Ciji Ware (36 page)

As for Daphne herself, her fingertips pulled sounds from her harp she had never heard before, and her voice felt strong and capable of phrasings she’d never even contemplated prior to this magical night. In fact, she felt as if she’d entered a soothing alpha zone where there was nothing in her consciousness but the music—and her love of it. If the roar from the crowd after her solo, “Peel Me a Grape,” and the spontaneous clapping in time to the group’s final rendition of “I Got the Will” were any yardstick, the Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble had batted a thousand tonight.

The five women were still taking their bows when the club’s owner, bearing a handful of roses, barreled his way through the packed room. He handed a single stem to each of the women and then leaned into the mike.

“Thank y’all for comin’ tonight, and thanks to the Aphrodites, who’ll be at the Under-the-Hill Saloon…” he looked happily at the standing-room-only crowd and declared, “indefinitely!”

Sim and Cousin Maddy continued to clap, along with everyone else. Daphne grinned at the photographer and impulsively pitched her rose directly into his lap. He seized it and promptly inserted the stem between his teeth while the applause and wolf whistles swelled to ear-splitting intensity. Althea, noting Daphne’s gesture, followed suit by throwing her solitary bloom into her landlady’s lap—much to Madeline’s delight.

Then the members of the band turned on their high heels and scampered offstage in the wake of unabated cheering.

***

The front porch of Bluff House was swathed in purple shadows pierced by the glow of a single candle flickering in a clear glass votive, set on a round wicker table that had ridden out several tornado warnings in recent years.

Daphne heaved a sigh of contentment and turned to look at Sim, who sat across from her sipping the champagne he’d brought to Maddy’s house after the show. Althea and their hostess had long since trundled off to bed, yawning as they disappeared into the darkened house. However, Daphne felt keyed up and not in the slightest mood for sleep.

She raised her glass in a toast to his generosity. “Thanks for this—and thanks for so loyally showing the flag tonight.”

“The pleasure was definitely all mine.” He was smiling but she wondered if he was tired after a week camping in the woods and was thinking about the half-hour drive to Gibbs Hall.

“You’ve probably had a long day tracking… whatever you were tracking today, but I’m still wired,” she said apologetically. “Please feel free to take off. I like just sitting here feeling the cool air from the river.” She leaned back in her wicker chair and closed her eyes happily, the sound of the music still reverberating in her head. “God, those lights on stage were
hot
!”

Sim leaned across the table, and she felt the backs of his fingers skim along her jaw line. Startled by his feathery touch, she opened her eyes and smiled, his face only inches from her own.

“I’m fine right where I am,” he said quietly. “I’m enjoying the champagne, the view… and the company.”

“Veuve Clicquot…” she murmured, relaxing as his fingers began to knead the muscles of her tired right forearm. “Mmmm… that feels so good. How did you ever find a bottle of that around here?”

“Oh, I have my ways.”

She closed her eyes once more and allowed herself to enjoy his gentle massage as he worked his way down to the muscles and tendons in her wrist, her hand, and finally to her fingers that were always fatigued after hours of plucking harp strings. Momentarily she was self-conscious of the thick calluses on her fingertips, but soon gave in to the delicious sensation of Sim’s touch.

“Oh, that is
heaven
,” she whispered. “I’m such a sucker for a massage.” After a few moments he switched to her other forearm and hand, repeating the vigorous motions. “You wouldn’t consider standing behind me and—”

Without answering, Sim rose and positioned himself behind her chair, his long fingers firmly stroking her sore shoulder and neck muscles.

“Good?”

“Oh yes,” she mumbled. “I’ll be putty in your hands if you work on my neck for another two minutes.”

“Good,” he repeated with a chuckle.

All was quiet except for a light wind rustling the bamboo stand to the rear of the property and the hoot of a river barge’s horn alerting nearby boats as it glided past on the churning Mississippi two hundred yards below Maddy’s front porch.

