Authors: Loves Wine
Roger assured her that many activities were being planned. “I stopped by to see Claudia before I left, and she said to tell you she’s expecting you this week for final fittings on your gowns. She also said to tell you she was ordering you to let me escort you this weekend,” he added, grinning confidently. “So why don’t you make me a happy man and say yes?”
Holly stared down at her hands, blistered and callused. She looked a sight, but there was Roger, asking her anyway. A myriad of parties to face… “I don’t know. I—to be honest, I thought I’d just go to the wedding. I haven’t given any thought to anything else.”
“Your mother would be so hurt, Holly. She wants her happiness to include you.” He rushed on to another subject. “Have you been to see Magnolia Hall lately? It’s magnificent. Father’s calling it the palace Claudia was meant to live in.”
“I’ve been too busy, Roger. I still am. I don’t see how I can get away for more than a day, really.” He frowned, and because she knew she was being cruel to her mother, she gave in. “I’ll go with you, Roger. Thank you.”
“Wonderful!” he cried. “We’ll have a marvelous time, I promise. Now then,” he suddenly became serious. “How have things been going for you here? I haven’t heard of any more trouble. Is everything all right?”
She shrugged, uncomfortable. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, so…so intensely. “It’s hard work, but I’m managing. There hasn’t been any more trouble. The army comes out on patrol now and then, but lately they haven’t been here as often. I think everything has calmed down.”
He stared at her in silence awhile. “You haven’t forgotten my offer, have you? I’ll give you a fair price for your land, Holly. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be out here living like this, worrying constantly and—”
“Enough!” She forced a smile, trying to be jovial. Oh, how she hated to discuss her personal life. “I am doing fine, Roger, and if we’re to enjoy ourselves this weekend, I must ask that there be no more talk like this. I don’t like it.”
Something flickered in his eyes and, in a moment, was gone. She stepped away.
“Very well, Holly. Just remember I’m here if you need me, all right?”
“I’m grateful,” she responded, feeling guilty because she wasn’t at all grateful.
They turned at the sound of hoofbeats, and Holly was delighted to see Norman. Sally was behind him, on the horse’s rump, her arms tight about his waist, face pressed dreamily against Norman’s shoulders.
“Does he hang around here very much?” Roger asked quietly.
Holly told him the story, finishing, “Sally’s making a pest of herself at Magnolia Hall, I’m afraid. She’s over there constantly. She says she’s helping Mother, and I’m sure she is, but it’s Norman she goes there for. Isn’t it wonderful? They make such a nice couple.” She hurried over to greet them. “Norman, can you stay for supper? I’m making catfish stew.”
Norman gave her a happy grin of acceptance, but the expression disappeared the moment he saw Roger Bonham glaring at him. “I…I don’t know,” he said hesitantly.
Roger nodded to him curtly. “I think you better get back now, Norman. I’m on my way there, and I want to talk to you about a horse coming in this week.” He turned to Holly, suddenly brusque. “I’ll be in touch. Your mother will be delighted to hear she can count on you sharing her happiness this weekend.”
He mounted his horse and, without a backward glance, rode away.
“I better go,” Norman said, twisting around to help Sally alight. He looked apologetically at Holly. “Thanks, ma’am. Another time, I’d be delighted.”
After he’d gone, Holly echoed her disappointment to Sally. “I wanted him to stay.”
Sally shrugged. “Well, the way Mastah Roger was lookin’ at us, it’s probably best Norman just went on and did what he was told. You know”—she shot her a meaningful glance—“there are folks who don’t approve of me livin’ here with you. Mastah Roger is probably one of ’em. Me and Norman was talkin’ about it on the way over here. It’s not a good thing.”
“Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” Holly asked.
Sally looked down at the ground. “Yes’m. I guess. Your mama asked me today if I’d go to work for her. I think I should.” She lifted pleading eyes. “Don’t you be mad with me now and think I ain’t grateful for what you’ve done for me. I am. But I been thinkin’ how I might bring trouble down on you by stayin’ here. Besides, you ain’t got a whole lot. You share your food with me times when you ain’t got enough for yourself.”
