Postmark Bayou Chene (12 page)

When she stopped to take a breath, so did the listeners. Then she was off again.

“Working the boats is a good way to save money 'cause there's nowhere to spend it. It didn't take long for us to figger out that throwing in together made more good sense than bad. Since he'd lost everything trying to prove hisself to a black dog and a wild-ass buck, we used my stash to buy this flatboat and some supplies. Got married on the way out of Natchez.”

Heads bobbed back and forth following the violet umbrella as it punctuated the rest of the story about their trip down the rivers to the post office dock. The only contribution Sam made was an occasional affirmation in response to “Ain't that right, Sam, you correct me if I'm wrong,” before she was off again. Sam blinked slowly but never corrected her on a single point.

When the newcomers asked about a place to tie up and settle in, Adam gave them directions to an old homestead up Graveyard Bayou.

“Been vacant as long as I can remember—you'll see it just past the cemetery,” he told them. “Won't take much work to make that old dock sound, and there's even a slab shack on the bank until you build something better. A houseboat's your best bet until you decide where you want to stay for good. Find out where you going to be fishing and such.”

Val and Fate helped them load supplies the woman had purchased. The dog scurried back and forth in excitement. Sam settled C.B. into her chair and then, without looking up, made a little clicking sound with his tongue.

“Load up, Maggie.”

Drifter bounded down the plank walk, but when she reached the dock, instead of jumping in the boat, she stood and barked. Then she ran back up the bank to the porch, looking behind at Sam. She flew back and forth twice more without stopping.

“Maggie, git on in here now. We need to go,” Sam called.

Obediently, she jumped off the porch and headed back down the walk but not with abandon this time. She walked purposefully but then stopped halfway. Her eyes locked onto Sam's. She strained with stillness. Only the tip of her tail moved back and forth, ever so slightly. He blinked. She didn't.

“Maggie, I mean it. I'm untying this line.” He bent over the knot. She watched. He held her eyes briefly, once more, before turning his back.

“Well, stay if you want, it matters none to me,” he said, but his voice sagged.

He turned his back to her and pushed the pole against the dock; the flat eased into the current. Sam continued poling them away without looking up to wave good-bye. C.B. made up for his dismissal by shouting, “Ya'll come see us when we get settled,” and waving madly until they disappeared around the bend. The dog whined and watched until they were out of sight but didn't move to follow along the bank.

“Whew, what a trial to be trapped with that woman on a flatboat day and night!” Adam said, shaking his head as he turned toward the kitchen. “No wonder that man doesn't have much to say.”

Roseanne stood with her arms folded across her bosom, sniffing in the way Adam had come to know. He stopped in the doorway and turned.

“I wonder what he'd have to say if he knew she was in here wanting to buy French female pills to get rid of her baby,” she said.

8

“Mr. Snellgrove, this just won't do!” Roseanne bustled into the kitchen, where Adam was standing over a black iron skillet. “I'm not a person to just sit and wait for disaster to strike!”

“And I'd be amiss to take you for one, Mrs. Barclay.” Adam couldn't look up at that crucial moment of stirring a handful of flour into a pool of melting lard. He knew it had to be quick and smooth. Let the tiniest bit of flour scorch, and the roux would turn bitter as quinine. Nothing to do with it then but throw it out. He knew enough about that from the times he had tried to sneak in some reading while cooking.

“And what impending disaster might this be?” he asked, when the roux had smoothed to silk. Nothing to do now until it turned the color of chocolate on bottom and needed stirring again. He glanced up at Roseanne's flushed face.

“Humiliation, Mr. Snellgrove,” she sniffed. “I'm in danger of being severely humiliated.”

He had come to recognize her sniff and knew that sometimes she also used it to breathe in the fragrance of something he was cooking. He could tell that skillet of browning roux was on her mind in a powerful way. Adam's gaze stayed on her face when he dropped in the chopped onions, then the bell pepper and garlic. She didn't even know what he was making, but those smells were getting the best of whatever she was upset about. He lowered his eyes so she couldn't see the merriment in them. Mrs. Barclay didn't take kindly to not being taken seriously.

She drew in another breath as deep as her waist would allow, which wasn't much. In fact, it was tighter than when she had worn it the week before. He remembered it because the russet color made her eyes less black, warmer somehow. Adam knew all about russet, just another one of those things you have to know if you are going to help women shop from a catalog. Don't let them order russet if they really want plain brown or bright red. You'll be sending it right back.

