason for Schuyler to write. More likely it was Levi, communicating with Selah. He’d wired yesterday to say he’d be in Tupelo by this evening.

Wyatt flicked the envelope into her lap and went right back to hauling supplies. She picked it up and saw that it was indeed a telegram. Addressed to her. She glanced at Reverend Boykin, who politely looked away from the envelope. “Telegrams usually bring bad news,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Do I have to open it?”

He gave her a wry smile. “News don’t go away if you don’t hear it.”

Well, that was true. She slipped her thumb under the flap and pulled out the paper inside.

ARRIVING SATURDAY AFTERNOON ON 2 PM TRAIN. WILL STAY ONE WEEK. LOOKING FWD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN.

It was signed “Delfina Fabio.”

Schuyler dismounted his hired horse in front of Daughtry House and tied it to the hitching post. He wanted a meal, a bath, and a long sleep, in that order, and he was not going to camp in that fleabag Gum Tree Hotel in Tupelo. For crying out loud, he was half owner of a resort inn, and why shouldn’t he take advantage of it?

Putting two fingers to his lips, he produced a long, shrill whistle for service. He could have taken the horse around to the stable himself, but Tee-Toc lived and breathed horseflesh. The boy would appreciate the chance to cool down and water this nag.

When Tee-Toc hadn’t come running around the corner by the time Schuyler had unstrapped his travel bag from the saddle, he walked around the side of the house to go looking for him. Where was everybody?

The backyard seemed equally deserted. The porch, the pagoda, the icehouse, the kitchen, the office—everything was shut tight. Then he saw a thin stream of smoke in the distance, coming from Nathan and Charmion’s little house. Char’s baby was due soon, he was pretty sure, so she would be staying close to home. The Daughtry girls could be anywhere on a Friday afternoon. But Horatia and Mose were generally at work in the kitchen and the garden respectively.

The place looked like someone had come and dismissed the entire staff.

Grumbling, he retraced his steps, tied his bag back onto the saddle, and gathered the reins. Nice welcome home, he thought as he swung into the saddle. Where is Joelle?

The short ride to the Vincents’ house took less than five minutes, though it seemed longer. Ground-tying the horse, he halloed for Charmion. “Anybody home?”

The door opened as he reached the porch. “Mr. Beaumont!” Charmion gaped at him. “What you doing here?”

“Looking for the Daughtry girls.” His gaze of its own volition went to her bulging belly. “Are you all right? Maybe you shouldn’t be up walking around.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she said wearily, stepping back. “The family ain’t here. Come in, I’ll fix you something to drink.” She moved a pile of slithery brown fabric off a chair and gestured with her head for him to sit down. “Sorry for the mess. I’m working.”

He hovered near the door. “I see that, and I’m sorry for intruding. Don’t bother with a drink, I’m not staying.” He looked around the small sitting room. It was the neatest “mess” he’d ever seen. There was a big, heavy freestanding mirror and a wrought-iron table by the fireplace. Gauzy curtains fluttered in the open windows, and a couple of charming pictures decorated the wall behind a simple brown horsehair sofa. “Did you do those?” He’d heard Joelle comment on Charmion’s artistic talent.

“Yes, sir. They not my best work, but I like ’em.” She stood there with the fabric across her arms. Come to think of it, it looked like a dress.

“I think they’re very pretty. What are you making?” He should leave, but he’d traveled all the way from Memphis by himself, and he was lonely.

A grin curled her lips. “A dress. For Miss Joelle. Look.” She unfurled the dress, held it in front of her.

He imagined Joelle’s tall, womanly figure filling out the deep bodice and curved hips. Then he imagined undoing the self-covered buttons that walked up the front, then sliding it off her shoulders. Then he realized where his thoughts had gone, and reined them in with a jerk. “It’s very nice,” he mumbled. “Do you know where she is? Joelle, I mean?”

There was something uncomfortably knowing in Charmion’s dark eyes, but she said mildly, “They all out to Shake Rag, where they been all week. Guess you don’t know about the fire.”

“Fire? What fire?”

Charmion folded the dress, then laid it carefully down in the chair. “Sunday night somebody burned down the Shake Rag church. Everybody here’s out there rebuilding it so we can have services on Sunday.”

“Somebody? Somebody who? Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”

“Oh, it wasn’t any accident. They made sure we knew that. As to who . . .” She shrugged. “Plenty white people around here don’t like us in possession of anything good or nice.”

That was all too true. And there was no sense asking why. Considering the events he’d left behind in Tuscaloosa, motive could be in little doubt. But he resented her use of the word “us,” as if there were some impenetrable divide right here in this room. He considered her lovely, coffee-with-cream-colored face, its oddly pitying expression. “I hope you won’t put me in that camp, Charmion. No matter what happens in the next month or so.” Giving her a grave bow, he stepped back onto the porch and replaced his hat.

He hoped it wouldn’t take any longer than a month to root out his father’s killer and bring him to justice.

There was something different about him.

Caught in the act of biting off a thread she had just knotted in Charmion’s baby quilt, Joelle jabbed the needle attached to it into her thumb. “Ow!” Sticking the injured digit in her mouth, she jumped to her feet, jarring the frame, and stared at Schuyler, who stood in the doorway of India and Shug’s two-room house.

“Don’t bleed on the quilt!” Aurora fixed Schuyler with a look equally annoyed as the one she’d given Joelle. “And you. You’re blocking the light.”

Removing his hat, Schuyler sauntered in and looked around. In fact, he looked at everything in the room except Joelle. She could have been a tall, red-haired gnat for all the attention he paid her. “Would have been nice if you folks had left a note on the door, to let people know where you are.”

