Ciji Ware (64 page)

Reading the contemporary account made the tragedy seem as fresh and raw as it must have been in 1840 to the letter’s author. In her mind’s eye, she could imagine the devastation wrought on this house, these people, these lives.

Tears filled her eyes. The modern-day Sim Hopkins was
alive
! She could almost feel his arms around her that day last June after the tornado scare, when he’d jumped from the Range Rover in the pouring rain and held her close while they stood in the middle of Canal Street, thankful they’d both come through the frightening storm. All she wanted at this moment was to see him, talk to him, be held and comforted. To say she was sorry for acting like a jealous fool over Francesca.

And as for Sim, she sensed that something important had been bothering him. Something that surely needed clearing up between them. Though she had no idea what that might be, she made a decision right then that she wasn’t going to play little-girl games anymore and wait for him to call. If he wasn’t at the cottage at the back of Gibbs Hall, she could leave him a note to get in touch right away. They had to talk face-to-face—
now.

She glanced at her watch and was dismayed to see it was five minutes to four. She was going to be one late harpist to the Eola Hotel!

***

Later, if Daphne had been asked what tunes she played during that teatime service, she’d have been hard-pressed to recite any of their names. By six fifteen, she’d donned her jeans in the ladies’ room and run for her car, then sped toward the Trace.

Night had begun to fall much earlier these September days. By the time she’d turned into the dirt drive at Gibbs Hall, the road was plunged into deep shadow. Sim’s car was nowhere to be seen. She decided she’d just wait for him at the cottage until he returned, no matter how late it got to be. She parked her car next to Bailey’s battered Ford Fairlane and sprinted across the lawn that fronted the grand old mansion. On the way, she began to compose what she would say when she saw Sim in person. She would level with him and tell him exactly how much he meant to her, how sorry she was for any doubts and misgivings she’d brought to their relationship as a result of her own troubled past. She even imagined telling Sim about the strange experiences she’d been having all summer, trusting gut instinct that he wouldn’t think she was crazy.

“Hello there!” a familiar voice shouted from the front veranda of the big house perched on the rise. “I can guess where you’re headed, but Sim’s not there.” Bailey Gibbs had an arm around one of the pillars on his porch and beckoned to her with the other. “I expect him back pretty soon though, so why don’t you just come on in here and have some of Leila’s blueberry lemonade—or somethin’ stronger, if you like.”

Delighted to have such good company while she waited for Sim’s return, Daphne waved gaily and marched toward Bailey’s front door.

“Sim called a couple of hours ago,” Bailey disclosed, inviting her to sit in an upholstered chair in his cluttered front parlor. Newspaper headlines blaring the latest details about the controversial toxic dump proposal were scattered over the sofa, on the floor, and across the coffee table.

“Here, Leila,” Daphne said, hurriedly making room on the coffee table for the tray laden with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses. “Let me clear a space for you.”

“Thank you, Miz Daphne,” Leila replied. “It’s nice to see you this evenin’. Doctor Gibbs told me how your concert raised a ton of money to fight that ol’ dump,” she added with the easy familiarity of a trusted member of the household. “You should be mighty proud of y’self. I thought those Aphrodites of yours were somethin’ else!”

“Thanks,” Daphne said with a pleased smile. “And thanks for buying a ticket.”

“I’ve already found use for some of the money,” Bailey announced as Leila handed him a glass of lemonade to which he neatly added a shot of vodka with a wink in Daphne’s direction.

“Really? What?”

“I hired a private investigator to find out if that danged neighbor of mine—the one who’s willing to sell his land to the Able Petroleum people for the toxic dump—is related on his mama’s side to one of the state commissioners helping to decide things up in Jackson.”

“You did a background check on your neighbor already?” Daphne marveled. The tangled web of associations and influences in Mississippi were all too similar to the same conflicts of interests her brother, King, used to battle in his crusade to save historic buildings in New Orleans. “Did you find out anything important?”

“Nothin’ too excitin’,” Bailey admitted.

“Now, Doctor G.,” Leila said tartly, “you’ve no cause to ’spect ol’ Cyrus Drake of doin’ somethin’ underhanded with a relative like that. You two just been feudin’ for years ’cause you both courted Miz Caroline.”

Daphne looked from Bailey’s housekeeper to her host and back again.

“The Drake family lives next door to you?” she asked, astonished. The librarian had confirmed that Daphne Whitaker Clayton’s
grandmother
had been a Drake! The original Daphne Keating had married Otis Drake, producing a daughter, Susannah—Crazy Susannah—who married Charles Whitaker and gave birth to the woman whose life had become such a part of Daphne’s own. The circle went round and round. “You probably know, Bailey, that Cousin Maddy’s father’s name was Drake Clayton IV. That must mean she’s related to your neighbor Cyrus Drake, right?” How much more convoluted could this story get? she wondered silently.

“Cousins, many times removed. Maddy’s no close kin to that old buzzard in any way that’s important,” Bailey declared airily.

“Doctor G., you don’t know all that’s been goin’ on,” Leila said emphatically before her employer could reply. “My friend, Ava, over at Mistah Drake’s place, says the poor ol’ soul’s doin’ mighty poorly these days, with headaches something awful. He’s been worryin’ ’bout payin’ his doctor bills, and payin’ for the medicine he’s takin’ night and day.”

“I didn’t know the old goat’s been sick,” Bailey admitted sheepishly.

“Well he
is
,” Leila scolded, her hands on her hips. “That’s why he’s so anxious to sell his property to that oil company. Ava says she hasn’t got her full salary in quite a while now. Mistah Drake’s doin’ what he’s doin’ with those toxic dump folks has
nothin’
to do with tryin’ to pester you, or pay you back for winnin’ Miz Caroline’s hand all those years ago.”

