Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  “No, son, I have. Don’t you see the kind of family that woman comes from? That whole area around that swamp surrounding Summerbrook is dotted with families like hers.”

  “And what kind of families would that be?”

  “Families who have not been careful about…education, heritage and marriage.”

  “And what kind of heritage and marriages should they have been careful about? People with pedigrees?”

  “Furman, they’re swamp people.”

  “Lest you forget, Mother, some of our ancestors fought in that very swamp for our country’s independence.”

  “It’s not the same. Members of our family also served in the South Carolina Provincial Senate. They didn’t serve canapés.”

  “Hanna wouldn’t be serving canapés if it weren’t for you. I won’t stop seeing Hanna, no matter what she serves.”

  “I’ll disown you.” The whites of his mother’s eyes shown sternly.

  “Then prepare to be childless, Evelynn.” He turned and walked out of the room.

  ⸙

  Callie handed Hanna a tray filled with bowls of oyster bisque. She hurried out with them. The large table of twelve had already been served, so she headed over to one of the smaller ones of four. When she had placed the last bowl, someone from another small table got her attention.

  A lady in a black pantsuit was motioning for her to come. “Psst. Just so you know, we are appalled at the way Evelynn treated you and Della.”

  So the disapproving looks were for Mrs. Laurens and not for her and Aunt Della. “Thank you for that.”

  “Of course, sweetie. A question, though. Would it be possible for Della to serve us? She is such a delight,” the beautiful lady said.

  “I’ll ask.” Hanna should have just said no. Again. But on the way back to the kitchen she hatched an idea. It would make Aunt Della feel useful.

  Aunt Della was filling plates with medallions of fillet mignon and blanched asparagus wrapped in strips of bacon.

  “Aunt Della, could you help me with this tray of oyster bisque? I’ll carry if you’ll set the bowls down. I can carry all the bowls on the larger tray if you’ll help.”

  “Sure, darling. Whatever you need. I been feeling like a corncob in an outhouse full of toilet paper. I come to help Callie.”

  “Well, I need you,” Hanna said.

  Aunt Della followed dutifully. “I hope I don’t get my rump roast in the way of any more fancy flowers.” She shook her head. “Your uncle never told me my rear end was too large. Hanna, do you think he needs glasses?”

  “No, Aunt Della. I don’t think you have a problem with your bottom at all. I think other people have problems.”

  “Well, if you compare me to these skinny ladies at this here party, I do. Less they don’t have nobody to cook anything good for them.”

  “That’s probably the reason.” Hanna didn’t want to explain the rest. Her great aunt was an entire generation older than those skinny women. Their ages ranged from forty to late fifties. Aunt Della was in her seventies. And as spry as a fiddler crab.

  In the dining room, Mrs. Laurens walked around the tables, talking with her guests. Hanna lowered the tray for Aunt Della to serve her fans.

  The short blond lady asked, “Della, what’s this?”

  Before Hanna could answer, Aunt Della said, “Oyster bits.” She put the remainder of the bowls down.

  “Mmmm, it’s delicious, as well,” said the tall lady.

  “Well, thank you, Gwynn. I’ll tell Callie about your nice condiment.”

  The ladies smiled and darted glances between one another. They were some of the younger ones in the crowd. Probably in their forties. An especially attractive woman with straw-colored streaks through her sandy brown French twist introduced herself as Abby St. Clair. “Della, I was thinking about having a party sometime in October—near the end of the month. And I was thinking that you could help me with it.”

  “Well, as long as it don’t contrast with camp meeting,” Aunt Della said. “Everybody in Four Hole will be busy then.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve read articles in the Post and Courier and the Sandlapper about the camp meeting grounds and cabins and all the rituals. It’s really quite historic,” Gwen said.

  “I can schedule the party around that, Della. I wanted to do something fun for the fall. Unpretentious and different. And you’ve given me some great ideas,” Abby said.

  “Like what?” Hanna asked.

