Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “But they didn’t plan to sail her for sport, did they, Granny Boo?”

  “For nary a minute, honey. No, those fellows had their sights set on illegal slaving. In the spring of 1859, they sailed the Wanderer to Charleston and outfitted her for what they told everyone was a pleasure cruise to China. Instead, they headed for Africa and Brazzaville on the Congo River. There Charley made a deal with the Portuguese slave traders to buy seven hundred and fifty souls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, eighty of whom died during the long voyage back to Jekyll Island. They were only children really, kidnapped from their homes.”

  “That’s sad,” Mary Scarlett whispered.

  “Not for Charley. He had the whole scheme planned out. When he landed on the Jekyll beach that dark night, small boats were waiting to deliver the cargo to plantations in Georgia, South Carolina, Florida, and as far away as Mississippi. Nearly a hundred went to the Carolina plantation of one of his Lamar cousins. Charley came out of it a rich man, indeed.”

  “But he got caught!” Mary Scarlett cried with a pleased grin.

  Granny Boo nodded. “That he did. But he never spent a day in jail. Instead, he was put under house arrest in his own offices on Bay Street. He lived like a king while the trial was going on. It was like a big party here in Savannah. The ladies came every day and brought him fancy baked goods and lavish meals, which they served him on their best china plates. He drank the finest wines, even magnums of French champagne. Seemed like Charley was a hero instead of a criminal, at least to the citizens of Savannah. Of course, he was acquitted. The worst that happened to him was that he was thrown out of the New York Yacht Club. They didn’t figure slaving was a proper vocation for one of their members.”

  “But he did himself proud in the War, Granny Boo. Tell that part,” Mary Scarlett begged.

  The old woman nodded solemnly. “Yes’um, Charley gave his all to the Cause. He organized and was Captain of the Savannah Mounted Rifles. Later, down the coast at Brunswick, he was elected colonel of Twenty-fifth Regiment Georgia Cavalry. But then after getting through the whole war, he was shot and killed near Columbus after General Lee’s surrender. The last man!”

  “Does he come to your parties at Bonaventure?”

  Granny Boo shook her head wearily. “Haven’t seen him. I think they have their own doings over at Laurel Grove where he’s buried. Caroline’s over there with him. She probably keeps a right tight leash on him.” She chuckled, then sighed. “All this talking’s got me wore out, honey.”

  “Granny Boo?” Mary Scarlett opened her eyes. She was once more alone in the bedroom. All signs of the little girl in the long nightgown had vanished. She was dressed in the black silk she had worn to Allen’s party.

  She lay back against the musty pillows thinking about Charley Lamar. What part did she have in his story? Had she been his wife? His lover? Or simply one of the ladies who visited him while he was under house arrest?

  “Maybe none of those,” she whispered, rubbing her fingers over the smooth token in her hand. “Maybe his lucky piece is our only connection other than blood.”

  She was nearly asleep when she heard a crash. The noise, close at hand, made her shoot up in bed. The rusted hinges of an old cupboard door had given way, falling to the floor. She cried out as she stared through the dim candlelight reflected in a mirror.

  “There it is! Granny Boo’s mirror!”

  She hurried across the room to retrieve her treasure, but closed her eyes as she picked it up. Silently, she begged to see the love of her life when she opened her eyes again.

  “Let him be here with me. Please! Let me see his face.”

  She opened her eyes and gasped. Allen Overman’s gray eyes stared back at her from over her shoulder. In her shock, she almost lost her grip on the mirror’s gilt frame, but he reached out to steady it.

  “So, here you are,” he said. “I’ve been searching the whole house. I was about to give up and leave when I heard that crash. What are you doing up here in the attic, Mary Scarlett? Why’d you leave the party?”

  “God, you scared me out of ten years’ growth, Allen. What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “I was worried about you, honey. You just dashed off into the night. It’s storming out there. The wind blew the door wide open. I figured you must be in here somewhere. Come over here and sit down. You look as pale as a ghost.”

  Mary Scarlett let him lead her to the bed. She smiled weakly, wondering what Allen would say if she told him she had indeed been in the company of a ghost after leaving his party.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I’m just so tired, Allen.”

  “Lie down and rest for a while. I’ll stay here with you. When the storm lets up, I’ll take you back to the house.”

  “I can sleep here,” she argued. “This is my home.”

  “I’m not leaving you here all alone. The place gives me the creeps.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She was already drifting off to sleep. He leaned down and kissed her softly. That and the fact that he asked where she had found the mirror were her last memories of that night.

  The bright sun in her face woke her the next morning. She was still clutching Charley Lamar’s lucky piece, but both the mirror and Allen were gone. She glanced toward the cupboard. The door was on its hinges and closed, just as it had been when she entered Granny Boo’s attic room. A quick inspection of the interior showed that it was used only for storing bedding. No mirror!

  Mary Scarlett sank down on the bed, bewildered and depressed. Had she only dreamed everything that had happened last night? She knew she had imagined the part about Granny Boo. She certainly had not been here in a long, long time. But Allen had been here. Hadn’t he?

  She rubbed a hand over her dry lips. She remembered his kiss, even if she had been half asleep at the time.

