As the boat drew nearer, she realized it was Jackson rowing it. Beneath a ball cap pulled low against the summer sun, a faded white shirt pulled over a t-shirt bearing graphics too worn to read. The boat turned slowly on the water, rocked by the waves until he faced her only a few yards offshore.
"Want a ride?" he yelled.
The question caught her off-guard as she sat there. The stiff demeanor from the magazine shoot had vanished in this casual state, his invitation apparently sincere. He was drifting closer, giving her no excuse to pretend she didn't see him or hadn't heard him speak. After hesitating, she called back.
"Yes," she said. "I mean, a short one." It wasn't as if she didn't have things she should be doing–such as writing her book or consulting with Mathilda's team on the subject of planned photographs on the big day. Instead, she took Jackson's hand as he held it out, steadying her as she eased into the boat.
"A short one," he repeated. "Just a little tour of the shores. You haven't had a chance to get out on the water yet, I'll bet." His oars pushed further away from the docks, in the direction of the open channel.
"Is this the river?" she asked, after a moment.
"Tributary," he answered. "You go about a quarter mile down and that's the mouth of the river. This isn't as deep or as long. Just a big creek that never dries up, so to speak." The boat turned in a graceful curve, swinging in a new direction so Amy was facing a long ribbon of green visible over Jackson's shoulder, the ragged line of trees following its curves.
"It's beautiful," she said.
They drifted beneath the shade of a willow overhanging the water. Sliding to the floor of the boat, Amy found a more comfortable position propped against the back of the seat. She closed her eyes momentarily, letting the water and the steady splash of the oars lull her into a sense of comfort. That her escort might find it rude that she didn't speak occurred to her after several minutes had passed.
"I'm sorry," she said, automatically. Opening her eyes to see him gazing at her with apparent interest. Over his shoulder, something new was visible. A structure like a house sinking into the water, a rusty white balcony wrapped around its upper level.
"What's that?" she asked. He glanced back.
"My home away from home," he answered. "My houseboat. Floated pretty far down this place before I moored it. Now I wish I'd stayed closer to the river–water's too low right now to move it out."
"You live on a boat?" she said. When he told her he traveled, she had pictured something involving flight, not floating.
"I do," he answered. "For now, anyway. Moved my worldly possessions there awhile ago." He looked down at her. "You can go aboard if you like. Have a look around. A little messy, but I promise I won't do anything more friendly than offer you a little lemonade."
She should say no, she knew. There was no reason to encourage his friendliness in any form or to know anything more about him than that he possessed a green thumb and no skills as a repairman.
"I'd love to," she answered.
When the boat drifted close enough, he tied it to a ladder alongside, then climbed up, holding his hand down to take hold of her own as she stood up in the rowboat. She climbed to a deck covered in boxes and containers of bright red blossoms and sprawling green leaves hanging over the edges, a worn metal lawn chair parked in the sunniest spot.
"Wow, it's ... different," she said, not quite sure whether she liked it or not. It had a certain charm, it was true, even in its roughness. White paint peeled from the decorative metal rails, revealing rust beneath, the boards of the walls more weathered lumber than blue paint.
"It takes a little getting used to," he conceded. He bent down and popped open a small bridge plugged in on deck.
"Cold soda? Iced tea?" he asked. She wandered away from the rails to touch the walls, the circular window like a porthole.
"No thanks," she answered, with a smile. She turned to peer through the open doorway, greeted by the sight of books. Dozens and dozens, possibly hundreds, spilling from shelves.
"My library," he said, gesturing towards it with an open beverage can. "As I said before, I've got quite a bit of catching up to do. You can go down and look, if you like." He lingered in the doorway as she stepped down into the boat's main room.
A half-made bed was in the center, surrounded entirely by bookshelves from floor to ceiling. It was as if a library had tumbled into the cramped bedroom of a cruise ship, with only a few garments draped over a kitchen chair and an untidy begonia plant to break the monotony of paper and color. She bent down and lifted a paperback from a stack on the floor.
