Free Magnolia City by Duncan W. Alderson Page A

herself on being a little cynical when it came to romance and was amazed at being smitten by the very feelings she found so silly in love songs. Like the one being played by the band right now about whispering. She wanted to step up to the mike and sing. As if reading her thoughts, which happened a lot when she was with Garret—they were so in sync, he started crooning the lyrics into her ear, slipping his warm breath up under the beads of her cloche. He’s getting through my armor, she thought and tried vainly to resist.
    Whispering while you cuddle near me, he sang softly.
Whispering so no one can hear me
Each little whisper seems to cheer me . . .
Whispering that I love you.
    And then they sang the words together, moving in a lazy fox-trot.
    Finally they feasted on rare roast beef dripping blood into cold mashed potatoes and finished off with cherry cheesecake, another Rice specialty. When the waiter brought the check, Garret pulled out the envelope Kirb had given him and placed it on the table. They both looked at it. Hetty shrugged. “Just use it.”
    The hour grew late. Garret bundled her into her velvet wrap and brought her over to the very edge of the rooftop, where they stood at the wrought iron railing and followed spoke after spoke of lights radiating out into the flat dark land. The cupola of the Esperson Building, illuminated, floated above them. They were at the center, leaning close together. He brushed his cheek against the feathers that surrounded her face, until he was nuzzling in her neck and turning her face up gently to kiss her. His lips grazed hers once or twice, then stopped and opened a bit until she could feel the warmth and wetness of his mouth, urgent and tobacco-scented. She liked men who smoked. She glanced back, making sure neither of the Blue Birds was watching, then unbuttoned his blazer and snaked her arms around him, wanting to unbutton his shirt to find the source of that deeper, richer smell. She held on, being kissed, stirring her legs restively under the slinky dress, aroused. Maybe next time she would let Garret pay.
    “Tell me what’s behind those doors,” he breathed into her ear.
    “Not yet,” she whispered back.
    On the way home, she grew quiet. She was already thinking about the dinner she would attend the following evening at the Rusk mansion. How different it would be from tonight. Lamar would know things Garret didn’t. He was from an old Texas family, after all. He would know to bring her flowers, not jewels, on their first date. He would know how to present her properly to his family. It would happen in the largest residence in all of Courtlandt Place: Splendora—Chief Rusk’s immense antebellum estate with its sprawling gardens, greenhouses, and tennis courts. There would be no question of who would pay. They and dozens of other guests would simply share in the largesse of the Rusk oil fortune, spread out in baronial style throughout three or four grand reception rooms.
    Lamar would escort Hetty across a wide veranda in the shadow of towering white columns right off a Greek temple. A Confederate flag would hang next to Old Glory. Under the blazing light of chandeliers, Chief Rusk would look at Hetty the way he looked at his prize heifers on the Splendora ranch: Was she good for breeding? How many Rusk grandsons could she bear? Rachel Rusk would be her usual charming but dotty self, making Hetty feel like the guest of honor even though the circular dining tables would be crammed with an intimidating crowd of Courtlandt Place neighbors. Hetty would have to sit at the head table next to some socialite like Etta Garrow or Jessie Carter and endure her scrutiny. All through the evening, both Rachel and Chief would smile at her approvingly and would drop subtle hints that she was worthy to marry their only begotten son.
    She would drink a lot of really good champagne but still wouldn’t be able to douse the doubt smoldering at the back of her mind: Would Lamar still