Lies, deception, greed, lust, shame. Those significant words reminded her of what she’d brought into her own life. Two sheets of paper slipped out from behind. Carefully, she eased apart the thick paper, old and spotted. This one had no date, but as she read on, she was filled with sorrow and pain.
Marcie skimmed through; she managed to decipher the author as Isabel Marie Chamblee, daughter of Emiline and Benjamin Chamblee. She grew up on a plantation in the southern parish of Terrebonne. Her words were cold when she made brief mention of the slaves they owned, as if they were a herd of cattle to be fed and worked.
I met Jerome in the summer of 1813. He came with Privateers Jean Lafitte, Barney Swade who conducted business with my father. I fell in love with him the moment I saw him. My father knew. That’s why he forbade me to marry him and threatened to send me away. Daddy hated Jerome, said he was an Acadian with a questionable business practice. I disobeyed him and snuck away one night with Jerome. We married in a quiet ceremony in New Orleans with only Jean Lafitte and Barney Swade attending.
Jean is an amazing man. I always thought of him as larger than life. I overheard him warn Jerome of the consequences of crossing my father. Jean urged him to move to his compound for protection, only Jerome was adamant we move to Grande Isle where he had built a comfortable home. My darling husband refused Jean’s generosity. Jerome believed it was necessary to keep business at a distance. He’s so protective, and it bothers him so, to leave me for weeks and months on end. He hired staff to care for me while he’s gone, a cook and a maid. He refused to use slaves. Although both the cook and maid are octoroons, he pays them a wage. They still address him as “Massar”. He remains indisputable, with his moral lines drawn, about owning another human being.
I overheard disagreements between Jean and Jerome, when Jerome refused to take slaves as cargo. Even though Jean and other lieutenants brought them in. Instead, he’s limited his cargo to the non-human for, even though, what they took was not their own.
The next packet was another journal. This one not dated. After a closer look, Marcie realized she’d read out of order.
Jean arrived with my father’s cousin, Rand Morison, with news Jerome had deceived me. He stole from Jean. The evidence was found in his possession. I don’t know what to do. I’m large with child and expect to deliver any day, Jerome’s child—my child. I’ve cried until I have nothing left. My shame is so great. And Rand has been so kind to me through all this, assuring me that he cares for me and vows not to rest until he exposes the truth. He said he had suspicions for some time, and when he visited his good friend, he discovered the truth. It was irrefutable evidence. Jerome was a slave, a mulatto. Although he appeared white, even with a mass of golden hair, his skin held a hint of dark complexion he brushed off to his Acadian ancestry. Rand said that was fabricated. As it’s illegal for a black man to marry a white woman, it will be annulled. Rand said he would take care of it.
I still cannot believe it's true, until he showed me the evidence. His mother an escaped slave owned by George Harklin, 28 years prior. Jerome 26, his mother now dead, but she was named Letty. Rand showed me the papers. Jean was furious and vowed I’d be looked after. I’m still in shock and ashamed to admit, as I pour my heart into this journal, my love for Jerome is still there. He was my first breath in the morning. I don’t know how I’ll survive. I pray this isn’t true, and that I’ll wake up and this was just a bad dream, a nightmare. Please dear God, spare me this pain, for me and for my child. I cannot go home. I have not heard from my father in over a year, since I left with Jerome. Although he sent word through Rand, he’ll never forgive me for my transgression.
Rand and Jean both assured me my child would be spared. The state legislature laws are clear, under the mother it fell. The blood factor and association, the physical appearance, less than a quarter African mixture, the child is legally white. They vowed no one will know. Oh dear God, please take this pain from me, how could he do this to me? Damn him to hell.
Weakened and sick from what she read, Marcie knew the truth had been manipulated for someone’s vengeance. Flooded by a wave of hostility at Isabel’s ignorance, she wanted to reach through time and shake the woman senseless. How could she believe all those lies about the man she loved? How could she turn her back on Jerome? A desperate need to somehow balance right compelled her to keep reading.