  “She told us all about the butcher shop and the unusual meats you offer there. Head cheese, sweetbreads, and liver pudding. From what she described, it sounded like a… pâté.”

  Were they making fun of her aunt? “Aunt Della could you take this tray back to the kitchen?”

  Abby looked at Hanna. “I’m quite serious. I want your cousin to cater the affair and spice it up with some of the meats from the shop.”

  Gwynn spoke up. “I definitely want an invitation to that party. If I eat one more tedious bowl of she crab soup, I’ll die of boredom.”

  The ladies laughed and agreed.

  Were they appreciating the differences Four Hole had to offer Charleston Society? Maybe different wasn’t so bad after all.

  A few minutes later, Hanna and Aunt Della brought out the main course.

  “Let’s serve Abby and Gwen’s table first,” Aunt Della said as she held the door open for Hanna to walk through with the huge tray.

  At the table of Aunt Della devotees, Hanna held the heavy platter of plates. Good thing she was used to moving sides of beef and boxes of chickens.

  Aunt Della put the plate in front of Abby. “Fill-it mig-non and aspic-grass.” She whispered. “The best thing on that plate is the red-eye gravy Callie saw fit to pour over it to give it some flavor.”

  They all laughed. “Della, you’re so funny. You just say things as they are,” Gwen said.

  Hanna and Aunt Della finished dishing out the entrees.

  While the guests were eating, Hanna and her aunt helped Callie plate the miniature peach tarts she had prepared for dessert.

  “Aunt Della, get the mint out of that bag I left by the door, julienne the leaves and sprinkle some on each tart for me,” Callie said.

  “Julienne?” Aunt Della asked.

  “Yeah, mince them in skinny slivers, like toothpicks,” Callie said as she and Hanna walked to the kitchen door. “And when you finish, start bringing them two by two into the dining room.”

  Aunt Della nodded enthusiastically. She seemed so happy to be of service to so many.

  They had gotten off to a rough start, but now everything was going well.

  As each guest finished, Hanna picked up the yellow jasmine china. Aunt Della walked behind her and replaced the dishes with a miniature peach tart and the verdant garnish.

  Mrs. Laurens rose before she was served dessert and stood in front of the grandiose fireplace. She could have almost stepped inside it was so tall.

  Furman walked into the room and sat in a chair in the rear of the room. Hanna had a hard time keeping her eyes off the handsome man.

  Mrs. Laurens cleared her throat. “I don’t have my gavel, but this meeting of the Jasmine Society will come to order. The preliminary guest list for the fundraiser is being passed around. Feel free to make notes about names to be added or excluded for next year. Invitations have already gone out for this season’s soiree.”

  She motioned for someone to come to her. “Laverne is going to give you the details about this year’s fundraising project.”

  “Well, first of all, we want to congratulate you on a divine dinner, Evelynn. It has to be the best we’ve ever had,” Laverne said.

  The group erupted with applause. Gwen stood. “I concur. The food had flair and so did the service.”

  Evelynn Laurens smiled…grudgingly.

  A lady at the large table said, “We all want the name of your caterer. You mustn’t keep her for yourself.”

  Callie smiled as she wrangled the last of the dinner plates ont
o her tray.

  “Oh, it was nothing, but thank you so much. I’ll put her name and number in the next newsletter. Now to our business.”

  Callie had to be so happy. She got exactly what she’d hoped for from the catering job—a foot in the door of the downtown Charleston market.

  “Okay.” Laverne looked over the notes she held in her hand. “The information we received was that the Dock Street Theater is in need of a more substantial desk and filing system for attendees to pick up their reserved tickets at the door. Possibly a new laptop and wireless internet, as well. We all know how archaic their current system is.”

  The group nodded, almost in unison.

  “We propose to raise the money to purchase the computer and a desk appropriate to the original date the theater opened. Several buyers are conducting a search for us right now.”

  Everyone clapped.

  A lady in the front raised her hand and spoke. “What are the projected costs?”

  Laverne scratched her neck. “The laptop, software and wireless internet for the year is around four thousand, but the desk will run around ten.”

