The First Male (19 page)

“So, this is it?” Simon asked, as he looked at a row of dead rose bushes that lined the brick walkway. Without much thought, Simon reached down and plucked a brittle leaf from the plant and crumbled it in his hand, letting the wind scatter the pieces across the dried lawn.

“Yeah, this is it.”

“I don't like this place,” he stated plainly. His dislike of the former plantation was visceral. “I don't know about this.” He sighed heavily as another strong breeze sprayed fallen leaves across the porch.

“Well, we're here now,” she said as she rubbed his arm in a reassuring way. “We might as well ring the bell and go in. We need answers, right?”

“Yeah, I'm not sure they'll come from here.”

“What do we have to lose?”

“My sanity.” Simon studied the house again. It filled him with a sense of uneasiness, and nerves at the bottom of his stomach tightened, preparing him for what lay ahead.

“If you don't want to go in, we can get in the car and leave. Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

Simon paused. “This house has secrets; lots of secrets.” He didn't pay much attention to the concerned look on her face, but he noticed it, even when she tried to mask it with a smile. She was nervous, too. He could feel it.

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yeah, let's get outta here.”

Just as Simon and Brooke turned to leave, the front door of the house opened.

“Y'all not just gon' leave, are you?” They turned around and were greeted by a beautiful coffee-colored woman dressed in a bright pink dress that contrasted with the winter weather outside. Her jet-black curly hair hung just below her shoulders and her wide, inviting smile immediately put them at ease. A green scarf that matched the green sash tied around her petite waist was draped around her neck.

“Uhhh, we didn't want to be a bother,” Simon said.

“It's no bother. I knew you were coming,” she said with a wink and a smile. “Y'all come on in.” She pulled the door open wider, motioned for them to enter and stepped to the side. Simon and Brooke looked at each other and tacitly agreed to enter. They stepped gingerly into the huge foyer of the grand house and instantly felt underdressed for the occasion. The inside of the house was constructed mainly of dark wood, which gave the space a natural feeling of formality.

“Brooke, your mother told me you'd be stopping by. It's so good to see you. You've turned into such a lady.” She pulled Brooke into her body and hugged her tightly, in a way that contradicted their insubstantial relationship. “You must be Simon,” she said after she released Brooke from her embrace. Simon extended his hand to her for a shake. “I'm Clara,” she said, “and dah-ling, I'm a hugger.” She continued without missing a beat, completely ignoring his outstretched hand. She pulled him into her body and held him tightly. Simon was slightly unnerved by such an ostentatious display of affection, but he didn't protest. He remembered times as child when he would have given his right arm for an affectionate hug.

“I'm so glad y'all came by.” Her thick Louisiana accent spun, but did not rest, in Simon's ears; instead, her voice infused the dull room with life and vitality.

“Well, ma'am,” he began.

“Ma'am? No need to be so formal. You can call me Ms. Clara.”

“Okay . . . Ms. Clara. I'm not really sure why we're here.”

“It's okay, Sugar. We'll get to that. In the meantime, how about some tea to warm your bones?”

“Tea would be nice,” Brooke said quickly.

“Wonderful.”

As if on cue, a tall, thin woman with graying blonde hair, dressed
in a black-and-white uniform, emerged from a room to the side.

“Donna, would you be a dear and take their jackets? Then, please take them into the solarium and get them some tea,” she said sweetly. “I'll join you in a few moments. Something upstairs requires my attention,” she said, returning her attention to Simon and Brooke.

“Certainly, Mrs. Richardson.” Clara smiled and moved around the group. She strutted down the long hallway, her high-heels clicking hard against the freshly polished wooden floor, and walked up the staircase on the right, disappearing as she ascended. As she walked, Simon
noticed
her and found himself drawn to her by the confident way her hips shifted from side-to-side, like a well-seasoned woman who celebrated the power of her curves. Clara was all woman—legs, hips and breasts. Her body was shapely and sturdy, full of delectable lines and sensual curves; she was the kind of woman who wouldn't crumple easily under the pressure of his weight.

