Black Bayou
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Siren-BookStrand, Inc.
www.sirenbookstrand.com
Copyright ©2009 by Beverly Sims
First published in 2009, 2009
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE
BLACK BAYOU
PART 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PART 2
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Three Years Later
About the Author
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BLACK BAYOU
Beverly Sims
ROMANCE
www.BookStrand.com
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A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE
IMPRINT: Romance
BLACK BAYOU
Copyright © 2009 by Beverly Sims
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-278-9
First E-book Publication: March 2009
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2009 by Siren-BookStrand, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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BLACK BAYOU
BEVERLY SIMS
Copyright © 2009
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PART 1
The old woman sat unmoving in the dark. She drew deep from the pipe she held in her left hand and listened to the sound of the bayou. A mighty storm brewed out there, she felt it in her aching bones. A gator snorted, a large cat grumbled, night birds warned one another about predators, but this night there was something strange ... something she not only sensed, but also feared. Other times in her life, this had happened, and then the Devil ran rampant across Black Bayou.
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Chapter 1
"I swear, I have never seen so much Spanish moss in my life,” commented Marybeth. She drove her little red sports car like a NASCAR ace. This time, her wild driving was slowed somewhat by the orange and white trailer she was towing. It was an incongruous sight, but a matter of necessity. She had promised her passenger and roommate of four years that after this little adventure, she would take her home.
Eartha Black was as dark as her name, just the opposite of Texas born and bred Miss Marybeth Dawson. Marybeth was the spoiled daughter of one of Dallas’ primary movers and shakers. Eartha had lived all over the South and later the Northeast with her itinerant father, who had done his best to raise four kids by himself. He claimed their mother ran off with another man, but Eartha was too young to remember. No one could understand how these very different women could be so close.
"Honey,” she said, “you probably never saw any Spanish moss until you left Dallas. Come on, admit it, you thought they were massive cobwebs spun by giant spiders, didn't you?"
"I most certainly did not, for your information. I thought it was some kind of bird's nest, or something. Anyway, to this day, I still do not believe you ... that it is a relative to a pineapple and is not Spanish nor moss either. So there!” She stuck her little pink tongue out at her friend like a petulant child. She would still be a petulant child when her hair turned white, thought Eartha.
Behind them, they heard a car horn. Marybeth pulled over to the edge of the road and watched the truck and trailer following them pull in behind. Of course, there was no shoulder wide enough to accommodate their vehicles, but that did not seem to bother them. Inside the other vehicle were Ellen Scarlett O'Hara Davis and Windsong Clayton, aka Windy, of Roswell, New Mexico, or rather near there. Windy had spent the last four years explaining that not once had she seen any little green men or flying saucers, nor had she visited Area 51. Ellen swore she was not the Belle of Atlanta, regardless of her name, and that her home was not originally Tara.
The four of them piled out of the cars and met in the middle of the road. “Are you sure we are going the right direction? Seems to me I have not seen another human, house, or car in the past ten miles.” asked Windy, who was driving her black pickup.
Ellen added, “There have been no mailboxes or side roads either, unless you count the little paths only a person on foot could use."
"Relax, ladies. We are on the right track. No pun intended, as this is not much more than a track.” Eartha opened the paper she removed from her pocket and read aloud the instructions. “See that huge hole in the road up ahead? Well, that tells us we have two miles to go, turn right, follow the dirt road three more miles, and we will be there. So, back to the wagons, and let's hit the road."
The dirt road was just that ... dirt, and narrow. Brush and small trees on each side scratched her truck. Windy grumbled about her paint, but there was no choice except to keeping going. “If this path gets any narrower, I swear I will turn around and go
back."
Ellen laughed. “And where do you plan to turn this thing around?"
Before Windy could answer, they saw a clearing ahead. “Well, looks like we are here.” She looked around and then said quietly, “Wherever here is."
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Chapter 2
The old plantation house was huge, even by Southern standards. Huge columns supported the second story with its wrap-around balcony and smaller columns. The second story held the third floor with its smaller balcony. To Ellen, it looked like a wedding cake with layers on columns ... a pathetic, neglected wedding cake.
Leading up to the front door was a stairway, curving gracefully from a wide expanse at the ground to a narrow one where it connected to the first floor. The double doors were oversized, each at least five feet wide. There were old-fashioned light fixtures affixed on each side of the door. Similar ones hung from the roofs of each of the three balcony ceilings all around the building. Double doors and the fixtures were smaller on each higher level.
