Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1)

by Melanie Dickerson

  Mama went along with whatever Father said, and Celia half believed her father didn’t care about her mother’s feelings. She’d never in her life heard him ask his wife her opinion of anything, never seen him listen to her as if he was interested in what she had to say. He treated Celia with more respect than he did his own wife. It had always irked Celia and made her wish her mother, just once, would stand up to him.

  There was no use thinking about that now. As soon as Mama was herself again—Lord, please let it be before the end of summer—Celia would catch the first train back to Nashville. And she hoped by then she would have convinced her family to go back with her.

  Just the thought that the dress shop might permanently replace her with someone else, that she would lose her job when she had calculated it would only take her nine more months to save up enough money to open her own shop, sent her heart racing in panic. Was she being selfish to want it so badly? But after all, with the income, she could help her family. They would naturally want to move back to Nashville, and her money could make that happen.

  Celia held on to the buggy’s seat as it jounced her around over the bumpy road. She gazed into dark woods crowding the edge of the road—pecan trees, magnolias, and oaks mingled their leaves of varying shades of green. Cedars stood like thick, tall brushes in a straight line along the edge of the fields. Mimosa trees, with their tropical foliage and fuzzy pink pom-pom flowers, dangled over the edge of the dirt road. Farther along, honeysuckle vines draped the fences and permeated the hot afternoon with heady perfume.

  The countryside had a natural, exuberant beauty one couldn’t find in the city. But nature’s charm could be dark and dangerous, as it had been for Father.

  With God’s help, they could find the runaway horses and sell them and the farm and buy a small house near where Celia would open her shop. Then she would no longer have to board with old Mrs. Beasley and endure her snide remarks about a young woman, alone and unmarried, opening her own business as if she were a man.

  A thousand humphs on old Mrs. Beasley and everyone like her.

  “So what do you think of our beautiful countryside, Miss Wilcox? Or may I call you Miss Celia?”

  “Either is fine.” She smiled, then hoped he didn’t think she was flirting with him. “It is beautiful, in a wild sort of way.”

  “Your family will be overjoyed to see you. They speak of you quite often, about what a talented seamstress you are and how you plan to open your own shop.”

  “My family is very kind. I shall be happy to see them.” Tears pricked the back of her eyelids in response to the sharp longing in her heart. It would be so good to feel her mother’s and sister’s arms around her.

  Down the road and beyond some trees, a column of dark smoke danced lazily toward the sky. It seemed too big to be simply a cooking fire.

  She glanced at Dr. Beverly. His face was set in grim lines. He even looked a bit ashen.

  “What is it? Is someone’s house on fire?”

  “I think so.” His voice was hollow.

  The acrid smell of smoke burned her nose as they drew closer. The doctor grew stiffer and taller in the seat, the reins clenched tightly in his fists, as he urged the horse to move a little faster. Finally, a burned-out house came into view. Its charred stone chimney rose in the clearing from amidst blackened, smoking logs. Flickers of fire licked the remains of the small house.

  Celia bit her lip. “Do you suppose whoever lived here was able to get out in time?”

  “I reckon they did.” His teeth clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his jaw. His eyes narrowed and color returned to his face. He must know something he wasn’t telling her.

  “Did someone deliberately set this fire?”

  “I don’t know.” He spoke softly and looked away from her.

  “Then why do you look angry?”

  His chest expanded as he switched the reins lightly over the horse’s back to hurry him past the house. The heat from the fire made her dress cling to her back.

  “What makes you think I look angry?” His eyebrows lifted in nonchalance.

  “Your eyes are still shooting sparks.” She wouldn’t mention that his jaw looked set in stone. Like a Grecian statue. “Whose house was it?”

  “James Burwell’s.”

  Celia stared over her shoulder at what was left of the house. Her chest tightened for a moment in sympathy for James Burwell. Although, if he had truly molested a woman as the sheriff had said . . .

  “Do you know James Burwell?”

