by Caryl McAdoo
“Thank you.” She gave him a slight nod and tried not to smile too big. She sensed, rather than saw, the other women exchange glances. “There's pie and coffee when you're ready.”
“Maybe later.” He smiled while Dorothy scraped the casserole dish. “Has everyone settled in okay? Found the linen closet? Everything you need?” He paused. Each lady nodded or voiced approval of the accommodations. “Good.” He sat forward and rubbed his hands together. “The way I've decided to work this deal is to send one of you home at the end of each month.”
Dorothy looked up surprised. “But you didn't say anything about that when you hired me.”
“Didn't decide until today, but I also said you could leave anytime. You want to go now?”
“No, of course not. I don't want to leave.”
“Good.” He leaned back in his chair again. “So, anybody have any questions?”
A hand shot into the air. Audrey smiled knowing what the question would be. “Are there any televisions in the house? I couldn't find one this afternoon.”
“Afraid not. I hate the things.”
Charlotte’s face showed disappointment, but she said no more.
“Mr. Preston?” Dorothy nodded in Vicki’s direction. “What are you going to do about the slackers?” Poor lady, doesn’t she realize she’s not making points. Surely she wanted to be the next Mrs. Preston as much as anyone, but couldn’t she see the error of her way?
“You think someone's not doing their part?”
“Won't call names, but someone in your employ doesn't seem too willing to pull her weight.”
“Dorothy, do you remember what I hired you to do?”
She shifted her eyes seemingly looking for advocates then back to Preston. “Be myself?”
“That's right. And I told everyone the same thing. So far, I have no complaints.”
Audrey covered a snicker by clearing her throat. She leaned forward and whispered. “And I thought this wasn't going to be any fun!”
“I’m saying.” Holly leaned across the table toward Dorothy. “Can you put me down to cook dinner tomorrow?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Journal entry - March 2nd
Such passion. Looks like I was right, but time will tell. I have been wrong before - though not very often.
The bliss of fresh-brewed coffee floated on the early morning air. Marge rested deep in Delta sleep, but the inviting smell wooed her to consciousness. She opened her eyes. At first, the unfamiliar room startled her then brought a smile to her face. Her bedside clock read four forty-five. She rolled out of the antebellum four-poster, stepped into her slippers, grabbed her robe, then followed her nose toward the aromatic brew.
Once she cleared the hall, a single light shadowed Preston's unmistakable silhouette on the screened back porch. The French doors stood open. She froze halfway to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Marge. Sleep well?” He rose and passed her with a determined stride.
“Yes, thank you.” Her feet refused to carry her anywhere, so she stood there somewhat uncomfortable, though she couldn’t think why. Then finally able to move, she followed him into the kitchen. He refilled his own mug and poured a second. She accepted his offering. “Thank you. Uh, I smelled the - I didn't expect you.”
“Hope you aren’t disappointed.”
“No, no.”
“Come on out here.” He led her back out onto the porch and moved a wicker chair opposite the one he had been sitting in. “I don't sleep much any more.”
She sat on the edge of the chair and blew the coffee. With her free hand, she clutched her robe closed though the pre-dawn air wasn’t cold. “Neither do I usually, but I slept much better last night than I anticipated, being in a strange bed and all.”
“Glad you were comfortable.” He propped his feet on the wicker table and fell silent as he sipped his coffee.
While silence reigned, Marge didn’t know what to do, so she enjoyed the stillness and stared out into the darkness. After a few minutes that seemed more like forty, she stood. “Maybe I'll go read for awhile. I feel like I’m intruding.”
“Oh no, don’t say that.” He touched her arm and raised his cup. “Stay. I’ll go get us a warm up.”
“No, let me.”
“Already on the way. You sit.” She eased back into her chair while he rose and hurried off toward the kitchen. He returned with the coffee pot and topped off their mugs. “This is the best time of the day. Don’t you think?”
