“Remember when Hamlet talks about catching Claudius for murdering his father when he reenacts the play with that traveling group of actors? When he says, ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king’?”
He stared at me. “You going to stage something in that reenactment that will make Annabel reveal she killed Beau? Are you serious? Did she even say she would be there tomorrow?”
“No, but I bet she will. I think something’s still eating at her and she can’t let go of it.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’m still working it out.”
He looked skeptical. “You’d better watch it.”
“Don’t worry.” I reached for the fortune cookies and held them out. “Choose.”
We broke our cookies open at the same time.
“Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you.’” Quinn grinned. “These things are so true. What’s yours say?”
“Distant water does not put out a fire.’” I crumpled it up. “How about if we head over to the camp?”
We took his car. On the drive over I thought about what I hoped to pull off with Annabel Chastain. Hamlet had indeed caught Claudius out when he staged his play within a play. But by the time the final curtain went down, nearly everyone in the Danish royal family was dead.
I wanted the truth to be revealed, not more senseless deaths. Little did I know that I would not get my wish. A fire I knew nothing about had ignited and there was no water, distant or otherwise, to put it out. In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to that fortune cookie.
Chapter 22
The rain had held off for the campground dance, although the air felt so heavy it seemed to wrap itself around Quinn and me like a cloak. We parked on the grassy field and used his flashlight to see our way to the stone bridge and, beyond it, the Confederate camp.
Even Quinn stopped to stare, as I had in the morning, once we crossed the bridge. In the peaceful darkness of a late summer evening, the camp looked serene with its sea of white tents now softly illuminated by candlelight shining from hurricane lanterns and the embers of campfires over which dinners had been cooked. We seemed to have come to a place risen up from the past.
The music of a fiddle and banjo floated through the stillness, accompanied by laughter and voices and the sound of hands clapping in time to the music. I caught the wisps of melody of “Arkansas Traveler.”
The dance was held along a wide, flat stretch of road that led to the new fields of grapes and the winery beyond. During the day the road had been off-limits; now the wooden sawhorses with their “Do Not Enter” signs had been pushed out of the way. The Virginia Fiddlers stood on an improvised wooden stage, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. In front of them, a throng of flashing skirts and uniformed men whirled past us.
B.J. spotted Quinn and me watching on the sidelines and came over to see us.
“Guess we don’t blend in too well, huh?” Quinn said in my ear.
“They didn’t wear Hawaiian shirts during the Civil War.”
B.J. kissed me on the cheek and pulled two cigars out of his pocket, offering one to Quinn.
“You look lovely tonight, my dear,” he said to me, then added to Quinn, “If you’re sticking around, you’ll want that stogie to keep the bugs down. They’re pretty fierce tonight.” He waved at the dancers. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s lovely,” I said as the Fiddlers swung into “Dixie.”
“I love that song,” B.J. said. “Makes me cry every time I hear it. Especially when the Fiddlers sing it with that sweet harmony of theirs.”
Emma Hunt emerged from the crowd of dancers and joined us. Her cheeks were flushed pink and her eyes were bright. She had changed since this morning into a teal-colored satin evening dress. Lashed by firelight, it gleamed.
“There you are,” she said to B.J. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She caught his arm, smiling at Quinn and me. “Glad to see you’re here with Lucie, Quinn. I was hoping she’d bring you.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, ma’am.”
I resisted the urge to elbow him as Emma gave me a small triumphant smile.
“That’s good to know. Will we be seeing more of you this weekend, I hope?” she asked.
Quinn grinned and puffed on his cigar. “I’m not sure. My boss is a real slave driver. I don’t get out much.”
“What he means,” I said, “is that in order to make the quality wine for which we’re becoming known, he occasionally puts in long hours just like I do.”
“Sure,” he said, “that’s exactly what I mean.”
B.J. and Emma exchanged glances.
“Told you they make a nice couple, didn’t I?” Emma said to B.J.
I felt Quinn stir next to me and I blushed.
“I think we should dance, my love.” B.J. winked at me. “You two stick around as long as you like and enjoy the music.”
They waited for an opening, then B.J. whirled Emma into the dancers with the fluid ease of lifelong partners. In a moment they were swallowed up, disappearing into the happy, animated crowd.
“Want to find a place to sit and listen?” I asked. “It’s nice music, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said, “it is.”
He took my hand and we moved away from the crush of dancers and the crush of spectators that stood around watching them.
“What about that tree stump over there?” Quinn asked. “Might not be too comfortable, but it’s better than sitting on the ground. Especially since you’ve got that pretty dress on.”
“Looks okay to me.”
He sat down first and surprised me by pulling me onto his lap. I leaned my head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around my waist. By now he’d let his cigar go out, but he still smelled of smoke mingled with a masculine scent that reminded me of leather and being outdoors.
I could hear his heart beating in his chest slow and steady and strong. His breath was regular against my ear. Imperceptibly, his arms seemed to tighten around me as mine did around him. We sat there in the semidarkness with its shifting firelight shadows cast by dancers spinning by. I closed my eyes and listened to the music and laughter drift around us. We were kissing. I’m not sure when we started, but after so many miscues in the years we’d known each other, it now felt right and good. His kisses were long and slow, making my head spin. He moved his hands up to my face and moaned softly as he whispered my name.
Someone sneezed.
“What are they doing?”
“Kissing, you idiot. What does it look like?”
We broke apart and Quinn let go of me so abruptly I nearly slid off his lap. Three boys in Civil War-era attire stood in front of us staring with frank, prepubescent curiosity. The oldest couldn’t have been more than seven or eight.
I stood and straightened my sundress. Our audience seemed fascinated. Good thing they couldn’t see how furiously I was blushing. Good thing I didn’t recognize any of them, either.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Quinn said. “Can we help you with something?”
“Nope.” The smallest of them scuffed his shoe in the dirt and broke into a toothy grin. “We were just watching you. Hey, Miz Montgomery. That your boyfriend?”
I looked closer at him. Who was he?
“Uh, no. No, not my boyfriend. He’s my…friend,” I said. “Do I know you?”
“Yes, ma’am. My granddad’s Seth Hannah. I’m Corey.”
