The Brightest Day: A Juneteenth Historical Romance Anthology

by Alexander, Kianna

  Inside on the lower floor, numerous vendors had set up stands to ply their wares. Most were selling produce and dry goods, but some sold artisan items, like beaded jewelry and hand woven rugs. The number of vendors varied from day to day. At present there were about ten stands open for business.

  A brief glance around the interior of the old Market House brought back a flood of memories. Back in ‘65, only a few months before the war’s bitter end, she’d seen many of her friends from a neighboring plantation sold off in this very market, so their master could settle his mounting debts. She shuddered at the chill that rolled down her spine at the memory of that day. As time had passed, general stores had come to town, allowing her the opportunity to bypass the Market House if she chose. But she was serious about her craft as a baker, and the cinnamon bark she purchased at this market was the freshest and most potent to be had between here and Wilmington. So she would endure the awful memories long enough to purchase them and be on her way.

  Seeing the woman she sought, she approached her spice stand with a smile on her face. “Good morning, Mrs. Grundy.”

  The round faced, rosy cheeked older woman greeted her with a smile of her own. “Aye, that it is, Rosaline. Come for some cinnamon I suppose?”

  She nodded. “Five sticks, if you can spare it.”

  “That I can.” Mrs. Grundy gathered the sticks from the cracker box she kept them in, and placed them in a small burlap sack, then handed them over to her.

  Rosaline accepted the small bounty and paid the half eagle price. She touched the brim of her straw hat, and started to stroll away.

  Mrs. Grundy stayed her by offering a small vial. “Here, my dear. A vial of my best nutmeg, for my best customer.”

  Rosaline reached for her hand bag, but Mrs. Grundy shook her head.

  “Take it. No charge.”

  Her smile brightened. “Why, thank you Mrs. Grundy. Good day to you.”

  “And a good day to you, Rosaline.”

  She turned, tucked the vial into the sack with the cinnamon, and departed. Passing beneath the center arch of the Market House, she wound up back on the plank walk. As she moved up the road toward McKeithan’s General Store for the rest of her items, the gears of her mind ticked through all the steps she’d need to take to prepare the massive, five-tiered spice cake Marian Goodman had commissioned for tomorrow’s Juneteenth festivities. Usually a cake of such caliber would have been made ahead, but Mrs. Goodman insisted on the utmost in freshness.

  Her gaze settled low, landing on the planks beneath her feet as she walked and plotted. She saw only the feet of her fellow citizens as they went by her.

  That is, until she walked smack into the solid chest of a man who’d been traveling the same path as her, only in the opposite direction.

  “Heavens, I’m terribly sorry...” Her words trailed off, her nostrils flared as the familiar scents of fresh cut wood and linseed oil touched her senses. Immediately she knew him. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she tilted her head upward toward the tall, dark obstacle in her path.

  Finally she met the mirthful, dark eyes of William Pruett. His full brow arched, the twitch of his lips conveying his amusement. “You’d best be looking where you’re going, Rosie.”

  Heat filled her face as she tried to get her wits about her. Will, as he preferred to be called, had never been one to mince words. Still, he was a good natured fellow, and as handsome as a man had any right to be. “Pardon me, Will. I’ve a few items to pick up for my spice cake, and I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  He chuckled. “I can tell. It you weren’t such a mousy little thing you’d have bowled me over.”

  She knew he was teasing her, both about her short stature and her clumsiness. “Be gone with you, Will Pruett. Haven’t you some got final adjustments to make to the ship before we sail tomorrow morning?”

  His gaze shifted behind her for a moment before he grasped her shoulders and shifted her body to the right, out of the flow of foot traffic. A gaggle of folks passed by, chatting and laughing. After they’d gone, he leaned his shoulder against the brick outer wall of the small building housing the town library. “True enough, I do. I’ll be doing my final checks on Hope’s Lantern today, to make sure she’s in top sailing shape.”

  “Well, go see to it. And make sure she’s set for smooth sailing as well. I don’t want my spice cake overturned into the Cape Fear because she rides like a mine cart.”

  He whistled. “Aren’t you full of sass today? Don’t worry. The Lantern will be right as rain, and I’ll be sure to let my Captain know of your demands for a smooth journey.”

