She got out of the air-cooled car and walked the short distance to her own house. It wasn’t until she had opened the door and latched the screen behind her that she felt a wave of sadness move her to tears. Rebecca talking about her philandering husband had dredged up the scene with Kendall and the other man.
At least Rebecca had experienced what it felt like to be a wife and mother, unlike her, who doubted whether she would ever marry or have a baby. The thought that Kendall preferred a man to her elicited a momentary panic that gnawed at her confidence. For the first time in years, she questioned her femininity.
She might have had some answers for Rebecca, but none for herself. Perhaps, as it would for her neighbor, the summer on McKinnon Island would yield what she was looking for.
Fifteen
The soil you see is not ordinary soil—it is the dust of the blood, the flesh and bones our ancestors.
—Shes-his Reno Crow (late nineteenth century)
“It’s a plantation,” Rebecca gasped, staring at the house coming into view. The grand structure, framed by ancient cypress trees, wing pavilions, a Greek Revival façade and a Regency-style entrance topped by an octagonal cupola gave the structure a wedding cake appearance.
Hope took a quick glance at Rebecca’s gaping mouth. “It was a plantation. In fact, it was the largest cotton-producing plantation on McKinnon. I’ll stop there, because Janie will tell you her family’s history.”
Janie Saunders-Smith was waiting for them as they alighted the car. Smiling, she said, “Welcome back, Hope.” She nodded to Rebecca. “Please come in out of the heat.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t stay, Janie. But I’ll come back later to pick up Rebecca.” Hope made the introductions as the two women shook hands.
Janie’s smile widened. “That’s all right. Either Thomas or I will drive her back.”
“Thanks, Janie.”
Hope was grateful for the offer because she wanted to get back to her writing. She had gotten up early and gone for a walk along the beach before returning to the house to outline the information she wanted in each section, stopping only when Rebecca had rung rang the bell to let her know she was ready to meet Janie.
Rebecca followed Janie into the spacious entryway and felt as if she had stepped back in time. Squares of black and white marble flooring set the stage for twin curving staircases leading to the second floor. A towering grandfather clock softly chimed the hour. It was one o’clock.
“Your home is beautiful, Mrs. Smith.”
Janie wagged a finger. “None of that ‘Mrs. Smith’ business around here. I’m Janie, and I hope you will permit me to call you Rebecca.”
Rebecca flashed a dimpled smile. “But of course.”
“You’re in luck, Rebecca, because not only will you get a crash course in weaving baskets, but also a history lesson. My brother-in-law arrived yesterday. Ezra has been contracted by the University of Arkansas Press to write a book chronicling South Carolina Gullahs and Georgia Geechees and their African heritage. McKinnon is his last stop on what has become a two-year, twelve-island field trip.”
“This is incredible. I have a degree in American history, yet I know nothing about the people of the Sea Islands.”
“What is it you’d like to know?” asked a deep voice behind them.
Rebecca turned to find a tall, solidly built, middle-aged man with graying, straight blond hair, dressed in a pair of khaki shorts, matching shirt, work boots and thick cotton socks. Despite the light-colored hair, his skin was as dark as hers. He smiled, and minute lines fanned out around his dark eyes.
“Everything about the Gullahs.”
Ezra Smith’s smile faded, and he angled his head. “New England?”
It was Rebecca’s turn to smile. “Massachusetts.”
Janie watched the friendly interchange. “Rebecca, this is my brother-in-law Ezra Smith, professor emeritus of history at the University of Arkansas, Fayetteville. Ezra, Rebecca Owens.”
Ezra closed the distance between them. “My pleasure, Ms. Owens.”
“If you insist on calling me Ms. Owens, then I must address you as Professor Smith.”
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, Ezra shook his head. “Please don’t.”
Rebecca decided she liked Janie and Ezra. Both were friendly and down-to-earth. She was startled that she and Janie looked enough alike to be related. Ezra’s sister-in-law was petite, honey-gold complexioned, with light brown curly hair and dark gray eyes.
“Do you also teach, Rebecca?” Janie asked.
“I used to, but that was a long time ago.”
“What are you doing now?” Ezra asked.
“Vacationing.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
Janie smiled tentatively. “Please, let’s retire to the sun parlor, where we can talk about what it is you want to do while vacationing on McKinnon.”
“Madam.” Ezra extended his arm to Rebecca, who placed her hand in the crook of his arm. He leaned down from his impressive height. “You must tell me about Massachusetts. I was there once, but only for a day when I was a commencement speaker at a Boston high school.”
She smiled up at him. “I was raised north of Boston. I’m from Lowell.”
“Ahh-hh! Lowell represents the rise of New England’s cotton and textile mills, and its fall, culminating with a major strike in 1912.”
Rebecca was impressed. Ezra Smith knew his history. “I’m certain you know that the workers went out on strike because they felt they were being exploited. The introduction of child labor laws doomed the mills in the North.”
Ezra patted the tiny hand in the crook of his arm. “Wasn’t Jack Kerouac born in Lowell?”
