Sandra Hill - [Creole] (22 page)

Harriet’s mind reeled with all the information being thrown at her. A woman had betrayed Etienne, resulting in his being sent to Andersonville Prison. Then Vera had given birth to his baby, which she’d brought to Bayou Noir before her death. “I don’t understand. Why did Saralee’s mother give her to her father if she hated him enough to put him in prison?”

“I doubts that Vera ever hated Etienne. In truth, I ’spect she loved him, in her own way. But she were a mighty ambitious girl, and…” Blossom’s words trailed off, and she shrugged.

“But to turn traitor on a man you love, or loved. It’s hard to believe,” Harriet protested.

“Folks makes mistakes. Then they tries to make up fer their mistakes. Vera was dyin’ of the wastin’ disease when she come here…. I could see that plain as day. She wanted to make sure Saralee had a home. And she wanted to make her peace with Etienne afore she met her maker. Leastways, that’s what I be thinkin’. ’Ceptin Etienne doan see it that way…yet.”

That was an understatement.

“You believe that Saralee is Etienne’s chile, don’tcha?”

“Of course. She’s a mirror image of Etienne as a boy.”

“How you recollectin’ what Etienne looked like as a boy?”

“I saw a photograph.”

Blossom nodded. “You gonna help?”

Harriet thought about the hurt on Saralee’s face when Etienne had denied her. “Yes.”

“Good. I been prayin’ and prayin’ on how to get them two together afore I pass on. And God sent you. Praise the Lord!”

Me? God sent me in answer to Blossom’s prayer?
Harriet sputtered, but no words came out. And she was still thinking about
the man-look
.

The old cook hobbled after Etienne, presumably toward the kitchen, muttering, “He best not be touchin’ my jambalaya. That boy needs a good whuppin’. This is worse’n the time he fed Dreadful grapes and we had purple dog business ever’ where. And where’s Cain and Abel? They be needin’ a whuppin’, too, I reckon. ’Specially iffen they’s drinkin’ my rum.”

Harriet stood alone on the gallery. Stunned.

There was a lot of work facing her here. And she wasn’t sure who needed her help the most, Saralee or Etienne. The little child, or the big child.

She decided to tackle the big lug first.

Later, back in the kitchen, there was no sign of Etienne. A grumbling Blossom quickly informed her that he’d al ready scarfed down a bowl of jambalaya with corn bread and a half dozen fandaddies, a southern version of fried clams, before taking off with a huge chunk of cake in hand. Cain and Abel had also made an enormous dent in the feast that had been prepared for them.

“Sit down, girl. You gots to eat, too,” Blossom said, setting a plate for her on the scarred oak table.

“This is delicious,” Harriet said enthusiastically after her first bite of the stew, which was rich with smoked ham, shrimp, crab, onions, rice and red peppers. The corn bread melted in her mouth.

Blossom eased herself onto the opposite bench. “Thank you, but Saralee does most of the cooking now. All I gots to do is watch that she doan burn herself.”

“Saralee?” Harriet asked with surprise. “She’s too little to cook, isn’t she?” Harriet hadn’t spent much time with kids, except for some of her clients and her sister Sheila’s brat, Hank the Horrid. But she knew lots of modern children, even as young as seven, were forced by the nature of their latch-key lifestyles to become proficient in cooking, at least of the microwave variety. So maybe Saralee wasn’t so unusual, after all.

Blossom sipped at a cup of ultrastrong Creole coffee before speaking. “My laigs are too weakified to hold this ol’ body for long. I jist cain’t get ’round the way I used to. So I teached Saralee to cook. She makes the bestest cream cakes this side of Nawleans. And her biscuits are so light they pract’ly fly.”

“Gee, I wonder if she might have a descendant someday who’ll open a bakery,” Harriet said with a chuckle.

“What?”

“Never mind.” It was an interesting thought, though. ’Cain mentioned that a lot of the former slaves have returned here. Aren’t there women who could help you with the cooking?”

“Some of them does, but me and Saralee are the only ones livin’ here in the big house. Too many rooms to clean and repairs to make when there ain’t no white folks about to use ’em anyhows. Teachin’ Saralee how to cook…well, it helps pass the time. Besides, every girl should know her way ’round a kitchen, I allus say.” She eyed Harriet. “You knows how to cook?”

