Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  She reached over, grabbed two small checked towels and took the pot off the open fire. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The last party at your house didn’t exactly turn out so well. Remember the ambulance?”

  He chuckled. “How could I forget? It was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened at a Jasmine Society meeting. Every time I run into mother’s friends, that’s all they talk about. Aunt Della and the Poison Sumac dinner party. I’ve given out Callie’s business number so many times.”

  “She told me. Thank you for helping her out. Getting the word out about her catering business in downtown Charleston was something she’d always wanted.” Hanna placed the heavy black pot on some bricks that were on a make-shift table beside the fire.

  “There will be plenty of Charleston players at Mother’s soiree. It would be a good time for you to network.” Not that she really needed any by what he’d been hearing. But it was his best excuse to get her there. His phone rang again, but he ignored it again. Nothing could be more important than getting Hanna to agree to go with him.

  “I don’t know.” She glanced down. It was the first time she’d returned to her old, shy habit since he’d touched her elbow.

  “There’s one more reason I want you to attend. I disagree with the decision, but my mother is insisting that Father attend, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. I’d like you there for him.”

  “Is that such a good idea? I mean, is he well enough?”

  “I don’t know. Mother doesn’t want to let go of her previous life and feels that he needs to be her escort. He’s mostly out of it, but I thought that maybe you and I could at least keep him company. I know that no one else will.”

  She turned her head toward the darkness again. She was a thousand miles away.

  He stepped toward her and took her hands.

  She tried to look past him. He knew what was going through her mind—the past humiliation he’d exposed her to, implications of inferiority that his mother had heaped upon her, and—of course—her need to protect herself. But she had come so far and this would be good for her. And his father. In addition, he needed a good ruse to be with her because she wasn’t going to go with him for no reason. He didn’t mean to take advantage of her propensity for helping people…and her difficulty in saying no, but if taking advantage of those qualities was what it took…

  He lifted her chin with his finger. “Please. I promise it won’t be like before.”

  She looked him in the eyes.

  He knew that no was in her mind and on the edges of her lips.

  She closed her eyes and slowly nodded her head.

  Hanna was going to be his for an entire evening. It would be his chance to make sure she fit in and felt comfortable around his circle of friends. Every other time they had been together in Charleston had been a disaster, but this time he was going to make it a perfect evening for Hanna. He was certain of it. Absolutely nothing would go wrong.

  ⸙

  Hanna was disappointed in herself again for not being able to say no. Didn’t she have one of the best jobs in the whole area? Weren’t people looking to her for financial advice? Yes, they were. Wasn’t she her own woman now? Then why was she backpedaling into her old ways and agreeing to do something she didn’t want to do once again?

  Maybe because it was the right thing to do. She would get to see Furman’s father again. Every day that she prayed for him something told her that she needed to visit the old man again. On top of that, she would make even more connections.

  “I should get this inside,” she said as she picked up the pot again and walked into the cabin.

  As Furman followed, his phone rang again. “Yes, mother. I have Chanel with me. No, I can’t bring her home right now.” He paused. “You can’t. I’m at a church in Four Hole, just outside of Summerbrook.” He glanced upward toward the loft. “Yes. That’s what I said—church.” He leaned against one of the poles. “No, you are right. It’s not Sunday. Listen, Mother. I’ve got to go. Goodbye.”

  He turned to Hanna. “Sorry about that. Mother’s terribly worried about her dog.”

  “Where is Chanel?”

  “In the car. I left water and food.”

  “Is she okay there?”

  “She’ll be fine. Before I’d even closed the car door, she’d become quite attached to the silk lining of the jacket I’d placed in the seat for her. ” He looked around at the ceiling and walls of the cabin.

  She looked also. What must he be thinking? “I know it’s rough, but that’s what revivals and camp meetings are all about. Roughing it and spending time with family, friends and God. Away from the usual comforts of the world.”

  Aunt Della and Willidean walked through the front door. Willidean had her precious flour sifter in her right hand.

