Closing the door behind him, she leaned against it, closing her eyes momentarily to erase the images of his muscled arms beneath rolled-up sleeves, the smudges of grease on his face. A little like the stains of battle smoke from when Jackson the fictional character slipped across enemy lines...
This was ridiculous. This Jackson was attractive, obviously–and well-rounded and interesting, perhaps–but he wasn't a Civil War hero or the dream-like fantasy in her stories. He wasn't the familiar face of her fiancé; he was without any connection to her life except with regards to the flower bed visible outside her window.
Apparently, Jackson the handyman/landscaper had failed to get any of the units in working order, for Amy's room was still sweltering by evening. Her fingers sticking faintly to the keys of the typewriter as she pounded away on the scenes of Antonia's life.
*****
Elise the creative coordinator's main focus on Thursday was flowers: gorgeous, scented blooms which were coincidentally also being featured in the magazine's garden feature when not in use for the wedding design. She had been up since three in the morning, Mathilda informed Amy, working to finish her display for the upcoming ceremony.
True to his word, Greg arrived bright and early, if not at the crack of dawn. He emerged from his cab to embrace an excited Amy before retrieving his laptop case from the passenger seat.
"Where's your luggage?" she asked, confused by the small size of his bag.
He shrugged. "I can't stay tonight," he answered, with a disappointed smile. "Two of my students have advisor meetings on Saturday and I'm supposed to deliver a summer lecture on Civil War military theory Monday evening and haven't written more than a couple of lines yet." His arm wrapped around her shoulder as they strolled towards the house.
"It's something, isn't it?" he said. Her fingers squeezed his own in response.
"I know," she said. "Aren't we lucky? It's like ... it's like..."
"It's like that picture in Lee's Surrender," said Greg. "You know the one I mean...it was near the site of a major campaign by McClellan."
Amy had no idea what he meant, since the general's career was nothing more than a vague fact in her knowledge. "I don't remember," she answered.
"Sure you do. I loaned you the book," he said. Since this could be any number of volumes with highlighted passages which had passed briefly into her possession, she chose to let this remark slide past.
With her arm tucked through Greg's, she felt more secure as she strolled the grounds. Her heart lightening in response to being a romantic couple as opposed to only herself enjoying it. The aura of the lonely woman tourist wandering in search of a handsome hero was erased by the presence of an attractive fiancé, she imagined.
"We're having dinner in town with Sophia tonight," she explained to him. "I've sworn off working on my book for this weekend, so today is entirely ours. The creative team is going to show off the flowers for the ceremony, we're going to have tea on the veranda..."
"It sounds like something out of a novel," he said. "Having tea, I mean. I didn't realize people still did that anymore." He looked at her, a quizzical smile on his face.
"It's part of the charm of this place," she answered. "I mean, it's iced tea, but still..." His cell phone trilled in the midst of this statement. He whipped it out and snapped it open.
"Willey here. Yes–yes, I am still in the market. He did? No, that's not a problem, I can match that..." He held up one finger pleadingly to Amy, who refrained from rolling her eyes as she imagined the antiquities dealer in some vast metal warehouse of treasures, his desk stationed right next to the Civil War sword's case as he took interested inquiries down like a bookie taking bets.
"All right, I'll call you back by then." Greg closed his phone and turned to Amy. "Would you believe it? Now Ferguson is horning in on this sword. Something about a gift for his college mentor. I mean, I would've expected his competition on that surgeon's kit from Bull Run–"
"Could we ... maybe talk about this later?" Amy pleaded. "Greg, we're here in one of the most romantic places I've ever been and I would prefer to talk about us instead." She interlaced her fingers with his, gazing pleadingly into his face.
He relaxed. "You're right. No swords. Banished for the rest of the day." His hand waved as if to cut off the topic by slicing through its imaginary form in the air.
"What time do you have to call back?" Amy asked, attempting to avoid the note of suspicion threatening to creep into her voice.
