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CHAPTER ONE

Oh, Baby.

BETH

June, 1913, Mississippi

Beth should have never agreed to let George give her a ride home from church Sunday evening. As they turned into the front lane, she made an angry swat at a mosquito biting her neck. What a relief it was to have the smell of the magnolia blossoms distract her nose from George’s unpleasant breath. “Oh, I’m tired.”

“How many children do you want?” He held her hand as they walked toward the front porch.

The flimsy muscles of his hand, damp and limp, would revolt almost any woman. How would she ever have children with him?

He dropped her hand so he could smooth his waxed moustache.

“You’re a good man, George.”

Yanking his nasty handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose one more time, he unnerved her, but he was her suitor. Soon he would marry her, and they would have a houseful of interesting and beautiful children, who inherited their parents’ best traits. What if she grew to hate him? He was who he was, and her feelings were her fault.  

Did he have to wear that green and yellow plaid shirt with those dirty red and black striped pants? As George and Beth left church, ladies held their noses.

Nothing in his face showed he knew how much he bothered her. When they reached the steps to the house, he walked in front of her then rushed across the porch and stood at the entrance. Some southern gentleman he was! How much more could she endure?

She lifted her skirt to avoid tripping on the steps. When she caught up with him, she placed the back of her hand on her forehead. “I’m sorry, George.”

“Sorry?” He placed his hand on the wall. “About what?”

“Oh, I have a headache. I need to go inside now.” She opened the door, and after she waved goodnight, she slammed it, then bounded up the stairs.

Aunt Genie’s bedroom door was open as were her windows. Eavesdropping again. She was incorrigible.

Hyena laughs came from the window where the woman stood. She turned around as Beth entered the room. Genie held an empty water pitcher.

“What have you done?” Beth brought her hand to her mouth.

“Oh, nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t nothing.” Beth made a fist of her hand and pressed it into her mouth.

“That stupid George was on his way to his surrey, and I made it rain on him.” Aunt Genie laughed and slapped her skinny leg. “You know what? He looked up to see if it was really raining, held his hands out to feel raindrops.”

“You didn’t.”

“George needed a shower. You yourself said he smelled nasty.”

“We’re going to get married. You have to be nice to him.”

“No, I don’t.” the elderly aunt pointed her bony finger at Beth. “I’m not marrying him, and you ain’t either. He ain’t asked you, and if’n he does, I give you credit for having better sense.”

“You just want me to be an old maid so I can take care of you and my parents.”

“Not a bad idea.” Genie sat in front of her dressing table and handed Beth a tortoise shell hairbrush. “Brush my hair and braid it for bed.”

Beth dug into Aunt Genie’s stringy mouse-gray hair with the brush.

“Not so hard. Remember? I’m—”

“Tender headed.”

“Truth is I’m trying to find you a good husband.”

Beth went to bed without brushing her own hair. She’d deal with the curly mess tomorrow.

Monday morning at four o’clock when the mockingbirds sang a chorus outside the window and the cuckoo in the hall joined in, Beth popped out of her bed—time to freshen up for the day. Making as little noise as possible, she poured water into her bowl, splashed some on her face, and washed the important places. She needed to spend about an hour on her hair, but she’d fix it later. She brushed over the outside layer and twisted it into a bun.

In a jiffy, she sat, pen in hand and candle burning, at her writing desk. Work to do in blessed quiet.

From a basket, she removed a list. Ten—ten submissions with dates, and the names of the recipients filled the paper. At the right of the graph was a column where she planned to date her acceptances and another for rejections. So far, she had eight little rejection slips, not a real full-sized letter of rejection in the stack. She planned to rewrite each one and resubmit it, but she was almost out of places to send her books. In the meantime, she was formulating a plan for book number eleven.

Since her parents and aunt were still asleep and the noise of the typewriter would end her solitude by waking Aunt Genie, she reworked a returned manuscript by making notes with her pen. How kind of the editor who had bothered to suggest some changes, or did he spill his red ink?

After working fifteen minutes, she looked inside her desk drawer, where she found a brochure about a vacation to Rome. She composed an undated letter requesting two tickets on a cruise and another one reserving a room in a hotel near the Vatican.

Beth stared out the window. She had no hope of changing her aunt. She’d take the beloved woman with her as a chaperone and leave her clammy-handed guy behind. No hope of changing him either. He didn’t eat enough. That was one problem. Also, what if being with her made him nervous enough to cause his hands to drip with sweat?

Somewhere in Italy, she’d meet a tall, intriguing Englishman on vacation. They’d fall in love, and he’d take her to an opera by Puccini. They would go on short tours while Aunt Genie stayed in the hotel and sipped tea.

Only one problem kept her from finalizing the plans, from mailing her orders for tickets, from packing her trunk: money. If she could sell a manuscript with a substantial advance, she could proceed. Otherwise, she’d stay in Opal, marry George, and live her life of desperate resignation.

