"Huh, um, no . . . " His abrupt question startles, leaving her disinclined to voice genuine sentiment. Nor should she on an assignment. "Always be respectful. Shine with kindness, not bitterness." Her mother's disciplines emerge, prompting her next response. "Slavery is a dark and unfortunate part of Magnolia's history, not its present reality. You can't change the past." Simone grimaces at the clichéd maxim’s utter triteness. But in a non-work-related setting, a candid response might have ensued. A home where a slaveowner's disdain instilled fear and debased subordinates might unnerve any person of color.
Parker smiles and nods his head with unswerving graciousness. But the diminished whites of his eyes affirm he’s well aware of her immediate perception.
“To be honest, the home’s history is bothersome. It’s not something one wishes away or ignores. To do so negates my people’s suffering. And I can’t. But I’m not stuck in the past and I do not harbor hatred. I just hope it’s a lesson people consider for a better future.” Simone seldom thinks of her color, hoping others see her as a human being first and foremost. However, standing in the gallery next to Parker, she’s more aware than ever. History whispers through Magnolia, reminding her she would have walked these halls as a servant centuries ago.
“Thank you for being honest. The home’s history is a constant struggle for me. That young girl there,” he says, pointing at the painting, “played a crucial role in this house. Records show they purchased her from the slave market at Forks of the Road just outside of town where Natchez Trace ends.”
“Oh, I saw the historical marker on entering the city.” Something made her park the car at the side of the road and venture to the sign, the only symbol marking the site of an auction block across which many slaves passed as they were sold to plantations in the area. “So much history in Natchez,” she states, staring at the girl again. “She was beautiful.”
“Her name was Delphine. She was more than a servant at Magnolia Sunrise.” He turns and points at the image of the blonde woman with the angular face and cutting eyes. “Lorelei Randolph, the owner’s wife, was consumptive, weak, and bedridden with tuberculosis a year before her death. Delphine oversaw the house with her mother, Josephine, known as Josie to the owners. Amelia and I researched Delphine’s history when we discovered the painting in an upstairs room closet. A room we understand she stayed in when she was nursing Lorelei’s babies―”
“A wet nurse?”
“Yes, that’s a correct epithet. Well, we decided her painting belongs right beside the others after learning of her influential role at Magnolia Sunrise.”
“What happened to her?”
Parker draws a slow, troubled breath and narrows his gaze on the painting as though expecting the girl to answer. He releases a breath and states, “Delphine fled the plantation during the Civil War with her brother, Benoit, and headed north with other slaves from surrounding plantations. We tried but couldn’t trace her whereabouts after the war. But official army records revealed her brother joined Grant’s black infantry and died June 1864 fighting in the Battle of Petersburg.”
“Oh . . .” Investing time and energy researching this girl’s past strikes her as odd. She’s not an ancestor. Of what importance is she to them other than as a past servant of the home, a wet nurse to her master’s children?
Parker tips his head right, signaling her to follow. “The suite lies on the south-western end, a distance from other rooms. Perfect for honeymooners seeking privacy,” he explains in a drawl as slow as his saunter.
Simone continues behind Parker’s easy-going pace, head sideways, staring at the slave girl’s spiteful eyes until they traverse the gallery. Entering a long passage with a lengthy cream-and-silver console adjoined by two side chairs beneath a large photo of present-day Magnolia Sunrise, they arrive at her suite.
“Here we go.” He opens the door. “Welcome to the Bluff-side suite.”
Simone clasps her mouth with a chilling recognition, stifling the terror rising in her throat. At once, she checks her wits in silence behind Parker, relieved he’s oblivious to a fright she could not explain. The disturbing images that plagued her unrelentingly four nights in a row originated here. Though hazy in her dream, she recognizes the spacious lounge adjoining a large bedroom with two tall windows lining one wall. Open drapes display a garden and a brilliant sunset. Next to the windows, familiar French doors lead to a patio. It’s the same room, she confirms, considering a retreat to the car and never returning.
“A private patio and en suite bath border the bedroom. Although you’re not a honeymooner, we provided the exact treatment we give every newlywed couple.” Parker’s voice resounds through a mental haze as he places the Samsonite in the bedroom.
