Baxter nodded and stepped deeper into their circle. He murmured something, too low for me to make out his words. Melia and I waited, hoping to hear their verdict on our little assembly.
Suddenly, the door opened and a tall, stately man in his late fifties entered the room. He glanced around, shutting the door behind himself. "Ladies, my apologies for our tardiness. We got a little turned around," the man said, walking into the center of the room. He didn't stand with the other men. He looked each of us over, but there was only kindness in his eyes.
His hair was mostly black, except for strands of silver around his hairline. His green eyes twinkled with youthful vivacity. Immediately, I knew that I would like him. Not in a sexual way, but strictly as one human being to another. There was a calming presence about him that allowed people to let their guard down around him.
He held a bouquet of flowers. He lifted the flowers and handed them to Red. "I brought these for your home. I hope it don't cause anyone of y'all any problems," he said in a deep Texas drawl.
Red smiled, accepting the flowers. "Ladies, I'd like for you to meet Congressman Shelton Powell. Shelton, meet my friends. This little one right here is Albertine. Those two clinging together are Mercy and Melia." She glanced around the room. "Penelope's around here somewhere," she said, rolling her eyes.
Powell turned to me and Melia, nodding in our direction. "Ma'am. Ma'am. I would like to thank you for welcoming us," he offered. Baxter broke away from the group of men and stood beside Powell, placing his hand on the politician's shoulder.
"It's a beautiful home, isn't it?" said Baxter. "Carol said that your husband built it; is that correct, Mrs. Higgins?"
"Yes, Admiral, my husband was a finish carpenter," I said with pride.
He looked over the staircase and caressed the wood, feeling its sturdiness. Something in the intricate design caught his eye. He knelt down, his finger following the shape of the butterflies. "Are those M's?" he asked.
Surprised, I answered, "Yes, Admiral, those are M's." He nodded and stood from his kneeling position.
"I never caught that before, Mercy," said Albertine as she bent over to study the design. "Those are beautiful."
"Is it a message of some sort?" asked Baxter.
I ducked my eyes, fearing they would show sadness. I said, "M for Mercy and M for Moses. M and M."
"Clever," said Baxter, admiring Moses's handiwork. "My father was a finish carpenter, so I spent many hours at his knees as he built furniture. Your husband was talented."
"Thank you, Admiral Baxter," I responded, tilting my head in gratitude.
"Please call me Thomas," he said, leaning towards me. "I'll call you Mercy Belle." Pleased with himself, he looked at Melia. "I don't think we have met. I'm Thomas Baxter," he said, offering his hand to her.
Melia lifted her hand and touched her fingers to his. Her hand fell away and he stared down at his palm, perhaps wondering if there was something wrong with his hand. He looked confused, but he smiled and moved away.
Powell joined Baxter as they approached Albertine. The little wren stepped back, as if intimidated by the size of the two men. Melia stepped away from my side, likely ready to rush to Albertine's defense. Albertine surprised both of us when a beautifully serene smile blossomed on her face.
Powell's eyes darkened as he stared down at Albertine. She smiled at him, not noticing the shift in his mood. It was subtle, and I imagined a nun isn't familiar with the small cues men give off when they are interested in a woman. It caught me by surprise that he would look at Albertine with interest, but I had seen stranger things.
"I'm Thomas," Baxter said to Albertine, taking her hand. They shook hands, and he laughed. His gaze darted back towards Melia as if he still questioned their quick, dismissive handshake. "Wasn't there a fifth gal?" he asked.
Albertine stood on her tiptoes and shifted towards the men, as if sharing a secret. "I think she's shy."
Powell pulled back, pretending to be surprised at the news. The rude gray-haired gentleman approached him and said, "You remember Harrison's ex-wife."
Powell looked at the man, a touch of confusion on his face. "I do, but..."
"She's in there," interrupted the gray-haired man, his head moving in the direction of the living room.
Powell stood erect. He darted across the foyer and stepped into the darkened living room. I followed behind him as he switched on the light and called out, "Penelope?"