"This one is just like mine," she said, turning it over to read Margaret Mitchell's name on the cover. "This was the first copy I ever owned."
"There's some Faulkner down there, too," he answered. "A little Hemingway, a little Welty. Not many modern authors, I'm afraid." She couldn't help but notice the cover peeking out from beneath a faded denim jacket. The familiar yellow flowers from The Antebellum Heart.
"How long have you lived like this?" she asked. He had disappeared from the doorway behind her, somewhere on deck.
"For about three years," he called back. "Stayed on when I decided to do some work over at the house. Didn't make sense to move into a room at one place in need of repair when I already had another." She could sense a joking little grin must accompany these words.
She crossed the threshold to the deck again, finding the sun's light fierce after the darker walls of the roomful of books. "So what will you do when the Wild Egret's no longer a hotel?" she asked. "When it's converted into a residence or museum or whatever. Will you stay there?" She suspected a more polished staff would follow the house's renovations, with no more Mr. Fairfax and Edward.
"I don't know," he answered, fingering the surface of his can where drops of condensation slid down the metal surface. "A place like that can be quite a handful. It takes a lot of responsibility to keep it up–make it a place to be proud of. Sometimes I think it should just be a headache for the local historical society, instead of some kind of home." He took another sip.
"I think living in a place like that could make up for it," she said, gazing out on the waters. "You live in a piece of history–keep it alive for someone else to enjoy. Every time there's some tour or event, it makes a memory for somebody else that must be unforgettable."
"That's some pretty romantic talk," he answered. Taking a final sip from the can, he placed it in a bucket of similar ones, flattened amidst other recyclable bits of metal.
"It's my way to make a living, remember?" she answered, spreading her hands as if helpless with this confession. He didn't say anything in reply.
A few feet from the shore, there was a rustling noise as a bird flapped from the edge of the water to the bank. Long legs beneath white feathers, a snaky neck and bill pointed like a long sword.
"Is that a native bird?" asked Amy, who felt a slight sense of fear at the sight of something bigger than a city pigeon, an armed version of a flamingo, perhaps.
"You've never seen an egret before?" he asked. "They're out here all the time on the rivers and creeks. All kinds of 'em. Like terns and herons, just wading the shores and eating fish and little snakes." He lifted a pair of binoculars from beneath the chair and handed them to her.
"Go on," he said. She raised them hesitantly and peered through the lenses.
"It's huge," she said. "I didn't know that there were birds in America that actually grew that big." The bird spread its wings in a curve as it hopped into the water again, flapping a little before wading further down the shoreline.
He laughed. "You really haven't been out of Atlanta before, have you?" he asked.
She lowered the binoculars. "I told you I've been in the city my whole life," she answered, shoving them in his hands again. "There's not a lot of wildlife there unless you go to the zoo. Which I haven't spent much time doing, so your friend the egret–or heron or whatever–looks a little exotic after a lifetime of sparrows."
&n
bsp; "So what do you think of it?" he asked. "Think it's pretty? Scary? Worth seeing again up close?" He seemed genuinely interested in her reaction, which surprised her.
She glanced towards the bird again, its white feathers aglow in the sunlight briefly before it disappeared around the water's bend. "I think all three," she answered, after a moment. "Part of the charm of this whole place, I suppose."
When she looked at him again, she didn't trust herself to meet his eyes, avoiding them for the view of the water just over his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, during which time he stowed the binoculars away again.
"I guess I should get you back to where you belong," he said, taking hold of the rail to climb down the ladder.
She laughed. "I wish," she answered, before thinking about that statement. Belonging to a place like the mansion festooned with willows and moonlight walkways wasn't part of her destiny, but she had never before said aloud with any trace of genuine feeling that she wished it was.
He was silent in response, his hand gripping the rail. "I guess that'll be possible for you in another week, won't it?" he said, before climbing below. "If you'll give me your hand, I'll help you down, Miss Pontelle.
