“Too bad, I wanted to meet them.”
“My father doesn’t respond well to company. The least little thing wears him out.”
“Another time, when it’s more convenient.”
She waited for Tripp to open the car door. A true southern gentleman, she thought. Not like the rednecks she’d dated who reeked of cigarette smoke.
“I’d like to kiss you goodnight, Honey Belle.”
She lifted on her toes and ran her hand upward over his chest. Very slowly, never breaking eye contact, she raised her mouth to his. “Hm. Aren’t you glad you didn’t have the shrimp with garlic sauce?”
He laughed, and so did she. “Good night, Tripp.”
She stood next to the elm tree and watched until the taillights on his car were no longer visible.
The sky had grown dark, but the streetlights illuminated the sidewalks and the older homes lining both sides of the street.
She slipped off her high heels and, holding one in each hand, raced the full four blocks to the gas station where she’d left her old pickup truck. Thirty minutes later, she crossed the railroad tracks and rattled down a washboard road that the county refused to maintain. A few minutes later, she pulled into her own driveway. It wasn’t a nice place to live.
She grabbed her purse, and dug out her key before she opened the screened door and let herself in the house.
The house was small, with a living room that also served as the dining area, a galley kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bath. Beyond the back steps was a yard littered with old car parts and rusting barrels overflowing with bags of garbage.
She never wanted Tripp Hartwell the Third to know where she lived. If he asked her out for a second date, she’d make certain she met him at the elm tree on Barrington Street.
Chapter Five
Tripp whistled a nameless tune as he let himself into the kitchen of his parent’s stately home. What made the house, though, was the back porch, which his grandfather had closed in with glass panels. Even in the middle of winter it was warm and cozy on the sun porch. Between the porch and his mother’s green thumb, plants thrived there as if living in a greenhouse. Beyond the porch, in the backyard, was a swimming pool and a well-groomed garden of flowering plants, stone paths, and dribbling water fountains, his mother’s pride and joy.
He went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk and helped himself to a man-sized scoop of peach cobbler. He could hear the television going and the sound of a familiar newscaster’s voice as he reported on the unrest in Southeastern Asia. Specifically a place called Vietnam.
He ambled toward the den and sank deep into the plush leather sofa made of hand-tooled Moroccan leather. “Think there’ll be a war?”
Tripp’s father cast his son a casual glance. “The way politics are running now, there’s no doubt about it. My guess is it’ll be a money war.”
“What about my draft status, Dad?”
“Nothing to worry about, son. You still have your college eminence. That and my political influence will keep you on the home front. Can’t have your mother all upset and worried about her only child going off to war, now can we?”
Tripp didn’t think of himself as a coward. He just didn’t see much sense in getting killed for a senseless cause. “No, sir. The last thing I’d want is to cause mother unnecessary upset.”
“She’s a true southern belle, as delicate as those hothouse flowers she’s so fond of.”
“Joe Brimley quit college to join the Marines.”
The elder Hartwell swiveled around to face his son. “The devil, you say.”
Until she spoke, neither son nor father was aware of the delicate-boned woman who stood in the doorway with her hands clutched at her throat. “La, Nancy Carol is surely beside herself with grief.” She sat on the arm of the sofa and placed her hand on Tripp’s arm. “I couldn’t bear it if you went off to war. We have a long and esteemed heritage of brave family members who served our country. Some didn’t survive. Promise me, son, promise you won’t…” A sob tore from her throat.
Tripp’s father pushed from the overstuffed chair, made of the same leather as the sofa, and went to the liquor cabinet, where he removed a bottle of amaretto. He filled a snifter and handed it to his wife. “There…there, Mary Alice. No need to fret yourself. Our boy will attend Harvard just as planned.”
As he handed his wife the glass, he glanced over her head to his son. “Tripp, why don’t you escort your mother upstairs? Tell her about the girl you took to dinner tonight.”
Tripp nodded. He lifted his mother’s free hand into his. “I met a girl with the most unique name.”
