Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  “Well, I’ll see if I can’t get her to help me out at my townhouse tomorrow for a couple of hours to give you a break. She’s always wanting to rearrange my furniture. Heck, if she could, she’d probably rearrange the entire historic Rainbow Row outside my front door.”

  His father gave a little chuckle. “That’s my Evelynn.”

  Furman was pleased that his father seemed so coherent—so unlike the way he’d been at the party.

  Hanna stood back another step.

  “Not so far, Hanna. I can’t see your face,” his father said.

  Furman let go his grasp and stepped aside.

  “I’m right here.” She didn’t move any closer.

  “Good. Because I’m going to tell you both something while I have time—while I can.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve made my peace with the Lord.” The old man took a deep breath and reached for Furman’s hand again. “And one more thing. I’ve seen you two together, and I know my wife.” He paused. “Don’t let her gossip ruin anything that you might have. She’s concerned about roses and parties and pedigrees. But in the end, things like that will wilt and wither away.”

  Furman turned to Hanna. He knew his father was right about the roses and pedigrees, but did he and Hanna really have anything? If they did, was it already too late? He hated gossip and the games elite society played, but he did have the family’s real estate holdings to consider—and his own burgeoning boat business to protect from scandal. All day long he had fielded questions like, “Wasn’t she the one who wore the red dress to the Black and White Ball? Isn’t she a butcher by trade? Does she really work for Toleman Sterling—in one of his financial offices?”

  He thought he was stronger than all that, but here he stood in the presence of the woman he was immensely attracted to just a couple of days ago, and he could do nothing to comfort her—to assuage her probable guilt about Saturday evening. He just couldn’t get the bloody image of her cutting into his father out of his mind.

  And there his father lay, dying, worried about him and his troubles with his mother and the rest of the rigid world around him. He had to give his father some kind of peace before he slipped away again.

  “I appreciate that Father, but Hanna and I are only friends.”

  ⸙

  Days passed and Hanna still heard the phrase over and over in her head. “Only friends.”

  Why was she so upset at the words? They were hardly even friends. Really, they were mere acquaintances. But something had drawn her to the handsome man, despite their different worlds.

  She watched the ticker on her computer screen as the red arrows pointed down on the stocks she’d done so much research for. No matter what, she was leaving her money alone. The downturn was expected, but she knew what lay ahead. Though she couldn’t convince anyone else of her knowledge.

  Mr. Woodall had begun to stop by her office each day to ask her about the falling numbers and the concerns he and Mr. Sterling had for their customer’s portfolios. She explained the research and what the future held for the investments, but he wasn’t hearing any of it. And every day he had an update for her on Mr. Laurens—from Mr. Sterling, no less. A massive infection had taken over his body. From her knife wound. Things didn’t look good. Not her investments, not Mr. Laurens’s health, not her chances with Furman.

  Hanna had been on the phone all morning, trying to convince her clients to be patient amid rumors about their OKRA stock. As soon as she placed her phone in the cradle once again, April burst through her door. “Turn on your monitor. OKRA’s in real trouble. The CEO has just been indicted.”

  Hanna turned to her screen. The bottom had just dropped out. People were dumping OKRA stock like it had a mortal wound. But the CEO had nothing to do with the upcoming technology.

  Her first call was her biggest client. “Dump the stock,” Mr. Westbury, Claudette’s father said.

  Her phone rang again. “Get me out of it,” Mr. Benson said.

  She was flooded with calls. All asking her to do the same thing. And it wasn’t just the OKRA stock. They had lost confidence in her. The thing she’d been told would be her greatest asset. They had her drop everything that wasn’t tied to CD’s and wasn’t federally insured.

  After the market closed, she continued to receive calls. She stayed late, working on all the paperwork to close the accounts. Eleven, twelve, one. At two a.m. she decided to just put her head down on her desk for a few minutes.

  The phone woke her up. “Hanna Rudder.” She winced at the light in the room. It was morning and she was still in her office in yesterday’s clothing. Brushing her hand over her head, she felt her wild locks. What a sight she must be.

  “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Lowry. I’ll close the account this morning. It should only take a few days to get you the remaining money.” Hanna hung up the phone. Her head was killing her.

  She reached under her desk for her purse. Maybe she had a few bobby pins to clip her wild curls down. Moving the contents around, she saw the knife. That horrible, horrible knife. She’d like to pull it out and slit her unruly lengths of hair. And maybe her throat while she was at it.

  Before she could finish that train of thought, Tracy stepped through her door. “Mr. Sterling would like to see you in Mr. Woodall’s office. Now.” She stared at Hanna’s diploma on the wall behind her.

  This was going to be bad. Real bad. As she walked down the hall, she felt like she was walking down a corridor of shame. Everyone was looking at her. Everyone except Preston Palmer. He walked right past her without even glancing her way.

  Hanna opened the door to the office where Mr. Sterling would be waiting. Mr. Woodall stood behind him.

  He looked up. “My word. What have you done to yourself?”

  She tried in vain to straighten her wrinkled shirt and skirt.