"By five." He pocketed his cell phone and followed her lead in the direction of the garden walkways bordered by trimmed rose shrubs.
A tiny sigh escaped her, dispelled only by the sunlight and the roses, the reassuring pressure of Greg's hand in her own.
"You really think it's beautiful here?" she asked, sneaking a glance at him. "You're not just saying that to cut me off from waxing eloquently about the place or anything?"
"I do," he answered. "I mean, I wouldn't want to live here or anything. But it's got a lot of appeal as a vacation spot." He glanced at her. "That's what you meant, right?"
"Right," she answered. It wasn't as if she intended for them to live in a place like this–after all, how did one come into possession of one of these? Not on an associate professor and genre writer's salaries, that was for certain. No wonder this place had spent most of the modern era as a hotel; undoubtedly the modern-day Sawtelle family was planning to pawn it off as a museum in the future, since they probably didn't have the means to live in a mansion of a dozen bedrooms.
The greenhouse was just beyond the hedges, where rows of rose trees were visible in ornamental beds. A pleasant hum filled the air, as if the blossoms were alive with activity in the morning sunlight, although Amy's attention was fixed on the scene just beyond them.
Elise had created a virtual canopy of lilac. Thick lavender-colored blossoms woven together, affixed to wire hoops which traveled to a ceremony stage decked in pink roses and long sprigs of abelia blossoms. Her team was stringing pink ribbons along the archway, strewing white petals along the carpet until the approach of Amy and Greg drew their attention.
"Welcome," said Elise, whose red hair was in a long ponytail as she bent over a table piled with showy flower displays. "Perfect timing. This is the finished design for your Southern extravaganza wedding march, the altar where you'll exchange your vows–and your bouquet design, Amy."
As she spoke, she unfurled a thick bouquet of yellow and lavender blossoms. Sprays of white baby's breath were mixed in, miniature pink roses studding the bundle of flowers spilling over a cut crystal vase.
"It's amazing," breathed Amy, as the coordinator beamed.
"In your book, Antonia's favorite color is yellow, so we incorporated as much of it as we could in the design," Elise said. "Now, Sophia's bouquet is a little smaller but very similar, as you can see. And while we're still tweaking the flower canopy, I think by the wedding day you'll be very, very pleased with the results. As will our editor, who needs these photos to be perfect for the piece."
"They're nice," said Greg, who propped his sunglasses on his head as he bent closer to the maid of honor's bouquet. "Did you design all these yourself?"
Elise blushed–a common reaction women had to Greg, Amy had noticed over the years– and glanced away modestly. "Well, I have a creative team at my disposal–and the gardening staff of Wild Egret was really helpful this time. In fact, one of the employees selected the forsythia blossoms that we're using in the bouquet." She pointed in the direction of a gardener busy pulling weeds from a flower bed beside the greenhouse. He lifted his hand and waved, his familiar figure causing Amy to avert her eyes momentarily from the scene.
"Incredible," said Greg. He snapped a cell phone photo as Amy lifted her bouquet from the vase and inhaled the lavender blossoms deeply before lowering it again.
"What's that sound?" she said, for the first time taking notice of the drone in the air around them.
"Oh, bees," answered Elise. "The place is crawling w
ith them today due to some kind of pollen count, I guess. The hotel manager told me to be glad it's them and not the mosquitoes." She laughed.
"Bees?" repeated Greg, who looked slightly alarmed. "How many?" He glanced around at the rose shrubs and mimosa trees around them, half-fearfully.
"Um, a lot," answered Elise. "Does that matter?" She frowned.
"He's allergic–" began Amy, but trailed off as a little yellow ball emerged from one of the blossoms in her bouquet. Then another one, their small fuzzy forms bearing brownish stripes beneath transparent wings.
"Oh," said Amy, softly, her voice trembling a little. She moved to put the bouquet down–but not before the first bee drifted upwards and landed on Greg's nose. He twitched–violently– then uttered a little yelp and swatted as the bee took off again.
