Uncharted Territory

by Betsy Ashton

  “No way. That would mean I’d have to take Algebra with the Wicked Witch again.” Ducks made it seem this would be a fate worse than death.

  “We all have closets full of people we don’t want to meet again,” Whip said, “like schoolyard bullies.”

  “Or ex-bosses.” Charlie added.

  “My ninth grade English teacher,” I said.

  “Mr. Ducks,” said Alex.

  As a group we pounced on him and tickled Alex half to death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Mississippi, week of October 24

  I rehearsed my pitch before I called Mrs. Sanchez to invite her and Marianna to a last-of-the-year picnic on the beach on Saturday. I wondered if she’d feel less uncomfortable in a larger group than two on two. They’d get to know my extended family and still time themselves out when we became too intense and noisy.

  After much wheedling, Mrs. Sanchez met us at the compound and rode with Emilie and me. Johnny and Ducks left an hour earlier to erect a volleyball net between two support pillars from a vanished house. I put several hampers of food and baskets of paper plates in the Rover; Charlie, Alex, and Whip had coolers of soft drinks and beer in Whip’s truck. Mrs. Sanchez insisted on bringing something sweet.

  We lucked out. The sun was strong, but the humidity had retreated. We no longer faced late summer’s blowtorch heat. I invited those workers who stayed in camp rather than go home for the weekend. Several accepted.

  While I wanted to get better acquainted with Marianna, I was afraid to ask too many questions. Having Charlie there with Emilie and Alex would help. No one could stay shy around Charlie. She put anyone at ease as quickly as I set people on edge.

  We decided the language du jour would be Spanish, since Emilie and Alex were fluent. Ducks’s plan to teach in the language paid off.

  We set up games, blankets, and food and settled in to celebrate the day. A battered pickup with a rotten muffler cruised by on the partially destroyed barrier island road. I didn’t have to look up to know who was in it. At least everyone on the beach would be safe for the afternoon and evening. I looked at the way the truck had come. A police car blocked the entrance to the beach.

  “He’s not here to protect us.” Johnny walked up behind me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “He’s here to watch what we do.”

  “Well, he’s not going to ruin our day. Neither is the gang in the pickup.”

  Charlie chased three kids into the water, which had cooled from summer’s peak and was still pleasant. We had an exuberant splashing contest with lots of belly flops and whoops from Alex on his boogie board. At first Marianna refused to go near the water, but coaxing from Emilie and Charlie’s offer to hold her hand helped overcome her fear. Ducks swam, while Johnny fussed with a volleyball net that needed no such fussing. Although he was barefoot in the sand, he didn’t even wade in the spent waves.

  I lay in one of the lounge chairs and sipped iced tea with Mrs. Sanchez. Soon, Marianna was squealing along with my two wild children in a game of chase and splash. She even tried Alex’s boogie board with limited success. Emilie and Alex flanked her and helped her get one good ride. Charlie couldn’t get her to go more than waist deep, but a shelf of sand meant you had to go far out before dropping off in deeper water. Ducks ended his swim and toweled off. He threw on a T-shirt, his swim jams doubling as shorts.

  “Your daughter’s beautiful. How old is she?”

  Mrs. Sanchez smiled. “She’s almost thirteen.”

  She didn’t look almost thirteen. When I observed her in her chaste, one-piece bathing suit, instead of the ill-fitting T-shirts or baggy dresses she wore, though, her budding breasts and lack of baby fat looked like she was well into puberty.

  “She’s very mature.”

  “I don’t want her to grow up,” Mrs. Sanchez whispered. Her eyes darted around the beach, ever vigilant against unseen danger. “Life is better if she doesn’t.”

  Of course life should be easy for a child, but it wasn’t always. Emilie and Alex had faced a murdered mother, for God’s sake. Besides, Mrs. Sanchez couldn’t hold back time, no matter how hard she wished it.

  “She’s ready for a bra.” I hadn’t seen any sign of the child wearing one the first couple of times I’d seen her.

