Swamps and Soirees: A Summerbrook Novel Read online

  Swamps

  and

  Soirees

  A SUMMERBROOK NOVEL

  by

  VICKI WILKERSON

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Vicki Wilkerson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Cover photo by Gary Meyers

  Filigree Press

  First Edition June 2017

  Print ISBN-10: 0-9848597-8-0

  Print ISBN-13: 978-0-9848597-8-8

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Preface

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Holly and Clayton, my Lowcountry children who love every inch of the low lands, lakes and swamps upon which they were raised…

  Preface

  To fully enjoy this novel, one must first be able to appreciate an old adage that my friend, Linda Crawford, shared with me in her best deep Southern drawl:

  “If you are in Atlanta, the first question they’ll ask you is ‘What is your business here?’ If you are in Charleston, they’ll ask, ‘Who are your people?’ And if you are in Savannah, they’ll ask, ‘What’ll you have to drink?’”

  Well, in this novel, it is the “Who are your people?” that we will survey.

  We begin in the low lands and swamps that reach with narrow arms and slender fingers into the midlands of South Carolina, where family matters more than family names, and then venture into the revered city of Charleston, where heritage, history and our local founding fathers’ surnames are worshiped. Unless one has visited The Holy City, one may not completely realize how its residents view “people who are not from here.” But take my word, if your name is not of historical significance, well, you may visit, you may even purchase a fine historic home on the peninsula, and you may even be invited over as a guest for dinner by an exceptional family, but you will never truly be…Charleston—pronounced “Chah-ul-stun,” by the way. And though your spirit or your sense of justice may rail against the undercurrents of historic elitism, the Holy City is what it is…our beloved Charleston. It is upon that acknowledged premise that I will begin this story.

  Prologue

  Hanna Rudder sat on her favorite sinker cypress log at the edge of Four Hole Swamp, looking deep into the primordial dark waters, teeming with unseen life and tried to understand the growing uneasiness that had begun to creep up in her soul.

  Spanish moss dripped from the ancient trees that blocked out most of the sky above; a scent of earth and jasmine filled the air, and the moist, cool breeze blanketed her and sent a shiver through her. She closed her eyes and allowed the slivers of light that slipped past the leaves and branches overhead to dart over her face as the sun and shadows played a game that the intruding sphere would lose. She had a type of serenity here, peace here, a place here. This was where her soul centered itself. With God and man.

  For some—like the people who lived in Summerbrook, the growing little town that bordered her home—the wetland might seem to be the end of the world, but for Hanna, it was the beginning. Of who she was. But it was not the end.

  Lately, she had been visiting her special place almost daily because she felt…uneasy. She’d felt mired…stuck…sunken, like the old black cypress trees that lie at the bottom of Four Hole Swamp, waiting forever, undergoing invisible transformations—like her. She had graduated college nearly eight years ago with dreams and plans…and obligations. But her responsibilities had been met. She knew the time had come to venture from the safety of this beautiful place, and as long as it remained unchanged, it would be her touchstone, and she could come back to it and feel unscathed by the bustling world that she felt compelled to enter.

  Something stirred in her, and she opened her eyes. The tall, statuesque white heron that had been standing motionless suddenly took to wing. A single turtle plopped off a rotted stump that was partially underwater, and Ralph, the small alligator that had had her in his watch to make sure she didn’t disturb his environs submerged. A lanky blue egret gave up her location against her gray backdrop and stepped gingerly over cypress knees that were half buried in the green waters. Overhead she heard a hawk screech, which, in turn, sent the squirrels all about her into a tizzy. Something was amiss.

  She had seen small animals of all sorts dashing about the trees, gliding on the black waters, escaping to moist, underground caves. In the swamp were raccoons, possums, beavers, snakes, eels, wild boars and even an occasional small black bear—none of which made her fearful. She’d been born here, had grown up here, lived and played here—on the dark, wet side of Summerbrook.

  The sound approaching was faint at first—twigs snapping, leaves rustling on the floor of the slightly elevated thicket, just beyond the dense tree line. Hanna craned to see. Something low and brown. Her breath caught.

  Just as suddenly, she relaxed to see Sinker, the old dog she had rescued from the side of the road when someone had left him so many years ago. But why had he ventured into the swamp alone? He had never before. Many times he had followed her as she returned again and again to the same place. To sit. And think. And fish. And to justify why she wasn’t following her dreams for a career in high finance. Sinker had never come alone.

  But then she saw the reason. Cubi-Jack. “Hey, Cubi-Jack.”

