Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

Furman couldn’t figure out Hanna. One minute she seemed to enjoy his company, and the next, she seemed to be trying to get away from him. All he knew was that he was in no hurry to get back to his boring downtown world that was filled with tedious faux friends and the furnishings of a life too uptight to be enjoyed. There were no ceramic cows or purple beads. No people with entertaining stories or unusually delicious meats to enjoy.

  He felt comfortable in Four Hole. Around everything. Especially Hanna. A wisp of freshness drifted past him as he held the car door open and she slipped into the seat.

  He cranked the Volvo and headed toward the church. His gaze alternated between the road and the beautiful woman with whom he’d just had Sunday dinner.

  “You can just drop me off at the butcher’s shop,” Hanna said looking out her window.

  “Why? Won’t you need your car later? For in the morning?” He may have felt comfortable in Four Hole, but Hanna certainly didn’t appear comfortable around him.

  She looked at him. “Yeah. I just wanted to get a head start on gathering up my things for tomorrow. And I need to take care of the receipts at the shop.” She gazed back out the window. “And I know you must have plenty to do—other than hang out in Four Hole.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I kind of like it out here—away from the tourists.” He did. He liked the fact that things weren’t always on display here. Where things grew naturally. It was a place where the yards weren’t manicured to within an inch of their lives. And acres and acres were left in dark, secret Lowcountry forests. He still needed to enlist Hanna’s help to get that wood he needed for his boat business, but there never seemed to be a good time. She’d resisted his requests a couple of times already, and many times just seemed to be on edge—like now.

  “Well, you certainly won’t find people gawking about with cameras around here.”

  They passed the shop. “Now tell me why you’re trying to get rid of me so quickly,” he said.

  She snapped her head about. “Oh, it’s not that—I mean—” Her shoulders crumpled, she shook her head, and she seemed to give in to something. She breathed in deeply, and then let out a forlorn sigh. “It’s my—my car. I own an awful blue-colored clunker. I was ashamed to let you see it.”

  “And you think I’d judge you? For your car?

  She nodded, looking out the window.

  He finally reached the church. Each tire seemed to find a different hole in the gravel drive as he pulled into the parking lot. “That El Camino over there?”

  She leaned her head back. “That’s her. I plan to get rid of her after I save a down payment with money from my new job. I have so much to do with that money.”

  “What are you thinking? Ashamed of that car? Wow. I haven’t seen one of those since high school.” They got out of his automobile. “My friend had one of these. We would all pile into it on Saturday mornings and head off to the beach at the Isle of Palms.” He walked around the blue car. “This brings back old memories.” Sunny summer days. Sandy sunburned skin. Salty salubrious winds. His uninhibited plans to skip college and to be a firefighter. But his mother had different ideas. He approached Hanna again. “You called the car ‘her.’ Why?”

  “Aunt Della named it Cameo. I’ve been calling her that ever since. Fits.”

  He wanted to reach for her hand again, but he dared not. The emotions that had passed between their fingers at her aunt and uncle’s home were almost overwhelming, and he didn’t want to scare her off. “Cameo. That’s so apropos. I’ll guarantee as this car makes cameo appearances in people’s daily lives, it’ll remind them of a different time in their own lives.” For an instant he was caught in a magical moment as a light wind embraced the stray strands of her raven-colored hair and danced them about her head. “I love the way you treat your aunt. You know, not calling her down on anything.” Hanna seemed oblivious to her obvious beauty—inside and out.

  “Well, I’m used to her verbal faux pas by now—but outsiders aren’t. I don’t know if I’m doing her any favors or not. I mean…it’s okay here in Four Hole, but elsewhere…”

  “Like in downtown—with my mother?”

  She pushed the untamed wisps of hair from her face. “I didn’t mean—”

  “They’re both the same in some ways, you know.”

  “Who?” Little wrinkles formed between her brows.