  Aunt Della made her way to Hanna. “Hanna, they could have that old desk in the shed for nothing. I’ll tell them.” She raised her hand, but Hanna quickly pulled it back down.

  “Aunt Della, they are talking about an antique from the 1700’s. Not just an old desk.”

  “Where they going to get one for ten dollars?” Aunt Della asked.

  “Ten-thousand dollars.”

  Then louder than necessary, Aunt Della said, “They must not have the good sense God gave a chicken to come out of the rain.”

  Hanna glanced at Furman. He was looking at them and smiling.

  “Excuse me,” Laverne said.

  “Never mind.” Aunt Della shook her head.

  Half the room laughed, and the other half looked for their senses of humor. One very serious-looking lady rubbed her hands until they were spotted with red. Another raked her well-manicured hand over and over her left arm. Still another was moving her back across the chair like an uncomfortable cat.

  “I agree with Della,” said Abby. Only loud enough for her table, Hanna and Aunt Della to hear.

  Laverne scratched the opposite side of her neck. “Anyway, at one-hundred dollars per person, we’ll have more than enough for everything.” Red lines began to run up her cheeks. “Excuse me.” She put down her notes and started scratching with both hands. “I must be allergic to something.”

  “Me too,” said a woman as she reached under the table to rake at her legs.

  What on Earth was going on? Hanna and Furman had seen to it that every piece of sumac had been removed. The pieces sat all bagged up by the back door. Maybe the ladies’ pristine heritage had predisposed them to being allergic to the mere whisper of allergens. Maybe the sumac had left its DNA in the air.

  Maybe Hanna had missed some. But she didn’t think so. Then she looked around the room and spotted the culprit. The poison sumac had returned. Aunt Della had evidently retrieved it from the trash bag, had julienned the leaves and had placed the strips of poison on the peach tarts!

  “Bessie!” Mrs. Laurens screamed. “Bessie, bring the calamine lotion! Quickly!”

  Many of the ladies stood and scratched. Some of their pale faces were splotched with red whelps. A few had streaks of crimson running up their arms. But one was particularly worrisome. Her lips looked like they’d just been given an overdose of collagen injections.

  Furman evidently saw the same thing as he headed over to her. “Ladies, I’m afraid that this is all my fault. Mother used to always get on to me about taking out anything from the house that needed disposal. I’m afraid I left a bag full of poison sumac in the kitchen. Please, go to the parlor, and Bessie will be there momentarily.”

  Hanna rushed to the woman with the fat, red lips. “Are you okay?” She knew the answer to that.

  Furman leaned over the woman. “Hanna, call 9-1-1.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bedazzlers and Butter Beans

  As the rescue truck pulled away, Furman closed the front door on the blue blinking lights. His mother sat on the fainting sofa in the corner with a wet cloth over her eyes.

  “Furman, honey, I’m ruined. Those…those Four Hole people have ruined me.”

  No wonder the woman wanted to raise money for the Dock Street Theater. She couldn’t resist a good drama. “Mother, you are not ruined. You’ve just had your first exciting dinner party.” He sat in his favorite wing chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

  His mother lifted the wet tea towel and peered at him from beneath it. “My guests were angry,” she said in a malevolent tone.

  “No, Mother, your guests were merely red. It was the most sensational thing that has happened to them since Hurricane Hugo. I heard them as they were leaving. Giggling and making jokes about the whole thing.” He picked up Charleston Magazine from the coffee table. “And your brighter guests loved Aunt Della.”

  “They were making fun of me.” She reclined and folded her wet cloth to expose a cool spot.

  “No, Mother, they were making light of an…interesting situation.” He shook his head. His mother had always been concerned about appearances, but since his father had been ill, she seemed even more so. To make matters worse, however, now she seemed emotionally ill-equipped to deal with any shortcomings. “Don’t you think you have enough on your plate with Father being ill to worry about a silly mishap at a dinner party?”