Harriet laughed. “A little. I don’t have much time for it, though. I work so many hours.”

“Are you a doctor, for true, like Etienne said?”

“Well, yes, but not a medical doctor. I’m a psychologist. That’s sort of a mind doctor.”

“Well, glory be!” Blossom hooted. “I reckon we both be knowin’ someone ’round here in need of a mind healin’.”

They smiled companionably at each other.

“Where’s Saralee now?” Harriet asked, resuming her meal.

“Upstairs takin’ a bath.”

Harriet stopped eating. “A bath?” She sighed. “Upstairs?”

“Ain’t much in this house that the mildew and mice and wood worms doan call home, but that big old marble tub upstairs survived it all. And I makes sure those field workers come by once a month to clean the cistern.”

“Blossom, I’ll make a deal with you. If I can have a bath and a change of clothes…I don’t care what kind of clothes, a feedsack will do…if I can just have a half hour in a real tub with clean water and soap…well, I think I would do anything for you. Even help you thump some sense into Etienne’s gourd.”

Blossom beamed. “Sometimes the Lord does make a body’s work easy. A bath? Thass all? And here I was plannin’ on diggin’ up all the silver to offer you a bribe.”

Harriet gave the wily black woman a double take. Blossom played the part of a frail old lady, but Harriet suspected she was a lot stronger than she appeared. Yep, Blossom had more aces up her sleeve than a cardsharp.

Etienne had better beware.

In fact, the way Blossom was studying her, Harriet decided she’d better beware, too.

Toward evening, a clean, sweet-scented Harriet had still not found Etienne. She’d had a long soak in the fabulous marble tub on the third floor, having soaped and shampooed three times with Blossom’s gardenia soap. Now she wore an old gown Selene had left behind more than twenty years before. The fact that it dragged on the ground and bagged in the chest and was pink calico didn’t matter a bit to Harriet. It was clean, and that was the most important thing.

Harriet approached the back of the mansion from the “street” where the slave quarters used to be. Though ecstatic over their freedom, the blacks had apparently found that freedom didn’t pay the rent. Nor did it bring the ex
pected “forty acres and a mule.” The war had been won, but it was an empty victory when empty bellies growled.

There were about forty of the unpainted cottages. many with little fenced-in gardens flourishing with fresh vegetables—pole beans, corn, beets, potatoes, squash, cucumbers, pumpkins and that Louisiana favorite, okra, which was a preferred ingredient for thickening the Creole gumbo, along with sassafras. The surprisingly well kept area housed about a hundred and fifty former slaves, who’d come back seeking work and living places for their families.

These people were dirt-poor, but self-sufficient. Too bad Etienne didn’t see the value in that. Sure, it would take a long time to get the plantation back on its feet again, but he had all the time in the world…as long as he and the workers were able to survive physically. One step at a time was all it would take.

But Etienne would have to take the first step.

Whoa! Hold on a minute!
Wasn’t it odd that she, who had always held such ambitious goals, now considered day-to-day survival a noble ideal. Her much-valued independence didn’t seem all that important when placed in the microcosm of a plantation on which all of the people comprised an interdependent unit, each needing one another to make the whole work. Fame and fortune waned in importance compared with the satisfaction there would surely be in bringing this land and home back to life. Not that Harriet would be around long enough to see all those things happen.

It was late afternoon by the time Harriet finally found Etienne in his old schoolroom on the fourth floor of the mansion. By then she was wild with worry.

“I’ve been searching for you. Where have—”

“Don’t talk.” Etienne pulled Harriet through the doorway and into his arms. If the foolish wench insisted on venturing into secluded spots, seeking him out, she would pay the consequences.

“But, Etienne…” she protested.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her off the floor and walked her the few steps to the wall.

“Oomph!”

He hadn’t meant to slam against her. “I’m sorry,
chérie
. My body seems to have a mind of its own,” he murmured.

“You know what they say about men’s mighty minds?” she gasped out as he adjusted himself to her curves. She had delicious curves. “They’re mighty empty.”

He buried his face in the curve of her neck and nipped the soft flesh with his teeth. She smelled of gardenias and fresh woman skin. Suddenly his headache didn’t pound quite so badly. “No talking,” he said through gritted teeth. “And most definitely, no dumb-men jokes.”