There was a subtle movement towards the back of the room. Powell's head swiveled, and he spotted Penelope hiding in the corner. She stood behind a tall potted plant, the curtain partially obstructing her position.
"What in the hell, woman? What are you doing here?"
"Hiding, I reckon," I said, mimicking his drawl. His gaze snapped in my direction. His eyes darkened, but this time from anger, not from any hint of passion.
"Does Arthur know that you are here?" he barked.
Penelope moved from behind the plant and stared at the congressman, false bravado on her face. Hands on her waist, she said, "I don't care if he does or doesn't."
"He's not going to like this," he snapped.
"I don't give a damn! He's not my husband any longer. He doesn't have any say in how I live my life or who I live with," she said.
"What are you doing here?" he repeated. He peered at me, an apologetic look on his face. "I mean no disrespect, ma'am, but Penelope's husband and I are longtime friends."
"Ex-husband," she hissed. His gaze returned to her and he shook his head.
"This is going to piss off that old bastard," said the gray-haired gentleman with a smirk as he stepped into the living room. "Hi, Penny," he bellowed, laughing at Penelope's grimace.
So Prissy Pants went by "Penny" after all?
"Good evening, Richard," Penelope muttered.
"Dick! That settles that," I said, speaking to Richard.
"That's Senator Richard Stephens from Indiana, ma'am," he returned.
"'Dick' suits you just fine," I answered.
His body tensed. He hooked a thumb in my direction and looked at the other men in the room. The swarthy man shuffled into the room, raising a hand to placate the Dick. He turned to me and said, "I apologize. I hope you understand it's simply a surprise that a friend's wife would be here, among you."
"Is there something wrong with her being here with us?" asked Melia. Her brow was furrowed as she looked over the men. I thought I heard her mutter, "Bunch of racist peckerwoods."
Red rushed into the room, carrying a bottle of champagne. Behind her, the short-legged wren trotted to keep up. She carried several champagne flutes.
Red opened the bottle with gusto. "Ladies! Gentleman! I think we all need a little bubbly to settle the mood, hmm?" she said, turning to take a flute from Albertine.
She poured the champagne and handed it to the Dick. He bit his lips, almost snarling with anger. "Thank you, Carol," he muttered. He took the champagne flute and sipped at it, his gaze narrowed on Penelope.
She looked at him with confusion, but she said nothing. Red poured another glass of champagne. Craft walked around her, whisking the glass from her hand. "This better be the good stuff," he joked, drinking it down in one gulp. Grimacing, he handed the glass back to Red. "The cheap stuff, Red? How could you?"
There was brief awkward laughter as we responded to Craft's attempt to lighten the mood. He clapped his hands, turned to me, and said, "I know. How about you take us on a tour of your lovely home? Things got off on the wrong foot. We were late, and we apologize," he said, glaring at the Dick.
The Dick set his champagne flute down on a side table. Wiping his face with his hand, the uncivilized expression melted away, replaced with a look of false interest. "Yes, Mercy Belle, why don't you show us your grand little house?"
It was a minuscule movement on my part, but Red pivoted away from me, raising the champagne bottle out from my reach. She knew me well. I would have smashed the champagne against the Dick's hard head.
Craft's thoughts mus
t have mirrored my own, because he turned to me with a cheeky grin and said, "You are one savage lady." Winking, he came to stand beside me, placing his hand at the small of my back.
"You have a bad habit of touching me there, Admiral," I said with a little heat. It surprised me, but this dirty old man was beginning to grow on me.
He stepped backwards and peeked down at my bottom. "Do you blame me?" he said, a naughty look in his eyes. Stepping away from his side, I crunched down on his foot. He boomed with laughter as I left the living room.
"Come on, everyone," he said, rounding up the group.
I went to stand in the foyer as the others joined me. Standing in the entryway to the kitchen, I swept my hand in the air. "The cooking room," I said, moving away from the entry.
"Wait. Aren't you going to show us the entire kitchen?" asked Baxter. Out of the party, he was the one most interested in the architecture of the home.
"Feel free to take a look around, Thomas, but you'll see that it's like any other kitchen," I said.
