They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

Wrapping the shawl around my arms like a stole, I started down the steps and crossed the patio, Maudie watching anxiously from the verandah. The tiles were wet, and I lifted the skirt of my deep pink frock a couple of inches, as well as the layers of white petticoat beneath. The thin tendrils of mist continued to swirl, lightly veiling the multicolored flower beds and creating an impression of blurry unreality that was both delicate and lovely. The blooms were damp, too, with dew, and tiny trickles of water dripped from the trellises. I sauntered slowly through the gardens down toward the river walk, and I tried not to think about my father and the funeral that had been so beautifully conducted and attended by over a dozen journalists and all the landed gentry for miles around.

  Len had been right. I was a famous woman, and there was no way we could hold the journalists at bay. Sniffing blood, sniffing scandal, they had converged on Natchez in a rowdy pack, prepared to outdo themselves in sensational dispatches. I could imagine the headlines: Millionaire Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances, Leaves Entire Fortune to Actress-Mistress. I knew I had a decision to make. I didn’t want my father’s memory besmirched with sordid speculations. I knew journalists. I knew how to handle them. After a brief discussion with Len, I decided to give them a story far more interesting than any they could invent. I decided to give them the true story of Dana O’Malley and her parents and how my father and I had found each other after twenty years. With Len at my side, I invited them all to Belle Mead and served food and wine and told them the whole truth, omitting only my mother’s maiden name to spare her folk embarrassment and implying that Robert and I had discovered our relationship before he backed The Quadroon.

  I left holes, of course. I did not tell them about Clem’s brutality, and I did not tell them about my time in New Orleans with the Etiennes. I simply said I left the swamps after my mother’s death and eventually made my way into the theater, and they were so busy scribbling they didn’t bother to ask any awkward questions. My father had planned to publicly acknowledge our kinship, I told them, and then the tragic accident had occurred. I was illegitimate, I concluded, but I had loved both my parents and was proud to be their child. The world could say what they liked about me, but I would always hold my head high. The journalists were intrigued. They were fascinated. They were, to a man, completely sympathetic, and the stories they filed created a sensation on front pages all over the South. I was the heroine of a star-crossed love story, and the journalists did everything but deify me.

  The public response was overwhelming. They praised my honesty, my bravery, my indomitable spirit. How they loved the poor little girl who had left the swamp in rags, became a celebrated actress and was reunited with her long lost father, ultimately inheriting one of the greatest fortunes in the South. They clamored for more details, and more and more journalists appeared to interview me. Unlike the Creole aristocracy, who would surely have shunned me, the elite of Natchez and its environs were ready to accept me with open arms. Dowagers and their daughters came to call to express their sympathy and bring flowers, each and every one of them, it seemed, extremely close to my dear departed father. They issued invitations to parties and teas, and a number of them seemed to have perfectly marvelous sons who were quite eager to meet me. They were all eager to take me under their wings, and the fact that I was now the wealthiest woman in the South did not, I assured myself, have anything to do with it.

  I moved down the three marble steps to the last terrace of gardens, surrounded by mist that swirled like thin, transparent white veils, now concealing, now revealing great patches of multicolored blooms. The mist was heavier down here, and I could barely see the tall line of shrubbery that hid the river walk. I moved on toward the gate, thinking about the surprise visit I had had three days ago. Conrad Drummond had been visiting in New Orleans and he had seen the stories and he had come to Natchez to beg me to return to New York with him. The stories were appearing in all of the northern papers, too, he informed me, and I could dictate my own terms. He would mount a fabulous production for me, any play I selected, and he would make me a legend in theatrical history. I thanked him politely. I took his address in New Orleans. I told him I would let him know.

  The leaves of the shrubbery gleamed with moisture. The gate creaked as I opened it and left the gardens behind. I started up the river walk toward the gazebo, but the mist was so heavy here I couldn’t see it. Clouds of mist drifted and danced, parting before me, and there was a strange silence broken only by the muted rush of the river. I had no desire to go to New York. I had no desire to become a theatrical legend. I longed to return to the theater, yes, but … I stubbornly closed my mind to that. I wasn’t going to think about Atlanta. I wasn’t going to think about Jason. I certainly didn’t need him now. I was one of the richest women in the country, and I could do anything I wanted to do. Anything but what you really want to do, a voice inside said dryly, and I resolutely silenced it.

  I walked through the drifting clouds of mist, and the gazebo was visible now, looming ahead like something out of a dream. The honeysuckle was damp, and the bees were gone. When I stepped inside, I saw that the pink cushions were slightly damp, too, but they would dry quickly enough in the sun, if the sun ever shined through. The rush of the river was clearer now, like distant music without melody, muted, monotonous, and as the mist lifted and swirled, I caught occasional glimpses. It looked like a shiny blue-gray ribbon undulating between the banks. Although the air was cool and moist, it was still too warm for the shawl. I removed it and draped it on the table, knowing I would incur Maudie’s wrath, not caring in the least. The air seemed to gently caress my bare arms and shoulders. There in the gazebo, completely surrounded by the dancing, drifting clouds, I felt alone and adrift, and the sadness inside was almost more than I could bear.

