Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel

by Vicki Wilkerson

  “No, dear. I don’t want any kind of CD. I want…profitable.”

  The dilemma. Hanna could tell her what she knew after years of studying the market, or tell her something boring.

  Mrs. Filmore folded her handkerchief. “I want to be safe at first. I only want to invest about five percent of everything. Until I see the potential.”

  In that case, maybe the stocks Hanna had researched were for Mrs. Filmore. Hanna told her client about all she knew and all the risks that were sure to come in the short term. “I must repeat. This is a long-term stock, likely to split at some point in the future.”

  “Sign me up.” Mrs. Filmore put her white handkerchief back into her Kate Spade bag.

  And with the stroke of a pen, Hanna had just made her first big financial coup.

  ⸙

  Furman pushed a planer over the wood he was working on for his boat, and then he ran his hand over the smooth surface. It was good to get back to working on his boat. He had several other projects to work on, as well, but his father and mother had superseded all his other obligations for the last few weeks. His boat business had really taken off this year, which made it more difficult for Evelynn to convince herself that his working with his hands was just a hobby that he’d grow tired of eventually. She simply didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that their family had boat building in their blood.

  He took the board and placed it on the stern to see how it looked. The entire boat reminded him of a piece of furniture—and that reminded him of Hanna’s furniture. She was on his mind all the time—especially now that his crew had secured the logs she had showed him. He had pulled a lot of strings to get the logs so quickly, and now they were in the back of the shop, drying, waiting to be made into beautiful works of art for the boats in his shop.

  He took a break to catch up on some emails in his office. And to check on the OKRA stock he had purchased in Hanna’s name right after Toleman had hired her and had gotten the pertinent information needed to open the account. He stared at the screen. Wow. She was right about the stock. He was pleased for her.

  His mother’s toy terrier yapped continuously at the end of her leash in the corner of the cavernous building. “Chanel, quiet down over there.” His mother had named it Chanel because she’d carried the tiny dog around in one of her designer bags when she had first gotten it. The dog continued to whine.

  Furman had had to pick her up from the vet’s office earlier for his mother and was stuck with the little diva for the entire day.

  Butch, his assistant at the workshop, tried to pet her, but she kept snapping. “Would you like me to feed her those baby meatballs your mother sent over?”

  “Sure. Give her a couple to shut her up.” Furman’s phone rang. Maybe it was Hanna. He looked at the cell and saw Claudette Westbury’s number again. He allowed it to continue ringing and returned to his boat.

  Two weeks had passed and he had still not been able to get in touch with Hanna—personally. She had left him a couple of pathetically short voicemails when he had been indisposed at the workshop, and she had provided pathetically lame excuses about how busy she was. Maybe she was avoiding his calls the way he was avoiding Claudette’s. He dialed her direct office number again. Again the system threw him back to her voice mailbox. And again he left a message for her to call him back.

  He checked his watch. Four-forty five. “Butch, will you drop off Chanel at my mother’s house with Bessie? I need to run an errand.” He was going to talk to Hanna one way or another today.

  “Sorry, Mr. Laurens. I’ve got an appointment as soon as I lock up at five. I barely have enough time to get there as it is.” He didn’t want to push Butch. If it weren’t for him, all the boat work would come to a complete standstill when Furman couldn’t be there because of his family obligations.

  “Not a problem.” He looked down at all the sawdust he’d accumulated on his jeans and T-shirt. “I’m going to get changed. If she starts yelping again, feed her a couple more.”

  “Okay, Furman. But if she bites me again—”

  Join the club.

  After changing, Furman turned out the lights in his office. When he returned, he reached down and petted the pint-sized dog. “Well, Chanel, looks like we’re going for a ride together.” He grabbed the meatballs, his cell phone and the leash attached to the prissy dog and left.

  It was nearly five o’clock when he’d arrived at the office in Summerbrook where Hanna now worked. “Hanna Rudder, please,” he said at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Oh, Ms. Rudder left early today,” she said.

