Tainted Harvest
Simone Doucet Series Book 1
E. Denise Billups
Copyright (C) 2021 E. Denise Billups
Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter
Published 2021 by Next Chapter
Edited by Shire Brown
Cover art by Matt Davies
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
Contents
1. Unknown Stanza
2. Dreams
3. Arrival
4. Magnolia Sunrise
5. Delphine
6. Into the Devil’s Arms
7. Descendants
8. Kin
9. Antiquity Rises Again
10. Not Again
11. Tainted Harvest
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by E. Denise Billups
“They came at night... a horde of starving vagabonds, homeless, helpless, and pitiable...”
W.E.B. Du Bois
For those whose story was never told.
Unknown Stanza
Present-day Brooklyn, New York
“welcome home, moni.”
“Home . . .” The taxi swerves around a sharp corner, tossing Simone across the back seat into the door, jarring her from sleep. Lost to her whereabouts for a moment, she lifts her gaze up the divider and across the confined space, to the in-cab TV, certain she’d heard her mother’s voice. She raises herself off the leather seat, unfurls her stiff body and jet-lagged mind, recalling the late-night dinner party, racing to catch a flight to the States, and stumbling into the taxi half asleep at JFK Airport.
The driver eyes her in the rearview mirror.
Was it his voice she heard? “Did you say something a moment ago?”
“No, Miss.” His brows furrow at her confusion. “Long trip?”
She nods, “Yes. France.” Rubbing her eyes, she glances out the rain-mottled taxi window at the approaching four-story brownstone. Home again, but there’s no one to welcome her back from her trip. Dark windows reflect the gray day and vacant interior as the cab comes to a stop. Comfort, which she often feels when returning from an assignment, recedes with the deluge that pummeled the taxi from the airport straight to her apartment stoop.
She steps into a curbside puddle with a silent expletive, splashing toward the turban-headed cabbie as he removes her luggage from the trunk to the sidewalk, pressing and jerking on the stubborn handle several times.
“Please, let me get that.”
“No, Miss, I got it,” he replies with a stronger tug. “There we go,” he says with a victorious grin as though he’d accomplished an intricate feat, placing the handle in her outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” she says, handing him a generous tip, which garners a gracious smile and a palm-to-chin bow from the Indian man.
“Namaste. Welcome home, Miss.”
“Thank you.” Though his welcome isn’t the intimate reception home she yearns for, it engenders a sincere smile.
“Taxi! Wait!”
“Another fare,” she says to the cabbie, pointing over his shoulder at the couple running toward the taxi.
He pivots his head toward the intersection, then back at her, pausing with an odd glare that causes Simone to frown and wipe her cheeks, afraid there’s something other than rain on her face.
His lips purse then narrow. “Rain brings good harvests and much enlightenment,” he says with a nod of affirmation as if telling her fortune. “And it brings many passengers.” He smiles with a final bow, turns, and signals with a hand wave to the couple, angling his body into the driver’s seat.
Was that a customary Indian farewell? Too jet-lagged to consider his strange expression and words, she turns and glances up, catching movement in her bedroom window on the upper floor. When nothing appears, she wonders if it was just birds flitting on a tree limb.
She looks away and pulls her luggage up ten steps and stops at the stained-glass double doors of the Brooklyn Heights brownstone she’s shared two years with three wayfaring roommates who travel for work as often as she does. The four-story flat, dubbed “the layover,” serves as a respite from their hectic lifestyles. For a week or two at most, their paths crisscross and the brownstone assumes a dormitory vibe―alive with music, chatter, and dinner parties―until work calls them elsewhere again.
“Layover” is a perfect description, given her roomies, Jude, Mitchell, and Stacy, could move to another city for work at any time. And the landlord, Eric Lawson, might not renew the lease next year. The Lawson family has owned the brownstone since the roaring twenties when their ancestors migrated to the city with countless other immigrants during the Jazz Age. Eric, who lives in a larger home on Long Island, prefers renting the sandstone relic to selling it. He pops in once a month to check his property, always catching her off guard. She suspects he visits when they’re away but hopes he doesn’t snoop through their belongings.
Simone pulls the graphite-gray Samsonite luggage over the threshold and steps onto the “Welcome” doormat. Heeding the “NO SHOES ALLOWED” plaque, she slips off her sodden wellies, protecting magnificent bamboo floors from sidewalk germs and grime. She hangs her Burberry trench on the foyer rack and wipes rain from her brow, alert to the silence of the first floor as well as the upper floors.
Remembering the shadow she’d seen from the stoop in the window, she calls, “Hello! Anyone home?” Her voice reverberates around the walls, disturbing the silent home with no response.
“Alone again,” she mumbles, placing the key on the foyer table and detaching her laptop bag from the Samsonite.
A fusty odor from the humid weather seeps from the upholstery in the living room, reeking of a seldom-visited cabin in a moss-laden forest. Moving toward the large sectional, she glares at the tranquil space, places the laptop on the coffee table, and saunters across the room, lifting the shades of three rain-flecked floor-to-ceiling bay windows to find a dreary picture of the tree-lined promenade and thick clouds mushrooming over New York Harbor and lower Manhattan's skyline. A three-million-dollar view worthy of the steep rent.
