Ciji Ware (11 page)

In the bathroom he grabbed an entire box of tissues and returned to her side. He handed her a wad, which she accepted appreciatively, and watched her blow her nose. He realized, suddenly, that he’d been mulling over every aspect of his encounter with this woman, even before he’d stumbled downstairs in the middle of the night and beheld the amazing sight of a harp playing on its own.

I
was
probably
still
jet-lagged
…

“Thanks,” she said bleakly. “I’m so sorry. Really.”

“Don’t be. This is rough stuff.”

Her low speaking voice reminded him of the way she’d sung in a husky contralto as sensual as a siren’s song. The minute he’d heard her friend Althea call her name in the parking lot, he’d felt an uncensored jolt of anticipation. For the truth was, he reflected, handing her another tissue, he’d changed his entire day around, hoping to catch sight of her again. He’d been about to reveal his presence on the other side of the hedge when that vicious idiot accosted her and launched into his nasty exchange. Sim had learned more about their unhappy history than a stranger ought to know, and yet he was unabashedly curious to discover even more about the harpist crying in his hotel bedroom.

As for Daphne’s graphic accusations against her former fiancé—it certainly put into perspective the disastrous end to his own marriage. Who knew better than he that there’s no nice way to end intimate relationships? Everybody gets hurt.

“I’m feeling better now,” Daphne volunteered with a sniff, but Sim didn’t really believe her.

Feeling
better
takes
a
very
long
time, sweetheart.

However, he said, “Good. Glad to hear it.”

“Thanks… again,” she said, balling a tissue into her palm.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, retreating once again into the bathroom, where he draped the damp washcloth over the edge of the tub. Turning, he stared briefly at himself in the mirror above the sink. Granted, the lady was highly intriguing. She sang jazz tunes like a vamp and looked great even when she cried. But she also had said yesterday that she lived in New York. His base was San Francisco. They were both just passing through Natchez, and she was probably too much of a Southern lady to consider a simple—

“I-I think I’d better go downstairs,” he heard her say from the next room.

“Yeah… you probably should,” he agreed, returning to the bedroom. “The bride and groom must be wondering where you are. Do they know this Jack guy showed up? That he cut your harp strings?”

“I don’t know… I-I don’t think so.”

Surprisingly, she had remained on the chaise. Her head was bent forward and her gaze rested on her lap, a crumpled tissue still clutched in each hand. She looked so bereft that he suddenly felt the urge to sit down beside her and pull her hard against his chest again.

Instead, he asked without preamble, “Would you consider having dinner with me later?”

She tilted her head back and gazed at him as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“Dinner?” she murmured, puzzled.

“Yes, dinner. When all the hoopla is over. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

He paused, labeled himself a fool, and then decided against his better judgment to say what he’d wanted to ask her all along. “Have you ever seen… or heard of a harp that… can play by itself? Maybe like one of those old-fashioned player pianos?”

She looked at him wide-eyed, as if he’d just scared the living daylights out of her.

“By
itself
?” she echoed. Before he could respond she said, “Yes.”

“Yes, you’ve heard of such a bizarre thing? Or, yes, you’ll have dinner with me?”

“Are you married?”

He was taken aback by the bluntness of her question. “No…” he replied slowly, “I’m not married. Haven’t been for… some years now. So, will you?”

She abruptly rose from the chaise, dropped the Kleenex in a nearby wastebasket, and extended her hand in a farewell. “Give me a while to collect myself, will you? I’ll tell you if I’m up to having dinner with you after the reception is over.”

And without another word, she walked out of the room.

***

Downstairs in the magnificent blue sitting room, Daphne headed directly for the antique harp next to the baby grand piano and sat down. The reception line was history, and she was grateful for an excuse not to mingle. On top of everything else that had happened, Sim Hopkins’s strange question about self-playing harps, along with his dinner invitation, had completely unnerved her, and she needed time to think.

A
harp
that
can
play
by
itself
…

She cast a wary eye at Monmouth Plantation’s antique instrument and wagered it was nearly a twin to the one sitting in Cousin Maddy’s parlor at Bluff House. Gingerly, she began to pluck its strings to judge how well it had held its tune since she’d played it the day before. Then, with brief nods to some familiar faces milling about the wedding reception, she immediately launched into a series of romantic standards without even opening her briefcase to extract any sheet music. Through the parlor door she had a good view into the large foyer and out to a brick courtyard where an open-sided tent had been pitched. Soon, she had a small group of wedding guests, champagne glasses in hand, standing nearby, listening to her play.

While she offered up “We’ve Only Just Begun,” she kept her head down and her eyes half shut in an effort to discourage anyone from attempting to start a conversation. She just wasn’t up to idle chitchat. Most of all, she needed some time to reflect upon whether it was a good or bad idea to have dinner with the intriguing man upstairs who’d just helped her dry her eyes.

She segued into “That’s All I Ask of You” from
Phantom
of
the
Opera
and caught a glimpse of her mother prancing through the foyer. Without a glance toward the source of the music, Antoinette paused at the wide entrance to the parlor, surrounded by several pot-bellied men she had known since her childhood—and still referred to as her beaux.

The raven-haired mother of the groom certainly wasn’t making any effort to connect with her daughter after all these months of hostile silence. She and her admirers engaged in boisterous, champagne-fueled small talk for several minutes. And despite Daphne’s carefully lowered expectations, she felt cut to the quick when her mother finally gazed into the sitting room—and then coolly looked away. Daphne closed her eyes again and tried to concentrate solely on her playing.

