Call Me Softly

by D. Jackson Leigh

John glared at her. “You’ll have to find that out for yourself. What’s going on between you two is none of my business, but she deserves better than to have you run off in the middle of the night.”

  Swain was unsure how to respond.

  He stood and threw up his hands in a shooing motion. “Go on. They’re all up at the house. You need to settle things down so we can get back to training horses.” He followed her out and turned toward the barn’s office. “Too much female drama round here,” he grumbled.

  *

  Swain started to knock at the door, but the shrieks of laughter stopped her. She frowned. It didn’t sound to her like they were moping around, missing her. She swung the door open and everyone froze.

  The kitchen was a disaster of spilled flour and sticky bowls surrounded by various measuring cups, spices, and other ingredients. Mary stood at the oven, holding a pan of cookies that had just finished baking. Lillie and Dani looked up at her from the table where they were mixing another bowl of dough. Lillie had flour streaked across her nose and cheek. Dani had a smear of something that looked like molasses on her chin, and her hands were covered in cookie dough that she was rolling into small balls and placing on a pan. Even Beau had a liberal amount of flour dusted across his head.

  “Swain!” Dani abandoned her work and ran over to wrap her arms around Swain, hugging her tight and transferring half the sticky goop on her hands to Swain’s shirt.

  Lillie’s smile was at first brilliant, then hesitant. “You’re back.”

  “Yeah. I needed to come home.” Looking at Lillie now, she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever left. She gave her a half smile, acknowledging that they needed to discuss things later in private.

  Dani piped up. “This is my science homework. We have to practice measuring things. Lillie has been helping me figure them into metric for extra credit. Mom said I could take some to school tomorrow for the kids to eat while I explain how to measure things when you cook.”

  “That’s a great idea. Are you teaching Lillie how we measure things, too?”

  “Yes,” Dani said before leaning forward to stage-whisper, “She’s not as good as I am at adding things up, but she’s catching on.”

  “I’m sure she’ll get better with practice,” Swain stage-whispered back.

  “So, how was Florida?” Mary asked.

  “Still hot as August down there,” Swain said. Aiken’s weather remained mild, but was beginning to cool noticeably since it was well into October. “I talked with two guys from an Argentine team. They’re interested in both Domino and Nor’easter.”

  Lillie pushed her bowl over to Dani, giving Swain her full attention. “I thought you promised Nor’easter to one of the Whitneys.”

  “I haven’t promised anything to anyone. I told them I couldn’t discuss any sales until Abigail’s will is read.”

  “Is that why you went to Florida, Swain?” Dani asked. She apparently was intensely interested in anything that had to do with Swain.

  “Partly,” Swain answered, holding Lillie’s gaze.

  “Well, we’re glad you’re back,” Lillie said softly.

  “Me, too. I came up to the house to invite you out to dinner.”

  “I’d love that.” Lillie looked around at the mess from their baking. “It’ll take me a while to clean up here and change.”

  “You go ahead, hon,” Mary said. “This is Dani’s project. She’ll help me.”

  “Where are we going? Should I dress up? How much time do I have?”

  “It’s a surprise, and no. It’s a blue-jeans kind of place, very rustic. Bring a sweatshirt because the dining room can get a little chilly this time of year.” Swain surveyed the handprints Dani had left on her shirt. “You’ve got as long as it takes for me to go back down to my place and find a clean shirt.”

  *

  They pulled up to an old Esso service station where the gas pumps were still working relics from long before digital displays and pay-at-the-pump technology. A hand-painted sign advertised Mechanic on Duty next to a working antique Coca-Cola cooler. Swain parked her truck among eight or ten others in a weed-choked lot next door.

  “This is it. A group of us gather here once a month to eat and swap stories.” Swain turned in the seat to look at Lillie. “These are my friends. They aren’t the Whitneys and the Hitchcocks. They’re stable hands, farriers, and the guys who run the feed store and sell farm equipment.”

  “If they’re your friends, I’d like to meet them.”

  Swain nodded.

