“I just want to warn you,” Hanna said. “Tonight is going to make the last service you attended with me look like a Broadway production.”
He placed his hand on hers and looked into the inexplicable peace that radiated from her face. “I didn’t come to see any kind of show. I’m here to see you.”
And then tabernacle started. It began on the slightly raised platform with an elderly man who resembled his father. He said his name was Wardell Postell, and he played his guitar as he sang “The Old Rugged Cross.” His voice was ragged and coarse, but the words emanated from deep inside him. Furman couldn’t tell for certain from the back seat, but he thought he saw a wet streak run down the old guy’s cheek.
When the elderly man finished, everyone sat silently for what seemed like an eternity. And then the pastor stood and walked to the center of the platform and asked, “Is the old rugged cross a part of your heritage?” Furman sat transfixed and transformed.
Forty-five minutes later tabernacle ended. And so did a part of Furman’s previous life.
Now he understood that peaceful look upon Hanna’s face. And the grace her uncle had referred to earlier.
⸙
Hanna finished her clerical duties for tabernacle and wrote the numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to Cubi-Jack. “Take this to Pastor Vines.”
“This is an important job, isn’t it, Hanna?” Cubi-Jack asked as he clutched the note. “You and me are good people, Hanna. That’s why we get to do the important jobs.”
“We are, Cubi-Jack.” He was right. It was an uncomplicated truth that he understood better than she understood. Cubi-Jack comprehended good and bad and right from wrong, and he valued himself accordingly. Why couldn’t she appreciate things the way he did? Even though she knew better, she still concerned herself with things like the car she drove and the uncertainty of her family’s past. She was good like Cubi-Jack. That should be enough for anyone.
The thoughts swirled in her head until she vowed to take time to sort it all out later. Maybe on her stump in the swamp. She needed to attend to her guest right now. Furman had sat quietly and intently all throughout the service while she was busy. Not even once did he look like he was ready to bolt.
She placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Furman?” There was a look in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “Is everything all right?”
He nodded. “More than you can know.” The cell phone he had clipped to his alligator belt buzzed lightly. He turned it toward the dim light. “Mother is going to drive me crazy about Chanel. Look.” He turned the phone to her. “She’s left eleven messages.”
Hanna had almost forgotten about Chanel. But just as the thought entered her mind, she heard the prissy little dog barking and some little girls screaming.
Furman looked toward the noise. “Oh, no.”
As soon as he began to run in the direction of the din, Hanna heard another scream and stopped in her tracks. It was the same scream she had heard before. In front of Mrs. Laurens’s home. On the evening Hanna had murdered the prized rose.
Hanna ran behind Furman, but she wasn’t prepared to see what she was about to witness.
Old Sinker had taken a shine to Chanel, and it looked like Chanel was in love. Mrs. Laurens—in her pearls and fancy suit—was desperately trying to pull Chanel away as she screamed for help.
“Ma’am,” one of the little girls said. “Sinker won’t hurt her. He ain’t big enough to hurt nobody. He’s just trying to play leapfrog with her.” The little girls backed away.
Mrs. Laurens screamed again when she saw Furman. “Help me, Furman. Our kind can’t be…breeding with these Four Hole creatures.”
“Mother!”
“It’s true. Neither Chanel nor you will come back into my house with such scandalous offspring.”
Furman stepped toward his mother. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that with me. The Laurens name is going to die with me, Mother. It’s medically impossible for me to sire children.”
Mrs. Laurens gasped and covered her mouth. Looking around the circle of strangers, she said, “Are you auditioning for the Jerry Springer Show or something, Furman? This is neither the time nor place for such a…lie.”
“It’s not a lie, Mother. You can just get over yourself with all your talk of the family name and the family legacy. The only offspring that’ll visit the Laurens home looks like will be coming from Chanel.”
