THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Chapter Thirteen

THIRTEEN

       Quillan kept his peace until we were in the privacy of our room. Shoving the wooden bolt lock in place he turned and narrowed his eyes in on me. “Fine time to find your courage.” He says, not looking at all too happy.

            “That wasn’t courage; that was common sense.” I say crossing my arms in front of me. “I couldn’t sit there and let a pregnant woman pass out from heat exhaustion. I’m sorry, but my momma raised me better than that. I’m surprised you were okay with that!”

            “I’m not okay with it, Ave.” I noticed he shortened my name again. “But I have a bigger mission on my hand right now and your public antics could cost me the opportunity to do so.”

            “Public antics?”  I begin batting my eyes and fanning my face like the southern bell I’m dressed as. “Well Sir, I was simply offering my seat and a cold drink of water.” I don’t think he saw me jab potbelly in the stomach and I’m certainly not going to mention it right now.

            Not finding the humor in my charade his eyes flash and he comes at me fast, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me up against the wall. “Like I said last night, you’re way in over your head. You have no clue what’s at stake or why I’ve spent years trying to come back here. We are dealing with the future of many lives; yours included. So if you want to make it back home then quit screwing around and making a game of it.”

            His face is close to mine causing a burning sensation in my belly. We stare at each other, not saying a word, and the storm I see raging in his beautiful gray eyes tells me this is not just some scientific time travel experiment; but rather something deeply personal. He notices the realization in my gaze and before I can question him further, he retains his secrecy by letting me go and changing the subject. Motioning to the basin on a marble table top, he suggest I clean up. Then he points out additional packages in the corner and there I find several more dresses and accessories.

            I clean up in silence, pumping water into the basin and using the soaps provided on the table. I wish I could wash my hair but it’s an impossibility so I tie it down with ribbons, fashioning all the pieces in a loose braid, leaving a few tendrils out around my face. Dabbing some perfume behind my ears and between my breasts, I take a look at the other dresses. All of them are full skirts like the one I’m wearing and lying next to them is a corset, a hoop skirt and several pairs of panties. He thought of everything but there is no way in hell I’m wearing a corset.  I glance over at Quillan, whose been lying across the bed staring up at the ceiling as if were in deep meditation. He’s not paying attention to me but I still have no desire to strip down in front of him so I take refuge behind a decorative, three paneled room divider.  My dress of choice is a deep burgundy. I chose it because it seems to have less fabric than all the others.   The neckline is lower and squared off and there are no sleeves only black mesh gloves that go halfway up my arms. I’m thinking this will be much cooler than heavy sleeves. Still there is the problem of those dang shoes. Suddenly I have an idea; I can hide under my hoop skirt and forego the shoes. The dress is so long I am sure I can get away without wearing any. Nearly knocking over the room divider I present myself to Quillan. His face softens in agreement and then he does a quick change himself, donning in nice southern gentleman attire, pulls his lovely hair back in a ponytail and we are off.

            The Faulkner Estate gives me the creeps no matter what time period I am in. It’s decorated beautifully though, and I am relieved to know the soiree is taking place outdoors so there will be no need to enter into the formidable mansion.  Dozens of tables are positioned about the lawn, covered in white linen cloths and decorated with yellow tulips and laden with food. Pitchers of lemonade and tea are placed on each table as well as egg salad sandwiches, pulled pork barbeque on home baked buns, deviled eggs, leafy salads, heavily frosted cakes, home baked pies, slices of watermelon and baskets of fresh raspberries, blueberries, blackberries and strawberries. It all looks delicious.  I haven’t eaten since the bread and jam in the cave this morning and I can’t wait to dig in.  

            We stroll past a group of musicians assembled near a weeping willow tree, playing a lively tune on their banjos, violins and harmonicas. Most of the children are playing tag, chasing each other through the trees, while some of the adults are playing a competitive game of Croquet. Quilts are spread out over the lawn, welcoming those who wish to recline and eat their meal picnic style, while those who do not; have a choice of wicker chairs or wooden rockers.

            I realize the motivation behind the big shindig when a mammoth cake supporting seventeen candles is unveiled. The pretty young woman, with fiery red hair, I saw scurry up the staircase in the mansion last night, is all smiles as she scoops up a dollop of frosting from the side of the cake and licks if off her finger. Today must be Emily Faulkner’s birthday. As I watch her flitter about, laughing and greeting her guest it’s hard to imagine her hanging herself a month from now. It’s sad really; suicide is something I’ve never been able to understand. No matter how bad it gets, there’s always hope.

            We load our china plates with food and take a seat on a beautiful quilt under the low hanging branches of an oak. I notice several women looking our way, all eyeing Quillan. I’m not surprised he looks hot and I scold myself for being attracted to him too.  This is one of those instances where I need to be smart and guard my heart. He’s wealthy, no doubt super intelligent, seeing he understands the concepts of time travel. Plus he’s older than me; I’m guessing he’s at least twenty-three or twenty four. I sigh defeated, realizing he is definitely out of my league.

            As the afternoon wears on Quillan suggest we mingle so we stroll along the grassy lawn having meaningless conversation with people we will more than likely never interact with again. I take this entire exercise lightly until Quillan mentions that we are probably meeting our ancestors. That idea had never dawned on me before so I spend the rest of the afternoon wondering if I might locate my mother’s family.

             It doesn’t take long before we happen upon a group discussing the latest political goings on. Dread overtakes me when I see Mr. Potbelly and his portly wife standing amongst the small crowd. My eye is on Potbelly so I don’t really notice the tall gentleman with his back to us. 

            “There’s the Negro sympathizer I was telling you about,” Potbelly says with an air of confidence now that he’s surrounded by friends. “This young woman thought it would be alright to have my Negro sit on a white person’s bench and drink from her flask.” I can tell Quillan wants to bypass this group but before we can skirt the issue the tall gentleman turns around to face me. I gasp. Forget Mr. Potbelly, smiling at me with his hand extended, is the one and only, Mr. Brackett!   My knees buckle and I teeter backwards toward Quillan. He steadies me by putting his arm around me and pulling me close. The way he slightly turns me towards him is an indication he doesn’t want me to say anything. But before I could find my voice, Mr. Brackett lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it. “James Faulkner, nice to meet you.”