Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  “Well, the story I heard from my uncle about our ancestor was that two young women were found in this swamp, having a quaking fit that our Fox would find them, and they’d never be fit for anyone to marry them.”

  They both burst out laughing.

  “That’s a story I’ve never heard about Francis Marion, and I’m a Revolutionary War buff.” They probably weren’t related. There was no documentation of any blood heirs from Francis Marion, but there were too many coincidences. Her uncle was named after an ancestor, and her uncle’s name was Marion. The family had lived in the swamps around Revolutionary War battlegrounds for…forever. He’d do some research later to see if he couldn’t uncover something. Where there was smoke, there could be fire. In this case, where there was a swamp with a story like this, there could be history. “Because I’m so interested in history and preservation, I’d never do anything to destroy the uniqueness of this historic swamp. Never.”

  She turned toward him. “So, how many sinkers do you think you’d need?”

  “Six or seven, I think, depending on how big they were. I’d need one for finishes for the interior of my own boat and the others for my boat business. I’d get all the permits and surveys I needed to haul them out of here.”

  “I didn’t know you’d need all that.”

  “It’s a pretty highly regulated business—if you follow the laws. The men who sell them on the open market practically get rich from them, but they’re hard to procure. I’d pay you, well, too.” He turned toward her. “I have a company I’ve worked with before that I could use.”

  She paused. “I’m just not sure. I don’t want to lose the enchantment of this place, filling it up with equipment and scaring the land.” She shook her head. “There’s bound to be collateral damage, bringing them all out, wouldn’t there?”

  “Well, maybe not. How deep’s that creek in that area?” He pointed.

  “Mostly six or seven feet in the middle, but sometimes it gets down to three or four when we don’t get rain.”

  “Perfect. We could get them when we’ve had a good week of rain, then. You’d hardly know we were even there.”

  “The other thing I was concerned about was the whole…development thing.”

  “What development thing?”

  She looked out at the great white heron fishing on the other side of the swampy waters. Then she turned to him. “Isn’t your family involved with some kind of real estate development?”

  He squinted his eyes. “We have…holdings, but we don’t build things. In fact, we’re not even acquiring. Our family has owned properties for eons. Mostly we collect monies from leases of large tracts of land and buildings on assets we’ve owned since…colonial times. I actually work against the development of pristine places like this with the Preservation Society—when they need me.”

  “That’s it. I don’t want people to see how beautiful this place is and try to turn it in to something…ugly.”

  “The guys I use to harvest the logs aren’t developers, either. They’re boat people, like me.”

  She turned to look at the vast swamp that spilled out of the bank of the creek that puddled in front of them. After a moment, she nodded. If you promise no one will hurt this special place.

  “I promise.” He looked out at the dark waters, too. “So, do you know where some big sunken logs are located?”

  She nodded. “I know this place like I know…numbers.”

  He stared at her as she gazed at the world around her. The lovely white heron dipped its head in the dark waters and brought up a fish. It was obvious she loved the spot. Peace settled over her placid face. She was as beautiful and as tranquil as her surroundings. The place wasn’t for the faint-hearted, though. And neither was she.

  In alternating moments he took in the beauty of the black, glassy waters and her rich, dark eyes. He took in the enchantment of the sun’s rays playing tag with the shadows on the ground and the enchantment of the light in her face. In still another moment, he took in the freshness of the clean wet earth and her unspoiled, sweet scent. She possessed an unpolished loveliness like the land and water about her.

  And then it happened. He didn’t know why or how or when he’d made the decision, but he reached over and kissed her.

  A small gasp came from her lips before he completely covered them with his. And then she seemed to melt into his kiss like the roots of the trees around him melted into the spongy ground below them. It was an unblushing kiss, as robust as the habitat about them.

  He heard splashes in the water and a screech from some unnamed bird overhead, and still the kiss lingered—long and intense.