  “We need to talk, Swain.”

  “I know. We will. Soon.”

  They climbed down out of the truck, and Swain took Lillie’s arm to help her navigate through the weeds and potholes.

  As they approached, some of the men were standing with beers in their hands while others sat in folding camp chairs just outside the open garage part of the station. They all stared.

  Swain gave the standoffish group a challenging glare. “Guys, this is Lillie. I’ve invited her to have dinner with us tonight.”

  Lillie spotted one friendly face in the bunch. “Hello, Tim. How’s the shoeing business?”

  “It’s good, Miss Lillie.”

  An older man with white hair and a weathered face spoke up for the group. “No offense, miss, but this is a private gathering. No wives or women of any kind.”

  “Damn, Snow. What do you think I am?” Swain clasped Lillie’s hand in a show of female solidarity.

  “You don’t count,” one of the other men said. “We ain’t got to watch our manners around you.”

  “Maybe we should go, Swain.” Lillie didn’t want to cause problems.

  “No. We’re staying.” She addressed the group. “Lillie wants to get to know my friends, so you guys just be yourselves. Spit and scratch your privates, smoke cigars, and cuss all you want. Just like you usually do around me. Fish me out a beer, Tim.”

  Tim stuck his hand in the washtub full of bottled Budweiser and ice, and handed one to Swain. He shrugged apologetically at Lillie and gestured toward the washtub. “I’m afraid all we have to drink is beer. I can get you a soda from out of the machine over there.”

  One of the men snorted. “We ain’t got no linen napkins either,” he grumbled.

  Lillie ignored him. “Beer’s fine, Tim. But do you have something other than American beer?”

  “We ain’t got no fancy beers, either,” someone in the crowd said.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t looking for anything fancy. It’s just that most of the American beers are a bit light for me. I’m used to darker, heartier ales back home.”

  The men looked at each other, exchanging sly smiles. A tall man spoke up. “Ham brews dark beer, but it’s got a bit of a bite. You got some of that in the station, Ham?”

  The man who made the napkin comment grinned. “I sure do.” He hurried off and returned with a Mason jar of dark liquid. “It ain’t cold,” he warned. “But if ya can stomach it, I can chill some in the tub for ya.”

  Lillie raised her eyebrows in mock horror. “Don’t you dare. You should always serve dark ales at room temperature.”

  They all stared, waiting for her to take a swallow.

  Lillie made a show of smelling it and holding it up to the light.

  “Just drink, girlie. This ain’t no wine-tasting.”

  The men’s laughter stopped suddenly when Lillie glared their way.

  “We take our beer very seriously in the U.K.” She took a mouthful and swirled it around before swallowing. They waited, unconsciously leaning toward her to hear the verdict. She nodded and took another big swallow. “It’s a little mellow for dark ale, but much better than that weak stuff you blokes are drinking. Not exactly the dog’s bollocks, but it’s not bad.”

  “Did she say Ham’s beer tasted like a dog’s buttocks?” someone asked.

  “Bollocks,” Lillie enounced for them. “Testicles. When something is really great, it’s the dog’s bollocks.” They stared blankly at her, apparently wondering if
they misheard. “Well, you have to imagine a dog’s bollocks are really fantastic since he can’t seem to stop licking them.”

  The group howled with laughter, while Swain smiled and shook her head. Would Lillie ever stop surprising her?

  Ham, the owner of the station, stepped forward and put out his hand for Lillie to shake. “I reckon we all had you pegged wrong. I do apologize. I’m Hamilton. Ham, for short. Welcome to our little get-together.” He swatted the shoulder of a man seated nearby. “Get up, Tommy, and give the lady your seat.”

  “I have a friend in England who has brewed his own ale for years. It’s the best I’ve tasted. I’ll bet I could worm his recipe out of him if you’re interested.”

  Ham brought her hand to his lips. “I’d propose marriage if my wife wouldn’t kill me.”

  Lillie winked at him. “I might have to marry my friend to get his recipe.”