  “Sit down.” She sat across from his desk. “I’ve been getting a lot of calls, Hanna. Many of my longtime clients are abandoning me because of you and some of the investments you’ve put them in.”

  She scooted to the very edge of her seat. “But if—”

  “There are no buts or ifs in this business. There is success and failure.” His voice was stern and powerful.

  She knew what was coming next.

  “You have failed this company.” He tapped his pencil on his desk. “You’re fired. Preston Palmer is gathering up your things for you.”

  “But I’ll need to get my—” What was she thinking? Of course she wouldn’t be allowed around any of the company’s computers or files after she’d been fired. She nodded her head. She had no more business in a financial office than Sinker had at a show dog competition. Mr. Sterling was right. She had failed.

  He leaned toward his phone. “Tracy, will you step in and escort Ms. Rudder to the lobby. Mr. Palmer will have her things momentarily.”

  Tracy did as she was told. Hanna sat on a chair next to a huge plant and tried to hide behind its branches.

  Preston Palmer walked over to her. “I believe this is everything.”

  She nodded. He was carrying the same box she had stored in the closet—the one that she had brought her diploma and things in when she had first been hired. On top of it all was the plant Furman had sent her on her first day with the company. It was the only thing of life left from her relationship with the handsome man.

  “Tough business.” He set the box on the chair next to her. “Oh, by the way, did you hear about Old Man Laurens?”

  She stood. “No. What?”

  “He passed last night. Massive infection.” His words sounded unconcerned and nonchalant.

  Heat rushed over her body and her knees became as spongy as the mud in Four Hole Swamp. She had to grab the side of the chair. He had died because of her.

  She took the plant out of the box, placed it on the table beside the chair and walked out of the office.

  ⸙

  Rain pounded the roof of his workshop and ran down the outside of Furman’s office window in slender, diverging streams. He could
faintly hear the buzzing of a saw as Butch cut out a custom cypress console for a job. In the dim afternoon light, Furman looked at the ancient piece of log he’d grabbed out the swamp when he and Hanna were there together. That day seemed a lifetime ago.

  He had buried his father without even calling her.

  His father was gone now. Though their relationship had been formal for years, the last few days of his life, he’d said things to Furman that he’d never said before. Hearing the words—that his father loved him—meant so much to him. And they talked about eternity. Furman would see his father again one day. And that gave him peace. He thanked God again and again for giving them those last few days together.

  But Furman had no peace when he thought of Hanna. He had listened to his grieving mother berate the dark-haired woman so much that he would have felt like a Judas talking to her. With all his heart he wished that he could share his father’s final words with her, but he didn’t know how to even begin a conversation after all that had happened.

  The phone rang. He picked it up.

  “This is Dr. Engleman.”

  What could he want? His father had been gone for weeks. “Yes.” He walked to the back of the workshop where the old sinker logs were and leaned against one of the ancient beasts.

  “Mr. Laurens, I wanted to give you the results of the tests and toxicology reports we did on your father.”

  Why did it even matter now? He listened as he touched the old wood.

  “I’m afraid your father had been overdosed the night of his collapse. Someone gave him a tranquilizing agent that shut down his respiratory system. If it hadn’t been for that brave young woman who gave your father that effective trach job and airway, he would have died that night.”

  “No. You can’t be serious.” He put his hand over his forehead.

  “I’m afraid there’s going to be an investigation. We’ve informed the police. They’ve been here already. I’m sure they’ll have some questions for you and Mrs. Laurens,” the doctor said.

  “Questions?”

  “Yes. Do you know who may have wanted your father dead?”

  “Dead. No. No one wanted him dead.” Furman couldn’t believe what he had heard as he hung up the phone.

  Without a word to Butch, he dashed out into the rain.

  The police were already in front of his mother’s house. He ran up the steps and through the front door. He heard his mother sobbing and didn’t even bother to wipe his feet on the antique rug at the door.

  He stood in the doorway to the parlor. His mother sat on the sofa. On the table beside her was the one remaining yellow crystal rose, pure, peerless, perfect—like Hanna had been. He glanced back at his mother. The look on her face told him what he had already suspected.

  “I didn’t mean to, Furman. It’s just that he was saying such crazy things. I just wanted him calm and subdued for my party.” She dropped her head.

  The taller detective asked him a few questions. Furman answered as best he could.

  “What’s going to happen to her?” Furman closed his eyes.

  The taller detective continued to write on a notepad. The more portly one took a step toward Furman. “Don’t know. It’s up to the prosecutor in cases like these. His discretion. There seems to be no ill intent here. Definitely a huge lack of judgment—perhaps, a mistake. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be any charges. Maybe manslaughter. It’s all in how the district attorney sees it.”

  There had been a mistake all right. Hanna was under the impression that she had killed his father, and Furman had left the shy, reticent, compassionate woman with that impression.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Regrets and Repentance

  Hanna’s hopes and dreams were dead. Her relationship with Furman was dead. And so was his father. Because she had killed him.

  As she opened the cooler door, a blast of icy air hit her face. She was back where she had started. Taking out a side of pork and hoisting it onto her shoulder, she closed her eyes. Her life here was so far away from the financial world in which she craved to be.