Spanish moss was everywhere, not just in the spreading old oak trees, but hanging from the balconies. The once white chipped paint exposed the deteriorating boards beneath. Green and gray mold was everywhere, including the broken guardrails and stair steps. Some of the light bulbs were missing or broken in the dangling fixtures. Weeds grew between the steps and overran most of the once-cultivated gardens and flowerbeds. As they moved closer, the grandeur of the mansion was replaced by decay, and the presence of something unfathomable greeted their eyes and their senses. Windows had cracks, and several on the upper levels had board covers, although not shutters.
Windy was the observant one. She immediately noted the boards and pointed them out to the others. “Maybe the servants’ quarters were up there and the rooms are no longer in use. At least, let's hope so. I prefer that explanation to others I can think of."
For a long while, no one else spoke, until usually bubbly Marybeth whispered, “This can't be it. This is not the Bed and Breakfast place you described, Eartha. It can't be."
Before Eartha could answer, the front door opened. A middle-aged woman dressed in a long gray gown with a full-length white apron emerged and moved to the top of the stairs. “Hello. What a lovely group we have this time! I am Mrs. Glenda Woodward. My mistress asks that you meet her in the parlor for tea. Please follow me.” She turned and went inside, leaving the women no choice but to follow.
Inside, things were much better. Everything was clean, and although in some disrepair, it gave off a feeling of old charm and one-time splendor. A wide stairway faced the door and led up to a wide hall with doors opening all around. High ceilings prevailed throughout the house. Walls all around had portraits, landscapes, still lifes, and hunting scenes. To the right was a massive dining room with silver candelabras on the polished table. Through an open door at the back of the dining room they could see into the kitchen. Several other closed doors opened off the immense entry hall or foyer, called by different names in different parts of the county. Inside the door on the left stood the woman in maid's attire, beckoning them to enter.
The door divided the massive room into two fairly equal spaces. At one end, a fire blazed low in the fireplace but seemed to give off no heat. Of that they were glad, because the air was hot and heavy with humidity. Each took a place on one of the two old loveseats, covered in worn rose-patterned velvet with heart-shaped backs on beautiful mahogany trim that sat on two sides of a shining tea table. A matching chair was imposing on the third side, arranged to take advantage of the fireplace.
Bookshelves lined every inch of wall not used to display more ornately framed pictures. Between the gold-lettered volumes were ornaments and statuary of every conceivable kind. At the opposite end of the room was a massive desk facing the front windows looking out over the lower balcony. A series of Oriental screens helped to section the room into the two distinctive areas. All together, it was a wondrous room, full of history and shabby elegance. It was fascinating despite the odor of dust and dankness they would find permeated the house. This was a common problem in many old places, particularly in the humid South, but seldom noticed by those who lived in it.
"Please be seated until Mrs. Atwater comes down to join you. I am here to make you as comfortable as possible for your stay. All the bedrooms have fresh linen and opened windows to draw out the closed air. This is a very old house, so there is only one commode and shower on each corner of the house upstairs and one hidden away under the staircase at the end of the foyer. There are chamber pots under each bed and a bowl and pitcher of water on each sideboard. There is a bell pull next to your bed if you need anything, any time. However, that was all explained in the papers you received. Do you have any questions before I bring tea?"
"Yes, I do!” Eartha's voice had an edge the others knew meant she was angry. “Your ‘papers’ said gourmet meals, a swimming pool, a sunbathing verandah, an upgraded antebellum plantation house ... among other things. Where are these amenities? Upgraded? In 1900, maybe! Chamber pots? You have got to be kidding!"
A voice answered from outside the room. “Please, let me introduce myself. I am Mrs. Prudence Atwater, owner of the Black Bayou Plantation. I will answer all of your questions when Mrs. Woodward has brought our tea. Please, Glenda. And do not forget those wonderful sugar sweets you made for us this morning. In the meantime, please introduce yourselves to me. I may be old, but I have a good memory, so one time should be enough."
The age-withered lady they saw had a presence that was hard to define ... a strength and firmness of gentility, but with an aura of hardness that could handle any situation. She was in her seventies, of that they were sure. Her dress was old, but clean, floor length with crinolines, of watered taffeta, dark brown with ecru lace trim. She held an Oriental fan and lacy handkerchief in her left hand, which joined its partner in her lap. Her gray hair showed under her lacy at-home bonnet that matched her dress, and her shoes were buttoned high on her tiny feet. She was no more than five feet tall. She could have stepped out of any Southern home in the 1800s and been rightly attired. She was regal and serene, and as they looked at her, even the anger in Eartha's voice diminished.