  “You finished with that pot of purlieu?” Aunt Della asked.

  “Mostly,” said Hanna. “It still needs a little salt.”

  “Well, just give me twenty minutes or so and I’ll whip us up some buttermilk biscuits and we’ll eat,” Willidean said. “I had to run those wild girls down for this.” She held her flour sifter in the air. “They hadn’t even taken it to Melvina. Just left the thing at the Duncan’s cabin.” She shook her head. “Kids these days. No responsibilities.”

  Willidean and Aunt Della were from the South, but their drawl was so different from the refined Southern speech of downtown Charlestonians. What must Furman think of them? Maybe he wasn’t thinking anything negative. He almost seemed to have an endearing amused expression on his face when he looked at them. Maybe he was growing to appreciate them the way Hanna did.

  “You’d better get hopping, Willidean, or we won’t make it in time for tabernacle this evening,” Aunt Della said.

  “May I help?” Furman asked.

  Hanna’s neck whipped from her aunt to the handsome man. What could he possibly do to help with anything out here in the boonies?

  Before she could interrupt her, Willidean grabbed Furman’s arm. “Sure you can help. Everybody who eats helps out.”

  “Aunt Willidean, I believe Furman was just leaving. He has to get his mother’s dog back to her.” Hanna moved toward the door in an attempt to usher him out.

  “Chanel will be fine. Your aunts invited me for dinner. And I thought that as long as I was here, I’d see what tabernacle was all about.” He put his hand on Willidean’s. “Show me what to do.”

  In moments he was throwing small pieces of wood into the fire of the old wood burning stove that was against the back wall of the cabin.

  Hanna had chores to do herself. She gathered up the old quilts on the ragged sofa and climbed up the ladder leaning against the loft space where everyone slept. As she folded the quilts and set them about the space, she felt a warmth and a serenity flow over her. Was it because she was surrounded by the memories of her mother and father and the stories of her ancestors in this place? Was it the comfort of the old quilts that had kept her and her family warm for years? Or was it because she had Furman so close to her?

  Leaning her head back, she prayed silently. Please, Lord, don’t let anything disastrous happen tonight. And then she remembered what was in that pot of purlieu.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pedigrees and Purlieu

  Furman helped Uncle Marion push two ancient picnic tables together in the middle of the old cabin, leaving behind a couple of lines of upturned dirt and hay.

  Smoothing out the tracks with his dust-covered loafers, Furman reached for one of the benches.

  “You’re goin’ to need some help with that, son. Cubi-Jack, grab that other end.”

  Uncle Marion was right. Furman got help with the other heavy benches.

  “Cubi-Jack, I don’t know what we would do without you. You goin’ to eat with us tonight?” Uncle Marion asked.

  “Everybody wants to eat with me. I done been asked five or eight times tonight. But, naw. Nonna said she would have my hide if I didn’t eat with our family,” Cubi-Jack sa
id. “You suppose go where they need you the most.”

  “Amen to that, Cubi-Jack,” said Hanna as she patted him on his back. “If you change your mind, though, we’ve got plenty.”

  Furman smiled at her kindness toward the simple man.

  “Well, if I weren’t eating in my own family’s cabin, I would be here with you, Hanna. Cause you are like my sister. And God made you the nicest girl at camp meeting…and you’re the prettiest and smartest, too.” Cubi-Jack looked at the hay and dirt floor then back up at Hanna. “That was one of the things God told me. He tells me lots of stuff.” He pointed to his heart. “Right here.”

  Before Furman could stop himself, he said, “I agree with you…and…God, Cubi-Jack.”

  Hanna smiled. It made Furman happy to cause her to smile. In fact, he’d like to make her smile for the rest of his life.

  Cubi-Jack walked beside Furman and whispered. “When you’re trying to date a pretty lady like Hanna, you’ve got to keep yourself clean and handsome.” He stared at Furman’s pants. “I wear a suit all the time case I ever run into me a date.”

