The Cherokee Rose, page 10
Cheyenne sighed, grabbed her purse, and headed for the Piggly Wiggly.
* * *
*
The city of Dalton was twenty minutes west of the Chief Hold House. Twenty minutes just to reach a facsimile of civilization. The Room with a View Bed-and-Breakfast, where Cheyenne had stayed on Fort Mountain Road, stocked a cooler of grocery items in its gift shop. Now Cheyenne could see why. She would have to do something similar when she transformed the Hold House—serve breakfast and afternoon tea to her guests and run a gourmet commissary.
She pulled her sports coupe into the lot at the Piggly Wiggly, a name that somehow brought two unappealing images to Cheyenne’s mind: one of three dancing little pigs and another of roasted pork loin. Popular culture had lately decided pork was “the other white meat,” but Cheyenne didn’t trust it. She had given up pork chops and steak years ago, along with baked goods, potatoes, rice, and cheese. She had caught on early that her looks were something special, that she was, as her mother said, a true beauty. And true beauty had to be protected, just like fine art and architectural landmarks.
Cheyenne had learned that lesson well. In sixth grade, when she had started filling out, her mother noticed a ripple of flesh across Cheyenne’s stomach. “Oh, no, honey,” she had said. “We’re not having that. Hold that belly in. A true beauty like you can’t afford fat.” So Cheyenne had held it in, every day, until she forgot what it felt like not to clasp her muscles like a knot of coiled rope. As she entered high school, and her breasts took shape and her hips flared out, her stomach remained as flat as a girl’s. She made sure of that. When her body struck back at her, it was with hunger, a clutch at the gut that couldn’t be satiated with all the celery sticks in the world. Like the clawing feeling of emptiness she felt right now that had brought her to the Piggly Wiggly.
The parking lot was nearly vacant. Cheyenne parked two spaces from a green Ford truck that looked like it belonged in an old car show. She eased out of the car, feeling again the sticky residue of the day’s heat. From the seat of an idling motorcycle, a young man eyed her. He was white with bad-boy tattoos, rumpled hair, and thick eyelashes. Back in Atlanta with the safety of her friends nearby, she might have done him if they had met in a trendy club. Her mother wouldn’t have approved, of course. Her mother wanted her married yesterday to a Black man from a Black family that was wealthy and fair-skinned like theirs. The guy with the tattoos smiled at her, letting his eyes roll over her figure. Cheyenne avoided his gaze, stepping quickly away.
The sliding doors swooshed. She entered the cool space, thinking this shop had been new once. Now it just looked tired, worn, and grungy, a grocery store past its prime. She picked up a basket and headed for the produce aisle, holding her purse on the elbow of her other arm. Cheyenne skimmed the signs. Where were the organics? She would give anything for a Whole Foods right now. After five minutes, she gave up, settling for pre-bagged iceberg lettuce, floppy celery sticks, and wan tomatoes that should have had a few more days in the sun.
“Good evening, Piggly Wiggly customers,” came a canned voice over the loudspeaker. “Our store will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring your final selections to a register, and have a good night.”
Cheyenne looked at her paltry basket. She would have made a poor wife back in the Cherokees’ day in Georgia, when the men hunted and the women gathered fruits and nuts. She lifted a bag of wilted sprouts and found unsalted California almonds. She hurried to the dairy aisle, where she fingered a package of low-fat dip.
“You only live once. Go for the good stuff,” a deep voice said.
Cheyenne whirled. Adam the park ranger. For the third time today.
He had already changed since she saw him prowling her grounds over an hour ago. His wavy hair glistened from a shower. He smelled like Irish Spring and pinesap. He had discarded the park-service uniform and was dressed in worn blue jeans, a dark green T-shirt, and brown leather sandals. She felt disheveled next to him, rumpled and sweaty, even though he was in Levi’s and she was in raw silk. She also felt as if she had been caught doing something shameful.
“The dip,” he explained. “You can do better than low-fat.”
“I don’t really eat dip.” Cheyenne put the container back. “I was looking for the soy milk.”