She turned her attention back to her tiny dog and finally broke the animal free of Sinker’s affection and held it away from her. “Are you injured, baby?” She brushed off the ball of fur like it had some disease. “I’m taking you to Dr. Nesbitt tonight.”
“Mother, I’ll take care of her tomorrow. This isn’t an emergency,” Furman said.
An even larger crowd had gathered by now.
“It most certainly is. I will not stand for this impropriety a moment longer.” She gave the semi-circle of people the once over. “Just look at these people. My goodness, son, some of them are wearing overalls.”
Hanna watched as Furman looked over the crowd. She saw Uncle Marion glance down and shove his hands into the pockets of his own overalls. One of the formerly giggling little girls was crying.
“Mother, go home. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough,” Furman said.
Mrs. Laurens fidgeted to get the leash attached to Chanel’s collar again. The little dog struggled to get back to Sinker, and finally nipped the discombobulated woman on her wrist. “Ouch! Stop that!” she yelled. “My only embarrassment right now is you, Furman.”
The words seemed to echo through the cool air and slap Furman squarely in the face. Hanna saw the pain in his eyes. Something rose up in her. It wasn’t quite like anger, but it had the fury of righteous indignation attached to it.
And then the words poured out. “No!” Hanna said firmly. “You’ve got it all wrong. Your son is not the embarrassment here.” She folded her arms sternly. “He is good and kind, and everything about him should make you proud. I’m proud just to be his friend. But you don’t care about what’s on the inside of him, or me or anyone else for that matter. You only care about the way things appear. And it appears to me that you need to leave.” She pointed toward the row of cars in front of her.
“Well, I never—” Mrs. Laurens turned abruptly and walked away, nearly dragging Chanel behind her as the small dog was barking goodbye to Sinker.
“How on Earth did she know where you were?” Hanna asked.
“I’d left a message on her cell so that she wouldn’t worry about Chanel, but I had no idea she’d come, much less be able to find this place.” He rubbed his temples with his thumb and finger. “But I should never underestimate Evelynn. She always gets what she goes after.”
The crowd slowly dispersed. The little girls laughed once again as they chased Sinker around the benches in the tabernacle. Little girls that Furman could never give his wife—if he were to take one. Hanna didn’t know how she felt about that. Her dreams for her future had always included children. It was the thing that would somehow make life complete for her.
What was important right now, though, was that she had said the actual word no in no uncertain terms. For the first time in her life. To the most intimidating person she had ever met. And the world hadn’t ended. In fact, she felt strong and right for saying it.
And the full moon still glowed as gloriously as it did before Mrs. Laurens’s visit. There were things more eternal than squirrel purlieu, dogs and harsh words.
Furman grabbed her pinky. “What you said to my mother. Do you really feel that way about me?” he asked.
She nodded, then she gazed at the dark, cloud-dusted skies.
“Good. Then will you still go with me to Mother’s soiree Saturday night?” he asked. “To help me with Father?”
She looked him straight in the eyes. Could she do that? Her brain spun, calculating all the problems that might arise. Why couldn’t she? Hadn’t she just asserted herself like she’d never done befo
re? Hanna felt like she could do most anything with Furman by her side.
A swell of confidence rose up in her. “Yes, I will.”
Chapter Fourteen
Wallflowers and Weighty Matters
The strength Hanna had experienced standing up to Mrs. Laurens slowly dissipated. Every morning and every evening the next week Hanna tried to come up with a good excuse for not attending the party with Furman. She simply couldn’t verbalize a good enough reason.
She could try harder to come up with something, but her shaky determination melted like Jello when she was around Furman. His eyes were too blue. His voice too deep. His body too…
She’d been bold and brazen enough to stand up to the lady who would be the hostess at the Jasmine Society Soiree to benefit the Spoleto Festival of the Arts. Little ole Hanna. And now she had to face the formidable woman at her own house—at her own party—in front of all her friends.