  He looked at his watch. That didn’t sound like Hanna, asking to get off early—especially after only a couple of weeks on the job.

  “She really deserves a break. After working close to sixty hours this week.” The phone rang and the woman picked up the receiver and pressed a button. “State and Casualty.” She listened. “I’ll put you through.”

  “Do you know if she’s coming back or where she went?” Furman asked.

  The receptionist looked at her desk calendar. “She said something about a…” She strained to see what was written. “vital or revival or some kind of meeting at some camp. At some place I’d never heard of before. Ms. Rudder said she left a flier or a brochure or something on her desk—where she could be reached if I needed her. Do you want me to get it for you?”

  “No, thank you.” Furman nearly jogged to his car. He knew exactly where she’d be. He had been invited there by Hanna’s aunt and uncle, and he and Chanel were going.

  All the way to Four Hole, Chanel barked and yapped. Finally, Furman pulled over, took the tiny meatballs from the back seat and fed her a few. One at a time. With her sitting in his arms. She was worse than spoiled. Evelynn had complained that it was his fault. For not giving her grandchildren. If she only understood the circumstances. But it probably wouldn’t matter to his mother. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, and nothing else mattered.

  In a way, he felt sorry for his mother—and a little responsible. She was losing his father, and she had no other family besides Furman. What else could she do but to hang around the shallow ladies of the Jasmine Society and to give all her leftover time to her high-strung little dog? He wished that he could fix her life, but he couldn’t.

  He got back into his car and the yelping began again. Chanel reminded him of Claudette Westbury. Always barking about something.

  The trees he passed on the way to Four Hole grew thicker, and the land surrounding them sank lower and lower into the wet earth as he headed toward Hanna’s little country church.

  Finally, he arrived and pulled into the gravel drive. The once solitary church grounds were bustling with people and cars and energy. He parked at the edge of the campground, fed Chanel a few more meatballs and poured some of her Evian into a cup that he placed in his cup holder. Taking the jacket to the suit he’d just bought from Berlin’s, he coiled it into a bed and placed it in the passenger seat. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Chanel burrowed her nose and body into the lining of the expensive jacket. Occasionally, she could be sweet—when she wasn’t being a demanding diva. He closed the door and headed toward the campground.

  He thought he could pick out the Rudder’s cabin from when Hanna had pointed it out, but everything looked different lit by the soft glow of the campfires and lanterns. The anticipation of seeing her had been building inside him for two weeks. More than anything, he yearned for her—in person and up close.

  As he made his way around the semi-circle of shacks, he saw things he’d never seen before. Two children—barefoot in the cool evening—were chasing a chicken with a fishing net. Passing another cabin, he saw lanterns hanging from a rope strung across a make-shift porch. He’d read the brochure her Uncle Marion had given him when the old man had invited him to the revival at the church grounds. He had said there would be a huge camp meeting in the fall, but every spring, they had a smaller version on the grounds. He glanced around
. This place was a throwback to a bygone era. These people were honoring the traditions of their ancestors—when faith was at the center of everything. It was not sterilized, like it was at the historic sanctuary where his family occasionally attended.

  Furman continued to walk, suddenly aware of something following him. He looked down and saw Sinker, the small, friendly dog that usually hung around outside the front door of the butcher shop. “Hey, boy.” Reaching down, he stroked Sinker and wondered what mixes made the dog so sweet and agreeable. He was nothing like the little high-strung pest that his mother owned. Sinker followed him as he continued to look for Hanna.

  If Furman wasn’t mistaken, her cabin was next. He’d get to see her gentle face and raven-colored hair—finally. Before he reached the door, five pre-teens ran past him, giggling and squealing.

  He knocked on the doorpost.

