Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  “I will. Thanks Bessie,” the handsome man said and returned to his chair and sat.

  “Sorry about that. Now, where were we?” He smiled. “Oh. I’m afraid Mother lost her usual caterer this year because she’s so behind. But she heard some good things about your business.” He leaned back and crossed his long legs in an elegant manner. The trousers that draped from them probably cost about a hundred dollars a yard for the fabric. Anyone could tell that he just belonged in this house.

  Callie spoke up. “Is there a theme we need to work around?”

  He uncrossed his legs and propped an elbow on the arm of the wing chair in which he sat. “I’m going to do my best here, but I’m just an emissary for Evelynn—I mean—my mother. Southern and elegant is always the theme, I’m afraid. But I’d like a little twist, perhaps. Maybe something not so…stuffy. I’ll let you give me some suggestions.” He looked straight at Hanna.

  Callie jumped right in on her opportunity and explained her traditional shrimp salad croissants, her crab canapés and her cucumber and dill sandwiches. Then she described three or four Lowcountry entrees she had perfected. “For dessert, frosted cupcakes are popular right now. Maybe coconut pie or banana pudding cupcakes. Or I can do a fig crème brûlée.”

  Mr. Laurens continued to stare at Hanna. “That all sounds pretty good to me, but Mother also wanted some kind of Southern soup—just not she-crab soup. Everyone’s serving that these days. She wants something else that’s originally Southern.”

  Callie looked up at the ceiling and contorted her face. She was obviously having difficulty coming up with something.

  Maybe I should help her out. Callie did say she wanted me to speak up so no one would think I rode the short bus to elementary school. “What about okra soup? It’s always a favorite at camp meeting.”

  Callie opened her mouth and shot Hanna a look, but Mr. Laurens started in before she could speak.

  “What a novel idea. I like okra.” His look darted between Hanna and Callie. “What is camp meeting?”

  Callie said, “Oh, never mind that. It’s just a small gathering at our church.” She jotted down the details they’d discussed. “Tell us more about the plans for the dinner party.”

  He explained the particulars of the gathering for about fifty of the Jasmine Society members.

  Hanna took notes while he spoke, but every time she glanced up, he was still gazing at her. What? Did she have bloodstains from the butcher shop on her Walmart khakis? She looked down. Nope. Of course not. They were clean. Maybe it was because she was even wearing Walmart khakis.

  “Hanna here is a math wiz. Give us a minute and we’ll give you a close estimate.” Callie pointed to a group of the menu items and to the prices for the servers needed for the event.

  Still Hanna remained silent.

  “That’ll be fourteen-hundred, give or take a few dollars.” Callie jotted down her figures.

  “That’s fine,” Mr. Laurens said.

  “No, that’s not right,” Hanna spoke up. “It will be one-thousand, nine-hundred, forty-nine dollars and eighty-five cents.”

  Callie and Furman Laurens looked at her as if her ears had just grown or something. The numbers were right, but Hanna should’ve kept quiet. It was the second time she’d uncharacteristically opened her big mouth since walking through those splendid doors. Was this intriguing man affecting Hanna in some way?

  “Are you sure, Hanna?” Callie asked.

  “I am,” Hanna said. “You left out all the service fees.” Lately, she’d only been spitting out numbers in Uncle Marion’s butcher shop, telling how much three pounds of chicken would be at $1.87 per pound, or how many pounds of pork ribs someone could get for $20.00 if the price was $2.79 per pound. She was good at it but had become bored with pricing ham hocks.

  Callie looked at Hanna’s figures and back up at Mr. Laurens. “She’s right.”

  “Well, then. She’s amazing. I’ve never seen someone run figures that fast in her head—ever. I hope she keeps you behind the cash register,” he said, still staring at Hanna.

  “She doesn’t work for me full time,” Callie said.

  Before the news of her slaughtering farm animals for a living got out, Hanna offered a partial explanation. “I work at my uncle’s small business.”

  “If he’s in banking or investing, I’m sure he’s doing well as long as you’re working for him.” He chuckled.

  His words cut like a knife. Financial planning and accounting was what she had originally wanted to do after college. Few knew it, though. Her family obligations put an end to her working with numbers in the way she really wanted to. And after a while, the dream sat dormant in Hanna’s soul.