  Furman looked down and saw a light dusting of flour all over his slacks. He’d gotten a little carried away with Willidean’s sifter. He brushed at his pants. Cubi-Jack was right. He—above everyone—knew how special Hanna was.

  Cubi-Jack said his goodbyes and gave all the women hugs. After he left, Hanna’s extended family—aunts, uncles and cousins came strolling in one by one. Furman listened to the lively banter about this year’s revival, but kept his eyes glued to only one person. Hanna. Even as Callie continually thanked him for all the business he’d sent her way.

  Willidean took her biscuits out of the oven and set them on the table. Furman didn’t realize how hungry he was until he saw the puffy golden rounds. That he had helped make. It felt good to actually make something useful.

  The women continued to place things on the table. Fig preserves, butter, pickled things. Three pies and a cake. When the surface was completely filled, Uncle Marion called everyone to the feast.

  “Grab your neighbor’s hand and bow your heads while I say the blessing.” He spoke of God’s abundant harvest, of family and of love and about how his life was so blessed. “And dear Lord, thank you for allowing us to share your bounty with our new friend, Furman. May you fill his life with Your precious grace. Amen.”

  God’s grace? Furman wondered. What kind of a request was that? Was Uncle Marion talking about the kind of grace that was mentioned when people were speaking about the elegant downtown ladies? Probably not. Wasn’t Furman’s life already graced with every manner of fortune? Yes, it was. Or was the old man speaking about some other kind of grace that Furman didn’t even know about? Maybe if he had a chance, he’d ask the Uncle Marion what he meant. Maybe Furman was missing something.

  He made sure he got a seat beside Hanna on one of the benches and filled his chipped blue enamel plate with sweet potatoes, biscuits, and pickled okra.

  He turned to Hanna. “Would you pass the purlieu?”

  “Why don’t you have some of the fried chicken, instead?”

  “Don’t be silly. You made the purlieu. I want that,” he said and smiled.

  Someone on the other side of the table heard him and passed it.

  “Really, Furman, I wouldn’t—”

  He loaded up the plate. It should make Hanna happy if he ate her cooking, right? But she didn’t look very pleased.

  It was so good, however, that he heaped more purlieu onto his plate three more times. He ate so much that he wished there was a back on the old bench so that he could lean to ease his distress from overindulging. He had never eaten so much food in his whole life.

  All the while he ate, he felt the warmth and love and comfort emanate from the Rudder family—and from Hanna. This is what a home should feel like. Would he ever have a home like this of his own—one filled with this kind of warmth? If he ever did, he would want it with Hanna. But any home of his would be missing some very important ingredients. Would he be able to do that to Hanna?

  He reached for her hand under the table. It was as soft as the fluffy biscuits and the glow in the room.

  “You must have been hungry,” she said as she took a small knife from the pocket of her slacks and cut a pat of butter to put on her biscuit.

  He’d never been with a woman who left her house packing a blade before. It was probably a practical thing to do, however, out in Four Hole. “Everything was so good.” He looked down the table toward Aunt Della and Willidean. “The chicken purlieu and biscuits were the best I’ve ever had.”

  Everyone around the table laughed. Hanna withdrew her hand and lowered her head. What had he done now?

  “Boy,” Uncle Marion said. “That ain’t no chicken purlieu. That’s squirrel!”

  The full feeling in his stomach seemed to leap from side to side and the lower part seemed to be chattering to the upper part. He even thought he sensed the aftertaste of hickory nuts. The glow in the room seemed to darken.

  Had the squirrels that ended up on his plate been cousins of the playful animals he’d watched so often from his mother’s front porch?

  Out here in the swamp, he was going to have to continually remind himself. He wasn’t in Charleston any more.

  ⸙

  Hanna knew that things had been going too smoothly. The closeness that had knitted her and Furman together, the gentleness of his hand on hers had to end. It just had to. She may be able to fake her way through her office, but she’d never be able to maneuver properly around Furman’s friends and family. Things in her world were too coarse. Her dining experience included old enamel plates and squirrel purlieu. And everything in his world was too refined. His family sipped she crab soup out of expensive antique china bowls.

