Ciji Ware (52 page)

“Daphne, dear, I think I should tell you that I saw the young doctor who took over Bailey Gibbs’s practice today.”

Alarmed, Daphne paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

“Why? What’s wrong? Haven’t you been feeling well?”

“I feel fine,” she assured her. “It’s just that I felt a funny lil’ thing on my shoulder, near the base of my neck, and I thought I should have someone look at it.”

“What kind of thing?” she asked carefully.

“It’s tiny, tiny,” Maddy said. “And not exactly a lump. It’s raised a bit, and rough when you run your finger over it.”

“A mole?”

“Not really that, either.” She waved her napkin in the air. “I ’spect it’s nothin’, but they did a biopsy, just to be safe. I’ve done a lot of gardenin’ in my day. The doctor said it might be sun-related.”

Or
related
to
God-knows-what around here
, Daphne fretted silently, thinking of Clay’s, Marcus’s, and Bailey’s bouts with cancer. Was it happening all over again, and to Maddy this time? A primal jolt of fear took hold.

“How long have you noticed that the
…
whatever it is
…
was there?” Daphne asked, her heart sinking.

“I don’t rightly know. Maybe a couple of months. Not more. I was just so preoccupied with the bluff crumbling, and all, that I kinda put it out of my mind.” She glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Oh, land! Look at the time. You’d better run along, darlin’. And don’t worry ’bout this. It’s probably plain ol’ sun damage and not anything really bad. All those years I paid my dues to the Natchez Garden Club, you know,” she said with a brave smile.

“Probably that’s what it is,” Daphne echoed faintly.

But she knew they both were worried.

***

During the next few days, Daphne found herself increasingly edgy and apprehensive—both about the outcome of Maddy’s biopsy and Sim’s whereabouts. Adding to her anxiety were the strange forays into the past that had kicked in again with a vengeance since her return to Natchez.

On Monday, she rang the office of Amadora Bendhar and, to her surprise, spoke directly with the conductor.

“Why, I’d love to have dinner,” Amadora said delightedly over the phone, “but you must come to my house and let me cook you a curry.”

“Oh
…
you work hard all day like I do,” Daphne said quickly. “I don’t want you to go to all that trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Amadora assured her. “For me, it’s a form of relaxation. I figure that a former New Yorker won’t find my food too exotic for her tastes.”

Daphne sensed that the conductor was actually eager to cook at home. “If you’re sure you won’t rue your words after a long day tomorrow
…
”

“Not at all. If I do, we’ll just go out. And besides,” she said cheerfully, “you’re probably one of the few people in Natchez who would actually mean it when you say you like my food.”

“I adore curry,” Daphne replied enthusiastically, “and I’d love to talk to you a bit more about the benefit concert
…
and also about your theory that music can
…
well
…
transport you mentally to faraway places. I’ve—I’ve had a version of that experience myself,” she finished lamely.

“Oh, it’s more than just theory,” Amadora declared. “There’s some interesting, albeit controversial, scientific inquiry into the subject, and—” she laughed apologetically. “I can already see that we’ll have plenty to talk about tomorrow night. Is seven thirty all right?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Daphne said, her spirits lifting. “See you tomorrow night.”

***

Sim knew that
if
he put the call through, he’d be waking Daphne and Maddy at some ungodly hour, but his cell phone was useless in this remount place and the airport pay phone was his only hope. Despite this, he slowly enunciated the familiar Natchez number to the international operator and waited impatiently. The roar from the single-engine plane fifty feet away on the tarmac nearly drowned out the sound of a blessedly clear ring. He was grateful that days of cooling his heels in this South American backwater were finally at an end.

“Hello?” a voice laced with sleep croaked.

“Hello, angel,” he shouted into the receiver. “Why is it I’ve always been awake for hours and you’re just coming to?” he said jokingly. In truth, he’d be glad to hear the sound of Daphne’s voice at any hour.

“What? Hello? I can’t hear you! Who is this?” Daphne demanded, sounding highly incensed at having been awakened from a deep sleep. The line crackled on the other end and he cursed the government not only for its corruption, but also for its godawful phone service. Just then the revving engine throttled back and he could hear himself speak.

“Hey, baby
…
it’s me, Simon of the Jungle!”

“Sim? Oh Sim! It’s great to hear from you. Where are you?” she cried, and he could tell she hoped it wasn’t still South America.

“You don’t want to know,” he shouted into the receiver. “But I’m heading home. At least, I think I am. They had to fly in a major engine part and then fly in a mechanic who could install the damn thing. If we can just make it to Rio in time, I’ll get on a real plane and be in Natchez in a day or so.” He briefly described his ordeal of the last few days, realizing, suddenly, how much he yearned to be back in the peaceful little house on Bailey Gibbs’s back forty. “On top of everything, some damn parrot bit my arm and I had to take a course of an antibiotic no U.S. doctor has ever heard of.”

“God, Sim
…
are you okay now? It sounds awful.”

Listening to Daphne’s voice again convinced him, as if he needed it, how much he’d missed her. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he declared ruefully.

“Good. Glad to hear it. When do you think you’ll get here?”

“First, say your prayers that I make it to Rio
…
then to Miami and through customs. If I get lucky, I should arrive in Jackson—via Atlanta—Wednesday or Thursday. I’ll be majorly jet-lagged and probably look like an ape-man, but can I see you?”

“Oh shoot,” Daphne lamented. “I’ve got rehearsals both nights this week and there are too many other people involved to change them at this late date.”