Holly snapped, “Really, Sally, if it’s Norman, if you’re wanting to move over there to be close to him, then say so. Don’t make excuses.”
Sally followed her inside, her brown cheeks glowing with a pinkish hue. She understood Holly’s pride. Holly didn’t want to give in to “trouble.” “He’s gonna ask me to marry him, I know he is. Maybe I feel stronger about him than he does me, right now, but I want to be around so’s he won’t forget me.”
Holly picked up a long-handled cooking spoon and stirred the bubbling stew. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Sally,” she told her, “but just remember, you are not a burden to me here. I’m glad to have your company, and I’ll share with you whatever I have.”
“I know that, I know that,” Sally said quickly. “I just want to be closer to Norman. And I am worried you might have trouble on account of me. A nigra livin’ with a white woman—oh, that ain’t looked on well by lots of folks.”
Suddenly Holly slammed her palms down on the table with a resounding smack. “Don’t do this to me, Sally,” she told her firmly. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to stay here. It sickens me to hear such a thing. I can live as I choose and so can you. There is nothing to fear!”
Sally dropped her head. “I’m sorry.”
Holly plunged on. “I might suggest, too, that it pays to keep a man guessing. You’re making your feelings too obvious by going over there to be close to him.”
Sally lifted her gaze challengingly. “Is that why you ain’t got a man? ’Cause you don’t know much about it?” There was good humor in her eyes. “You’re so pretty,” Sally was quick to tell her. “What I mean is, I know you ain’t in love with nobody. Like that soldier, the one with the pretty blue eyes? He comes by here and you can tell he’s just waitin’ for you to act like you’re interested, but you don’t. You ain’t even wantin’ Mastah Roger to come callin’.”
“Sally, really!” Holly faced her, hands on her hips. Despite her agitation, however, she couldn’t help but be amused by the girl’s concern. “When I decide I need a man in my life, I promise you’ll be the first to know. So can we change the subject now?”
Sally turned away, a little sorry she had intruded. There was, she knew, a deep secret her friend was harboring. Maybe when she discovered what it was, then she would understand why Holly closed her heart to love.
It was late, and Holly tossed and turned restlessly on the fragrant, but lumpy, pine-straw mattress. “What is wrong with me,” she whispered out loud, hearing Sally’s gentle breathing from the other side of the room. She couldn’t sleep, though she’d spent the day working hard. The moon was high, casting silver light across the room, and still she was wide awake.
She remembered, for some strange reason, whole evenings from the past, evenings of parties at their house or a neighbor’s house, maybe the John Tollitson place, which was four miles away from Magnolia Hall and older by a generation. In some lovely setting or other her mother would dance with her father, and Holly would be so proud of them, the handsomest couple in Mississippi. She would spend most of the evening with her friends, her girlfriends, talking about schools they might be going to or places they might soon visit with their parents. Later in the evening, she would dance with a boy, hesitantly, feeling just plain silly, and then go back to the group of girls by the piano.
What was strange, Holly thought, lying under her grandfather’s comforters and looking out the window into the dark skies, was that whole evenings from a past she’d never see again should come flooding back to her without her wanting them to, whole evenings of happy times gone for good. It was an extra piece of torture, unfair and astonishingly cruel.
She got up and padded across the floor, quietly unlocking and opening the door, stepping outside into the gentle night. Lifting her face to the sweeping canopy of stars, she wondered what it was she felt eluding her. What, precisely, did she long for?
As quietly as the night wind, dark eyes beckoned. Smiling, teasing lips called to her. Strong arms folded her against a naked chest. Memories. She had only to close her eyes to see Scott Colter as clearly as though he was there.
Her fingertips instinctively touched her lips, and, for an instant, she could feel the warmth of his seeking mouth against hers. Damn, why couldn’t she let her heart go? Why couldn’t she give in to the restless spirit stirring within? Aching to break free? Why couldn’t she run to him?