A disconnect between her brain and feet, two opposing forces, cause Simone to dither at the door. She swallows the dreadful lump in her throat and tries to gather courage when another force propels her forward into a dream, now a reality.
Glass-paneled French doors that mirrored a full moon in her dream squeal open, slinging a sultry breeze into the air-conditioned room as Parker strides into the stone-tiled yard.
“The patio offers private dining and a fantastic view.”
Flashes of the eerie girl and her rolling bounty overshadow Parker’s voice. Simone pauses in astonishment near the high four-poster bed with white canopy bed curtains, glaring at the Hadleigh bed step she’d descended in her dream. Everything’s the same, even the gift basket, complimentary champagne on the nightstand, bouquets of roses, and several assorted flower vases around the suite. A room staged for romance, not fear. None of which calms her anxiousness.
She’s never seen this place before today. How could she dream it? Were they premonitions, omens of something evil? Was Mom trying to warn her? Certainly not, she thinks, recalling images of the dream and Lily’s plea. She wants her to tell her story.
She releases a breath and the tight grip on her handbag, considering asking Parker for another room. I can’t. It’s rude, not to mention odd and suspicious when they’ve given her the best suite in the home. Besides, there’s only one vacancy, the room adjoining Amelia and Parker’s suite.
On the patio, a small firepit, umbrella-covered table, and a stone path leads to the garden’s edge, just as in her dream. It’s real. The drag of chains on stones reverberates in her memory. A chimera of images―bloody peaches, fallen teeth, deep tar sockets―sour her expression.
Parker pivots toward her, frowning. “Are you OK?”
Expressive, never able to hide emotions, she seldom holds back, not that she can, unless her response is inappropriate, hurtful, or in this case, inexplicable. How could she explain a dream she doesn’t understand herself? Besides, she’s here for work, not to divulge or uncover what she’s experiencing. But maybe it’s connected. Delving into the home’s history will help her write a more compelling article. To allay Parker’s momentary concern, she forces a smile and replies with several quick nods, afraid her voice will give away her fear.
“You looked horrified a minute ago.”
“Mere astonishment,” she lies with a nervous titter. “What a well-designed patio and the perfect place to view the river and magnificent sunset,” she says with exaggerated exuberance, looking at the picturesque horizon.
“From this angle, sunsets splay breathtaking, colorful ribbons over the river most evenings.” Parker walks toward the garden and points at the fenced hedgerow. “Just a precaution. We created the garden to prevent guests from wandering too near the edge. There’s a lethal drop beyond the fence.”
Simone’s pulse races. The shrubbery incites images of a peach rolling to her feet and the girl’s bony hand. It’s the same bush. But there wasn’t a fence in her dream.
“What’s below the bluff?”
“A bowl-shaped gulch with a deadly history.”
“Oh? Deadly?”
Parker sighs and cups his chin in his hand with a pensive stare. “Well, many folktales purport horrible deeds happened
over the years. Many myths, a few, real. Other tales revolve around peach orchards that grow there, but thick woods, gators, and other critters make it a dangerous place to venture.”
Dangerous place to venture . . . Is it the place Dad mentioned? Simone narrows her eyes, strolls toward the spicy-smelling sweet shrub and touches the wine-colored blossoms, recalling the rolling peach and the girl’s infectious fingernails. She rubs her arm with a cringe. What happened in that gulch? Is it what the girl wants her to see? Instincts tell her something wicked occurred beyond the hedgerow where trees steeple to a sharp, tangled descent. “Is it the Devil’s Punchbowl?”
“Yes, you’re right, but it lies closer to the cemetery across the way.”
“What a coincidence. I just learned it exists a few days ago. What happened there?”
“What hasn’t happened in the bowl?” he states wryly with a heavy sigh, pausing in thought. “Well . . .” He pivots and scans the wooded decline beyond the bluff, turning around with haunted baby blues. “I shouldn’t fill your head with tales your first night. That bowl’s got layers of history too deep to explain. You need to unwind and enjoy the evening,” he says, leading her back inside the suite. “Oh, I’m afraid you’ll be eating alone as guests finished thirty minutes ago. But you’re more than welcome to use the dining room, or do you prefer your suite?”