Isabel suffered alone and silent, pouring out her heart in her journal. She referred fondly to Rand as an attentive suitor, who stayed close to her. She’d done her best to close her mind to Jerome although she ached for him constantly. Her words on paper fought those feelings, replaced with hatred for his perceived betrayal.
Isabel confessed to whispers she overheard, Jerome was, in fact, in the Cabildo, awaiting hanging. Isabel’s words became colder and focused on her child, Jemmie. The spitting image of his father although he carried the light complexion of his mother. She thanked the Lord for that much. Pain and longing befell her each time she looked upon him. She battled a conscious effort to banish Jerome from her mind. Only Rand in his tender concern for her kept her sane.
The journal continued until the last entry.
February 28, 1825.
I cannot believe what I’ve discovered. Who was the betrayer? Rand. May God forgive me for what I’ve done. I lost faith in you, Jerome. My beloved Jerome, please forgive me. I don’t know how to protect our child. I still cannot believe what I found in Rand’s letter. I put it back, as I’m fearful of what he’ll do to our child. He lied about you. You were setup. My dearest Jerome, I pray you’re looking down and watching over him. How could I not believe in you? I didn’t know the evil that lurks in this man to fabricate what he did. I found my father’s letter to Rand along with forged documents. You were not an escaped slave, and you never stole from Jean. Jerome, you never lied. You were a victim as were I and our child and separated by the vengeance of two men. My father vowed to destroy you for taking me, and I’d never have believed him capable of such a heinous act. He schemed this whole downfall to keep us apart. Jean’s stolen goods were planted, by Rand’s orders. My father and Rand, how they managed to deceive Jean, I cannot fathom. My father sent Rand to seek me out, to make me his, part of my father’s reprisal.
I don’t know where to go. I cannot go home. Jemmie and I live on Grand Terre with Rand. He’s now my husband and he’ll not allow me to leave. My father’s plan all along was for Rand to be my husband.
Jerome, I have betrayed you, as if I pulled the trigger myself. I don’t know what to do, but I’ll confront him tonight when he returns. Jean’s gone. I don’t know when he’ll return. Does he know, or was he deceived too?
Marcie closed the journal. Emptiness and a horrible loss filled every inch of her. But she’d swear this heartache belonged to Isabel. Marcie grabbed the entire stack of letters and rifled through them.
What was her connection to all this? Deep down she felt the wind stirring as she ripped open the remaining papers, letters. The bed scattered with papers, in chaotic chronological order of what happened to Isabel, to Jerome. At the bottom of one letter was someone’s scribbled note, Benjamin Chamblee, check the lineage from Gabrielle, sister, mother of Rand Morison? Lost track, found granddaughter merged with the Renard’s relocated to Washington State in a new farm community 1912. She didn’t recognize the handwriting.
“No it can’t be. The Renard’s were my daddy’s people.” She couldn’t make out the rest. It appeared like chicken scratch. She rummaged through the papers, journals, but Marcie could find nothing else. What she didn’t understand was why Jerome came to her and guided her to these letters. What was he trying to show her?
“What are you doing?” She was so absorbed in what she read, she didn’t hear Sam come in..
“Sam, come here. Look what I found.” She showed the rough-penned family tree. “Do you have any idea who did this?” He squinted and then went to the wall and flicked on the overhead light. She glanced toward the open window. Night had s
ettled in. It would be a full moon tonight.
“Could be my granddaddy’s writing, I’ve seen it on some legal documents I was sent.” Sam was a proud man who stood so tall and broad shouldered. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to be held by him. She felt secure and protected around him, even with the hardness in his face, as he quietly read. What was he thinking? She needed to see his eyes. She watched his reaction closely, when she handed him the next page. The chicken scratch and family name she knew all too well. Barely a second passed before his eyes locked on hers. Well, well, so he knows my daddy’s history too.
Chapter Twenty-five
Marcie slid open the window and popped out the screen, setting it on the floor. She slid a chair under the window and climbed through. Her feet dangled from the main floor window before she jumped, landing in the dirt barely missing an azalea bush. She paused and listened, no movement, nothing. Thank goodness, everyone must be asleep.