When the hall cuckoo announced five o’clock, Beth set aside her papers. Time to go downstairs and cook breakfast for the family. She filled the skillet with bacon. George always saved the best bacon and sliced it carefully for the DuBard family. He was an excellent butcher. Hmm, if she stepped out of the picture, that cute new girl at church—what was her name—Patricia might like going out with him.

Over breakfast, she told her family, “Maybe I should break up with George.”

Mom stirred cream into her coffee. “I thought you wanted children.”

“That’s what you need to do, Bethie.” Aunt Genie talked with a mouth full of bacon. “Write him a letter edged in black.”

Papa frowned. “Not so harsh, Argenta.”

“You’re right. We don’t want to lose access to the best bacon in town.” Aunt Genie reached for another slice.

When the three senior members of the family fell silent, Beth gained an opportunity to continue.

“I was considering. If I broke up with him, he might start courting that new girl, Patricia Evans.”

Mom poured coffee into her saucer. “That’s an excellent idea, but you know what could happen? If you see him with Patricia, she is kind of cute, you might feel jealous and be sorry.”

Afraid she would cry, she stood. “May I please be excused?”

Leaving the dishes to her mother and aunt, instead of helping clean the kitchen as she usually did, she gathered her supplies and shampooed her hair. The water from the rain barrel out back made her locks shiny and soft.

When she went back to her room, she latched the door and towel-dried her hair, then enjoyed the sensation of plaiting her hair in a French braid

She read a New Testament chapter and spent a few minutes of quiet, ending with a prayer. “Lord, I’m sorry about the way I’ve treated George. If I stop seeing him or if I continue to see him, I’ll feel guilty either way for being selfish unless you send me a sign.”

Next, she plopped her seat in a chair and made the keys of her typewriter fly.

At ten, she donned her hat and long-sleeved cotton smock to protect her arms and neck. “Mom, I’m going for a walk.”

The lane winding through the yard that stretched from the front of the house to the mailbox provided a pleasant place to stroll. Blue jays called back and forth as they scampered through the grass.

Beth played a little game with Papa she called showing-up-near-the-mailbox-when-the-postman-arrives. Some days she could beat Papa to the box, but most days he’d come from nowhere with a grin all over his face. Neither of them ran, and no one mentioned the game. It would make it seem that checking the mail was more important than it was.

She heard the postman’s automobile motor puttering along the road. Mr. Jolly, the RFD mail carrier, arrived at the roadside box at ten after ten.

Since the law required Mr. Jolly to put the mail in the box instead of in the recipient’s hands, it would be inappropriate to stand next to the mailbox. But today she didn’t want Papa to win. She was hoping to receive more responses from the acquisition editors to whom she’d sent proposals a month ago. She had a feeling it was her lucky day.

“You must be expecting some important mail.” Mr. Jolly shot one side of his mouth up in a quirk of a smile.

Heat flooded her face. The postman, always teasing her about her mail, made her look like a stupid little girl. It probably was against the law for him to humiliate her. He must have gone to the other houses and laughed with the neighbors about Sweet Pea DuBard—that’s what folks called her when she was a child. “Sweet Pea can’t find a man. She’s always looking for love in all the wrong places. Did you know she sends off manuscripts to publishers in New York City? I bet she writes love stories, but she don’t know nothing about romance.”

She waited politely for him to shift gears.

He inserted the mail into the box. “Morning, Mr. DuBard.”

Papa’s hand came from nowhere, reached into the box, and pulled out the bundle of mail. He reached into his pocket for his spectacles and positioned them on his nose. He held up the envelope. “A letter from Albert.”

Wheezing, Beth stood in humiliation. Papa was holding onto her mail, which could be rejection notices. Any second he’d hand her a letter, then see the tears slide down her face, and say, “It’s all right, baby girl.”

She was not a baby. At twenty-six, she was old enough to have published a novel or at least to have a husband and a child or two.

He removed his pocket knife, slit the envelope, and shook the letter open. “Let’s see.”

She couldn’t endure any more embarrassment. She turned around and eased toward the house. Her feet tripped along slowly, but her brain whirled with curiosity she dared not show.

“Come back, Beth.” Papa refolded his letter and sorted through the mail. “Let’s see if you have anything.”

Standing in front of him, she tried not to let him see her suffer.

Papa raised his eyebrows as he held up an envelope. “A letter to you from Uncle Albert.”

“That’s all?” Surely she had a rejection slip.

He thumbed back through the mail. “Oh, here you go.”

She grabbed the other letter, ripped it open, and turned toward the house. It was from a publisher—a tentative offer for a book. A book deal! Oh, to shout the news to her mother! But Aunt Genie would blab it all over town.

Beth drew in a calming breath and reread the letter. She had three weeks to revise her manuscript, and then the publisher would take another look. It was 83,000 words, and they wanted 90,000. Also, they demanded she cut out two main characters and change a location. They expected her to eliminate most of the adverbs. If she had nothing else to do, she could revise the manuscript within six weeks, but she had only three. Oh, and they wanted her to change the title. After all that, they’d look at it again. This was her big chance to succeed—her platinum opportunity. She wouldn’t do anything but work on the book, except to sleep when she had to. In two weeks, she’d have it ready to mail.