“La, is that so? What is it?”
“Miss Honey Belle Garrett.”
“Garrett. I once knew some Garretts from Tennessee. I believe they were sharecroppers.” She wrinkled her nose as if the word sharecropper had soured in her mouth.
“She’s a true-blood South Carolinian, mother.”
“Honey Belle is a sweet name. I’d love to meet her, Tripp. Shall I arrange a small soirée?”
“Not yet, mother. We only met yesterday.”
“Where did you meet this young woman?”
“I stopped in for a hamburger. We, ah, bumped into each other.” He didn’t dare tell his mother that Honey Belle worked at a burger joint. Southern aristocracy frowned upon common laborers. Come to think of it, why would a girl who lived in a beautiful antebellum home on Barrington Street have to flip hamburgers? She did say her father was sick. She did drive a beat-up old truck. With the world getting ready to turn upside down over unrest in Southeastern Asia, and with the drop in the economy, times were hard. Maybe she was earning college tuition. He shoved the thought aside.
At the top of the stairs, Tripp guided his mother to her bedroom suite. He kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Mother. Rest well.”
When he turned to leave, she said, “I’m not as addle-patted as your father thinks. It’s just, sometimes, I seem to have a fog that covers my brain and I forget things.”
The doctor had said Tripp’s mother suffered from early on-set dementia. Tripp had been a change-of-life baby, born on his mother’s forty-first birthday. Now at the age of sixty-three, she was a diminishing shadow of the woman who had loved afternoon tea parties with her lady friends, researching family heritage, and doting on her son and husband. He’d do anything to protect her.
His father, on the other hand, was a hardened criminal attorney, now a judge, who brooked no nonsense for those who broke the law. Even if Tripp hadn’t planned to follow in his father’s footsteps, it was expected that the day he graduated from Harvard Law School he would join his uncles at Hartwell, Hartwell, and Calhoun, Attorneys at Law.
Walking down the hall to his room, Tripp brushed his teeth, folded his clothes, and put on a fresh pair of boxers before climbing into bed. With his hands cupped behind his head, he replayed the evening with Honey Belle. She reminded him of an unrefined gem who needed a little polishing. He liked this girl and intended to ask her out again.
****
It was late, and Honey Belle knew her mother would be furious. Her mother’s philosophy was as long as you live under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules. And the rule for Honey Belle was, “Home before midnight on the weekends and home straight from work during the weekdays.”
She’d often thought about getting an apartment, moving out on her own. Minimum wage didn’t bring in much. Between her own and her mother’s salaries, together, they managed to keep up with staying one month away from being evicted on the rent, from having the electric shut off, and with paying a little each month on her father’s ever-growing mountain of doctor bills.
Moonlight passed through the broken window in her bedroom. With no money to replace it, she’d placed duct tape over the crack to keep the glass from falling in.
Wound up tighter than a corkscrew, Honey Belle knew she needed to sleep fast. She held the clock toward the moonlight. The hands indicated midnight. She set the alarm
. Her wake-up time would come before she was ready. Sweat pooled between her breasts and she shucked off her nightgown, pulling the sheet up to cover her nude body. Her mother had once called her a Jezebel when she’d found her daughter sleeping buck naked. Honey Belle had responded with, “At least Jezebel is better than being named after a tangerine.”
And then she’d asked, “Why did you name me after a citrus fruit?”
Her mother had heaved a sigh. “It’s an elegant name. Be proud of it because it’s the only worthwhile thing I’ll ever have to give to you.”
The remembrance hurt. She wondered why she’d meant so little to her mother.
Honey Belle concentrated on the ceiling fan’s whirring noise. She reached up and pulled the chain, turning the fan to a higher speed. A lot of good it did. For all the blades’ movement, hot air stifled the room. She’d stake her life that Tripp’s entire house was air conditioned. She longed for air conditioning. For her, such a luxury was as far away as the moon.
