“Doesn’t mean it’s right.” He paused, his heart beating faster, thinking of all the ways in which the world kept Jeselle from the life she deserved. There was much he wished to say, but the feelings of outrage in his young heart were only silent cries, for he couldn’t find the words or the ways to express or act upon them. Instead he said, aware that he sounded like a querulous child, “Then why’s your Mama always after you to study?”
Her shoulder rose and fell in a quick shrug. “Don’t anybody understand Mama, most especially me.” She pointed out the window. “Colonel Tate’s pink house is all lit up tonight.”
“Sure is.”
The marble tycoon Colonel Tate had built a dam on Clear Creek, forming Sequoyah Lake. Tate convinced Whitmore’s family, along with half a dozen of their Atlanta society friends, to build a summer home on Sequoyah Lake’s shores. “Tate’s people happened on some marble,” Father said to Whitmore, “but our people made something out of nothing, planting those first fields using the sweat of their brows.” Whitmore understood, although he would never have dared to comment, that the sweaty brows were really those of the slaves and then the sharecroppers. The days of plantations and agriculture were a thing of the past, but the Bellmont family was considered “old money,” the social elite, in a society where that mattered more than anything. Old money begets more money: as a young man, Frank had gone to work for an old family friend at Coca-Cola and subsequently worked his way up to an executive position and was rewarded with stock and a hefty salary to add to the Bellmont wealth. Cotton, sugar, corn, and the land it was grown on had made Frank’s antebellum ancestors rich, but a caramel-colored drink had made Frank richest of all.
“Some things aren’t right.” Whitmore swatted a mosquito that had landed on his arm. How they managed to get inside with the screens on the windows he couldn’t explain. Blood smeared his palm.
Her shoulder went up and down in another quick shrug. “I know.”
“Because we know better, Mother says it’s our responsibility to make changes for the better. I just don’t how to do that.” He wiped his hands clean on the handkerchief he kept in his pocket.
“Sometimes it makes me tired to think of it. How can one person do anything that matters?”
“Mother says it starts with just one small movement. Like ripples in a lake.”
She uncurled her legs so they were now side by side with his. We’re like the gingerbread people Cassie baked in the oven, he thought, spreading toward each other until their arms and legs touched.
She sat up. “C’mon, let’s go listen in on the party.”
“Naw, let’s stay here. No one’s bothering us for once.”
“I want to hear what everyone’s talking about.”
Swinging his legs from the window seat, he sighed. It was no use trying to deny her anything. He didn’t have it in him. “All right, let’s go.”
They scurried down the hallway to the area directly above the foyer. On the landing of the second floor, a large closet occupied an indentation in the wall. Recently they’d discovered a space at the bottom of the closet big enough for both of them to sit. Intrigued by this secret hiding place, Whitmore had rigged a string that pulled the doors shut from the inside. They had only a limited view through a crack between cabinet doors, but sound carried up clear as day from the bottom of the staircase. They could hear almost everything said from the foyer, much to Jeselle’s delight.
“I’m always listening to the world through a crack in a door, Whit,” she whispered when they were inside the cabinet. “Mama says no one likes an eavesdropper, but how else am I supposed to know what’s going on around here?”
Whit snorted. “I don’t know why you want to know everything. I like being oblivious.”
“That’s because you’re a boy. Boys want to know nothing. Girls have to know everything.”
His father’s immense voice reached them suddenly. “The first sip of this swill tastes like fire, but by the second one, boys, you’ll swear it’s liquid sunshine right down to the bottoms of your toes.” Whitmore buried his face in his hands. They smelled of vanilla. Jeselle. They smelled of Jeselle.
“Amen,” one of the men said.
“Best homemade whiskey you’ll find from here to Mississippi,” Father said. “Damn government telling decent folks how to live; by God, here in the South we have our own way.”
Another voice said, “Price of land in Florida doubles every day, boys. Gotta get in while you can.”
Whitmore whispered to Jeselle, “That’s Joe Harding. He’s always talking about things to do to make more money.”
“Does he need more?”
“They always want more. Father says that’s America.”
“Need the cash for that,” Dr. Miller said.
