Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

She smiled.

  That was all he wanted from her that evening—her approval and her smile.

  ⸙

  Hanna knew about aged, center cut filet mignon. How could she not? She was—for all intents and purposes—a butcher herself. She’d seen it enough on the ordering lists she filled out weekly for the shop. Not that she’d ever had the opportunity to ever order it or taste it. Things like that would never go over in Four Hole Swamp…or Summerbrook, for that matter. People there would think she’d lost her mind or put the decimal in the wrong place if the expensive meat ever ended up in their meat case.

  Her stomach knotted even more. How could she possibly eat something so expensive?

  But the handsome man beside her seemed even more pleased with himself now that he’d just ordered such an exceptional menu item. She was going to have to make an attempt at being a reasonably loquacious dinner companion. For his sake.

  “So, what got you interested in building boats?” she asked as the waiters set their plates down in unison.

  He nodded and smiled at the servers. “Funny story. Actually, my family. That is—in an offhanded way. You see, my family’s history has been documented for hundreds of years, and one day, when I was rather young, I read that my ancestors were boat builders in England, and when they came to America, they owned one of the first shipyards in Charleston. Hobcaw.”

  “I’ve heard of Hobcaw. Exactly what is it?” She took a bite of the melt-in-your-mouth beef. She resisted moaning. It was that good.

  “It was an area named after the Hobcaw Indians who lived along the creek by that name. Unfortunately, the area’s mostly residential now. You must know how they’re building over all the historic zones and wild areas. But when my ancestors built boats there, the creek was lined with ancient timber, much like what I’d need for my boat and for the business—just special accents for the insides, really.” He smiled. “If I could elicit your help.”

  Not wanting to speak with her mouth full, she nodded to show him she understood. When she finished, she asked. “Exactly how many sinker logs will you need?”

  “Four or five, depending upon their size.”

  Oh, that wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. She could do that, couldn’t she? If that was all it ended up being. Maybe it was the least she could do after the evening had cost him so dearly.

  “My parents don’t really get the whole antique boat building thing. Especially Evelynn. She thinks it’s all too…too common. I don’t get it, really. She even piddles around herself with a little antique shop in a building we own on King Street,” he said as he sliced into his steak. “When she can’t get around it, she leads people to believe I’m involved with antiques and not renovating antique boats and building sailboats. Somehow, she thinks it’s…less blue collar.”

  Hanna’s whole life was blue collar. Actually…red collar when she was cutting meat for the display cases. “My family supports just about everything I do.” Just then, she wanted to be at home where she felt…supported. Her internal monologue started up again. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like… Though she wished she could feel comfortable in downtown Charleston, having dinner with this sophisticated man, she could not. They were worlds apart…in everything.

  Finally, the meal was over and the waiter picked up their plates.

  “How’d you like it?” Furman asked.

  “There’s no place like…this.” It wasn’t really a lie. This place was unique, but Hanna couldn’t wait to get out of it.

  When he signed his name to the bottom of the receipt, she finally breathed out. She checked her watch again. It was almost over. There really was no place like home.

  All the way to Four Hole, she schemed and figured about the mess she’d gotten herself—and Furman—into at the ball. There was no way around it. She knew what she had to do. She’d put a check in the mail to Furman Monday morning. A thousand dollars of her investment money—gone in a matter of minutes. Now she was even further away from her career plans than she was before. When she earned the rest of the ten-thousand dollars with what was left of her savings, she’d completely pay him back for her…ignorance.

  ⸙

  The next Thursday afternoon dragged on like Reconstruction in the South. Furman had been trying to reach Hanna for five days now with no success. He didn’t blame her for not answering the phone. But if she didn’t soon, he’d have to make another trip out past Summerbrook…to Four Hole.