  Until their unbalanced embrace sent them for a spill, and they ended up on their backs behind the old log. They laughed, looking deep into one another’s eyes. He quickly rose, helped her up and brushed pieces of wet moss and fern from her back. He held her by her shoulders and looked into her midnight eyes.

  She looked down and tilted her head away from him.

  He didn’t want the moment to end so he lifted her perfect chin with his hand. “Don’t turn away, little turtle.” It seemed a perfectly natural name to call her. She was shy and easily frightened like the turtles on the logs and banks along the creek. But he thought with just a little time together he could bring her out of her shell.

  He needed to help her not feel so awkward. “So, since we’re here, why don’t you show me where some of those logs are?”

  “Sure. I’ve got a couple in mind in the deeper waters.” She took off on the path so deftly that he could scarcely keep up with her. She seemed to know where every root and cypress knee was located. He, however was tripping more than he liked.

  She pointed to an especially dark area where the water was wider. “There’s a huge one there.” She edged closer to the swampy bog. “And across from that fallen willow oak, the biggest one I’ve ever seen.” She paused. “I guess it’s doing no one any good down there.”

  He bent around her to see. He pointed. “Right there.”

  She nodded. “And if you follow the creek about 500 yards, you’ll find a smaller one—pretty easy pickings.”

  “Great, that should get us started.” He glanced over her face, feeling so in tune with the beautiful woman who was now helping him with his dream. He backed her against a huge pine and slowly leaned in to kiss her. Nothing in her seemed reticent.

  And then his stupid cell phone rang. In the middle of the swamp.

  She pulled in a deep breath. “My phone never works this far into the thick of the woods.”

  He looked upward. Was no place sacred from the ominous, obtrusive cell waves that invaded everyone’s lives? He pulled the phone from the pocket of his shorts. It was his mother.

  “Furman, quickly. It’s Father. He’s had some sort of spell. They’re rolling him out of his room right now.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  He slipped the phone back into his pocket and grabbed Hanna’s hand. “It’s Father. Please come with me.” He started down the trail.

  He felt her pull back slightly, like she didn’t want to go. Then he stopped midway down the trail that led them back to the clearing and into the intrusive world.

  She looked away from him. “I don’t think I should…”

  “Hanna, there’s no one else who will pray for him. You have to come.” He’d beg if he had to.

  Her hand and her resistance to him softened. She nodded. “Okay.” She ran as fast as he ran.

  Everything was moving on instincts. He needed her. She followed him. That simple.

  But in the car it became complex again. There was no question that he needed her. But how was he supposed to guard her from some of the people he knew—people like his mother, people like Proctor Berkeley, people like Claudette Westbury? People with sneers and jeers and remarks? It was true. She was not like them.

  In every gloriously simple way, she was not like any one of them.

  ⸙

  Hanna was breathless and a
bit apprehensive when she and Furman arrived—still hand-in-hand—at the door of Furman’s father’s hospital room. The old man was alone, talking to the walls. “The…the…the roses bloomed in the winter. On the beach. Bessie can make soup with the bricks and the roses.” He stared off into the distance, past the walls.

  She looked at Furman. His brow wrinkled and the blue in his eyes lost its luster. “Father?”

  Sympathy rose up in her like the waters in the swamp after a hard rain.

  The old man turned to them. “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

  “I’m here father,” Furman said.

  “No…for my friend. I told them she would come and pray for me.” He stared directly at Hanna.

  She moved to his bedside. “Yes, Mr. Laurens. I came here to pray for you.” She grabbed his hand and started to say a prayer. “Father in heaven, we place Mr. Laurens in your hands. You know him, and You know what he needs. We trust—”

  “What on Earth?”

  Hanna turned abruptly.

  Mrs. Laurens stood in the doorway. “That’ll be enough. I thought I told you before—”

  “Mother, I brought her here.”