She proceeded to her next piece of mail. It was odd to get a letter from Uncle Albert. Papa had one too. She ripped hers open. Two keys and two tickets fell from the big brown envelope. Lifting the items from the ground, she saw that the tickets were dated for Tuesday, which was tomorrow. They were for the train to Taylorsburg.

She guessed she needed to read his letter. I’ve moved to Natchez. What about his newspaper and printing business? She read on. Inside the envelope, he’d enclosed a deed giving her his house and newspaper office, along with a statement saying the printing business and newspaper were her property.

This was big news. She just drew the Rook card of her life. Despite her urge to throw the letter into the air, run down the lane while she shouted as loud as her lungs would allow, she maintained a straight face.

How could Uncle Albert believe a woman, especially a skinny little slip of a woman, who had always lacked the courage to speak up for herself, could do this? He was demanding she move away from her mom and pop, manage a house, publish the newspaper, run a printing business, manage Aunt Genie....

Fluttering her eyes in the bright sunlight, she mumbled, “Uncle Albert believes in me. If he thinks I can do this, I can!”

All through lunch Papa stared at her but didn’t talk. She pushed peas around on her plate.

After lunch, her parents went upstairs for their accustomed siesta. She ran behind them. Before they had time to remove their outer clothing and bed down, she knocked on their door. She didn’t want to tell Aunt Genie any of her news, and she needed to discuss the possibility of taking Aunt Genie with her. No way would her father allow her to go off without taking a chaperone. This arrangement would give him an opportunity to move Genie out of the house.

Papa opened up his bedroom. “Come on in.”

“We were expecting you.” Mom seated herself in the rocking chair.

“You going?” Papa held his letter from Albert.

Beth turned her back to her parents and pressed her fist into her mouth. “Yes.”

Mama leaned forward. “You sound determined.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to sound harsh or ungrateful, but I need to do this.”

“Your mind is made up, girl. That’s good. No dilly dallying back and forth.”

“I need to take my manuscripts, but I suppose I’ll leave the typewriter here.”

“Albert probably left you one. If not, we’ll ship yours on the next train.” Papa made a note in his tablet.

Yawning, Mom turned the covers back on the bed. “We need a half hour’s nap, and so does Aunt Genie. Then I’ll spring the news on her and we’ll get packing.”

Well, is that all, Mom? All these years Beth had assumed her mother didn’t want her to leave home. Mom didn’t want Beth upstairs in the bedroom of her childhood but was too polite to tell her.

Couldn’t you at least shed a tear or two?

“Thanks.” Beth started to leave. “I have something else.”

“Oh?” Mama stared over her spectacles.

Beth tightened her lips to suppress a smile. “Smackover Publishers sent me a tentative offer to—”

“Oh, baby!” Mama jumped from her chair.

Both parents hugged her. “I have to fix things on my manuscript first. I’m going to be so busy. I don’t know if I can do all this.”

“God will give you strength.” Papa squeezed her.

“Got to get busy.” She left their room and climbed the stairs to the attic, where the dust made her breath rattle. Coughing in spasms, she almost fell on her trip back down the stairs. She crept to the kitchen, where she boiled some coffee and sucked a piece of peppermint.

Slow down, Beth, or you won’t get anything done. Mug of steaming coffee in hand, she went outside and sat on the garden bench, where she inhaled clean air.

“Enough of this.” Holding a fist full of skirt, she raced back up the stairs all the way to the attic. Coughing fits slowed her pace as she pushed the big trunk to the top of the stairs.

“Baby girl, let me get that for you.” Papa came to her rescue. “Where do you want this?”

“In the yard so I can clean off the dust.”

“Here. I’ll do this for you.”

“Thank you.”

When he reached the ground, he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face. “I’m glad you’re finally using this Louis Vuitton trunk your mother and I have been saving for you.”

“I was saving it for my honeymoon.” Beth talked as she dusted and coughed. “I’m sorry I kept it in the attic.”

“Yes, we thought you’d want to use it for a hope chest. You know, fill it with all kinds of needlework.”

“Too busy to do needlework, Papa.”

The afternoon flew as everyone joined into the panicky rush.

Mom wiped her face. “This is a madhouse, what with getting Genie’s things packed and placing all of Beth’s manuscripts in the trunk and packing Beth’s clothes. I don’t know how we’ll get it done. Besides all this, Beth needs to be writing, and I need to be talking with her because—” Mom dissolved into tears.

Beth stopped pulling underwear out of her bureau and placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders.

“I don’t know when I’ll see my sweet little girl again.”

Beth laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Mom wiped her face.

“I needed your tears, and I’m just happy to see them.”

The mother and daughter hugged and swung each other in circles.

Papa coughed. “Something stuck in my throat. Tell you what. I’ll stay home from deacons’ meeting tonight.”

Beth bit her lip. “Maybe I should postpone the move until I have a chance to talk to George.”