“Daphne?” Sim said softly, continuing to knead the muscles in her right shoulder. “I don’t want to worry you, but I saw—”

Her eyes flew open. “Jack? I saw him, too.” She patted his hands where they’d come to rest on her shoulders and then swiveled in her chair to look up at him. “He appeared without warning backstage, just as I was about to go on to sing with Willis.”

“Jesus! That must have given you a start,” Sim declared, reclaiming his chair across the table from her.

“It did.”

“You don’t think he’s turning into a… stalker, do you?”

“No…” she considered. “He’s just… doing what he does best, which is to stir up trouble and try to make people uncomfortable and upset. It’s always payback time with that guy. Did you see where he stood during the show?” she asked indignantly. “Right down in front! I told him earlier to get lost, and after a while, I completely forgot about him, amazingly enough.”

“Not me,” Sim countered. “Once I’d spotted him, I kept my eye on him, and then, after your last song, he just sort of melted into the crowd heading for Silver Street.”

“All that applause probably put him in a bad mood.” Daphne swallowed the last of her champagne. “I’m praying he finds some new female to distract him, and eventually just leaves me alone. Besides, he has to return to Texas
some
time, right?”

“Let’s hope so,” Sim replied grimly. “Meanwhile, Ms. Harp Honey… isn’t Monday your day off?”

“Yes.” She sank into her chair and closed her eyes again while she inhaled air laden with the scent of dogwood and night-blooming jasmine. “We have an earlyish show tomorrow, and then a blissful Monday with no gigs and no rehearsal and no ‘Claire de Lune’ or
Swan
Lake
at the Eola Hotel.”

“Do you want to sleep all day, or would you let me pick you up tomorrow night after your gig and bring you out to Gibbs Hall? If we get a decent start on Monday, I’d love to show you some of the beauty spots I’ve found on the Trace,” he said, enthusiasm lighting his handsome features. “I’ve finally honed in on an area where I spotted a few of those elusive yellow-rumped warblers and even a couple of much rarer yellow-throated wood-warblers that Audubon probably painted in the 1820s—maybe even while he was staying on Washington Street, like you said.”

“You’re kidding! You finally captured a yellow-rumped little guy on film?” Daphne said, laughing. “Well this
is
big news.” She sat up straight. “Do you think sighting that bird is a sign from heaven that you’re doing exactly what the ghost of Audubon would have wanted?”

Briefly, she wondered if the “other” Daphne Whitaker had ever met John James Audubon. And then, she immediately chided herself.

Audubon’s ghost?
The last thing she needed was to summon more specters and spirits. She gave silent thanks that she hadn’t experienced any uninvited visions since she’d returned from New York. Perhaps starting to lead a life of her own choosing had put an end to those eerie mental wanderings of a few weeks earlier, she considered gratefully.

“Just how early do you propose to set out on this excellent warbler adventure?” she inquired dubiously.

“For you… how’s nine o’clock? I’m stretching things, but you musicians need to get your shut-eye.”

He’d just asked her to sleep at his place Sunday night, she realized with a sudden intake of breath, so as to “get a decent start” on the day. An unbidden image of Rafe Oberlin popped into her head. Handsome. Charming—at first. Very interested in taking her to bed—at first. She certainly couldn’t deny that Sim’s invitation was extremely tempting, but considering her track record, it was probably best not to allow things to get unduly complicated.

“I’d love for you to show me those little critters out on the Trace, but how about I sleep in my own bed Sunday and drive out early to your place Monday morning… by nine?”

Now, she would have a chance to see what Bird Man was
really
interested in. Without a slumber party at his place, would he still be enthusiastic about taking her into the woods?

“Sounds great,” Sim replied without hesitation. “I’ll have everything packed and ready by the time you get there.” He tweaked her nose gently and then rose to his feet. “Just arrive by the appointed hour and bring your leather knee boots.”

“Snake prevention, right?”

“Clever girl.”

“Believe it or not,” she replied happily. “I even know what carton I packed them in.”

“The snakes?” he laughed.

“No, my boots, Bird Man!”

