Ciji Ware (5 page)

Corlis said quickly, “You’re a guest, Daphne. Only play at the reception if you feel like it.”

Daphne smiled gratefully at Corlis, then said to their hostess, “Do you mind if I have a closer look?”

“No, of course not. Please do.”

“My cousin Madeline Whitaker, at Bluff House, also has a very old one—which is probably why I never considered taking up the tuba,” Daphne volunteered with a wry smile.

“As I’m sure you know,” Lani said, laughing, “Natchez is a town where there’s a harp in practically every parlor. Feel free to try it out.”

Corlis and Lani headed for the back courtyard to confer on canapés and the merits of various champagnes. Meanwhile, Daphne sat down on a round, pale blue, velvet-covered stool next to the antique instrument. She hiked up her black gored traveling skirt and drew the harp between her legs, briefly considering the sensuousness of such a motion while she nestled the sound box gently against the top of her breast and her right shoulder. Compared to her massive concert harp, this one felt almost cozy. She strummed the opening chords of the teatime favorite “Greensleeves,” then halted abruptly. Resting the palms of her hands to quiet the vibrating strings, she headed a sigh. The harp was, indeed, in tune. That wasn’t the problem. The trouble was, she honestly didn’t think she could stand to play that boring old chestnut one more time.

A Bach cantata?

The mere thought of a classical piece of music reminded her of the concert taking place without her at Lincoln Center and the memory of Rafe Oberlin angrily gesturing for her to leave his office. Suddenly, she experienced an avalanche of anxiety she had previously managed to keep in check. She forced herself to take a cleansing breath to fight a deepening sense of depression. Then she sat bolt upright on the stool and tilted her chin skyward. She lifted her fingers from the strings and brought them down again, stroking the notes of a blues favorite, “Georgia on My Mind,” to calm her nerves. The music resonated from the harp and filled her chest in mellow waves as she began to sing in her husky lower register.

“Geor-gia
…
Geor-gia
…
the
who-ole da-ay long
…
”

Man, she thought, did it improve her outlook to sing like this and pull funky jazz chords from an antique harp. It was during moments like these that she realized how thoroughly bored she’d become with most popular classical music. She was also tired of her “angelic harp persona” and the halo of shoulder-length curly blond hair that served to reinforce it. Occasionally, she imagined herself playing her gilded instrument while wearing a leather miniskirt and a chain bustier like Madonna in her bad-girl days—just for the shock value. When she’d once told King about her musical daydream, he’d laughed and challenged her, saying “Why don’t you try it sometime?”

She never would, of course. It was just a fantasy she conjured on days when she wearied of playing too many crowd-pleasers. Even so, her brother’s words echoed in her head as she launched into the second chorus of the sultry tune.

She heard a door open, and footsteps. Then a tall figure loomed in the wide entrance dividing the hotel’s foyer from the double parlors. The thirtysomething man wore a forest-green polo shirt under a khaki vest studded with half a dozen bulging pockets, along with khaki slacks, leather hiking boots, and two professional-looking cameras slung around his neck. He was holding a collapsed tripod in one hand and had just deposited a duffel bag at his feet, as if he had appeared straight out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. His features wore a look of expectancy. He smiled slightly and nodded encouragement for her to keep playing as he settled himself comfortably against the doorjamb.

She felt like smiling at the stranger and did, thereby gaining a closer look at his handsome, strongly defined nose, chiseled cheekbones, and a chin that suggested one of those brooding models with a five o’clock shadow in the Calvin Klein ads—except that the friendly intruder appeared to be in a very good mood. For some reason, she wasn’t embarrassed to be discovered singing a provocative blues number at the top of her lungs. She returned her gaze to the harp’s strings and her full attention to the tune’s mesmerizing cadences and slow, languid rhythms.

Like Lot’s wife, she couldn’t resist another surreptitious peek at the visitor. However, at that instant, her vision unaccountably began to gray around the edges. The handsome photographer in khaki slacks and vest leaning against the entrance to the parlor at Monmouth Plantation had subtly been transformed into a young man from some other century who appeared to have recently dismounted a horse. Now, he was wearing a dark green, swallow-tailed riding jacket with a fountain of lace-edged linen at his throat. His knee-high riding boots and the thighs of his buff-colored breeches were caked with Mississippi mud. His dark hair glistened with sweat and he clutched a riding crop, which he beat repeatedly against the palm of his other hand, as if he were trying to make some sort of momentous decision.

What
in
the
world?

Daphne was thoroughly rattled by the photographer’s inexplicable metamorphosis and wondered suddenly if Rafe’s dismissal and seeing Jack Ebert again, so unexpectedly, had sent her way, way over the edge.

Chapter 2

As swiftly as the misty vision of a dismounted horseman appeared before Daphne’s eyes, it vanished, and the tall photographer reappeared, smiling appreciatively from across the parlor at Monmouth Plantation. Bewildered, Daphne threw her head back, closed her eyes, and continued singing, segueing into the musical bridge of “Georgia on My Mind.”

“Other arms reach out to me
…
other
eyes
smile
tenderly
…
”

When, finally, she finished the song, she rested her hands on her thighs and allowed the harp’s last notes to linger in the air. Absolute quiet descended upon the old house. Slowly, she turned her head and experienced enormous relief to see that the photographer was still standing there. From all indications, the absurdly good-looking figure was as real as the Canon and Nikon cameras he now removed and set carefully on top of his small duffel bag. He regarded her as if they were old friends.

“Thank you for not stopping when you saw me.”

Her breath caught when he pushed his shoulder away from the door frame and took a step toward the harp. She glanced self-consciously at her callused fingertips and her blunt, unvarnished nails and curled them into her palms.

