Seduced

THREE

I was returning from the limo with the cowboy Stetson in my hand when I stopped, listened for a moment, then listened a while longer.

“I think I hear voices,” I called through the doorway. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Reggie was tending to Mr. Chatham, who sat as if asleep in a recliner said to be his favorite. Within reach was a wall of books, a floor lamp, and a newly opened bottle of liquor. Whiskey, possibly. It was tea-colored, in a glass that refused to balance itself in the dead man’s hands.

“Shit fire… Sorry, sir, sorry… Spilt this good scotch all over your suit and bolo tie.”

“Reggie. Come on.”

“Who do you hear?”

“I don’t know, but I did. Someone’s coming.”

The little man was too busy finding a towel to be concerned. “Canoes paddle past the dock sometimes. That’s probably what it was. Why don’t you walk yourself down to the river and see while I finish up here. Hope you don’t mind, ma’am, but I still got my good-byes to say and I’d like to say them in private. Oh”-he hefted the liquor bottle-“how about a little taste of this for your nerves? You appear to be skittish.”

As he reached for another glass, I declined, and turned from the door. No point leaving fingerprints.

I crossed the yard to an old pump with a handle, stopping every few seconds to listen. I washed my hands and face in cold water, then took my time approaching the river, where there was a dock, and a tire swing suspended from a massive oak. There was also a dilapidated boathouse hidden by trees, a single room on stilts over the water. Normally, I would have savored how the air changed, as it always does in the hollow of a river, but I was too tense. There’d been no more stray voices, yet I was sure I’d heard someone talking.

I shielded my eyes to look through the boathouse window. I expected a place for storage but instead saw a bamboo couch and chair, minus the cushions. The cushions were laid out on the floor as if someone had been sleeping there. Aside from a lamp and some fishing gear, that’s all there was to see.

I tried the door anyway. It wasn’t locked. Floor and pilings swayed beneath my weight when I entered. The space within smelled vaguely of old wood, with a hint of fragrance that had the tang of orange blossoms at first but faded to a vanilla softness. It reminded me of a Chanel perfume I like although rarely wear.

The fragrance vanished when the wind caught the door and slammed it behind me. I jumped, and sputtered a phrase I seldom use even when alone. Then was startled again when laughter floated up through the floor. A man’s voice said, “You caught me, I surrender. But you mind if I ask what you’re doing here?”

I could have sworn the voice came from inside that little room, but there wasn’t a closet, just a cabinet and some shelves. A sliding glass door looked out over the river.

I said, “Who… where are you?”

“Not where I want, considering the circumstances. I’m going to have to ask you to turn your back, miss.”

“Turn my…? I’m not doing anything ’til you show yourself.”

“I guarantee you don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t. I’d rather not warn you again.”

“This is ridiculous.” I pushed aside a curtain of beads and saw that the sliding door was open wide enough to slip through onto a walk-around deck. I stepped out, thinking I’d surprised a trespasser in a canoe, but there was no canoe, nothing, until I looked down and saw a man smiling up at me from tannin-clear water. He was naked, as I couldn’t help but notice. He was also aware of the good visibility, which was obvious by the way he tried to hide himself by clinging to a piling.

“Good Lord,” I said, spinning away, “get some clothes on. Where’s your boat? Get moving before I tell the gentleman who owns the place.”

It was a bluff, of course, and only caused the man to laugh again. “I’ll tell him myself,” he replied. “How about you step inside, young lady, and pull that curtain so I can get my britches on.”

There was a wisp of accent in his words and vocal rhythm-from out west in cowboy country, maybe. Only then did I notice Levi’s and a blue plaid shirt folded neatly over the railing, Wellington boots and socks aligned below. I asked, “Do you have permission to be here?”

“Far as I know, I’m the only one who does. I manage the groves for Mr. Chatham.”

I thought, Uh-oh, as he continued, “The water’s a bit chilly, it being winter and all. You mind hurrying a bit?”