“Like right, man,” Rebecca crooned, intimating those from Kerouac’s Beat generation.
Janie smiled over her shoulder. “It looks as if you two are going to get along quite well.”
Her hostess’s statement was prophetic, because Rebecca lost track of time as she spent the afternoon with the Smiths. Thomas, a younger, slimmer version of Ezra, fired up an outdoor grill, cooking steaks, corn, and skewered vegetables to perfection.
After waiting more than an hour for their food to settle, Janie took Rebecca on a tour of the historic late-eighteenth-century house. Differing sizes and shapes of sweetgrass baskets sat on tables and shelves in the large, brick-walled kitchen. Rebecca followed Janie up the curving staircase.
“I’m a direct descendant of the family who once owned this house, this land, and the people who planted and picked the Sea Island cotton that made them wealthy.” At the top of the stairs, Janie turned and stared directly at Rebecca. “Now, I own it. I worked year-round for twenty years to save enough money to restore the house and grounds, and as soon as Thomas and I finish restoring the outbuildings, we’re going to offer tours to school groups from the mainland. Much has been written on the Sea Islands of South Carolina and Georgia, particularly concerning pre-Civil War plantation life and Sea Island cotton. However, there is little in the literature about our people.”
Rebecca trailed her fingertips over the smooth surface of an ornately carved mahogany side table in one of the bedrooms. “Won’t that change with Ezra’s research?”
Janie smiled. “We’re hoping it will.”
“Is your husband also Gullah?”
“Heavens no. Thomas and Ezra are from Osceola, Tennessee. It’s right on the Mississippi, and if they crossed the river, they’d be in Arkansas. Their daddy was a white circuit judge who couldn’t keep his hands off their black mama. They lived apart, because in those days she couldn’t live openly with him as his common-law wife because of his position. The miscegenation laws changed, and eventually they married, but only when the judge lay dying. Ezra and Thomas were his only heirs, so when their mother died, they inherited everything.”
“Better late than never,” Rebecca whispered.
Janie nodded, smiling. “You can say that again. We used Thomas’s share of his inheritance to purchase the
house.”
“What about the furnishings?”
“A lot of pieces had been bought by a consortium of Charleston antique dealers, and it took me almost a year to negotiate an amount that wouldn’t bankrupt me to buy them back.”
Rebecca walked into the master bedroom, awed by the carvings on a massive four-poster bed. “Other than language, how are the Gullahs different from African-Americans in other parts of the country?”
Janie sat on a maroon brocade settee at the foot of the bed, patting the seat beside her. “Please, sit down, Rebecca.” Waiting until her guest sat, she continued. “The words Gullah and Geechee are interchangeable. The Gullahs are from the South Carolina Sea Islands, Geechees from the Georgia Sea Islands. What makes them unique is that they are more African in their language, folklore, agriculture, and family structure than African-Americans from other regions.
“The Sea Island culture is the matrix of the African-American family, because Sea Island extended families have retained many features which reflect the African heritage, as well as the adjustments made to the slavery experience.”
“Are you saying they have customs which are reminiscent of the various countries in Africa from which they came?”
“Yes. Like their ancestors, the blacks of the Sea Islands look at abnormalities of birth as prognosticators of the future. Probably the most widespread belief is a baby born in a caul will be gifted with the ability to see ‘ghosses’ and ‘ha’nts.’”
“Caul?”
Janie smiled. “It’s a membrane. A lot of people call it a veil. The belief that a baby born in a caul is a sign of luck or wisdom, because of their ability to see everything or discern the spirit.” Rebecca gave Janie a look that spoke volumes. She did not believe her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Rebecca lowered her head. “Not really.”
“I was born in a caul.” Janie watched the other woman’s head snap up. “And I know why you’re here. You don’t want to learn to weave baskets. You’ve come to McKinnon Island to find out who you are. There is also an older woman with whom you are at odds.” Janie lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps your mother-in-law? You try too hard to fit in, to become what she would like you to be.”
Rebecca’s heart lurched. She felt hot, then cold. Her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t stop them. Had Hope told Janie about her? Or was she that transparent? She closed her eyes for several seconds, then opened them.
“How did you know?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
Janie smiled. “I told you, I was born in a caul.” She stood up. “Come. I’ll show you the rest of the house before we go back downstairs. Ezra will tell you how Gullahs name their children, folk beliefs concerning childbirth and the significance of midwives, Christmas Eve Watch on Johns Island, the role of women in family life as mothers and wives, sisters, and grandmothers. And, of course basketry and quilting.” She peered closely at her. “Are you all right?”
Rebecca folded her arms under her breasts to conceal her trembling fingers. She could not believe Janie knew her better than she knew herself. “Now, you know I’m not going to answer that.”
“Don’t faint on me, Rebecca.”
Her eyes widened. “You just read me, and you don’t think I should be freaking out?”
“No.” The single word was emphatic. “All you have to do is follow your instincts, and you will live a long and happy life.”
“What instincts?”
“They brought you to McKinnon Island, didn’t they?”
