by Sylvie Kaye
"How interesting.” But she really wasn't interested.
Maybe she'd nix the Honda Civic in Honda Town's window for a Saab convertible whenever she got her accounting degree and a better job. She ran her hand over the smooth black leather interior.
A pipe dream. The speeding Saab was surely way out of her reach for a long while. She glanced across the seat. But now that she was away from her aunts’ house, the driver wasn't.
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Chapter Seven
Zack wasn't so sure borrowing the sleek, black convertible had been such a good idea.
Although Jilly seemed to enjoy herself, tapping to the beat of the radio while the sun caressed her upturned face and the wind streamed through her blonde hair, it certainly cut back on conversation.
Shouting hadn't been his aim. Getting to know Jilly better, one-on-one, face-to-face, with no aunts butting in had.
"What kind of music do you like?” he asked, his voice lost in the wind. So far, she hadn't settled on a radio station, switching from rock to blue grass. “How about lunch?” he shouted over the blare of the radio as Jilly continued to fidget with the dials.
She seemed intrigued with the car, from its snappy black upholstery to its optional digital sound system. He wished she'd throw a little of that enthusiasm his way.
"I'd love to stop for something if we have time after we see the plantations.” She dazzled him with a smile before singing along to a romantic song she'd tuned in.
Happy was good. As far as he could tell, she didn't let her demanding aunts or sticky doors or missing kids get her down. He tapped the steering wheel to the beat of the music. Being near her made him feel good.
As he cruised along Highway 18, the Mississippi River wended amongst moss-bearded elms and oaks. The air smelled earthy, like mud.
Soon she pointed down the road. “Laura's Plantation should be coming up soon."
It popped up on the horizon as if by command. The mansion looked as colorful and painted as the Saturday night dates his cousin Bob picked up on Bourbon Street.
But to Jilly, he said, “Looks as if some kid got loose in the Crayola factory.” The bright yellow house sported a red roof, green shutters, and even more colors trimming the doors and windows.
"The bright colors are part of the Caribbean influence,” she explained as he parked the car.
Strolling beneath the glaring sunlight, side by side, they headed toward the entrance of the modest mansion flanked by pillars instead of staid columns. “Not exactly Tara is it?” he said.
"Creole mansions are designed for use.” Jilly grabbed his arm, hurrying him along. “And notice."
He pepped up his step to keep up. With only a few spare hours, he wondered how much he'd learn about her. He intended to feel her out about life, relationships, ambition. He knew so little about her, other than she had perfect penmanship. He'd gotten a firsthand peek when she wrote the note to her aunts.
He paid the fee and a brown-haired young woman introduced herself as the tour guide for their group, which included Zack, Jilly, and a family of three with a cranky baby. As the guide led them across the verandah she spoke above the baby's cries.
"Most of the furniture in the house fits the Civil War era."
Zack was amazed that such loud screams burst from such small lungs.
As they moved forward, Jilly filled in what history he missed during shrieks from the unhappy infant. “Creole are either French, Spanish, West-African, or native Indian.” The wisp of her breath near his ear made him lose interest in the tour fast. He didn't much care what Jilly said as long as she said it in that breathy tone. “At one time the Creole segregated themselves from the Anglo-American, or as some like to say,” Jilly whispered, “Amerikan, with a harsh k sound.” He liked the rush of that k against his eardrum. A few other body parts would like it a whole lot better.
"I take it Creoles didn't care for us interlopers.” He lowered his voice, keeping the conversation going and Jilly close to him.
"For the longest time, we kept our Creole culture to ourselves.” She patted his hand. “But we've softened over the generations."
"I'm glad.” He grabbed hold of her small, warm, capable hand and held it. His pulse picked up.
Regardless how much his body craved her, he wasn't about to dive in with his eyes closed to find out the water was shallow. He'd done that once. Kerrie, his one-time sweetheart and Big Al's part-time bookkeeper, with her eye on the family's dollar figure, had pulled the plug on Zack when he'd told her Bigatowsky Construction was going to be minus one son someday. Afterward, she'd even tried hitting on his brother Stan.