Letters and magazines fill Jude’s, Stacy’s, and her own mail slot in the rotating carousel on the sideboard created to organize their mail. Mitchell's empty compartment confirms that he was there last. Among a plethora of bills and junk mail, she recognizes a pink envelope with the HBM logo, suspecting it contains payment for last month’s assignment on fine dining in New Orleans, a piece she enjoyed writing, as she'd visited the city many times for Mardi Gras and knew most of the regular haunts and restaurants in town.
She slits the envelope flap open with her fingernail, finding a check creased between gold-embossed, ivory HBM stationery edged in colorful, swirling flower bouquets—a letter from Happy Brides Magazine’s editor. Placing the banknote on the table, she drifts to the sofa and reads.
Simone,
Your New Orleans article last month was impressive. The team and I believe you're the perfect person to cover our upcoming July Southern Peach Edition. We need a Travel Writer to highlight a well-known Victorian Bed-and-Breakfast on the bluffs of Natchez, Mississippi, overlooking the River. Natchez boasts historical tourist attractions, antebellum mansions that serve as hotels, and Victorian B&Bs for a fabulous southern honeymoon getaw
ay. I've heard the city has many peach orchards. It would be lovely to give our readers a taste of Mississippi. A wonderful peach dessert or drink at your discretion. If you’re interested in the assignment, please let me know soon so we can make travel arrangements.
Amelia and Parker Randolph, the owners of the B&B, and old college mates, graciously offered free accommodations for your visit. As natives of the state, they possess a wealth of knowledge of the city's history, tourist attractions, or any information you need for the article. They’re a wonderful couple, and I guarantee you’ll have a fabulous time.
Simone, I know you will do a fantastic job. I look forward to reading your article.
Happy Travel Writing!
Bridgette Witcombe, Editor
Happy Bride Magazine (HBM)
“Another assignment? Geez, give me a chance to breathe,” she grumbles, surprised Bridgette’s granted more work before the submission of her current article. Three assignments in less than a month and having just returned from a trip to France, she can’t imagine hopping on another plane so soon. She stares around the quiet room and sighs, realizing she’ll soon feel captive within these walls and yearn for another escape, as always. Removing the laptop from its gray-turquoise case with a world map pattern, she opens the incomplete article on France. A final revision and she’ll remit to Bridgette the next day.
Jet-lagged and yearning for something more comfortable than her rumpled travel clothes, Simone grabs her suitcase in the foyer, heads to her bedroom, undresses, and slips into her robe. She inspects her room, a smaller version of the living room, with octagonal walls and three floor-to-ceiling bay windows, smelling of sandalwood and lavender, remnants of candles, laundered sheets, and lavender sachets placed in the closet. Captivated by Moroccan décor on assignment in Morocco two years before, she purchased Moroccan pillows and rugs to center the arching window seat. Four tall rustic Moroccan lantern holders sit inside the firebox and two on opposite ends of the decorative hearth, giving the nonworking fireplace a fiery ambiance whenever she’s home. Over the mantel, in soothing turquoise ocean blue, hangs a lengthy Moroccan tapestry.
She catches her reflection in the wall mirror and combs her fingers through the new pixie cut, a rash decision made in France. Tired of fussing with unmanageable curls, she walked into Les Cocottes salon on rue de l’évéché in Marseille.
The hairdresser with creamy milk-chocolate skin and thick auburn box braids stared in shock at her request, trying to change her mind. "Non, ce n’est pas vrai. Ces cheveux merveilleux. Je peux le style pour toi, non?” No, such wonderful hair. I can style for you, no?
Simone sat in the chic, pink-and-black hydraulic chair and demanded, “Coupez-le.” Chop it off.
The hairdresser sighed. “Comme vous le souhaitez.” As you wish.
Simone closed her eyes and listened to the Japanese shear's snip, snip, feeling her shoulder-length strands fall around her, wondering if she'd regret it later. When she heard the hairdresser’s “Ooh, aww . . . Magnifique,” she opened her eyes to the three-way mirror. Lily, her mother, stared back. She looked like a younger version of her mom, who’d worn her hair short most of her life. She studied her heart-shaped face, cinnamon-brown eyes, and the sandy brown pixie cut, knowing she’d made the right decision.
She strolled carefree and liberated through Marseille's uneven streets, admiring the shape of her head and long elegant neck in shop windows along the Rue Saint Ferreol. Unfettered by windblown hair, she wandered along pebble beaches in Anse de Maldormé and snapped photos of medieval hilltop villages and crumbling 10th-century castles at Château des Baux. Hair fanned above her scalp like grass in mistral winds. It was the boldest decision she'd ever made without regret.
