Duet for Three Hands (13 page)

J
eselle

J
eselle breathed
in the smells of morning. Simple scents of the lake house kitchen held the familiarity of home, of family. Four bowls of grits sweetened with maple syrup and butter sat steaming next to the stove. Bread baked in the oven, oh, that sweet, yeasty smell that was like no other. Mama’s latest concoction steamed in a pot on the stove, smelling of mint and rosemary with a hint of rosehip. Mama chopped fresh herbs into flecks, the tea strainer waiting next to a cup and saucer. The morning light came in white slants through the windows, hinting at autumn, only weeks away.

Jeselle was just fixing to call for him when Whitmore came in from outside, smelling of young man’s sweat and the air that pushed against him as he rowed his boat in the morning sunshine. Tall and wide-shouldered, with unruly hair the color of autumn hay, his cheeks flushed pink from activity. She felt small and girlish next to Whitmore’s brawny vigor, because although she was fully grown at eighteen, Jeselle remained petite, no taller than five-foot-four, a full head shorter than her mother.

Mrs. Bellmont was on the veranda, watering the gold and orange zinnias she’d planted in boxes along the landing. Her wide-brimmed sunhat shadowed her face with mottled squares of light. Jeselle called out to her from the window, “Breakfast’s ready, Mrs. Bellmont.”

“Jes, do you see the hummingbirds? They’ve come for my hibiscus.”

“Yes, it’s wonderful.” Several hummingbirds hovered over the hanging hibiscus, drinking the sweet nectar.

“They’re beautiful. Just perfection, don’t you think?” Mrs. Bellmont emptied the last of the water from the watering can and set it aside before heading toward the kitchen.

Whit didn’t sit. He ate his bowl of grits standing by the big table in the middle of the kitchen, his feet shifting as if he stood on hot ground. At the stove, Mama poured hot water over the tea strainer. “Try this, Miz Bellmont. More lemongrass, less mint.”

“Thank you, Cassie.” Mrs. Bellmont joined Jeselle at the table.

Whit finished his grits and took his bowl to the sink. The spoon clinked against the bottom of the sink as he turned toward them. “Jes needs to learn how to drive a car.” No one said anything. Jeselle’s eyes darted to Mama, who stared at Whit. A hummingbird flew up to the sink window, hovering with seemingly invisible wings. “I’ll teach her myself.”

“Too dangerous.” Mama pointed her wooden spoon at Whit like a weapon. “Nothing good can come from a girl running around in a car.”

“She should know how to drive, Cassie,” said Mrs. Bellmont gently. “The child needs to know the ways of the modern world.” She gazed out toward the lake, quiet for a moment. “We don’t want her left behind like us because she doesn’t know how to do what others are learning every day.”

“A white boy teaching a black girl to drive?” Mama gestured with the wooden spoon toward the road. “What if someone saw them? What about Mr. Bellmont?”

“He’ll never know, as long as the kids are careful,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

Whitmore put up a hand, like he was commanding silence. “Listen here, I don’t want the three of you up here alone when none of you can drive.”

They all stared at him now, not one of them able to think of how to respond to this firm statement from their placid boy.

“I mean it, now.” His voice was firmer than it had been the moment before. “What if something happened to one of you?”

“What do you mean, Whit, up here alone?” said Mrs. Bellmont.

He pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket. “It came.”

Mrs. Bellmont dropped her teacup into the saucer. Green liquid spilled and pooled around the cup. “Princeton?”

“Yes, Mother. I’ve been accepted.” The muscle at his jaw clenched.

Jeselle’s stomach dropped. She pushed away her grits. The hummingbird hovered outside the window by the breakfast nook now, its invisible wings loud like tiny jackhammers.

“Oh, darlin’, that’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

“I won’t go without Jes knowing how to drive.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze fixed on Mama.

Mama set the wooden spoon next to the stove. “She has to keep up with her chores.”

“I’ll need mornings,” he said.

Mama raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest and stood taller. “That right?”

