Boyd was not as tall as Johnny but was a few decades older, and he sported at least an extra fifty pounds. Being sheriff did not pay much, but he found ways to skim extra benefits to add to his meager income.
Boyd hoisted his belt over his belly and tucked in the shirt. After looking from left to right, he crossed the street toward the truck.
“Why don’t you go inside the store and give Mr. Sullivan his delivery?” Johnny said. “Have a look at the magazines.”
“I saw all the covers two weeks ago. They can’t have changed. And seeing as I can’t touch, I’ll have no way of seeing inside the pages.”
Johnny clutched the jars close. “Sadie, go inside. No good will come of you mixing with Boyd.”
“I can be nice,” Sadie countered.
“No, you can’t. Go on inside.”
Sadie smoothed the folds of her coveralls, which were a castoff from the church bin. Though they were older, age made the fabric soft, and they felt good against her skin. Last year the coveralls had hung on her slim frame, but these days her hips and breasts had filled in the empty spaces nicely. One day she hoped to find a dress in the bin and wear it into Charlottesville or Roanoke to see a picture show.
“I want to stay with you, Johnny,” she said.
“Do as I say, Sadie.” Johnny’s tone was a blend of fatigue and worry. “One thing for us to fight at home, but not now.” He was whispering, but his gaze was locked on Sheriff Boyd.
Sheriff Boyd had arrested their brother, Danny, for driving shine and had locked him up. The judge had given Danny a choice. Three years in jail or the army. Seeing as the food was better in the army, Danny had taken that route. Sadie knew deep down Danny was glad for the excuse to leave Bluestone.
“Get!” Johnny ordered. “I’ll bring in the crate of jars.”
Frowning, she balled her fingers into fists. “I’ll be watching from the window.”
Johnny was grinning. “Good to see you, Sheriff Boyd.”
Sadie glanced back and caught Boyd’s gaze darkening as he studied her. Raising her chin to prove she was brave, she then stepped into the store. Bells jingled over her head, obscuring Boyd’s comment to Johnny.
She watched out the front window as her brother extended his hand to Boyd, and they shook. Johnny had a practical side that allowed him to smile when he was angry.
“What are you gawking at?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
Sadie turned slowly from the window decorated with the fake presents. Mr. Sullivan was a tall man with broad shoulders, but his frame had softened in his older age, with shoulders now hunched forward. He slicked back his salt-and-pepper hair with oil and parted it in the middle in a way that reminded her of a cartoon character.
“I’m not gawking,” she countered.
“You’ve always got your nose in someone else’s business.”
“My brother is my business.”
Even the store’s rich scents of spices and perfumes and the collection of bright labels on the tin cans did not distract her as she turned back toward the window. Boyd lifted a mason jar full of clear liquid and inspected it. He said something to Johnny that deepened that frown. Finally, Johnny nodded and handed over a third jar.
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Her brother had barely slept in the last two days, working on this latest batch in the evenings after tending the livestock and working extra hours in the McKenzies’ gardens.
Finally, Boyd walked back to his office, carrying his three jars. He glanced back toward the store, as if he was looking for her. When his gaze locked on hers, a smug smile tipped the edge of his lips before he turned and vanished inside.
“Thief,” she muttered.
“Does Johnny have my delivery?” Mr. Sullivan asked.
“Yes, sir,” Sadie said. “Johnny’s bringing in the honeysuckle flavor you like. Johnny made this batch with an extra kick, so be mindful.”
Mr. Sullivan glanced out the window as Johnny strode toward the store with the crate. “Remember, Mrs. Sullivan and my daughter, Ruth, don’t need to know about this arrangement.”
“Yes, sir. They won’t hear a word from me. I don’t suppose I can have a look inside the November Life magazine with Gene Tierney on the cover. It’ll keep my mind occupied and my mouth closed.”
He regarded her a moment and then pushed the magazine toward her. “Be careful with the pages. I can’t sell it if you mangle it.”
