Southern Hearts Read Free Page B

syllables were uttered.
    She slapped her hand over the paper, folding it and setting it to the side. “Well, perhaps later we can discuss this further.” She stood up. “For right now, it will have to be left on the back burner. I’m meeting my ladies’ group at Charenton Gardens at four p.m. I have to rush if I’m going to make it on time.”
    She turned, stepping away from me, and then turned back. “Will you be here later?”
    “Probably!” Fiercely I slammed my body back down into the chair.
    “I’m glad you’re home.” She put her hand atop mine, patting it like the congratulatory touch given a toddler who had just gone number two on the big potty.
    The members of my mother’s women’s group, the beak-and-hen society that called themselves the Old Magpies—bird-watching enthusiasts, as they titled it—spent their leisurely afternoons under the twirling fringe of their parasols, the plumes of their gargantuan Edwardian hats molting in the heat below sagging chinaberry trees tinseled with moss, their binoculars hanging on their necks like loose-fitting cravats. Their conversations were tidbits of gossip whispered under their breath as they lounged atop the plastic strips of their lawn chairs, one ear toward the wooded groves for the squawk of the eastern kingbird or orchard oriole or for a glimpse at the boat-tailed grackle or purple martin. It was an odd hobby, but it kept my mother busy and out of the ever-so-aging hair of the rest of us.
    Marney appeared from the archway, stood behind me, and began kneading my shoulders with her strong fingers. Talking to my mother always caused a surge of pain to shoot up my back, tensing my neck and knotting into a headache with the tenacity of an inoperable brain tumor.
    “You know she doesn’t mean the things she says, it’s just her way, sugar. She really is glad you’re home, even though she may not show it.”
    I leaned back into the padded cushion of my chair, throwing my sandaled feet into a crossed pose over the arm as I let out a huff.
    “Now, how about some lunch?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Skinny...skinny, you’re gonna waste away into nothin’!” She shook her head as she replaced the teakettle lid, collected the dishes from the table, heaped them into tiers atop the lacquered serving tray, and headed back inside.
    I grinned boldly, pulling my drink to my lips and allowing the melting cubes of ice to drip onto my chin. It was nearing three p.m., and the temperature elevated with each progressing moment until it was almost unbearably sticky. I sat under the shade of the overhang, watching the water in the distance. It was the dark color of rust, with shallow trunks of bald cypress trees poking through its surface. Maiden grass specked with blue and green spikelets moved in twin motion to the soft pushing breeze. The lawn had been freshly mowed, tiny cuttings still clumped to its top as the aroma of severed blades filled the air. The landscape around the property had been recently tended to; the hedges of laurel were now clipped and parted to reveal the small gatehouse and the crisscrossed slats riveted into place on the as-yet undecorated platform my mother had erected near the bank for the party.
    “Hello,” an unexpected voice called from the steps just to my side.
    “Hi.” I turned, shading my eyes with my hands as I looked at the figure that was now standing in front of me.
    As my eyes adjusted to the glare, a young woman came into view as she stood before me, wiping beads of sweat from her brow. She was around twenty-one if I gave her a day, and the sparkling hazel of her eyes caught the piercing blue of mine as the sunlight swiped across her cheek. She was imposingly tall, a good six-footer. I thought basketball player , though I didn’t allow myself to linger on the stereotype. If I were standing she would have towered over my meek-by-comparison five foot eight inches, though as I worked my stare from her collarbone down over her calves, I