"Greg?" she asked, concerned. Elise swatted her hand at a couple more bees which had joined them from the nearby roses.
"I've always heard if a bee stings you, it dies shortly afterwards," she said, "Is that true?"
"I hope so." Greg's voice was faint with this response, due to a sudden breathlessness. He pitched forward in a faint as a shrieking Amy dropped her flower and dove beneath the cloud of random bees drifting around the canopy of flowers.
*****
"Feeling better?" Amy held her fiancé’s hand in the ambulance as it gently swayed en route to the nearest hospital. His nose was swollen to twice its normal size, she couldn't help but notice, squeezing his eyes into two small dots.
"I've been worse," he answered, thickly. "Outdoors is not for me." After these two short statements, he closed his eyes.
"We've given your fiancé two allergy shots and he seems to be responding," said the medic. "He'll probably have to stay overnight for observation, then he's free to go."
"He'll miss his flight," she answered, vaguely, her mind elsewhere. In response to this statement, Greg squeezed her fingers.
"Seven or eight a.m.," he said. "Book it." He had moved his oxygen mask aside again for this statement, then fixed it in place.
The doctor at the hospital confirmed the medic's statements, leaving Amy only a few minutes to reassure Greg before booking a morning flight for him at his insistence. Apparently students with a crisis of conviction over their future major couldn't be postponed, although she had a glimmer of curiosity to know if he was really rushing back to secure General Stuart's sword against further plans by the surgeon who was undercutting him in its purchase.
She phoned Greg's friend to tell him not to show up at the airport until morning; she phoned Sophia to cancel dinner, then the antiques dealer who had an annoying habit of dialing Greg's number repeatedly with updates about rival inquiries and the auction's schedule.
"I was under the impression he wanted to know the minute I heard anything," the man informed her, defensively.
"Well, he's in the hospital for the next fourteen hours, so I think you can let it go for awhile," she snapped, feeling irritable with herself and this innocent party as she hung up. These small tasks consumed most of her day, until thoughts of flower arbors and bouquets streaming past a Southern belle wedding dress were long forgotten.
She called a cab from the hospital, enduring a long and silent ride back to the Wild Egret. Sunset had settled over the plantation except for the faint glow of twilight spreading overhead like a dome creeping slowly over the brilliant horizon.
"Keep the change," she told the driver, after handing him a bill from her purse. He tipped his hat before shifting into reverse and pulling away.
Her feet, instead of carrying her in the direction of the Wild Egret's front entrance, drifted in the direction of the river walkway beyond it. The shrubs lining the path rustled against her blue chiffon dress spreading over its crinoline petticoats, the gravel crunching beneath her low-heeled sandals.
Weeping willows hung in pale curtains beaded with leaves, almost touching the water along the edges. Where they parted, a dock was visible extending over the waves, the water tinged with gold glints from the dying light as it lapped against the posts.
Amy crossed the weathered boards and stood on the edge, letting the breeze fan her ruffled skirts and draw her curls softly away from her face. Eyes closed, face tilted up towards the faint pink light as it disappeared from view beneath the growing darkness.
The first stars above, a yellow moon glowing above the trees ... now was a perfect moment for a romantic whose fantasies included moonlight and southern breezes. Except for the fact her romantic partner had departed via ambulance only a few hours ago.
She lingered there a moment longer, then opened her eyes. The moonlight seemed brighter, now faintly reflected in a wavering circle on the water's surface. She turned and walked towards the house again, leaving behind the lulling motion of the water.
Crossing the green lawn, she gazed at the rear view of the Wild Egret, the interlocking branches of smoke trees and glossy dark magnolias. Did a part of her want to be in a place like this forever? It did, she realized; there was no tie in Atlanta other than the fact she had lived there practically forever, even when her mother had moved elsewhere. Her cramped apartment filled with mementoes of the ultimate Southern romance–she would trade it for this, if she could.
