by Hattie Mae
“Don’t worry about Preston, he has an iron stomach, and Trudy and Randy can take care of themselves. Now get some rest.”
“Sam, can I ask you a question? Why don’t you like me? You are always so mad at me.” Rose buried her head deeper into her pillow and pulled the sheet up around her ears. “If you tell me what you want, I can change, I’m good at trying to be what a man wants me to be.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t dislike you. Now close your eyes and try to sleep this off.”
“But Sam,” she heard her voice fade and could hear Sam’s voice whispering, what was he saying?
“You don’t have to change for me, little Rose. You don’t have to change for anyone. Even though you’re a handful of trouble, you are great just the way you are.” He gently kissed her forehead, tucked the covers around her and closed the French doors quietly behind him.
Oh if this is a dream let it continue.
Sunlight warmed Rose’s face and the strong smell of magnolias forced her to open her eyes. Pain shot through her head as if it were held tight in a vise.
She opened her mouth to speak and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Oh, God, what did I do?”
Moaning, she rose to a sitting position. Then she placed her head between her hands and took a deep breath.
“Okay, Rose, get it together, you didn’t hurt anyone. Did you? No one but yourself,” she muttered.
Rose walked across the floor, her feet hardly touching the cool hardwood. She had to get that taste out of her mouth. Looking in the mirror, Rose saw the reflection of a girl’s face with deep dark circles under her eyes, her hair slicked to her head on the right side. Thank goodness no one had seen her in this shape.
“Sam!” Her eyes opened wider, as her mind cleared. “Oh God, Sam was here last night.” It wasn’t a dream. No wonder he thinks I’m such a loser. I am a loser.
Somehow she would have to make up for this. She had promised to take care of his daughters, and so far she had taken off without informing him and drank too much with Trudy and his brothers. Enough play time, it was time to buckle down and take this job and her job of writing seriously.
Rose found her aunt in the kitchen humming a song and stirring a large pot of food on the stove.
“Where is everyone? The house is so quiet.” Rose said.
“Rose. How are you feeling? Sam told us you had a headache and to let you sleep. Sit let me get you some coffee and something to eat, you look like you still feel bad.” Odelia poured a cup of coffee and fixed Rose some toast.
“Trudy took the girls into town to help her clean out one of her storerooms and Sam and the rest of the crew are out in the rice fields. So it’s just me and you, my dear.”
Odelia poured herself a cup of coffee and turned her stove off. “You know I’m pretty caught up. Did you get the work done on your book you needed to?”
“No, I thought I just needed to get away. You know, be quiet and not be disturbed? But I just couldn’t focus. All I did was spend my time wondering what everyone was doing here. Every time I tried to get into my book, my mind would wander to you in your kitchen, stirring up some unbelievable dish. Or the sound that the wind makes as it rustles though those old oak trees. Or if Tante Ina would visit my room again like she did last night.”
Rose poured another cup of coffee.
“I called my editor before I came back, and she gave me an extension. This is the first time I’ve had to ask for one. This book started out so good, but now, I don’t know. So much is missing.”
“Does talking about it help? I’m a good listener. Can’t help you any with the writing, but I do read and I know what I love in a book.”
“I don’t know Aunt Odelia, it’s like I don’t believe in romance any more, can you imagine?” Rose rinsed her cup and gazed out the window above the sink. It overlooked a covered patio with large pots of fresh herbs. Such a charming peaceful place, maybe she could work that into one of her scenes.
“I think it might even go deeper than not believing in romance. Maybe I don’t believe in love, at least real love. Love that endures. I don’t know, I’m a mess. How can I write a romance book if I don’t believe in love?”
Odelia put her hand over Rose’s hand. “Rose, come with me, I have something to show you and a story to tell.”
Rose followed Odelia to the house that had been her aunt’s home all these past years. She opened the door to walls without sheetrock in the living room. She led Rose into a bedroom shut off from the construction in the other rooms. It was painted yellow and housed a sled bed with a yellow and white nine-patch quilt. White gauzy curtains graced the windows and a small lime green comfy chair sat facing the window, placed as if someone sat waiting. From the window, one could see almost straight down the long tree lined drive way. Rose let the soft curtain fall from between her fingers as she turned from the window.
“What a lovely room, Aunt Odelia. This is yours?”
“Yes, honey child, and I sure miss being here. Sam said the builder told him I could move back in about two weeks.” She opened the closet and motioned to Rose. “Help me pull this trunk out of my closet will you, hon?” she asked. With the trunk next to the bed, Odelia sat on the bed’s edge. “Rose, grab that chair and sit by me while I tell you a story.”
Rose pulled a wing back chair from across the room. It had wide yellow and white stripes with small green leaves scattered between the stripes. A small green velvet pillow rested where one’s back would relax. This had to be her aunt’s favorite chair. Or was it the small lime colored chair by the window? Rose looked at her aunt’s face dotted with tired deep lines. “Aunt Odelia, I think you need this chair more than me, okay?”
“I’m fine right here.” She patted the bed. “I want you to know there is nothing that is more important to me than you are, and if this helps you in any way, then it is time well spent. Now sit back, I only know one way to tell a story and that’s with lots of detail, so make yourself comfortable.”