  “To do what? Further embarrass our family? Tillman is already talking about keys and roses and nonsense. What must people think?” She moved Hanna aside with her hand. “This woman is a complete stranger, and she’s seeing your father in a state of—”

  Hanna turned and stepped toward Furman.

  Mrs. Laurens’s eyes seemed to bulge. “Young lady, what have you been doing?”

  Hanna looked to Furman. She didn’t know what the woman was talking about.

  “Your back! Have you been wallowing in some farm field or some pig’s pen?” Mrs. Laurens looked appalled.

  Furman stepped in front of Hanna and turned her toward him and brushed at her back.

  “You, too, Furman? Just look at your…outfit—all covered in that same…muck.”

  Furman tried to look over his own shoulder, then turned his back toward Hanna. She brushed some of the green and brown from his tight T-shirt.

  Mrs. Laurens gasped. “What have you been doing with her?” She moved next to the chair with her cup of coffee and grabbed a tissue from the table. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

  “Where did my friend go?” Mr. Laurens asked in a raspy voice.

  “There, there, Tillman. She’ll be going soon.”

  He tried to sit up. “No! I need her to pray for me. No! She can’t go.” His voice grew agitated.

  A nurse walked into the room and went straight to him. “What does he want?”

  “This woman here has upset him.” Mrs. Laurens put down her coffee cup. “He’s confused about what he wants.”

  Furman stepped in. “He wants my friend to pray for him.”

  The nurse seemed to survey the thick tension in the room. “If he were my father, I’d do anything he wanted.”

  The old man reached out to Hanna. She stepped toward him, took his hand again and continued her prayer.

  When she finished and opened her eyes, the old man was quietly sleeping, and Furman’s mother was gone. Furman stood still with his head hanging. Could he be praying, as well? Probably not, but it was nice to still see the respect he had for her prayer. She felt sorry for people like him and his mother—only acquainted with formal prayers recited by formal ministers on formal occasions.

  Hanna’s God traveled with her wherever she went—on the road, to the hospital, and even to the creek in the swamp. She spoke to her God whenever she wanted—in the mornings, in the middle of the night, and on Tuesday afternoons. And she felt Him with her this Sunday evening, in the small hospital room, in the middle of Charleston.

  Next to the man who had her totally confused.

  Chapter Eleven

  Opportunities and Off-the-Grid

  Hanna arrived at the State and Casualty Insurance and Financial Services office at 8:00 a.m. on Monday morning. It was the first baby step in her plans—to fulfill her dream. She secretly hoped the job might even give her a chance with Furman—when she eventually got her life in order. She carried her small box of supplies through the front door and saw the receptionist turning on the lights around the office.

  “Oh. Ms. Rudder. April Church told me to expect you. By the way, I’m Tracy. This way please.” She walked down the corridor and turned. “May I help you with that?”

  “Thanks. I’ve got this.” Hanna knew she was the one with the sturdy arm muscles. As she walked down the wide hall, she admired the Lowcountry paintings on the walls. She read the captions printed on the metal plates. Boone Hall Plantation. High Tide at the Battery. Drayton Hall. Hanna felt like an interloper. If she had pictures of her neighborhood, they would read Marion’s Meats, Four Hole Camp Meeting Grounds, and Cora’s House of Curlers.

  “This is your office. The computer is already on. You’ll need a password, though.” She stepped to a bookcase against the wall and touched a plant. “Oh, and this came for you first thing this morning.”

  Someone sent her a plant?

  Hanna set the box down in the corner and looked around. “What do I do to get started?”

  “Get your things put away first.” Tracy retrieved some thick notebooks from the bookshelf and placed them on the mahogany desk. “Here are the policy and procedures manuals. Read those this morning, and I’ll send Preston Palmer in later to answer your questions. Charles Woodall is our office manager. Oh, and April’s in the back—across from Mr. Woodall.” She walked to the door. “Buzz me if you need me before then.”