  “Your aunt’s slight speech errors and my mother’s rude blunders. You and I could spend a lifetime apologizing for both of their mistakes if we let them bother us.” A lifetime with Hanna would be nice—even if he did have to spend part of it apologizing. “And your aunt’s slips of the King’s English are much less offensive—and really are rather amusing.”

  Hanna giggled. “I shouldn’t laugh, but some of her malapropisms are more proper than the actual words she intends to say.”

  Her whole face lit up with love. “There was this one time at church when Hattie Ballard’s mother made her wear a smocked dress when she was fourteen. All the kids at church were teasing her that she looked like a baby. Well, Aunt Della walked up to her as the poor girl stood crying at her mother’s side and tried to make her feel better. Aunt Della said, ‘That’s the prettiest mocked dress I ever saw.’”

  They both laughed.

  “That was the last time Hattie’s mother smocked or made Hattie wear one of the dresses she’d made.”

  An awkward silence fell between them.

  “Hanna, I really don’t want to go home right now. With Father in the hospital and Mother there…” He paused. “This really is a much-needed break for me.”

  “I wouldn’t be good company. I was just going to gather some things for tomorrow.” The swirling wind died away and her hair fell perfectly into place.

  “Just tell me what to do and I’ll help. Pack things up. Carry boxes. Anything.”

  She searched the empty churchyard with her gaze. Then it fell upon him. “Maybe for just a while.”

  He patted Cameo’s hood. “I haven’t driven one of these in almost twenty years. You want to switch for the ride?”

  Her eyes widened. “You sure? She kicks a little in first gear.”

  He nodded and they exchanged keys for the ride to her place.

  As he drove he felt Hanna surrounding him. Even her car—as old as it was—had that fresh-as-soap scent that he loved around Hanna. He kept an eye on her in the rearview mirror. He liked the way she looked in his car—the way her dark hair matched the shiny black paint on the exterior of the vehicle.

  He liked everything about the dark-haired beauty.

  They climbed the steps to her apartment. She stood in the middle of her living room with her hands on her hips, surveying the place.

  “Tell me what I can do to help,” he said.

  “Um. Go downstairs. Here’s the key.” She handed him a key with a little pink plastic pig dangling from the chain.

  He smiled. “Aunt Della again?”

  She nodded. “There are three or four empty boxes in the back room. Please bring them up for me.”

  He walked into the shop. The chill contrasted with the warmth he’d felt all day with the lovely woman. He found the boxes and quickly returned with them, locking the door behind him.

  She immediately put a few books in the bottom. Walking around the room, she opened cabinet doors and drawers. With an almost lost look on her face, she made her way around her apartment. Eventually, she found a few pens and a few decorative trinkets—a large shell, a glass vase with palms painted on it and a set of brass candlesticks. After putting them in the box, she walked to the wall and grabbed a framed photo and placed it face down on top of all the other things in the container. One box was enough.

  She pushed the other two toward the wall. Was that all she was going to take to her new job? Didn’t she have scores of pictures, and bookends and desk accessories? Didn’t she have an umbrella stand, a nameplate and a briefcase?

  No. She didn’t have the tired accoutrements that a businesswoman would h
ave. But she did have something that many did not. Freshness and brilliance. Those traits would take her much further than a bookend and a briefcase.

  “I still have some work to do downstairs. Would you mind if I changed?”

  “Of course not.” He didn’t mind anything she did.

  “There is sweet tea in the fridge,” she said as she disappeared behind her bedroom door.

  He poured himself a glass and walked to the box of supplies she had gathered. He lifted the frame on top. It was her college diploma. All around the edges were little hearts that had been stamped with crafting paint. Probably Aunt Della’s way of proudly embellishing the sheepskin document. He wondered if that was the reason Hanna had put the face of the diploma down. But why would she be ashamed of her aunt showing her love and pride? He knew why. It wasn’t…traditional. He was suffocating because of tradition. He placed the frame back in the box and walked to the window.