She blew gently on the hot liquid. “Actually, I guess it's more like the middle of the night, but I know what you mean. I love it, too.”
He chuckled on his way back to the kitchen. “In the oil patch, it's already the middle of the morning.”
She waited until he returned. “Tell me Mr….” She paused. “What do you want us to call you, anyway?”
With one eye squinted, he stared at her with the other. “On the bayou, everyone has a basket name.” He opened both eyes wide. “A secret name spoken only at special times because it wields tremendous power.” He leaned in. “Mine's Buck.”
She grinned. “Are you making this up?”
“No, Buck's my basket name.” He held up a hand, palm out. “An old black man gave it to me when I was ten.”
“So you want us to call you Buck?”
He shook his head. “Not everyone.” He pointed to her. “But you can use it if we're alone and the sun isn't up.”
Why would he be telling her such a yarn? She leaned forward. “Now you are pulling my leg. I always was too gullible.”
He frowned. “No. It’s true, and I just gave you power over me.”
She leaned back and drank a swallow. The seriousness of his tone knocked her off balance. Unsure as to how to respond, she looked around, wanted to go to her room and think, but like a child in a candy store, found it difficult to leave. From the start, this man's myriad complexities lured her. She hid behind her cup, gathering her wits.
“So.” She’d play his game. “What does everyone call you when the sun's up?”
He shrugged. “When I was a kid, an old maid aunt called me Dub. I always liked that, but it didn't stick.”
“I like it, too.” She nodded. “Dub it is then.”
“But don't tell anyone. Just start using it.”
His easy manner amazed Marge. A few minutes after false dawn, a rooster's crow split the calm. Preston jumped to his feet, grabbed her hand, and pulled her out the screen door to the backyard. The eastern horizon blazed with the beginnings of a new day.
He guided her to a rattan rocker. “Sit here and watch the sun come up. I'll get us more coffee.” This time he took her cup.
The rooster crowed again. Why was Preston acting like this? He couldn’t be seriously interested in her with all those beautiful younger women around. A trickle of water fell over a flat boulder into a small pond that sheltered the south end of the flagstone patio.
He reappeared.
Marge took the steaming cup and cocked her head slightly. “Do you know what you are? I've got it figured out.”
“What?”
She let the thought ferment a moment. “You're just a big kid, and we ladies are your new toys.”
He slapped his chest and threw his head back. “Oh, to suffer the slings and arrows of words unjustly spoken. Thou dost truly wound me, Fair Lady.”
She bit her lip, but couldn't stop her eyes from laughing. “And where, pray tell, did that come from?”
“Wasn't it a line from MacBeth?”
Who was he trying to fool now? "I hardly think so."
“You sure? Sounded pretty good to me.”
“Back to what I was saying. This is all a big joke to you. A game, isn't it?”
He stared off in the direction of the rising sun. “No, Marge. I want a wife, even more than before now that the house is full of beautiful women.”
Something was wrong. He didn't act like a man hunting a wife.
“Hey, what're you two doing out her
e?”
“Good morning, Audrey.” Preston held up his mug. “Grab a cup and help us watch the sun come up. Looks like another glorious day.”
She soon returned carrying her own steaming mug and sat next to him.
Marge smiled. “It is beautiful, isn’t it? Did that delicious aroma beckon you, too?” She couldn't remember the last time she and a man had seen a sunrise together, and even the intrusion of the pretty cook couldn’t spoil the moment. It lightened her heart. For a few heartbeats, she let herself fantasize about a life with Dub. She raised an eyebrow. Or should she say Buck?
“Well, enough lounging around for me.” Preston stood. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies. I have an orchard to tend.”
Marge touched his arm. “Speaking of the orchard, where are those apple trees? I meant to ask.”
“You passed them when you came in.”
She cocked her head. “I did? I don't remember seeing them.”
The interloper stretched and yawned. “Neither do I, come to think of it.”
“On the trellises, ladies.” He handed his mug to the blonde. “See you at lunch.”