Mrs. Atwater pointed her fan first at Windy. Windy was ordinarily shy with new people, but she felt totally at ease with this woman. “I am Windsong Clayton from near Roswell, New Mexico. I am an American Indian, raised on a reservation. My education was paid for mostly by the tribal members with my promise to return to teach school there. I waited tables, sold snacks at a movie theater, and just about anything else I could find to make a few dollars. That included tutoring other students, including this little blonde with the twangy accent, who is my dear friend. I have every intention of paying back my tribe, ten-fold, I hope."
"You are well intentioned, Miss Windy. That is honorable. We must hope nothing changes that for you,” was Mrs. Atwater's reply.
Ellen spoke, unbidden. “Mrs. Atwater, that was a cryptic comment. What could happen to change Windy's intentions?"
"So many things, child. A car accident, death, or whatever. I meant no harm. And now that you have spoken, tell me about yourself."
"I am from Atlanta, the only daughter out of four children, the lady who must be perfect in all things Southern. I am Ellen Scarlett O'Hara Davis, named Ellen after Ms. O'Hara in the book, because my father vetoed calling me Scarlett as a first name. My lineage is of men begot by President Davis, who was sort of a distant relative. My family is Georgian to the core. I am betrothed to Stephan Morgan Beauregard, of the Atlanta Beauregard's, of course. We met at Cotillion for my sixteenth birthday and would have wed then, but for education being an important part of the passage into womanhood."
"Here, here! Well done, Ellen. You would be perfect at any Junior League event,” laughed Windy. “Mrs. Atwater, somewhere in that speech is Ellen, the real Ellen, but she will come out later, you can be sure."
Mrs. Atwater smiled, and her face crinkled into a roadmap of lines that did nothi
ng to take away her former beauty. She pointed her fan at Eartha next. “Mrs. Atwater, I am a simple girl from Birmingham. I had no childhood to speak of, moving hither and yon, so my goal in life is to help children, children of any color, to live normal lives. Normal is a subjective word, but I will strive to achieve it. I raised my three brothers without a mother figure and only a sometimes father figure. There are hundreds, thousands of kids like me needing help, and I am going to give it to them."
"Will you give a ‘normal’ life to your own children?” the old lady asked.
The reply was short and brooked no further questioning: “I will never have children. Ever.” The others were surprised because it was the first time she had every mentioned that aspect of her life, and they'd all thought they knew her inside out.
The fan moved to Marybeth Dawson. “I am the spoiled rotten daughter of a rich oil-man and his society-loving wife. I think I was a mistake, but they took it with their usual aplomb. They have given me everything in the world I wanted, but it would have been nice if they had been around more. The one thing I wanted, even Daddy's money could not buy, although gracious, he tried hard enough. In the end, Mommy said it was not something a woman of my caliber should do, but it hurt nevertheless."
She took a deep breath and finished in a whispery voice. “I wanted to be a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader, but never made it to the final cut, three times trying. So, that sums me up as the shallow brat I am. Do I intend to change? Probably not."
Glenda came in with tea and a platter of cookies, tiny cakes, and tartlets. She set the tray before Mrs. Atwater and stood away behind her. “Thank you, Glenda. Now, ladies, after I have poured, I will try to explain and answer your questions."
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Chapter 3
The foursome watched as she poured their tea as if she were serving royalty. When each had a cup, she offered the plate of goodies to each, insisting they take a variety, as supper would not be until eight P.M., the custom in the South. Marybeth, all size four of her, took three, and then took another. Mrs. Atwater smiled at her. “I had a sister like you once, who ate and ate and ate and was the same size when she died as when she wed. I, on the other hand, seem to get rounder just smelling the wonderful things Glenda cooks. My husband Alfred, bless his soul, said he liked me pleasingly plump. But when he left me, he took my appetite with him.” Her eyes clouded with unshed tears. “I still miss him so. Please, ladies, do excuse me. I am feeling a bit poorly. Feel free to tour the house. It and the grounds are for your use during your visit. All I ask is that you do not wander to the attic level; it is in disrepair, and I do not want anyone hurt up there. Now, Glenda, would you please help me to my room?"