by Barbara Best
The subtropical ecosystem of coastal Georgia has taken on a faint autumn tint. In the southeast, nature’s progression of lazy, rocking-chair summer days to acorn-gathering fall is a slow and obstinate affair. Just when the lingering season’s oppressive heat and humidity convince everyone it will never end, a hint of change stirs the atmosphere. Practically overnight, winter unexpectedly stretches its cold fingers southward, changing the foliage to brown.
A few trees have begun to shed their leaves. Their branches, heavy with droplets of moisture, rock to and fro. The landscape is still musky wet from a night’s rain. The charcoal-gray morning sky promises more. It is suitably gloomy for a reunion with Sea Oaks Plantation, a place Bryce would like to forget more than anything else.
“You have quite a stride there, Mr. McKenzie,” Kat calls out, scrambling to catch up. Just as she hops a puddle, the man bolts across the lawn instead of following the well-marked path.
“Who’s showing who around, anyway,” she frowns.
The man had scarcely given her a chance to park before he was out of the suburban and off at a trot. Alarmed, a family of gray squirrels chattered and flicked their bushy tails when he leaped over a white decorative rail used to funnel the crowds who visited the plantation.
“Amazing,” Bryce croaks and coughs the hoarseness from his voice. His sudden energy quickly drains to weariness. “Someone’s done a good job of keeping the place up,” he commends with superficial praise, sensing Miz Logan’s presence next to him.
“Uh, thanks,” Kat pants. “Whatever got into you?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to take off like that.”
It is exactly the way Bryce remembers it. His eyes roam up from the massive columns on the wide veranda to the second-floor balconies. Further up, the third-floor attic dormers, multiple chimneys and widow’s walk are crowned by a capricious weather vane whose directional ornament pivots abruptly on a shifting breeze.
He replays his memory of a celebratory wedding procession, a line of finely decorated carriages and wagons with Captain McIntosh leading on his prancing steed. He pictures himself following on Lucky, the befuddled bystander with a mixed bag of emotions who just had his ego ripped away. Was it only yesterday he took the short ride from the quaint country chapel where Jane sealed her fate with a man he knows nothing about?
Gulping down his misery, he forces his mind to an interesting snippet. Something is missing. “Where’s the rose garden?” Bryce asks.
“My word! Few folks know that there was a splendid garden here. Our original green roses,” Kat’s eyebrows arch.
Wandering ivy and black iron benches shaded by dense magnolias partially conceal the site where the beginning of a new and brilliant industry formed long ago. Stacked stones once bordered two large rectangular rose beds that gathered full sun along a broad gravel pathway. A carefully preserved fountain centerpiece still bubbles and spurts plumes of water into its round basin. It is a place for tourist to rest and take in the beauty of the rambling property. Kat’s eyes flash to the man beside her.
Bryce catches the glance and shrugs, “Internet.” In a small callous way, he is pleased to have one-upped the woman. Miz Logan is definitely dumbfounded by his observation.
Chapter 12
TWINKLE OF CAMARADERIE
Kat shades her eyes with her hand and locates a circling flock of seagulls that are bleating ha-ha-ha cries above their heads.
“The Old Homestead Bed and Breakfast is closer to the river. Down that road over there,” she says, pointing in the general direction. “The place is even older than the manor house and, honestly, I’m drawn to it more. Jack McIntosh built it for his bride back in the 1700s. My great ancestor was a Freemason and explorer. He joined William Bartram on many of his expeditions. Jack’s father was William McIntosh Mor, the first to colonize the region. A bunch of stubborn, foolhardy Scots who had a vision,” she chuckles.
“The red hair,” Bryce smiles, “A recessive genetic trait that has long been associated with Celtic people.” He tries to improve his mood and knows Miz Logan is proud of her hair and her heritage. “Actually, some of my folks were from Scotland too. A lot of Scots migrated to Georgia in the early days, fleeing famine and pestilence in the homeland.”
“True,” Kat returns his smile. A twinkle of camaraderie lights her eyes. She twists a strand of loosened hair behind one ear and feels in her purse for her phone, switching it to silence-vibrate. Their steps slow, the pace a bit easier. The man’s shoulders have dropped some. He seems to have relaxed a little.