As they rowed back to shore, he gazed at the distant glimpse of the river beyond the tree-lined shores. "I guess I hadn't thought about your being attached to Atlanta," he said. "It's quite a city."
"Atlanta?" she repeated, with surprise. "Of course. Lots of culture, museums, smog..." She ticked off the usual list of features, wondering if he spent much time there in his travels. Was he thinking of visiting? Her skin tingled with the thought of him showing up on her doorstep, that half-humorous smile on his face as he asked her to show him the town. She shivered, then dismissed the thought swiftly.
"You've seen a lot of cities, I'm sure," she said. "I suppose they're all alike in some ways."
He nodded. "There's some places that are just different from others," he said. "I've been a lot of places, but never anywhere like here. Sort of strange, I know, but I guess some places just have a certain charm for certain people."
"That's true," she answered, her voice soft with these words. A preoccupation with this vision of Wild Egret's mansion and weeping willows ended as the boat bumped against the plantation's dock.
"Miss Pontelle," he said, holding out his hand. She realized he was helping her out of the boat; her cheeks burned with a mixture of embarrassment and eagerness as she took his hand, feeling the roughened skin gently touch her own.
"Thank you," she said. Scrambling up on the dock, she turned and watched him row away again, waving her hand to him once, until all excuses for standing there were gone.
She realized he had interpreted her words to mean she wanted to go back to Atlanta, as opposed to her room at the Wild Egret. Something she didn't realize until she was back at her desk again, staring through the window at the landscaped gardens outside and wondering if it was her imagination that he seemed a trifle disappointed by that response.
*****
An arbor of flowers stretched from the steps of the Wild Egret in a long canopy, the petals falling against the surface of the white ball gown billowing around Amy, the veil trailing majestically behind her.
Elegantly attired guests flanked the aisle, friends and acquaintances from her Atlanta life decked out in flowing gowns and floppy hats. Sophia raised a gloved hand in greeting; beside her, Amy’s mother cooled herself with a lace fan. Rows of men in blue and grey uniforms were visible behind them, swords sheathed at their sides.
The hum of the orchestra’s waltz accompanied Amy’s march to the altar, where a figure arrayed in a Confederate general’s uniform waited. Surprise darted through her at the sight of her novel’s tragic hero come to life; the strong jaw and steely gaze of Antonia’s lover suddenly as familiar as the vision swept into existence by her furiously typing fingers.
A smile cracked his stalwart features, his fingers reaching for her hand. She hesitated, her gaze returning to the sea of admirers. A gasp escaping her lips, as she found the crowd of Sothern elegance suddenly replaced by a mere handful of familiar faces.
Sophia–now sporting a plain T-shirt and jeans–gave her a sad little wave before disappearing behind a sea of hoop skirts worn by the pouty models from the photo shoot.
“Don’t slouch!” barked the voice of the photographer, his camera trained on the models instead of the bride and groom. “More pout, less boredom, ladies.” Beside him, Mathilda fanned herself with a copy Southern Elegance. Amy squinted to make out the image of herself plastered on its cover, dressed in the same white ball gown. Romance Author a Fraud! Truth Behind Best-selling Love Story! screamed the captions below.
A loud rattling sound drew Amy’s attention across the aisle, where Edward’s fragile hands balanced a tray of sweet tea in glass tumblers. As she watched, the tray began to rattle and shake, the contents sliding helplessly about. A moment later, a tumbler slid to the ground with a crash.
The orchestra stopped playing as Amy’s heart skipped a beat. Whirling round, she found her fingers firmly twined with Jackson’s stronger ones. Only this time it wasn’t the Jackson of the sweeping, historical Antebellum Heart that stared back her, but rather the muscular handyman who shared his name.
With a start, Amy awoke. The sheets clung to her despite the cooler temperatures of nighttime. The clock beside the blue willow vase read three forty-five. With a groan, she fell back against the pillows.
"So how are you feeling?" she asked Greg, shifting the phone closer to her ear as she sat on the mansion's steps. It was early to phone him, but she knew he was an early riser, preferring to chug half a pot of coffee before leaving for the university.