For the entire week, the office buzzed with talk of the soiree. Her office manager was going, and one of the agents had been asked to attend for the first time ever, and boy, was she ever excited. It was bigger than she’d ever imagined. She was glad Mrs. Laurens gave Callie another chance and hoped she had everything under control. That piece of information—that her cousin was the caterer—she kept to herself. At least Aunt Della wasn’t going to be there for Hanna to worry over. Maybe this party would be different from the last. Maybe…but she had an ominous feeling it wasn’t.
After working all through Saturday morning and afternoon on Uncle Marion’s books, Hanna collapsed onto her threadbare couch. She looked at her watch. It was four o’clock. The last thing she wanted to do was to put on another pair of heels and go downtown. All week long she had worked late at the office and had come home to finish up what needed to be done at the butcher shop. What she really wanted to do was to kick off her tennis shoes and dangle her feet in Four Hole Creek. And unwind. But she had promised Furman to help him with his father, and a promise was a promise. Secretly, a little part of her itched to let Mrs. Laurens know that she wasn’t as intimidated any longer.
Hanna dressed in a simple beige dress and matching heels. Maybe that would help her blend in with the walls. But she doubted that. With her nearly black hair, tanned skin and dark eyes, she’d stand out no matter what. At least she wasn’t in red. She picked up her simple cloth purse. It was a shade of taupe that nearly matched her dress. The other women there would have brightly colored Kate Spades with feathers and pearls embellishing their bags. Everything about Hanna was nondescript—generic. The only things that stood out in her were the wrong ones—her stark, dark eyes and lack of refinement. Humph. They could judge her all they wanted, but she would be the one with Furman.
She checked her bag—lipstick, pocketknife, keys. She should probably take out the pocketknife, but she was used to carrying it wherever she went, and who was going to see it anyway when it was hidden safely at the bottom of her purse? It was time to face the classical music.
All the way to the Laurens mansion, she found herself shaking her head. That she was going to the party. That she was looking forward to seeing Furman. That she was no longer fearful of anything Mrs. Laurens—or anyone else for that matter—had to say to her. How brave of her.
She had come a long way in such a short period of time, but it was one thing working for these people, rolling over their 401Ks and starting retirement accounts. She could hardly believe they were trusting her to do that. But what in the world was she doing attending a party with a man that it seemed every maturing Charleston debutante desired?
Hanna was simply out of her league. And loved every other minute of it.
On the porch of the Laurens’s once again, she paused as she heard a squirrel scamper up the trunk of the tree at the end of the railing. It was here she’d murdered the roses, smelled of fish, and nearly killed a woman with poison sumac. She hadn’t been a fan of self-inflicted torture before hooking up with the Laurens family.
But everything could still be absolutely fine. All she had to do tonight was keep a low profile and stay out of Mrs. Laurens’s crosshairs. She could do that for just one evening. For Mr. Laurens. For Furman. And for herself.
Before she even rang the chimes, Furman opened the door. “I’ve been watching for you. I need a reasonably friendly face in here.” He pulled her in by her wrist, looked her up and down and gave her a light peck on the cheek. “You look very nice.”
Friendly? Nice? Maybe that was good. She didn’t want to stand out. “Thanks. So do you.” That wasn’t completely true. He was outstanding. With his black suit, red tie and white shirt. He was so G.Q. “How’s your dad doing so far?” She took another step onto the antique Oriental rug in the expansive foyer.
“Not well. He’s not recognizing many of his friends.” Furman ushered her down the wide hall and by some of the guests. “I’m afraid word’s gotten around and mostly people are just avoiding him.”
“There you are, Furman. And you have my new star employee with you.” Mr. Sterling shook Furman’s hand. “She’s a gem. Making me lots of money. And she’s got all the financials for that darn office in Summerbrook back on track like they should be.”
Hanna smiled and lowered her head, pride rising up in her like she’d never experienced before.
“What did I tell you?” Furman said.
