Ciji Ware (43 page)

“Probably. Or, more than likely, she didn’t give a damn
what
I was doing as long as I wasn’t in her line of sight.” He shook his head. “It’s been a long time, Daphne. I don’t even remember, anymore, all the factors that launched me down this road. I guess living
on
the road so much has become more habit than anything else. A way to put some distance between me and my troubles.”

“A way of avoiding your troubles, perhaps?” Daphne asked lightly.

Sim shot her a look that seemed to say
touché.

“As I think back on it, it
was
kind of the chicken’s way out, you know? I didn’t have to deal with Francesca’s rejection anymore, or the strains within my family after the baby died and our divorce… or any of it.”

“And now?” she asked, wondering how any sane woman would reject a man like Simon Hopkins if he really was the man he seemed to be.

“My father’s terminal illness forced me to go home for a while and work out whatever stuff he and I had avoided.”

“And that was…”

“My not telling him what had really gone on between Francesca and me… and my hitting the road afterward and not staying in touch with him and my mother.”

“And he forgave you?”

Sim paused, and then nodded. “He forgave me—and himself—for being such a hard-ass.” He turned and cast a thousand-yard stare out the window once again.

“And now?”

Sim looked over his shoulder. “Well… at the moment, I’d have to say that the wild blue yonder doesn’t hold quite as much appeal.” He crossed to the table and sat down. “These days, I’ve a hankering to stick around to see what’s going to happen in
this
neck of the woods.” He cuffed her gently on the chin. “With us, certainly, and with Bailey’s crusade. I’m aware that pictures like mine can help—some—to make the issues at stake more understandable to the average Joe.”

Stick
around?
She wondered for how long.

She pointed to a large photograph of a nesting mockingbird that Sim had leaned against the wall. “You know, Mr. Hopkins,” she said quietly, “these amazing images have the power to make people
care
whether peregrine falcons are on the endangered species list or not. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve given Bailey some support in this fight. Maybe you’re still more of a crusader than you think.”

“Well, as sort of a tribute to my dad, I’ve decided that I’m going to do whatever I can to help the guy,” he said with a self-deprecating shrug. “But these fights always take a
community
rallying around the cause to shake some sense into the politicians. I hope people around here will wake up and smell the coffee before it’s too late—but they very well might not—and I can’t allow myself to get crazy over that.”

“Hmmm,” Daphne said, digesting Sim’s remarks while considering the picture of the mockingbird nest. “Most of the folks with big houses around here don’t have unlimited funds anymore to donate to their favorite charities. Hiring lawyers and going up to Jackson can get expensive.”

Sim cocked his head and gazed at her shrewdly. “What about a local fundraiser to mount a legal challenge against Able Petroleum? Do you think that’s an option?”

“Uh… oh… I don’t know,” Daphne mumbled, immediately thinking of her own crowded calendar.

“Well,” Sim said, resuming a seat at the table, “if I decide to volunteer my services to raise some cash to help the cause, what about you? Don’t you think it’s the least we can do to repay the good doctor for his hospitality?” he finished with a rakish grin.

“What kind of a fundraiser are you thinking of?” Daphne asked suspiciously.

“Oh… I don’t know,” Sim said, with an innocent expression. “You know this area a lot better than I do. What do you think would work around here?”

“Sim Hopkins, if my gut instincts didn’t tell me otherwise, I might think that you’d deliberately lured me into your bed today in order to get me to co-chair the Bailey Gibbs Bird Preservation Extravaganza.”

Sim’s grin was unabashed now. “Maybe this is a classic case of killing two birds with one stone.”

“You are
so
bad,” she scolded.

“And you are
so
good… in bed.”

“Wicked man!”

Sim pulled her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “What a great idea to have you as my co-chair! Thanks for suggesting it.”

“I did no such thing!”

He kissed her on the nose. “Will you? Help me, I mean? For starters, I’m willing to donate a signed set of large-format bird prints I’ve done in the area to auction off to the highest bidder.”

“That’s a terrific idea,” Daphne said thoughtfully. “That kind of thing isn’t too hard to pull off. I could organize a silent auction or something. People in Natchez have a ton of antiques up in their attics they’d probably love to donate to a good cause.”

“Ah… you don’t get off that easily, Harp Honey. Ever since I heard you were going to live here for a year, I’ve been thinking about how great it would be to stage a benefit concert. You know… all the kinds of music you hear around Natchez… classical… blues… Jazz… rock ’n’ roll?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Daphne countered reluctantly. “I’ve got an awfully full plate as it is… and if it’s going to be a music-based fundraiser, a ton of responsibility would naturally fall on my shoulders.”

“Wouldn’t your cousin Maddy help?” Sim asked hopefully. “And Althea and the McGee family? I bet if you combined all your talents and your contacts here and in New Orleans, you could put together a program that would attract more people than the Natchez Pilgrimage.”

“Oh, Sim… get real.”

Ignoring her comment, he pressed, “And, you’re right, we could track down other things to auction off besides my pictures. Antiques are a good idea, and what about a night’s stay at Monmouth Plantation? What about a dinner party donated by some of the other plantation owners? And—”

“Whoa, there now… it sounds to me like you’ve done this kind of thing before.”

“My mother and… well, Francesca… used to be big in the charity circuit in San Francisco. I’ve been to more than my share of fancy black-tie events.”

“Well… at least it sounds as if you know what you’re talking about,” she allowed.