For the past half hour, Marcie had listened from behind her door. Diane and Jesse had turned in a few hours ago. Sam slept on the sofa in the living room, and his light shimmered under her door. When he’d finally turned off the lights, she’d waited in agony, the longest hour of her life. It left time to think. And that she didn’t want to do. So she shut her head down, instead summoning the strength and determination to focus on tonight’s strategy. Time was a factor, and she needed to get to as many gardens as she could. Give Dan his damn weed and get him the hell out of their lives. And Sam, she’d do everything in her power to make sure Dan didn’t hurt him. Whatever it takes, I’ll protect you.
Dressed in snug Levi’s, a long sleeve T-shirt under her dark fleece hoodie and laced up hiking boots, Marcie set out at a jog. The full moon provided enough light on the secluded back road. Thank God, she knew the area well. She glanced at her watch, close to midnight. She broke out in a run. Marcie still couldn’t figure out how Dan knew about Diane. Maybe his connections ran deeper than she suspected. Could it be possible, was he in Lance Silver’s back pocket? With Sandra involved, it was more than conceivable. She skidded a little when she rounded a bend on a downward slope. And saw the outside lights blazing in front of the rural volunteer fire hall, a half-mile from Diane’s, where a dark SUV was parked.
The interior light shimmered when the driver’s door popped open. Maggie McCafferty, Richards devoted wife, stepped out and walked around the rear of the SUV. Maggie was a slender, vibrant woman, with rich dark curly hair that brushed her shoulders. She glowed with such inner beauty you warmed in her presence. She loved her husband and children fiercely. A weakness Dan, no doubt, used to his advantage.
Marcie’s feet ached, but she didn’t stop until she stood right in front of Maggie, who glowed under the fluorescent shimmering moon.
“Well Dan was right. He’d said you’d be waiting for me here at the fire hall. Oh Maggie, what are you doing involved in this mess?” She wanted to shake her, send her home; instead she gathered her in a long, hard hug
“Richard and I love you and have ever since Dan brought you into our life. You don’t think I didn’t know what you were doing with him. Come on Marcie, I’ve been watching for a while, sitting by the sidelines. Richard likes to pretend Dan’s sideline won’t affect their partnership. But his marijuana grow ops—he’s gone bigger. He’s out of control. Dan made it no secret; you volunteered to help him grow.”
Maggie’s whole body tensed as she stepped back, swiping at the dampness glistening like silver under her eyes.
“Maggie, how did Dan get you involved in this? What did he say to you?”
Maggie’s lips trembled, her face a mirage of emotions. She hid nothing from those she loved. She shoved her fingers through her thick curly hair and tilted her face up at the moon.
“His back’s to the wall, and he knows things about Richard that could put him in jail.”
“What things?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“He said Richard burned down the house on their property.”
“What? No way, Dan started it. He had the motive. Did Richard tell you he did it?”
Maggie had the most beautiful dark toffee colored eyes, glistening as another tear fell. She waved Marcie off, shutting her eyes and then opening them when hardness set her face.
“Stop! You think I’m that much of a fool. Richard was furious when he found out Dan promised that piece of shit house to Sandra, just so she have a group home for some severely disabled kids. The woman’s seriously sick, neck deep in the marijuana underworld and is using a bunch of defenseless kids to give herself a picture perfect front.”
“Look Maggie, we were all mad. But I can assure you Richard couldn’t have…”
“He has proof, Marcie.” She crossed her arms over her down vest and shivered. “I’m not standing out here all night arguing with you. Get in the truck. Dan said to meet you here and I have to deliver everything you cut to Sandra. We have less than six hours. Let’s finish this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, so you need to tell me.” Even in the darkness, Maggie’s eyes reached out and pleaded.
“Richard doesn’t know you’re here.”
Maggie shook her head. “He’s on the mainland at some auction. Dan made sure he’d be gone. I asked Mom to stay over and watch the kids. Told her I was going out with a friend, girl’s night out. I have to be back before the sun’s up.”
