Hot Southern Nights

by Patt Bucheister

  "What about slaves?" Elsa asked with cool steadiness. "Are you depicting any examples of slavery in your film?"

  "I don't like the concept of slavery any better than you do, Dr. Nelson, but it was a part of that time period. It would be dishonest to pretend it didn't exist and an insult to the people who endured slavery with dignity and courage."

  Elsa gave him a long, careful look before she turned to Brett. "He's smart, sensitive, and attractive. You don't find that combination very often, Brett. You'd better grab this one before someone else does."

  Brett gave her friend a glowering glance. "Don't you have any babies waiting for you in your office?"

  Elsa checked her watch. "Actually, I do. I just stopped in to check on Momma. She had a headache when I left this morning."

  Suddenly serious, Brett asked, "Is she all right? She's been getting those headaches fairly frequently."

  Elsa's dark eyes were troubled. "She won't agree to go to the doctor to be examined. You know how she is. She says she's been poked and stabbed enough with needles to last two lifetimes."

  Brett put her hand on Elsa's arm. "We'll gang up on her. If that doesn't work, we'll figure something else out."

  Elsa hugged Brett, then said to Sam, "I was going to warn you that my mother can be remark-ably blunt when she wants to be, but I think you can handle yourself no matter what the situation."

  "Elsa Ann." The firm voice came from behind them. Sam turned to see a shadowy figure standing behind the screen door, a woman of small stature with a commanding voice. "You have been taught better manners than to leave guests on the front porch. Invite Brett's young man inside."

  "Yes, Momma," Elsa said obediently as though she were six and not twenty-nine. "Please go inside, Mr. Horne, or Momma will be very unhappy with me." Elsa winked at Brett, then added, "I'm going back to the clinic now, Momma. If you need anything, you call me. Promise?"

  "Yes, yes. Go on with you, child. You needn't fret about me. I'll have a grand time entertaining Brett's gentleman friend."

  "All right, Momma." Elsa raised an eyebrow at Brett, silently asking if Brett knew what she was doing.

  Brett smiled and shrugged.

  "I heard that," Abbie said.

  Elsa and Brett stared at each other, then laughed.

  "How does she do that?" Elsa asked. "You be good, Momma, you hear me?"

  "Of course I heard you, Elsa Ann. I'm blind, not deaf. Now off with you. It isn't every day I have an attractive man come calling, and I want to enjoy every minute."

  Brett saw Sam was grinning broadly. She shifted her attention to Elsa. "I'll call you later."

  "You'd better," her friend murmured with a crooked grin and a quick glance at Sam.

  Elsa lifted a hand in farewell to Sam and hurried down the steps. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Horne," she called over her shoulder. "I have a feeling I'll be seeing you again."

  As Elsa climbed into her car the screen door opened, its hinges complaining slightly. Abbie Nelson stepped out onto the porch, keeping her hand on the door. She was a woman of medium height, but appeared frail due to her thin frame and delicate features. Dark glasses shielded her scarred sightless eyes, the only indication of her disability. Sam was amused to see she was wearing a baseball player's shirt with the Chicago Cubs insignia on the front and black stirrup pants.

  Abbie turned her head unerringly in Brett's direction. "Is that rum-flavored chocolates I smell?"

  "And some truffles I know you like." Brett kissed Abbie's cheek before introducing Sam. "Sam Horne is directing a documentary about the battle of Fredericksburg, Abbie. Sam, I'd like you to meet Abigail Nelson."

  Sam stepped closer and took the older woman's hand. "I understand you've known Brett since she was born. Maybe you're just the person I need to talk to."

  Abbie tilted her head back as if she were looking right at him. "That depends on what you want to know."

  "For starters, what makes her tick."

  "Men don't need to know how a woman thinks. It only confuses the issue."

  Sam grinned. "Men are confused enough trying to figure out the female mind. We need every advantage we can get."

  "From the sound of you and the fact Brett brought you here, you don't have too much to worry about. Now tell me, Mr. Horne, do you like baseball?"