  Someone banging at the front door jolted her from her troubled thoughts. She hurried down to see who was there. She was surprised to find the door locked. When she opened it, she had to squint against the bright sunlight outside.

  “Thank God you’re here, Mary Scarlett! I’ve been searching all over for you. I figured you’d gone to Bolt’s place. When I called and he hadn’t seen you, I panicked.”

  “Allen?” The sight of him left her totally baffled. “But you knew I was here.”

  “And just how would I know that? You left the party without even saying goodbye.”

  She glanced back up toward the attic. “But weren’t you … ?” Her words trailed off. Allen would think she was crazy if she mentioned anything about seeing him in the mirror—which wasn’t there—that had come from a broken cupboard door—which wasn’t broken—to kiss her in the attic—where he had never been in his entire life.

  She offered him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Allen. I wasn’t feeling myself last night. I shouldn’t have run out the way I did.”

  He grinned back. “Hey, don’t mention it. I was just worried about you, that’s all. Come on now. I’ll take you home.”

  “Home?”

  He shrugged and laughed. “Well, how about my house? We’ll have some breakfast.”

  She shivered, thinking of Raul’s ghost on Allen’s stairs. “Thanks, but I’d rather go to Bolt’s place.”

  When Allen’s smile changed to a frown, she quickly added, “I need to change clothes and all my things are there.”

  “Well, okay, honey. Whatever you say.”

  He took her arm and led her down the stairs toward his car. As they walked away from the house, Mary Scarlett turned and glanced up at the attic window. She was sure she saw a face peering down at her through the bubbled-glass panes.

  On the drive to Bay Street, she tried not to think, not to feel, not to remember that finding Granny Boo’s mirror had been only a figment of her dreams.

  Allen glanced over at her. “Why the frown, darlin’?”

  Shi
elding her eyes from the sun and from Allen, she said, “Too much champagne, I guess.”

  Ten

  As Allen turned into Bay Street, Mary Scarlett—silent during the whole ride—let out a burst of high-pitched laughter. Allen glanced at her, puzzled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking about a story Mama used to tell me before I was old enough to start dating. She said once one of her girlfriends spent the night with her after a prom and forgot to bring any clothes to change into to go home the next day. When the neighbors saw her sneaking into her house early in the morning, still dressed in her prom gown, they all assumed she’d been out all night with her date. And, of course, as Mama used to say, ‘That could mean only one thing!’ She would always end the tale by saying, ‘Mary Scarlett, that poor girl’s reputation was ruined! Not just in Savannah, but throughout the South. Don’t you ever, ever forget about appearances. They count for everything!’”

  She turned to Allen and feigned an expression of total mortification. “Just look at me! Do you think it’s going to ruin my pristine reputation when all the neighbors see me coming in at this hour in my evening gown?”

  They both laughed, then Allen reached over and patted her hand. “I don’t think you need to worry, honey. That story is one of Savannah’s sacred myths, handed down for generations. Every girl I knew in high school had been told that same story by her own dear mama.”

  “It’s not as if I had any reputation left to ruin,” she said with a sigh.

  Allen pulled up to the curb. “Want me to come in with-you?”

  She shook her head. “You’d better not, Allen, but thanks. I have some explaining to do and I think I’d better do it alone.”

  “You’re sure, honey?”

  She nodded, then climbed out of the car. “Great party, Allen. See you around.”

  “You’d better believe it, darlin’!”

  He pulled away as Mary Scarlett headed the short distance across the small park to Factor’s Walk. She was almost hoping she would catch Kathleen still in Bolt’s apartment. Then she could take the stance of the injured party. That was a much easier role to play than repentant date and house guest.

  She noticed with a mixture of relief and annoyance that not one person gave her a second glance as she crossed the park. Savannah had changed; her mama could sleep easy in her grave. Her little girl’s reputation was safe in this city that had once been called a “garden of good and evil.”

  Bolt must have been watching from the window. Before she could touch the bell, the door swung open. He stood there, dressed only in paint-smeared jeans, scowling at her.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in, Bolt?”

  “I’m deciding,” he answered, his voice chilly. “And, believe me, it isn’t an easy decision, Mary Scarlett.”

  “Please, Bolt,” she said softly. “Let’s not stand here in the doorway and argue. We’ll have all of Savannah discussing our dirty laundry.”

  “I don’t have any,” he snapped. “I washed everything in sight last night when I couldn’t sleep for worrying about you.”

  He held the door wide and motioned for her to come in.

  She glanced about, expecting to see Kathleen lounging on the sofa or in the kitchen fixing breakfast. But there wasn’t a sign of her. Maybe she hadn’t spent the night with Bolt after all. That would account for his dark mood. He had taken Kathleen home, but he thought Mary Scarlett had spent the night with Allen.

  She decided to meet the problem head-on. “I know you expect me to apologize, Bolt, but I’m not sure for what. You’re the one who left me stranded at Allen’s last night.”

  He had gone to the balcony door where his easel stood, supporting a large canvas with the first palette knife strokes of a fiery sunrise taking shape. Turning away from her and back to his work, he added great blobs of alizarin crimson with quick flicks and angry slashes of his narrow blade.

