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  Somebody lobbed a throw pillow at her as she ducked and ran upstairs. A few yawns later and the other three followed her, unable to believe they were going to bed so early. And to sleep as well, as no sooner had they hit their pillows than they were asleep. None of them even suspected that Glenda had added a bit of something special to their sweet tea, something to help them rest, she told herself.

  Glenda had looked through their things earlier in the day and waited in the kitchen while James made a quick search through each room while they slept. When he took a chair across from her, he grinned as he sipped his Southern Comfort. “Those two blondes look good enough to eat, and I mean that literally. The squaw is pretty too, but a bit dark for my taste, but I could make an exception."

  "James, you stop that kind of talk. You know how your grandmother feels about that crudeness."

  "Hell, Aunt Glenda. Knock off the prudishness. Your fun and games around the area are no secret. Besides, Grandmamma,” he used the French pronunciation, “was no angel either in her day. Now, back to the blondes ... want to bet me how long it takes me to get in one of their beds?"

  "I certainly do not. I don't want to hear another word about it, either. Furthermore, I would appreciate it if you stopped referring to what you call my ‘fun and games.’ That is all rumors, and you know it."

  James laughed. “Sure, dear Auntie, if that is what you want. But, will you answer me one question? Which of your studs did you enjoy most?"

  He continued to laugh as Glenda turned and left the kitchen, heading to her room. She was furious with him as usual when he taunted her with those kinds of questions. But, she thought, it was a subject she could dwell on inside her mind as she rubbed herself before falling to sleep.

  When Glenda left him, he thought again of those two upstairs, one with golden curls, the other with smooth blonde hair so light it was nearly white. He remembered them in the pool, naked and laughing. The little one sure did like the way that black gal pleasured her. Hell, he knew he could do better.

  She was sound asleep when he entered her room. The moon was bright enough for him to see her naked body on the white sheet. She lay on her side, arm under her head and breasts like large white melons on her tiny chest. Her legs spread like scissors, but she moved into a curled position when he touched her soft butt. He bent to smell her woman scents, feeling his penis hardening. Damn, he wanted her, but then again, he wanted most women. She was not in a deep enough sleep for him to do what he wanted to do, so he moved away and back down the stairs. He went outside to his Jeep and headed to town. Maybe some bayou gal would like to earn a couple dollars.

  Besides, he would do a little gold digging of his own while the four slept the evening before they left. James was not averse to a bit of taking what was not his. Auntie could just make sure they had something special in their sweet tea again, and not wake them until it was late in the morning. The later the better, so they had no time to see that they had everything they planned to take with them. He planned to help himself to most of what they had in their purses and backpacks, but leaving enough for them to make it too far away for them to return. If they did return, he would be long gone until the next guests were departing. Granny and Auntie made money with the Bed and Breakfast, and James made money robbing their guests.

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  Chapter 7

  "Can you believe we slept the clock around? I haven't slept that good since my old mammy used to feed me a concoction of honey and whiskey for a cold or fever when I was a child,” commented Ellen. “So what shall we do today? I would like a nice swim, first thing, with a suit, if you don't mind."

  "Sounds good."

  "Okay with me."

  "Think I'll pass. Got my period and am a bit crampy. I'll grab a book and lay in the shade while you three play water nymphs,” said Eartha.

  Mrs. Woodward came out while they were playing in the water to say, “Mrs. Atwater feels a bit better this morning and requests that you join her in the small dining room for brunch about eleven. That will give you ample time to change into something more fitting.” She did not wait for an answer but turned immediately to reenter the house, her skirt flipping as she walked.

  "I get the impression that she doesn't like us. Maybe I will just ask her why,” said Windy.

  Marybeth grinned. “Leave it to you, Miss Windsong, to confront face to face anyone who threatens you. What tribe did you say you were from? Anyway, dry off and find ‘something more fitting.'” She spun around in an imitation of Mrs. Woodward, kicking up the towel in back as if it were a skirt wrapped around her waist. Their laughter followed them inside and up as three grim faces watched them from the shadows of the stairway.