This went against everything Marcie believed, involving someone as innocent to the drug scene as Maggie. “Sandra’s house is an extension built onto Dan’s shop. We need to go there first. That’s where Dan stashed my dirt bike. It’s my only way in. My gardens are remote, and we can’t get your truck close enough. After we go to Sandra’s our first stop’s in the state park. You wait for me at the end of the road, by the gravel lot. If at any time you see cops, you cut and run.”
“See that wasn’t so hard. Marcie, you cut the marijuana, give it to Dan, and then you and I are going to walk away. And we’ll never speak of this again.”
Maggie walked around her SUV with her shoulders hunched. Marcie followed and climbed in the passenger side. “Maggie, I hope it’ll be that simple…” She started to say more, to tell her Dan’s a monster; he has a bigger plan, there’d always be something, but she slammed her mouth shut. “You’re right, Maggie, this is the end.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“Do we knock on her door?” Maggie parked in front of the darkened shop and the attached new bungalow with tree green hardie plank siding and cedar trim around the windows. A cute house, if it were anywhere else. Maggie switched off her headlights. Inside the house, lights blazed through the shuttered blinds of the front window.
“I’m not knocking. There’s a key under a rock beside the shop door.” Marcie jerked open her door. “I don’t know about you, but I prefer to have as little contact with Sandra as possible.”
By the time they reached the shop door, the outside security lights blazed like a two hundred watt bulb, right before an industrial strength door popped open.
Sandra Carter filled the doorway. A short, overweight blonde with long layered hair swept over her shoulders in the current style all the divas paraded dangled a wine cooler between the fingers of her right hand.
“Come on in Marcie, Dan told me you’d be coming by.” Her voice cut with a subtle arrogance as she turned her back and waddled into the crammed shop filled with tools, boxes, a pool table, workbenches and two dirt bikes. The sliding glass door leading into the house was wide open.
“Is Dan around?”
Sandra downed her entire cooler and dumped the empty on the pool table. “No, he’s far too busy, he doesn’t have time to drive way out here.”
Although Marcie was relieved, Sandra’s deliberate poke, Dan had no time for her, still smarted.
“Take the duffel bags and backpacks over on the workbench.” Sandra pulled open an old yellow fridge, grabbed another wine cooler and twisted off the cap. Sh
e took a long swig and then pointed her finger at both dirt bikes. “Dan told me to tell you to use either one.”
A moan drifted through the open door.
“Is someone here?” Maggie stood so close, her warm breath fluttered Marcie’s hair. Marcie had been to Dan’s shop only a few times, but each time she was amazed at all the boy toys, trophy’s, chain saws and sporting equipment, piled on shelves around the shop. This truly was a man’s piece of heaven.
Unhurried, Sandra shuffled back into her house. Marcie and Maggie followed across the cement floor.
“Oh James, you threw up again.” Sandra showed no emotion as she thumped her wine cooler on the long cream-colored counter in the kitchen. She wore blue jeans and a plain blouse. She swayed in her walk the way overweight people do, as if each step’s an effort.
She picked up a towel draped over a blue easy chair in the open living room. Two teens were strapped to their black wheelchairs. Each of their heads lolled. Only one could make eye contact with Marcie. Sandra wiped the vomit dripping down one boy’s chin, soaking his orange shirtfront. “Look at the mess you made. Your tummy’s upset. Well, let me wipe it up. It’s probably time for your meds.”
Revulsion and despair ached in Marcie’s bones.
“What are you doing with these kids?” Maggie stepped around Marcie in the open concept living area, with two overstuffed sofas, all open to a spacious dining area and kitchen. Behind Maggie was a short hallway with two doors, one led to a large bedroom, the other a bathroom. The walls were painted a camel brown, adorned with family photos and Mexican artwork.
Sandra didn’t make eye contact. “I’m looking after them. After all someone has to. These poor kids have no one to advocate for them. No one cares about them. Our government cuts funding and closed group homes. I’m the only chance these kids have.” Sandra showed no emotion as she carried a feeding tube and medication, over to a dark haired boy, whose head now lulled side to side.
The Choice Page 19