  "Yes, ma'am." Sam glanced again at the Cubs insignia on her shirt and said somberly, "I'm partial to the San Francisco Giants myself."

  The older woman scoffed at his choice. As she began rattling off an impressive list of statistics about the Cubs—the team he should be following —she took his arm and drew him with her into the house. She broke off her discourse to ask over her shoulder, "Are you coming, Brett?"

  Amused, Brett followed behind them. "I'm here, Abbie. Why don't you take Sam into the trophy room while I make iced tea for all of us?"

  Abbie liked that idea and added one of her own. "Mr. Horne can take the chocolates so your hands will be free."

  Brett smiled widely as she handed over the box to Sam. His gaze went to her lips, then slowly raised to meet her eyes. His own mouth curved into a sensual smile, and for a moment Brett couldn't move, could hardly breathe.

  Abbie broke the spell with her usual frankness. "You two can ogle each other later. Right now I want to show my boys' trophies to Mr. Horne."

  Sam blinked and stared at Brett. Echoing Elsa's earlier statement, he murmured, "How does she do that?"

  Laughing, Brett left them and walked into the kitchen. She took her time making the iced tea. Abbie had little variety in the people who came to see her, and Sam would be good company for her. How Brett knew that about him mystified her, since she had known him for only a matter of hours. But there was something about him that implied strength and intelligence laced with a liberal dash of humor. His self-confidence could be irritating if it wasn't so natural, as much a part of his makeup as the color of his eyes and hair.

  She heard Abbie laughing as she carried the tray of drinks into the room where the older woman kept the awards earned by the Little League baseball teams she sponsored every year. Sam was seated on the old leather couch beside Abbie, who was showing him a scrapbook of pictures Elsa had collected over the years. The two of them, Brett noticed, were already on a first-name basis. As they paged through the scrapbook Sam would read a caption under a picture, and Abbie would tell an anecdote about the occasion, the person, or the game played that day.

  During the rest of the visit, Brett was sent out of the room on one pretext after the other by Abbie. She raised a window, watered the houseplants that didn't need any water, and freshened the pitcher of tea twice. Brett didn't really mind. Abbie was having a great time with her male guest, who made her laugh and who listened enthusiastically to all her stories, stories that Brett and Elsa had heard many times before.

  When Brett returned to the trophy room after retrieving Abbie's shawl from her bedroom, the older woman stopped talking as she heard Brett enter the room.

  Suspicious of the sudden silence, Brett said, "I hope you aren't boring Sam with all those naughty episodes you remember of my misspent youth, Abbie. He can come up with enough stuff to pester me about without your help."

  Abbie immediately started to tell some humorous stories involving Brett and Elsa. Brett alternated between amusement and embarrassment depending on the anecdote.

  Sam laughed at all the stories, but he was particularly intrigued by the one about how Brett and Elsa had built a tree house in an old apple tree at Maddox Hill. Instead of good solid wood, the girls had used cardboard boxes they'd hoisted up to a suitable spot, then tied together and secured to the tree limbs.

  "They spent hours and hours in their multi-room tree house," Abbie said, "until the first thunderstorm came along. The rain soaked the cardboard and they were left with a soggy mess."

  Brett added, "You might mention that we were eight years old at the time. We had made doll-houses out of cardboard boxes, so we thought we could do the same for a tree house."<
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  "Perfectly understandable," Sam said. "Wonderful things, cardboard boxes. I once made a herd of cattle out of big boxes I got from a grocery store."

  Both women said at the same time, "A herd of cattle?"

  He nodded. "I had collected sixteen boxes and I lined them up in a corral made from a rope wound around some trees in our backyard. I stuck a tree branch at one end of each box for horns and a section of frayed rope at the other for tails. I roped them, branded them, and drove them across mountain ranges and raging rivers. I even rode one or two until they collapsed."

  "How old were you?" Abbie asked.