  “I didn’t hear anyone begging me to stay.” His words were directed not to Mary Scarlett, but to his canvas.

  “Is that what you want?” she asked in a cold voice that matched his. “You want me to beg?”

  From where she stood, a few feet behind him, she saw his broad shoulders slump. His head drooped forward. He set aside his paints and knife.

  “Why are we doing this to each other?” he said in a defeated tone, without turning to look at her.

  “I wish I knew, Bolt,” she whispered. After several moments’ hesitation she added, “I am sorry about last night. But not for the reasons you may think.”

  He turned around slowly. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a certain, unmistakable glint in his dark eyes. Reaching out, he wiped a smear of mascara from Mary Scarlett’s cheek.

  “You’ve been crying. Tell me what Allen did to make you cry.”

  “Nothing, Bolt, I swear it. I wasn’t even with Allen last night.”

  He arched an eyebrow in surprise. Or was it disbelief? “Where were you, then?”

  “At the house on Bull Street. I had to go. It was the only place that was safe. After you left, I saw Raul.” Her voice was quivering, breaking with every word. Tears came again.

  “Mary Scarlett.” Bolt drew her into his arms, against his warm, bare chest. “Honey, we’ve been all through this.”

  “I know! I know!” she sobbed. “He’s dead. So why do I keep seeing him? What am I going to do, Bolt? I’ll never be able to get my life back together if I’m always looking over my shoulder, expecting to find him staring at me with those cold black eyes.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to help, honey.” He kissed her temple; that helped a little.

  She drew back and looked up at him. “There’s something else, too, Bolt. Granny Boo was there last night. I went up to her room, looking for the mirror. I was sure it had to be there.”

  “Was it?”

  She had to fight for control to get the words out. “Yes. But then it was gone. I guess I only dreamed I found it. Everything about last night is fuzzy in my mind. I don’t know what was real and what wasn’t I’m so confused, Bolt. And I’m scared. Really scared!”

  “Come on into the den and sit down before you fall down. You look like you’ve been through hell. I’ll get you some coffee. We’ll talk.”

  Bolt took Mary Scarlett’s hand and led her to the soft couch in the den. The morning sun washed the pale walls in yellow, making the whole room look cheery with springtime light. The minute she sank into the deep cushions, Mary Scarlett found herself fighting sleep.

  “If you want to talk, you’d better get me some coffee. Fast! And make it strong or you’ll lose me to the sandman.”

  He reached down and stroked her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you to anyone, Mary Scarlett. That’s why we have to talk.”

  He left, but returned seconds later with a tray of coffee and a plate of cheese danish. Before he even sat down, he said what he knew he had to say.

  “Mary Scarlett, you need to get some professional help.”

  “No!” she cried. “I will not go to a shrink and have him poking around inside my head and dissecting my dreams. I refuse!”

  He handed her one of the mugs. “Drink your coffee and hear me out. Please, Mary Scarlett!”

  She sipped the hot coffee and gave him her attention, but her eyes beamed defiantly.

  He sat down beside her and took her hand. “I know how you feel about psychiatrists, honey. I don’t think you’re right, but I do understand. I had something else in mind. What are your feelings about hypnosis?”

  “I don’t have any,” she said, frowning. “What are you getting at, Bolt?”

  “There’s this man I know in town, Dr. Schlager. I’ve done some legal work for him. Mary Scarlett, he’s a licensed hypnotherapist. I think he might be able to help you.”

  She said nothing, just kept drinking her coffee and staring at Bolt.

  “They’ve learned that through h
ypnosis all kinds of ills— physical and psychological—can be helped and sometimes cured. Would you be willing to see him, at least talk to him? You don’t have to commit if it doesn’t feel right. But I really think it’s worth a try.”

  She took so long to answer that Bolt thought she had fallen asleep with her eyes wide open. Either that or she was so furious at the idea that she couldn’t think of anything to say. Finally, she set her cup down and turned to him.

  “Will you go with me?”

  Bolt broke into a relieved grin and hugged her. “Of course, honey, I’ll go with you. I’ll be there the whole time.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes still wide with fright, but with a glimmer of hope as well. “We’ll just talk to him. Right? He won’t force me into anything?”

  “Not with me there to look out for you. No one’s going to force you to do anything, not ever again. Trust me, Mary Scarlett.”

  She closed her eyes, snuggled close, and kissed his naked shoulder. She realized in that moment that Bolton Conrad might be the only person in her life she could trust, totally and without reservation.

  A short time later, Mary Scarlett was in bed, fast asleep. Bolt was on the phone, dialing Dr. Manfred Schlager’s number.

  “His office is in his home,” Bolt explained as they drove past the graceful Victorian houses along East Hall Street.

  Mary Scarlett had slept from noon Sunday right through the night. She had spent this whole day at Bolt’s apartment, alone while he was at work. With no one to talk to, she had managed to work herself into quite a state, worrying about this evening and her first meeting with Dr. Schlager. Now she felt ready to jump out of her skin. Bolt’s proposed solution seemed almost as distressing as her problems.