  “We’ve been friends since we were children. James has the mind of a scientist, continually making discoveries, figuring things out.” He turned and looked her in the eye. “Someday he’ll find a new way to double corn production, or invent a machine to do the work of a hundred men, or find a thousand new uses for cotton or sorghum molasses. He is a capable, gifted man, and he would never . . . ever hurt a woman.”

  Something about his expression and his clear blue eyes as he gazed at her made her heart flutter, just as it had when he’d smiled at her at the train depot.

  She quickly looked away from him. Heat rose into her own cheeks and an unsettled feeling came over her. How foolish to have such a reaction to a man she hardly knew. But as she thought about what he had said, she was even more certain that he had been trying to deceive the sheriff.

  They rode on in silence for a while. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Why wasn’t he married? His features were appealing, and he was tall, educated, his only physical flaw being crooked bottom teeth. She marveled that one of Bethel Springs’s girls hadn’t roped the local doctor like a prize bull. He was the pick of the county, she imagined.

  The wagon bumped over the uneven road, which consisted only of two dirt ruts with grass growing down the middle. The scenery alternated from fields of cotton or corn, to thick forests, and back to cotton again. Out of boredom and an effort to make conversation, she asked, “So, Dr. Beverly, where did you attend medical school?”

  “Bellevue Medical Seminary, New York City.”

  “Oh. Why did you move to Bethel Springs? Did you miss the South?”

  He shrugged. “I grew up here and my parents asked me to come back. There was a need for a doctor.”

  “Is your father a farmer?”

  “He owned a plantation before the war. Now he works near Columbia, Tennessee, helping my uncle with his brick manufacturing business. But my mother, brother, and I are your family’s nearest neighbor to the east. We’ll pass the house in a minute.”

  Before the words were out of his mouth, a thundering of hooves grew closer. The rider rounded the curve a hundred feet ahead of them and Celia immediately recognized her brother.

  “Will!”

  Celia’s twelve-year-old brother reined the horse to a halt beside Dr. Beverly. “It’s Griff. Mrs. Beverly can’t control him, and she sent me to fetch you.”

  Dr. Beverly leaped to the ground. “May I borrow your horse?”

  Will slipped from the saddle.

  “Take Miss Celia home in my buggy.” He swung onto Will’s horse and was off at a gallop before she could ask a single question.

  “Hey there, Celia. I didn’t know you was coming.” Will grinned as though he hadn’t just ridden up like a banshee, and as though his news hadn’t just sent the doctor tearing away in like manner.

  “What’s going on? And why didn’t you know I was coming? And don’t say, ‘I didn’t know you was coming.’ It’s ‘were coming.’”

  He climbed onto the seat beside her, kissed her on the cheek, and took up the reins. The gelding started forward at an easy pace.

  “Us country folk don’t set much store by correct grammar.”

  She could tell he was teasing her by the way his eyebrows lifted and the corners of his mouth twitched. If she weren’t so irritated with him, she would throw her arms around her little brother and plant a kiss on his cheek.

  “Not funny,” she said. But she had never been good at holding grudges
, so she hugged and kissed him, and then tousled his beautiful blond head anyway. “Now will you please tell me what’s going on? Who’s Griff?”

  “Griff is Dr. Beverly’s brother. Folks say he hit his head when he was a child, and ever since then, well . . . he ain’t been right. Most of the time he acts like a child, but when he gets agitated, he’s liable to hurt somebody. And I’ve never seen him as riled as he was a few minutes ago when I left to go fetch Truett.”

  An animal-like growling came from behind a row of trees, growing louder and fiercer by the moment. She couldn’t see anything past the bend in the road. Her heart thumped against her chest as an uneasy feeling crept over her. “What is that sound?”

  “That’s Griff.”

  Chapter 4

  The back of Celia’s neck prickled. She wished Will would make the horse go faster. Dr. Beverly could be in danger!

  But perhaps it was best they didn’t reach them too soon. What if Will was hurt? She shuddered at the thought. After what happened to Daddy, she couldn’t bear anything happening to Will.