"A little better," he said. "My nose is still a little swollen, of course. But they said it'll come down in a couple of days. " There was a slight grumpiness in his voice, suggesting that this was one of the mornings he had chosen not to wake up early.
"I guess I won't see you for another few days, will I?" she said.
"I'll be there before the wedding, I promise," he answered. "At least, I'll be there on the wedding day. That counts, right?"
"Of course," she answered. When she hung up a few minutes later, she felt an aching disappointment she couldn't explain.
"So what do you think?" asked Mathilda Murray. She stood behind Amy in the doorway of the Magnolia Suite that morning, where the wedding dress was on display in all its glory.
There were no words emerging from Amy's lips. A billowing skirt of white satin trimmed in lace, a fitted bodice with shoulder sleeves puffing with elegant tulle. Elegant lace trailing from the cuffs, where tiny seed pearls were visible along the edges. A cloud-like veil draped across the surface like a mist gathering along the edges of a pearl-encrusted hair comb.
It was the picture of elegance. Exactly what Antonia would wear if she were marrying in the splendor of Swan's Nest in Amy's novel. Except, of course, Antonia was wandering the burned streets of southern cities in search of her wounded lover.
"Beautiful," said Amy, when the words emerged. Kay had joined them at this point.
"Let's try it on," she said. "Andre is here to shoot the photo that will be used for the article's spread, so we need to get you into costume." She shook out the dress's folds.
The horrible corset wasn't needed– it was built into this dress, as Amy learned, when the fashion coordinator helped her tug it into place. The cords pulled tight like iron bands around her ribcage, squeezing her into a bodice which even her thinnest weight had never aspired to match.
"Isn't there anything in Civil War fashion made for breathing?" she asked, with a grunt.
"This is the look," said Kay, giving the corset one final tug before zipping the dress over it. "No pain, no gain, as they say." She lifted the trail of skirts to avoid Amy stepping on them as she emerged from behind the screen.
"Oh, Amy, you look gorgeous," breathed Sophia, as Maurice and Kay applied the finishing touches of hair and makeup. The vei
l in place, they turned her towards the mirror– revealing herself in a stunning reflection almost like the dream version in her head.
No. It was her imagination projecting last night's crazy ideas. It was making her think of other things she would rather not acknowledge right at the moment, such as the ludicrous doubts which had been prodding her mind more than once. Her breath was coming in small gasps beneath the corset's squeeze, possibly shutting off oxygen to her brain.
"Amy, you look pale as death," whispered Sophia. "What's the matter? The dress is perfect, your hair looks ten times better than mine ever will–"
"It's not that," she whispered back. "It's just–it's just I don't know anymore. About any of this. It's crazy, but for the last couple of days something just isn't right–"
"What?" Sophia looked puzzled. "You don't mean you regret this, do you?" She cast a glance in the direction of the magazine staff, who were too busy consulting Andre about the setup on the grand staircase to notice the bride and maid of honor lagging behind.
What did she mean? Amy wasn't certain herself, except that this moment was far from her imagined wedding scenario. Where was the romance? The breathlessness of feeling as opposed to corsets? Her head was swimming with the thought that the closest thing she had experienced to a romantic moment was when Jackson had been kneeling before her moments after the sprinklers' mists.
"I don't know," she answered weakly, with another gasp for air. The room seemed to be spinning around her, the memory of the real-life Jackson's hazel eyes and touch becoming fused momentarily with the fictional visions of the Civil War hero. Why wasn't Greg here in the midst of this to rescue her from these thoughts?
"I think I'm making a mistake," she said, with another attempted gasp before she fell to the carpet in what her mind vaguely hoped was a graceful swoon.
*****
When she woke up, the corset's strands had been loosened enough that she could breathe again, her eyes opening to see the concerned staff surrounding her. The water splashed on her face and shoulders had come from a pitcher in Mr. Fairfax's hands, she realized. Kay was moaning about the dress's cost and the fear of water spots.
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