“Clearly you figured it out,” Joelle said around her thumb. “Because here you are, like a—a mosquito one can’t escape.”

He looked at her then, and his lips tightened.

Hit! She’d gotten a reaction.

He shook his head. “Mosquito? Miss Wordsmith, I would have thought you could come up with something a little more creative than that.”

“I’m just surprised to see you. We assumed you’d gone off on one of your drinking binges with Hifcoat and Jexon.”

His cheeks tinged red. “Hixon and Jefcoat. And I haven’t seen either of them since the opera.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Would the two of you please sit down?” demanded Aurora. “The rest of us are getting a crick in our necks. Here, stop the bleeding.”

Accepting Aurora’s proffered handkerchief, Joelle reluctantly resumed her seat. “Thank you.” She busied herself with binding her thumb, then jumped when Schuyler plucked the handkerchief away from her.

“Here, let me,” he growled, kneeling beside her. “You can’t do that with one hand.”

“I know that, I was just . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence because her hand was engulfed in both of his, and they were gentle and deft, and all her blood had rushed to places in her body she hadn’t known were there. It wasn’t fair that he should arrive here with no warning, after she’d made up her mind that she never wanted to see him again. Despite the fact that she dreamed about him nearly every night. In full color.

He dropped her hand and rose, brushing at the knees of his breeches. “I smell food.” He sniffed. “Collards.”

Selah jumped to her feet. “I’ll fix you some. We already ate. Did you stop by the church to see the work? It’s going to be so beautiful.”

“Yes, I went and poked my head in. I’ll go help after I eat. Haven’t had anything all day.” He followed Selah to the table in the corner and watched her ladle greens into a bowl. “I don’t suppose there’s any ham and cornbread to go with that?”

“Where have you been?” Joelle blurted, then wanted to bite out her tongue. She hadn’t meant to let him know how much he’d been missed.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, collards dripping off his fork. “I went to visit your grandmother.”

“What on earth for?”

“She promised me snickerdoodles.”

Aurora snorted a laugh. “Grandmama loves you a lot if she shared her snickerdoodles.”

Schuyler looked smug. “Women like me.”

“Some do,” Joelle muttered. “Apparently he bamboozled an opera star.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“Look at this.” She reached into her pocket and tossed the telegram at him.

He set down his bowl—with great reluctance—and picked up the envelope, which had fallen to the floor. He read the telegram and whistled. “Tomorrow?”

“It seems her performances for the next week had to be canceled because of an attack of laryngitis. She needs a place to rest and recuperate.”

Schuyler turned the brief message over and back again. “How do you know that?”

“There was an article in the paper this morning. I didn’t think anything about it until Wyatt brought this telegram from town a little while ago.” Joelle folded her arms. “This is your fault. Now what are we going to do? We aren’t ready for guests.”

“My fault—”

“She could have laryngitis just as easily at the Peabody, but noooo . . . She has to travel all the way to Tupelo, chasing the ‘beautiful pazzo boy who make you so angry.’” Joelle mimicked Delfina’s sultry Italian accent.

“Holy cats, did she really say that?” Aurora burst into laughter. “I’ve got to meet this woman.”

Blushing, Schuyler dropped the telegram as if it contained some communicable disease and took refuge in his collards.

Joelle was in no mood to rescue him. “She’s the one who kept me from crying in a closet after this bully insulted me in front of the entire opera board.”

“Because you tried to shark my best friend out of forty-five dollars,” Schuyler reminded her.

Joelle came off her chair again. “Why, you—”

“Children, children,” Selah said mildly. “Instead of casting blame all over the county, perhaps we’d better decide how we’re going to make the most of such a celebrated guest.”

“Guests,” mumbled Schuyler through a mouthful of cornbread.

All four women stared at him.

“What. Do. You. Mean?” asked Selah.

Schuyler swallowed and wiped crumbs off his vest. “General Forrest and his wife are coming too. Tomorrow,” he added, as if that would somehow make it better. “They were at your grandparents’ musicale Wednesday evening. Mrs. Forrest mentioned the hotel, so I, uh, invited them to come.”

“Without checking with us?” Even Aurora, who generally gave Schuyler the benefit of the doubt, looked annoyed.

“It seemed like a good idea. We pulled off a ball last month. Surely we can put up a couple of guests for a few days.” His expression was defensive. “We are a hotel, are we not?”

“Which is not set to open for at least another month.” Selah’s brown eyes narrowed. “Schuyler, we’ve had funerals and burned-down churches and all sorts of delays.”

“And if I’m counting correctly,” Joelle added, “this will be more than a ‘couple’ of people involved. Delfina and her manager. General Forrest and Mrs. Forrest, and probably their servants. We’ll need to entertain them. We’ll need to feed them.”

“It’s too late now,” Schuyler said. “They’re on their way.”

Before Joelle could throttle him, Aurora clapped her hands. “I have an idea.”

Joelle could hear the capital I on that last word. “It had better be a good one.”

“We’ll have a barn dance.” When her Idea was met with blank silence, Aurora raised her chin. “In a barn.”

“You’re going to subject a world-renowned classical musician to a country hoedown?” Selah’s voice was soft but incredulous. “I don’t think so.”

“I agree,” Joelle said. “That’s ridiculous. But it gives me a better idea. India—” She addressed their hostess, who had continued quietly stitching, listening and smiling as the conversation bounced about in increasing absurdity.

India put down her needle with a smile. “Yes, Miss Jo?”

“I have heard some incredible music in this community while we’ve been working on the church. Would y’all consider coming to sing and play for our guests one evening while they’re here?”