“You mentioned the garden, sir. We moved our special green roses to a more secure area many years ago. They are a heavily guarded species, bred and nurtured by experts. You won’t find them anywhere else in the world. We have horticulturists who live on the grounds to maintain our thriving industry and specialists who make our perfume. Members of the Salva Society grant funds and pay us visits on occasion. They’ve been around for decades.”
“The Salva Society,” Bryce repeats. “Never heard of ’em.”
“Are you daft?”
“Now hold on a minute—”
“You are serious. Please forgive me,” Kat giggles. “It’s just, well, part of Salva’s history is pretty much seen as synonymous with Sea Oaks and the Confederacy. Salva is also a global conglomerate. Their hands are in just about everything agricultural and environmental. They are especially devoted to the South and, fortunate for us, the preservation of Sea Oaks for all posterity.”
Bryce wants to laugh outright over the absurdity of it all. He is growing more muddled by the minute and bothered by the innuendos he is anything but levelheaded.
Like a shadow, Kat follows Bryce as he wanders up the long oak-lined drive toward the manor house. Sensing his vacillating attitude, she stops briefly before cutting around and taking the steps up onto the veranda.
“Good morning,” Miz Jenkins calls from inside. Lifting her full skirt and hoop, she glides into view, catching the door before it slams. “Why, we weren’t expecting you, but it is always a joy. And, we have a guest.” She eyeballs the stranger and shoots a squinting glance at Kat.
“A good morning, indeed, Miz Jenkins,” Kat greets. “I have a few days off and will be taking my rooms at the Old Homestead. I plan to bring Wyatt over after school. A teacher planning day is scheduled for tomorrow.”
Bryce had seen Miz Logan toss her overnight case onto the back seat of the suburban. Pulled out of his meandering thoughts, he sniffs deeply and makes his way up.
“Well, there’s plenty of rooms to be had in the old place round this time of year with the children in school and holiday bustle,” Miz Jenkins says. Suspicious by nature, she studies Kat’s companion with a suitable smile in place.
Kat catches the stare, “Miz Jenkins, this is Mr. Bryce McKenzie. Mr. McKenzie, Miz Jenkins,” she emits formally.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Bryce says, tipping his hat.
Miz Jenkins nods and dips a quick curtsy. A pumpkin orange cat that never sits still for very long had slipped out with the woman onto the veranda.
“That’s Millie the umpteenth,” Kat says, and chuckles at Millie’s meowing upon hearing her name. “She is a descendant of the original Millie on the property. Naturally, there have been many Millies since. Our Millie is famous. Aren’t you pretty girl? A children’s book was written about her. It’s in our gift shop.”
“Is that so?” Bryce mumbles, his eyes fixed on the slinking creature that is weaving in and out from under Miz Jenkins’ skirt and petticoats.
“Yes. Supposedly, Jane Hopkins brought a cat with her when she traveled here in 1863. Some say the name came from the distinct ‘M’ pattern on its fur. We’re not really sure if that’s a fact or myth,” Kat says, and reaches down. The purring Millie thrusts her head under Kat’s cupped hand, reveling in affection. Kat runs her fingers along the feline’s arching back to the tip of her tail. “Aw, such a nice kitty.”
Bryce’s mouth falls open at the casu
al reference to Jane’s cat. He had seen ‘the Millie’ briefly at the wedding reception. Jane explained the cat was a gift from her friend, Mary Marshall, before one of the servants whisked the creature from the room. “She looks . . . uh, well fed,” he sputters.
“Oh, she is an eater, all right,” Miz Jenkins snorts. “Always underfoot lookin’ for scraps like her litter. All five of them are about ready for auction before they go feral like the lot that prowls the property for mice and such.”
Miz Jenkins ‘Rs’ roll off her tongue as she talks. “Would you be wantin’ a cat, Mr. McKenzie? Millie’s kittens sell quickly.” Just as she finishes her sentence, a roar of straining gears directs all eyes to a yellow bus pulling up the drive, gravel popping and cracking under its wheels.
“Well, what do we have here? Third graders from River Pines. They are early, it seems.” Miz Jenkins turns to her left and sings out, “Gra-a-cie?”
“Right here, Miz Jenkins.” Another woman waltzes out in her costume of the period. The red-plaid fabric, bunched in voluminous folds, makes Gracie McIntosh look as round as a bouncing ball. She contrasts with Miz Jenkins’ green stripes and stick of a figure. Primary colors comically light the women like decorated trees at Christmas-time.