"Why can't life always be like this?" she asked, although in a voice which was modulated for an invisible companion beside her. Standing before the house, her arms spread as her face tilted upwards to the moonlight and soft Southern breeze. The magic, the beauty, the possibility that epic love stories could come true in a place like this–
Her thoughts got no further, cut off by a sudden shower of cold water. Sprinklers leaping to life in a wall of frigid droplets sucked from a deep, cold cistern, apparently. With a shriek, she veered away from it, only to be struck full-force in the face by another tide. They fired to life on all sides as she shielded her eyes with one arm.
"Great," she sputtered. She took a step towards the house, then felt her foot slide on the slick grass. Her high-heeled sandal slipped, toppling her backwards onto the wet lawn.
Crawling to her feet, she winced as she tried to put weight on her foot. The ankle was throbbing, the smarting pain of muscle and joint bent in an unwilling direction, requiring a little time and a soothing soak to unwind. Her arms spread out as she hopped forward a step, trying to balance her weight.
That's when she felt the curve of a strong arm beneath her shoulders. With a gasp of surprise, she veered away, only to feel a hand tighten its hold around her midriff.
"Hang on," said a male voice near her ear. "I'll just help you out of this." Jackson the handyman gardener was steering her gently in the direction of the house, supporting her weight against his own.
His muscles were as strong as she had imagined, causing a blush of indignation to infuse her cheeks. Not that he would notice in the dark, in the midst of an icy storm of water.
"Thank you," she gasped, now that she was free of the sprinkler's aim. She tried to draw away from him, the heels of her sandals rolling as her slick feet maneuvered for traction beneath the straps.
"You're not gonna get far with those," he answered, continuing to support her. "Come on, I'll get you inside so you can sit down."
"I can't go in like this!" she protested. "I'm soaking wet, I'll ruin the furniture."
He snorted. "It's just a chair, it'll be fine."
"Is that what Mr. Sawtelle or whoever would say?" she said. "Maybe you should think about that before you give such a quick answer about someone's stuff."
He smiled, faintly. "I don't think anybody'll care," he answered. As she tried to limp away on her own, he slid his arm beneath her shoulders again. "But if you feel that way, let's get you dried off first." He half-carried her as her spiky heels wobbled and sank, in the damp lawn. Her weight resting against a figure firm and swoon-worthy, she thought, with the appreciation of Jackson the spy-turned-hero's creator.
Shoving open a door on the back veranda, he helped her into the dark interior. In the gloom, he
r eyes made out the shape of a stone bench, several large plants looming like shadows with broad leaves and pale blossoms. The hotel conservatory, she surmised.
He lowered her weight onto the bench. In the reflection of moonlight through the glass panes, she could see the contours of his face, the presence of a muscular form beneath the plaid work shirt plastered against his skin.
"If we get these off, then you'll have an easier time getting around." Instead of standing, he dropped to a crouching position at her feet. She felt his fingers fumble with the straps of her high-heeled shoes. Slipping one off, then the other, the leather and metal buckles clattering against the stone floor.
"Thank you," she said. There was something subtly different about her voice, she realized. He glanced up at her, meeting her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary. She could see the droplets of water clinging to his skin, to the damp hair spiking away from his forehead.
Kneeling at her feet in this fashion, close enough that they could touch, she felt a shiver travel through her frame. Not from the coolness of the sprinkler's water, either. She held her breath, as if afraid to break apart this moment. The cliff's edge of romance, even with the wrong person in the wrong place, with every thread of her conscience knowing it was wrong.
Instead of replying to her words, Jackson climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness. She could hear his footsteps pass from this room into another, the flash of light from an open corridor. A moment later, the sound of him returning, a soft fabric fold draped across her shoulders.
"Dry off with that," he said. Her hands reached up and touched the edges of a blanket.
"Where is this from?" she asked, drawing it around her.
"Linen closet's just on the other side of that service door," he answered, moving into view again.
Gone With the Wedding Page 5