  Cubi-Jack had known this swamp for forty years before she had even been born. He belonged to Four Hole Swamp, or rather, it belonged to him. Four Hole Swamp sank into the earth on the outskirts of Summerbrook, the orderly little town where she’d attended school and shopped…and felt…like she didn’t belong. Summerbrook was also where Cubi-Jack had attended school so long ago—before his accident. Now he acts as a sort of self-appointed mayor of the area, where he cuts grass, and helps people with odd jobs, and fishes, and talks to Hanna—in his well-worn suits. She adored Cubi-Jack, even with all his idiosyncrasies. But he’d never ventured into the swamp to disturb her at her special spot unless they went together to gig frogs or set trot lines, or talk.

  All of that was fine and good, but Hanna needed more than frogs, and fish and her limiting life here.

  When the two reached her, she petted Sinker on the head and looked at Cubi-Jack. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Your cousin needs you rat now.” He held out his hand.

  She grabbed it and stood, brushing the swamp off her jeans. “What’s going on? What does she need me for?”

  He shrugged. “I kin tell it’s very important. You know I wouldn’t come here to bother you if I didn’t feel it was necessary. You know that, don’t cha?”

  Something inside her did know that. Cubi-Jack could be…kind of eccentric sometimes, but she always sort of knew when his…agitation was coming. Everybody did. This wasn’t that. Because Cubi-Jack could also show a kind of wisdom that couldn’t b
e explained. This was that.

  Cubi-Jack smiled. “Hanna, I think this is what we been talkin’ ‘bout. Sometimes life only gives us jus one break at a second chance. It would be a sin and a shame if you missed it.”

  She nodded. It would. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been waiting upon for so long. “You could be right, Cubi-Jack.”

  He smiled.

  Maybe she needed to take a chance in case he was right. Something was definitely astir on the edge of the swamp today. This could be her new beginning.

  Chapter One

  Dreams and Downtown

  No. No. No. Those words were so easy to say in Hanna’s head. So why didn’t she say no to Callie when she told her what she’d wanted? But here Hanna was, standing on the front porch of a fancy downtown Charleston, South Carolina, mansion with her cousin. Unable to say no. How was this going to help her follow her own dreams?

  The home was huge, and the white on the clapboards gleamed brilliantly on that spring morning. The gray paint on the porch floor reflected light like a silver sun. Lush, verdant plants surrounding the rails on the verandah lilted in the light breeze. And playful squirrels darted across the small lawn and through the flowerbeds filled with yellow jasmine. Yellow. Not her favorite color. The squirrels, the jasmine and the warm air reminded her of Four Hole, but so much was different.

  This was crazy. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in her uncle’s butcher shop on the outskirts of Summerbrook, near the swamp where she’d grown up. Safe and secluded away from haute society. That was her home. And she was comfortable there.

  Why didn’t she say no to Callie? Because Hanna was a chicken, like the ones she butchered back home. Spineless. Her unpolished heritage had no place here.

  “Listen, Hanna,” Callie said as she rang the doorbell. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this. It could be a big break for me and my business. Most of my regular help decided to take vacation—of all times—with the Spoleto Festival and all the spring events happening.”

  Hanna heard the deep bongs echoing in the house through the door. Words echoed inside her. Go home. Go home. Go home.

  She looked down at her arms, her clothes, her shoes. Wasn’t she nearly the same as most of the people who owned the fancy downtown houses? Still, she wasn’t one of them.

  In the Lowcountry, some thoughtless, narrow-minded aristocrats had no use for people like Hanna, whose ancestral blood line was cloudy and didn’t flow off the Mayflower. How could it matter now?

  But it was useless to question. And it didn’t really matter all that much in Summerbrook. But it did here on the steps of high society Charleston. The farther away from Four Hole Swamp, the more it mattered. She had always accepted her place on the outskirts of Summerbrook because things were what they were there. Fighting hundreds of years of Charleston’s cloaked elitism and disguised prejudices would be like trying to empty the wetlands near her house with a spoon. She knew very well what these people would think of her. Simply stated, she’d been born in the wrong place with the wrong last name. None of that mattered to her best friend, Charlene, to her beloved aunt and uncle, to Sinker, Cubi-Jack…or to the swamp.

  “Did you look over those price sheets I gave you?” Callie asked.

  Hanna nodded. She had the whole list memorized. The numbers on the papers were the only things that made sense to her right now. Everything else was foreign and uncomfortable.

  Callie rapped on the door. “Just take notes and help me keep an estimate going, okay? And if you have any ideas or suggestions, say so.”

  That wasn’t likely. Hanna didn’t have a lot to say back around Four Hole—except to her best friend. Downtown Charleston was certainly not going to get her to start talking like one of Aunt Della’s soap opera stars.

  The door opened. A handsome woman in a service uniform stood before them. “May I help you?”

  Callie straightened her posture, “Yes, I’m Callie Marks, and I’m here to see Mr. or Mrs. Laurens about a catering job.”