  Five o’clock finally arrived, so he cleaned up his tools at the marina, and he drove the few blocks to his townhouse on Rainbow Row. His car slowly rocked and rolled over the ancient cobblestones as he made his way home. The smooth stones had been used as ballasts by the sailors on merchant ships as Charleston was built. When the cargo holds on the old vessels were equally balanced, the rounded rocks found themselves discarded and turned into pavers for the Holy City’s streets. Tourists thought the cobblestone streets were “charming.” Furman just thought of them now as a nuisance to the suspension on his Volvo 751 and as consumers of his extremely limited time.

  He opened the door and picked up the mail from the floor that had been delivered through the slot. Bills, junk fliers, and a letter with familiar numbering. It was from Hanna.

  He dropped the other envelopes and opened Hanna’s. It was a check for a thousand dollars. A note was paper clipped to the back. It read, “I’m sorry. The remainder will be forthcoming.”

  What was she sorry for? That his mother had been crass? That Claudette had been possessive and condescending at the party? That Mr. Sterling had been a letch? That Mrs. Harbison had been tacky with the request for money at the door?

  Or that he had been thoughtless by taking her around shallow people like that? He knew she was a bit shy and not used to Charleston society. And he’d thrown her to the sharks. They had smelled blood—blood red. They had encircled her and went in for the kill. And he had done little to stop them.

  No. It was he who was sorry. And he couldn’t get the smart, beautiful woman off his mind.

  He made himself a drink, sat in a corner of his living room and called her phone again and again. He looked at the note between calls. After a while, he finally hopped into his car and headed to the Summerbrook area with the check. He’d make it by six if he sped—a little.

  He parked his Volvo and walked into Marion’s Meats. The aromas were raw and spicy—nothing like those in his mother’s house. His family’s home was scented with stale relics and rich, overpowering floral fragrances from fancy boutiques and expensive fresh arrangements from Ava’s Flowers.

  “Mr. Laurens, fancy seein’ you again so soon. How can I help you?” Mr. Rudder asked as he struggled to get up from his chair.

  “Is Hanna around?” Furman bent down and gazed at the meats. He’d loved the liver pudding he’d purchased when he was here last. It was a cross between pate and sausage, and it had reminded him of France—and of the meat puddings he’d tasted when he was in England—the land of his ancestors. He was determined to leave with another pound.

  “Yep. She’s in her apartment.” He pointed to the ceiling. “Been mopin’ around all day, so I told her to just go up and work on some of the plans for the revival meetin’ at the church campgrounds.”

  “Campgrounds? Hanna had mentioned it before. Exactly, what are the church campgrounds?”

  “Been havin’ revivals nearly two hundred years on the property around the church. Our ancestors built little wooden buildings we call tents. There’s got to be over a hundred of them or so—all in a big circle around the tabernacle. We call it the campground.” He walked from behind the counter. “If you’re interested, we’d love to have you as our guest. We love havin’ visitors.” Mr. Rudder handed Furman an old flier.

  The print was askew on the page. “I may do that.” Furman folded the paper, put it into his pocket and looked into the meat case again. “While I’m visiting with Hanna, will you cut me another pound of that liver pudding? And throw in a bag of those p
ork cracklings. The last good ones I had was at a carvery in Great Britain.”

  “Will do.”

  Furman heard the rip of the butcher’s paper as he exited the little shop.

  As soon as Hanna opened the door to her apartment above the meat market, he said, “I’m not going to accept this.” He held the check out to her.

  “I have to pay you back. For the gala rule,” she said as she walked away from the door. She stood behind a chair that had been pushed under a small table. It effectively put distance and a boundary between them.

  He walked inside without being asked. “I’m not doing anything with it. You were going to invest it. You said so.”

  “I invested what was left.” She pushed the top of the dining chair forward and backward. “If I’d had it all, I would have put some of it into Outward Knowledge Reflection Associates. It’s a little risky, but a real sound long-term investment, but I couldn’t afford to lose any of your money. I had to make sure I get it all back. And more.”

  “So, what did you invest in?”

  “This and that.” She pointed to some papers on her coffee table. “I did lots of research.”

