interested in what Father was saying and his unmistakably genuine smile made him seem warm and compassionate.
Yet, even from the space that separated him from her scrutinizing glare, she still felt that unnerving apprehension which had gnawed at her very core from the moment he first looked upon her with his shrewd appraisal. And that trepidation was enough to give her cause to avoid him until he would mercifully leave their home.
That day finally came when the handsome Mexican don bade Father Good-bye with a deep bow and a genuine smile. For Savannah, there was a warm and passionate kiss upon her quivering hand, which he held firmly, yet gently within his palm. And, when he winked a dark brown eye at her and smiled as if they had just shared a secret and intimate dialogue, she blushed deeper than the maroon gown that she wore.
Instinctively, she waved to him when he tipped his black suede hat while he sat pretentiously atop the stallion that pranced anxiously beneath his proud form. She quickly pulled her hand down to join its mirror image at her waist where she rung them together in what she thought was fear. And, once his retreating figure disappeared beyond the bend, she finally let out a breath of relief.
But, for some odd and compelling reason, she found herself missing his attentive stare, his alluring words and his soft, feather-light kisses upon her skin. True, they were only meant for her hand, but somehow, she knew that those lips wanted to find their way to hers, and that silent promise, by God, made her miss him even more.
She pulled in a breath of growing indignation at her body for craving his attention. Then she lifted her skirt for a quick and decisive departure from the veranda on which she stood with her father. Narrowing her eyes at Father’s proud smile, she let out a harrumph and whirled away, leaving him to his glorious triumph. She closed the glass-clad door behind her, but turned to look beyond her gloating parent toward the road onto which the man who had provoked different results in both of them.
He was gone. Good riddance. On with life, she thought as she left the door and crossed the drawing room floor toward the grand staircase that would carry her up to the sanctity of her room. And once she was behind the wooden barrier, she hugged herself to ward off the shaking that seemed to overtake her body.
After long moments of anguished shuddering, she sighed deeply and straightened her back, shaking off the notion that any man, much less that smooth-talking Mexican, could cause her to experience such passion, such pleasure, such panic. With a huff of determination, she thrust the thought of Don Diego from her mind, once and for all.
Thankfully, days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and finally months turned to years, taking with them, the anxious awareness that Savannah yearned for him to return. Time slowly disintegrated her desire for the handsome don to validate the unspoken vow of morality and to take her to places to which she had never dared to voyage: places from which respectable women kept their distance but toward which most of them ached to accelerate. They craved that same passage toward a province of pleasure that propriety denied decent Southern young ladies, yet one that called to them from the deepest recesses of their lonely souls. This avenue of ecstasy that Savannah, herself, had also painfully desired slowly waned with the passing of time.
So, too, did Father’s health decline with the cycle of seasons. He never fully recovered from the gunshot wound to his hip bone, where the bullet had lodged itself, a constant and painful reminder of that horrific night when Sherman’s men had murdered his wife. He took to his bed, only venturing out with the aid of a special-ordered wheeled chair and Savannah behind it.
It was in that wicker-lined chair that Father told her of his plans to have the grandest party ever given in her honor on
Yet, even from the space that separated him from her scrutinizing glare, she still felt that unnerving apprehension which had gnawed at her very core from the moment he first looked upon her with his shrewd appraisal. And that trepidation was enough to give her cause to avoid him until he would mercifully leave their home.
That day finally came when the handsome Mexican don bade Father Good-bye with a deep bow and a genuine smile. For Savannah, there was a warm and passionate kiss upon her quivering hand, which he held firmly, yet gently within his palm. And, when he winked a dark brown eye at her and smiled as if they had just shared a secret and intimate dialogue, she blushed deeper than the maroon gown that she wore.
Instinctively, she waved to him when he tipped his black suede hat while he sat pretentiously atop the stallion that pranced anxiously beneath his proud form. She quickly pulled her hand down to join its mirror image at her waist where she rung them together in what she thought was fear. And, once his retreating figure disappeared beyond the bend, she finally let out a breath of relief.
But, for some odd and compelling reason, she found herself missing his attentive stare, his alluring words and his soft, feather-light kisses upon her skin. True, they were only meant for her hand, but somehow, she knew that those lips wanted to find their way to hers, and that silent promise, by God, made her miss him even more.
She pulled in a breath of growing indignation at her body for craving his attention. Then she lifted her skirt for a quick and decisive departure from the veranda on which she stood with her father. Narrowing her eyes at Father’s proud smile, she let out a harrumph and whirled away, leaving him to his glorious triumph. She closed the glass-clad door behind her, but turned to look beyond her gloating parent toward the road onto which the man who had provoked different results in both of them.
He was gone. Good riddance. On with life, she thought as she left the door and crossed the drawing room floor toward the grand staircase that would carry her up to the sanctity of her room. And once she was behind the wooden barrier, she hugged herself to ward off the shaking that seemed to overtake her body.
After long moments of anguished shuddering, she sighed deeply and straightened her back, shaking off the notion that any man, much less that smooth-talking Mexican, could cause her to experience such passion, such pleasure, such panic. With a huff of determination, she thrust the thought of Don Diego from her mind, once and for all.
Thankfully, days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and finally months turned to years, taking with them, the anxious awareness that Savannah yearned for him to return. Time slowly disintegrated her desire for the handsome don to validate the unspoken vow of morality and to take her to places to which she had never dared to voyage: places from which respectable women kept their distance but toward which most of them ached to accelerate. They craved that same passage toward a province of pleasure that propriety denied decent Southern young ladies, yet one that called to them from the deepest recesses of their lonely souls. This avenue of ecstasy that Savannah, herself, had also painfully desired slowly waned with the passing of time.
So, too, did Father’s health decline with the cycle of seasons. He never fully recovered from the gunshot wound to his hip bone, where the bullet had lodged itself, a constant and painful reminder of that horrific night when Sherman’s men had murdered his wife. He took to his bed, only venturing out with the aid of a special-ordered wheeled chair and Savannah behind it.
It was in that wicker-lined chair that Father told her of his plans to have the grandest party ever given in her honor on