  Watching the words drip from his full, mustached lips threatened to derail all the carefully laid plans she had for the day. Will Pruett was temptation personified; tall, strapping, and muscular, with skin the color of browned wheat and black wavy hair that grazed his chin. His eyes were mesmerizing orbs of brown flecked with hints of gold. They often met during her excursions into town for supplies, and she enjoyed chatting with him due to his jovial nature. He seemed interested in her beyond friendship, but her good sense told her that a man like him could undo everything she’d worked so hard to build. She shook herself free from his spell as best she could, offering a curt nod. “I really must go, Will. I’ve got to get home and get the cake started. It’s going to be very large.”

  He gave her a slow nod, touching his middle and forefingers to his temple in a sort of salute. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow at the river’s edge, Rosie.”

  He turned and moved on, and she did the same, traveling in the opposite direction of him. She wanted to keep walking, to keep her focus on the important job she’d been entrusted with.

  Instead, her traitorous body won out, and she turned her head just a bit to get a look at Will as he walked away.

  The cut of his broadcloth vest barely touched his lower back, and her eyes fell to the tight lines of his rear end, encased in a pair of well-fitting denim trousers.

  Her breath caught, and she abruptly turned around, hurrying toward McKeithan’s.

  ~~~

  Will stretched his arms above his head, stifling a yawn. The lunch hour was behind him, and now the afternoon doldrums were beginning to settle. He set his hammer down on the sawhorse next to him, and went inside the office to seek out a cup of coffee.

  Inside the small cabin, he got himself a tin mug of the tepid brew leftover from lunch and stood by the front window with it. Before him lay his shipyard, ten acres of loose, sandy soil dotted with grass and wild blooms. Beyond the borders of the yard, to the north and west, lay a longleaf pine forest. To the south and east lay the waters of the Cape Fear River, flowing toward the Atlantic.

  As a slave born on the Pruett plantation, he’d worked at this yard from his boyhood. Old Man Pruett and his wife Celine had owned the yard, which provided the light, well-built ships needed to navigate the fickle waters of the Cape Fear. The river was a moody and unyielding mistress; her jagged bottom and rough borders meant the passage narrowed and widened at strange intervals. The water’s depth also varied wildly from place to place, hence the four locks installed along the river between Fayetteville and Wilmington. The skill and knowledge of the crew at Cape Fear Shipworks had made it one of the most successful businesses in the city.

  But that was prior to Mr. Lincoln’s war. Most of the men who worked to build the ships went off to fight for one side or the other. Many of the slaves left, either escaping in the chaos or signing on with the Union army. By the time Sherman had marched through in March of ‘65, burning most of Fayetteville in the process, only five male captives remained. Every white man who’d worked at the yard had either been killed, maimed, or captured in the conflict.

  When word of emancipation reached the area, the remaining slaves packed their meager belongings. But before Will could join the others on the journey north, Old Man Pruett had stopped him.

  The Pruett plantation, on the northern edge of the city, had been burned and looted by Sherman�
�s men. The old blue eyes of his master had been tired and watery as he handed over a piece of rolled paper. “Here you go, Will. Have your own way with the place.” Then he’d gotten on his buggy with Mrs. Pruett and drove away, not looking back.

  When Will unrolled the paper, he found the deed to the shipyard. That had been ten years ago, but he often thought of that day. He’d never seen or heard from his old master again, and parts of him wondered what had become of the Pruetts. He supposed they’d join the throngs of displaced Southerners moving north to rebuild their lives after the war ravaged their homes. He might never know their fate, so instead he focused on building the best quality ships this side of the Appalachians.

  He could see his friend and business associate, Bret Longstreet, lying on his back beneath the hull of Hope’s Lantern. The ship, built at this yard, belonged to the Goodmans, one of the wealthiest black families in the area. The Lantern had only just been built this past spring, and the Juneteenth cruise Mrs. Goodman had suggested would represent its maiden voyage down the river. As such, Will, Bret, and a crew of hands had been working all day to ensure the Lantern was ready to sail.

  The ship was set up on large blocks of wood in the central area of the yard, with ten or so men swarming around it like bees near a hive. Marian Goodman, matriarch of a wealthy, freeborn family, had come to him with very specific standards for the building of what she referred to as the family’s “pleasure boat.” The vessel was to serve no other purpose than ferrying the Goodmans and their friends up and down the Cape Fear River, to and from the spot where they kept a beach cottage near Wilmington. She’d also secured a number of furnishings and decorative pieces for the finished ship, and as soon as the mechanical checks were completed, the men at the shipyard would begin moving those items onto the vessel, setting it up for the celebratory maiden voyage.

  When he’d downed the last of his cool coffee, he set the mug aside and went out to check on the progress of things. In less than two hours it would be closing time, and he was looking forward to finishing the preparations for the voyage so he could go home and put his feet up. He squatted beside Bret, who remained on his back beneath the ship’s hull. The sounds coming from where his friend worked revealed that he was using a hammer and chisel.

  “How does she look, Bret?”

  Bret slid a bit along the sandy, grass speckled ground, until his face was revealed. “Now that I’ve chipped away the last bit of excess wood so she can navigate through the locks and over the sandbars, she’s as yar as they come, Will.”