Drifting off to sleep, her thoughts centered on Tripp, she remembered he was two years older than herself. He had the chiseled features of a movie star. He was observant. His eyes seemed to watch everything. Maybe that’s why he decided to become a lawyer. She found it bothersome that he seemed to read her every thought.
He was tall and strong. Not like some of the milksop college guys who patronized the Burger Bin. She liked everything about Tripp Hartwell the Third. Most of all she liked his voice. It was the kind of voice that announced football games, or belonged on the big screen. It was a voice that would make members on a jury sit up and listen.
In her heart she knew he was the kind of man she could trust to share her innermost secrets—her hopes and dreams for the future—and he would listen intently, promising to make them all come true. She hoped.
A cloud drifted in front of the moon, shutting out the light. She listened to the clock’s rhythmic tick-tock, and imagined it saying, He loves me, He loves me not, He loves me.
Before drifting into sweet oblivion, she thought about how special the day had been, how special he was, and the warm way she had felt when he’d placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the restaurant and her first taste of expensive wine. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It was all too wonderful.
A shiver rippled through her body. For no good reason, she felt like crying. She pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her chin. Her mother had once said that sooner or later all good things come to an end. Meeting Tripp was a good thing. She hoped her mother was wrong.
It seemed she’d barely closed her eyes when she heard her mother’s voice. The shrillness intruded into her dream, and she tried to shut it out. The voice shouted, this time more insistent. Honey Belle groaned. Surely it wasn’t time to go to work.
“Honey Belle, help me.”
Honey Belle sat up in bed. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes in the darkened room. Remembering she was naked, she groped the end of the bed searching for her nightshirt.
“Honey Belle, wake up. It’s your father.”
She pulled the nightshirt over her head, struggling to find the armholes. She stubbed her toe on the door jamb and crow-hopped to her parent’s bedroom. “What is it, Mama? Another heart attack?”
“I don’t know. Get the truck. We’ve got to get him to the hospital.”
Honey Belle raced back to her room, switched on the light. She grabbed a pair of jeans and tugged them on under her nightshirt, then slipped her feet into a pair of sandals.
Slamming the back door behind her, she ran to the neighbor’s house and, with both fists, banged on the front door. “Mr. Jimmy, wake up. We need your help.”
She continued pounding on the door and calling the man’s name until a light switched on and the door opened.
“It’s two in the morning, girl. This’d better be important.”
Honey Belle stepped back as the towering six-foot-five giant glared down at her. “It’s daddy. Help me get him into the truck.”
“Heart attack?”
“Maybe. Won’t know until we get him to the hospital.”
“Damned shame ambulances won’t come to Shanty Groves.”
Honey Belle ran to keep up with the giant’s long strides.
“Couldn’t afford one even if they did. Besides, I can get him to the hospital quicker if I drive.”
Once they had her father settled on the front seat, Honey Belle thanked her neighbor and promised to bring him a sack of hamburgers with extra pickles as payment for his assistance.
She put the truck into gear and spewed dirt as she spun out of the driveway. The truck bounced and bucked as she tried to ease over the bumps. She spoke through gritted teeth. “Damn these potholes and double damn the county for not fixing them.”
“Stop your cussing, girl. Concentrate on gettin’ us to the hospital in one piece.”
When the wheels hit the asphalt pavement, Honey Belle gunned the accelerator, praying the old motor wouldn’t let her down because of the strain.
She heard the warning bells and saw the railroad crossing arm’s red flashing lights as she approached the train tracks. She didn’t have time to wait on a twenty-car freight train to inch by at a snail’s pace. Her daddy’s life depended on how fast she could get him to the emergency room.
“Trains comin’, Honey Belle. I can see the engine’s light.”
Ignoring the tension in her mother’s voice, Honey Belle said, “I’m not stopping, Mama.”
“The cross arms are comin’ down, girl. You can’t bust through ’em. The law’ll put you in jail.”