  He shrugged, then remembered Abbie couldn't see the gesture. "I don't know for sure. Nine or ten."

  "An imagination can create such wonderful worlds," Abbie said. "Were you raised on a ranch?"

  "Only in my mind. I grew up in San Francisco. The neighborhood didn't have many children my age except girls, so I made up things to do by myself." He grinned. "It wasn't until I was older that I appreciated girls."

  Abbie laughed. "Now that I believe. That reminds me of the time when Brett wanted to invite a certain young man to her seventh birthday party. She was totally smitten until Billy Sheldon tried to kiss her as she opened her presents. She decked him."

  Sam roared with laughter.

  Brett groaned.

  Before Abbie could catch her second wind and regale Sam with more of her adventures, Brett said, "We need to get going, Abbie. I have a lot to do and I'm sure Sam does too."

  "I understand," Abbie said. "I've enjoyed meeting you, Sam. I hope you'll find time to visit again. I'd like to hear more about your work."

  Standing beside her, Sam bent down and kissed her cheek. "And I'd like to hear more about Brett."

  Abbie smiled. "I thought you might. Please come anytime. You are always welcome."

  "Thank you," he said sincerely.

  Brett hugged and kissed Abbie good-bye, then led the way back outside to her van. Sam made a few comments about Abbie as they drove back toward town, then he fell silent. That was fine with Brett. She wasn't feeling particularly chatty either, especially if Sam decided to bring up the subject of Maddox Hill.

  He seemed to rouse himself when she asked which hotel he was staying in. After giving her the name, he said, "We haven't talked about Maddox Hill."

  "Hmm," she murmured. "And we also haven't disagreed about anything. Why don't we leave it that way?"

  "Brett, I'm not asking to use Maddox Hill just for myself, for the convenience of headquartering my crew there. A lot of people are depending on me to make the best documentary I possibly can. I won't even go into the amount of money that's been put up by investors to finance the film. What I'm saying is that I'm not the only one involved. If we have to find another location for the encampment and the hospital scenes, that will run into a lot of wasted money paying a crew that isn't able to do their jobs, not to mention the time spent waiting around for Darren to come up with an alternative location."

  She stopped the van at the front entrance of his hotel, then turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Sam. If things were different, perhaps something could be worked out, but this isn't the time."

  "Would there ever be a good time?"

  "I don't know." She looked away. "I wish I did."

  Before he could pursue the matter further, his door was opened by the hotel doorman.

  "Will you be at Maddox later tonight?" he asked her.

  "Probably not. I have some work to do at the shop." She hesitated, then asked, "What if you could use the grounds but not the house? Would that help?"

  He frowned as he considered it. "I would be able to film the encampment scenes."

  "I'll think about it, then."

  Brett watched as he unfastened his seat belt and levered his long length out of the van. His "I'll see you later" wasn't a casual remark thrown out in parting.

  Brett had no doubts at all that she would indeed be seeing Sam Horne again.

  THREE

  Brett hummed along with the music coming from the cassette player. Humming she could do. Singing she couldn't. Luckily, the melodious piano music was without any lyrics she would be tempted to mangle.

  She couldn't even stand hearing her own voice in the shower. It was just one of life's little jests, she'd decided a long time ago. For as long as she could remember, she'd loved music, any and every kind. But when she was six, her piano teacher had given Brett's mother a refund. Brett could appreciate music all she wanted; she just couldn't make any. Some people were musically inclined. She was musically "disinclined" and half a note away from the one she aimed for most of the time.

  The ache in her left shoulder started moving up the scale from uncomfortable to downright painful, so she rotated her arm and flexed her wrist a few times to work some of the tautness out of her muscles. Glancing down at the orders yet to be completed, she grimaced. The stack of unfinished orders was still bigger than the stack of finished ones. She had at least four more hours of work to do before she could quit.

