“Well, the creek was swollen by the hard rains like Miss B’s creek gets sometimes. And this little girl decided to rock hop. The mother went down and saw her daughter in a deep part with her clothing caught on a tree limb. She started screaming, Save Anna. Save Anna!”
Annabelle waited. Finally she asked, “Is that the end?”
He squinted. “I don’t know. My mind went off in another direction. I saw a dark shape in the shadows near that creek. The little girl wasn’t there all by herself. After going back to the cottage, I drew a picture of it and later wrote a story about it.”
Skeptical, Annabelle lifted her face to his. “Aunt B told you that?”
His eyes widened. “Absolutely. But like you, I was skeptical. Miss B asked me if I thought ‘Save Anna’ sounded like Savannah. I sat there thinking. So she said it real fast and asked me again and I said, ‘Yessum,’ and she looked at me real sharp so I changed that to ‘Yes, ma’am.’”
Annabelle had to stop and hold her stomach while she laughed. He remained stone-faced and kept on. “Miss B started talking about myths and some things being true and some not and it was acceptable to make up stories if you’re going to entertain someone but not acceptable if they are asking for the truth. She was trying to teach me the difference between the truth and a lie. I had just told her a whopper.”
She kept pace with him as he started walking again. “Ah,” he said, “it’s good to be back and remember those days.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I went to New York right out of college and got a job with a publishing company. Seemed the place to start if one wanted to be a writer. Now, I realize I can write anywhere. Mudd and I are thinking about getting out of New York.”
Oh, so that must be his main reason for being here. “I’ve been told I should write a book,” she said. “About my occupation.”
“And what’s that? What do you do?” he asked as they reached River Street, which was crowded as usual. He stepped behind her and gently touched her waist as they let a man, woman and young child pass them on the sidewalk.
A feathery touch. And it seemed the spring breeze turned a mite cool and made her shiver. Why wasn’t Wesley here with her? Why couldn’t he enjoy this, too? He should be here.
Chapter 8
Normally, Annabelle didn’t even have to think about the answer when someone asked what she did. Most people knew, anyway. But she felt like her life would sound rather boring after hearing the way he described even the most minute thing.
Others stepped aside to let them pass. They came to the statue of the waving girl. “I guess you know her story,” Annabelle said.
He smiled and nodded. “What Miss B didn’t teach me, she had me read. Yes, I know the waving girl’s story.”
“Miss B taught you?”
“Not in her classroom,” he said. “On her front porch.”
Annabelle had not known that.
“Didn’t you go to public school?”
“Oh, yes. But she taught things I’d never learn in school.”
“Like...what?”
“Like the story of the girl, waving goodbye to her lover who never returned. Perhaps hoping it was a welcome home.” He looked at her. “How did you learn about her?”
Annabelle thought for a moment; then she laughed. “Probably heard it first from Aunt B.”
They walked on down to the Pirate’s Cave. He opened the door, stepped aside for her to enter. Even before her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, she heard “Arrgh?” as if it were a question. She knew the inflection in Lizzie’s growl was indeed a question.
The next sound was Lizzie with her pirate accent. “Welcome tae ye, mateys. Right this way.”
Lizzie led them to a booth and Annabelle slid in opposite Symon. She looked up at Lizzie, dressed as usual in a pirate’s outfit and with a bandanna around her head of long auburn hair.
Symon played the game. “Well, shiver me timbers. And who might ye be?”
“Veronica,” Lizzie said, sounding rather British. “The Red Lady. I’m from the sixteenth century. Most of the time I pretend to be an entertainer or singer. I board the ships and at the first opportunity I take off my disguise. Underneath I’m wearing a shirt, pants and weapons. I kill everyone aboard and then sail out to sea.”
“Right up my alley,” Symon said. “Perhaps you could use a second mate.”
Lizzie looked delighted, and lost her facade and her accent for a moment. “Worth considering,” she said.
Goodness gracious. Were they flirting with each other? Annabelle knew Lizzie was desperate for a...mate. But she didn’t know about Symon. Annabelle spread her hand toward her. “My friend and housemate, Lizzie.”
She knew Lizzie would be wondering what in the world Annabelle was doing there with a...a man. But he wasn’t just a man. “This is—” now she was the hesitant one “—Symon Sinclair.” She couldn’t very well add that he was the caretaker’s son.
“Nice to meet you, Symon,” Lizzie said with a sly green-eyed gaze at Annabelle.
“He’s...”
What?
“A friend, I mean a guest. Um, he came to see Aunt B.”
Her glance moved to Symon, who seemed to be wearing that amused expression again. She reached for the menu still in Lizzie’s hands.
“It’s a pleasure to meet a lady pirate, Miss Lizzie,” he said. “Particularly one who growls.”
Lizzie laughed with him but not without that questioning glance at Annabelle.
“And what she means,” Symon said, “is that I’m doing some work on Miss B’s property and staying in the caretaker’s cottage. In fact, I’m the former caretaker’s son.”