  He clapped his hands together. “Excellent. How long before we can move the trappings on board?”

  Bret gave him a crooked smile. “We can start as soon as you help me up off the ground.”

  With a chuckle, Will offered his hand. Bret grasped it and allowed himself to be pulled up onto his feet.

  Dusting the grains of sand and blades of grass from his denims and brown work shirt, Bret winked. “Much obliged. Now let’s move that cargo.”

  Will whistled to the rest of the workmen. “Alright, boys. Let’s outfit her!”

  All the men ceased their conversations and tasks to move to the barn-like structure where lumber and supplies were normally housed. Now, however, the place was half-filled with the fancy furniture, paintings, and other items Mrs. Goodman had sent to outfit the Lantern.

  As they usually did when loading a ship in dry dock, two men made sure the gangplank was securely anchored in the sandy soil. Will and Bret then boarded the ship, preparing to accept the items as they were handed up. Once the signal was given, the men began to use wheelbarrows and brute strength to get the goods aboard. First came the Oriental rugs that were to be placed on the floor of the deck. Larger items that needed several sets of hands, such as the Louis XIV settee and accompanying tables, were carefully walked over and passed up the plank, followed by the smaller items.

  While moving the items into place inside the ship’s parlor, Will and Bret conversed to make the task less dull.

  “So, did you run into your lady at the market today?” Bret’s teasing tone accompanied the question.

  Will cut him a look, but answered anyway. “She’s not my lady, but yes, I did run into her today. Or rather, she ran into me.” He then gave a brief recounting of the distracted lady baker walking smack into his chest.

  Bret laughed as he helped slide the settee into its designated spot. “She something, alright. And she’s more your lady than any other. After all, you’ve been talking to her for months now.”

  “Nonsense. Talking to someone, even over a period of time, doesn’t make a relationship.” He pushed the console table against one wall of the ship’s parlor and secured it to the wall with a set of anchoring brackets. The brackets would allow the heavier furniture and the rugs to remain in place in case the waters became choppy.

  “Whatever you say. We all know you like her, Will.”

  Will turned his back on his meddling friend, long enough to retrieve a heavy vase from Clem, one of the shipyard hands.

  Clem winked as he handed over the vase. “Don’t worry, boss man. Once she’s on board the ship tomorrow, there’ll be no escaping all your many charms.”

  Taking the vase, Will rolled his eyes. “You men are worse than a bunch of gossiping women.”

  They continued loading the ship until everything was in place. Standing back to admire it, Will had to admit that it was a finely appointed parlor. After he and Bret exited the ship, they took a final look at it. Hope’s Lantern had been built from the best quality oak to be found in these parts. According to her purpose, she’d been kept lightweight, with the only metal used on the vessel being fittings, nails and screws. She was a longer, narrower version of the riverboats trawling the Mississippi, a necessity for navigating the unpredictable waters and the series of locks found on the Cape Fear. Her rim, and the edges of the paddle boat wheel, had been trimmed with a broad stripe of blue paint; blue being Mr. Goodman’s favorite color. She was a showpiece first and foremost, and that’s how she appeared now sitting up on the risers, varnished and polished until her hull and fittings shone in the sunlight.

  She’s a beauty. Will felt a swelling of pride in his chest at the sight. This vessel was easily one of the larger, more complex ones built under his command of the shipyard, and he was pleased with the way it had turned out. All that remained was to get it in the drink tomorrow, and see if she sailed as good as she looked.

  “Good job men. I’ll expect those of you on the crew for the voyage to be here by sunrise tomorrow.” Will’s words echoed around the yard.

  Once everything was put in its proper place for the night, Will said his goodbyes to the men he worked with, and climbed onto his buggy for the ride home. He drove a compact conveyance, drawn by a mule. It wasn’t fancy or new, but for a single man like himself, it served its purpose well.

  As he drove down the cobbled streets to the eastern edges of town, he took in the near silence and solitude. It was well past the seven o’clock hour, and most of the shops in town had long since closed for the day. By now, folks were home with their families, having supper and preparing for bed.

  Just outside the borders of town, he reached his home. It was a small lot, just under two acres, on which he’d built a small cabin. He’d stayed in the remains of the big house at the old Pruett spread after the master and missus left, but only long enough for this place to be completed.

  He halted his buggy next to the cabin and set the handbrake, then took his mule Hiram around to the small barn. Once the animal was watered, fed, and secured for the night, Will entered the cabin through the back door.

  In the darkness, he fumbled a bit for the matches he kept on his kitchen table. Once he had his hand on them, he struck one, and lit the lamp on the tabletop. He adjusted the flame, turning it up as high as it would go.

  The illumination cast by the lamp reached into his small parlor.

  And there, just where the circle of light began to fade into darkness again,
he saw Starla Gates.

  It appeared as if she were sitting on his settee smiling at him, her eyes dancing with merriment.

  He shook his head, knowing it could not be so, but she remained.

  Starla had been dead nearly eleven years. Logic told him that she was gone from him forever, and would never know of his love. Yet his heart refused to believe it, even after all this time.

  He blinked a few times, until the vision left him.

  Alone in his cabin, he trudged toward the welcome embrace of his bed.