“Heaven’s me! We have company,” Gracie wheezes. She takes off her apron, tossing it over the back of a black wooden rocker — one of twelve that charmed the manor’s veranda. Patting her hair that is tucked neatly into a snood and fixed with bobby pins above her ears, she huffs, “I thought they said eleven o’clock, Miz Jenkins. Oh, but it is nice to have them, nevertheless.”
Miz Jenkins adds cheerfully, “It’s a slower pace these days and the wee’uns always liven things up.”
“Good morning, sugar,” the exuberant Gracie smiles brightly and gives her niece a warm peck on each cheek. Her angelic face, void of lines that might otherwise reveal her years, is the result of what she calls “living right.” Gracie enjoys the status of favorite Aunt to Kat. She honors that by going out of her way for the child, especially when her darling girl was so lost during the divorce.
“Good morning, Auntie,” Kat’s smile spreads and her eyes crease with fondness. “This is Mr. McKenzie. Looks like you two are going to have your hands full. If you don’t mind, I would like to show the gentleman around. Never hurts to brush up on my history.”
“Certainly, dear. And, it is nice to meet you, Mr. McKenzie.” Gracie’s cheeks grow rosy with her thoughts. She does not miss the tightness of his jeans, well-worn boots, or sleeves of his shirt that stretch taut over exercised biceps browned by a hot summer’s sun. Nor can she help but enjoy the charming crooked grin that could easily melt a girl’s heart. He is way too lean for her taste, but a woman’s touch might fatten him up.
Bryce tips his hat again. “Ladies, my pleasure.”
Gracie nods approval and darts a look at Kat. “Well now, would you be wantin’ to stay for lunch? You will be glad to hear work on the kitchen is finally completed and Cook is making us a tasty stew that will stick to your ribs.” Her attention moves back to Mr. McKenzie, “We are proud to have a working plantation, sir.”
“Mr. McKenzie is a Civil War reenactor,” Kat offers, noticing her aunt’s careful inspection. And, it is no wonder. Having a man with her since the divorce is novel. In fact, this is the first time in public, outside the real estate business.
In her mind, Kat has been chanting a repeat chorus of “All men are just like my ex. They cheat and fall out of love.” It plays like a sad country song accompanied by an out-of-tune guitar. She thinks it is about time to replace that chorus with something more melodious and uplifting. In a strange, fickle way, Mr. McKenzie fills that billet, hands down.
“Then, you’ll appreciate our authenticity, sir. We are always looking for volunteers to help out,” Gracie’s merry voice resonates.
“Auntie!” Kat’s eyes widen in surprise. “You will have to pardon my aunt, Mr. McKenzie,” she giggles. “It seems she is always recruiting new guides and keepers to her fold.”
The muffled chatter and incessant thumping of excited children draw their attention. A teacher instructs her students to form a neat line, spaced evenly, arm to shoulder in front. The kids are dressed in subtle variations of starched uniforms and wearing matching gray jackets with the national Confederate crest sewn on the sleeves.
“If you’ll excuse us, we need to get our chicks in before it starts to sprinkle. My bones and that bleak sky tell me more rain is on the way,” Gracie says. A responsive rumble of thunder in the distance to the west makes her point. “Ring the bell, Miz Jenkins.”
Miz Jenkins crosses to a large shiny brass bell mounted to one of the massive columns and pulls the rope three times — clang, clang, clang — to announce their company. Both women descend the veranda steps, their skirts rustling as they move.
“Welcome. Welcome,” they call out their unified greetings.
“Why don’t we go in, Mr. McKenzie?” Kat suggests, swiping at the air around her. “The mosquitoes are no joke in this place, day or night. They are as big as bats with legs the size of spiders. Auntie, forever the optimist, says they are one of life’s great helpers. I say they are a tiresome nuisance. Wherever I go, they never fail to find me.”
Chapter 13
GHOSTS OF THE PAST
Bryce is stunned. It is like a strange déjà vu moment to retrace steps he had taken only hours before. But it is not a spooky illusion. The cold hard data embedded in his brain hits him like a ton of bricks. He can feel every emotional charge of his experience, every touch, every taste and smell. Although Bryce’s visit to Sea Oaks was brief, the details are acute. The significance of being here, of finding Jane and losing her again coils in his chest.