  Hanna knew her little box of stuff with which to decorate was inadequate, but what was she supposed to bring? Deer heads and pictures of flamingos? There was her diploma. But it was from a college most of these people wouldn’t know even existed. And the degree had Aunt Della’s little painted hearts and mortarboards with tassels all around the edge.

  She held the diploma close to her chest and remembered when she had first received it and had cried—for her sense of accomplishment. When she found it painted up in little multicolored mortarboards and bound in the cheap box store frame, she cried, as well. But she’d never hurt Aunt Della’s feelings. Her aunt only did that because she overheard Hanna say that she’d wanted it matted and framed. She thought Hanna meant hatted and framed. Aunt Della didn’t even know what a framing mat was.

  Hanna put the diploma under her desk. Before she’d hang it, she’d get a linen mat to cover the little hats. Aunt Della would never see it here.

  Looking up, she saw the plant again and walked over to check out the card. All my best to the best. Furman. Furman sent her a plant? And said she was the best? The best what? Swamp fisher? Butcher girl? Father’s prayer warrior? She’d love it if the words could mean something completely different. But that would be nearly impossible.

  She set her things about the tastefully but sparsely furnished room and delved into the tomes of printed paper. At ten-thirty Preston Palmer came in to fill Hanna in on what was not in the manual.

  “You’ll be doing expense and income reports and balance sheets for this division. New clients are handed out on a rotating basis, unless they ask for someone specifically. Always, always, always give the client what he or she wants. I’ll sit with you on the first few,” Preston said.

  She nodded. Compliance had always been one of her strengths.

  “If a client wants a 401K, don’t try to talk him into an IRA—unless he asks for your opinion. If a customer wants risky, give her the facts and give her what she wants. If the customer wants your favorite stock ideas, go for it. But be careful there. That’s where you’re most likely to get fired. We’ve lost a lot of new recruits that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Clients are fickle. As long as their portfolios are getting fatter, they’ll sing your praises to Mr. Sterling. Let their bottom lines fall… He dropped the folder he was holding onto the floor.

  She jumped at the sound. “That fast?
”

  He nodded. “I always give them something super safe. Things I never touch personally.”

  “But if they’re asking for your favorites…”

  “Giving them a safe ride is my favorite way of keeping my job.”

  She nodded her head but disagreed with her heart. What if she told them of her favorites and warned them of the short-term risks? Didn’t she want to share her knowledge with her clients? Wasn’t that why she got into this in the first place? All of that was going to be something she’d have to work out for herself later.

  At four-thirty Preston ushered her first client through the door—a Mr. Wendell Cleveland. He wanted to set up retirement plans for the employees in his small company. She filled out all the paperwork, according to the procedures manual, handed him his copies and copies for his employees to fill out and shook his hand. Mr. Cleveland left.

  “Good job. Looks like you don’t even need me. I’ll let you try the next one on your own. If you need me, buzz me.”

  Her insides beamed. She loved the numbers she threw around. It was infinitely better than throwing around pork butts all day.

  Unfortunately, the dilemma she hoped to avoid walked through her door as soon as Preston left.

  Tracy stood at the entrance with an elegant woman who looked to be in her forties. “Ms. Rudder, this is Mrs. Filmore.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Mrs. Filmore turned and watched until Tracy left.

  “How may I help you, Mrs. Filmore?” Hanna asked.

  She took out a fancy handkerchief as if she were poised to cry. “Well, everyone knows that I lost my husband last week.”

  Hanna stepped from behind her desk. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Filmore waved her white cloth. “It was expected. He had just had his eightieth birthday. Cancer.” She put the linen to her mouth.

  “Eighty years. What an abundant life he must have had,”

  “Abundant?” Mrs. Filmore looked a bit confused. “Well, I have an abundance of…hmmm…assets that I need to invest. My late husband believed only in certificates of deposit.”

  Hanna meant abundant blessings, but obviously Mrs. Filmore’s mind was on money, so she grabbed a customer prospectus from the stack on the bookshelf. “We also have a number of those available.”