“The milk is that way.” He pointed down the wall.
“Of course.” Cheyenne worked to regain her bearings. This was not how things went with her. She was calm. She was poised. She wrapped men around her little finger. Cheyenne rolled her shoulders back, accentuating the swell of her breasts. “I’m afraid I may have been rude when you came to the house tonight, Adam. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and…”
“You were right to be cautious. You can’t trust everybody around here.” He leaned down, resting his elbows on his cart, bringing his eyes to her level. He had five inches on her despite her tall, model height.
Cheyenne took in the contents of his cart: pork chops, drumsticks, brown rice, cereal, eggs, tortilla chips, olive oil, cat food. Impulsively she asked, “Can I trust you?”
Adam’s eyes flickered at that. She had caught his attention. “Most of the time,” he chuckled. “Listen, when you go back to Atlanta to get your things, you might want to consider installing one of those electronic security cameras.”
“How do you know I’m from Atlanta?”
“It’s a small town. People talk…And you look it.”
“I look what?” Cheyenne flipped her gleaming hair and let it fall back into place. Adam watched the motion with something behind his eyes, something she wasn’t used to. Amusement.
“Rich,” he said.
“There’s plenty of money around here, I’ve noticed.”
“We’ve got our kingpins and our second-home seasonals. But most folks who live here full-time struggle to get by.”
Cheyenne dropped her eyes, her thoughts going to that elderly woman, Delta Jones, in her maid’s uniform and the man in front of her who was now out of a job. “About the Hold House. I hope you understand that the state would have sold it whether it was to me or someone else.”
“What are your plans for the house? Weekend getaway? Rental property? Quick flip?”
“Nothing like that,” Cheyenne said, noticing he had not accepted her olive branch. She felt as if she should explain, as though she needed to defend herself. And she didn’t like the feeling. A word came to mind that she had never associated with herself: shallow. It’s what Delta Jones had said to her in the courthouse, spouting riddles like some kind of oracle. Shallow waters run out. Still waters run deep. Cheyenne took a breath.
“My interest in the estate isn’t superficial. My family has history there.”
“You don’t say.”
“My grandmother’s people are from this area, going way back, and I believe one of my ancestors lived on the Hold Plantation. I think she, or he, was on a list of mixed-race children freed by the man who owned the estate, their father, Chief Hold. I’m going to renovate the mansion and run a bed-and-breakfast there. I want to care for the place. It’s not just lovely to look at. It has depth, a proud history. I want other people to see that.”
Cheyenne chanced a glance at him, expecting to see further signs of amusement, or maybe the condescension and pity her own friends had displayed. Instead, she saw interest in Adam Battis’s eyes, and maybe a hint of regret.
“You’ve heard of the list?” he said.
Cheyenne’s heart kicked. “My grandmother told me about it.”
“Mine, too, but I never saw evidence of any census of Hold slaves the decade that I worked at the site. Did your grandmother also tell you about the lost gold?”
“No, but I read about it in the Room with a View’s guidebooks. It’s rumored that when a white farmer spotted gold around here in 1828, it wasn’t the first discovery, that James Hold himself had found deposits, buried a cache, and used his wealth to blackmail and bribe tribal officials, federal agents, and Christian missionaries.”
Adam nodded. “It’s possible. Over twenty-six tons of the stuff were eventually unearthed. And by all existing accounts, Hold was an unscrupulous entrepreneur. By 1829 the first American gold rush was on. By 1830 the Georgia governor had illegally extended the state’s jurisdiction over Cherokee land to give white prospectors access. There’s no sign of buried gold on the grounds either,” Adam grinned, “but it makes a good story for the tourists. Look, if you’re planning to stay here full-time—”
“I’m sure I’ll need help around the place,” Cheyenne interrupted. “Maybe I could hire you back once I get things off the ground.”
Adam’s dark eyes flashed, and Cheyenne wondered if she had gone too far, if he was the kind of man who would see a job offer from a woman as emasculating.
“I’m doing all right on my own. But I do have a favor to ask.”