“Mr. McKenzie?”
Bryce sees Jane for a split-second, but in truth, it is Miz Logan. He blinks to clear his head and forces himself to the present.
“Uh, yes.” Bryce removes his hat and holds it by the brim against his leg. “I was just thinking this place is pretty remarkable.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but reconsiders. Flashes of imagery, impressions that blow hot and cold overcome his thoughts again. This was once a home lit by hundreds of candles and sparkling kerosene lamps, filled with people and laughter — all ghosts of the past. The corner of his mouth twitches.
Bryce wanders the entrance hall after Miz Logan. The languid tick-tock of a grandfather clock drones a systematic cadence and the effects of a living Victorian household preserved through time. The wide wood plank floor groans its age. The heels of his boots clop on a canvas floor cloth with geometric shapes painted on an ivory background.
His eyes are drawn to the staircase, then in the direction of a great room he knows will be there. His free hand balls and flexes at each recollection, vivid and troubling. Bryce is not sure he is ready to revisit the evening’s pain and how it would all end. The notion of a night of sweet ecstasy with Jane wrapped in the loving embrace of her husband leaves him shaken to the core.
“It’s like walking back in time, isn’t it? Antiques everywhere,” Kat says, undisturbed by Mr. McKenzie’s small jerks. She points down, “This floor cloth is a reproduction, of course, but we have the original that is almost two hundred years old.” She throws her hands on her hips. “Why, we have more antiquity than Carter has liver pills,” she drawls, and waits for a chuckle at her cuteness, but it doesn’t come. The old-fashioned saying is one of her Aunt Gracie’s favorites.
“Oh,” Bryce suddenly realizes Miz Logan is staring at him. “Yeah, antiquity. I can see,” he offers awkwardly and tries a smile, although he is not feeling it.
Kat clears her throat and continues, “Most of the furniture is original to the house, since it’s been with our family and never changed hands. There’s more in the attic. We change and rearrange things occasionally, so our repeat visitors will get a new experience almost every time. We think that is especially important. A lot of the pieces date to the time of William McInt
osh and his rambunctious brood. His family and close friends called him Captain.”
Bryce wants to say, I know, but keeps still. Instead, he studies Miz Logan’s back as she pilots ahead. He sweeps her soft silhouette, arms going in expressive gestures, her pendulum hips swaying in time to unheard music. He has always been a sucker for redheads.
Miz Logan’s hair is darker than Jane’s, more auburn and not as thick, but it is very nice. An unexpected attraction with the strength of a magnetic force travels through him, making him uncomfortable. His mind warns, be careful not to lead her on. They are both vulnerable and he is in no shape to get into a relationship with anyone. He may never be, for that matter.
In a relatively short time, Bryce knows more than he probably should about Kat Logan. Plainly there is something evocative about her. She is like a sparrow with a broken wing, rowing with one oar in a struggle to right herself. The pain is gone, yet a trace of tenderness still lingers. She has been hurt, and he would not want to be the person to wrench her heart again. Finally, he decides he must be in the care of an angel, because who else would take in a stranger with such generosity. It just doesn’t happen. Not in his world of 2013.
Chapter 14
UNFORTUNATE INCIDENT
As the five-hundred-million-year-old jutting rock and teetering boulder peaks of Africa’s Cederberg Mountain bleed brilliant amber in the fiery rays of a setting sun, a band of rogue baboons perk their ears. Their intelligent faces turn toward the raw, high-pitched wail of a human.
A dominant male with his grand white mane vocalizes an alert to his troop. The mothers in his harem, who peacefully forage sweet grass and seed with their young, protectively gather their families. They scurry to more dense vegetation among the native fynbos plants that grow in abundance.
Sensing sudden movement, a herd of black and white striped zebra that share the unspoiled paradise with the primates throw their heads and trot away. Two ostriches, caught off guard by the disturbance, spring out of a clump of bushes and dart helter-skelter. Their powerful knobby legs on reverse hinges enable them to cover a sizable distance. Dust particles from clambering wildlife lift and swirl. They reflect rainbow colors in the semi-arid atmosphere of stark stillness. It is nature’s brief pause before the coming of darkness.