Right then Mrs. Barclay's eyes were as black as the jet combs holding up her hair, and her cheeks looked rosy like she'd been running. Then he remembered the sound of crates and barrels dragging around the store all morning. She must have been putting away stock whenever there was a lull between customers. He'd never had a chance to get ahead like that since the drownings. Was that a decade ago? As far as he knew, some of the things she shelved might have been sitting there since that fateful night.

Roseanne blew out a breath, and a curl that had sneaked out of her combs puffed out with it. She must have kept on talking while he was thinking about russet.

“I know we agreed that I would assist in the store in exchange for room and board until my husband sends passage for me,” she said. “But I find my clothes are not suited to the work. Why just now I had to open a bottle of smelling salts to keep from fainting. Not only does that deplete the inventory, Mr. Snellgrove, but what if I had fainted and someone saw me fall out right onto the floor, with my skirts all askew and my hair falling down, unconscious, not even knowing who was looking at me?”

She sniffed at the image. “I might well die from the humiliation.”

He pondered the scene for himself, and it wasn't until she “ahemmed” with another puff of air that he ventured into the stream of that particular conversation.

“Your husband will probably send for you before it comes to that, Mrs. Barclay—didn't you write him a letter about your mishap? Surely he'll be sending passage for you soon.”

“Well, most certainly,” she snapped, with more force than seemed necessary. Her eyes glided up and to the side in that way she had, bringing to mind how a fish in a trap swims right past your hands until sometimes you have to drain all the water out before you can catch it.

“But there's no telling how long it will take for that letter to find him,” she continued in that slippery way. “Perhaps he's not even staying at the same establishment this trip. The reality is, Mr. Snellgrove, I may be here longer than I first expected, and my traveling clothes simply won't do. I propose that you consider adding a small wage to my food and lodging in exchange for me taking on more responsibility for your business. Even you must have noticed more goods are actually being sold now that it's easier for your customers to find what they are looking for and that I am on hand to actually collect payment, rather than allowing people to just pay when they feel like it. Mr. Snellgrove, as I've heard my own father and husband say many times: ‘When it comes to profit, management wins over product any day of the week!'”

“Well, Mrs. Barclay, I won't argue with you there,” he admitted. “I never did have a head for this stuff, and it just came to be too blamed much for one man to stay on top of. I tell you what, how's $1.75 a week sound? We can keep it up as long as what you are doing around here brings that much extra. I can advance you two weeks' wages to order them frocks.”

“You have yourself a manager, Mr. Snellgrove,” she said right back. Then she stuck out her hand to seal the bargain. He passed the cooking spoon to his other hand and held hers but a moment. Then she swept away across the dogtrot, leaving him to ponder what he had just done.

9

Loyce was still mulling over the business transaction she'd heard from the kitchen when Mrs. Barclay tap-tap-tapped across the dogtrot to the store. In two more seconds she was tapping back again and settling into the chair across the porch. Loyce knew that when people had something to read, they sat with their back to the outside, so she wasn't surprised when pages started rustling across the way. She could tell it was the catalog used to order everything from the canned goods on the shelves to mule harnesses.

She hadn't learned much about Mrs. Barclay in the few weeks the mysterious woman had lived upstairs, but one thing was sure—if something needed doing, she hopped right on it. No jawing and worrying or trying to talk herself out of it, like some people do. Loyce had lost count of the times Fate had hit on a scheme to make quick money and then talked it over, around, and upside down until the notion passed. His mouth ran away from his brain every time.

Mrs. Barclay, now, she was just the opposite. Some idea for an improvement would come to her, and she would dive in without stopping to tell Adam or Loyce. The next thing they knew, pattern books and sewing supplies were all together in one corner of the store. Mule collars, saddles, and other bulky items hung from the rafters instead of lying in heaps on the floor.

Loyce couldn't imagine going back to the way they lived before Mrs. Barclay. She knew how to keep things moving in the right direction, for sure. They never ran out of clean clothes anymore. Loyce didn't have to worry about grabbing a handful of fishhooks that weren't supposed to be on the kitchen table or next to the washbasin. Despite Mrs. Barclay's quick way to jump to conclusions about some things, Loyce dreaded the day her husband would come for her.