  “No!” Mrs. Sanchez’s response was disproportionate to the reality of the situation. This child was already an A-cup, perhaps a B.

  The men fired up a charcoal grill before they played volleyball. Eventually, the children tired of the ocean. Marianna watched the volleyball game for a few minutes before she wandered back to the blankets and stood behind her mother.

  “Do you know how to play, Marianna?” I tossed her a towel from the pile.

  The child shook her head.

  “Would you like to learn?”

  Marianna nodded. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders.

  “Maybe your mother will let you come back when it’s just us girls. Charlie and I can teach you. Next time we have a picnic you can play too. Would you like that?”

  Marianna looked at her mother. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I waved Marianna to my side and toweled her hard enough to make her giggle. Her mother handed her a T-shirt.

  Marianna didn’t speak to the men, although she and Charlie chattered away like old friends. When it was time to eat, I bustled around, setting out piles of plates, plastic-ware and napkins. I had a carry basket with condiments for the burgers and hot dogs.

  “Who’s cooking?” I called out. “The coals are ready. I’m starving!”

  Johnny and Whip raced each other to the grill, Whip winning by half a step.

  “Hey, old man,” Whip said, “looks like I can still beat you in a race.”

  Johnny laughed and kicked sand in his direction. “I’ll open the beer. Ducks, you ready for a cold one?”

  Ducks slammed the volleyball over the net for a winning point before shouting he was. Two more points and the men, Alex and Ducks, had beaten the women, Emilie and Charlie.

  The work crew sat on various blankets and towels.

  “This is my baby.” Pete, the cook, showed us pictures of his five-year-old daughter. “She’s at home with her mother in Texas.”

  Like magic, men produced pictures of their families. Even Charlie showed photos of her sisters, nieces, and nephews. Funny how pictures of children and puppies were such great icebreakers.

  When Mrs. Sanchez produced a basket of empanadas and churros for dessert, Johnny grabbed some of the sugary treats before anyone else could get close.

  “You’re making me homesick, Mrs. Sanchez.” He had a different sweet in each hand. He leaned over and kissed Mrs. Sanchez on the cheek. Seemed he surprised both of them. “My mother and sisters make these all the time.”

  “Will you show me how? That way Johnny can have them between trips home.” I pointed at the powdered sugar on his upper lip and laughed.

  She nodded.

  We relaxed and ate until it grew dark. Under a river of stars, Whip built a fire with hurricane debris and driftwood; Johnny, Ducks, and four workers brought out guitars. Mrs. Sanchez had a beautiful contralto voice. She, Charlie, and Johnny formed a trio and sang several old Mexican folk songs as well as some popular numbers, including the perennial favorite, La Bamba. Workers played and lifted their voices. Homesickness tinged the lyrics.

  The noise of the battered truck arrived before the truck itself did. Even in the dark I could see two people in the cab and three in the back. My first impression of the new guy was hulking. Huge and dark, but beyond that, nothing. One in the cab pointed what looked like a baseball bat at us. Were we being stalked? The truck continued toward the end of the road. It didn’t return. The cop car had vanished.

  Mrs. Sanchez followed my gaze. “Those are bad boys. They do not like us. They want us to go away.”

  I looked across the campfire at Johnny. He, too, had taken note of the men in the pickup. He shot a glance at Ducks who nodded.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOU
R

  Mississippi, week of October 31

  A week after the picnic, Emilie sought me out for another almost-midnight talk. “Have you ever felt out of place?”

  Where the heck had that come from? The question had multiple layers. “Often. How about you?”

  What a stupid question. The expression on her face was a pronounced “du-uh.”

  “I can’t imagine you not fitting in ever.”

  I smiled and told her about my first visit to Davies Enterprises’ boardroom after Reggie died. Awkward was an understatement. One board member didn’t recognize me. He told me to fetch coffee for the group. I did. When it was time for the meeting to begin, I sat at the head of the table. The man who mistook me for an administrative assistant didn’t have time to feel out of place. He resigned from the board a day later. I neither knew nor cared about his reason.