“Well…” she said slowly, shaken by the distinct feeling that she had somehow fallen in and out of some crazy time warp, “‘Greensleeves’ it ain’t!”

The stranger laughed at her joke, which pleased her immensely somehow.

“I’ve never heard a harp played like that before,” the man said. “Like a blues guitar… or a bass fiddle.”

“I rarely play jazz on the harp—or sing, either—that’s for sure,” Daphne admitted ruefully, suddenly embarrassed by her flamboyant exhibition. “Not in public, at least. Only as backup a couple of times at a blues club owned by a friend’s family in New Orleans,” she amended, feeling more foolish by the second. “I was just testing out this old harp.”

He advanced a few more steps into the parlor where he towered over the Victorian furniture. Extending his hand, he volunteered, “Hello. I’m Sim Hopkins.”

“Sim?”

“Short for Simon. If you heard my triple-barreled name, you’d understand why I go by Sim.”

“I know the feeling. I’m Daphne Whitaker Duvallon,” she said with a laugh, shaking hands.

“Will you be playing here later?”

“At my brother’s wedding at First Presbyterian Church tomorrow, and maybe at the reception here.”

“Oh. A private party.”

There was a pause, and then she surprised herself by asking, “Are… ah… you staying here at Monmouth?”

“I’m
sleeping
here, at least,” he answered with a faint grimace. “Most of the time I’m either on my belly in the woods or hip-deep in some swamp. I’ve taken a room here for a week or two, using this place as a base while I work on a book.”

“Oh, really? What’s it about?” she asked, filled with curiosity.

“It’s going to photographically document the series of birds painted by John James Audubon in this area some… oh… hundred and eighty years ago. At least the ones that aren’t extinct.”

“No kidding? The naturalist?” Daphne said, impressed. “A coffee table book?”

He laughed. “I guess that’s what everybody calls them. And a calendar, too. I sold the idea to a publisher that specializes in nature books and related products.”

She pushed the harp away from her shoulder and stood up. “What a great assignment. Then, you must know that Audubon lived in Natchez for a while, and taught painting to the daughter of the owners of Oakley Plantation, down toward St. Francisville.”

“That’s right,” Sim said, smiling broadly as if she were a kindred spirit. “I was shooting there just last week.”

“And have you been over yet to the house on Washington Street, here in Natchez? I can’t remember who told me that Audubon supposedly rented a room there when he did his famous drawing of the town.”

“I
didn’t
know that,” he said admiringly. “You live here, yes?”

“I grew up in New Orleans but have relatives in Natchez. Actually, I live in New York. Believe it or not,” she added, laughing at herself, “despite what you just heard, I make my living as a classical musician. Where do
you
live?”

“San Francisco… when I live anywhere,” he said, making his nomadic wanderings sound glamorous, indeed. No, she thought, except for his amazing good looks, he didn’t seem the moody, handsome model sort at all. “I’ve been reading all the biographies about Audubon’s life I can get my hands on,” he continued, “but I hadn’t come across the reference to Washington Street. So thanks. I’ll check it out.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, pleased she was able to enlighten him in his own area of expertise. “I imagine that you know a lot about botany and zoology, since Audubon depicted the birds in their natural habitat.”

“Exactly,” he acknowledged. “But the natural science is the easy part of the job. I’m a science writer, too.”

“Really? How’d you end up combining the two careers?”

“In college, I majored in science, like my parents wanted me to, but I spent most of my time as photography editor of the yearbook. When I got out of grad school, I was torn between the two, so I found a way to do both.”

“That’s pretty impressive.” She recalled the endless wrangles with her parents—even as a college student—whenever she went with Althea to listen to jazz in the French Quarter. Like a good little magnolia-in-training, she’d never dared perform anything but pieces like “Greensleeves” and “Claire de Lune” for her mother’s parties. Wouldn’t Antoinette Kingsbury Duvallon have thrown a fit if her daughter had launched into a sultry rendition of “Georgia on My Mind” in front of her Garden District friends?

“Well, thanks for the compliment,” he replied, interrupting her thoughts. “Combining both careers turned out to be a happy compromise. And I still like my work,” he added with an engaging grin, “so it must have been an okay decision.”

And he’s
very
charming, she thought.

Just then, Corlis and Lani Riches entered the parlor through the open door from the courtyard.

“I never heard you sing on your own before,” Corlis exclaimed, gesturing toward an open window. “Maybe you’d consider doing a few songs like
that
at the reception, to give us all a break from the ‘Oh Promise Me’ stuff—” The bride-to-be halted in her tracks at the sight of Sim Hopkins. “Oh… sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Hello, Mr. Hopkins,” Lani said, also advancing into the room. She introduced Corlis to the photographer, and then asked, “Did you have a successful day scouting birds?”

“I was a success at sitting in the bushes in your back acreage for three hours, waiting for a yellow-rumped warbler to show up,” he replied, shaking his head with mild annoyance, “but I definitely was
not
a success getting the rascal to perch anywhere for more than a second. It’ll be interesting to see what I finally got on my camera.”

Turning to Daphne, Lani inquired, “And how did the harp sound to you?”

“It’s lovely. You’ve kept it in wonderful shape, considering how old it is.”

“Coming from you, I consider that a high compliment.”

“Well,” Corlis said with a smile of satisfaction, “Lani and I just nailed the menu, figured out the wines, and approved the flowers she ordered. And even though King has spent the college fund of our firstborn on the champagne, I think this reception is ready to launch.”

Daphne was acutely aware of the highly masculine presence of Sim Hopkins standing among three women engaging in “boring gal talk”—as her father Waylon was wont to describe such female exchanges. However, Sim appeared intrigued by their conversation.