“Ooh. Caretaker’s son,” Lizzie said in thoughtful response. “My brother used to talk about Aunt B’s—she’s not my aunt, but I call her that—caretaker’s son. Did you play football for the Dogs?”
Annabelle looked from Lizzie to Symon. He shook his head. “I was on the swim team.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lizzie said. “My brother talked about you. He was on the team. A couple years below you. Went to nationals in California, I think. You were their best swimmer, weren’t you?”
“For a short period in my life, yes. Does your brother still swim?”
“Nope. Well, not on a team or anything. Like me, he pirates. But Paul’s not here tonight.”
Annabelle looked from one to the other as they laughed.
“I give tours of this cave, in case you’re interested,” Lizzie offered.
“I’m interested,” Symon said.
“It takes a while,” Annabelle said, looking over at Symon. This must be her night for abandonment. She lifted a hand as if in dismissal. “But you can take the tour if you want. After we eat I can walk back to the house. There’s always something I can do there.” She smirked. “Like laundry.”
“Walk back alone?” Symon lifted his eyebrows.
“It’s broad daylight.”
His level gaze held a warning. “That’s the worst time. When the victims feel the safest.”
Annabelle wondered, looking at his threatening gaze, if he was a protector or a villain. At least he gave a warning. But on second thought, anyone who saved a crippled dog couldn’t be all bad.
Symon looked up at Lizzie. “Another time.”
Lizzie nodded. “So you’re...going to be the caretaker now?”
“No,” he said, “just his son.”
“We’re...discussing things. About the property, and all,” Annabelle said.
“Oh. Well. Okay. You know what you want or you want to look at the menu?”
Annabelle knew what Wesley would have done. He would have looked over at her with a warm, or a sly, look as if to say she was what he wanted. But Wesley was her boyfriend, soon to b
e her fiancé, and then her husband.
“The menu,” Symon said, reaching for it and beginning to look it over.
Annabelle saw Lizzie’s questioning eyes.
Annabelle returned the look with a slight roll of her eyes as if to say she didn’t know what to say. As if to say, Why is this difficult?
But of course it was.
Annabelle was promised to Wesley and here she was with another man. But she wasn’t really with him. He was not another man. He was the caretaker’s son and did that make him less of a man than Wesley? The law firm didn’t do much for Aunt B’s lawn. Didn’t do anything, in fact.
Lizzie mouthed, “Married or...anything?”
Annabelle shrugged.
Symon looked over at her. She asked, “Are you married...or anything?”
“Not—” he grinned “—anything.” He smiled at Lizzie, who smiled back.
As soon as Lizzie left them with the menus, Annabelle said, “Sorry, I didn’t do too well in introducing you. My words don’t seem to be working today.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I have a thesaurus you can borrow.”
Thesaurus? Was he some kind of editor with that publishing company he worked for?
They looked at the menu and Annabelle didn’t know what she wanted but finally said, “I’ll just have the salad.”
Lizzie returned for their order.
“Southern fried catfish,” Symon said and licked those firm, wide lips. “Haven’t had that in a long time. And the fries and coleslaw. The lady will have the Pirate’s Cave salad. You did say everything on it?” he asked. “Even onions?”
“I did.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we can share and each have a great dinner.”
Annabelle pursed her lower lip, but a few bites of greasy fried catfish did have an appetizing ring to it.
Wide-eyed Lizzie took the menus. Annabelle looked around as if she wasn’t familiar with the place. She supposed they should talk business. “I have a few questions,” she said. “Since you’re living on the property.”
“Just a minute,” he said. “The way I see it, I’m doing you a favor by taking care of the property and you’re doing me a favor by letting me stay in the cottage that Miss B has already said I could stay in. That makes us close to equal, I’d say. So—” He spread his hands. “Shouldn’t you answer my question first?”
Close to equal? What did that mean? Forty-nine and fifty-one percent? Then which one would he consider the fifty-one?
Well...sure...in a sense. But she shouldn’t be there with a fellow with whom she was on an equal basis, should she? But no, even if Aunt B offered him the cottage and seemed fine with his staying there, it was still Aunt B’s property and her cottage. But he was just being...what? Conversational?
Yes.
But she didn’t know what to think of him. So, she should be...conversational.
And she knew to what question he referred. Through the years she learned how to answer when asked, “What do you do?”
She had a feeling he knew more about her than she knew about him. After all, he grew up at Aunt B’s. He came to see her. She was glad, wanted him to stay.
Strange reaction from Aunt B.
Strange reaction from herself. She had a feeling he’d have that amused look if she said what she did. But was it amused? Maybe it was an inner sneer? Caretaker’s sons probably thought less of society folks than society folks thought of them. Lizzie hadn’t remembered his name, but knew him as the caretaker’s son who’d been on a swim team.
And who had she and Lizzie been to him, if anyone?
“What do I do?” she said, repeating the question he’d asked. Then she gazed into his eyes. Why not be honest? Okay, she would. So she took a breath and said what she wouldn’t dare say to anyone else. “I look pretty.”