“Well, I’ll call you when I get in and we’ll figure something out,” he replied, disappointed. “Maybe a nice sleazy motel in town?” he suggested hopefully, shouting above the static on the line.

“Before we settle on a motel, Bird Man, just show up this time. You’ve been getting some very bad press from your—”

Just then, the phone went dead.

“Señor! Señor!” a member of the ground crew shouted, beckoning him to the plane.

Slowly, Sim replaced the phone receiver as Daphne’s last statement echoed unpleasantly in his head. Her supposedly teasing words “Just show up this time…” had a definite edge to them, he thought, as he made a dash for the two-seater parked outside the Quonset hut. He yanked open the plane’s door and jumped into the copilot’s seat. The pilot revved the engine and began to taxi toward the end of the runway. He stared with unseeing eyes out the dusty windshield, remembering that same sort of faintly critical tone that women in his life—and especially Francesca—assumed when his traveling schedule was not to their liking.

Yeah, he was returning to Mississippi more than a week later than he’d predicted, he thought, starting to fume. Wasn’t a faulty landing gear a good enough excuse for the lady? He’d just called her, for God’s sake, to let her know he was on his way back. And when he’d first had engine trouble, he’d rung then and left a message with Madeline Whitaker—just as his cell phone was dying, no less—instead of calling his editor, who’d been trying to get ahold of him for two weeks.

Sim grabbed his seat belt and fastened it with a vengeance. Daphne’s last remark rankled like a burr under a saddle.
You
bet
he’d learned a few lessons about “showing up” from his failed marriage, for all the good it’d done him with Daphne just now. She couldn’t even change her rehearsal schedule for two nights running! Why should he be confined to the doghouse because of a bush plane that had very nearly done a fatal belly flop?

I’m exhausted and my arm hurts like hell
, he cautioned himself. It wasn’t the best time to draw conclusions about anything. Especially since it was six a.m. and he hadn’t been to sleep yet.

The little plane sped down the runway and managed to get airborne just before the tarmac ran out. Sim watched the world beneath the wings grow smaller and smaller. In the pit of his stomach he recognized a feeling that was very old and very familiar—and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. He had not signed up for this kind of misery again.

A thousand feet below, the dense foliage was thinning and turning into terrain dotted with small, primitive houses. Their miniature size reminded him of the cottage at Gibbs Hall. For a moment, he pictured Daphne sitting on the daybed, dabbing her mosquito bites with a wad of cotton and gazing across the little bungalow at him with a come-hither expression he would remember to his dying day.

Where was the truth? Was it in that exquisite moment, or in the painful, distant past of his relationship with Francesca? he wondered. And why did these thorny questions always arise with the women in his life whenever he began to look toward the future?

I
am
really,
really
too
old
for
this
shit.

Chapter 22

Daphne stared at the telephone, wishing she could bite off her tongue for implying that Sim didn’t keep his promises.

Now, why in the world did I say that?
she wondered, listening to the dial tone after the line went dead.

In fact, she knew exactly why, under the guise of humor, she’d fired off the crack about his showing up “this time.” Her run-in with Francesca at the Eola Hotel had been far more troubling than she’d admitted even to herself and had infected her with nagging suspicions about Sim’s alleged penchant for disappearing at crucial moments.

But
let’s be fair here
, she admonished herself silently.

After all, Sim’s ex-wife was a lawyer, and lawyers were trained to put a certain spin on the facts. Who knew exactly what circumstances surrounded the events leading up to Francesca’s miscarriage? In Natchez, Simon Hopkins had been nothing but courteous, thoughtful, and kind. He should be judged innocent until proven guilty, right?

Daphne returned the phone to its cradle and wished mightily that she could ring Sim back and apologize for her flippant remark. As for Francesca’s hidden motives and Sim’s likely reaction if, indeed, his former spouse had come to Natchez to make a grandstand play—well, why look for trouble
…
and what could she do about it, anyway?

Just
tell
Sim
you’re sorry for whining on the phone and be done with it.

***

Tuesday night, Daphne stopped briefly at the Eola Hotel and persuaded the bartender to sell her a good bottle of California Chardonnay. She arrived at Amadora Bendhar’s precisely at seven thirty and parked at the curb in front of a cunningly restored Victorian cottage on Washington Street, a few blocks west of the home where Audubon had once resided. She rang the doorbell while inhaling a wonderful aroma of herbs and spices emanating from within.

“Come in! Come in!” her hostess greeted her, opening the door. A tangy blend of cardamom, cumin, ginger, and cinnamon infused the air as Amadora made way for her guest to enter the house. The music director was swathed in a sari of rust-colored silk. She was devoid of jewelry and makeup and appeared five years younger—and extremely relaxed.

“Mmmm
…
” Daphne breathed. “It smells just marvelous.”

She glanced around at the walls, painted linen white, and admired the elaborate millwork of the cornices, baseboards, and door frames. The furniture consisted simply of carved wooden tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and plump pillows covered in colorful paisleys and ample enough for a large man to sit on comfortably. Scattered over the hardwood floors were silk rugs in jewel tones of garnet, emerald, and sapphire. An arresting statue of a reclining gilded goddess adorned a low table against a wall to the right of a brick and wood fireplace, also painted white. Placed before the figure was a small, clear glass vase holding a single yellow flower.

Daphne gazed around the restful living room, absorbing its rich simplicity and calm. Low, rhythmic music wafted from stereo speakers tucked into a wall of bookcases lined with leather-bound volumes. A slender stick of incense burned in a brass holder on a middle bookshelf, imbuing the venerable Victorian house with a feeling of Far East exotica.