“That’s right.” He puffed out his chest.

Like two peacocks, thought Jeselle.

“Mother, I want you all to have a way to get away from Father. I won’t be here to…there’s Father, you see, and I need to know you can all leave if you need to.”

“Fine.” Mama turned back to the stove.

Just then, a thump from the veranda caused them all to turn toward the yard. Mrs. Bellmont rushed to the window. “Oh dear, something’s happened to one of the hummingbirds.”

Jeselle crossed to look. A hummingbird lay lifeless next to a pot of zinnias.

“Is it dead?” asked Mrs. Bellmont.

By then Whit had reached the veranda and knelt over the bird. He picked it up and carried it into the house. “Something’s poisoning them, Mother. I’m finding dead birds all over the yard.” He looked over at Mrs. Bellmont. “Sorry, Mother, I didn’t want to tell you. Cassie and I can’t figure out what they’re eating that’s killing them.”

“It’s too awful thinking of all these poor birds drinking or eating something they like that ends up killing them,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

“Maybe Mr. Whit can find us another book on plants once he goes off to Princeton,” Mama said.

Whit grinned at her. “I’ll do my best, Cassie.”

Mama smiled back at him in a way that seemed both a peace offering and a warning. “Well, see that you do.” She picked up her wooden spoon and pointed at the dead hummingbird. “Now get that nasty thing out of my kitchen. Only dead birds in this kitchen are ones that go in a pot.”

“Cassie, you’re awful,” said Mrs. Bellmont.

But they all laughed as Whitmore headed outdoors to bury the poor little bird, dead too soon.

“
I
’ve never been tempted
to curse, Whitmore Bellmont, but learning this clutch just might make me start.” Stalled on a deserted dirt road several miles from the lake house in the Bellmonts’ Rolls Royce, Jeselle felt she might start to cry. “If I ruin your father’s car he’s likely to skin me alive.”

He grinned. “You’re much improved. Try it again.”

She let the clutch up slowly while pressing down on the gas pedal. It was too much. They lurched forward and then stalled. Rust-colored dust drifted in billows onto the shiny mahogany dashboard. “Ridiculous car.” She pounded the steering wheel with her fist. “I can’t do it.”

“Of course you can. One more try.”

She pushed the clutch pedal down to the floor and turned the key. The car roared to life. Again, she let the clutch up as she pushed on the gas. This time they inched forward. Excited, she pressed the gas pedal farther to the floor, and the car leapt forward, fast, the back tires throwing rocks and pebbles in the air. “Oh no!” She slammed on the brake. The car stopped with a heave and a sad, explosive sputter.

Whitmore laughed.

She looked over at him, annoyed, but then a giggle escaped, and she was lost in it. They laughed until they were breathless. “Well, you got the car to move, at least,” he said after he caught his breath. “It’s a good beginning.”

By the end of the first week, she had conquered the cursed clutch. At the beginning of the second week, they ventured farther down the dirt road, between sections of forest thick with pines and oaks and dogwood trees. The car hummed, and the scent of honeysuckle and azaleas wafted in through the open windows. Their breath caught as they realized they’d reached the peak of the mountain. “Stop,” said Whitmore. “Let’s get out and look.”

They stood at the mountaintop. As far as they could see were rolling hills of green meeting the deep blue sky with a couple of clouds floating about like puffs of shaving cream. Whitmore reached over and took Jeselle’s hand. “Gives me a lonesome feeling. I don’t know why.”

“Makes you feel small.”

“Are we going to talk about my leaving?”

“What’s there to say?”

They drove farther down the road until they came upon a small clearing and a worn footpath into the dark forest. She pulled the car to the side of the road, and they sat for a moment with the windows down. Red-bellied woodpeckers’ trills and sparrows’ delicate chirps and jays’ proud squawks surrounded them. The breeze rustling in the pine needles sounded like the wings of hundreds of fairies moving together in a collective rhythm.

“You want to see what’s down the path?” asked Whitmore.

“I don’t know. What if someone lives there?”