  ⸙

  Furman Laurens stared at the quiet woman with the long, soft midnight curls before him. Her dark eyes seemed filled with mysteries. And her skin was as smooth and as tanned as a model in one of those airbrushed swimsuit magazines. But she wasn’t airbrushed at all. She was real. And he was intrigued. He had been as soon as he’d walked by her and caught a breath of her.

  She wasn’t like those prissy Charleston women who reeked from enough perfume to fumigate the dorms at the Citadel. No. The woman in front of him had an air of freshness and purity about her that reminded him of the evenings in his childhood when he’d finished playing for the day and Maimee, his nanny, would put him in the big claw-footed tub with a bar of soap. The fragrance was simple and intoxicating at the same time.

  He should say something and not stare so much. It wasn’t gentlemanly. “Everything sounds fine to me, but Evelynn has the final say. It’s her dinner party and she’s at the hospital with Father right now.”

  Callie stood and said, “I’ll keep the date open for you until this weekend.”

  Furman rose with her, but the dark-haired woman still sat with a look of reticence covering her face.

  “Write us down in red ink. You’re doing the dinner. I just have to go over the details of the menu with the boss.” Up until now, he had hated the idea of being his mother’s social gofer, but if it offered him the chance to speak further with Hanna—not that she’d had much to say—he’d continue to do his mother’s bidding. For a while at least, because he had his own life. This morning, however, had been a pleasant diversion from his boat building and restoration business—or as his mother would call it—his dirty little hobby. She’d rather him spend all of his time on managing his family’s vast real estate holdings or tinkering in her little antique shop, which used to be her hobby before his father had become ill.

  He looked at the business card Callie had handed him. “Summerbrook.” He turned to Hanna. “Are you from Summerbrook, too?”

  Hanna nodded. “Well, just outside Summerbrook. Four Hole to be exact.” She gave him a slight smile.

  “Four Hole?” He wanted her to speak again. He wanted to hear her down-to-earth voice again. A voice completely unlike nearly every woman his mother found suitable for him. Not that it had done any good. He’d find his own match. One day. If it ever were to be.

  Callie said, “Yep. It’s on the outer edge of Summerbrook. Wetlands mostly.”

  “I’ve been planning for years to make a trip out to Summerbrook and the surrounding areas. Perhaps one of you ladies can give me a few ideas about where to look for some wood for my boat.”

  “Between the two of us, I’m sure we can give you some suggestions,” Callie said.

  He escorted them to the front of the house. “Ms. Marks, I’ll call you as soon as I get the queen’s approval.” He opened the door.

  As soon as he did, Hanna shot around him like a mouse trying to escape capture. He reached out and touched her elbow before she got away. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again.” She looked up shyly and half smiled. Then she walked quickly down the front steps.

  What a refreshing breath of air. If only he could capture and bottle it to give him relief from the stale, antiquated world into which he had been born.

  ⸙

  Hann
a strode under the vibrant crape myrtle branches along the old flagstone sidewalk beside the ancient street, pushed aside the branches and climbed into Callie’s car as quickly as she could.

  Callie entered on the driver’s side. “Can you believe it?” She rested her wrists on the steering wheel.

  “Congratulations,” Hanna said. She knew how much getting that job meant to Callie.

  “No. Not about the job. Did you see the way he was looking at you?” Callie asked.

  Hanna made her ugly face. “Callie! He did no such thing.”

  “He hardly heard a word I said about hors d’oeuvres and canapés. He was interested in Hanna a la cracker.” Callie giggled. “You landed that job for me.”

  Hanna rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so. Without a fancy downtown name and address, all that kind of men do is size you up for a fun date…or some hard work.” The work part was fine with her because that was what she’d been cut out to do. She had the muscles from the butcher shop to prove it.

  “You just wait. I may be wrong with numbers, but I’m not about this.” Callie pulled away from the curb. “Just wait.”

  Hanna had been waiting much of her life. For an opportunity to use her dusty degree. To have a family of her own. But what she wasn’t waiting for was to be accepted into Charleston society where she didn’t belong. Or even want to belong.