I prefer a room that doesn’t freak me out, she thinks. “Dinner in my suite’s fine. You’re right. I should relax from the long trip. But I look forward to eating with your guests tomorrow.”
A grin lightens the inscrutable darkness that crept into his face moments ago. “As you wish. Dinner in your suite, coming right up.” He strolls toward a table set for two in the lounge by the sofa. “Lacy, our chef, will leave the tray here on the table.” Sincerity warms his eyes. “Simone, any friend of Bridgette’s is a friend of mine and Amelia’s. If you need anything, just ask.”
Simone follows him to the entrance, ready to inquire about the poem, but immediately changes her mind given his reluctance a moment ago. “Despite my comment on the plantation’s history, I’m honored to be a guest in your magnificent home.”
“Simone, you’re always welcome at Magnolia Sunrise.” He grins and closes the door with the same spiritedness with which he’d greeted her.
When the lock clicks, she roots to the spot, staring at the deluxe dreaded room, unable to shed ominous vibes. “Get a grip. You’ve got work to do. Nothing will happen,” she mumbles, wandering toward the patio, shutting the door, and shuttering the view. But the impressions that followed from her dreams rally greater in this place, shown to her many times in dreams.
Despite the unease she feels in the room, Simone wolfs down a whole plate of tasty rosemary-sage-seasoned swordfish and grilled veggies, a spring salad with slivers of avocado, a big slice of decadent chocolate rum cake, and two glasses of chilled complimentary champagne. Her imaginary husband shares an invisible plate, silliness she condones whenever she is on assignment. She wonders why her illusory husband always assumes her roommate Mitchell’s face.
Now on her third goblet, Simone finds the sparkling wine quells anxiety and lights a warm tingle in her spirit. She begins a routine staged for every assignment, setting up a workspace of necessities placed side by side on the lounge table: laptop, pad and pen, recharger, a personal hotspot, and the last photo taken with her parents at the Bayou Classic three years before. As with each article, she writes a brief paragraph recounting the trip from the airport, first impressions of Natchez, Magnolia Sunrise, and the charming host. With greater detail, she depicts the romantic suite, amenities, and five-star dinner before the alcohol dulls her brain and fear overshadows the pleasant buzz again.
Dazed, she stares at the computer screen and slowly types “Devil’s Punchbowl” with the image of Delphine’s painting in her mind. She is goaded by another energy, one that wants her to express genuine emotions about this place.
“No, not in this article.” Her instincts poke harder. There is another narrative to be told.
Moni, tell her story.
The incessant supplication has echoed nonstop since her flight. Who is this elusive she? Simone queries her brain, pausing on the specter in her dream.
“Is it her?” she asks, staring at her mother’s picture on the table.
At once, she powers off the laptop and stares at daylight diminishing beyond slit curtains, expecting the wraith to creep around the house and through the patio door with peaches. She strolls toward the window and peers past the garden fence, fixing her gaze over treetops descending into the unfathomable gulch, picturing peach orchards ripe for harvest.
Coincidence?
The Devil’s Punchbowl’s proximity to the B&B, the dreams, and her mother’s death are not coincidental but related. Her father, Ella, and Parker are close-mouthed for a reason. But the strange expression on Parker’s face after her inquiry piqued her interest. She glances at the bedroom’s angle. “Only a yard away,” she mumbles, discerning the nearness of the bluff.
An uncomfortable silence envelops the suite. No footsteps, not even echoing voices, only the giddy rush of champagne-laced blood pulsing in her ears. The stridulous chirping of faraway crickets, icy whispers from the air conditioner, and slight sounds, otherwise unnoticeable, amplify. And forthwith, as though someone read her thoughts, a remote door opens and closes somewhere in the house. Faint chatter emerges on the main level, growing more distant, a soft babble beyond the gallery, yet a comfort.