  “I don’t think I’ve heard of the OKRA stock before.” He picked up the prospectus and then put it back. “Listen. I’m leaving the check.” He started to place it on the old sinker coffee table in front of her couch and admired the tight rings in the beautiful wood. It was a piece of art—like he wanted his boat to be on the inside. If he could find enough of the old wood, it would make all of the wooden boats he built and worked on special.

  “I’ll send it back to you. I’m serious about this. Rudders pay their own way. I was way out of place going to the ball in that short, red dress, and I should have known better.”

  He halted setting the check on the low table. “No. Those people were out of line. And how could you have known. I saw it and didn’t tell you. It was my fault.”

  She turned around and stepped away from the table. Standing there, she looked beautiful and kind of hardened—like the coffee table.

  For the first time in his life he was completely confounded. What should he do? Then he noticed the prospectus on the table again and had an idea. “I’m not going to argue with you about this right now, but we’ll have to resolve it later.” He wouldn’t keep the money. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “I don’t need your help. Everything was fine before…” She walked to her window.

  He knew. Before he showed up in her life. “I understand.” He did and left her apartment.

  He stopped back in the shop to pick up his meat.

  “Hope to see you again, son,” Mr. Rudder said.

  Furman paid for his liver pudding, waved goodbye to the old man and left Four Hole Swamp. With Hanna hurt and angry with him. Not knowing if he’d ever see her again.

  Chapter Five

  Friendship and Finance

  Furman knew what he had to do. When he woke the next morning, he turned on his computer and typed in “OKRA.” He surfed from site to site. Hanna was right. Risky, but the stock would probably be extremely profitable in the long run.

  He logged on to his Merrill Lynch account and started to punch in some numbers, then he stopped and backed out. He searched for some new information. He should open the account in Hanna’s name. It was her money. Her idea. If it was a great idea, she stood to make a tidy profit. But he needed her social security number first, and he had an idea as to how he might be able to get it.

  He pulled up Toleman Sterling’s number and touched it.

  “Mr. Laurens. I imagine we had the same thing on our minds this morning,” Toleman said when he answered his phone.

  “And what did you have in mind, Toleman?” He closed out the tabs he had open on the Internet.

  “I had that pretty little thing in that flashy red dress you brought to the gala on my mind. What about yours?”

  He could feel something hot rise up in him. He didn’t like hearing Hanna spoken about like that. “My family’s money is on my mind. And Miss Rudder.”

  “Well, your family’s money is safe and is making more of it as we speak.”

  It was time to be…suggestive. “That’s great to hear. I was just…concerned that perhaps you didn’t realize all that my family’s money affords a lot of people in your organizations.”

  “Oh, yes. I understand that, and that is why I have Miss Rudder’s number in front of me right now.”

  “Good man, you are.” He wasn’t really, but Furman knew how to flex his financial muscles when he needed to. “And I’m going to need one more thing.”

  “Anything for my favorite client,” Toleman said in his best suck up voice.

  “When she fills out her W-4, give me a call. I’m going to need a number from you,” he said.

  “Well, uh, I suppose I can make that happen—if it won’t get us into trouble,” Toleman said, obviously a little worried.

  “Not at all, old friend. Not at all.”

  “Oh, before we go, how much did you actually pay for that stunning red dress?”

  Furman hesitated. “Ten-thousand dollars. And it was worth every penny.”

  Toleman coughed.

  “And I’d have paid a lot more. So see to it that Hanna is treated…fairly…and comes to no harm. Nothing more, nothing less.” He ended the call.

  That was all he could do—for now.

  ⸙

  As soon as Hanna wrapped up five pounds of chicken thighs for Mrs. Danzler and politely listened to her gossip about who was doing what at camp meeting in a few months, Hanna got back to the work table. She watched the numbers across the bottom of the television screen between making cutlets from a pork loin. Her simple investments were doing well. If only she’d had that last thousand to invest in OKRA, the stock Aunt Della had brought to her attention. But she didn’t and there was no need fretting over rotted meat. Nothing she could do now.