“Don't you want breakfast?” Audrey stood beside him, barely reaching his shoulder. She tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. Had a spark passed between them? Marge had to admit, Audrey would be a good choice. They made a striking couple.
“No, thanks.” He walked toward the house. “Only eat lunch and supper.”
“Have a good day, Dub.”
“What did you call him?”
Marge faced her rival and put on her best smile of perceived innocence. “Didn't I call him Mr. Preston?”
“No. Sounded like Dub, and he nodded.” Audrey smiled and with much exaggeration, slowly moved her head up and down. “I see, I see. And exactly what have y'all been up to this morning?”
Marge stood. “Coffee and the start of a new day.” She stuck her free hand in her robe pocket then strolled to her room. She almost pulled a Vicki and snuggled back into bed, but decided more sleep would only keep her awake that night and make it harder to get up early.
The morning slipped by. She read, chatted with a few of the women, and daydreamed. Much to her regret, Jorje fetched lunch. Hoping maybe he’d change his mind and come in, she lingered in the kitchen. After her third lapse into fantasy land, her practical side erupted. “Well, this is ridiculous.” Her words, intended as thoughts, echoed around the kitchen.
Charlotte looked up from scrubbing potatoes. “What's that, Miss Marge? What’s ridiculous?”
“What he's doing to us.”
Holly entered from the hall carrying the vacuum. “What who’s doing to us?” She crossed the kitchen and put it away in the pantry.
Audrey, who’d been thumbing through one of Preston’s many cookbooks, looked up. “Yes, please, do tell.”
Marge spread her hands. “Can't you all see?" She paused, searching each face. “He's making us all fall in love, not so much with him, but his house, his money, and the implied promise that one of us will win his wedding lottery.”
Holly laughed. “Hey, I swallowed his bait from the get-go. Just let him give my line one little jerk, and watch me gladly slip into his lap and jump around. I’d love to be his fish out of water.” The other ladies laughed, but not Marge.
She sighed and shook her head. “You're missing the point. Didn't you hear what he said? He's going to send one of us home each month. In no time, if we don’t guard against it, those left will be at each other's throats.”
Audrey leaned back, fingered the book for a second, then looked at Marge. “You've got a point. I'll have to admit to being a little miffed this morning.”
Charlotte leaned over the counter. “Why? What happened this morning?”
“Nothing, really.” Marge scanned their faces. “But don’t you see? This is only the second day, and he's already got us worried, suspicious, and jealous of one another.”
“So what? I mean here we are. Exactly what do you suppose we’re going to do but play the game? Leave?” Holly pulled out a chair next to Marge.
At the thought of leaving, a lead weight fell down Marge's throat and sunk to the pit of her stomach. “I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong, but –”
“Will someone tell me what happened this morning?” Charlotte dried her hands on a towel then twirled it so hard, Marge felt the breeze on her cheek.
She glanced at her. “Nothing. Audrey came in on Preston and I having coffee together on the porch. That’s all. Nothing else happened. And he welcomed her to join us.”
Holly touched Marge’s arm and glared at Charlotte. “You stopped at ‘but’ before you were so rudely interrupted. Finish what you meant to say.”
“Well, it's just that I've been fantasizing all day about a life in this house. I mean, just take the linen closet for instance. Everything in there feels like eight hundred thread count, and I don’t know what he’s been using for softener, but making my bed, I thought I might faint from the bliss of that freshness.”
Just then an exotic fragrance of expensive perfume wafted into the kitchen. Marge looked over her shoulder. Vicki stood in the doorway. “Any woman who wouldn't love this house and all its trappings is a fool, but what about the man? How do you feel about Preston?”
“I can’t answer that fairly yet. I hardly know him.”
