Carolina. Maybe from somewhere in the Deep South, though it’s hard to pinpoint where.
“You found her. Though it’s
His narrow chest expands. “I’m Claude Corbeau. Might I come up your walk?” There’s a hint of the bayou in his speech, though it’s gone almost as quick as I hear it. But there’s no mistaking the strained formality of his words, as if he’s trying to hide his true roots and come off as something he’s not.
“Depends. What are you selling?”
“Oh nothing, I assure you. I’m merely here on a social call.” He turns his eyes toward me. “And who might you be?”
My mouth opens to answer but my throat is suddenly as dry as a cotton boll and my tongue as heavy as lead.
“She helps tend my garden. And she’s none of your concern.” Miss Delia yawns, patting her open mouth with her wrinkled hand. “I’m afraid I’m not up for a visit this afternoon. You know how us old folk need our naps. Perhaps you ought to come back another day.”
His smile slips just for a second, but he quickly recovers. “I promise this won’t take long.”
Taneea opens the screen door and saunters out onto the porch. She’s changed into a black corset top and a black miniskirt. “Whew, thank goodness the sun’s gone away. Though knowing my luck, it’ll probably only last a few minutes.” She brushes her bangs off her face. “Well, hello, sir.” Her voice is high and flirty.
Miss Delia’s face hardens. “Taneea, could you fetch me a glass of sweet tea? I’m mighty thirsty.” Her eyes stay trained on Mr. Corbeau. I glance at the table next to her wheelchair. Her glass is still full.
“You’ve got plenty of tea, Great-gran.” Taneea steps off the porch in a pair of black peep-toe sandals.
“I suppose I do,” Miss Delia answers without taking her eyes off her visitor.
“You going to introduce me to our guest?” Taneea asks.
Mr. Corbeau beams. “Well hello—Taneea, was it? You can call me Claude. Clearly, you’re a young Ms. Whittaker. I can see the obvious resemblance.”
Is he blind? They might be related but they look nothing alike.
Claude turns his attention to Miss Delia. “Lord, you must have been a gorgeous woman in your prime.” He whistles.
Mrs. Delia crosses her arms. “Sweetmouthing me won’t get you very far, Mr. Corbeau. How about you tell me the reason you’ve come to call?” Her lips mash into a thin line.
He stands on the edge of the garden. “Is that an invitation? It’s so much easier to speak face-to-face than shout across your lustrous garden.”
“Sure, come on up,” Taneea answers before her great-grandmother has a chance to say a word.
Quick as lightning, Claude opens the gate on the picket fence then bounds up the walkway, almost a skip in his step.
Miss Delia’s gnarled hands tighten into liver-spotted balls. She shoots me a cautionary glance. This is where I’m supposed to use that strength she warned me about. Against what I’m not sure, but I breathe deep and brace myself just the same.
Approaching the chair, Claude extends his arm toward Miss Delia, a stiff, ivory-colored business card wedged between his first two fingers. “I appreciate you agreeing to my visit on such short notice.”
“You mean no notice.” Miss Delia doesn’t reach for his card.
He pauses, taking her in. “Yes, coming unannounced is unforgivably rude. But given your reputation for generosity, I thought you’d find in your heart to be hospitable.” He shoves the card in my direction.
Huh? What the heck is he talking about? I glance at the embossed print on the thick card stock. A surge of electricity zips up my limbs. “You’re from the King Center?” The words blurt from my suddenly unfrozen mouth.
He turns his head in my direction. “I just started actually. Are you familiar with the organization?”
I nod. “Y-yes.” Only too well.
“What is it?” Taneea twists a fuchsia strand around her index finger.
“It’s the Lowcountry’s premier Gullah museum.” Claude beams with pride. “We house the most impressive collection of Gullah art and historical artifacts in the country.”
“Do you have air-conditioning?” Taneea asks.
He laughs. “Of course. The exhibits require a climate-controlled environment.”
“Nice. Is it open to the public? Because when I’m not melting from the heat, I’m losing my mind on this frigging island.”
Claude laughs. “Then you must absolutely visit. Our collection is extensive and we’re always searching for volunteers. I promise you’ll be quite cool. And while you’re there, you could see your…grandmother’s donation.” He scans Miss Delia’s face for some confirmation of their relation, but she doesn’t twitch.
“Grammy’s in Chicago. Delia’s my great-gran. She won’t buy a new TV or get cable so I seriously doubt she’d donate anything decent to a museum.” She laughs as if she’s just made some hilarious joke, but instead she’s only managed to humiliate the only person willing to take her in.
“That’s enough now, child. I think you’ve got some tidying up to do in the house, don’t you?” Miss Delia asks.
Taneea shakes her head. “Nope. I’m done for the day. Your house is so small it doesn’t take long to clean.” She bats her lashes.
My tongue burns like fire, desperate to utter every nasty insult that’s piling up in my brain. If I wasn’t trying to make nice in front of a guy who works for the museum I stole from, I’d totally tell her off.
Claude smiles. “Oh, your great-grandmother did indeed make a donation. An impressive one at that. It’s the reason for my visit.”
“Was there a problem with the paperwork I signed?” Miss Delia asks. “I don’t have the best eyesight, as you can tell from my cataract.”
“Oh no, everything was in order.”
“Then why are you here?” I ask, unable to keep silent. You’d think they’d be happy to get a treasure box filled with pirate gold.
“I just had a few questions. You see, there’s an anomaly I just wanted to follow up on.”
“Anomaly?” Miss Delia asks.
“Yes, it’s means there’s something unexpected or unusual.”
Miss Delia leans forward, pursing her lips. “I know what it means, young man. What I don’t understand is why you’ve come bothering me about it.”
“You gave us a box of pirate doubloons from
“Yes?”
“It’s a remarkable find. Tell me, how did you come to possess such a treasure?”
She leans back in her chair. “I dug it up. In my front garden.” She points a gnarled finger toward the catnip bushes in the far corner.
He laughs, gripping his midsection with his spindly hand. “Really? Imagine that.”
She smiles. “Yes, indeed.”
“Over there?” He puts his briefcase down then steps his wing-tipped feet through a cluster of juniper, past a row of dwarf holly, then leaps over some echinacea to the catnip. Bending down, he scoops up a teeming handful of dark brown earth, then sifts it with his fingers. “It’s hard to believe something so valuable was just lying here, waiting to be discovered.”
Miss Delia shrugs. “Not really, seeing as it came out of the ground.”
He stares at the soil in his hand. “It’s rich and moist.” He sniffs it. “I believe the term is loamy, isn’t? Clumps when you squeeze it.”
“And your point is?” Miss Delia is clearly losing her patience with him, his anomaly, and his fascination with the quality of her dirt.
Grinding the last bit of grit between his two forefingers, he seems not to have heard her question. “The secret is plenty of humus. Without it, this would be just another dry patch of ground unable to grow anything.”