He stared, as if evaluating whether that was true. By now, any other man would already have commented on her looks. Why hadn’t he? Because he knew it didn’t really matter? Or...because he was only a caretaker’s son who knew his place?
“Professionally?” he asked.
She nodded. “I—I have a rhinestone tiara to prove it.”
His laughter didn’t sound like amusement. It sounded like pleasure. So she laughed, too, thinking hers sounded like insecurity.
For the first time since he’d arrived, she thought he might like her.
A little.
Not that it mattered.
“You want to tell me about it?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Your career.”
Did she?
“Maybe later,” she said.
He looked pleased, then serious. Then he said, “You and I have something in common.”
“What?” She thought she’d beat him to it. “Looking pretty?”
His laugh sounded genuine. “That, too, but please—” he held up his hands “—let’s keep it between you and me.” He took a sip of water, then said seriously, “The house-sitting. When I first went to New York, besides working with the publishing company, I began house-sitting. Got paid to stay in some fine places. That helped pay my own rent and was good research for my stories.”
Annabelle listened with interest. His ideas on how to live as well as he did were as innovative as his ideas on how to take care of landscaping. She liked hearing about the places where he’d house-sat. And now, he wasn’t getting paid to stay in the cottage, but he was getting it rent free. Very innovative, this guy.
She was intent upon his descriptions of places when Lizzie set their food before them. Annabelle closed her eyes for a moment and said a brief thanks. Opening them, she saw he was still but didn’t know if he’d closed his eyes or said a prayer or not. Of course one didn’t have to close the eyes. And he hadn’t gone ahead and started eating.
He cut a piece of catfish and put it on her plate. She scraped some salad onto his. And so they shared a few bites of what each had ordered, ate, and talked about Savannah, and she forgot about Lizzie until they got up to leave and she noticed Lizzie’s eyes seemed to have widened even more, still questioning.
Annabelle had no idea how to answer. In fact, she wasn’t even sure of the question.
Chapter 9
After returning to Miss B’s house, Annabelle invited Symon to sit in a rocker, but he felt more comfortable on the porch, leaned back against the post, one foot on the porch, the other on a step. That had been his place.
In New York, if he happened to be at a gathering where he wasn’t recognized, he was immediately known and admired as soon as his pen name or book titles were mentioned. But he wasn’t here to be admired as a writer.
Now was the time to find out if he could recapture that bond between him and Miss B. Have that sense of family he’d felt as a child and as a young person. He had succeeded professionally. Now, what about personally?
He didn’t consider himself modest, but he was here not on a professional basis but on a personal quest to acknowledge Miss B as the most important influence in his life.
He wasn’t here to add anyone to his fan club. He had stated the simple truth: that he wrote novels. And he had no reason to add that they were being looked at by a production company. Being looked at meant only a possibility of production, not a done deal, anyway.
He needed to keep his purpose in focus. If he was with a beautiful girl in New York, he’d be thinking of what was in it for him. Here, his purpose was to acknowledge and respect what Miss B had been to him.
Glancing at the flower bed, he smiled, thinking that Miss Annabelle reminded him of the pansy that had survived in spite of the weeds. He’d been careful not to disturb its roots and in just one day it had bloomed even more beautifully.
Yes, a way to show respect to Miss B would b
e for him to respect her niece even more than the landscape.
Of course, he couldn’t be family. But surely they could at least be friends. He had not returned to get interested in a girl—and certainly not Miss B’s niece. Even if the idea should ever strike him, he’d remind himself she was already spoken for and not his type anyway, having been a snobbish, sassy little girl.
She wasn’t exactly that now, but that was beside the point and he didn’t need to be trying to analyze her.
“I remember the first time I ever sat here,” he said. “I was five years old.”
“When she told you about the myth? After you lied?”
He nodded.
Annabelle scoffed, “What kind of lie could you tell at age five?”
“A big one.” As the sun sank into the horizon and the shadows crept across the lawn and porch, he relived that childhood and the beginning of what would become his purpose in life. Thanks to Miss B. He thought of the stories he’d told in the past few years at writers’ seminars about how Miss B had turned an active mind into a professional storyteller.
But while telling the stories to an attentive Annabelle, he didn’t feel like a professional promoting his work to aspiring writers, but felt as if he were that little boy again. He was back in the mode of twenty-four years ago when Miss B had made him sit on the front porch and drink a glass of the sweetest iced tea he’d ever tasted.
Another woman, as dark as his daddy’s coffee and wearing a dress the same color with a white apron over it, had served the tea on a silver platter. The glass sat on a little white thing that he learned later was a doily. It looked like a fancy cookie to him. It didn’t feel like a cookie so he held it until Miss B took hers and placed it on her lap like a napkin. So he reckoned it was not a cookie and wouldn’t try to eat it unless she did.
The dark woman went back inside, leaving him alone with Miss B, who sat with her feet firmly planted close together in the kind of shoes his daddy said he didn’t know how women walked in. Miss B didn’t say a word, didn’t even rock the chair she sat in. He expected he was in trouble for telling a lie.
That’s when she’d asked him if he knew how Savannah got its name.
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