  Swain waved Tommy back into his chair and retrieved their own from the truck. They talked about horses and hay prices, tractors and fertilizers. It was obviously the common man’s way of networking. They also bragged and complained about errant children and grandchildren. But they refrained from complaining about their wives too much, Lillie supposed in deference to her.

  After a while, Swain led Lillie into the garage, which was to be their dining room. They had raised a hydraulic grease rack that lifted cars in the air for servicing to table height and placed a newspaper-covered sheet of plywood on the rack to act as a buffet table. Ham and another man, Arnie, had cleaned the car parts and oil cans off one counter and also covered it with newspaper to start preparing the food.

  “What’s for dinner, Ham?” Swain asked.

  He opened the top of a thirty-gallon ice chest filled to the brim with ice and fish.

  “Steve and Ray caught a mess of crappie at the lake and I had some more in the freezer, so we’re frying fish. We’ll be ready to start cooking in a minute. Why don’t you go out front and start the deep fryer heatin’ up.”

  Lillie was more interested in the food preparations, so she waved for Swain to go ahead without her.

  “I love fish-and-chips,” she said.

  “Well, I’m not sure what you mean by chips, but around here folks eat grits and hush puppies and coleslaw with their fish.”

  “I believe you would refer to chips as French fries. But I’m afraid to ask what you mean by hush puppies.”

  Ham laughed. “Corn dodgers. A type of fried cornbread. They’re called hush puppies because, before the Civil War, fried cornbread was a staple in the slave quarters. The story goes that slaves would fry up a batch of cornbread balls and throw them to the plantation owner’s hounds to keep them quiet while they escaped.”

  Lillie watched as he poured a flour-like mix into a large bowl, cracked a few eggs into it, and reached for a gallon jug of water.

  “Don’t put water in that fish batter, Ham. Put milk,” Arnie said.

  “I ain’t got no milk and it says on the package to use water.”

  “Could I make a suggestion?”

  The men looked at Lillie.

  “Use some of this dark ale instead. That’s what they use in Whitby, this little town on the English coast. They’re known to have the best fish-and-chips in the U.K.”

  Arnie looked doubtful. “Next thing you’ll tell us you people bathe in that stuff. No wonder we won the Revolution. The Redcoats were all drunk.”

  “Try it on a couple and taste it. If you don’t like it, you can go back to arguing over milk or water.”

  Lillie’s suggestion was a huge hit. Once the fish and cornbread were ready, someone placed a Crock-Pot of buttery grits in the middle of the table and retrieved several bowls of coleslaw from another ice chest.

  It was soon clear that the men found Lillie much more interesting than their own lives. They pelted her with questions and she charmed them with colorful British expressions.

  “Lillie, what do you do in England?” Tim asked. “For a job, I mean.”

  “Rich people don’t have to work, you idiot,” Snow, the grumpy, white-haired elder of the group, said.

  “I’m a photographer. I do freelance work for magazines—travel or home-and-garden layouts mostly. I also work for charities. The foundation that Princess Diana started to help needy children, I’ve shot photos for their brochures.”

  Swain stared at her, her expression one of surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a professional photographer?”

  “You didn’t ask. Like Snow, you probably took for granted I didn’t have a career.”

  Swain blinked. “I guess I did. I apologize.”

  Lillie tilted her head and gave Swain an amused look. “Apology accepted.”

  The party began to break up about eight. Most had wives to go home to and jobs that started very early in the morning.

  It was Ham who had the parting word as Swain folded up their chairs.

  “Miss Lillie, you come back next month, ya hear?” The other men murmured their agreement. He slapped Swain on the back. “You’re a lot more entertaining than old Swain here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Swain was quiet on the way home while Lillie chattered. Their evening hadn’t worked out exactly the way she’d expected. She thought Lillie would be taken aback at eating dinner in a garage, among the gasoline, oil cans, and car parts.