Cheyenne exhaled in relief. Her heart kicked harder beneath the wine-silk tank top. He did want something from her. What?
“I have a friend, Sally Perdue. She’s accustomed to picking fruit in the Hold orchards. I’ve been taking care of the trees since the museum closed, and they’re in good shape, producing well. It would crush Sally if she couldn’t do it anymore.”
Cheyenne blinked. “What does your friend look like?”
Adam’s eyebrow rose.
“So I’ll know her when I see her.”
“Redhead, blue eyes, petite,” he answered.
Cheyenne swallowed. She could already anticipate Toni, Layla, and De’Sha’s smug looks when she recounted this story: Cheyenne Cotterell passed over for a white country bumpkin.
“I’d like to meet her,” Cheyenne lied. “In the meantime, tell your friend she can pick all the fruit she’d like—this season.”
“I will,” he said in what sounded like a cooler tone. “Sally feels attached to those trees, after living here all her life and coming from a family that’s been here for more than three generations.”
“Then she’ll understand how I feel about the Hold House,” Cheyenne said. “Possessive.” She squeezed her fingers around the metal handle of her shopping basket and turned to walk away.
“Did your grandmother ever tell you that pretty is what pretty does?” Adam said. His words, directed toward her back, landed like arrows.
* * *
*
Cheyenne closed and locked the oversized doors of the Hold House and scooted a box of museum brochures against them for good measure. Running into Adam had made her feel uneasy for the second time that night. Locked inside her new old house, alone and a little shaken, she considered what to do next. The house felt huge and empty, as if it were yawning into the hillside. She flipped on a light switch in every room as she walked through the first floor, eating a handful of almonds as she went. She drank a glass of water, then splashed water on her face at the small sink in the three-quarter bath. She retrieved the scarf she had used to dust the drawing room, rinsed and gently wrung out the fabric, and hung it on a hook.
Through the diminutive bathroom window, Cheyenne heard the rumble of a four-wheel-drive fade into the night. Her ears pricked. A truck or SUV had been nearby, maybe as close as the parking lot that the museum used to operate. Had Adam the park ranger followed her home in the vintage green Ford? Now, that would be interesting. But if he had thought to pursue her, he had changed his mind. The yard outside was quiet now.
Cheyenne breathed a sigh of disappointment that morphed into a buzz of anxiety, as her thoughts turned to someone else who drove a four-wheel-drive in town. Mason Allen.
Cheyenne quickly climbed the stairs and crossed the nonsensical interior bridge to the most secluded corner of the house. In the bedroom of Chief James Hold, she kicked off her pumps and unclasped the waistband of her skirt. Briskly rubbing her chilled upper arms, she changed into satin pajamas the color of ripe apricots. At the thought of apricots, Sally Perdue came to mind, then Delta Jones, and Adam Battis watching over the place. Because he knew the pull this house had on people—people like Mason Allen, people like her.
Cheyenne shivered. Why was she so cold? That damn bond brick.
She stood again, scanning the room, looking for a solution. In the corner she discovered a linen press with a frayed patchwork quilt inside. She unfolded the faded covering and wrapped it around her shoulders, then curled up on top of the canopy bed. Except for the distant creaks and sighs of the settling foundation, the house grew quiet around her. Cheyenne allowed her eyes to close and leaned into the pillows, trying to ignore the sensation that she wasn’t alone.
ELEVEN
Adam Battis hadn’t come back to his cabin last night, at least not as far as Jinx could tell. She showered, dressed, and ate a bowl of his Honey Nut Cheerios while she called her cousin.
“What time is it?” Victor mumbled. Jinx could imagine him running his hand through his long, tangled hair.
“Eight o’clock my time. Seven, yours.”
“Oh, you’re cruel.”
“You should be up anyway. You have fires to fight.”
“Not today I don’t. So now that I’m up, what’s going on? Do they still sell Cokes with the original cocaine formula down there as a way to get folks of color hooked?”
“As in a CIA soda conspiracy? Are you serious, Victor?”
“Just Google it.”