  But from the very beginning, she knew her place in society. Why did she ever leave the safety and predictability of Four Hole? Here she’d never worn anything scandalous—like the red dress at the Black and White Ball. She’d never poisoned anyone—like at the Jasmine dinner party. She’d never lost hundreds of thousands of dollars for people—like she had at State and Casualty Insurance and Investments. And most of all, she’d never killed anyone—butchered a couple of deer maybe, a chicken or two, but never a person.

  The saw’s shrill buzz echoed in her ears as she pushed the pork at the blade. The pungent aroma of fresh meat filled the room.

  The crazy thing, though, was that she missed Furman. As insane as it was she was helpless to the emotion. He had been the catalyst that had encouraged her to pursue what had only been a hidden desire before meeting him. His long lean form found itself into her head almost constantly. The thought of the sparkle in his blue eyes made her warm inside, in spite of the cold generated by the meat cases and even though she knew she’d probably never see him again.

  As she turned off the saw, she heard the tinkle of the bell on the door. “Just a minute,” she said as she worked to cover the newly cut meat. She wiped her blood-stained hands on her white butcher’s apron.

  “Hanna?”

  She jumped at the recognition of the voice and turned to him. Furman. Before she could say a word, she had to compose herself. Before she could move again, she had to regain the use of her weeping willow legs. Before she could speak, she had to wait for her heart to stop pounding against her ribs like she pounded tough cuts of beef with her mallet to make cubed steak. Finally she was able to say some words. “What are you doing here?”

  “I just left the police at my house.”

  Oh, no. She was going to be arrested for murder, thrown in the slammer and would probably be doing laundry for Big Bertha and slinging instant mashed potatoes on a tray for Hacksaw Hallie for the rest of her life. Though she didn’t belong in downtown Charleston, she certainly didn’t think she belonged in prison. Her heart beat even harder and faster. “I only meant to save his life.”

  “What?” He looked confused. “Oh, no. That’s not it at all. You did save his life. The police were there to see Mother.”

  Now she was confused. “Why?”

  “Mother overdosed my father to keep him quiet at the party. The doctors said you actually saved his life. And you gave him a few more days—enough days for him to get his soul right with God. And his relationship right with me.”

  Exhaling air that seemed to have been trapped in her lungs since the night she’d last taken out her pocketknife, she nodded her head slowly and said, “Good. Good. I’m so relieved.”

  He stepped closer to the counter. “Hanna, I miss you. Terribly.”

  The words took her by surprise. “I’m sorry things got so messed up, but everything worked out for the best. This is where I’m supposed to be.” She glanced around the market. “I should have never left Four Hole in the first place. I had no business in downtown Charleston.”

  “But what about your career? What about your aunt and uncle? And their retirement?”

  Looking down at her stained butcher’s apron, she shook her head slowly.

  He took a step toward her. “I can help you get started again in Charleston.”

  “You know that won’t work. I’ve lost too much money for too many people there.” She put her arms on top of the chest-high meat case and leaned into it.

  “So you’re not going to give it another chance?” He paused. “Or me another chance?” He reached for her hands.

  But she pulled them away and crossed her arms firmly in front of her. She hated to say the words. But they were true. “I’ve lost all hope for that.” She gathered all the bravery she could muster. “You need to leave.”

  As soon as the words left her lips, she realized she’d spend the rest of her life eating the re
grets Cubi-Jack had warned her about.

  ⸙

  Weeks went by, and still Hanna couldn’t forget the sight of Furman pulling away from the meat market. She had watched from the window until she could no longer see his black Volvo as it rounded the curve in the road. He had left the area built on the high ground surrounding Four Hole Swamp for the last time. He’d never come to buy any more of their unique meats or puddings. She’d never help him to find any more sinker logs. They’d never touch or kiss again, like they had in the swamp that day she felt so close to him.

  In the old, monotonous swing of the shop, she made the sale signs for the coming week and started to tape them on the meat cases. As she did she watched the tickers on the television. Two of the stocks she had researched were still down, but something was going on with the OKRA stock. It had hit bottom as she had expected, but now it was making increases every day. Big increases. She had bought even more of the stock with her last couple of paychecks from her days at State and Casualty, even as the price continued to drop. Because she believed in it and in her abilities with numbers. But she was the only one.

  Her small portfolio had doubled.

  Every day for the next couple of months, she continued to watch it grow. Triple. Quadruple. Skyrocket.

  What must her old clients be thinking now?

  ⸙

  Furman placed the notebook back on the bookshelf behind the desk in his office at the shop. It was where he kept all his old antique history books. The new information he’d discovered while doing his research may never see the light of day, and he simply had to accept that. It probably wouldn’t matter now anyway.

  The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Laurens Classic Boat Restoration and Construction.”

  It was Toleman Sterling. After a few pleasantries, he asked, “Have you seen what’s been happening to that OKRA stock lately?”

  “I have. Daily. You should see how healthy my portfolio looks right now,” Furman bragged. Even when the stock looked like it was destined to fold, he couldn’t bear to sell it. It had seemed like the last link he’d had to Hanna.