  * * * *

  In pastel sundresses with combed and groomed hair, the young women sat at the shiny mahogany table in the ‘small dining room,’ which could easily accommodate fourteen, perhaps more. They were awaiting the appearance of their hostess.

  The table was laden with covered, although tarnished, silver dishes, some over warmers. Walls were lined with more dusty paintings of people in attire of the past. The wallpaper was of faded roses, once pink, now barely discernable in the dim light from the heavily covered windows. Only the crystal chandelier gave off light, but it too wore a year's accumulation of dust and webs. A bowl of floating flowers sat before each plate. Marybeth whispered, “Are we supposed to use them for finger bowls, or are they appetizers?"

  They had been waiting for at least fifteen minutes before they heard faint voices moving down the hall toward them. The two women came in and stood by the chair at the head of the table. Ellen, of Atlanta, finely groomed and taught, realized they were expected to stand until the hostess was seated. She stood, and the others followed suit, a bit embarrassed at their faux pas.

  When Mrs. Atwater was seated, she said, “Good morning, ladies. We will eat most informally this morning, passing the dishes along, helping ourselves. Glenda has errands in town and will be gone most of the day. Let us begin.” She removed the lid from the serving dish closest to her, took a small portion of green salad, and passed it to Marybeth, who sat at her right. When it reached a bewildered Windy at the end, Mrs. Atwater said, “Just set it in the middle of the table, dear, and the person across from you will reach it and pass it on. I know this is not generally the way gentile folks dine, but we will have to make do without Glenda for now."

  Whether she was giving Windy an out for her lack of manners or stating what she thought was the case, all were relieved, especially Windy. When the salad was back in its place, Mrs. Atwater began to eat, indicating the others should also. This routine continued with only little conversation until dessert was finished. The foursome felt relief, as the entire meal seemed a chore rather than a pleasant experience, although every morsel was a pleasure to taste.

  Mrs. Atwood slid her chair back and nodded to Eartha. “Would you be so good as to assist me to the parlor? Also, would you three go to the kitchen and make some tea, or coffee, if you prefer? Later if you like, you can bring the lovely morsels Glenda will have left us on the sideboard. We will go to the parlor, watch the rain, and listen to the thunderstorm that will soon be on us. Today, I will tell you a bit about Black Bayou Plantation and its history. All my guests want to know after they have been here a day. They tell me this place just begs to share its heritage, and I am always pleased to comply."

  * * * *

  The kitchen was a mixture of antique and mid-eighties. A large table, marred by years of use, stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by six chairs. Deep cupboards lined most of the walls. A door by the back door led down to the cellar, and another one opened into a huge pantry. There was an old icebox sitting by a huge refrigerator. Doors opened between the cabinets, one to the large ornate dining room, and another to a smaller dining room. An ironing board was unfolded from its place behind a door. Everything was dark wood, making the entire room dark even on a sunny day.

  The girls looked around as they
began to prepare the tea. “Check out those cast-iron things hanging from the walls and ceilings. And the graniteware dishes and cups,” pointed out Marybeth. “They are probably worth a fortune in a Dallas or Atlanta antique store. Graniteware. Some of those grim-looking things in the glass cupboards are very old Prussian and German China, older than sin."

  "I did not know you were an expert on this kind of stuff,” Windy commented.

  "If you knew my mother, you would understand. She thinks that anything old is antique. She loves Europe and sends crates of stuff home when she and Daddy are on one of their vacations.” Marybeth laughed then. “Vacations from what, I have always wondered, because all they do is play golf and entertain. No, no, that is not quite true. Sometimes they take a cruise out of Galveston, but that is not a vacation, just a cruise. However, if they fly to Miami or Ft. Lauderdale to a ship, that is a vacation, not a cruise. If anyone can explain it to me, I would be delighted to hear.” Everyone laughed.

  "It must be nice to have endless amounts of money,” said Windy, but without envy. It was a flat-out statement.