  Not one car passed by as long as he stood. Life was slow here. Without the rush of traffic and people and pretense, he could plan out his whole life in one Sunday afternoon. With Hanna.

  Hearing the creak of the door, he turned and saw her twisting her hair into a ponytail. She looked innocent, like a little girl in her jeans and white T-shirt. “I’ve got a few things to do in the shop before tomorrow.” She picked up the box with its meager contents. “You don’t have to stick around if you have something to do.”

  “I have something to do. Give me that box.” He took it from her and started out the door. It was going to take more than that to break the magic of his perfect afternoon.

  He felt kind of “Me, Tarzan” when he lifted the box. It was she who had the muscles from moving those sides of meat he saw her lift the first time he was in the shop. His muscles had been developed from scheduled workouts at the gym and from working on the boats, but she’d never even seen them. No wonder she thought to lift the heavy box.

  She opened the passenger side door to Cameo, and he slid the cardboard crate onto the seat.

  “Thanks.” She motioned him to follow her. “We have a small safe in the back. I just need to count the receipts and fill out some paperwork for the deposits for tomorrow. I don’t want to fall behind on the first day out of the market.”

  He looked around the shop when she walked to the back. It was definitely her aunt and uncle’s shop. The stuffed heads’ eyes all stared at him, asking the same question. What are you doing here?

  He tried to tell them without words. I belong here— with Hanna.

  ⸙

  Hanna closed and locked the safe again and returned to the meat cases. Furman was staring straight into the face of Uncle Marion’s prized deer trophy. “What are you doing?”

  He quickly stepped back. “Oh, I’m just trying to figure out the strange look in his eye.”

  “Well, be careful there or you’ll have people out here looking at you just as strangely. We merely let them hang on the walls. We don’t try to psychoanalyze them.”

  He laughed. “Can you sell me some more of that liver pudding now that we’re in the shop? I really liked it. It transports me back to France every time I take a bite.”

  More privileged rights of passage. Trips after college. All she got to do after graduation was to choose between eating dinner at Droze’s Barbecue in Summerbrook or to travel to Columbia to get a barbecue sandwich from Maurice Bessinger’s Piggy Park. Which was quite a big deal. Bessinger’s was a Southern institution, and Uncle Marion was hinting pretty hard about her choosing his Piggy Park, so she did. She never mentioned to her aunt and uncle that she would have liked to have eaten at 82 Queen or Rue de Jean or some other nice place in downtown Charleston, which was completely off their radar.

  “Is this enough?” She took out the long length of meat and cut about a pound.

  “Give me another piece about the same size.”

  She raised her eyebrows and cut his request. Afterwards, she ripped the thick white butcher’s paper and wrapped the liver pudding in one continuous, melodious movement. She reminded herself of a conductor handling his orchestra with the way her arms moved about when she wrapped meat.

  “How much?” Furman asked as she handed him the neatly bundled package.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said as she closed the refrigerated case.

  “I insist, or I’ll have to give it back.” He held out the white parcel.

  She quickly added up the amount in her head, included the proper taxes and told him.

  “You continue to amaze me with numbers.” He gave her ten dollars and told her not to worry about the change. “So now what?”

  “I was going to grab one of those Nehi’s over there.” She pointed to the old chest cooler. “And I was going to walk to the creek in the swamp. I have a special place I like to sit.”

  He looked excited. “You mind some company?”

  She smiled. This might be kind of fun. The swamp could be a scary place for a city boy like him. She nodded.

  “Great. Would you mind if I changed into some things I have in my car?”

  “Be my guest. You can use the restroom over there.” She grabbed herself a grape Nehi from the chest cooler and sat in a chair, facing the restroom. And when he came out, she hardly recognized him. He had muscles—big ones. He was a certifiable, defined…hunk. All that…hunkiness had been covered up by his oxford dress shirts and expensive khaki slacks. Oh, my! She needed to make sure she didn’t have her mouth agape. This lovely Sunday evening had just gotten…hot.