“Hell, buy it on margin,” said Harding.
“Go with textiles if you’re looking for an investment.”
“Who’s that? I don’t recognize his voice,” said Jeselle.
“That’s Roger Baker, a friend of Father’s from his university days.”
Colonel Tate said in a gruff voice, louder even than Father’s, “Hell, if you boys want something to invest in, I’m building a resort out here, gonna call it a Summer Colony, over in the Burnt Mountain area. A lodge, an eighteen-hole golf course, resort homes on the lake, riding stables, tennis courts. The whole darn place for people like us to enjoy ourselves.”
“What does he mean, people like us?” asked Whitmore.
“Rich, white people.”
Next, Whitmore heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A pair of fat, lumpy ankles along with a bony, skinny pair that reminded Whitmore of two raw chicken wings in shoes appeared. They halted in front of the railing. Whitmore had a direct view of the women’s middles. The skinny one’s hand fluttered at her side, pulling at the skirt of her dress. “Oh, I simply despise this dress. The minute I walked in and saw what Clare was wearing I wanted to walk right back out and hide myself under my bed.” The hated dress, which was the color of lemons, hung just below the woman’s knees. “It looks fine to me,” he whispered.
“Not compared to your mother’s dress.” Her breath smelled like honey. “She always looks the prettiest.”
Whitmore heard the snap of a cigarette case and a flick of a lighter, and then the smell of burning tobacco made its way inside the closet. “After all the fuss over bobbed hair it seems everyone’s doing it now,” said one of the women. Whitmore knew from his sister that only the old ladies still wore their hair long.
The other woman, the one with the fat ankles, spoke next. “What I can’t figure is how a man like Nathaniel Fye marries a girl like Frances Bellmont. Did you know he’s practically as well known as the president? Clare told me he’s going all over Europe next month, playing all the best places over there. He’s a Yankee, you know, but still as handsome as they come.” She took a drag of her cigarette.
“Well, Frances is pretty as a picture.”
“Yes, but that kind of beauty’s only skin deep. I’ve known her all her life. She and my Martha played together when they were young.” Her voice lowered, and Whitmore imagined she leaned closer to her friend for emphasis. “She was always trouble. Mean like her daddy.”
“I’ve certainly heard that,” said the other one. “Louellen, you know, the dressmaker.”
“Oh yes, I know the one. Down on Eighth.”
“Right. Well, she told me Frances was practically violent one afternoon when her dress wasn’t ready.”
The other one answered almost before her friend had finished her sentence. “There were all those rumors during her debutante year. Honestly, bless her heart, I didn’t think Clare would ever get her married off after all that.”
“Well there’s only one reason a girl from this kind of family gets married as quickly as she did. And as far as Flora Waller’s coming-out party last year, it is absolutely not a rumor that Frances was found naked in the back of the coat check room with the young man Tuck Waller
had picked out for his daughter. The two of them were practically engaged before Frances ruined it. The way she throws herself at men, it’s disgraceful.”
A snicker, and then, “I’m sure that’s true, but still, it’s terribly sad what happened to the baby.”
“Conceived in sin, I guess God’s obligated to punish.”
The women moved away then, down the stairs. Whitmore felt Jeselle’s hand reach for him, her warm fingers curling around his own. She leaned toward his ear. “Just nasty gossips, that’s all they are, Whit.”
“Do you think they’re right?” he asked Jeselle.
“About what?”
“God punishing Frances for her sins?”
Her voice turned flat. “I don’t know anything about God.”
“What about Nate? He’s a good person.”
“So was my daddy.”
Whitmore didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept quiet.
Next came the sound of Clare’s voice, breathless and strange. “Frank, come quick. There’s been an accident. It’s Nate.”
Chapter 13
Nathaniel
* * *
Nathaniel reclined on a cushioned chaise in Frank’s study, staring at the faces of his wife’s family. They were all here except for Whitmore. “Clare, where’s Whitmore?” he asked. “Is he all right?”
“I asked him to stay upstairs. I was afraid all this would frighten the children.” Clare leaned over him. “Doctor Miller’s going to examine you.”
