Ciji Ware (13 page)

“Georgia… Georgia… the who-le da-ay through…”

As the rich, velvety musical tones filled the tent, Daphne closed her eyes and gave herself over to the song’s wonderful rhythms and haunting sentiments. All her cares and worries and frustrations fell away like autumn leaves off a tree, and she reveled in the hush that descended upon the boisterous crowd. The tune she sang was one that male singers performed, mostly, but Daphne never cared about that. She abandoned herself to the nostalgia expressed by the timeless lyrics and the layers of meaning that also conveyed her own longing for a certain style of life she’d grown up with in the South.

“Other arms reach out to me… other eyes smile ten-der-ly…”

At this moment, she opened her eyes and observed King and Corlis staring at her with both pride and amazement. Her gaze slid left, and her heart took an extra beat at the sight of Sim Hopkins watching her intently over the rim of his champagne glass. It was a strangely intimate moment, as if they were still in his bedroom upstairs, or alone in a romantic restaurant in the French Quarter. He held her gaze, and she found herself unable to look away.

“…
still
in
peaceful
dreams
I
see
…
the
road
…
leads
back
…
to
you
…”

A rush of sensuality held her in its grip. For several more bars she sang
to
Sim, communicating to this virtual stranger the longing she felt for some mythical man who could touch her soul with recognition of her own, best self.

When the last notes of harp and voice hung in the air and then faded, there was utter silence in the tent. Then a storm of clapping and wolf whistles ensued, and Daphne felt herself turning scarlet to the roots of her blond curls. She refused all pleas for an encore. Instead, she made a mock curtsy and collapsed into the chair next to Sim.

Althea leaned across the table and declared, “Well, that’s
it
, girl! You are comin’ down to New Orleans, and playin’ with us ’fore you head back to the Big Apple—as a
solo
act. Only, you gotta get yourself some sexier clothes that show off those legs of yours.”

“Amen,” Sim mumbled into her ear.

Daphne cast him a look of mock reproof as King poured her a glass of iced water from a crystal pitcher. She smiled happily and took a large swallow, basking in the glow of praise from all sides of the table.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her mother marching across the dance floor, the coat over her matching sheath snapping like a flag in a storm, heading directly for the bridal party. When she arrived at their table, Antoinette addressed her daughter in a tone laced with anger and bitterness.

“Well, Daphne Duvallon! Once
again
… you certainly made a spectacle of yourself… singin’ like some floozy on a riverboat…
defilin’
that wonderful old harp with such vulgar music! And you, King, eggin’ her on. Isn’t your bride ’sposed to be the focus of attention, here? Isn’t this ’sposed to be
Corlis’s
big day?”

For a fraction of a second, everyone around the table gaped in stunned silence. Corlis’s great-aunt Marge raised an eyebrow beneath her pink silk turban. Aunt Bethany leaned closer to Lafayette Marchand, as if her husband would shield her from her sister’s fury. Daphne stared at her mother in bewilderment, followed by anger, followed by an avalanche of doubt that she’d unwittingly done something absolutely awful to ruin another family wedding.

“Mama—” King warned, but he was interrupted by his bride of two hours.

“Mrs. Duvallon,” Corlis said, her eyes flashing as she stood abruptly and leaned across the pristine linen tablecloth. “This
is
my big day,” she announced with pointed emphasis. “Mine and King’s and Daphne’s and Althea’s and my Aunt Marge’s and Bethany’s and Lafayette’s, and especially our hostess, Mrs. Whitaker.
All
the people you see sitting here who’ve been so kind and loving to us. No one, that I’ve noticed, has made a spectacle of herself at this wedding—except, perhaps,
you
!”

Antoinette’s jaw visibly dropped. Fortunately, the jazz trio had begun to play again, and most guests were already on the dance floor. Corlis inhaled deeply, turned away from the outraged intruder, and addressed the others at her table.

“Well… babycakes,” she said in an exaggerated Southern drawl. “Any of y’all feel like cuttin’ a rug?”

“Like the great wife you are, you’re readin’ m’mind, darlin’,” King declared. He glanced at his mother calmly, and added, “You take care, now, Mama, y’hear?”

Instantly, Sim seized Daphne’s hand and pulled her to her feet. Everyone else quickly followed suit and either headed for the dance floor or the bar. Antoinette Kingsbury Duvallon was left standing alone.

Daphne had no sensation that she was even on the dance floor, let alone held in the sheltering arms of Simon Hopkins. She hadn’t the faintest notion what music they were moving to, other than that it was mercifully slow.

“I take it that was your mother?”

Daphne remained silent for a few seconds. Then she sighed, her lips close to his ear. “That is correct.”

“Well… you Southerners sure know how to throw an exciting party.”

She heaved another sigh, and asked, “Do you feel as if you’ve suddenly been dropped into a Tennessee Williams play, or something?”

“Or something,” Sim agreed. “How long before the bride and groom take off?”

Daphne surveyed the dance floor. Corlis and King were nowhere to be seen.

“Soon, I think. They must be upstairs, changing. They’re going to Venice, Florence, Siena, and Rome,” she said wistfully. “King loves architecture, as you know. Corlis says she just wants to sleep for three weeks, order room service, and be fed pasta in bed.”

“Sounds like the perfect honeymoon.”

“Believe me, with those two, it will be.”

“I liked them both… a lot.”

A moment of awkwardness bloomed suddenly between them. They had known each other less than twenty-four hours, and yet Sim had been privy to Daphne’s most intimate family secrets. Three tables away, Antoinette angrily gathered up her clutch purse and sailed past them on the dance floor without another word.

Sim leaned forward, and spoke softly, “Look, Daphne, you’ve had a pretty rugged day. You haven’t even said if you’ll go to dinner with me tonight, but maybe you’d like to take a rain check…” He allowed his statement to hang in the air.