  You’re rich, I told myself. You’re rich, rich, rich. You can buy anything in the world. You have this lovely house and more money than you could possibly ever spend. Isn’t that what most people long for? The wealth was precious little consolation. There were things I could do with it, yes, and I had already made arrangements with Len to dispose of some of it. Delia was going to receive a very large sum, enough to insure that she—and her family—would never again have to worry about losing the house or the business. Mathilde and Solonge DuJardin were to receive a large sum, too, enough to enable them to leave that drab, pathetic house on Conti Street and live in comfort for the rest of their lives. I would never see them again, it was true, but they were blood kin and it seemed the right thing to do. It was what Ma would have wanted.

  There were many other things I could do with the money as well. I could have the Jewel Theater completely refurbished and subsidize it and help Ollie and Bart and all my friends and … and there would still be a fortune left for Len to manage. I could do a great many things with the money, yes, but I couldn’t buy the camaraderie and excitement and sense of fulfillment I had received as part of that merry, unruly family, and I couldn’t buy … I couldn’t buy … I closed my eyes, willing myself not to think about him, but I did. I remembered his warmth and his wit, his boyish enthusiasm and zest, his vulnerability and sweetness, his quick temper and his thorny pride, and I remembered his arms, his mouth, his lean, strong body and those words he always murmured so tenderly into my ear as he became a part of me. The old familiar feelings began to stir inside, the tender ache, the honied warmth that spread so slowly, so sweetly in my veins. Denying them as best I could, I left the gazebo and started back up the river walk.

  I heard his footsteps. I stopped. The mist swirled, and the great river was nearby, and I knew it had all happened before, again and again, but in my dream. This was not a dream. It was real. I tried to tell myself it was real, but there was a shimmering quality of unreality and I still couldn’t believe it was actually happening. He materialized out of the mist and he was wearing his most elegant attire and he stood there before me. Neither of us spoke. He took my hands and squeezed them and pulled me to him. I looked into those gray-green eye
s and saw the love in them, and I knew he was the one. He wasn’t perfect, he would never be that, but he was the one.

  “It—it wasn’t Charles,” I whispered. “It was you—all along.”

  He let go of my hands and stepped back.

  “Who the hell is Charles?” he asked.

  “Someone—someone I once knew. I thought—in my dream, you see—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  How I loved that fascinating voice that was light, almost soft, but guttural and scratchy, too. How I had missed hearing it. I smiled. A flood of joy welled up inside, and it was all I could do to contain it. He was looking at me with one quirky eyebrow elevated, something very like a scowl forming on those wide lips.

  “How did you get past Maudie?” I asked.

  “The old dragon at the house? I told her I was a very close friend, and she said Miz Dana ain’t seein’ no one and I said is she in and she said maybe she is and maybe she ain’t but you ain’t seein’ her, and I said look, lady, I’ve come all the way from Atlanta and if you don’t tell me where she is I fully intend to wring your fat black neck.”

  “That sounds like something you’d say.”

  “She grinned then. She said I must be th’ one Miz Dana done been pinin’ for all dis time. She knowed dere was a man, she said, all along she knowed, an’ she reckoned I must be th’ one.”

  “That bitch,” I said.

  “Have you been pining for me?”

  “Of course not,” I retorted.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and scowled. A light breeze sprang up. The mist shifted, swirled, began to lift. I caught another glimpse of the river. Light golden spangles seemed to sparkle on its surface. The sun was coming out. The mist swallowed us up for a moment and then grew thinner, gradually dissolving. Jason looked miserable. How I longed to stroke that furrowed brow and run the ball of my thumb along that full, firm curve of his lower lip. How I loved him, but he had some crow to eat and some explaining to do before I let him know how much.

  “Why did you come, Jason?” I asked. My voice was cool.

  “I shouldn’t have,” he said. “I realize that, but—I thought maybe I could—well, help in some way, give you some kind of support. Laura and Ollie both said they were coming and I said no, you’re staying here, I’m going. They both smiled and said that would be much, much better.”

  I said nothing. They’ll pay, I vowed.

  “You’ll probably want to send me away, and I wouldn’t blame you. I was very unfair to you, Dana. I was—I acted like a heel.”

  “You certainly did,” I agreed.

  “I—dammit, you’re not making this very easy.”

  “I’m certainly not.”

  “Okay! I was very unfair. I acted like a heel. I’ve had the most miserable summer of my life. I love you, and I’ve lost you, and it’s all my own bloody fault. So there!”

  “It wasn’t all your fault,” I conceded.

  “No?”