“I am so sorry,” I said, and banged the glass door with my shoulder when I hurried inside. What was I going to do? The cabin wasn’t visible from the boathouse. I had no idea if Reggie was still paying his respects to his dead employer or waiting for me at the car. The temptation was to run, but that would have attracted the worst sort of suspicion when Mr. Chatham’s body was found.

I heard sloshing water; the little house vibrated with weight and the sure movements of a man. “Dang it. You see a towel in there?”

An orange beach towel was folded on a cushion I had nudged aside after entering. I poked it through the curtain with my back turned but got a glimpse of him in the side window’s reflection. He was fit-looking, older than expected, with matted gray chest hair and a wide rack of shoulders. Admittedly, I would have allowed myself to see more, but the beaded curtain clattered closed.

“My name’s Hannah Smith,” I said, then apologized again, desperate to buy time. This required small talk. “That’s a shame about your citrus grove. I noticed the trees when we drove in. Anything you can do to get rid of that awful disease? Our trees have it, too.”

“How big’s your grove?”

“Well, I’m unsure of the exact acreage, but big enough for me to be interested. My great-grandfather planted some of those trees a hundred years ago.”

“That old, huh?” He sounded dubious. “Tell me your name again.”

I did. “Citrus greening,” I continued. “I’d never even heard of it ’til a year ago.”

“Most call it H-L-B, and it’s been coming for a lot longer than that,” the man said. “HLB stands for a Chinese word that means ‘Yellow Dragon.’ A long word, hard to pronounce. I’m making some headway on techniques to slow it down. That’s why Mr. Chatham hired me. Say, is he up at the cabin? Yesterday, he mentioned he was going into town this afternoon. Otherwise, I would’ve checked before taking a swim.”

“Yes,” I said, “in the cabin. He’s been there most of the day, I’m told.”

“All day? Are you sure?”

“Far as I know. Reggie said he uses that old truck in the carport sometimes.”

“I’ll be darned. I’m surprised he didn’t come out and say hello. Not that I know him that well. I’ve only been here three months-a little less.” After he said it, the floor vibrated like a drum. I pictured him hopping on one foot, getting his boots on. Then he came through the curtains smiling, with an outstretched hand. “I’ve gone and upset you. I can tell because… well, I just can, that’s all. Sorry about that. Your next visit, I promise, you don’t have to worry about this happening again. Only time I swim the river is my afternoons off when I’m sure no one’s around.” He held the front door open for me in a gentlemanly way. “Do you mind if we don’t mention it to Mr. Chatham? He’s a stickler when it comes to rude behavior, as you probably know.”

All I knew for certain was, we couldn’t return to the cabin until Reggie was ready.

“I’m the one at fault,” I said. “I came down here because I thought I heard people talking. Reggie asked me to check.”

“He brought you? In the limo? That’s quite an honor.”

“Yes,” I said. “Reggie did the driving, of course.”

The remark was so stupid, I wasn’t surprised by his puzzled reaction. I had no hope of weaving sense out of the nest of lies I was creating, but Kermit Bigalow was polite enough not to press. “Voices, huh? I didn’t see anybody.”

“Could’ve been birds, I suppose. Mockingbirds, they can sound like people. Let’s take a look; check the trees along the river.”

“Hmm.” The man stood there, the door wide, waiting for me to exit, but then showed smile lines from jaw to cheeks and snapped his fingers. “I’m a dope-it was me. A few minutes ago, I was on the phone with my daughter. Doesn’t matter where I am, or the time of day, I wouldn’t miss a call from her. She has her own ring, so I bellied up on the deck like a seal and put her on Speaker. Forgot all about it ’til now.”

I smiled, too, but was sweating on the inside. “That’s so sweet. A daughter.”

“Nothing in the world like it. Most men want a boy first time around. Not me. You have kids, Miss Smith? Or is it Mrs.?”

“How old is she?” I asked rather than answer the question.

“Ten going on eighteen. You’d have to meet her to understand. Some of the things she says-my gosh, you can’t help laughing. Here, have a look.”