Mr. Sterling put his arm around Furman. “I’m telling you she has insight. She’s been luring some of my conservative clients into deeper waters with some of her ideas. Never seen anything like it.”
“Like what?” Furman slipped his hand into hers. It felt warm and safe to her.
“Well, she has this simple, unimposing style—not pushy at all. Sparsely furnished office, understated clothing, soft voice. People think she’s going to get them into an IRA, then she gives them her figures on OKRA, Heart-med, and Jamar Corporation—some really fast-moving stocks. It’s completely a trust thing,” Mr. Sterling said.
Furman looked at her with a strange expression. Like he knew something she didn’t. “I’ve taken a few tips from her, as well.”
When did he do that? Hanna didn’t know of anything. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Filmore, her first really big client, glide across the hall in her elegant ivory pantsuit. Furman was right in insisting that Hanna come. Tonight was going to boost her career into the stratosphere.
“Well, I’m going to the bank with her image and information every day. Just keep this pretty little wallflower happy and squeaky clean.” He hugged Hanna and walked into the dining room.
Wallflower? That was how she came off to other people, wasn’t it? In actuality, she’d sort of planned it that way.
She and Furman entered the large parlor—she a step behind. Still he had her hand. He must have sensed her reticence. He stopped and turned to her. “Don’t worry, Hanna. Everything is going to be perfect tonight. Just wait and see.”
Would it? Could it? Hanna wasn’t nearly so sure.
“Furman! There you are,” a lilting, feminine voice called out.
It was Claudette Westbury. Hanna would recognize that pretentious voice anywhere.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Claudette. I need to check on Father,” Furman said as he stared at Hanna.
Claudette stopped abruptly and pursed her lips so tightly that they seemed to disappear.
Furman didn’t even slow down as he maneuvered his and Hanna’s way into the room. She almost felt sorry for Claudette until she turned around and saw the old man.
Tillman Laurens was sitting on the sofa—lost and gaunt. Hanna stepped around Furman and made her way over to the man she’d been praying for.
He looked up at her through cloudy eyes. Through their haze she could tell they were once the color of Furman’s. “Ah…um…um. I’m not good with names anymore.” His voice was shaky and weak.
“Hanna,” she said.
“My friend, Hanna. I knew you would come. I said a prayer for it.” He reached for her hands with his a
ged, spotted fingers.
“I’ve been praying, too. For you and your health,” she said.
“You’re the only one that I can count on. I don’t really know if anyone else is praying for me.” His hands trembled in hers.
“I’m sure others are praying for you, too.” She looked around the room and doubted her own words. At least he was on her church’s prayer list.
Furman half smiled at her and glanced about the parlor, obviously upset about his father’s perception of his friends.
But it was true. Most of the guests were overlooking him.
“I’m afraid they just pay lip service, leave and forget about me. I’m too old to matter much any longer.”
She knew the kind. Words with no deeds. “When the party’s over we’ll pray together.” Now she was glad she had come. Mr. Laurens needed her.
His hand continued to tremble. “Hanna, I’m good now.” He nodded. “Even if God calls me home tonight, I’m good.”
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that to happen tonight, Mr. Laurens. I’ve just begun to get to know you. I wouldn’t like that very much at all.” She wanted to give Mr. Laurens a hug, but she didn’t want to appear too forward.
A neatly dressed gentleman with a gorgeous wife walked up to them. “Tillman, how are you? We never see you at the club anymore,” he said.
“Are you my friends?” the sweet man asked with a faraway look in his eyes.
Furman inched closer. “Father, these are the Drummonds. They’ve been friends of ours for years.”
Tillman appeared confused. “Do you pray for me?”
The Drummonds looked at Furman.
“Earlier, Father was feeling well enough to get out of the hospital to attend the party, but the dressing and the trip have taken a lot out of him this afternoon.” Furman sat on the arm of the couch to shield his father.
The man gave Furman a friendly pat on his upper arm. “I haven’t seen you at the theater much this season.”
Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel Page 21