“I’ll be so gentle you won’t know I ever looked at it.” She tugged off her knit gloves and shoved them in her pocket.
As Gene Tierney stared off into the distance, her dark hair framed her serene face and tumbled over a dark V-necked dress. She wore a two-toned gossamer veil that draped over pale, slim shoulders. The ocean was behind her, and it looked like a gentle breeze was caressing her face.
Sadie had never been to the beach, but she had heard the air tasted like salt, and the water crashed on the shore all day and night. She was saving up her money and as of now had one dollar and ten cents. When she had enough, she was going to go to the beach just like Gene Tierney. That was, after she went to the picture show in Charlottesville.
She turned past the table of contents. She was fixing to go straight to the article on Miss Gene but stopped when she saw the headline Shooting War. President Roosevelt said that American ships had been damaged and sunk. More than 2,300 killed. He said America was all but at war with Japan and Germany. She thought about Danny. He had quit school in the fifth grade and did not write well, which was why she supposed he had not written in the last year.
The bells jingled in time to the clink of glass jars knocking against each other. She turned to see Johnny striding through the door. He set the crate of jars on the counter.
“Morning, Mr. Sullivan,” he said to the shopkeeper. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Can’t complain, Johnny.” Mr. Sullivan’s gaze lost its sour expression as he stared at the mason jars.
“Thank you for the order, sir.”
“Always brightens my holidays when the wife’s mother comes to visit. I’ll credit your account two dollars.”
“I appreciate that.”
Mr. Sullivan lifted a jar and let the clear liquid catch the light before placing it back in the crate. “That’s mighty nice.”
Sadie quickly turned the page, knowing if Johnny saw the war pictures, he would be worried. He was already fired up about the Japanese, and the news in Europe would make it all the worse.
She flipped to a page featuring the actress Rosalind Russell on her wedding day. She was marrying a fellow by the name of Frederick Brisson. Sadie had no idea who the groom was, but she recognized Cary Grant and Loretta Young, who were standing beside the couple. They were all smiling.
“Would you be interested in five more jars?” Johnny asked. “I made extra this year.”
“I can’t give you any more credit than I already have,” Mr. Sullivan said. “The missus will notice if I toy with the books too much.”
“I was thinking you might like to sell these. We’ll split the profits fifty-fifty.”
Mr. Sullivan peered inside the crate. “Taking a bit for myself is one thing, but selling is another. Boyd will have something to say about that.”
“I’ve given him extra, so he’ll look the other way for a few days. It’s the holidays, so there’ll be some looking for a little nip.”
Sullivan regarded the jars. He was smart enough to recognize that folks were looking for a little extra nip these days. He held out his hand. “It’s a deal, Johnny. Come see me in a few days to collect your half.”
Johnny shook his hand. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Sullivan arranged the jars off to the side so that they could not be seen from the street window but would be noticed by his patrons who knew where to look.
Johnny fished a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket and squinted at the dark scrawl that passed for handwriting. “Mama is going to need three bags of flour, a can of lard, and salt.”<
br />
“That’s all?”
“For this time.”
The shopkeeper looked over at Sadie. “Go easy on those pages, Sadie Thompson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you heard any more news about the war?” Johnny asked. “I heard that the National Guard has stepped up their drills. They’re likely to get called up any day.”
“Don’t be in a rush,” Mr. Sullivan said. “I was in France in 1918.”
“But we won,” Johnny said.
Mr. Sullivan slowly stacked the bags on the counter. “Nobody won, Johnny.”
“You make it sound like you lost, Mr. Sullivan,” Sadie said.
“It was bloody, Sadie. And war’s never as easy to win as the politicians want us to believe,” Mr. Sullivan said softly.
“Couldn’t be hard to shoot a gun,” Johnny said. “I been shooting squirrels since I was eight.”