  ⸙

  After discarding his jacket and tie and donning the cross trainers and workout clothes he’d put in the car for his next workout at the gym, Furman found himself on a well-worn path behind the shop with Hanna, heading toward the dark swamp. Mangled arms of trees reached over the path and grew more dense as they walked.

  “This place isn’t for the faint of heart,” she explained as she ducked under the errant limb of an old cypress tree.

  He pushed the branch out of the way. “What do you mean?”

  She looked behind her. “Swamp creatures.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Like the Swamp Thing movie?”

  She giggled.

  He loved making her laugh.

  “No. Like snakes the same color as everything you touch. Like mosquitoes big enough to carry off a pig. And like alligators you could park a car on.”

  “Sounds…interesting.” He released her hand and swatted at one of the pig-carrying mosquitoes on his arm.

  Several squirrels scampered across the narrow way. If those were the kind of swamp creatures she’d been talking about, he’d never be worried. He loved the bushy-tailed animals that chased each other whimsically across the entire Lowcountry.

  She continued down the path until she reached a small clearing and an old, hardened log. A sinker log—just like he needed for his boat. He ran his hand over it, appreciating the marbled wood.

  Just then, something flashed just beyond the log and a tumultuous splash sent water into the air and onto him. He didn’t even realize he’d jumped several feet back.

  Hanna giggled as the alligator wiggled its way toward the Spanish moss dangling in the dark waters across the way. “That’s just Ralph. He’s still harmless because of his size, but in a year or two, he’s going to be one of the big boys out here.”

  “A year or two? He’s as long as you are tall.”

  “He doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen him out here since he first hatched.”

  He took a deep breath. That was a first.

  She walked around the nearly fossilized cypress and sat. “I’m used to all this. In fact, I get all my thinking done here.” She gazed beyond the waters in front of her to the limbs of the cypress trees that bore the lacy gray moss.

  He looked about him to try to see what she saw. A billowy great white heron stood out amongst all the shadowy trees and murky waters. Though it was not easy to spot, a grayish blue egret, standing on a single leg, was camouflaged against the Spanish
moss draped from the cypress trees behind him. It was beautiful and it fit its dark environment, unlike the prissy white heron. This place was magical. Like Hanna. No wonder she liked it so much.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  He nodded, mesmerized by all around him. “It is beautiful.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He reached for her hand, and they sat in silence for a while.

  Eventually, she said, “I love this place—everything about it.”

  Maybe this was as good a time as any to ask her about assisting him in acquiring the wood again. “Have you thought any more about helping me find the sinkers I need for my boats?”

  “Actually, I have. I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.”

  “I get it. This place is too beautiful and historic for anyone to change.”

  “Historic?”

  “Yeah. Ever heard of Francis Marion?”

  “You mean the Revolutionary War hero, or my uncle’s great, great, great grandfather?”

  He shifted on the log beneath him. “You mean your ancestor was Francis Marion?”

  She laughed. “That couldn’t possibly be.” She laughed again. “I don’t think my family really knows from where we originated. It’s not something we talk about, and Uncle Marion said it didn’t much matter out here…where our people have been living since before all the wars.”

  “All the wars? Do you know what that would mean? It would matter quite a bit if the Swamp Fox was your ancestor. To document that line of heritage would be…amazing.”

  “Swamp Fox?” She looked confused. “My uncle had mentioned some animal name of our ancestor for years. I had no idea he may have been referring to the war hero I learned about in school.”

  “Yeah, the Swamp Fox was named for his cunning strategies, maneuvering troops through the swamp during the American Revolution—almost single-handedly won the war.” If he were her ancestor, wouldn’t she know that? He and his family knew all their history. “It’s been documented that British General Tarleton found Marion’s trail, pursued him to the edge of a swamp around here. He looked into the darkness and said to his men that the devil himself could not catch that old Swamp Fox. The name stuck.”