"Laura's sugar cane plantation was run by women for eighty-four years and prospered,” the guide recited between the hiccoughs of the still squirming baby.
"A prosperous woman in her own right.” Zack winked at Jilly. “That's a welcome change."
"You've been traveling with the wrong type of woman I suspect.” Jilly smiled into his eyes and expectation heated his blood.
He missed what the guide said next, but Jilly didn't. He suspected she'd taken the tour before. “Unlike Amerikans, Creole women kept social activities and splendor to their winter homes in New Orleans."
"You really know your history.” Tell me more, lower and slower, and over again, his body screamed.
He hadn't felt this infatuated since he was sixteen and on his first date. He'd taken Mindy, a size 36B cheerleader, for a ride in his brother Stan's Impala. The date ended in a no-win drag race against his cousin Bob's Chevy El Camino and a kiss-off from Mindy, the 36B cheerleader, who preferred winners.
Jilly tugged his hand to move him along. The baby's whimpers grew louder again. “Men and women had their own sections of the house,” the tour guide said, showing them into the women's quarters.
"I don't go for that idea,” Zack said near Jilly's ear, hoping for a long, whispery explanation from her.
Instead the guide picked up the pace to ward off the baby's growing whines. “Visitors were invited into a woman's bedroom for conversation and perhaps a bourbon before dinner."
"Drinks in the bedroom. Now that I can live with.” Would Jilly go for the idea of a drink and a chat in his hotel room?
"Not in my aunts’ world,” she said.
That dashed the idea to heck, but he gave it one more shot. “I wasn't thinking about your aunts, but their niece."
She didn't seem at all offended if he read her blinking lashes right.
The guide paraded them into the dining area. “Males and females joined together in the dining room for meals. Those two doors exit the room.” The flustered young woman pointed to the far wall. “The narrow door is for the men and the wider one is for the women to accommodate their hoop skirts."
The baby howled and the family exited by way of the nearest door, which happened to be the men's.
With a sigh, the guide leveled her voice. “Rumor has it that the legend of Br'er Rabbit began here. You're invited to visit the outbuildings on your own.” The girl sounded relieved.
Hand-in-hand, he and Jilly strolled the grounds. He'd lost interest in the plantation long ago. Her soft hand in his and tight body alongside him had his pulse thumping like Br'er Rabbit with an itch.
Jilly in her shorts, guiding him around was something to see. Long limbed, graceful. Her shiny coral toenails peeking out from her sandals, daring him to suck each toe.
Feeling the rhythm and sway of her hips, he glanced back at her small, tight butt. Yeah, that swayed, too.
"Lose something?” she asked, looking backward.
"Not yet,” he mumbled. His mind for now and maybe his heart later on. Once he got to know her better, he'd find out if she was everything his heart needed her to be. Not to leave out his libido. His libido wanted plenty, too.
They moved past the last cabin and a rusty, iron syrup kettle. She stopped near the field to sample a cane stalk. The sugarcane couldn't compete with Jilly's mouth for sweetness. The way her
white teeth chewed and her pink tongue flicked put his glucose into overdrive. Her mouth looked so edible, so kissable, so lickable. His testosterone moved right into passing gear.
As he leaned in to kiss her, the parents and the howling baby trotted up, stopping next to them to adjust the child's blankie. Their word, not his.
"Time for the next plantation,” he said, edging her toward the convertible. He held the door open, and couldn't help taking one last sweet glance at those long, graceful legs as she hopped in.
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Chapter Eight
"After the trees, make a left and follow the road to the Oak Alley Plantation parking lot.” Jilly held her blonde hair away from her eyes as the wind whipped over the convertible.
Zack slowed the Saab down to watch for the turn and to better admire his passenger. Not only was Jilly pretty to look at, but a good sport. She didn't mind that her hair had gotten messed riding with the top down.
Actually, she looked kind of bed-mussed and sexy. Her enticing lips looked like they were in need of a good kissing, and he'd gotten pretty close to finding out, if it hadn't been for the mood-killing, wailing baby at the last plantation.