  “It wasn’t just a silly mishap, as you put it. Don’t you see?” She swallowed hard. “It’s all I have. You’ve not given me grandchildren, and if Tillman dies…I won’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Mother, that’s the problem. You have to find something more meaningful than the Jasmine Society to fill your social calendar. And lighten up about the little things in life.” Deep down inside he knew his mother had a soft spot and a sense of humor. He smiled. “You must admit, the end of the gathering was hilarious. You should probably change your organization’s name to the Jasmine and Poison Sumac Society.”

  “Not funny.” She covered her eyes again.

  No. Nothing in her house was funny lately.

  ⸙

  Hanna got up the next morning to dress for church. Remnants of the headache she’d developed the night before still pushed at the sides of her temples.

  If Furman had entertained some farfetched fantasy about the two of them being together, he had probably abandoned the whole idea by now. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to imagine what he might think about her next. Oh, the possible scenarios. He could be hosting a dinner party of friends or business associates, and she could show up with something crazy, like some meat pudding smothered in poisonous mushrooms. Yeah, they could have a future all right.

  Maybe now, Furman had had his fill of her and her Four Hole lifestyle. Maybe last night was a good thing. How could he possibly ever think about asking her out again?

  It would be for the best, though. Right? But how was she going to live without ever being near him again? Last night in the dining room when they were alone, she realized how much she enjoyed being close to him—doing little things with him. She realized how much she liked the way he made her feel.

  After dressing in her denim skirt and blouse, she drove slowly to church, recalling the night before—the way she melted at the scent of him and the horrid details of the poison sumac fiasco.

  The little white church was nestled at the back of the semi-circle of rough-hewn cabins that surrounded it. The clapboard sides of the church sparkled in the sun. She’d find safety and peace in that old building.

  Even though she’d been to church last Sunday, members of the congregation hugged her and shook her hand like they hadn’t seen her in years. This was where she belonged. Not in some fancy downtown house. She was home here.

  The pastor’s message was on humility. That was one message that had never quite made sense to her. She didn’t really h
ave anything she should be proud of in her life. In fact, she had always secretly desired to experience a little of what pride felt like. Instead of listening to the particulars of the sermon, she gazed at the muted light effusing through the stained glass windows, and her mind wandered.

  Furman was the most handsome man she had ever met. So refined and had all the manners anyone could ever want. What if she learned enough about his world after she started working at the insurance company and then for Sterling Financial? Surely she would pick up on the rules of proper society and manners then. She could even buy one of those etiquette books and sit down and read that. Maybe then she’d be more worthy, and he might take another look at her—all new and improved. But she doubted that. Last night had forever broken any chain that might link the two.

  She heard a baby cry in the rear of the church. The back door to the church creaked. She turned and saw the mother and infant leave. She turned around again and heard Pastor Vines’s words. “Proverbs 22:4 tells us that the rewards of humility are riches, honor and life.”

  Funny. People like the Laurens already had those rewards here on Earth. And humility had nothing to do with their riches. Hanna would have to wait for her next life to receive such blessings. But even in heaven, it was hard to imagine herself with riches and honor.

  Sometimes things just didn’t make sense. Like her daydreaming about somebody who already had everything he could possibly want. Why on Earth would he want a plain, country woman like her?

  Her reverie was broken again by the creaking back door. In her distracted state she turned again. It was Furman Laurens. In her church. In Four Hole.

  She watched as he searched the sanctuary and spotted her.

  She sat up straight. What was going on? Her little rural church was so…simple. What could he want here? What was he thinking?

  Then he maneuvered his way down the aisle by the windows until he stood beside her.

  She moved over. He smiled and sat. He looked so out of place. In his dress khakis and navy blazer. All the other men had on casual shirts, and no one other than the pastor had on a tie. Why was he here?

  Pastor continued with his sermon on humility. He brought up the beatitudes and how the meek were going to inherit the kingdom of heaven. Furman rested one of his long legs upon the knee of the other and stared at the pastor like he was interested in his words. She knew Furman had his own church—a downtown fancy one. Did he come to give her a piece of his mind about last night?