Simon snapped out of his daze when Donna took their coats, hung them in a closet near the door and led them down the hallway to the back of the house, to the solarium. The intimidating room was decorated with antique nineteenth-century furniture and made Simon feel as if he had stepped back in time, about two hundred years. Slave trinkets and totems were spread throughout the room, and Simon took notice of a shelf against the wall that was stacked with historical memorabilia.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Richardson will be back shortly.”

“Thank you,” Brooke said as they walked fully into the room. Donna smiled, turned and exited the room. Simon waited a few seconds to make sure she was out of earshot before he spoke.

“This house is creepy.”

“I think it's lovely—very Old World. It has a certain charm.”

“Yeah, it has all the charm of a slave plantation. I'm just waiting for Miz Scarlett's prissy ass to pop in.” They laughed perfunctorily as Simon continued his methodic inspection of the room. “And what about Clara?”

“What about her?”

“She doesn't give you the creeps?” Simon's emotions swirled inside him suddenly, making it hard to understand exactly what he was feeling. He felt a growing longing for Clara's body, even though she was more than twice his age. He could almost feel the touch of her skin on his skin and the feel of her pouty lips on his mouth; inexplicably, he was both repulsed and aroused by the thought.
Maybe she had already worked some voodoo on him
, he thought. Far stranger things had already happened.

Brooke chuckled. “Not at all. She's exactly how I remember, very sweet, very beautiful, very touchy-feely—very Southern. I haven't seen her in years, but she looks exactly the same.”

“I think she's fake.”

“You think she's had work done?” Brooke asked in astonishment. That would be a juicy piece of town gossip that she would certainly share with her mother.

“That's not what I mean. There's something strange about her, about this house. I'm not sure what, though.”

Brooke moved over to the sofa and took a seat, crossing her legs at the ankles.

Simon noticed the elaborate décor of the solarium. He rotated his body slowly, in a full circle, to make sure that he took full stock of the room. Even though the room had huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the dark decorations gave it a gloomy undertone; even the vintage furniture was of dubious intent.

On a small shelf against the wall were little figurines in the
shape of a large woman with very black skin, wearing an apron around her waist and a handkerchief tied tightly around her head, coupled with statues of an equally dark-skinned male with hugely exaggerated lips and big, round white eyes. The disturbing images from a time bygone added to the tension that was already balling in the pit of his stomach.

Hung on the wall by a huge rusted nail was a pair of gray shackles, most likely used to secure slaves. Simon eyed the metal clamps with disdain and empathy. Until his recent run-in with the street thugs who tried to rob him, he had never understood the darkness or cruelty that ruled man's heart. Until that night, when he dispatched three men with a callous kind of joy, he never understood evil. Now, he was beginning to understand a lesson he didn't want to know. Evil resided within him. That night, he felt something so malevolent within his own soul that he frightened himself. He felt like a wicked marionette controlled by an even more sinister puppet-master.

“Here is your tea,” Donna said, as she entered the room and placed a silver serving tray with two cups and a teapot on the center table near the couch.

“What kind of tea is it?” Brooke asked. Donna smiled and folded her hands in front of her.

“It's a special blend that Mrs. Richardson makes herself. Don't worry, you'll love it. Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I think we're good,” Simon interjected. Donna smiled sweetly and exited the room.

Brooke leaned over and poured a cup of the fragrant tea into her small cup. She blew on it several times, scattering the steam that rose from the liquid into the air before bringing the cup to her lips.

“Don't drink the Kool-Aid!” Simon said suddenly as he rushed over to her and grabbed her wrist.

“What's wrong?” Brooke asked with alarm.

Simon looked at her and smiled. “I'm just fucking with you,” he said as he leaned in and kissed her on the lips.

Playfully, she tried to push him away, but her resistance was weak. “I can't believe you just did that to me.” She nudged him in the arm with her elbow.

“I'm sorry, babe. I'll make it up tonight,” he said flirtatiously. Regardless of his situation, Simon was quick for arousal; sexual desire was an innate part of his being.