  Her last name had long ago precluded her from many things—even before she was born because her ancestors had been bootleggers and whiskey runners who had used the swamp as cover for their operations. And she hadn’t moved out of the same area where her family has been embedded for hundreds of years. In fact, she had grown used to her situation in life. On the low, swampy end of a small Southern town.

  At least she had her relationship with the people who mattered to her. And with God. He accepted everybody.

  She had learned her place in life in the third grade when she wasn’t allowed to be Cinderella in the school’s play. When Missy Reeves got the part, her teacher, Mrs. Barnwell, said her hair looked more like—like Cinderella’s. Then she’d patted Hanna on her head and said, “Sweetie, I was thinking you’d be good for the part of Pocahontas when we do our Thanksgiving play this fall. Do you know if your family has Native American ancestry?” she asked.

  Hanna shook her head and said, “I don’t know.” She didn’t really know that term. She found out later and thought that she really would have liked to have had that heritage—any heritage that had a name and a history. But she had none, and the few family members she had weren’t interested in figuring it out or even talking about it.

  Hanna’s position in the juvenile hierarchy of ill-spirited school children was also communicated to her after Missy and some of the other pretty blond-haired girls were planning a slumber party the following summer. Without knowing any better, Hanna asked if she could come. It was the first time she’d heard that ugly term about her family name.

  When she got home, she asked her mother what a “yellow swamp rat” was. Her mother had cried and said something about how God made the sun and the sweetness from the honeysuckle vines kiss her cheeks and that was why the little girls didn’t want her to spend the night. Hanna was confused after the explanation. “You are not just your name.” Her mother had gently taken Hanna’s face in her hands. “You are my beautiful, golden little angel,” her mother had said.

  It wasn’t long after that—in the season of honeysuckles—that her mother disappeared from her life without explanation. In her little girl’s mind, Hanna had figured that somehow her being excluded from playing Cinderella had had something to do with her abandonment. Or maybe it was because she didn’t have soft blond hair like the other little girls. Somehow it was all shrouded in the yellow haze of honeysuckles, and the only thing that she could clearly remember about the day she was told that her mother would not return was the simple little yellow dress she’d been wearing. She wasn’t sure at the time, but obviously she had done something to make her mother leave. Maybe it was the yellow dress. It was the last time she’d worn the color.

  It wasn’t until years later that Hanna found out that her mother didn’t leave her on purpose. She’d had a drug problem—that led to prostitution and then to crimes that Hanna didn’t like to talk about because her mother would never get out of those prison walls and didn’t ever want to see Hanna again. None of that mattered any longer because the damage had been done to the little girl inside her.

  For most of her life a feeling of embarrassment, inferiority and inadequacy gnawed at her gut. It churned inside, even though she had all the head knowledge about a family pedigree and blond hair not really mattering. In fact, she saw that being…different in the world was growing more acceptable—even popular. Not that she was actually that different. She was, however, in the South—the Deep South. And near enough to Charleston where pedigrees and pure blood lines were all that mattered.

  Callie tried to start a conversation several times, but Hanna’s head kept bouncing between the discomfort she’d left in Charleston and the safety that awaited her at the edge of Summerbrook, in Four Hole Swamp.

  When Callie pulled into the gravel parking lot of Marion’s Meats, Hanna breathed a sigh of relief. She was home. Her trip into downtown Charleston had brought up things that she hadn’t ever wanted to think about again. Helping her cousin was shaping up to be something more than she had bargained for. She hoped the worst of it was over. But she doubted that.

  “Thanks, Hanna. I couldn’t take on this job short-handed. You’re a lifesaver. Breaking into the downtown Charleston market has always been my dream, and you just busted that door down single-handedly.”

  “Well, if I did, you’re welcome.” She closed the car door, waved and watched Callie pull away.

  The downtown catering market was Callie’s dream. Hanna turned around. The butcher shop was her uncle’s dream. She read the ads written on the front windows by her uncle. Short Ribs, $3.49. Boston Butt, $2.79. Fat Back, $1.89.

  She exhaled all the air in her lungs and walked inside. The familiar, primitive smell of meats hit her. “Hey, Uncle Marion. Where’s Aunt Della?”