  Ellen finally joined the conversation. “Not necessarily. Money can be a real nuisance, whether you or Eartha believe it or not. Things must be socially perfect at all times. It is improper to ride a horse without a side-saddle, to wear shorts or tank tops in public, to have a torn fingernail or toenail, to talk to those below your station in life ... shall I go on? And none of that ‘poor little rich girl’ stuff. That is why I like college so much. No one always looking over my shoulder ... tsking, tsking all the time."

  "So,” Windy said, “you never explained how you managed not pledging to one of the hoity-toity sororities."

  "Come on, Wind ... I was far too ill for ten days to even consider the number of events and crap we were supposed to do,” said Marybeth, in an outburst of giggles.

  Ellen grinned. “The Greeks that my mother deemed acceptable were already full, mostly of daughters of alums, and of course, Mommy would not want me in an unacceptable one. I suggested a couple, knowing what her reaction would be, and you could have heard her reply clear down here. It took years to learn how to lie convincingly, but I succeeded. And very well, might I add."

  * * * *

  Back in the parlor, they were all settled when they heard the first crack of thunder in the distance. It had turned dark outside, almost as if it were dusk rather than before noon. Flames flickered in the fireplace. The drabness of the room seemed to melt away as the rain changed from sprinkles to showers. Somehow, it was warm and comforting here with Mrs. Atwater, who finally began to speak.

  "The original plantation house was a tar shack that later became the first building in the slave quarters. Old family tales say that my great-grandfather, Jonah Black, came here in the early 1800s, laid claim to and farmed the land, and married a half-white Indian woman called Five Feathers, who bore him five children. Their stones are in a small cemetery apace from the house, due north on the hill, if you are inclined to look there. It is quite ornate, even by Southern standards. We Southerners appreciate the need to show our ancestors our love for them.

  "The plantation was named after my family, not the Bayou, but that was a fact that few cared to recall, or believe for that matter. My grandfather was Caleb, youngest of the children and the only one to reach maturity. He claimed acres, then more acres, and planted it in sugarcane. He made a fortune with which he bought slaves, many slaves, and even more land. At one time, Black Plantation was the largest in the state. Which state, they never knew for sure then as its boundaries followed the river, which changed its course after each great flood.

  "Caleb had several offspring by various slave women, but they were never considered family nor even acknowledged. His first wife was Thelma Comstock, who died delivering their first child. That child was my father, Marcus. Caleb married again. This second wife was Jenny O'Connor, who gave birth to a pair of twin girls, Abigail and Ascension. The girls and their mother died of the Great Plague of the mid 1880s. His last wife was Delia Devereaux, a Frenchwoman, whom he met and wed in New Orleans during a week of debauchery. She showed she was in a family way very soon, so there was always doubt whether her child Duncan was a Black or a bastard."

  She stopped to refill her tea and asked, “Do you have any questions before I continue, or would you like to stop for now?"

  Almost as one, they urged her to continue. Ellen asked, “Your advertisement said this was a cotton plantation, no mention of sugar. When did it change?"

  "That is a very good question. It became both sugar and cotton when the cost of cotton in Europe became lucrative for us, and many others, to supply. Soon the sugar part dwindled to just a few ton a year, enough to supply our neighbors, ourselves, and a few small towns nearby. That was just before the war between the states. My father, my uncle Duncan, and my grandfather all worked together to keep the plantation running during that time of strife. My grandfather worried that his name would die off if his sons met their maker before producing offspring.

  "So he suggested formally and firmly to his sons that whichever produced a legitimate male heir first would inherit the cotton plantation, while the other would get the sugar portion. Note I said “legitimate,” as both sons had several offspring in the slave quarters.

  "Duncan was the first to wed. She was a blonde, named Carolina, from the shantytown a few miles from here. She was large with child when he announced their nuptials. Grandfather said the child could be anyone's and stated that the boy child must be the fruit of a real marriage. Duncan was incensed that his father suggested Carolina might have been with someone beside himself and challenged his father to a duel.