“I know you will.” Brooke took a sip of the tea and twisted her face in a manner that told Simon she wasn't sure whether she liked it. He watched her contemplate the taste of the tea.

“I see y'all have settled in,” Clara said when she walked into the room a few moments later. Her beaming personality was much larger than her actual size. She commanded attention with her southern charm and inviting smile. She stepped into the room, sipping from a small whiskey sifter, and took a seat in the brown and beige armless accent chair across from the couch. She crossed her smooth legs like a true Southern lady. Simon looked at her shapely legs, but did not speak.

“How does this work?” Brooke blurted out nervously. “My mother said you were a psychic.”

Clara chuckled. “How is your dear mother? I haven't seen her since she left for Milan. I really must call her to catch up. Maybe we'll do cocktails next week at Emeril's Delmonico.”

“She had a wonderful time. You should see the pictures. By the way, your house is amazing.” Brooke looked around the room in wonderment and awe as Clara's face beamed with unrepentant pride.

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” Clara settled comfortably into her chair. “I've spent the last couple of years restoring this home. It suffered serious damage after Katrina and was vacant for a spell, but she's
a sturdy old girl. She's still standing. I'm not nearly done.” Clara leaned in slowly as if she was ready to spill the latest piece of salacious gossip about a neighbor. “You wouldn't know this, but this house is in my blood. This here land was toiled by my father's father's father and his fathers. You see, my family was slaves on this land. It is our blood that fertilized the soil; it was our sweat that elevated the Collingtons to vast wealth. This house is deeply rooted in my family. This house
is
me. I feel so connected to it. When I had the opportunity to buy it after the Collington family declared bankruptcy a few years back, I didn't hesitate. I was meant to live here. It's only right. In an ironic twist of fate, Donna, my maid, is a distant cousin of the Collingtons. Now, she works for me. How the tables turn.” She giggled.

“Wow,” Brooke said. “Amazing.”

“Ummmm, so you're a psychic?” Simon said, attempting to steer the conversation back on track. Ordinarily, he would have soaked up every detail about the history of her family so that he could get to know more about this intriguing woman, but he didn't have patience for history lessons today.

Clara smiled and leaned back in her chair, bringing her drink to her red lips. Her unblemished skin and perfectly symmetrical face reminded Simon of a supermodel from a time when models ruled the world. Her eyes were large and round, which lifted her entire face. She certainly didn't look like any psychic he had ever seen. Was she for real or was this a waste of his time?

“Hmmmm,” she began. “A psychic? Well, sometimes I see that which is not seen by others. I'm not sure if that makes me a psychic. More often I'm a conduit—a messenger.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means if someone in the spirit world is trying to deliver a message, I can be the means to that end. It's happened before;
that a spirit will talk through me or will direct my hand so that I can write what it wants you to know. I never know how it will happen, or if it will happen.”

“So, you're telling me this might be a waste of time?”

“Honey, there are no rules to the spirit world that I know. I open myself up and whatever happens, happens.”

“What if it's not a spirit? What if it's something else?”

“When you open yourself up to me, I can often see all that is around you, spirit or otherwise.”

“If it is a spirit, can you make it go away?”

“You first have to know what it wants, but I don't perform exorcisms.”

“Do you think you'll be able to help him?” Brooke asked.

“It depends. Simon has to be open to the reading.” She sipped again. “I sense some reluctance on your part. You don't trust me, do you?” she said with a smile that was too sexy for the occasion.

“It's not that I don't trust you, it's—”

“There is no room for skepticism, dah-ling. Your spirit has to be completely open, or this will be a waste of time.”

“I think I'm just nervous. I've never done this before.”

“Here, hon. Have some tea. It'll help relax you.” She leaned forward, poured a cup and handed it to Simon. She took a sip of her drink and leaned back, watching him, waiting for him to sip. He looked at the murky liquid in his cup and smiled uneasily at her. The tea's delicate fragrance began to fill his nose and enticed him to try her concoction.