  “If I said I was never uncomfortable, I would either be super human or super stupid. Remember, the girl who grew up on a farm outside Richmond is the head of an international company. It makes for uncomfortable moments.”

  “I thought you were raised in a suburb like Riverbend.”

  “I lived in an old farmhouse down the road from my grandmother and across from your aunt and uncle. About as far away from your old suburb as possible.”

  My family had farmed a plot of land since the mid-1750s. Although the original farm had shrunk to a couple hundred acres, we had a working enterprise with milk cows, beef cattle, and a clucking-good egg business.

  “Your uncle Carl runs the place. He and my brother Sam own it together.”

  “Why not you? Don’t you have part of it?” Emilie didn’t know anything about grandparents’ generation or how property might be divided.

  “No. When I married, I agreed to give up any interest in the farm. Seemed fitting since I moved away and set up life with your grandfather. My brother Dan made a career in the marines. He gave up his interest as well.”

  Emilie smiled. “Yes, it was fitting.”

  The current house was built in the 1840s. Never a Gone with the Wind plantation, the two-story brick dwelling had been remodeled and expanded over the years. The bones of the house were unbroken, though; dependencies grew outward like wings from the original foursquare structure.

  “I was often the pickee from the snobby in-crowd.”

  “But you’re rich.” Emilie protested.

  “Now. Not then. I remarried well. It was rather a giggle, you know. Grandfather Frank’s mother taught me how to behave in society in Richmond. Confused the heck out of a lot of people who remembered me from high school.”

  Time to get back to why Emilie asked the question in the first place. “Now what has prompted this midnight chat, dear child?”

  “I don’t feel right around Marianna. She’s afraid of men.”

  I moved over on the couch to let Emilie snuggle close. “At the picnic she had fun with Charlie and Alex until they began playing volleyball. She fled to the blanket near her mother. She didn’t say anything to Dad except ‘thank you’ when he handed her a hot dog. Did she talk to any of the workers?”

  “Only after Pete showed her his daughter’s picture.”

  “That’s right. I remember.”

  “She doesn’t like being here.”

  “You mean, she didn’t like being at the picnic?” I was lost, as I often was when Emilie was struggling to grasp what she was feeling.

  “Not that. She doesn’t like being here. In Mississippi. Something at the church terrifies her.” Emilie worried a hangnail on her thumb.

  “Have you talked to Dr. Schwartz about this? Or Mr. Ducks?”

  “Dr. Schwartz doesn’t have all the answers. Mr. Ducks feels the same as I do, but he doesn’t know why. I have to think about this some more.” Emilie pushed off the couch and walked barefoot down our hall toward the bath.

  “Don’t think too hard, please. It’ll all become clear if we watch and wait.”

  I might as well have been blowing smoke. Or, more correctly, whistling Dixie, since we were in the South, after all. She wouldn’t stop thinking. Neither would I.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Mississippi, week of October 31

  Since I was often awake long after the camp settled down for the night, I remained amazed at how quiet everything was. The emptiness was tangible and more than a little discomforting. A single car traveling along the partially completed highway was enough to wake me from the deepest sleep. Crickets, which sang arias celebrating autumn, overpowered most road sounds.

  I needed a transfusion of city noise: horns and traffic and people’s voices. I was itchy to get home. If my monthly board meeting wasn’t coming up soon, I’d be downright snarky. We’d reached a point in our school year where the kids had a week off. Whip invited them to go to Richmond with him.

  “You bet!” Alex was always ready for an adventure, especially if it got him out of the school bus.

  “Me too. I want to see Molly,” Emilie said, “even though she’ll be in school most of the time. We can visit in the afternoon. I’ll let Dr. Schwartz know I’m coming. I want time with her.”

  With the kids settled, I turned to Ducks. Did he have any plans? Maybe he’d like some time at home. Johnny and Charlie would push ahead with the construction. Once again, Johnny wiggled out of going to Manhattan.

  “I don’t think so. Thanks anyway, Max, but it’s a long drive for a few days.” Ducks had no reason to stay around the school bus if the kids weren’t there. “Maybe I’ll hang out over in the French Quarter. Sit in on some jam sessions.”