Honey Belle pressed down on the accelerator, asking the truck for more speed than she knew it had to give. “I’m driving around them, Mama. Hold Daddy tight and hang on.”
She touched her father’s arm. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to hurt you.”
The pain in his eyes flashed panic through her. The odometer read 60 miles per hour. Honey Belle had to beat the train to the crossing arms. She needed to get over the track before the arms came completely down. The thrum in her heart matched the pulsating veins in her temples. What if she didn’t beat the train? She wiped a sweat-drenched palm down her jeans and then switched hands to dry the other one, too. She gripped the steering wheel.
The train whistle blasted, the engine’s light flashed like a one-eyed Cyclops.
Honey Belle pushed for more speed—seventy miles per hour. It was a neck-and-neck race, with the train gaining. Seventy-five miles per hour…eighty. “Hold tight, Mama.”
Honey Belle held the steering wheel in a death grip as the truck’s tires hit the tracks with a vengeance. She didn’t have time to see the terror in her mother’s eyes as the truck went airborne.
Sparks flew from the truck’s front bumper when it landed with a bounce that nearly jarred Honey Belle from the seat. She managed to glance over her shoulder to see freight cars whizzing down the track. She’d beat the train with only seconds to spare.
Her father moaned again. She listened to him struggling to breathe. “We’re almost there, Daddy…you okay, Mama?”
“Besides being scared out of ten years of my life and hitting my head on the ceiling, I’m no worse for wear.”
Five miles down the road, Honey Belle guided the truck to a halt under the emergency room’s portico. Her legs trembled as she jumped to the ground. She commanded her mother, “Stay here. I’ll go get someone to help.”
As soon as the ER had admitted her father, Honey Belle’s mother said, “You go on to work. Tell the boss man about your daddy.”
Her mother’s sallow complexion and dark circles under her eyes worried Honey Belle. She chalked it up to stress and exhaustion. “You gonna stay with Daddy, Mama?”
“For a while. Whatever this costs, heaped on top of what we already owe, sometimes I don’t think we’ll ever have two nickels to rub together. I’ll call your cousin Bubba to bring me to work.”
“I’ll get you some coffee
and sweet roll, Mama. Try to rest a little while you’re waiting. Okay?”
Honey Belle felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to reach out and hug her mother—to give herself some comfort, too. She didn’t, fearing her mother would rebuff the affectionate gesture.
She hadn’t noticed how cold the waiting room was until her mother shivered. Honey Belle walked to the nurse’s station and asked for a blanket.
“It’s for my mama. We’re not used to air conditioning.” She didn’t know why she’d felt it necessary to offer an excuse. Returning to where her mother sat huddled in a chair, Honey Belle draped the blanket over the frail body. “I’ll come back and sit with daddy as soon as my shift is over.”
“No, you won’t. You’ll go home and get some proper rest. Can’t afford for neither one of us to get sick.”
Honey Belle turned with a reluctant shrug. She walked through the hospital’s automatic doors and into the darkness.
Chapter Six
“Honey Belle.” Her mother’s voice was low and harsh.
Honey Belle swiped at the mosquito buzzing around her ear as she opened the screened door and stepped into the kitchen. She swore the temperature was hotter inside the house than the out in the mid-July night, and by the tone of her mother’s voice, the climate was about to get hotter.
Still languishing in the memory of Tripp’s sensual caresses, she ran her tongue over her lips, recalling the taste of his moist kisses. The sound of her mother’s voice came again, this time like cold water being dumped on sizzling coals. She sighed, wondering what she’d done this time to warrant her mother’s wrath.
“What is it, Mama?”
“Brought your daddy home from the hospital today. Where you been?”
“You said for me not to worry because Bubba had volunteered to drive you home and help get Daddy settled in bed.”
“That ain’t what I asked you, girl. I asked…where you been?”
“It’s Sunday, and my only day off. I went for a walk on the beach.”
Forbidden Son Page 3