“Simone, you’re ridiculous. Dreams aren’t real,” she mutters, strolling toward the bed, undressing, sauntering in her bare skin into the adjacent bath with multiple images of her body, back, front, side, surrounding the space like a funhouse in an amusement park. How naughty, she thinks, catching her backside and imagining newlyweds’ sexy deeds in this space. She retrieves a towel from the built-in wall cabinet and turns toward the tub.
“Ah!” Simone gasps in horror, clutching her chest, losing the cloth to the floor. “Jesus, give your guest a heart attack, will ya,” she mumbles, picking up the towel. “What the heck are you?” she asks the life-size, jet-black statue standing over the tub. The effigy of a slave woman wearing an African-styled toga draped from one shoulder to her feet looks at her with big bronze eyes, the whites bright in contrast to her jet-black skin. An air of servile civility shines in her toothy grin. Large bronze hoop earrings hang from her lobes; a magnificent choker wraps her neck. One ornate arm arches above her head, holding a gilded bowl, while the second arm extends forward, offering clean, folded towels. The startling Blackamoor Parker mentioned epitomizes servitude.
Why keep a symbol of slavery, knowing it might offend guests? But the home’s historic, and the Blackamoor a relevant bygone relic. Perhaps Parker means to convey the servant’s significance to Magnolia Sunrise.
Simone steps into the center of the room, noticing the same black-and-white theme throughout the opulent bathroom: white marble walls, black polished floor tiles, dark granite counters, alabaster ceramic double sinks, and the showpiece, a deep ivory claw-foot tub across from a walk-in shower. Lit votive candles border the tub on an adjoining shelf. Is the black-and-white theme a metaphor for the home’s history?
She removes a bottle of Magnolia Sunrise bubble bath from a basket on the floor overflowing with various spa treatments. Turning on the faucet, she pours four too many caps of the floral-scented liquid into the stream.
The foamy bath caresses her in velvet warmth as she slides into the tub closing her eyes, soothed for the moment. The only sound is water lapping between her thighs as she peddles her knees up and down several times. Suds meet her chin as she sinks lower, placing a wet bath cloth over her eyelids.
Craaacck!
Pop!
The washcloth flies from her face over the tub, landing with a splat when she jerks toward the crackling cabinet. “Calm down . . . it’s just moisture settling in the wood,” she mutters with a nervous titter, leaving the cloth on the floor. She brea
thes deep, trying to achieve the same peace she’d felt a minute ago, but her heart races. At once, overhead lights dim, and the AC’s drone grows fainter. The air grows heavy, quieter.
Her skin prickles in alarm as she inches her spine up the curved bathtub. The presence she’d sensed in the brownstone unnerves her again. Gooseflesh covers her wet skin. Afraid to glance around, she clutches the edge of the tub and glares into the wide mirror over the sink, studying the spot at her rear beyond the bathroom door. Although her instincts perceive something behind her, the mirror belies her senses. Nothing reflects in the glass.
The odorous dampness she’d smelled four days ago overpowers, a vile sweetness. Simone shoots upright, sending water sloshing over the rim. Alert to a change in the room, she fixes her gaze on the mirror ahead.
A rumble sounds from the rear, growing louder, nearing her backside. Every muscle clench in an icy brace as she rolls her eyes sideways as a peach rattles past the tub and comes to rest under the counter.
It’s not real.
She closes her eyes, willing it away, hoping it’s gone on the count of five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
The steadfast peach emerges through narrowed eyes under the counter, just as red and plump as in her dream. Something rustles behind her back. She freezes with shallow breath. Only her gaze moves to a pale, wavering configuration in the mirror. The translucent image is not a figment of her mind. She’s there.
Frightened, Simone grips the rims, leans forward, reaching for the Blackamoor’s outstretched hand for support. Her feet slide on the gelled bubble bath, crashing her back into the tub with a rolling splash and splattering water over the lip of the tub and into her mouth, gurgling her gasp. She pivots her head, glances over her shoulder at the swift-moving entity. Adrenaline fires her feet and hands hard against the enamel base and rim, propelling her body forward as the fast-approaching figure in the glass launches toward her.
Tainted Harvest Page 5