  ~~~

  Evening shadows shrouded the interior of Rosaline’s cabin, so she went round the one room structure, turning up all the lamps she had scattered about. She covered a yawn with her hand, then used her handkerchief to blot her damp brow. Having both her ovens lit all day to get the cakes baked had left the interior of the cabin extremely hot. While she was up, she used two heavy stones to prop open the front and rear doors, in hope of letting some of the stifling heat escape.

  She looked at the small crates sitting on her kitchen table, with the cooled, paper wrapped layers of spice cake resting in side. It had taken her all day, but she’d finally finished the mammoth confection. Now all that remained was assembling it. She and her assistant Sarah would put it together once it was safely on board the ship.

  She took a quick trip to the pump to wash the flour dust from her hands and body, then returned inside to find the temperature in the cabin had cooled a bit. The rising heat of June gave way to cooler temperatures at night, and the breeze blowing through the cabin was a welcome respite from the heat generated by her ovens.

  Once she’d changed into her night gown, she fixed herself a sandwich with a few leftover slices of roast turkey from the icebox, and a cup of lemonade. Sitting down to her supper, she savored the food, as well as the joy of having finally completed her largest bakery order to date.

  She’d taken her time to craft what she thought was an exquisite cake. Now she only hoped the Goodmans and their well-heeled guests would agree. As things now stood, she baked her cupcakes, cookies, and her signature sweet potato turnovers in large batches, then sold them in town. Since she’d not yet saved enough funds to purchase a storefront, she did all her baking at home and made her sales out of the back of her wagon. Marian Goodman’s order of the elaborate spice cake had earned her a nice profit, and she did as she always did with the money. She’d pocketed only what she needed for supplies and basic living expenses, and deposited the rest in her account at Fayetteville Colored Bank and Trust. With few hundred more dollars, she would finally be able to afford the storefront she so desperately wanted, and take her bakery business to the next level.