  “You fly, don’t you?” I straightened the kitchen in our dorm. We alternated between the girls’ dorm and the school bus when the weather turned blustery.

  “I do, but tickets from New Orleans are pretty steep. I’ll pass.”

  “Can you be ready day after tomorrow at seven in the morning?”

  “Yes, but I just…”

  “Did you think I’ve been taking puddle jumpers home every month?” Had I never told Ducks about my plane?

  “Yes, actually.”

  “My corporate jet will pick us up at the Gulfport-Biloxi airport.”

  When the local commuter and general aviation airport reopened about a week after the storm, it made my monthly commute doable. I wasn’t about to take three planes and spend an entire day each way to get home. The airport handled a full component of scheduled flights and serviced private planes.

  “In that case, I’ll be ready before seven.”

  ####

  Hank Scott met us at the general aviation terminal. I’d taken Eleanor’s advice and invited him to fly up with us. He carried a laptop and small overnight bag.

  “Ellie sent a huge preliminary dossier last night.” Hank chose a seat and flipped open his laptop. “I hope I can get through it before we land.”

  Ducks and I buckled into facing leather seats. We were barely airborne when he fell asleep. I poured myself and Hank cups of coffee, opened my own laptop and got to work. Dozens of e-mails awaited. I dispensed with them as quickly as possible and sent messages to Raney and Eleanor about dinner later in the week. Hank disappeared into Eleanor’s report.

  Bored with the endless drone of the engines, I poked around the Internet and did some research on park equipment. I found what Alex wanted, did a quick mental tally and decided his grant request was enough. The Wellington Foundation, which I set up with the help of my second husband’s children to manage his fortune, could spare a few thousand dollars to help children stay healthy.

  Ducks slept soundlessly. On a whim, I Googled his name. I’d done this when I was checking him out before I hired him, but I didn’t read all of the stories. This time I did, including an obituary. For one Leslie Ross.

  Leslie? I opened the story.

  No, Ducks, it didn’t matter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  New York, week of November 7

  Corey, my decorator, warned me to expect major changes in my apartment because
he’d been a very busy boy. He arranged to meet me there. If I hated it, he could revive me.

  My doorman, George, notified me Mr. Corey waited upstairs. I rang the doorbell. After he relieved me of my two small bags, Corey told me to close my eyes. I let myself be led into the living room. He was all about presentation. I knew the drapes would be open, sunlight dancing across the new room. I breathed in clean odors of fresh paint.

  “Okay, Mrs. Davies, you can open your eyes.” Corey stepped back, giving me an unobstructed view. “Remember, it’s still a work in progress.”

  I opened my eyes. Instead of a formal room with dark walls and creamy-white woodwork, warm earth tones adorned the walls, with a darker brown on the ceiling, pale adobe-colored carpeting and much more modern furniture than the earlier Queen Anne high style I loved with Reggie.

  I spun in a circle to take in the whole room. Then I walked around, fingering the furniture and the art objects Corey had placed on some of the hard surfaces. The constant stream of photos Corey had sent didn’t do justice to the new look.

  “Poor Reggie must be turning in his grave, seeing what you’ve done to his perfect apartment.”

  “You don’t have to live with Ben. He began whimpering when the first can of paint arrived. After all, I destroyed his masterpiece.” Corey laughed.

  “Major hissy fits?”

  “You have no idea.” Corey held my hand. “As you can see, the living room’s coming along, although it’s far from finished. Look at the two facing couches.”

  After a moment, I smiled. “You re-covered the love seat from the den and the old camelback couch from the living room. I love it.”

  I barely recognized them in their new dresses.

  “Slipcovers can be changed, as can throws and pillows. Come look at the kitchen. I made the greatest changes there.”

  Walls that had been white were brick red. Oak cabinets were off-white with an antique yellow over-glaze. All the appliances were a matte stainless steel. And, best of all, I had a huge stove where once I had a tiny range.