With a sigh, she pulled out a piece of beige stationery with the initials R. M. M. embossed in red at the bottom. She never liked the name Rebecca and insisted on being called Becky even as she was introduced at formal parties. It was just another quirk that drove her mother batty.
“Fine, here we go. Now, what is that Heathcliff boy’s first name?”
She was stumped for a few minutes, trying to recall. While waiting for the name to pop in her head, she sorted a dish of pearl buttons, rearranged a handful of beautiful pebbles she’d collected near the creek, peeked through a glass kaleidoscope she’d received one birthday, and slipped out of her dirty yellow dress and into her green velvet evening dress with the dropped waist and plunging back, even though she had no idea whether her parents were expecting visitors or not.
“Oh, I give up. Dear Mr. Heathcliff.” She decided the extra formality might make her sound all the more remorseful in her apology and prompt another visit.
“I am deeply sorry for missing you today. When you had indicated you were going to pay the Mackenzie Plantation a visit soon, I had no idea you meant today soon. I’d be so very pleased if you would come calling again tomorrow. In anticipation of your visit I am baking a cream cheese pound cake and making a fresh batch of sweet tea. I do hope you will accept my apology and join me on the front porch swing.” She mushed her lips together because sitting with the Heathcliff boy on the swing was not anything she had any desire to do. But it would make her mama happy.
“Blah-blah-blah. Yours truly, Becky Mackenzie.” Her face scrunched up as if she’d just sucked a raw lemon. Without giving the note another thought, she stuffed it in an envelope, rose from her desk, and went downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Lucretia, dear, can you bake me a cream cheese pound cake for a guest tomorrow?” Becky batted her eyes at the woman sitting across from Moxley at the small kitchen table. They were just finishing their dinner.
“I think I might be able to do that. Who’s it for?” she whispered.
“The Heathcliff boy.” Becky shrugged. Also at the table was a boy around seven years old. He wore his tight, curly hair close to his head, like his daddy, Moxley, did. His feet were almost always bare. Now was no exception.
“The Heathcliff boy?” Lucretia made the feeblest attempt at hiding her smile. “Didn’t know you was sparkin’ him.”
“Oh, I’m not.” Becky harrumphed. “I’m doing it for Mama. Teeter, I got a job for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The little boy turned to look at Becky, his eyes wide with excitement.
“When you are done with your dinner, will you deliver this note to the Heathcliffs’ home? I’ll have a brand-new shiny nickel for you when you get back.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He squirmed in his seat and eagerly gulped down his food, wiping his hands on his napkin.
“For heaven’s sake, boy. Don’t choke it down.” Moxley chuckled as he rubbed Teeter’s head. “I’ll send him to you once he gets back, Miss Becky.”
“Thanks, Moxley. You’re top drawer. And thank you, Lucretia. I’ll also be needing some sweet tea, but I think I can handle that,” Becky said proudly.
“You do?” Lucretia asked, looking up at Becky from beneath long black lashes. “Miss Becky, I don’t think you ever done so much as cut a tomato in my kitchen.”
Becky pouted, put her hands on her lips, and looked up at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll leave you to make the sweet tea as well. But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
“No, ma’am. I won’t.” Lucretia and Moxley both chuckled as they went back to their meal and watched Becky strut out of the kitchen.
With Teeter going to deliver the letter, Becky decided she needed to plan how to receive the Heathcliff boy as politely as possible and get him to leave as quickly as possible. It was going to be a rather daring episode.
Why can’t it be Adam White paying a visit?
The thought had just popped into Becky’s head unsolicited, forcing her cheeks to turn bright red and her mouth to dry up like a spring shower on the hood of her Daddy’s Model T.
Adam White. Mama would never approve of him stopping by. Although his family was not poor in the traditional sense, they didn’t meet the standards of the society folk in town. The Mackenzies had occupied this plantation for a hundred years. The Bourdeauxs of Pooler brought their wealth from Europe with them several decades ago. The Heathcliffs were in the railroad business. But the Whites were in newspapers.
Mr. White was a photoengraver on the printing presses in downtown Savannah. Adam worked alongside his father as an apprentice. The work wasn’t glamorous. Every time she’d seen Adam, she couldn’t help but notice the ink imbedded underneath his fingernails. But she never once thought less of him. In fact, it made her all the more interested in him.
“How marvelous it must be for you to see the news in print before the rest of us. You know all the happenings in the world before we’re even out of bed,” Becky stuttered one awkward evening when they ran into each other at a speakeasy she and Martha had snuck into.
Adam White towered at least a foot over Becky. When he looked at her she was sure he knew every thought that went through her head, which made her blush all the more. She hated blushing.
“To me it’s work. I don’t really get a chance to read the stories. Once the papers come flying off those rollers, we’ve got to get them bundled and out the door. But that’s all rather boring.” He smiled and watched her cheeks turn red like she had some kind of fever.
As if his humble upbringing wasn’t bad enough, Adam was a Yankee. His family had come to Savannah,