  The shrill sound of the meat saw buzzed and then hummed. She caught the end of a ring from the phone. Uncle Marion was asleep in the corner, so she wiped her soiled hands on her apron and grabbed the receiver.

  “Hanna Rudder, please,” said a man.

  “This is she.”

  “Dear, this is Toleman Sterling. Met you at the—”

  “I remember, sir. At the Black and White Gala.” Heat rushed over her face at the remembrance.

  “Well, a sharp little thing like you must also remember what I said about people always being recruited by me.” He paused. “I have an opening, and I was wondering if you’d like to interview for it.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Maybe the ball hadn’t been such a total fiasco after all. “Yes, sir. I most certainly would.”

  “Nine in the morning. And bring your resume.”

  “I will. See you at nine.”

  She hung up the phone. The only thing she needed to do to her old resume was to change the dates. It now seemed odd to her that she hadn’t used it in all these years.

  She looked at her uncle. What was he going to say? Well, first she was going to go to the interview to make sure she got the job, but what if she did?

  She looked out the window and saw Cubi-Jack pulling his work cart behind his lawn mower. Poor thing wasn’t going to get much business in this area. But he didn’t seem to be fretting over it. He was like one of the sparrows that God took care of through the cold and rain and snow and ice. How could he be so worry-free and happy? And wise?

  Maybe she could work something out with him to help her uncle part-time. Cubi-Jack could probably use the work and the money, and her uncle could certainly use Cubi-Jack’s muscles and the company. She could still do the rest—the ordering and the accounting—early in the morning and late in the evenings. She would wait, though. She didn’t even have the job yet.

  Cubi-Jack opened the door, and his smile outshone all the lights in the room. He lifted a paper he held in his left hand. “Look what I got.”

  She reached ou
t for the page. “Certificate of Achievement” it read. “For outstanding work on the grounds of Four Hole Community Church.”

  Cubi-Jack’s smile and eyes beamed upward with happiness and joy. “I worked real hard this summer for Pastor Vines.” He moved to her ear like he had a secret. “But I was really working for the Lord. I am very important.”

  “Yes, you are.” Was that his secret for happiness? Working for God? Believing that everything he did, he did for his Lord? Could life really be that simple?

  Or was it infinitely more complicated and Cubi-Jack just didn’t even realize? Didn’t red dresses matter when people wore them to black and white balls? Didn’t finance degrees matter more than cutting pork chops? Or did Cubi-Jack have some special gift of discerning what was really valuable?

  “Hey, Cubi-Jack,” her uncle said as he worked himself from the comfort of his tattered lounge chair. “How you doin’?”

  “I am so…so…blessed. Look.” He took his certificate from Hanna and passed it to Uncle Marion.

  “Well, congratulations! You did a lot to deserve this. Everybody’s been talkin’ about how the yards of the church and the camp ain’t never looked better.” Uncle Marion shook his hand like he was congratulating him for successfully completing a Harvard medical degree. “Great job.”

  Cubi-Jack nodded in agreement. “Everybody is proud of me. Especially Nonna.”

  With every one of Cubi-Jack’s words and sentiments, Hanna felt guiltier. If there were a scale, wouldn’t Cubi-Jack find himself near the bottom? But he didn’t behave as if there were social, educational or economic strata at work behind the scenes. Or that they mattered if they did exist.

  So why did the make of her car, the color of her dress and the history of her family’s bootlegging, crimes and name matter so much to her? She was really none of that.

  Cubi-Jack glanced back and forth between her and her uncle. “Mr. Marion, Hanna’s still the smartest girl in Four Hole.” He giggled like he’d just said something profound.

  “Yep. Me and Miss Della’s always been knowin’ that.” Uncle Marion pretended to lower his voice so that only Cubi-Jack could hear him. “Don’t be a tellin’ her that, though. Don’t want her gettin’ no big head and hoppin’ on a bus to New York City.”