  “Who’s out here a knocking like that? No one’s posed to knock on camp meeting grounds.” The voice was familiar. It was Aunt Della, shuffling her feet as she walked across the hay-covered dirt floor. “Furman, come on in.” She hugged him—like it was her duty. “Hanna’s out back. I got her a stirring the purlieu.”

  “Chicken must be very popular around camp meeting,” he said, surveying the rough-hewn timbers on the walls and inhaling the sweet smell of the hay.

  Aunt Della looked confused.

  “Della, who is that handsome man you got there all dressed up in his fancy clothes? Looks like he’s come here to sell us some insurance.” An older woman with soft gray curls came ambling through the back door, wiping her hands on her calico apron.

  “He don’t want to sell us no assurance.” Aunt Della opened her palm toward the woman. “This here’s my sister, Willidean,” she said.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Willidean said then looked at Della then back at Furman. “You are staying for dinner? Aren’t you?”

  “Sure he is, Willidean, but I guarantee he’s come here to say hey to our Hanna first,” Della said.

  “So this is her fancy beau? I had a fancy beau once. Until camp meeting back in ’47. I talked him in to coming to the gathering. Meemaw sent us to Summerbrook when she found out he had one of those new Chevy cars. She needed some tobacco to draw the poison out of Paw Paw’s arm from where the wasps got a hold of him when he was knocking down the nest from the rafters. Not a con-founded person in camp would admit to chewing and give up some.”

  “Oh, my. Not that tired old story again. Everyone in camp’s done heard it at least sixty-five times,” Aunt Della said.

  Furman would listen to it if it would get him to see Hanna any sooner.

  “Anyway,” Willidean went on. “My pappa—not knowing that my meemaw done sent me and my beau off for tobacco—went a looking for me in all the cabins when I didn’t show up for the tabernacle service.”

  Aunt Della laughed and nudged her sister. “You know Meemaw was covering her own backside. She shouldn’t have let you go gallivanting off with some boy we hardly knew. Especially to be buying tobacco.”

  Amusing as it was, what did any of this have to do with seeing Hanna? But Furman would listen to an entire volume of Four Hole history read in Chinese if it would get him access to Hanna.

  Willidean continued, “Pappa walked into the Burton’s cabin, and some of the teenagers were in there necking without a lantern or any candles burning.” She took a deep breath. “Well, Pappa found a pair of old lady Burton’s underpants in a corner cause she had changed clothes for church after spilling a pitcher of sweet tea in her lap. Because he didn’t see me, he thought they were mine, and that I’d done run out and left them behind. He had an outright hissy fit.”

  Aunt Della covered her mouth and giggled. “He went and got his shotgun, and when Willidean got back, that was that last she seen of her fancy beau with the Chevrolet.”

  “Now why’d you have to go spoiling the end of my story?” Willidean asked with her hands on her hips.

  “That ain’t the end. Tell him about how all the church elders laid their hands on Pappa at tabernacle and had to pray him through for all the cursing and for jumping to such a conclusion. They said his mind had been in a dirty place,” Della said.

  “Ah, you done messed it all up,” Willidean said as she walked out the front entrance. “I’m gonna find those girls that were in here a bit ago and borrow my sifter back from Melvina Banks. Can’t make no decent biscuits without it.”

  Aunt Della shook her head. “Willidean’s a mess.”

  They both were endearing messes. Real characters. He’d just become enamored with Willidean the same way he’d become enamored with Aunt Della. Both were precious and unpretentious.

  Aunt Della peered around one of the wooden poles in the middle of the room. “What are you waiting for? Hanna’s around back. Through there.” She pointed. “Go surprise her.”

  What was he waiting for? That was an excellent question. He had actually been waiting for someone like Hanna for all of his life.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rustic and Remembering

  Hanna stirred the purlieu over the open fire behind her family’s cabin. She picked up a fork and tasted the mixture of rice and meat. It was missing salt. And she was missing Furman. But it was her own fault that she hadn’t seen him since she started her new job. It had been weeks and she’d managed to stay so busy that she’d barely had time to leave a couple of messages in return on his phone.