Her aunt looked out the window for a while and in a low voice began her tale. “When I was a young woman I met the love of my life at the American Legion Hall in Bon Amie. When he walked through that door, he stole my breath. Each step was full of confidence. He was tall and so very handsome. He scanned the room and when his eyes caught mine, I thought my heart would beat right out of my chest. That tall good-looking man walked right across that dance floor, sauntered up to me with his hand outstretched. ‘I believe this is our dance,’ he said, a charming grin on his face. We danced every dance together and after that night saw each other every chance we could get. It was a true whirlwind romance.”
Odelia let out a deep sigh. “Wilson never proposed officially. We both just knew one day we would be married. We even set the date once, an early spring ceremony was planned. Then the draft notice came in the mail. Wilson was to report for training and then active duty.”
A heavy sigh, almost a gasp caught her aunt’s breath.
“Aunt Odelia if this is uncomfortable for you I can hear this story another time.”
“No, Rose, I feel you need to hear it now, and I need to tell it.”
She reached over and squeezed Rose’s hand.
“Wilson and I decided that we would wait until his first furlough and get married then. After all the Vietnam War was not supposed to last very long. What were the chances he would see any action?”
“Wilson told me not to worry, that our love was strong enough to last. When I cried he took me in his warm arms and whispered that he would love me until it snowed on the magnolias. Tears turned to laughter at that impossibility, and then we kissed each other in confirmation. The day he pulled out of town, I’ll never forget how he looked in his uniform. So brave, a tender smile on his lips as tears ran down his face. He handed me a magnolia and kissed me good-bye. I promised I would write him a letter every Sunday until he came home to me. He agreed to do the same. Then he was gone.”
Odelia wiped the tears now flowi
ng silently down her soft full cheeks.
“I only received a few letters from Wilson before he shipped out to Vietnam. I received two more from a small village in Vietnam I couldn’t even pronounce. Then the letters stopped. Some of my letters came back unopened. Others disappeared. I continued to write every Sunday hoping one would get to him, praying he was alive to receive them. I finally stopped sending them.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to him?”
“I tried for years, but I didn’t have the resources or the knowledge to do much. The army was very closed mouthed about any information concerning him. They couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me if he was dead or alive. Over the years, the hurt and longing faded, but the love I felt for him is just as strong today as yesterday, if not stronger. And deep down, I know he still loves me too. After all, it hasn’t snowed on the magnolias, yet.”
Odelia reached over and raised the lid on the large trunk reveling a trunk full of memories all hand written.
Rose was on her knees before she knew it looking at the many, many objects of love.
Odelia reached for a group of letters and handed them to Rose.
As Rose began to read the name and date written on the front of the envelopes, some yellowed with age, she realized her hands were shaking. “I thought you said you’d stopped writing him.”
“No, I said I stopped mailing them. I made a promise. So every Sunday I write a letter to Wilson. I’ve done this for so long that now it’s a part of my life. I tell Wilson everything. I share my laughter and disappointments with him. It keeps him alive in my heart.” Odelia put her head down, I know you will think I’m crazy, but sometimes I feel those strong arms wrapped around me, and in this room he leads me across the floor in a waltz.”
She handed Rose more letters. “You are welcome to read them, my dear. I don’t have anything to hide or anything to be ashamed of. That’s what love is you know. I wanted you to know there is true love in this world. Lasting love. It is a precious thing and you have to be very careful when you find it and hold it tight. Hold it tight and never let it die. And it doesn’t matter if you are both together or not, the love is always still there.”
“I don’t know what to say, Aunt Odelia. I didn’t know. I am so selfish. Always whining about my troubles. I love you so much.” Rose said as she hugged her aunt.
“I’ll send one of the boys over to move this trunk to your bedroom. You can go through them at your leisure. Maybe when you read through a few of them, you will believe in love. Then maybe you can finish your book.” She paused in her steps and sighed. “Boy, I’m tired, this took more out of me than I thought. I think I’ll lie down for a little while. Walk me back to the big house, will you love?”
“Aunt Odelia, thank you for sharing this with me. I’ll be very careful with your memories. And don’t worry about anything, I’m sure I can finish whatever you have on the stove.”
“Oh you don’t have to worry about dinner. I only need a power nap. The meal is cooked; it will just need to be re-heated when it’s dinner time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Rose spent the rest of the afternoon trying to sort the letters by date. She read the first letters as two lovers shared their longing and love for each other. Then when Wilson shipped out to Vietnam, his letters changed and he wrote of unspoken horrors in the war-strewn villages. He wrote about his fears and sorrow for the innocent people that always have to suffer in wartime. But he always ended his letters about his complete love for Odelia and their future together.
The letters made Rose laugh and sometimes cry. Through all the words, the love between the two young people came shining through. She lay back on the floor among the hundreds of letters and closed her eyes. To have a love such as theirs was a once in a lifetime gift.
Rose awoke from a dream filled with soldiers dressed in full uniform. Her soldier wore blue and when he turned around Sam’s face smiled at her.
“Stupid, crazy dream.”