“Well, I do, and I can tell you he's not who he appears to be.” Vicki sauntered to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. “The man never darkened a college door. Doesn’t that surprise you? He dropped out of high school and went to the oil patch at fifteen. Spent most his life there.” She sipped the thick brew left in the pot since morning. Probably how she drank it most of the time getting up near noon. “You're trying to make him out to be some kind of Harvard psychology major, but he's only an old roughneck with money.”
Charlotte spoke up. “And if I may ask, how is it that you know him so well?”
“Research. The Dallas Public Library isn't five stories because it's filled with fiction. Someone with the wealth of Winston Grant Preston can't keep his name out of the papers.” She sat her cup down and headed out. “Just don't ever make the mistake of –” She paused. “Never mind.”
“Wait. Mistake of what?” Holly jumped to her feet and whirled Vicki around. “You can’t say something like that then leave with a never mind.”
The young beauty looked at her arm then at Holly. “You're the soap freak, right?”
Holly released her and nodded toward the table. “No, not me, I mean, I have watched them, but I believe you’d be talking about Miss Charlotte there.”
The belle looked offended. “Why, I don’t see any reason at all to be getting all nasty. What’s wrong with watching a soap opera?”
Vicki’s face softened. “I was going to say don't make the mistake of calling him Winnie.” She strolled out, calling over her shoulder. “He killed a man once for it.”
For several minutes, silence rang in Marge’s ears. Audrey's chair scooted across the flagstone floor and exploding the quiet; she stood and returned to her cooking. The other women drifted out, and Marge eventually followed once the shock wore off.
She paced her room and tried to convince herself that Vicki couldn't be telling the truth. Even if she didn’t know him that well, surely Dub wouldn't kill a man just for calling him a name. But if he had …
She retrieved her suitcase from under the bed and started packing, changed her mind then unpacked it and put everything back. She opened her book to read, but never got through the first paragraph. She pulled her bag out again, but when she heard Charlotte's supper call, stuffed it half-packed back under the bed. Two more times around the room and a quick check of her reflection in the bathroom mirror convinced her to stay at least another day. Straightening her blouse, she turned and marched to the kitchen.
Already in their chairs, everyone turned when Marge walked in. Preston stood and smiled, bowing slightly at the waist.
“Dub, did you kill a man for c
alling you a name?”
The smile disappeared. Preston sunk to his chair, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. “I don't know who you've been talking to, but someone surely didn't tell you the whole story.”
“Well? Did you or didn't you?”
“Sit down, Marge. Let's eat, then I'll tell you all about it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Journal entry - March 2nd
After so many years, I can still feel my fist crushing his jaw. Of all the things I’ve done, I wish I could take that back the most.
Preston laid down his fork and studied his empty plate. He shouldn’t tell them anything; they didn’t need to know, but an eerie silence prevailed through dinner—unusual when eating with so many women. When he looked up, eight pairs of eyes bored into him. Yeah, guess they needed to know all right, unless he wanted them all to leave, and he didn’t.
“I was twenty-three, and two days back from my first trip off shore.” He paused and peered into the past. It had been forever since he’d thought about that night. In half a heartbeat, he was that hotheaded roughneck out looking for a good time.
“I pushed past the drugstore cowboy watching the door to the Ol’ Top Rail. ‘Hey, boy.’ The man grabbed my arm. ‘Let me see it.’ Before my tongue could get me in trouble, my right hand whipped out my driver’s license. He looked at the piece of paper. ‘What’s your middle name?’ I say, Grant, why?
“The man shrugged. ‘You’re big enough, but you don’t look old enough.’ I grabbed my license and stepped into the dimly lit honky-tonk. For sixteen ear-splitting bars of the way-too-loud western swing some local bunch of wannabes were throwing out as music, I let my eyes adjust to the lack of light. Shame my ears couldn’t do likewise, but if you wanted to rub bellies with the ladies, you had to suffer.
“A round of long-necks and three two-steppin’ trips circling the well-worn hardwood bought me an invite to sit at the table with a trio of not so young cowgirls. Mercifully, the band stopped their off key yodeling and sick cat torturing.”