Frank gave Nathaniel a tumbler of whiskey. “Drink this.”
“I don’t drink.”
“You need it,” Frank said. “Will help with the pain.”
Nathaniel took a timid sip. It burned his throat; he coughed. Why did anyone drink this?
“More,” said Frank.
Frances wrung her hands like she wanted to shake something sticky from the ends of her fingertips. The skirt of her dress had a rip up one side. Strands of her hair were fixed to the red lipstick smeared around her mouth.
Clare looked at her steadily, with an expression that Nathaniel could not interpret. Was it distrust or sympathy? Regardless, Clare moved to her daughter and drew her down onto the window seat. “Shush darlin’, you’re safe now.”
“Frances, the man who did this, had you seen him before?” asked Nathaniel.
Frances’s voice matched the trembling of her lips. “I’m not sure. I can’t remember a thing.”
Clare stood and moved about the study. “He’s most likely one of the vagabonds that loiter around looking for summer work.” Back at the window, she turned toward Frances, her eyes sharp. “What were you doing up there?”
Frances shrugged like a child, staring at the floor. “Taking a walk.”
Clare’s next words hit the air like shards of ice. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know.” With the same tremor in her voice, Frances’s face crumpled as she began to sob.
Frank set down his drink and sat beside his daughter. “Stop it now.” He tapped her forearm with the tips of his fingers, once, twice as if he were checking the temperature on a stove.
“I’m telling you it wasn’t my fault,” Frances whispered. She looked over at Nathaniel. “Nate, tell her.”
Clare’s voice dipped low into her register, resigned. “He doesn’t need to tell me anything.”
Frances raised her head. The tears were gone as quickly as they’d come. “Do you think I care what you think of me?” Her tone matched her mother’s. In the next second, she turned her gaze toward the door. Her eyes darted to and fro, manic. “No one can know what almost happened to me. Even though it wasn’t my fault, people will talk.”
“Well, of course,” said Frank. “No one needs to know anything about this.”
Before anyone could speak, Dr. Miller came in, carrying a black medical bag. He knelt, examining the wound. “Son, can you move your fingers?”
“No.”
“The knife sliced through a tendon, I’m afraid.” Dr. Miller reached into his bag and pulled out two bandages.
“What do you think, Doc? It’ll heal, right?” Frank stood, lurking near the window, his usual authoritative manner replaced with an uncertain tone.
“I don’t know. Needs surgery.” The doctor began to wrap Nathaniel’s arm, applying pressure to the wound.
Nathaniel searched the doctor’s face. “Will I be able to play Carnegie Hall next month?”
The doctor rolled the unused bandage into a ball, not meeting Nathaniel’s gaze. “Son, not for me to say.” He shifted his gaze to Clare, his voice and eyes grave. “Y’all need to get Nathaniel to a hospital tonight. A surgeon needs to take a look at this arm. I’m just a family physician, and this kind of thing’s beyond my expertise.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll go to the kitchen to use your phone and call ahead to a hospital in Atlanta. I have a surgeon friend there.”
Dr. Miller gathered his bag and left the room. Frank came to Nathaniel and patted his shoulder. “Now, Nate, everything’s going to be fine.” He swallowed the last of his drink and moved to the bar, where he poured himself another.
“Clare, we need to call the sheriff. Someone needs to know there’s a dead body up there.” Nathaniel’s voice sounded tinny and unfamiliar inside his own head. Had he spoken this out loud? Had the lights dimmed? Everything seemed to have a gray film over it.
They all stared at him as if he’d said something odd or incomprehensible. “A man is dead. Do you understand?”
“It was an accident,” said Frances, small now on the bench. Had she shrunk? Would she disappear altogether?
Finally Frank waved his hand like he was swatting a mosquito. “Don’t you worry ’bout that, Son. We’ll take care of everything.”
Chapter 14
Jeselle
* * *
Jeselle and Whitmore, forbidden by Mrs. Bellmont to come downstairs, watched the front of the house from Mrs. Bellmont’s study. The guests left, one by one, either on foot or in cars that lurched and weaved down the dirt road. After they were all gone, Nate, cradling his arm against his chest and followed closely by Dr. Miller, got into the Rolls Royce, where Martin was waiting behind the wheel. “Something’s happened to his arm, Whit,” she said.