“Talking to yourself, Rose?”
Sam leaned against the doorframe with one of his hands in his jean pocket. He held his cap in his other hand, leaving his dark black hair in a mess of curls. He looked more handsome in those jeans than he could ever look in anything else. They fit him. Told who he was. A man with a little starch to keep him straight and strong, a few patches to cover his hurts and a tight fit to show a man comfortable in his own skin. Did he ever relax or was he just all work? One thing for sure, he gave the impression of being in control of his world.
“What is all this?” he asked as he entered her room.
“Odelia’s letters. Did you know about this?” Rose stood and handed a few to Sam.
“Whoa, these are her letters to Wilson? She talked about him a lot when I was a young boy. But she hasn’t talked about him in a long while. I remember that we were not allowed to bother her when she was writing her letters.” He turned one of the envelopes over and looked at the current date. “I didn’t know she still wrote to him.”
“Every Sunday.” Rose shook her head. “I wonder why no one ever found him?”
“I guess he didn’t want to be found or he is dead.” He handed the letters back to Rose. “Are you busy?”
“No. This can wait. Do you need me to do something with the girls?”
“No, they’re still with Trudy. Odelia and Preston went to get them and stop by the store. You mentioned you wanted a tour of the place and this is as good a time as any.”
“I’ll get my shoes. Are you sure this won’t interfere with your work?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t have the time. We’ll start upstairs. There are eight bedrooms on this floor, four that face the back and four that face the front. The four in the front were added about 1926 when the upstairs ballroom was converted. This is the original staircase and was all hand carved.” Sam led the way down stairs, his voice confident with each word filled with pride as he described his home.
“How old is this place?”
“Eighteen hundred acres were part of a 1796 Spanish land grant. My ancestors bought the land in 1800. The houses were started soon after. The lower floor was built poteaux sur solle style, where the house is put on cypress blocks about two feet off the ground. This helps with flooding problems and also with cooling in the summer months, even insect control. The walls are cypress studs and packed with a mixture of clay and Spanish moss called bousillage, which has proved to be a very good insulation.” Sam looked down at Rose. “Are you bored yet?”
“No, please go on.” Rose answered.
“All the materials to build this place came off our land. The cypress and cedar came from the swamp land on our property and was processed at our sawmill.”
Sam stopped and touched Rose’s elbow. “See that window in the hallway? Looks out of place don’t it? But if you notice it lines up with one on either side of the outside of the house. That’s so nothing blocks the cross venation. They thought of everything back then, you know?” A smile lingered on his lips as he drifted back in time. “I still like to open the windows in the fall and let the air come through. Sometimes I can hear one of my grandparents saying, good job, Sam.”
Rose felt his hand warm on her skin. The passion in his voice caused her breath to catch. Had she ever been part of anything in her life that made her feel that passionate? After a moment she let breath out. Maybe her writing.
“Are you okay? Are you sure I’m not boring you?”
“I’m fine. I find this fascinating, please continue.”
Sam led her to his office where she had seen the large portrait over the fireplace.
“These are the five that started the whole thing. The man on the left is Percy LeBlanc and his wife, Agnes; the woman in the middle is the vielle fille, old maid, of the family, Ina.” Sam turned and looked down at Rose, “It is told that she had a lot of fire for such a small woman.” He stared back at the portrait. “You can tell she was a real spitfire. I wish I’d met her.” Sam continued. “The last
two are Gray LeBlanc, and his wife Charlotte. They are the two that built the Gray house. Charlotte didn’t believe in two story houses, said when she looked out the window she wanted to see the ground not the tree tops, so her home was all on one level.”
Rose couldn’t help but keep her attention on Sam’s face as he peered at his relatives with such respect. He truly loved every bit of the history of this place.
“You know, Rose, I truly feel like I knew each and every one of them. The stories these people could tell. They endured much, so we could enjoy all of this,” he said as he swept his hand in the air to encompass the room.
Rose stood on her tiptoes to get up as close to the painting as she could and took a second look. “Wait a minute. Ina? Isn’t that the name of your ghost? Is that her? And why the smell of magnolias?” Rose glared at the tiny woman with the mischievous face and impish grin in the portrait.
“That’s her. I told you she was harmless, unless you cross her. I think the two of you are about the same size. The scent is from the blooms she always carried in her apron pockets. They come from a Banana Magnolia tree. The only ones we have on the property now are way on the other side of Lewis’s house. But one of the journals states that a big Banana Magnolia tree grew outside one of the bedroom windows. I like to think it was her bedroom.” A large grin slid into place on his face. “Make a believer out of you yet?”
“I’m not sure. The smell is so strong at times. I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
Sam continued to show Rose around the house and they ended up in the kitchen. “Wait, did Odelia show you this?” He pointed to a small door in the middle of a wall that had been hidden by a large tapestry he moved aside.
“No she didn’t. What is it?”
“It’s a kind of dumb waiter. That in itself is amazing, but it’s the story surrounded it that is the most interesting. The family that lived here during the Civil War used it to hide in until the Union soldiers were gone and they could escape. They stayed hidden three days without food or water. My great-great grandfather was seven at the time.”