  Just around the bend, another growl sounded, this one more fierce than before. If only the horse would go faster. A few more steps and they’d be able to—

  A woman’s scream split the air.

  Celia’s blood turned cold. She glanced at Will’s tense face and then followed his gaze toward the bushes just ahead as the buggy crept around the curve.

  Beside the road, a man stood holding a huge rock over his head. Griff. He was Truett Beverly’s brother, all right. Though his hair was darker and he was a bit taller, his features were too similar to Dr. Beverly’s to not be his close kin.

  His eyes were wild, like a wolf about to pounce on its prey. He aimed his weapon—the gray boulder—at a small, gray-haired woman several feet in front of him.

  Celia gasped, her hand flying to her throat. Griff was going to kill that poor woman!

  Out of the saddle now, Dr. Beverly crept toward his brother. Suddenly, he shouted, “Run!” and leaped toward his brother.

  Griff let out a roar and heaved the rock at the woman, but Dr. Beverly’s shoulder struck his brother in the ribs, throwing off his aim and sending the three of them—Griff, Dr. Beverly, and the boulder—to the ground. The heavy rock landed a safe distance away from its target.

  The woman had run away when Dr. Beverly had commanded. Now, she took a few steps toward the house, which was nestled among some trees away from the road, and then turned back to watch.

  Truett Beverly grappled with his snarling brother. Griff wrapped his hands around the doctor’s throat.

  Celia grasped the wagon seat, her heart thumping. She wanted to jump down and help him, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off the scene below her.

  Dr. Beverly used his hands to cover Griff’s eyes. Griff let go. With amazing speed, he grasped Griff’s wrists and pinned them to the ground. Then he pressed his knee against his brother’s heaving chest. The doctor looked almost nonchalant, holding the thrashing man captive.

  Will simply drove on past.

  “Shouldn’t we do something to help him? Maybe go and fetch the sheriff?” Celia turned on the seat to look back, but the trees and the next bend hid them from view.

  “Nah.” Will frowned from one side of his mouth. “Truett can take care of it. He told me to get you home.”

  Celia just stared at her brother. Was this a regular occurrence? Were these the neighbors with whom her family was blessed?

  What a strange place her father had stranded her family in.

  Celia faced forward on the seat. It wasn’t far now. In a few minutes, she would see her family. She wanted to ask Will about Mama, but would he even know anything was amiss? Will wasn’t the most observant person in the family.

  They turned into the small dirt path leading to the white clapboard farmhouse. Celia clutched the strings of her small purse in her fist. When the wagon slowed to a stop, she gathered her skirt in her hand and jumped down from the seat.

  Lizzie burst onto the front porch. “Celia! You’re here!” Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and water dripped from her hands. She smiled wider than the Tennessee River, and Celia rushed to hug her.

  She met her on the porch and they flung their arms around each other.

  After tearfully saying how much they’d missed each other, Celia pulled away slightly. “Did you get my telegram?”

  “No. When did you send it?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Tuesday. That’s the day the pigs found a hole under the fence and ran away.” Lizzie smiled ruefully and hugged her sister again. “We were all out hunting for them, but Mama would have been home. She didn’t say anything about a telegram.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Celia squeezed her sister’s wet hand. “Washing dishes?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  Had all the housework fallen on Lizzie’s fourteen-year-old shoulders? “How’s Mama?”

  Lizzie frowned and shook her head. She clasped Celia’s hand and led her into the house.

  The small, one-story farmhouse was draped in her mother’s touch—a lace tablecloth here, an oil lamp with a frilly fringed shade there. The simple house had a cared-for look, in spite of the twins’ toys strewn over the floor.

  Lizzie led her through the parlor, or sitting room, down the hallway, which led past bedrooms on both sides, to the kitchen at the back of the house, and there her mother sat in a straight-back chair, staring out the window. The sun was casting bright orange rays into the room.

  “Mama, I’m home.” Celia crossed the room, intending to give her a hug, but when Mama finally turned to gaze at her, it was with a guarded, slightly puzzled expression.