“Hmm,” Bailey said with an embarrassed expression while he took another sip of his drink.

“Hmm y’self,” Leila declared. “You two should bury the hatchet ’fore we
all
dead and in our graves, y’hear? Men of your age!”

Bailey appeared startled by her blunt declarations, then grew thoughtful. “I didn’t know he was sick,” he repeated.

Leila returned to her kitchen while Bailey and Daphne relived the most exciting moments of the benefit concert. The clock on the mantel struck eight. Where was Sim? she wondered.

“Maybe Sim’s decided to camp out in the Trace one more night?” she suggested.

Bailey shook his head. “No… when he called he said he was on his way back here from Jackson. He’s bringing somebody he wants me to meet. Says it might solve all our problems, though, believe me, I doubt anything could be that simple.”

The rich aroma of Dr. Gibbs’s dinner wafted from Leila’s kitchen “It’s getting late, Bailey,” Daphne said, glancing at the clock again. “I think I’d better scoot along.” Sim obviously had business with Bailey to conduct tonight, Daphne realized, disappointed.

“Won’t you stay to supper?” Dr. Gibbs offered, ever the hospitable Southerner. “I’m sure there’s plenty and—”

“Thanks… but no,” Daphne replied quickly. “Another time, though. When we celebrate victory.”

“I hope that happens,” Bailey replied with a worried look. “I don’t trust any of those politicians up in Jackson debating in the back rooms, and I ’specially don’t trust that Jack Ebert fella and the Able Petroleum folks. We gotta watch our backs with
that
crowd after the way I saw them twist things ’round in those legislative hearings all summer.”

“Keep the faith, Bailey,” Daphne reassured him, rising from the brocade chair to take her leave. “No new bills are introduced before the January session next year. Now, you go on in and enjoy your supper, and I’ll just show myself out the front door. Give Sim my love, will you? Tell him I said we need to get together right away. Please ask him to call tonight. Something important’s on my mind.”

“I ’spect so,” he said with a sly wink. “Be glad to.” He pointed to his leathery cheek in a demand for a kiss. Grinning, she gave him a peck and waved good-bye.

A few minutes later, as Daphne was about to nose her Jeep out of the drive into the highway, Sim’s Range Rover rolled to a halt, signaling his intention to turn into Bailey’s property. She slammed on the brakes, rolled down her window, and called excitedly, “Sim! Hey, Sim!”

She started to wave, then saw that beside him in the passenger seat a beautiful brunette smiled and pointed in the direction of the hand-carved sign announcing Gibbs Hall.

In shock, Daphne could only stare at the couple. At first, she simply couldn’t believe that Francesca Hayes was in the company of her former husband, who had probably just driven down with her from the state capital.

Daphne saw that Francesca had suddenly recognized her. She laughed, pointed at Daphne, and then leaned close to Sim’s right ear. Was she
kissing
the man?

Daphne and Sim locked glances. He appeared every bit as unnerved to see
her
as she was to see
them.
In an act of pure instinct, she floored the Jeep’s accelerator and made a careening right turn toward Natchez, speeding away in a hail of gravel. She never slowed down until she reached the city limits.

***

The light on the veranda at Bluff House was on. It was still early enough that Madeline Whitaker was probably awake. Despite this, Daphne made straight for the stairs without even greeting her cousin. By the time she’d reached her room at the top of the house she’d shed her jacket and shoes. She immediately threw herself facedown on the bed, waiting for the tears to come.

Again
…
how
could
it
happen
again?

And still the expected tears didn’t fill her eyes. In fact, she almost felt as if she weren’t in her body at all. Her breath was ragged and her heart was pounding, but she couldn’t actually stitch a coherent series of thoughts together. After a while, she flopped over on her back and stared out the window that overlooked the broad expanse of the river. It was the same body of water that had flowed past this bluff for a thousand years, lapping at the base of the cliff.

The cell phone stashed in her purse began to ring. She ignored it. It had to be Sim. He always called her at night on her cell to avoid disturbing Maddy. A barge, lights winking on deck, glided past.

The old river had seen it all, she thought, the fleeting joys and weighty sorrows of a host of people just like Daphne—gullible, fallible people like her namesake, Daphne Whitaker, and her poor, benighted mother, Susannah—betrayed by the men in their lives.

But
look
what
kind
of
men
they
chose!
Daphne thought, her throat raw with unshed tears. Charles Whitaker drank to excess to escape life’s problems. Jacques René Hébèrt had been nothing but a libertine. Aaron Clayton was just plain mean and utterly narcissistic. Only Sim Hopkins the Younger truly cared for the women he loved…

Sim
…
Sim
…
how
could
you
turn
out
to
be
such
an
awful
rat?

And then, finally, the tears began to pour down her cheeks and she burrowed her face into the pillow and cried as if a baby had died. After an hour, spent and feeling no better, she dragged herself to the bathroom to splash water on her swollen eyes. Taped to the mirror was a note written in Maddy’s bold hand.

Call
Althea
right
away!

Bleary-eyed, Daphne peered at her watch. It was quarter to ten, She stumbled into her office and picked up the receiver. Fortunately, Althea hadn’t yet started her set at Cafe LaCroix and came to the phone immediately.

“
Finally
you call me back! Didn’t Maddy tell you what’s up?” Althea demanded.

“No.” Daphne was afraid if she said another word, she’d burst out crying again.

“Boy, you sure sound cheerful,” Althea commented. “That gig at the Eola Hotel must be putting nails in your shoes, sugar. Well, never mind ’bout that because you’re goin’ go
crazy
when I tell you what’s happening.”