  "Of course, dueling was illegal, even back here in the deep swamp lands, but it did not make any difference to them. They met under yon oak trees one December morning, and Grandfather fired one shot, leaving his second-born son dead on the ground. Carolina was in tears and begged to stay as a daughter-in-law, but Grandfather was a hard man, and within minutes of her husband's death, she was escorted back to the squalid home of her trashy family."

  Prudence Atwater laid her head against the back of her chair and closed her eyes. Her face relaxed, and she breathed out a small snore. The women looked at one another and then nodded. Windy picked up a folded quilt from one of the divans and gently covered the old woman. They tiptoed out and closed the heavy door behind them.

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  Chapter 8

  "Let's go outside and watch the storm,” suggested Windy. “I have always liked the thunder and lightning, even as a child. The verandah is covered, and the bar is always open, right?"

  They poured their drinks and sat, all facing the brooding sky that periodically gave them a light show and earsplitting booms. Marybeth said, “Sure sounds like the old man was a heartless codger to kill his own son like that. Surely, Duncan knew or suspected the baby was not his and agreed to wait for a second one. Honor or no honor, was it worth dying for? Maybe he just didn't think his dad would follow through."

  "Oh, I think the young wife could have stopped it herself by simply telling the truth. It would have been better for her ... and her husband and child, if she had simply said she was not sure who the father was. If she had loved Duncan and cared about her future, she would have tried to stop the whole thing before it got to the killing stage. She probably knew it was not his baby but thought they could buffalo the old man into thinking it was. Dumb broad!” commented Eartha.

  They tossed comments back and forth as the storm intensified. After a moment of quiet, Ellen commented, “You know, this storm reminds me of how it was before that hurricane when we were freshmen. Do you suppose this is the start of one? I think maybe we should find out and leave here if it is. This is not the most secure place we have ever been. What do you think?"

  "Has anyone seen a radio or television set since we got here?” asked Eartha. No one had.

  Marybeth said she would run out to her car and see what she could find on the
radio there. She came back, drenched, to say her battery was dead. Windy put a towel over her head and returned from her pickup with the same results.

  Marybeth said she was going to the barn and checking the other outbuilding to see if she could find that rude man who'd rescued them from the alligators or the black man who had brought their luggage. She left, and after she had not returned in half an hour, they decided to all search for her.

  The barn was dark and warm, and things scurried along the floor when they opened the door. It was so heavy that it took two of them to wrestle it ajar enough for them to enter. “How could little Marybeth have gotten inside by herself?” Windy questioned. They called her name repeatedly with no reply.

  They ran through the rain, mud now up to the calves of their legs, to the other three buildings they could see. One was a chicken coop with dozens of noisy hens, another dug down like a fruit cellar that held bags of potatoes, onions, and the like. The last was a small house with a locked door. They pounded and called her name, until finally the door opened a crack, and the black man peeked out at them.

  "Have you seen Marybeth? That is, the other blonde girl with us?” Ellen demanded. “Or that white man we ran into at the water? We can't find our friend, and we are getting scared. Will you help us look?"

  He nodded and went back into the cabin. A dim light bulb hung over a table in what was apparently the kitchen. There was a stove, refrigerator, many cabinets, and three doors opening into unseen rooms. He returned from one of the rooms with a rain slicker and sat a moment at the table to slip on his knee-high boots. Only then did he speak. “You ladies dun got youselfs soaked. Best go back to big house and dry. Henry here, he look for your friend."

  They ran back though the torrent, stopping at the edge of the house to rinse off their legs and feet in the warm water from an old cement cauldron that might have once been a planter. Back on the verandah, they dried off and went into the house. They ran upstairs to check her bedroom, calling as they charged down the hall. Her door was unlocked and slightly ajar, but she was not there. They went to their own room to change into dry clothes. Eartha glanced out her balcony doors, unable to believe her eyes. She yelled, “Come here. Hurry. Something is wrong as hell."