“It’d be something
for
the locals
by
the locals,” Sim said, his excitement evident. “Something to save the birds that live in their own backyards… something—”

“I’ve
got
it,” Daphne exclaimed, pointing out the window at one of Bailey’s bird feeders that was casting a long shadow across the meadow in the fading afternoon sunlight. “A concert ‘
For
the
Birds
’! A benefit concert
in
aid of
the Mississippi Flyway, and with the express purpose of blocking a toxic dump adjacent to private land where birds have been protected for years.”

“That’s
brilliant
,” Sim said softly. “I can already see the posters and ads.”

“Every single piece we play at the concert could have some connection
to
birds!” she said with a rush of enthusiasm.

“
Swan
Lake
,” Sim volunteered.

“Ugh! But okay.” Then her eyes widened excitedly.
“The Firebird Suite.”

“Where you going to get an orchestra?” he asked doubtfully.

“Natchez has an opera season, Bird Man,” she proclaimed. “Maybe the orchestra conductor would be willing to put together a small chamber orchestra for one night.”

“
Double
brilliant. Let’s see…” he said, rubbing his chin. “Bird songs… bird songs…”

“Easy! They’re only about a million of ’em,” Daphne said, waving her hand dismissively. She immediately began to warble the tunes.
“Bye, bye, blackbird
…
When
the
red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbin’ along
…
Skylark
…
”

“Okay, okay! I
believe
you,” Sim protested, laughing as he cupped his hands over his ears. He drew her into the circle of his arms once more. “You are something else, Ms. Magnolia,” he whispered into her ear. “You understood this bird stuff so fast, it took my breath away today.”

“I learned about fighting to save the environment at my brother’s knee,” she murmured, snuggling beneath Sim’s chin while they remained with their arms clasped around each other.

“You mean King’s saving all those buildings?”

“In his own way, he’s battled for years to preserve what he calls ‘the historic environment.’ I bet if I call him, he and Corlis will do what they can to help.” Then she bit her lip.

“What are you thinking?” Sim demanded. “You looked as if a black cloud just appeared over your head.”

“Jack,” she pronounced. “My getting involved in this project means I’m going to mix it up with Jack and Able Petroleum and I worry that—”

Sim put a hand on each of her shoulders. “Jack cannot hurt you, Daphne. Just keep telling him to get the flock outta here, if you’ll pardon the expression,” he said jocularly. “And tell him you’ve got some big bruiser in your life now—a wild man from the tundra—who’s totally got your back.”

By this time, the sun had slipped behind the stand of trees encircling the cottage, and shadows turned the room into a dusky den. Sim crossed the room and lit the kerosene lamp on the table beside the daybed.

Then he turned, and declared suddenly, “We’ve
got
to help Bailey, Daphne. This is a doctor who fought to save the lives of people like Marcus Whitaker and Caroline Gibbs. People… like my father. And he’s fighting, still, to save the birds. He’s a valiant old man who’s much more exhausted from these battles than he lets on. But I can see it. He’s got cancer and—”

Sim’s voice broke, and Daphne walked the short distance across the room, raised her hand, and gently tweaked his nose in a tender mockery of all the times he had made the same gesture.

“Hey… what are you worried about?” she asked softly. She thrust out her hand in a gesture of solidarity. “Harp Honey to the rescue. Gimme a high five!”

Sim’s eyes were so full of gratitude that Daphne forced herself to push away any doubt that she could help produce a money-raising show
and
keep her own financial ship afloat. She smiled while Sim ceremoniously shook her hand and then, suddenly, leaned down and scooped her up in his arms.

“Since I owe you my eternal gratitude,” he said with an evil chuckle, “
I
just had a brilliant idea for a change.” He strode over to the unmade bed and carefully laid her upon the rumpled sheets.

“Gee… let me think,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “What could that be?”

Sim flung off his bathrobe. “Guess.”

“Why, Mr. Hopkins,” she drawled, “I do declare… you are naked as a jaybird.”

***

A routine, of sorts, began to take shape for Daphne and Sim during the subsequent weeks. Tuesday mornings, Sim headed deep into the Trace, stalking a list of birds painted by Audubon so many years before. Often, he camped in the woods, returning by Friday to sit front row, center at every weekend performance of the Aphrodite Jazz Ensemble.

For her part, Daphne spent her days running between rehearsals, teatime gigs at the Eola Hotel, teaching harp students with Cousin Maddy in the parlor at Bluff House, and contacting various community leaders about raising money to protect Bailey’s bird sanctuary. Twice a week, she and Willis McGee met in the studio he’d built in the garage behind his house. During those sessions, Willis unveiled his amazing storehouse of knowledge about jazz riffs and “finding the groove” in the scores of tunes they rehearsed together.

When Sim and she could find the time, Daphne delighted in showing him her favorite Natchez hangouts. They often had chopped pork sandwiches, homemade baked beans, and miniature pecan and sweet potato pies, served in grand style by drummer Jeanette McGee at the Pig Out Inn.

“I especially like the decor,” Sim mumbled with his mouth full. He nodded in the direction of an inflatable pig hanging above the window and a bright pink porker with angel wings floating on a string from the overhead fan.

Occasionally, they drove a few miles out of town to eat at Mammy’s Cupboard, a hallowed icon where the primary part of the restaurant was housed in the red brick skirt of the gargantuan mammy figure.

“The place is not exactly politically correct, but everybody loves Mammy’s,” Daphne admitted, relishing a bite of Mammy’s Mile-High Lemon Meringue Pie.