She ties the robe sash around her waist, heads downstairs, and frowns through the living room’s variegated windowpanes at another downpour. The soggy weather affects a need for a hot cup of tea to dispel the damp chill. She drags her sluggish body into the kitchen, feet scuffing against the wooden floor. Too tired to run water in the kettle or wait for it to boil, she microwaves a cup and steeps a blueberry chamomile tea bag in the steaming water.
A weary sigh deflates her chest as her sluggish legs carry her drifting back to the sofa. She stares at the unfinished article on the laptop, recalling the luxurious suite she'd stayed in for two weeks. A life she could never afford on a travel writer's salary. But money hasn't been an issue since her mother, Lily, passed away four months ago. When her father disclosed the thirty-year-old policy from her employer and two personal insurances she'd purchased several months before her death, disbelief ensued.
Little had her mother known that six months later an unknown heart condition would claim her in sleep. Or maybe she had an inkling her time was short and that was the reason she bought additional insurance. Simone’s heart sinks, recalling her father’s distressed phoned call the day Lily died and how he had grasped for words, barely forming sentences.
“Simone . . . Lily . . .” he’d said with an anguished pause.
“Dad? You there?”
“She didn’t . . .”
“What's wrong? Is Mom OK?”
“She didn’t wake up this morning.”
"Is she sick?"
“No, she couldn’t wake up.”
"She’s probably working too hard and needs to rest a few extra hours. She needs this trip to France. I’ve booked the flight and hotel. All she needs to do is be ready to go. She’ll get plenty of rest and enjoy herself―"
"No, hon . . ." His voice tremored and cracked. He placed his hand over the receiver to muffle tears as he gathered his composure. "Lily's gone . . . She passed in her sleep. The doctor said it was a heart attack."
His words snatched her breath from her chest and her legs out from under her. If a chair hadn’t been nearby, she would have collapsed in a heap on the floor. Remarkably enough, through her shock, she’d found the wherewithal to question what was an improbable heart attack.
"No, no, Dad, that's impossible!" she'd screamed, bursting into a tearful tirade. "Mom gets an annual checkup every year, and there were no signs of heart trouble and no genetic predisposition. She's the healthiest woman I know. Never touched process food or alcohol. Walked several miles a day. She can't just go to sleep and never wake up!”
Simone lamented a long time, recalling the words her Mom had spoken just days before she passed. "I'm so fortunate,” she had said, “to have a wonderful job and adoring family." She was enthusiastic about her work as a Research Librarian at Louisiana State University, never stressed, and comforted by aisles of books. After all the years of hard work, she deserved that trip to France.
Simone couldn’t imagine going without her until her grief-stricken father took her place. Traveling with her cremains, they scattered a small amount in the River Seine, a place Mom had dreamt of visiting for years. They had been unsure where the last of her ashes should rest, so they had chosen to keep them above the mantel until a place was determined.
For months, Simone was in disbelief and questioned Lily's heart attack. Nagging instincts wouldn’t let it be. And even now, she believes something else caused her death. But why did she buy two additional insurance policies? Did she know about the heart condition? And if she had, why keep it a secret? Did prescience or sensibilities spur her decision to buy more financial security for the family?
It appears she prepared for the inevitable, leaving her university pension and insurance policies to secure their future. Mom worried travel writing might not earn her only child a decent living, but so far, she’s been lucky to have consistent work. She’d relinquish every cent of the wretched insurance proceeds earning dividends and interest in her investment account to see her mom alive again.
Losing his wife and having only one child, her widowed father worries and incessantly reminds her, "A single woman traveling alone isn't safe." Evils of the world always keep her hypervigilant, never straying far from crowds, and emailing her itinerary to her father and fri
ends. Fear hasn't stopped her from enjoying work.
She figures at twenty-six, there's plenty of time to travel before settling on a more stable career. After college, she submitted a writing sample to the well-established online magazine Happy Brides, not expecting a response. To her surprise, a month later and just as she'd lost faith and was considering a more stable desk job with a nonprofit organization, the editor called. For four years, Bridgette, the founder and editor of the magazine, has been a godsend and a good friend, always finding assignments when Simone needs the work.
For a trial period during the first year, Bridgette assigned domestic trips as preparation for something bigger. After fourteen months of traveling up and down the East and West Coasts, she got the chance to travel to the Caribbean and foreign destinations she'd always dreamt of visiting. The stamps in her passport and collections of postcards and photos paint a picture of a life of nonstop exotic travels to Barcelona, Cairo, Dublin, Maldives, Morocco, Paris, Scottish Highlands, Seychelles, and more. The Samsonite suitcase functions as a permanent closet. Hotels as temporary homes. And strangers along the way become new friends, welcoming her back from a nomadic life.
She loves her hometown, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, but could never spend her entire life in one place as her parents have. They always said, "No one will embrace you like your own people." Isn't that true of every culture? She's never let other's narrow-mindedness hinder her life. She wondered if fear prevented her parents from traveling to other countries, as they never ventured far from Louisiana. Her mother had welcomed and loved postcards from various destinations and eagerly awaited every one of her articles. She wished they’d had the opportunity to travel together before Lily’s death. They certainly could have, but something kept them rooted.
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