  He pushed a tray of pork chops into the counter. “Stayin’ home to watch her stories. Jessica and Rick are gettin’ married today.” He walked to the sink, washed his hands and wiped them on his white butcher’s apron. He put on his food service gloves, pulled a tray of cubed steak out of the display and rearranged it. “Thanks for gettin’ up early this morning and helpin’ with the meat. You must have gotten up with the chickens.”

  Hanna clucked. They both laughed.

  She loved the easy humor that she and her uncle shared. “Been busy?” she asked as she played distractedly with the markers they used to make their signs.

  “No, thank goodness. Why don’t you just take the rest of the day off? We can cut up that side of beef in the morning. Got plenty for this afternoon.” He pushed the tray back in its place.

  “Know what, Uncle Marion? I think I’ll take you up on that offer. It’s beautiful outside.” She wouldn’t mind going back to her favorite spot by the swamp where she’d been drawn earlier. Since Uncle Marion had needed her less and less, she may actually be in a place to finally use that degree that had been collecting dust all these years. She had a lot to think about.

  After she sprinted upstairs to her apartment over the shop, she changed into a pair of shorts and kicked off her shoes. She grabbed her fishing gear out of the shed behind the building, and headed toward the clearing at the rear of their property. The ground was still warm beneath her feet.

  “Hey, Hanna,” said Cubi-Jack, rounding the corner. “Got anything for me this week.” He put his hands on his hips, and his blue eyes beamed, waiting for her response.

  “Don’t think so, Cubi-Jack, but we will soon and, of course, we’ll have lots near revival time.”

  “I’ll check back. Got my mower and cart around front. Gonna rake Mr. Tinsley’s yard this afternoon,” he said and stuck his ha
nd in his suit coat pocket. “And I gotta be at my nonna’s house for dinner.” He smiled.

  “I’m headed out to catch some catfish. Wanna come?” She kind of liked spending time with the slightly eccentric man. Their paths to the swamp were similar. His parents had disappeared one at a time like hers, and they had both been raised by good, kind-hearted substitutes living on the edge of Summerbrook. Hers was family. His were unrelated to him and even of a different race, but none of that had mattered then or now.

  “Naaa. I’m too busy for fishing. But I’ll say a prayer for you to catch something. God listens to me because he knows I love Him. Nonna told me so.” He smiled an even larger smile, if that were possible. “Oh, did your cousin bring your new beginnin’?”

  There had been nothing for her in downtown Charleston. “No. In fact, I’m not going to help her do that catering job.”

  “Why? You scared?” He took a step forward and a quite serious look covered his face. “If you eat a coward’s dinner, you’ll have regrets for dessert. And that would be a sin and a shame.”

  Cubi-Jack’s favorite phrase—a sin and a shame. “I don’t see how a catering job at some fancy downtown house could possibly get me to where I want to be.”

  He seemed to pull something up from the recesses of his thoughts. “We don’t always see where the path leads us, Hanna. Like in the swamp.” He pointed.

  She looked toward the shady entry to the wetlands where she was headed. “You’re right again, Cubi-Jack.” He was—again. “Thanks…and let me know when you need to go to town next.” She waved and continued walking.

  His simple faith seemed so complicated to her right now. His lot in life had been severely shorted, yet he was filled with light and happiness. And wisdom. How could that be? She shook her head, still unable to wrap her mind around Cubi-Jack and his situation.

  As she approached the shadowy, leafy entrance, Sinker followed her. She noticed that the sandy path was wide at the beginning, and the woods sheltered it from sunlight. As she made her way toward the water, the ground grew darker and wetter, and the path grew even more crooked and narrow—similar to how Cubi-Jack had alluded to earlier. Sinker stayed close to the back of her feet. Few people traversed the route through the swamp these days. The air was earthy and cleared her lungs of the almost polluted air that had filled them from Charleston. The knobby-kneed cypress trees and old, hoary oaks welcomed her home. The mosquitoes sang buzzing songs about her, but didn’t land on her suntanned skin. It was their silent truce. The depth and darkness of the swamp quieted her soul. She was truly home.