He’d ridden over the plantation most of the day. The swamplands had reclaimed Bayou Noir. The bayou and the sugar lands were demanding mistresses. Unless pampered and given attention on a regular basis, they lost their veneer of civilization and quickly reverted back to jungle.

After his tour, Etienne had bathed in his childhood swimming hole, hoping to restore his spirits. Harriet had warned him about being negative. She’d said he could bring Bayou Noir back if he really wanted to.

Did he want to?

Yes!
Etienne realized that was exactly what he wanted, and needed. Although he’d spent only his first six years here, Etienne’s love of the bayou was anchored firmly in his soul. When he thought of home, he didn’t envision California. He conjured images of shimmering sunlight on slow-moving streams through age-old cypress forests. Bayou Noir. His father had hated the South and couldn’t wait to leave; Etienne couldn’t wait to return.

But could he restore Bayou Noir?

Maybe
. If he completed this mission for President Grant, he’d get twenty thousand dollars in commissions and back pay. That would surely give him a firm foundation…a start.

He drew back a bit and studied Harriet. Then he smiled.
“Well, well, aren’t you the picture of…pink,” he drawled.

She looped her arms around his neck and smiled back.

Etienne’s heart constricted with breath-stopping yearning.

“I look like a big pink flower,” she said with a grimace.

“A gardenia?” He sniffed deeply. “Perhaps,” he said, running his fingertips down her sides from her armpits, over the indentation of her waist, then the flare of her hips, and back up again, “or a fluffy raspberry syllabub. Good enough to eat.”

“No,” she demurred weakly as he began to lower his mouth toward her parted lips. “That’s not why I came here.”

“I just want to kiss you,
chérie
. That’s all.”

He brushed his lips across hers. Once. Twice. Coaxing.

She moaned. “That’s what men have been saying throughout the ages. That’s the second biggest MCP lie on record; the first is ‘I love you, baby.’”

“Just a kiss,” he breathed against her mouth.
Who cares what men say in other times? The trick here is to keep Harriet’s mouth busy so that she can’t talk, or think
.

“No,” she breathed back. “I can’t resist your kisses.”

“You can’t?” he said and grinned.
Thank you, God!
Then he allowed himself the slow, exquisite pleasure of fitting his lips into the shape of hers. They were a perfect fit. Soft and hard. Teasing and punishing. Tempting and demanding.

“You are such a jerk, Etienne. But you sure can kiss, I’ll give you that,” she choked out.

He grinned and brushed aside a strand of hair that had loosened from the knot atop her head. Then he trailed his lips from her too-enticing mouth to the small shell of her exposed ear. “A good kisser, huh?”

“Don’t act so surprised,” she said, struggling to escape his hands, which were locked on her sinfully sweet but tocks. He noticed that she didn’t struggle very hard, which
was convenient because he didn’t think he could stop touching her if his life depended on it. “Women probably tell you that all the time.”

“Tell me what?” he asked, having lost his concentration. Her meager struggle had caused her breasts to whisk across his shirt and peak. “Oh, that I’m a good kisser? No, women have told me that I do other things well, but I can’t recall kissing being mentioned. Would you like me to demonstrate those
other
talents?”

“You are such a pig, Etienne. I’ve been looking for you all day to tell you that,” she informed him hotly. Or was she just hot? His brain was too fuzzy with want to distinguish. “But all I can think about now is how much I want to kiss you. Endlessly.”

It was Harriet then who took his face in both hands and pulled it down to hers. It was Harriet who pressed her lips against his and forced his mouth to open for her tongue. Well, not really
forced
. Etienne was just a mite surprised, that was all. “Endlessly,” he echoed on a prayerful sigh of appreciation when he came up for air…the first time.

“Endlessly,” she promised when she came up for air…the second time. Or was it the third? Etienne had lost count.

In the distance Etienne heard the sound of the dinner bell calling the sugar workers from the fields, but he was beyond caring about such bodily appetites as food. The only appetite his body had now was for the woman cradling his arousal against her parted thighs.

He drew the scooped neckline of her ridiculous pink gown as far as her elbows, trapping her arms at her sides and exposing her beautiful pink-tipped breasts. A rush of such exquisite pleasure-pain washed over him that his vision blurred.

“What are you doing to me?” he groaned, taking first one, then the other hardened pebble into his mouth and suckling wetly. He felt like a newborn child, needful and way too vulnerable, but he couldn’t help himself.