  Celia stopped in the middle of the room. “Mama. It’s me, Celia.”

  “Celia?” Mama stared at her face without a trace of recognition.

  What kind of sad joke was this? Her mother didn’t recognize her? It had only been six months since she’d been there for the funeral. Was Mama so bad off?

  She couldn’t speak as she waited for Mama to recognize her.

  Her mother’s usually plump cheeks were slightly sunken and her lips were red and chapped. Accustomed to seeing her mother’s hands busy peeling potatoes, rolling out pie crust, sewing, mending, or embroidering, it was odd to see them lying idly in her lap. Could Mama not accept that Daddy was gone? Did she have to give up, to forget that she had a family of five children who needed her?

  “Don’t you know me, Mama? Your own daughter?”

  “Oh . . . Celia. Of course. Where have you been?” Mama’s eyes still looked dull, as if she only half understood what was happening around her.

  Celia swallowed, fighting the nausea that threatened to sweep over her. She stepped forward and took her mother’s hands in hers. “Mama, I’ve been in Nashville, working at the dress shop. But I’m here for the summer. Are you all right?”

  She stared at Celia with that disinterested glaze over her eyes. “Yes, I am well. How are you?”

  Celia felt like crying. This woman wasn’t her mother! What made her sit there in a strange stupor as if she had no mind at all?

  She took a deep breath. She shouldn’t have such thoughts about her mother. Surely this was only temporary. Her mother was suffering deep grief over Daddy’s death. She needed Celia’s sympathy and understanding. Celia patted her hand. “Everything’s going to be all right, Mama. Don’t you worry.”

  Lizzie stepped forward. “Mama, did a telegram come two days ago, on Tuesday?”

  Confusion and annoyance creased her forehead and deepened the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. “A telegram? I don’t know. Look over there.” She waved her hand at a small basket on the sideboard.

  Lizzie stepped to the corner of the room and peered into the basket. “Here it is.” She snatched up the piece of paper, then her shoulders slumped. “Mama, why didn’t you tell us?” A look of dismay scrunched her face. She met Celia’s gaze and frowned, then let
out a long slow breath. Celia wanted to say something reassuring, but words failed her.

  Tempie and Harley ran into the house and threw their arms around Celia’s knees, nearly knocking her over. They squealed and pelted her with questions, then ran off before she could answer them. Tempie went to fetch her corn shuck doll someone had made for her, and Harley showed her his slingshot.

  “I killed my first bird!” Dirt smudged his face and neck, but his smile was wide and full of joy.

  “That’s very good,” Celia said, making sure to look impressed. But inwardly she marveled at how Lizzie had managed to care for them, as rambunctious as they were.

  If Mama didn’t improve, Celia would not be able to leave them again.

  Celia let the second bucket fall to the bottom of the well. Night descended around her, and with it came the shrill chirping of crickets and the mournful calling of the whippoorwill. She turned the squeaky windlass to bring the full bucket to the top. As she reached for it, a horse’s hooves thudded on the road nearby. Celia turned from the well and strained to see who it was in the shadowy light of the moon and stars.

  The rider turned onto their path and made his way toward where she stood beside the well several feet from the front porch. He took off his hat with a flourish and bowed slightly from atop his horse. “Miss Celia.”

  Truett Beverly. He must have come to get his buggy and return Will’s horse.

  “Dr. Beverly.” She had just seen him a few hours before, but somehow he looked different. Older.

  “I apologize for running off and leaving you.”

  “That’s all right. You were occupied with a more pressing matter, as I recall.”

  He dismounted and walked closer. “I regret you had to see Griff that way . . . for your first impression to have been . . . that. He isn’t usually in such a state. His brain injury causes his behavior to be erratic.”

  Could her mother’s state be the same as a brain injury? Could Dr. Beverly help her?

  “I’ve come to see your mother as I promised.” Dark crescents ringed Truett’s eyes. His hair and clothes were slightly disheveled, and he looked as if he needed a shave.