  Furman nodded his head at Uncle Marion’s declaration about what was in the purlieu and pushed the plate away. He placed his hand on his brow and seemed to be taking deep breaths.

  Was he going to hurl? Should she get him a bucket? “Are you okay?” she asked.

  He turned a pale shade of cream. “I will be. I’ve never eaten—”

  He couldn’t even say the word. Hanna knew how he’d felt about the little creatures. He’d even had names for the ones in his mother’s yard. Hanna should have done more to stop him. But after he’d piled his plate high, she’d hoped he wouldn’t have to know. It wasn’t she who’d accepted the dinner invitation her aunts had given him. But she felt guilty all the same.

  “Everyone!” Uncle Marion called out. “We better get goin’ to tabernacle. We’ll just have to cut these sweet potato pies and Willidean’s Butterfinger cake when we get back.”

  Hanna grabbed a few of the plates around her and took them to the back of the cabin. Through the open front door burst the giggling girls that had been in earlier.

  “Mr. Marion! Mr. Marion! Someone said to see you about the little dog in that car,” Carrie Warren said. Her friends pushed her ahead of them.

  Furman stood up from the bench. “Is something wrong with her?”

  “No, sir. It’s just that she is so cute. We were wondering if we could walk her. She was yapping and we wanted to pet her to quiet her down.” All the girls chuckled lightly.

  Furman reached into his pocket and threw them the keys. “Sure. Her leash is in the back seat. She probably needs a walk by now. Thanks.”

  “We’ll have her back by the end of tabernacle.” The girls bustled out the door giggling and pushing the same way they’d entered.

  He looked toward Hanna. “That was okay, wasn’t it? Mother would kill me if I let anything happen to her little show dog.”

  “I think so,” she said and grabbed his hand. “Most people say the girls need a little reigning in, but they’re relatively harmless, I suppose. They’re all from good families. They certainly wouldn’t harm Chanel.” A bell rang out in the cool night. “I’d better get my jacket. It’s time for tabernacle.”

  It was also time to see if the revival service w
ould send Furman running back to his stoic Charleston. If the meeting made him bolt, that would be okay. That was one thing that was not negotiable. Anyone who’d be with her had to accept her faith. Even Furman Laurens.

  ⸙

  The sense of community was almost overwhelming to Furman as he walked toward the large shed that had lanterns hanging from each post. Groups of people emerged from cabins and walked together toward the open-sided building they called the tabernacle. It was as if they had all been drawn there by some empirical calling that they couldn’t resist. He felt the pull, as well.

  The cool air bit through his dress shirt. Chanel had his jacket. Glancing down at his slacks and shoes, he realized he was still overdressed, and for that he felt out of place, but for every other reason he felt right at home. Growing inside him was a sense of community and belonging he’d never experienced before.

  Behind the tabernacle, he saw the young girls running with Chanel ahead of them on her leash. The small dog seemed to be having the time of her life, but his mother was going to have a complete meltdown when he took the little dog home dirty. He would make up for it tomorrow by having her groomed again. Somehow his life in Charleston seemed so far away from this place. And none of it mattered much.

  Hanna held his hand, like he needed guidance. He didn’t because he’d follow her anywhere. Between the earthy aromas of the campground, he caught wisps of her fresh scent. As they entered the huge shed, the overwhelming fragrance of fresh hay obliterated all others. It had been spread high between and under the old splintered benches.

  The age of a hundred years colored the heavy seats that lined both sides of the center aisle. There were no cushions, no backs, no frills—not even walls or electricity in this place. He stopped Hanna. “I’d like to sit in the back. In case I need to get Chanel.”

  He thought he could watch the whole service better from the rear. And he might get a chance to slip his arm around Hanna’s shoulder.

  Everyone was hugging everyone. There was such love under that old shed that he wanted to be a part of it all. But his heritage was so different. So staid and musty.