Normally, it is a joy to meet an adoring father, but it took some work to keep my smile frozen while he produced a phone and swept through a dozen photos of a pretty little girl. Her name was Sarah, a tomboy with braids and a missing front tooth. The child, or her mother, was fond of bib overalls and red ribbons, but there were also shots of her in a dainty party dress with shiny black flats that buckled, white socks flush at her ankles. A great big smile on the face of a girl who enjoyed dressing up.

“I spoil her rotten,” Bigalow grinned. “Can’t help myself. All the teachers say she should be in advanced classes, but my wife thinks public school’s best for now. We’ve gone ’round and ’round about that.”

“I just bet you do spoil her,” I said. “That’s a good thing, not bad.”

“You really believe that?”

His interest in my opinion was sincere, which was unexpected. “You can’t spoil a child with too much attention and love. That never made sense to me, people who claim you can.” I started to add something about the girl, and the sun rising on her daddy’s head, but stopped when a woman on horseback came riding out of the trees at the edge of the river.

“Uh-oh,” Bigalow said. “She’s not gonna like it, finding us here. That’s Lonnie Chatham. Lonnie doesn’t like anyone being on what she considers her property. Including me-but especially other women when her husband’s around.”

“Never met her,” I said. “She’s jealous of a man that age?”

“She’s that mean,” the grove manager replied. “Or nice, depending on who she’s talking to, or what she wants.” Which is why he was taken aback when I charged out the door and waved to get the woman’s attention. Meeting Mrs. Chatham might be unpleasant, but it was better than her surprising Reggie inside the cabin. Blessedly, she saw me and kicked the horse into a trot.

“It was wrong of me to speak that way about his wife,” the man said, joining me outside. Not nervous about his remarks, just regretful. “I’m forty-two years old, Miss Smith, and I still haven’t learned to stop my mouth from saying what’s running through my mind. Tell Mr. Chatham what you want, but I felt the need to admit that to you.”

“Call me Hannah,” I replied, “and stop worrying. I’ve spent half my life apologizing for things I’ve said, even though I meant most of them-at the time anyway.”

He showed his smile lines again; cinnamon hair thinning, freckles showing through his tan, a man who was an inch shorter than me, and ten years older. “Call me Kermit. And when Lonnie gets here? It might be best if you just sort of follow my lead.”

I am a better judge of women than men-a trait that has plagued the women in my family for generations. Particularly my aunts, three of them named Hannah. For two of my namesakes, their flawed judgment resulted in violence and an untimely death. This sad fact, which I seldom share, has kept me awake at night, particularly if there is a moon and wind. It has also caused me to be wary in my dealings with men.

Loretta describes my behavior as prudish and cold, often adding, “No wonder you’re childless and live alone.”

My mother, of course, could not resist taunting fate, and her oversized infant, by saddling me with the name Hannah and the weight of my family’s unfortunate history. She has always had a sharp, judgmental tongue, but I blame the brain aneurysm for her decline into downright meanness. Perhaps it is my excuse to forgive the woman who bore me, and whose own life has not been easy.

Either way, it is true, I suppose. I have sidestepped the attentions of more men than I have embraced-not that large numbers can be assigned to either column.

When it comes to reading women, however, I believe my instincts are better than most. That’s why when Lonnie Chatham appeared, I had to caution myself because I disliked her immediately. It wasn’t her appearance so much as her attitude. She was closer in age to Kermit than to her late husband yet spoke with the veiled enmity of a queen interacting with the hired help. She sat atop a horse of glistening maple, so we had to look up. She seldom bothered to look down.

“Your days off are called days off for a reason, Kermit. I don’t see your truck”-the woman’s sculpted face became a cameo silhouette-“but I don’t care how you got here, just that you’re here. You know I exercise Axel on Friday afternoons. Swimming in the nude again, were you? Or just snooping?”

This was asked with a saucy edge that was laced with accusation.

Axel was the stunning Thoroughbred, who stood fifteen hands tall, with withers so muscled they strained beneath the tiny caramel saddle that matched the woman’s caramel riding boots. The animal snorted and backed against the reins, too wild-eyed to be a gelding.