Daphne wondered if the family dramas had proved too much for the poor guy. Suddenly, fatigue invaded her every pore. “Maybe you’re right…”

“How long are you staying in Natchez?” Sim asked. “We could make it later in the week, if you like.”

So he actually
was
thinking of her welfare, she marveled. She didn’t have a job to go home to. She might as well stay the week.

“Any yellow-rumped warblers in your future tomorrow night?” she inquired, smiling and casting him a sidelong glance. Once again, a slightly Southern inflection had mysteriously crept into her speech, and Daphne began to wonder if she was starting to sound and act like her mother, Queen of Flirts?

“Not after sundown. I’ll find out from Lani Riches how to get to where you’re staying and pick you up about seven, okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Got any restaurant suggestions?”

The music had stopped, and the guests had begun to migrate back into the plantation house. A knot of partygoers congregated in the parlor and front foyer, waiting for the bride and groom to descend the stairs en route to a flower-decked horse and carriage waiting in the circular drive. Daphne knew King’s Jaguar was parked out of sight down the street.

“Well, there’s always the Magnolia Grill…” she ventured. “It’s down by the river and serves every kind of catfish known to man. And then there’s Biscuits and Blues, or the Under-the-Hill Saloon. They play terrific jazz, blues, and Dixieland at both places, though I don’t know what kind of food Biscuits and Blues serves these days. Around here, it’s very Miss-Lou-funky, if you know what I mean.”

“Miss-Lou what?”

“Mississippi-Louisiana. Gumbo and catfish and deb gowns and bib overalls—all mixed up! You’re in border country, boy!”

“How about we eat at the first place you mentioned and catch the music at the other two?”

“Perfect.” She nodded happily and held out her hand to Sim in a gesture of farewell. “Thanks for being such a pal today,” she said sincerely. “And tomorrow night, I’d really like to hear what you have to say about harps that play themselves in the middle of the night.”

Sim gazed at her thoughtfully. “Okay…” he agreed. “But the same goes for me.” He wagged a finger at her. “I want to hear what
you
have to say on that subject as well. You know a lot more about harps than I do.”

Just then, Lani Riches approached holding a beribboned straw basket over one arm. Smiling broadly, she bestowed upon each of them a small pouch of birdseed tied in fine, pastel netting and a silk ribbon. “Everyone out on the veranda, please,” she directed gaily. “The bride and groom are about to leave!”

Daphne pointed to Sim’s sachet of birdseed. “Hey, Flash,” she teased, “maybe if you throw a bunch of this stuff out in the woods, you’ll finally get that warbler to pay some attention to you.”

***

Daphne drove the Explorer through the deserted streets of Natchez while Cousin Maddy silently gazed out the passenger seat window. Behind them, in the vehicle’s cargo area, mounds of wedding presents wrapped in silver and white were wedged around the black case containing Daphne’s wounded harp.

“Such a beautiful ceremony…” murmured the older woman. She turned to look at Daphne. “How you ever continued to play with those broken harp strings I never will know, darlin’.”

“You noticed.” Daphne kept her eyes on the road as she drove down Jefferson Street and made her way through a maze of one-way thoroughfares toward Clifton Avenue.

“Oh,
I
noticed,” Madeline Whitaker confirmed. “Right after I saw Jack Ebert come into the church.” She paused, and then added, “He cut them, didn’t he? He did this terrible thing to your harp.”

Startled, Daphne took her eyes off the road for an instant to glance at her companion. “You think so too, huh? I can’t prove it, of course, but somebody sure filed them halfway through so they’d break at some point during the ceremony.”

“I’m sure it was Jack.” Cousin Maddy said the words with absolute conviction, as if she had been shown proof from a higher authority. Then she reached across the car. “You must be extremely careful when it comes to that young man,” she cautioned, lightly patting Daphne on the shoulder. “I don’t like him. Never have. I was so relieved that night when you obeyed your instincts and called off that wedding, even if it was at the very last minute.”

“You’re a member of a very exclusive club that feels that way,” Daphne said dryly. She drove in silence for a few moments, then added “You know, Maddy? The minute we got engaged, this horrible sense of doom came over me. But the next day, Mama had ordered the monogrammed silverware, and I just didn’t have the guts to call a halt.” Then she wondered aloud, “Do you think ‘bride’s nerves’ is really a code for ‘I shouldn’t be marrying this person’?”

“Sometimes,” Maddy agreed. “I know that with Marcus, I never had a moment’s doubt that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. He told me he felt the same way.”

“Really?” Daphne said, awed by her cousin’s certainty. “After what I went through with Jack… and Rafe Oberlin, before
that
… when it comes to the opposite gender, I don’t have much faith in my own judgment anymore.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Madeline assured her kindly. “After all, you never had a very good example set for you by your mama and daddy… and now, we all know why. Let your brother be your touchstone from now on. I think he’s made a wonderful choice in a life partner.”

“Me too,” Daphne said softly. “And he had to work through much more emotional garbage than I did, that’s for sure.”

“We all have things to face in life, no matter who we are, darlin’,” Maddy replied, and fell silent again.

At length, Daphne asked gently, “You miss them terribly, don’t you?”

Madeline nodded. “Every day. Every single day. I suppose Marcus’s death is easier to accept because he was sixty years old. But when your child dies before you do—” Her cousin’s voice cracked, and Daphne felt dreadful that she’d asked such a direct question.

“Oh, Cousin Maddy, I’m so sorry if I—”

“And the worse part, of course,” she continued as if Daphne hadn’t spoken, “is my not understandin’ how such a thing could happen. How could both my husband
and
my son die of the same form of cancer?”