  “I was—rather stubborn and intractable myself.”

  “That’s for damn sure!”

  I smiled again. The mist was dissolving rapidly now, white wisps floating furiously in the breeze, disappearing, and rays of sunlight broke through, shining rather weakly at first, growing brighter. He was no southern gentleman, true, but he’d never pretended to be. He was a rough-and-tumble artist, testy and temperamental and … quite wonderful. We would always fight, I knew, but he was the one and I loved him with all my heart, and I also knew I couldn’t possibly live without him.

  “We’d better go back to the house,” I said.

  “Anything you say.”

  He marched along sulkily beside me, his hands still thrust into his pockets, and when we reached the gate I stopped, waiting, and he scowled and gave an exasperated sigh and opened the gate, acting as though it were a great imposition. Poor darling. How miserable he was. The mist was completely gone from the gardens, but the air was still slightly hazy, and the flower beds were soft, multicolored blurs. As we started slowly toward the steps leading up to the next level, Jason sighed again, his bad temper dissolving. He looked at the flowers and then he looked at me, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and full of compassion.

  “I’m really sorry about your father, Dana.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I can see why the two of you didn’t want anyone to know, but—I wish you had told me. I thought—I assumed—”

  “I know what you assumed.”

  He believed what he had read in the newspapers. He believed Robert and I had known of our relationship before, and … he would go right on believing that, I resolved. No one but Len would ever know the entire truth.

  “It was very brave of you to give those interviews to the papers,” Jason continued. “Everyone admires you for it. Everyone is behind you. I—I suppose you’ve made a great many plans for the future.”

  “A few,” I said.

  “You’re rich now.”

  “Incredibly rich,” I replied.

  We moved up the steps. The air was clearer now. The sunlight streamed down brilliantly. The flowers were brighter. Jason stopped and turned to me, and his eyes were full of anguish.

  “I wish you weren’t!” he said violently. “I wish you were dirt-poor!”

  “How can you say such a thing?” I demanded.

  “If you were dirt-poor, I could marry you and I could offer you a job. I can’t now. There’s no way you would go back to the theater. Why should you? You’re a bloody heiress. No doubt the fortune hunters are already lining up. You could marry anyone, a duke, a count—hell, you could even marry an impoverished prince if you wanted to.”

  “I don’t want to,” I said. “What kind of a job?”

  “We’ve closed down the production of Lady Caroline. The National closed it down. They’ve already lost a bundle of money—sets, costumes—and they’re afraid they’d lose even more if—” He paused, took a deep breath, made a full confession. “It’s Carmelita. She’s dreadful. She’s too old and she’s too affected and—well, she got into a row with one of the directors of the National and walked out. Now everyone’s out of work.”

  “The slut never could act,” I observed.

  “I suppose you’re going to gloat,” he said.

  “No,” I replied, “I’m going to play Lady Caroline.”

  “You—” He was stunned. “You—you mean you would—”

  “You bet your sweet ass,” I said, “and if the directors of the National give us any trouble, I’ll buy the place.”

  “Dana—”

  “What’s this about marrying me?” I asked.

  “I—I—” He was even more stunned and, I saw, very uncomfortable. “I couldn’t marry you now.”

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “You’re—rich,” he said. “People would think I was a fortune hunter.”

  “When have you ever given a damn what people think?”

  Jason didn’t reply. He set his mouth in a stubborn line and thrust his hands back into his pockets and strode on up the walk. I trotted after him. We passed beds of brilliant flowers and passed under one of the trellises and moved up the steps onto the next level. Belle Mead was bathed with sunlight now, serene and elegant and incredibly beautiful. I saw that Maudie was waiting on the verandah. Oh Lord, I thought. I forgot the shawl. She’s going to kill me. I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I caught hold of Jason’s arm and forced him to stop.

  “Answer me,” I said.

  “Dana, I didn’t come here to—I came here because—”

  “I know why you came,” I said.

  “I didn’t even intend to tell you about the play. I thought—I thought you might need someone, and—”

  “I do,” I said. “I do need someone.”

  “I won’t have you thinking I—”

  “Jason,” I said patiently, “if you don’t shut up and kiss me at once I swear I’ll knock you flat. If you recall, I have a ver
y powerful right.”

  He hesitated for only a moment and then he pulled me to him quite roughly and kissed me. It was perfunctory at first, a duty done, but I held on to him and he continued to kiss me and his lips grew very, very tender. He drew me closer and kissed me more, and when he let me go I was filled with beautiful sensations that shimmered and glowed inside. Jason curled his arm around my waist and we continued to stroll toward the house.

  “About that marriage—” I began.

  “We’ll talk about it,” he said tersely.

  “We will,” I said. “Believe me.”

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1989 by Tom Huff

  Cover design by Julianna Lee

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-9823-9

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10014

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  EBOOKS BY JENNIFER WILDE

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