“What if it’s something beautiful?”

So they climbed out of the car and began down the path. They walked into the cool shade of the forest, the smell of pine and moss stronger. Their eyes took a moment to adjust to the filtered light through the branches that made haphazard patterns on ferns and sapling pines. After a short distance, the trees parted, revealing a grassy bank and shallow creek that burbled clear water over pebbles and stones. Across the water several young pines surrounded a tall oak. Knowing at once what the other thought, they took off their shoes, wanting nothing more than to feel the cool water between their toes. It felt as good as she imagined, although the bottom of the creek was slippery as they crossed the water into the shade of the oak. The fallen, dry pine needles made a soft blanket. They reclined against the rough bark of the oak and put their feet back in the stream.

Whitmore had a small leather case with him. He opened it and took out a pencil, his sketchbook, and a book, which he handed to her. “Thought we might have a respite today so I grabbed your book from the table.”

“A respite? That’s a mighty fine word.”

He grinned, rolling up his sleeves. “Yes, it is.”

She watched as he began to sketch a wildflower with purple blossoms that looked like falling stars. His forearm rested on the paper, and the muscles flexed as his pencil moved in sure darts and lines and curves.

How she wished for those hands on her skin, to feel how he might mold her into something beautiful.

These yearnings for the feel of Whit’s skin next to hers, flesh upon flesh, muscle on muscle, had swooped in and consumed her swiftly and without warning. It was a summer ago now, a June morning on the first scorching day of the season. She stood on the footstool in Whitmore’s bedroom at the lake house, dusting cobwebs from the ceiling that only Mama could see. Whitmore was in the rowboat on the lake, nearing the dock with steady, even strokes of the oars. When he reached his destination, he grabbed the rope tied to the bow and jumped to the dock. His shirt and hair dripped from perspiration onto weathered boards as he leaned over to tie up the boat. He pulled his shirt over his head and used it to wipe his damp face, gazing out over the lake. Something caught his attention, and he turned, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand, watching, motionless, like an animal in the forest might when sensing danger or prey. What he saw, she could not say. Perhaps it was an eagle or a hawk, perhaps only a sway of a tree’s branch, or something as small as a butterfly hovering in the midmorning light. But it was something of the natural world that gave him pause, and it occurred to her, watching his tranquility, that he was as much connected to the ebb and flow of the mountain as its natural inhabitants, like he’d come from the sky and soil and water. And the simple beauty of this caused a stirring within her. The real world faded in an instant; she was lost in the imagining. Her hands splayed against his bare torso, feeling his muscles ripple beneath her fingertips. He pulled her to him, smelling of sweat and salt. His mouth hovered over hers for a moment before he kissed her.

The dust rag fell from her grasp. Her hands went to her mouth. Her heart beat hard in her chest. What was this? Wickedness. Devil thoughts. What had she done, letting this into her mind? The nature of their relationship, unexamined thus far in her young life, changed in the instant it took her to envision skin upon skin. And now it was here, in the room with her, this desire for him. He was no longer simply Whit: her anchor in a chaotic world. He was a man. A man she wanted.

All these thoughts blazing in her mind like the hot afternoon sun, she peeled her gaze from the window and hopped to the floor, scurrying to the next task, changing the linens on all the beds and polishing the silver faster than she’d ever done before. At lunch Mama examined her with furrowed brow. “Don’t know what’s gotten into you today. You’re a little ball of fury.”

“Why, Mama, because usually I just flit about?”

“Jeselle Thorton, you watch your mouth.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled and forced herself to eat the bowl of butter beans that tasted like sand. After lunch, she pulled the rug from the music room and draped it over the veranda railing and whacked it like the devil was in the dust particles. With each wallop of her rug beater, she prayed to forget the thoughts she’d had that morning.

And then it came to her, plain as anything. This devil had made his way into Whit a while ago. She couldn’t be certain how long. But she understood with new clarity, the furtive glances and the way his lids went half closed when he looked at her sometimes.