  A catering job. That would never get Hanna where she wanted to go. Nevertheless, she admired Callie for pursuing her own dream. She came from her mother’s side of the family. The Marks branch was so much bolder than the Rudders. Hanna admired her cousin so much in school that she sometimes wrote her own last name as Marks, even after her parents officially changed it to Rudder when they’d finally married. It made for a lot of confusion in school.

  “Oh, Mr. Laurens is expecting you. If you’ll come in, I’ll let him know you’re here.” The woman closed the tall door behind them, walked down the wide hall and disappeared into another room.

  Hanna had never seen such splendor in all her life. A huge staircase curved upward toward the tall ceilings. Antiques with rich patinas dotted the wide hall. She noticed the majestic grandfather clock against the wall, ticking off the seconds as they waited. She was Cinderella—minus the gown and the fairy godmother. And uncomfortable standing in a place like this.

  The land surrounding her family’s home and business at the edge of Summerbrook seriously lacked refinement. It was all country, rustic wood houses, vegetable gardens and deer hunting. She was way out of her league here. Why on Earth had she agreed to help her cousin?

  Callie smoothed down the hair on the sides of head. She had recently had it straightened and highlighted. Hanna would never tell her it looked kind of stressed and brittle. But Callie wouldn’t care anyway. She was bold and self-assured, and Hanna admired those qualities in her cousin.

  “Hanna, I want you to help me out in there, okay? Mr. Laurens might mistake your shyness and think you’re…just not as amazing as you are. Don’t want him thinking the wrong thing.” She smiled and gently punched Hanna on the arm.

  Hanna shook her head and returned the smile. For most of her life she’d felt insecure for a multitude of reasons, but her IQ had never been questioned. In fact, she’d made straight A’s through college and graduated summa cum laude. A lot of good that did her.

  She left college with a finance degree and a heart full of dreams and plans, but her aunt had become ill, and she had to run the market full time for a while.

  It was the least she could do for her aging great aunt and uncle since they had taken her in after her father had died. There just never seemed to be a good time to leave.

  And Hanna had become comfortable at the little butcher shop and decided that she could always start her career later. “Later” just never came.

  The woman who answered the door returned. “Come this way please.” She led them into what looked like a fancy sitting parlor. “Mr. Laurens will be right with you.”

  It was wholly unlike Hanna’s sitting parlor beside the black waters.

  “Imagine living in a place like this,” Callie said, looking around the room.

  “I can hardly imagine being in a place like this,” Hanna said, afraid to touch a thing. Her eyes surveyed the entire room. The furniture and windows were draped in gold. Opulent, but too close to the color she disliked most.

  Callie picked up a hand-blown crystal rose with a clear tubular stem from the glass bouquet on the table in front of her and asked, “What would a person want with a useless thing like this?”

  “Callie, put that back,” Hanna said.

  Callie shook her head and twirled the flower in the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows that nearly reached the ceilings. “Wonder what something like this would cost?”

  “Doesn’t have a price,” a man’s voice from behind her said. “On one of his trips, my great-great grandfather picked up the set from Italy and gave it to my great-great grandmother. I believe this particular Venetian crystal maker went out of business at the turn of the century. They’re pretty rare.”

  Hanna could have died.

  Callie quickly put the crystal rose back and turned around in her seat.

  “It’s been on that table since my great-great grandmother died. They say she forbade anyone from moving the vase. They say that the roses are
supposed to bring life and perfect love into the house.” He paused and placed his hands in the pockets of his perfectly hanging pants. “They say all kinds of things.”

  Hanna stood and stared at the most perfectly proportioned, most harmoniously handsome man she’d ever seen in her life. They don’t grow them like that in Four Hole Swamp.

  “I’m Furman Laurens.” His words bespoke wealth and could only come from a proper Charleston upbringing. He reached for Hanna’s hand first.

  She wanted to talk—to tell him that she was merely helping her cousin and that he should be shaking Callie’s hand and addressing her. But she stayed silent—as usual. She really didn’t want him to hear her cornbread and collards accent.

  Callie corrected the handshaking mistake fast. “Hello. I’m Callie Marks. I own Come Home Catering.”

  Mr. Laurens extended his arm toward Callie. “I believe you spoke once to my mother about the date for the dinner party. We’re in a real predicament this year. Please sit.”

  Callie and Hanna sat on the elegant couch.

  “So, Mother usually has all her events for the Jasmine Society planned well in advance. Unfortunately, my father has been in the hospital, and the time just got away from her this year.” He walked to the chair in front of the couch and stood.

  Hanna perched herself on the edge of the sofa and heard a little dog yapping in the room next to them.

  “Excuse me for a moment.” He walked to the door and called in a slightly louder voice, “Bessie, could you take Chanel up to Mother’s room for a few minutes. And be careful, she’s biting again.”

  Bessie appeared at the door. “Sure. Let me know when I can let her out again. We don’t want her to have another of her hissy fits in there.”