Eyebrows raised, he stepped inside. The swarthy man moved to begin walking up the stairs. I darted through the group and pushed past him. I stood, arms crossed, glaring down at him.
Abashed, the swarthy man chortled, "I was just going to take a seat in one of those chairs." I stared down at him, color deepening on his face. My eyes scanned the men in the room, noticing Craft's amusement, Powell's covert glances at Albertine, and Dick the Senator's petulant sneer. I moved aside, allowing the swarthy man to walk past.
"I don't think that I caught your name?" I said, as he settled into an armchair.
"Hector," he answered.
"Just Hector?" I asked. He nodded, chuckling at my expense.
"Mercy, I really like the cabinetry in your kitchen. Is that your husband's design also?" said Baxter, glowing with appreciation. I grinned at him, delighted by his boyish curiosity.
"Some of it. A few years ago I had some remodeling done."
He nodded and said, "I wondered. The island, right?"
"Good catch."
He moved through the group, stepping up the stairs to stand beside me. "You don't have to show us the upstairs, if you don't wish to," he said, looking around the group.
"We have to show them the parlor, Mercy," Albertine called out. She glanced at Powell, not recognizing his infatuated glances. "There is a lovely piano. Shelves and shelves of books, and a fireplace. It's my favorite part of the house," she said.
"Then we simply have to go there," said the congenial Powell. "Do you play? The piano, that is?" he asked Albertine.
Her head bobbed. "Actually, I do," she said, smiling beautifully at him. Powell sighed, eyes locked on her.
It was almost comical. He looked at her with clear interest. Albertine looked back at him as if he were a new schoolmate.
"I could tell you were a woman of many talents," he said in a perfectly lecherous tone.
Her delighted laughter filled the room. "Well, it was one of the few pleasures allowed at the convent," she confided.
His eyes fluttered, chagrin written on his face. He glanced at Red. She lifted her arm and placed it around his shoulders. "I'll explain later. Penelope, too."
At the sound of her name, Penelope's back stiffened. She looked ready to pounce, and the Dick's polite veneer faded. I looked at Red, but she seemed unwilling to intervene any further.
"Albertine," I called out. "Would you mind playing for us?"
She looked like an owl, her large brown eyes blinking behind her round spectacles. "Of course," she said, walking up the stairs. Powell slid out from Red's arm and followed Albertine. His eyes were locked on her little bottom. I wanted to push him down the stairs. His interest felt totally inappropriate.
I followed him as he followed Albertine. She walked into the large parlor area and turned on the ceiling lights. She approached the piano, preparing to sit down on the bench.
Powell moved as if he was going to sit beside her, but he fell back. Instead, he leaned against the arm of a couch and looked in my direction.
My eyes narrowed and I snarled like a dog claiming its territory. Head ducked, he sat on the opposite corner. Melia walked to the couch and sat down beside him, glaring at him until his color deepened. He stared at the fireplace, avoiding her gaze. Melia and I shared looks. We both noticed his interest in Albertine.
Unlike Melia, I understood the nature of his interest. It wasn't supposed to happen like that. It was stupid of me, yes, to think that they would only think two of us were prostitutes. I knew that Powell and the Dick thought we were all in the business, as if my home were some kind of brothel. I had known that risk existed, but I really believed Red when she said Craft had made our roles clear to the others.
The rest of the party settled into seats around the parlor. Powell sat with Melia on the couch. The Dick sat down beside Melia and looked in Penelope's direction. She hung back, standing at the top of the stairs. Red walked past her and into the parlor, carrying a tray with the cheese ball and crackers.
The Admirals sat in the loveseat that faced the couch. Red placed the tray on the coffee table before Craft. He rubbed his hands together and bent over to begin filling himself a plate. Red left the parlor, walking back towards the stairs. I watched as her hand shot out, grasping Penelope by the collar, pulling her off the top step.
Penelope's eyes bulged and her mouth fell open; her arms flayed until she felt Carol's presence behind her. She spun around and glared down at Carol. She said nothing as she began to descend the steps. The swarthy man entered the parlor and walked over to the couch, taking the leaning position that Powell had abandoned. He folded his arms in front of him and looked down at the Dick. The Dick snorted and sat back on the couch, propping a foot on the coffee table.
