Envy(51)

“Then there’s a romantic myth about the love affair between a white overseer and a beautiful slave woman. It’s told that their affair was looked upon with such vicious disfavor that they were cast off the island in a small boat. It’s said they were bound for Charleston, but folks watching their departure through spyglasses reported that they saw them capsize and perish, which many thought was a befitting punishment.

“However, years later, a colony of mulattos was discovered living peacefully on another sea island previously thought to be uninhabited. These people were believed to be the descendants of the mixed couple and the survivors of a shipwrecked slave ship. They were an incredibly handsome clan. Some had skin the color of café au lait and eyes as green as jade.

“A visiting French nobleman, who was deep-sea fishing in the area, sought refuge from a storm on their island. While he was there, one of the nubile young ladies caught his eye and captured his heart. They married and he took all her family back to France with him. Where they lived happ’ly ever after.”

Maris drew in a long, slow breath. “You tell good stories, Parker.”

“It’s a fable. Probably untrue.”

“It’s still a good story.”

“So you’re a romantic?”

“Unabashed.” She smiled, then said, “You know a lot about the gin. Was your family in the cotton business?”

“I think my great-granddaddy picked it by hand during the Depression. But so did just about every able-bodied person in the South. Women, children, blacks, whites, all struggling to survive. Hunger doesn’t discriminate.”

“What did your father do?”

“Physician. Family practice. The gamut. From delivering babies to lancing boils.”

“Is he retired?”

He shook his head. “He couldn’t break a forty-year habit, and he couldn’t heal himself when lung cancer caught up with him. He died long before he should have.”

“And your mother?”

“Outlived him twelve years. She died several years ago. And before you ask, I’m an only child.”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

After registering momentary surprise that he knew that, she said, “Oh. The article.”

“Yeah.”

Several strands of hair had come loose from her ponytail and were lying against her nape. The wheat-colored strands appeared slightly damp and curled from the humidity. He caught himself staring at them.

He looked away to clear his vision. “Yeah, that article was chock-full of information about you, your father, and your husband. What’s he like?”

“Very robust. Especially for a man of seventy-eight.”

“I meant your husband. Is he also very robust?”

“We agreed not to ask any personal questions.”

“That’s personal? What don’t you want me to know about your husband?”

“Nothing. It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“I followed you here to talk about Envy.”

“Want to sit down?”

Apparently confused by his sudden shift of topic, she shook her head. “There’s nowhere to sit.” She glanced at the beams overhead. “Besides, it’s creepy under here.”

He swept his arm toward the front part of the building and she preceded him from beneath the overhang. Her attention was drawn to a circle of bricks in the dirt floor. They were stacked two deep, forming an enclosure roughly five feet in diameter. “What’s that?”

“Careful,” Parker warned as he quickly rolled his chair to her side. “That’s an abandoned well.”

“Why in here?”

“One of the more innovative patriarchs of the cotton dynasty decided to convert the gin to steam power. He began digging this well for the water supply, but died of diphtheria before the project was completed. His heir abandoned the idea as impractical. Rightly, I believe. It wasn’t economically feasible for the amount of their production.”

She peered over the rim of bricks into the darkness of the hole. “How deep is it?”

“Deep enough.”

“For what?”

After holding her gaze for a moment, he backed up, then wheeled past her. He hitched his chin toward an upended crate. “That’ll do for a perch if you’re not too particular.”

After testing the crate’s sturdiness, she gingerly sat down on the rough wood.

“Be careful of splinters,” he warned. “Although my picking them out of the backs of your thighs is a bewitching thought.”

She shot him a withering look. “I’ll take care not to fidget.”

“I’m sure I would enjoy extracting the splinters, but I’m equally sure your very robust husband wouldn’t approve.”

“Was that thunder?”

“Changing the subject, Maris?”

“Yes.”

Grinning, he glanced over his shoulder toward the open door. It had grown noticeably darker outside as well as in. “Afternoon thunderstorms frequently boil up during the summer. Sometimes they pass over in an hour or less, sometimes they linger through the night. You never can tell.” Overhead the first raindrops struck the roof with fat-sounding slaps.

She inhaled deeply. “You can smell the rain.”