“And on to the verifiable news, I lucked into a couple of local connections, and I’m staying at some guy’s cabin.”
“Some guy’s place? Now I know the Coke is drugged.”
“Oh, please. He rents it out. I need to track him down after I visit the plantation today and see if he’ll give me an interview. Get this. His last name is Battis.”
Victor whistled. “And Deb Tom’s plot thickens. Everything is fine out here, since you didn’t ask. I’m holding down the fort at Aunt Angie’s House of Curious Antiquities.”
Jinx sighed. “Why do I put up with you?”
“Because I’m so lovable. Be careful down there. Don’t let that cabin dude take you for a ride. They don’t call it Dick-land for nothing.”
“Dix-ie Land,” Jinx said.
“Same difference.”
After the call, Jinx drove down the mountain road, passed the Marathon station, and came across the wrought-iron gates Sally had described. She turned in through the elaborate ironwork opening, followed the long, paved road, and inched beneath oak trees draped in the kudzu so pervasive that people thought it was native to the South. She drove toward a gravel lot half a mile ahead, where a Volkswagen Bug was already parked. Farther in the distance but within walking range of the lot, a svelte Mercedes sports coupe nestled in front of a big brick house. The new owner, it appeared, was at home. And she had company.
* * *
*
With her Blackberry in one hand and Burberry handbag in the other, Cheyenne pushed the doors open. She stepped onto the wide front porch, leaned against a column, and was surprised to nearly trip on something beneath it. An old-fashioned picnic basket had been tucked beside the base of the column. She stooped, opened the wooden lid, and peeled back the cotton dish towel. Inside were golden corn muffins, fresh tomatoes, Vidalia onions, loose-leaf lettuce, citrus vinaigrette, a bottle of milk imprinted with the name of a local dairy, and homemade strawberry jam. The note attached read, Peace offering. Adam. P.S. Sorry no soy. Cheyenne brought her lips together, then smiled to herself. His gift was surprising, discriminating, and…gallant. It almost made her want to rise to the occasion and eat a homemade muffin slathered in butter.
Almost, but not quite. She lifted the basket with both hands and glanced toward the distant gates. Two cars had appeared from out of nowhere. A Volkswagen Beetle sat idling in the lot. A rusty red pickup was crawling up the road.
And to the left of the house, where she had seen Adam walking last night, her azaleas had been beheaded. Cheyenne sucked in a breath. The beautiful shrubs that framed her front yard were barren at the tops, their lush leaves and pink flowers lopped off like a bad haircut. Had someone taken a weed whacker or hedge trimmer to them in an act of petty vandalism? Her heart jumped when she thought of Adam. Impossible. When she had last seen him in the yard, the azaleas were intact. This had happened while she was away, while they were both at the Piggly Wiggly, and she just hadn’t noticed in the dark.
Or it had happened in the night while she slept, after she heard a vehicle rumbling near the grounds. But who was immature enough to play this kind of trick, with an outcome so subtle that it could be missed or misinterpreted? It had to have been a wandering deer or two. She had heard they ran rampant in the country. Cheyenne was trying to decide if she had convinced herself, as a woman stepped out of the car in the parking lot, and the truck inched closer along the drive.
* * *
*
Ruth switched off the engine and emerged from her car as if from a cocoon. A wall of wet heat smacked her in the face, steaming her tortoiseshell glasses. It had to be eighty degrees out there, and it was only late morning. She stared blindly, then thought to pull her glasses off, wiping them on her T-shirt and placing them back on her nose. She was standing in a gravel lot beside a small abandoned shed meant for a parking attendant. Before her, a gravel road stretched like a ribbon toward a stately brick building. Ruth squinted at the house through the leaves of oak trees that followed the line of the road. It appeared reserved, withholding in its elegance, facing north from atop a hill. Classical in structure, the house had elements of the Federal and Georgian architectural styles. Every facet of the building, from windows to porches to tripod eaves, was perfectly proportioned to signify authority. This was the house of a patriarch. The apparent softness of its rose-colored bricks and grassy yard was simply an illusion caused by the passage of time.