The movement shook the table, disturbing Craft's cheese and cracker assembly. He glared through his lashes, searing the Dick with a hot glance. The Dick wasn't apologetic; he returned the Admiral's glance with an arrogant look of his own.
The tension in the parlor mounted. Craft and Baxter looked at Dick the Senator with ill-concealed annoyance. Powell's lustful glances were subdued by Melia's watchful vigilance. Penelope and Red disappeared, causing me to fear that they were cat-fighting in the kitchen. Hector looked at us all, a hint of superiority in his eyes.
Suddenly, chords projected from the piano. The little wren began her melody.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The room went still as Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata poured over the tightly wound audience. Albertine glanced at her hands as she moved them expertly across the keys. Baxter was taking deep, relaxing breaths while he looked around the parlor. He seemed to savor the mastery of Moses's handiwork. Craft munched on his cheese and crackers, his teeth grinding down as he glared at the Dick.
The Dick removed his foot from the coffee table. To my utter surprise, he brushed at a scuff mark left in the wood. His gaze dropped to his lap, and he sat peacefully listening to the music. The swarthy man looked impressed, listening to Albertine's skillful playing. He swayed to the melody as he gazed at Albertine, purely smitten with the wren.
Melia's hands were clasped before her, as if praying. Her eyes widened when Powell shifted in his seat. He hoisted himself up, but Melia's hand shot out and grabbed his waistband, pulling him back down on the couch. His gaze dropped to the carpet; he was duly chastised.
Just as the final chords lifted through the air, Red and Penelope returned to the parlor. Red was carrying another tray; this one had a mix of fruit, sliced meats, and slices of bread. Penelope was carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher of a yellowed-colored liquid. I thought that I would fall out of my seat laughing if it was lemonade. It would be the final stroke to this masterful display of southern gentility.
Melia patted Powell's leg and stood up from the couch. She sat down next to Albertine and asked, "Hey, did you ever learn the music for 'Love Me or Leave Me'?"
Albertine grinned, and turned her gaze back to the keys. Her fingers b
egan to beat away at the old Nina Simone masterpiece. Melia's foot tapped to the rhythm, and then her mouth opened; a rich, smooth alto voice spilled out, surprising me. It must have surprised Red, too, because she stopped pouring to turn and watch Albertine and Melia.
I laughed, surprised and pleased at their unexpected talent. I knew Albertine dabbled with the piano, but I had no idea that she would actually be good at it. Then there was Melia. She was singing away, her body moving to the music. So that was why they called her "Thundering Voice." Her voice was like a rumble, the sound breaking the tension after lightning flashes.
We began to clap as the song faded to an end, but Melia began to sing another one. I recognized the words as the opening to "Summertime." The song brought up bittersweet memories. The words chilled my soul, as it had been Moses's favorite song. Penelope handed me a glass, and I sipped the liquid, not caring what it was.
There was a clanking sound as Penelope placed a glass on the table in front of the Dick. He shot her a glance before he lifted his glass and took a drink. He grimaced and turned towards Carol. "Lemonade? I'd rather drink piss."
"That could be arranged," I retorted.
"Shut up, Richard," Craft said, politely accepting a glass from Penelope.
"Why are we here?" the Dick asked.
"We were invited," Craft explained.
The Dick sprung from his seat and walked out of the parlor. "This is a waste of my time," he threw over his shoulder. "Hector, are you coming?"
The swarthy man leapt from his position, startled by the Dick's bellow. He nodded in my direction and then turned towards Albertine and Melia. "It has been a pleasure to listen to you this evening. I certainly hope we are able to do this again. I happen to be rather fond of Chopin. Perhaps next time?" he asked, smiling at them. He waved, then turned and followed the Dick.
Craft shook his head, frustrated with his friend. "Richard won't be returning, ladies," Craft said as he stood up. He looked down at Baxter and said, "I think we've overstayed our welcome."
"You guys are welcome to stay. It's those other ones that aren't," Melia said, nodding in the direction of the stairs.
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