"Jilly, what trees?” He braked to a crawl. “There are trees everywhere along this road."
"Not like Oak Alley's,” she said. “They form a canopy or alley that stretches from the mansion down to the Mississippi."
He watched her mouth as she spoke, aching to taste those knowledgeable, lush lips. Looking away, he sighted the quarter-mile rows of moss-draped, giant oaks leading to the mansion. With no traffic behind him, he rolled the convertible to a stop.
He whistled. “This is a lot more like Tara than the last place."
Jilly pointed toward the antebellum house. “The pale pink columns against the white frame remind me of a blushing bride."
With the auntly propriety she'd grown up around, he figured her for a traditional bride. If she could endure the slow wedding march. He pictured her rushing down the aisle, batting those blue eyes at him every step of the way.
At him? Whoa, talk about rushing. He was jumping way ahead here. First, the tour, and later...he'd see.
He intended to know her hopes and dreams before he got in over his head. He liked her too much already. Her laughter, her caring nature, her loyalty to her aunts—
A few honks from a car horn blasted him back to where he was—in the middle of the highway.
"That brought us out of the past fast,” she said as he stepped on the gas and swerved into the parking area.
She'd been imagining the past while he'd been thinking about the future. His eager heart gave a dull thud.
"I forgot about the picnic area,” she said when they got out of the car. “We could've packed a lunch."
In a grassy glade nearby, wooden tables scattered the grove. Jilly in the grass was a picnic that needed no food. Visions of her creamy-skinned body sighing beneath him on the green-covered earth tightened his groin.
The image needed a detour. He'd better concentrate on his architectural surroundings instead of Jilly's structure for now.
Once he purchased tickets, he kept his eyes off her long-legged figure and onto the Doric columns supporting the Greek Revival mansion and the verandah that surrounded the house protecting it from sun and rain.
A tour hostess dressed in a ruffled, hoop skirt approached and helped him stick to constructive details. “The walls are sixteen inches thick and the bricks were baked on the premises."
He thanked her for the information. Inside were polished floors, period furniture, and high ceilings glittering with crystal chandeliers.
When he and Jilly made their way upstairs, his mind took a detour in the bedrooms. There were rolling-pin beds to refluff the moss-stuffed mattresses. A master's four-poster with carved pineapples.
"Interesting beds,” he mumbled. Amongst the hospitable master bed and the nearness of Jilly, architecture got blanked from his mind, fast.
Jilly flashed him a smile, and his pulse quickened. That was before they moved into the mistress's bedroom.
After pointing out the feminine, silken-draped bed, a hostess pointed out a gris-gris in the dresser drawer.
"What kind of a doll is a gree-gree?” he asked, leading Jilly out onto the balcony, away from the tempting bed yet closer to ending the tour.
"In the Voodoo religion, a gris-gris is a charm to protect the owner against evil."
"You're charming and a doll.” He trailed a finger down her arm. Her skin felt soft and warm beneath his touch, and ever so tempting.
"And what spell are you in danger of falling under?” She blinked her blue eyes.
Hers. He was tottering for now but ready to topple any minute.
"You can never be too careful,” he said, reining himself in.
"Or too rich, or too thin. Isn't that how the saying goes?” The scent of magnolia and a slight rustle from Spanish moss drifted up from the river breeze, and she leaned over the railing of the balcony. “Aren't the gardens breathtaking?"
"Yeah.” He placed his hand around her waist to keep her from jackknifing into the well-manicured shrubbery below.
With his hand resting on her hip, they completed a circuit around the balcony. “Ready to go to lunch?” she asked.
"Anytime you are.” He liked spending time with her away from the aunts’ house and their prying eyes and ears, listening to Jilly's voice directed solely at him while discovering her point of view on the local surroundings and history. He craved to kiss her and hold her. He had a feeling she fit him to a carpenter's T.
As they exited the mansion, another hoop-skirted hostess asked, “Are either of you film buffs?"