Lost in sweet memories that would not be denied, she failed to hear the stirring in the woods beyond, to see the man stealthily making his way across the yard.
He moved to the end of the porch and stepped silently over the railing. Only when he was right behind her, did she sense him.
His hands closed around her throat, stifling her scream. He leaned forward, so close she could feel his sour breath corning from the slit in his white hood. “No need to struggle. This time, bitch, you ain’t got no gun.”
He lifted her from the porch, dragging her across the yard. She struggled futilely, her feet kicking up dust. She felt herself slipping away as the pressure on her throat increased. Then, just as she was about to pass out, he released her, quickly stuffing a rag in her mouth.
He flung her to the ground and she lay there, fighting to breathe around the gag as he roughly jerked her hands behind her back and tied her wrists.
She saw the others then, all wearing the ominous-looking white robe and white hood. They formed a ring around her, and one spoke. “We ain’t puttin’ up with what you’re doin’ out here, Holly Maxwell, lettin’ a nigger wench live with you like she was white. We’re gonna show you what we do to trash like you and that nigger.”
Tied, she watched in helpless horror as two of them ran to the woods, emerging with a large, wooden cross. One of them quickly dug a hole, and when he was done, the cross was set upright.
The sky exploded in a brilliant blaze of golds, reds, blues, and greens as they set a torch to the cross. The fire against the black Mississippi night sky was awesome.
She struggled frantically to maneuver herself back, away from the wildly leaping flames, but she froze when a scream tore through the night. Sally was being dragged from the cabin, her own shrieking muffled against a gag.
One of the men dragging Sally shouted, “See what happens, nigger? See what happens when you think you’re white? We ain’t puttin’ up with shit-skins!”
Sally was thrown toward the fiery spectacle, landing only a few feet from the flames. The heat seared her skin and scorched her nightgown, and she scrambled in the dirt, desperate to get away. The men allowed her to go only so far, then circled her, preventing escape.
“This is just a warning,” one man roared, kicking Sally in her side. She drew herself into a knot, writhing.
A man near Holly yelled to her, “You listening to all this, nigger-lover? You seein’ it good? ’Cause if the wench don’t get out, we’ll come back. And next time we’ll hang her black ass and burn down your goddamn shack.”
“Like this!” another called, racing to the cabin. He tossed the blazing torch and it landed squarely on the porch.
Laughing, shrieking like demons, the ghostly figures ran into the woods and disappeared. A few seconds later, rapid hoofbeats reverberated against the ground.
The porch caught fire. Oblivious to the scraping of her body against the dirt, Holly struggled forward, looking at Sally, pleading silently, trying to shout despite the gag, but Sally was writhing on the ground, hysterical.
At last Holly reached Sally, throwing herself against her. That snapped Sally out of it, and she began untying Holly’s ropes.
Freed, Holly yanked the gag from her mouth. “Water! From the well, Sally. Hurry or the whole place will go.”
Holly grabbed a straw broom near the door and began beating wildly at the flames. The straw caught fire. Cursing, she tossed the broom away and ran inside. Grabbing the remainder of the catfish stew from the fireplace, she ran back to the porch and flung it on the flames as Sally reached the porch with a pail of water.
They stood and watched as the last sizzling flames died out.
Only then did Sally’s hysteria return. Holly made sure Sally was not really injured from the kick, then helped her into bed. She found an old jug of muscadine wine Grandpa had made long ago. Pulling the cork free, she winced at the rank smell but urged Sally to drink. “You’ve got to get hold of your self.”
Holly was blinking back tears of her own—but not tears of fright. No. She was beyond fear. She was mad. Spitting mad. Fighting mad. “Drink,” she commanded harshly, and Sally coughed and choked on the burning wine. “Drink and then try to sleep, Sally. It’s over.”
Sally gasped and swallowed, shaking her head.
“Ain’t over,” she choked. “Ain’t gonna be over till I get out of here.”
Holly shushed her. “Nonsense. They’re only using you as an excuse. Don’t worry. They won’t catch me off-guard again.”