***

Daphne woke up Monday morning rested and excited about her coming foray to the Natchez Trace with Sim as her guide. She waved good-bye to Maddy and hugged Althea, who was heading back to New Orleans for the week.

For once, the drive through town was pure pleasure. The Pilgrimage had ended on Sunday and the crowds and tour buses had diminished significantly. Daphne delighted in her unobstructed view of brilliant banks of red and white tulips, flowering azalea and camellia bushes, and a riot of other spring flowers in glorious shades of peach, pink, coral, purple, and yellow that filled local gardens on both sides of the streets. The magnolias weren’t yet in bloom, but the air was filled with the scent of Confederate jasmine and honeysuckle. Along the Natchez Trace Parkway, the bare branches of English dogwood trees had sprouted white lace, and the green shoulders of grass beside the highway were dotted with volunteer iris, daffodil, and jonquil.

No doubt about it, Daphne thought happily, spring had sprung in Mississippi.

Bailey Gibbs’s wrought iron gate was standing wide open when Daphne wheeled her Jeep down the dirt drive to Gibbs Hall. The doctor’s housekeeper hailed her from the back porch while Daphne was locking her car, explaining that her employer was still up in Jackson.

“I’ve made y’all some fried chicken and a thermos of my blueberry lemonade,” Leila said with a knowing smile. “Mr. Sim said you heading onto the Trace this morning and I told him I didn’t want you starving out there. Do you mind taking this basket down to the cottage?”

“Not at all.” Daphne lifted the tea towel covering the food and sniffed appreciatively. “Ummmm! Yum-ola!” she chortled. “Thanks so much, Leila. I can’t wait for lunch.”

“Y’all have a lovely day, y’hear,” she replied in her soft, lilting accent.

Daphne found Sim stuffing the last of his equipment into a backpack that he’d propped on one of the rocking chairs on the cottage veranda. He glanced up as she strode across the meadow, nodding approvingly at the sight of her jeans, sleeveless shirt, lightweight jacket, and knee-high leather boots.

“The temperature’s almost eighty, and due to go even higher today,” he predicted. He opened the end of his pack. “I saved just enough room for our lunch and one of those blue ice packs.” Just as Daphne had, he inhaled the aroma of Leila’s picnic fare tightly wrapped in aluminum foil. “Maybe we should eat first,” he proposed jokingly.

“You don’t have one of those big things for
me
to carry, do you, Bird Man?” she asked with a doubtful glance in the direction of Sim’s enormous pack. “What you need to know about me is that I spent most of my life indoors under my mother’s watchful eye, practicing a harp. I’ve never been much of an outdoorsy type.”

“I’ve taken that into consideration,” he said, smiling, “My backpack is big because I’ve got camera gear in there, just in case we see something.”

“Well, what’s
that
?” she asked, pointing to a camera with “Canon EOS” stamped on its face. The piece of equipment sported a lens that looked to be at least two feet long and was mounted on a single metal tube painted in camouflage.

“This is my favorite camera. Eight hundred millimeter lens for distance shots. Mono-pod so I can carry everything, ready to go, over my shoulder.”

“You have to lug that thing around
and
the backpack, too?” she sympathized.

“I’m used to it,” he replied, with a shrug. “Well, are you ready to put the moves on a yellow-throated wood-warbler?”

“What about the
yellow-bellied
guy?”

“Him, too. We’ll take what we can get.”

They set off down the path through the open meadow and into the woods bordering Whitaker Creek, walking in companionable silence. Farther along the way, Sim pointed out flora and fauna, providing more identifying information when Daphne asked questions. He spoke quietly of integrated ecosystems and the need for sustainable development within urban areas and rural zones, and for protection of declared wilderness regions like the Trace.

“It’s important that ordinary citizens begin to connect the dots between an endangered spotted owl or an extinct ivory-billed woodpecker and the eventual fate of
all
creatures inhabiting this planet, including us,” he said quietly. “If we
don’t
pay attention to the loss of these guys and their habitats, eventually you and I won’t have enough food to eat or clean air to breathe or safe water to drink.”