“Never easy to shoot a man, Johnny.”
As their conversation drifted to the cost of grain and crops, Sadie stared at Gene Tierney’s soft curls and her dark eyes and full lashes. The photograph was in black and white, but she would bet her fingernails were painted a pretty shade of red.
“That reminds me,” Mr. Sullivan said. “The Carters are having a party tonight, and Dr. Carter said if I saw you for me to ask you to stop by Woodmont. They are celebrating the young Mr. Edward’s wedding to his new bride. It’s going to be a big shindig.”
“And they said they wanted my moonshine?” Johnny asked.
“He asked for you specifically. Might want to take extra. I’m guessing young Dr. Carter will be in a buying mood.” He stacked a jar of lard on the flour.
“I’ll do that,” Johnny said.
Sadie nudged Johnny. “Mama is having a big dinner tonight. She’s been curing a ham for weeks.”
“Dinner will keep,” Johnny said. “We can’t afford to turn down the money. Especially now.”
“Why now?” Sadie asked.
The worry lines on Johnny’s face deepened. “No telling what’ll happen.”
Sadie closed the magazine. “The war already has Danny. In my book that means the Thompsons have gave enough.”
Johnny shook his head. “It don’t work that way, Sadie.”
CHAPTER SIX
LIBBY
Monday, June 8, 2020
The Woodmont Estate
Colton’s truck rumbled and swayed as the tires rolled down a dirt road filled with weeds. The road, like the greenhouse, had been left alone for three decades, and the woods had reclaimed a good bit of it. Though it appeared freshly graded, it would take a few more passes before the road was smooth. The woods around them were thick and mature, just as they likely had been when the first Carters had made their mark on the land.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know about the greenhouse,” Libby said, lifting her camera to shoot the road ahead.
“Family always wanted to keep it private.”
The Carters had a reputation for being reserved. The one time they had landed in the public eye had been in the late 1990s, when a reporter in Richmond had done a piece on Edward Carter and his involvement with the Lynchburg Training School and Hospital. According to the article, Dr. Edward Carter had helped sterilize patients considered incompetent. He maintained in the article that he had nothing to be ashamed of and that he had dedicated his life to caring for women. The article had made a small mention of his work with the poor and the thousands of safe deliveries he had made.
Libby remembered her father muttering something about Dr. Carter, but when she had asked him to repeat it, he had told her never mind.
“You grew up in Bluestone, but I don’t remember you,” Colton said.
“I went to boarding school when I was thirteen. When did you graduate from the high school?”
“In 2003,” he said.
“I would have been the class of 2007, so we’d have missed each other either way.” As the truck passed over a rut, she grabbed the handle, steadying herself as the nose of the vehicle dipped and then rocked. Colton seemed unconcerned, as if he had done this more times than he could count. “Have you been here all your life?”
“I did eleven years in the navy. I got out two years ago after my wife died. I have two young sons.”
Knowing he had lost a wife oddly made her feel more drawn to him. Life had sucker punched him just as it had her. “Were they the two boys at the wedding reception?” she asked.
“They would have been hard to miss,” he said, grinning.
“Where are they now?”
“With my mom. She helps out more than I can say.”
“And your father was the head gardener at Woodmont before you?”
“That’s right.”
“I didn’t think jobs were passed down from generation to generation in the States. That’s a very English Downton Abbey kind of thing.”
A small smile tugged his lips. “Maybe. I’m glad Elaine decided to keep the property and not parcel it off any more than she had to.”
“A lot of old places like this have high overhead and taxes. Unless you have a huge trust to support it, the only viable option is to rent the property out for business events, weddings, and parties. So how do you like being in the event business?”
“I don’t think we’re quite there yet.” He grinned, apparently not put off by the idea. She suspected he was a very pragmatic man, not fazed by taking risks when necessary. “Ginger was our trial run. She decided to get married four weeks ago and was headed to the courthouse when Elaine suggested Woodmont.”