  She thought the guys would run Lillie off. They were a rather exclusive club and had a strict rule about excluding wives or dates. But they loved Lillie. She proved herself by drinking ale too strong for them to stomach and improving their fish batter. Swain chuckled. At least Lillie drew the line at smoking cigars. Swain’s mouth still tasted of them. She popped a stick of gum in her mouth, then offered the pack to Lillie.

  “Am I talking too much? Is the gum to shut me up?” Lillie chuckled as she accepted the offering.

  “No. Those cigars taste great when you’re smoking ’em, but the aftertaste can be nasty.”

  Neither spoke the rest of the way home. When they pulled up at the house, Swain followed Lillie inside. She still had to collect Beau and his stuff. But when they entered the house, Lillie grabbed her hand and led her into the living room, where they settled next to each other—but not too close—on the large, overstuffed leather couch.

  Lillie scooted closer and laid her hand on Swain’s thigh. “It’s time to talk, and I want to start with why you flew off to Florida.”

  Swain’s leg burned where Lillie touched her, and her crotch tingled. She couldn’t think with Lillie that close, so she stood and walked over to the fireplace and pretended to study the framed photographs adorning the mantel. These hadn’t been here before, had they? There was a picture of the Wetherington men, Jim and Eric, together in happier times. They were dressed for polo and holding up a trophy, their ponies standing behind them. There was a family portrait, too. Eric was blond like Abigail in the picture. Jim was dark-haired, his iridescent blue eyes staring at the photographer.

  “Swain?”

  “I needed to put some distance between us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my employer and I’m the hired help.”

  Lillie looked stunned. “I don’t know what to say.” She stood, but avoided Swain’s gaze. “I…I apologize. I guess that would be sexual harassment, wouldn’t it? I’m so very sorry. It won’t happen again. I’ll get Beau’s bed from upstairs.” Lillie started for the door, but Swain wrapped her arms around her from behind. Lillie was rigid.

  “That’s not at all what I meant. I wanted to kiss you.” She couldn’t stop herself from nuzzling Lillie’s thick curls and inhaling the soft traces of magnolia in her scent. She definitely had found Abigail’s designer perfume. “You’re so beautiful. I came back from Florida because I’m not strong enough to stay away when you leave messages like you did on my cell phone.”

  Lillie turned in her arms and put her hand on Swain’s cheek. “What is it then?”

  “We’d never fit together, Lillie. We c
ome from two different worlds. You grew up in your own bedroom, with your own things. I grew up in an orphanage where not even the pillow I slept on was my own. You grew up among private schools, symphony concerts, and vacations in France. I’ve never been on a vacation in my life, never been to a concert. While you were taking classes at a university, I was sleeping in haylofts above the stalls I mucked every morning.”

  Lillie’s eyes searched hers. “Your world isn’t so forbidding. I enjoyed myself tonight, immensely.”

  Swain smiled, a sadness creeping over her. “Yes, you did.” She couldn’t resist brushing her fingers through Lillie’s hair and lowering her head to briefly touch her lips against the pout forming on Lillie’s. “You’re a remarkable woman. But while you may fit easily into my world, I don’t have a place in yours.”

  “That’s not true. We have to talk. You are much more than you know.”

  Swain pressed her fingers to Lillie’s lips to quiet her. “When I went with Abigail to her social functions, I drove her there, escorted her through the front door, then she mingled while I went to the kitchen and hung out with the caterers until she was ready to go.”

  Call softly.

  “Was that because people didn’t accept you at her side, or because you were more interested in cooking than idle chat?”

  Swain hesitated. Was it? Nobody had pushed her toward the kitchen. She just felt more comfortable there. She released Lillie and stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t know.”

  “We aren’t so different,” Lillie insisted, stepping forward to put her hands on Swain’s folded arms, refusing to break their physical contact. “Come with me. I’ll show you.” She led Swain into the cavernous library room with a grand piano at one end.

  Swain had been there before. Abigail never brought her into this room, but Swain had prowled the house the first time Abigail had gone out of town and entrusted her with the keys and security code. She’d pretended for a moment that she actually lived here, that this was her music room. She’d sat at the piano, but never mustered the courage to open it and play the fine instrument.