A quarter of an hour later, her new sister-in-law suddenly appeared next to the harp, her smart ivory silk suit giving her the appearance of a very chic guest, rather than the bride herself.

“C’mon, Daphne! Stop hiding behind your harp! You were smart enough to deep-six the reception line, but we definitely want you to sit with us for the toasts.”

Daphne wound up the tune she was playing and allowed Corlis to lead her to the courtyard. The tent’s stanchions had been swathed in gossamer white tulle with bouquets of pink azaleas. Small china teapots filled with spring flowers adorned round tables cloaked in snowy linen. A rectangular table positioned to one side was also draped with a white embroidered cloth. On it stood a three-tiered wedding cake and a spectacular display of cream and blush roses, lavender delphiniums, purple gladiola, and pale peach snapdragons.

A table near the fountain had been set aside for the bride and groom and other members of the official wedding party. In one corner of the tent sat the entire LaCroix family trading jokes with Corlis’s camera and sound operators and the rest of the staff from her TV station, WJAZ. At another table, King’s teaching assistant at the university’s school of architecture whooped it up with a troop of foot soldiers from the New Orleans historic preservation community. It was a tribute to the bride and groom that they’d all gathered in Natchez on such short notice.

Before Daphne could sit down, her mother appeared suddenly not ten feet from where she stood. Antoinette intercepted a waiter carrying a full tray of champagne glasses and exchanged her empty flute for a full one as mother and daughter locked glances. Daphne found herself unable to move from her spot beside the splashing fountain. It was as if the entire wedding scene had faded into the background and she and Antoinette Kingsbury Duvallon were alone on a stage.

“Hello, Mama,” Daphne said after a long pause. Corlis discreetly stepped away. Antoinette closed the short gap between them. Daphne absently noticed that she had removed the corsage from her coat’s lapel, as if to say “These sweetheart roses aren’t quite up to the standards of Flowers by Duvallon.” Her mother gave her the once-over, leaving Daphne with the distinct impression that she was a contestant in a beauty pageant at which Antoinette had already been declared the winner.

“You look very… nice, dear.”

Well, at least it was a decent beginning after more than two years of stony silence, Daphne thought hopefully.

“So do you,” she replied promptly.

“I ’spose you always have to wear those shapeless skirts ’cause of playin’ your harp, and all.”

It certainly hadn’t taken Magnolia Mama long to lob a zinger. Daphne forced herself not to rise to the bait.

“I love that shade of teal on you, Mama. It looks gorgeous with your hair.”

Why did she always try to appease this woman? she wondered.

“Did y’all see Jack?” Antoinette asked, as if she were casually inquiring about a second cousin, twice removed.

“I thought King asked you not to tell the Eberts
anything
about this wedding.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Antoinette exclaimed airily, taking a sip of her champagne. “You can’t keep somethin’ like this a secret in New Orleans!”

“Not if you tell the Eberts
personally
, you can’t.”

“I’ve done business with René and Alice Ebert for thirty-five years,” her mother retorted. “Alice is a dear, dear friend. We were in the same Mardi Gras court, for pity’s sake. Of course, we talk. You’re just tryin’ to make me feel bad.”

Oh, God
…
here
we
go
…

Daphne knew she was heading down an old, familiar road, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “Just now, Jack told me quite a bit about that conversation between you and his mother.”

“Oh?” Antoinette said warily. Then she switched tactics with lightening speed. “Well, then, you
did
deign to talk to that poor boy today,” she declared triumphantly. “So why’re you makin’ such a big fuss over whether or not he knew ’bout King’s weddin’? You’re just tryin’ to turn him into some kind of villain ’cause you embarrassed your whole family in front of the entire city of New Orleans two years ago. Alice’s been worried
sick
’bout him livin’ in Texas.”

Daphne glanced around at the other guests and gestured toward the entrance to the tent. “Let’s go outside, okay?” she suggested tersely. “There’s no point in refighting this battle in front of an audience.”

Amazingly, Antoinette followed in her wake. “Well, at least you have the sense not to be rude to me in front of all these people,” her mother said. Meanwhile, the guests were wolfing down hors d’oeuvres under the canvas a few yards away. “I certainly can’t blame Jack for being upset,” she declared, switching tactics once again. It was a method of arguing that had driven Daphne nearly insane over the years. “You keep accusin’ him of all those terrible things with Cindy Lou, which
both
of them will deny to their dyin’ day, and now, you attack the poor man by—”

“I
saw
him with Cindy Lou, Mama.” Daphne lowered her voice, and added, “When I dumped Jack at the altar,
you
were the one who was embarrassed, weren’t you? It was more important to you and Daddy to look good in front of all your fancy Garden District friends than to face the truth that your best friend’s boy had been cheating on your daughter with your son’s girlfriend for
months
.”

“Alice says that you’d been ignorin’ Jack when you were up in New York at Juilliard,” Antoinette replied reproachfully. “She says that all along you probably were still seein’ that conductor you’d been—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Daphne exploded. “Rafe Oberlin wasn’t the reason I left Jack at the altar—and you know it.”

Thirty feet away, a trio of musicians were setting up their instruments near a dance floor erected on the lawn beside a bed of white and yellow tulips. Fifty yards beyond, a graceful arbor sparkled with crystal lights.