They both nodded.
He tucked away that piece of information for a possible movie date.
"Here's a piece of trivia you may enjoy. Oak Alley was the setting for the movie, Interview with a Vampire."
Jilly shook her head. “I haven't seen it. I don't get to watch as many shows as I'd like."
He guessed not with her hectic schedule.
The hostess ushered them outside. “Don't forget, no visit to a Southern plantation is complete without a mint julep."
Sure enough a drink table was set up near a gift table on the verandah.
"Having been born and raised in the South, I hate to admit that I've never tasted one,” Jilly said.
"Well, now, y'all had better let this Northerner remedy that, Ms. Jilly,” he drawled in his best Rhett Butler accent.
He ordered her a drink but passed on having one himself. Once served, they sat on a bench while she sipped the minty, sixteen-ounce drink. A frisky squirrel begged bits of praline from the visitors mulling about the verandah while a swallow chirped in a distant tree. As sunlight flickered through the branches above their heads, she asked, “How do you like the South?"
"Okay, so far.” He leaned in closer to her. Today she didn't smell of vanilla, but flowers and sunshine. Glistening wisps of blonde hair framed her face, and her eyes twinkled. When she laughed at the scrappy squirrel, a dimple crinkled her left cheek. Cute, real cute.
She sipped from her straw and her lips puckered. Cute, too.
"What have you enjoyed the most?” She relaxed against the seat, and he stretched his arm along the back of the bench, letting his fingers toy with the strap of her tank top.
"Shrimp Creole and Southern belles.” One dimpled belle in particular.
"In that order?” A laugh spilled from her pouty, still-in-need-of-kissing lips.
"The belles are leading the shrimp by a nose.” A strand of golden hair drifted to her shoulder and distracted his fingers. Her hair felt silky soft like her laughter.
With a noisy slurp, she sipped the last of her drink and giggled. “I didn't know shrimp had noses."
He touched his finger to hers. “That's why the belles are winning.” Taking the plastic cup from her, he asked, “Another?” She must've been thirsty. She'd downed the drink quickly.
She shook her head, tossing her blonde hair about.
The vision left him speechless.
He stood to throw away her disposable cup, and with a laugh she picked his pocket. “Oh, good. You have an Oak Alley pamphlet."
He had a pamphlet.
She flicked through the colorful brochure. “Overnight accommodations are available in Creole cottages.” She poked the paper and giggled again. “Number three is a honeymoon cottage and sleeps five people. Isn't that's odd?"
What was odd was Jilly's sudden giggly behavior.
"I'll be right back.” At the drink table, he chucked her cup into a trash bin and asked, “What's in a julep?"
"Three parts of bourbon and one part of mint syrup made from our own sugar cane.” The woman behind the table nodded with pride toward the fields.
The drink contained twelve ounces of bourbon, no wonder Jilly was suddenly running amok at the mouth.
When he returned and sat, she rested her head on his shoulder. The drink had slowed her down, except for her lips. “Each cottage is decorated quaintly,” she read from the page again. “Some offer brass beds, some rice-carved beds, and several have claw-footed bathtubs. How romantic."
Just when she ran out of pamphlet and he thought he'd get a word in, she sucked in a breath and started in about remodeling her bedroom, which he gathered wasn't quaint or romantic.
Around the third mention of wicker, she stopped for a breath and he jumped in, quick. “Have you eaten today?"
"No, I didn't. I only had a few hours of sleep because my alarm went off early and Aunt Adele—"
"It's way past lunch,” he interrupted before she gave him a rundown on the breakfast menu she hadn't eaten. Her lack of sleep, food, and the large quantity of bourbon explained her quick reaction to the alcohol.
Helping her to her feet, he led her by the elbow toward a restaurant housed in a nearby Creole cottage. He kissed off his earlier notions of intimacy. She had one heck of a talker on.
Jilly ordered a bag of potato chips and a muffaletta made with salami, ham, cheese, and olive mix on a large, round roll. Zack's stomach did a flip, but he ordered the same.