  Everything seemed better now that they weren’t seeing one another. They just didn’t fit into each other’s worlds. She looked around through the darkness. Yellow airy light from lanterns and candles escaped from windows down the line of rustic cabins. The smell of fried chicken wafted about her. She could hear the melody of heavy Southern dialect and uninhibited laughter. No. Furman wouldn’t appreciate any of the backwards, backwoods lifestyle they lived out here in Four Hole Swamp.

  Someone touched her elbow. “Will you get me the salt?” she asked as she stirred. She assumed it was Aunt Della coming to check on her again.

  “If you tell me where it is,” a man’s voice responded.

  She turned abruptly. It was Furman. “How’d you know where—”

  “I was invited. Remember?” He smiled. Even without electricity to light up the night, his smile was luminous, and his presence made her heart glow.

  ⸙

  Furman stared at the rare beauty in front of him. Hanna was so much more beautiful in the soft glow of the light.

  “I tried calling but—” Hanna put down the large spoon she’d been holding.

  “Yeah. I got your messages, but I really needed to talk with you. In person.” He peered over to look into the pot.

  “About what?” A look of confusion covered her lovely face.

  He thought for a moment. He had to choose his words carefully. If he didn’t, she wouldn’t agree to what he’d come to request. “Well, from what I hear, you’re doing very well with ole Toleman Sterling. He’s quite impressed.” Furman was quite impressed also. With Hanna’s other qualities.

  “I hope so. You know as much as anyone that my job is a dream come true for me.” She stepped into the gentle light floating out the back door of the cabin. Her features were delicate, dark and enchanting. “I’m doing something I love and eventually I’ll be able to help my aunt and uncle retire.”

  He nodded. “You’re a good niece.” She was also a good person. He thought she’d also be a good girlfriend—if she’d ever take the time. “Toleman Sterling is singing your praises all over town. Is it true you’ve landed Sam Westbury’s account?”

  She nodded her head and smiled.

  “You know he’s the account that tops all accounts, don’t you?”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  His cell rang. It was his mother. She’d just have to wait. “Yeah. Claudette says her father’s been excessively cheerful these days because of his new investments. You knew that he was Claudette’s father, didn’t you?”

  The color fell from her fa
ce. “No. I didn’t. I mean…I guess I knew he had the same last name, but so does—” She looked out toward the dark night, and her eyes seemed to deepen in their expression. “If I had known that, I may have advised him differently. Maybe less risk.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want…never mind.” She turned her attention to him again. “Enough about me and my job. How’s your dad?”

  “His memory is still deteriorating. He does ask about you occasionally.” And I think about you constantly. But Furman couldn’t say that.

  “I’ve been praying for him.” She paused. “I feel bad that I haven’t been back to see him in the hospital.”

  He knew the reason why, though. His mother.

  “Between getting new clients, helping out at the meat market and doing my research, there seems to be little time to do much of anything.”

  He gazed into her eyes. He thought he caught a glimpse of pride—not the haughty variety found in arrogant people for superficial reasons, but the kind that brings an internal joy when someone knows that they’ve done something good. He was pleased for Hanna, but a little piece of him wanted her back the way he’d first found her. “Have you been back to your spot at the creek?”

  “Not once. That’s how busy I’ve been.” Then her eyes grew brilliantly illuminated—even in the darkness. “I must admit. Work is so much fun. It’s everything I ever dreamed of—and more. All those numbers. They just make so much sense to me.”

  “I’m glad.” He really was. And who was he to selfishly wish to keep Hanna and her brilliance all to himself? “Don’t you think it’s time you took it up a notch? Make even more social connections?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s what I came to talk to you about. Mother’s having her really big Jasmine Society Soiree to benefit the Spoleto Festival for the Arts. You know, the one that was organized at her last little gathering—the one that Callie catered. It’s this Saturday. I want you to attend with me. Be my date.”