The grove manager kept a watchful eye. “My truck was due for an oil change, ma’am. It’s parked behind the maintenance barn, and this young lady-” The horse sidestepped, came close to rearing, so he stepped forward. “How about I hold his halter, Mrs. Chatham?”

“Only if you want to lose a hand. I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

“This is Hannah Smith. Reggie was kind enough to bring her out for a tour. She owns a citrus grove that-”

“And you pick the only afternoon in the whole damn week I actually look forward to? Axel is easily upset. Strangers upset him, and his nose picks up on all that damn organic crap you’ve been spraying on the citrus. Now it’ll be hell wearing him down until he’s civil enough to ride.”

Kermit attempted to explain but was interrupted again. “Is Harney up there?” The woman’s head swung toward the cabin, which was screened by trees and moss. “I don’t see the limo, and no way in hell Reggie would drive that damn old truck.”

“The Lincoln’s there, ma’am,” Kermit responded, because that’s what I had told him was true.

“It’s not supposed to be. Harney claimed he had meetings in town this afternoon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he came here today just to spite me.”

“Mr. Chatham’s been in the cabin most of the day,” Kermit replied. “Must’a finished early. I can’t say for sure. We haven’t spoke, but I know he’s up there.”

I was relieved by how smoothly the man parroted my lies, but also felt a stab of guilt.

Lonnie Chatham looked down. For the first time, her eyes, dark beneath a coil of blond hair, focused on me. “Let me guess why you’re here, sweetie. Harney always did have a soft spot for the earthy types. From your clothes, I’d say you like to fish and hunt; probably right at home with the boys. I saw a similar blouse in an ad for Bass Pro Shops. I admire women who prefer comfort to style.”

I felt my face warming. The stallion’s antics gave me time to think before replying, “I love your boots, Miz Chatham. Bass Pro might be just the place to find an outfit that’s not quite so stiff and gaudy.”

It was the worst I could manage. I couldn’t risk an insult so rash it would cause the woman to order me off the property or go charging up to the cabin.

Kermit mistook my remark for a compliment, or timidity. His face began to color, and his tone changed. “Mrs. Chatham, please. You can speak to me any way you like, but this young lady’s my guest. She’s in the citrus business. That’s the only reason she’s here, and Reggie was kind enough to arrange a meeting. She’s interested in the new techniques I’ve developed to-”

The woman, still focusing on me, ignored him. “Bass Pro, huh?” she said. “I’ll make a mental note if I ever have cause to stop at Walmart. Did you happen to notice how well Kermit’s ‘new techniques’ are working on this year’s orange crop? Or were you too dazzled by his cowboy looks and aw-shucks manner? My husband was certainly taken in fast enough.”

I ignored her tone. “Citrus greening disease is complicated,” I replied as if the term was familiar. “From what I’ve heard, a lot of people are impressed by Mr. Bigalow’s new ideas.”

Kermit gave me a sideways glance and managed not to smile.

Axel, the stallion, did another spin. The woman grabbed his ear and twisted it to calm the animal-a rancher’s trick I’d seen before, so was mildly impressed-yet her eyes never left me. “What’s the name of your company? I don’t remember seeing you at the party the governor hosted for the Grove Owners Association. Were you there? His annual party at the mansion in Tallahassee?”

I sensed a trap. For the first time in a while, I chose the truth as a haven. “If there was a party, I didn’t get an invitation.”

Beside me, Kermit released a slow breath.

The woman glared at us both, but her mind was on me. I sensed it: a look of assessment that gauged my beauty-the lack of it, more likely-my gawky tallness, the proportions of my hips and breasts, although she would have to guess at both. I wore a baggy, collared turquoise shirt-draped, unbuttoned, over a white camisole-and pleated fishing shorts. My legs, at least, might give her pause.

No… her eyes dismissed me as no threat.

That’s when Reggie, thank god, made his presence known. Dwarfed by oaks, he stumbled toward us in a hobbled-old-man way, yelling, “Oh lord, oh lord, you folks come quick. I believe something bad’s happened to the governor!”