A smile found its way through Rebecca’s expression of uncertainty. “Hey, you’re right about that. I’m ready for my history lesson.”
“Lessons,” Janie corrected. “It will take Ezra more than a few hours to cover more than four hundred years of Sea Island history.”
“Do you think he would be opposed to my accompanying him on his field trips? I could act as his assistant.”
Janie shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
Excitement fired the gold in Rebecca’s eyes. Her confidence returned as her defenses began to subside. “I will.”
Sixteen
The long waves glide in through the afternoon while we watch from the island.
—W. S. Merwin
Hope filled a large plastic rectangular container with two-dozen sliced shortcakes, topped them with dollops of whipped cream, then strawberries with their juice. She placed the matching shortcake halves on top, covered the container, and placed it on a shelf in the refrigerator.
Glancing at her watch, she noted she had half an hour to spare. It was enough time to take another shower and change her clothes.
She was looking forward to sharing dinner with Theo and his family. Her initial impression of him had changed dramatically after their dinner at The Fish Net. She’d found him relaxed, and at times he’d exhibited a wicked sense of humor. His interaction with Noelle was attentive and gentle, and there was no doubting his deep affection for his sister.
I like him. Hope smiled as she undressed and covered her hair with a plastic cap. She was still smiling as she stepped into the shower stall and closed the door.
Theo pulled into the driveway and shifted into Park behind a midsize car with New York plates. Opening the door to the SUV, he stepped out, leaving the engine running to keep the vehicle cool. The eighty-five-degree early-morning temperature had climbed steadily, reaching ninety-four by two o’clock. Sand grated under his rubber soles as he mounted the porch to the gleaming white house shaded by palm and palmetto trees.
Hope’s house was much smaller than the one where he was spending the summer, yet it had a charming quality missing in Jeff’s vacation home. Peering through the screen on the door, he pulled the cord attached to the clapper of a cowbell. He smiled. The bell was quaint and functional.
“Come in, the door’s unlatched.” Hope’s voice came from somewhere inside.
Theo pushed open the screen door and stepped into a small space leading into a living room. White sheers swayed in the ocean breeze coming through the screen-covered windows. An overstuffed sofa in chartreuse complemented two facing wing chairs with matching footstools that were covered in a sunny yellow-and-green floral chintz print. Beyond the living room was a dining room with a long rectangular table seating eight. The table and chairs were made of mahogany.
“Good afternoon, Theo.”
The sound of Hope’s voice caught Theo’s attention, and he turned slowly. “Good afternoon.”
Hope wore a sand-beige linen tank dress that flared out around her calves. A pair of mules in the same fabric matched the dress. Instead of her usual ponytail hairdo, she had pulled her hair off her face and secured it in a chignon on the nape of her neck.
“I’ll be with you in a minute. I have to get the dessert from the refrigerator.”
Theo followed her. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
“I was raised never to come to someone’s house empty-handed. Maybe it is not the norm in California, but it’s a Southern thing,” she added.
He frowned, his eyes level under drawn brows. “What makes you think I don’t have Southern roots?”
“Do you?”
He took two long strides, bringing them only inches apart. His dark eyes moved slowly over her face. “What do you think?”
Hope found it hard to draw a normal breath with him so close. She felt the whisper of his breath over her forehead, the heat from his body, and the sensual scent of his cologne. He looked good, smelled wonderful, and there was no doubt he was all male. He was dressed in white again—this time white linen shorts and shirt. The darker color of his upper body was clearly visible through the finely woven fabric of the shirt. He had replaced his sandals with a pair of white deck shoes. There was a subtle virility about Theo that radiated from him like a powerful beam of light coming from a lighthouse.
“I don’t know, Theo. You tell me.”
He nodded, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. �
��I do.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Where?”
“Beaufort and Edisto Island, South Carolina.”
Her smile was dazzling. “Don’t tell me you have some Gullah blood flowing through your veins.”
“Some.” His smile was mysterious.
“How did a Gullah end up in La-La Land?”
Winking at her, he said, “I’ll tell you later.”
Hope opened the refrigerator door and took out the container with the strawberry shortcakes. Theo took it from her.
“What’s in here?”
“Homemade strawberry shortcake, compliments of my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Hot damn! You made my favorite.” Curving an arm around Hope’s waist, he lowered his head and kissed her forehead.
There was nothing sexual in his kiss or embrace, but that did not stop her body from reacting. Her breathing quickened.
“We’d better get going, because it’s too hot to leave it out for very long.”
Theo dropped his arm, unable to believe he had been so impulsive as to hug and kiss Hope. After he’d done it, he realized he wanted to do more.
Theo waited for Hope to lock the front door, then he escorted her to the Lexus, helping her up onto the passenger seat before he placed the plastic container in the cargo area. He maneuvered up the hill and drove around to the side of his house, parking under the carport.
Theo cut off the engine, then turned his head slowly to meet Hope’s light brown eyes. There was something about her eyes that reminded him of a cat’s-eye marble. “Are you ready to meet the Andersons?”
Lessons of a Lowcountry Summer Page 12