“Has he broken it?” asked Whit.
She didn’t answer. The Bellmonts’ car disappeared into the darkness just as another car sped up the driveway, parking in the spot just vacated. Jeselle leaned closer to the window, then gasped. It was the sheriff. The car’s engine went quiet, and a second later the sheriff got out as Mr. Bellmont approached.
Shaking, Jeselle reached for Whit’s hand. His palms were sweaty. Why wouldn’t anyone tell them what had happened?
The sheriff was a tall, skinny man with a handlebar mustache. A wide-brimmed hat drooped low on his forehead. Mr. Bellmont shook the sheriff’s hand. They spoke for a moment, heads together, until Mr. Bellmont pointed toward the lake. The sheriff nodded and took off his hat, holding it near his chest and gazing toward the ground as if listening intently. Mr. Bellmont looked around, to each side of him and behind him, like Jeselle and Whit when they stole an extra cookie from the jar, and pulled out a wad of bills from his jacket pocket. He handed them to the sheriff, who stuffed the money in his pocket like it was hot and put his hat back on before getting in his car and driving away.
“Why did Father give the sheriff money?” asked Whit.
“To get him to hide something?”
“What did Frances do?” asked Whit. “It has to be Frances.”
“I’m going to sneak downstairs. Maybe I can figure out what’s happening.”
Whitmore turned back to the window. “I’ll wait here. I want to be sure to be here when Nate gets back. In case he needs me.”
Jeselle had a feeling he wouldn’t be back tonight but didn’t want to say that. She walked down the hall, passing by the bedrooms. Frances’s door was open an inch. She stopped, watching for a moment. Frances sat at her dressing table comb
ing her hair and looking at herself, making pouty lips and examining herself from all different angles.
Downstairs were the remnants of a party: empty glasses, a forgotten sweater on the railing, a dropped earring by the coat closet. The extra servants hired for the occasion collected glasses, emptied ashtrays, and mopped the floors. Nathaniel’s piano was still in the middle of the room, the bench askew and the cover propped open like it was waiting for her master to return at any moment.
She found Mama and Mrs. Bellmont huddled together near the kitchen sink, speaking in low voices, with their backs to the doorway. Mrs. Bellmont clung to the edge of the sink as if she might fall over otherwise. Jeselle made herself invisible, hiding behind the open door and watching through the crack.
Clare spoke in a halting voice, explaining everything to Mama. Frances was attacked on one of the trails. Just in time, Nathaniel had come upon them, but the man stabbed him, injuring his arm.
Jeselle held her breath, thinking of Nathaniel cradling his arm. She began to pray silently. Please, God, let his hand be all right. But then, Mrs. Bellmont said the most terrifying thing of all—something unimaginable.
“While they were struggling, the man fell and split his head open on a rock. He’s dead.”
Mama’s hands were at her mouth. “Dead?”
“Yes, and Cassie, the worst part is, Frank and Doc Miller went up there, to…to see about the body.” She let out a long, shaky breath. “It’s Fred Wilder.”
“That worthless gardener? He was here this morning, lazy as ever.” Mama looked toward the garden, as if she could see Fred Wilder there, pulling weeds. “Lawd have mercy.”
Jeselle’s breath caught. That very afternoon she had been in Mr. Bellmont’s bedroom, tidying and making the bed up with fresh linens, while the rest of the house took a rest. Using the footstool, she dusted above the window frame and along the curtain rod. Like Whit’s room, Mr. Bellmont’s faced the back of the house, and from up there she could see almost the entire garden. It was then that Jeselle noticed Frances talking with someone behind the large magnolia bush. Jeselle squinted, curious, and was surprised to see it was Fred Wilder. Seeing him always brought a shiver. Now Frances was waving her hand in the air, gesturing at something. Probably giving him instructions on the flowers, as if she knew anything about them, Jeselle thought. They were the perfect pair. He’s stupid, and she’s mean.
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