“Four weeks is a tight turnaround for a wedding. She’s lucky she had access to the place.”
“The whole day would have been better if she had listened when I told her to rent a tent.”
“Get used to brides, grooms, and mothers of the brides not always listening. Everyone’s got their own vision of the event, and practical things like weather don’t always get factored in.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if Elaine decides to go that route. How long have you been taking pictures?”
“Five years. Started my career as an oncology nurse. But there came a point when I needed to step away.”
“You stay busy with the photography?”
“Very.”
“Good for you.”
“Work is always a good thing.”
He downshifted and slowed the truck as they rolled down a slight hill. In the distance, the woods cleared, and she caught sight of the James River. The Woodmont land was nestled beside a gentle bend at a narrow part of the river. Spring and early summer rains had left the river high and rolling quickly over its jagged rocks.
“The river is narrower there,” she said.
“The waters are normally calm. We get a lot of kayakers this time of year.”
“Looks more like white-water rafting today.”
“Yeah. There are times when it’s lethal.”
She noted his hand on the steering wheel and found her gaze drawn to his tanned fingers and neatly trimmed nails. They were sexy hands and reminded her that the last time she’d had sex, she had been trying to get pregnant with Jeremy.
“Where’d you live before coming back here?” he asked.
“Richmond. I rented an apartment in the historic district. Always been a sucker for old buildings and their stories.”
The truck nosed down a slight incline, and as soon as he turned the corner, she saw the twenty-by-forty-foot glass structure nestled in the overgrowth. “Is that a greenhouse?”
“I believe the official term is solarium or conservatory. It’s basically a greenhouse but a lot fancier.”
Octagonally shaped, the glass sides rose up to form a domed roof. The windows were covered in dirt and moss as well as thick strands of ivy, making it hard to see inside. Thick overgrowth crowded around the walls, making it look like it belonged in a B movie horror show.
“Elaine wants it restored,” he said, putting the car in park.
“N
ot an easy task.”
“This entire property has given me a run for my money. But Elaine is determined to bring Woodmont back to life.”
“She must really love it.”
With his wrist resting on the steering wheel, he stared ahead. “I suppose she does.”
“Is she coming down here?”
“She’ll be here in just a minute.”
“You’ve not been inside the greenhouse yet?”
“Main door is rusted shut. It’s basically a time capsule.”
“How long has it been closed?”
“Thirty-plus years,” he said. “No one is exactly sure.”
They climbed out of the vehicle, and she was glad to have a moment to study the greenhouse more closely. Sunlight cut across the glass, creating stunning shapes and angles. She raised the camera and started shooting. “Her grandfather built it?”
“In 1941. It was a gift to his English bride. Dr. Carter met his wife, Olivia, while he was studying at Oxford.”
“Nice gift.”
“As the story goes, they married faster than they had planned because of the war. It was during the Blitz, and London was not a safe place to be.”
“I’m assuming your grandfather helped her to stock the greenhouse.”
“I suppose.”
“Any idea about the cost to fix this place?”
“It’s not going to be cheap.”
She snapped pictures of the dome, which caught the midday sun just right.
The sound of another car engine had her lowering her camera and stiffening a little. Elaine got out of her truck, moving toward them with quick strides that reminded Libby a little of her own gait.
“What do you think?” Elaine asked.
“It’s impressive.”
Colton walked to the back of his truck and grabbed a crowbar and a small saw. “I was down here yesterday,” he said. “The door is rusted shut, so it will take a little work. Will do my best not to break anything, but no guarantees.”
“Yes, you’ve warned me before.” Beyond Elaine’s smile was an edge of impatience.
Gripping the crowbar, Colton strode toward the arched doorway, where an area had already been cleared. “Ready?”
“I delayed the big reveal until you arrived, Libby,” Elaine said. “I thought you might get a kick out of it.”
Honeysuckle Season Page 6