  She picked up the decorating bag she'd been using and aimed the fine tip at the candy mold in front of her. Squeezing gently, she filled the top part of each pumpkin impression with a rich green candy mixture that would look like the stem and leaves of the pumpkin after she added the brown chocolate eyes and orange body. She only had to make seventy-five jack-o'-lantern lollipops, which was considerably fewer than the over five hundred she'd had to make for Halloween orders.

  After years of experience, she could make the molded candy automatically without having to think about what she was doing. While that made it easier to do the work, she was left with too much time to think.

  Usually that wasn't a problem, but that was before Wild Oats Productions had stirred up a hornet's nest by wanting to use Maddox Hill. She couldn't have them or anyone else buzzing around the house and outbuildings until she finished her search.

  Her father had finally found some peace after the tragedy involving Brett's mother, and Brett had found a clue to discovering what had really happened to Melanie Southern. Now there was a threat by the name of Sam Horne that could upset her plans.

  Perhaps if the documentary were being made by someone not as well-known, she might have gone along with the arrangements. But everywhere Sam Horne went, publicity followed close behind.

  Even before he'd won the Emmy, Sam had caught the attention and admiration of the press, first in his hometown of San Francisco, then in Los Angeles, where he'd gotten the technical experience to go along with the ideas he wished to put on film. He was physically attractive, wealthy, talented, successful, and didn't give a damn about his image. The media loved him. The more they wrote about him and talked about him, the less he made himself available for interviews. That only further whetted the ravenous appetite of the public. He hadn't been busted for drugs, driving under the influence, or caught with another man's wife. No one came forward to claim they had his footprints on their backs after he'd walked over them to get to the top. That didn't stop the reporters from focusing on him, especially when he dated a well-known woman. As Brett recalled, there were quite a few of those.

  With Sam acting like a beacon for reporters, she couldn't take the chance of having her mother's alleged suicide resurrected by the media and reporters snooping around for a new slant to an old story.

  The presence of Sam and his crew at Maddox Hill would also interfere with her private investigation. According to the information she'd received from the producer, several rooms were to be converted into a hospital for wounded Confederates and a few of the outbuildings used for horses and equipment. More than that, Sam wanted some of the crew to stay in the house and the rest on the grounds, along with the reenactors' large encampment.

  Her systematic search of the house would be nearly impossible with Sam and his group underfoot, and she'd already waited long enough to find the answers behind her mother's mysterious death.

  As she continued filling molds Brett at first attributed the repet
itive pounding sound she heard to the taped music. After a minute she realized someone was knocking on the door of the shop. Evidently the person couldn't read, she thought with irritation. She distinctly remembered turning the sign on the door to the side that stated the shop was closed.

  After wiping her hands on a damp towel, she snapped on the lights in the shop and walked out of the back room. Mumbling several choice words of an unfriendly nature under her breath, she walked around the counter and several display tables to reach the door.

  She stopped and stared.

  Through the gap in the tied-back lace curtains on the glass panel of the door, she saw a man's black shirt tucked into jeans fastened by a black leather belt. Sam Horne. If asked, she wouldn't have been able to say how she could recognize the man only by a small portion of his anatomy, but she knew.

  Like she knew taxes were due on the fifteenth of April. Like she knew the roof in her bedroom would leak when it rained. Like she knew the most momentous moments of her life—good and bad— happened when she least expected them.

  He had to have seen the lights go on in the shop, she thought as he knocked again, obviously impatient. Apparently he was accustomed to people moving faster in response to his demands.

  Approaching the door, she pointed to the closed sign. His response was to apply his knuckles once more to the door. She stabbed at the sign again. He knocked again.

  Refusing to shout at him through the glass pane, she unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. The bell over her head clanged several times. "The store is closed," she said.

  "That's okay. I don't plan on buying anything."

  She pursed her lips and murmured, "Ah."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I see. I understand," she explained, as though talking to a rather dim bulb. "It could also be a substitute for then-what-the-hell-do-you-want?"

  He grinned. "That's a lot for such a small word."

  "I know another short word that conveys a succinct message."

  His eyes glittered with humor. "And you're dying to tell me what it is."