Back to Wando Passo by David Payne (books to improve english txt) 📕

“Sometimes less is more, big guy.”

Charlie grinned and went back down on it.

Ransom shrugged. “Yeah, well, I never believed that maxim either.”

Claire started after him, but he touched her arm. “I’ve got him, babe. Listen, Marcel, I put my foot in it just now, but the fact that I’m a horse’s ass can’t come as news to you.”

The dean did not dispute this, but he smiled.

“The main reason I stopped by,” Ran said, smiling back, “the only reason really, was to say, well, here we are, both—all—in the same town, or close enough. Time’s passed, none of us are getting any younger. We’re all grown-ups, or as close as we’re likely going to get. We really ought to get together.”

“Sure, Ran,” Marcel said. “Sure, why not.”

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“I fried some chicken.”

“Ran…,” said Claire.

“What?” He turned an innocent look on her. “I can’t say fried chicken? You like fried chicken, don’t you, Cell?”

“I like it well enough.”

“See, Claire, he likes fried chicken. You like fried chicken. I like fried chicken. The kids like fried chicken. We’ve got fried chicken. What’s complicated here? Come out to the house and eat, Marcel. Bring your djembé, you can help me lay down the rhythm track on that new song. Okay, Charlie-boy, here comes Daddy! Better run!” Ran formed his fingers into claws, like Scar, and took off toward his squealing son.

“So that’s your husband?” said Deanna.

“Behold the man,” said Claire.

“He’s charming.”

Bitch on wheels. Claire smiled, relying on telepathy to make the point. Deanna’s expression, though, as she walked off, did not conclusively suggest she’d meant it as a joke.

“I’m sorry, Cell,” Claire said. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“Forget it, Claire. It’s no big deal, and anyway, it’s not your fault.”

“It’s not?” she said. “But what if it really is?”

He didn’t ask her what she meant. They gazed into each other’s eyes and knew.

“How does he seem to you?” she asked.

“Like Ransom, only more so.”

“It’s that more so that has me worried. It always starts like this.”

“So you’re concerned….”

“I am. I really am. I don’t suppose you want to come out, do you?”

Cell did not exactly leap.

“Don’t, then. Really, Marcel, don’t,” she said.

“You want me to?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“Would you feel better if I did?”

“Yes, but it’s okay.”

“Let me get my keys.”

“Thank you!”

TWELVE

War? What war? There will be no war!”

As they make their way into the house, Harlan and Addie are diverted by Colonel Allston of the two-l Allstons, who is in his cups and holding several ladies hostage on the porch.

“The blood shed in this war won’t amount to a gill measure,” declares the old man, his silver hair as fine as filaments of dandelion, his cheeks the color of raw meat. “It won’t fill this glass, by God—I’ll drink the blood shed in this war!”

“Have some more champagne instead, Colonel,” suggests Harlan drily, trying to lure the old gentleman away.

“Take my word, DeLay,” says Allston, as content with one victim as the next, “the moment we fix bayonets, the Yankee popinjays will run like rabbits in the woods. After all, we’re fighting for home and freedom. What are they fighting for? The nigger slave? What is your view?”

“My chief hope, Colonel, is that the Confederacy, when it succeeds, will finally free Cuba from the Spanish yoke and annex her as a new slave state.”

“By God, why shouldn’t we?” shouts Allston. “There are bonds of natural sympathy between us and the plantation men down there, Spaniards and infidels though they be. Take Gonzales, Beauregard’s new aide-de-camp. He seems a decent sort. Hell, take yourself and Percival—haven’t we always been thick as thieves?”

“Colonel,” says Harlan stiffly, “I can’t speak to my father’s beliefs or those of Don Ambrosio José, but I can tell you, sir, I am, and have always been, an Episcopalian, South Carolina born and bred.”

“Damnation, boy, don’t get your back up. All I mean to say is that you’ll bring your sugar into Charleston without tariff. We’ll send our rice and wheat to feed your slaves and pay no duty to the monarchy in Spain.”

“On that point, we agree. And, God willing, after Cuba, Mexico.”

“Mexico, too?” says Addie, to whom Harlan’s viewpoint comes as news.

“Depend upon it, Mrs. DeLay,” asseverates the Colonel, “one day a Southern slaveholding empire will stretch from Maryland to the Yucatán.”

“And our king?” she says. “Do you think Jeff Davis’s head has swelled sufficiently to support a crown?”

Harlan frowns.

“Damn Jeff Davis, madam!” the Colonel shouts. “Our king will be Maximilian, archduke of Austria and emperor of Mexico! You there, William!” he shouts toward the butler, who’s appeared on the piazza with a tray. “Where are you off to? Fill this glass!”

As he weaves away unsteadily, Louisa Elliott, like an animal that’s been held at bay, takes the opportunity to bolt.

“Excuse me, if you please,” she says. “Harlan, if it would not be too great an imposition, have someone call my groom.”

“Certainly, Louisa, I’ll go myself,” he says. “But won’t you stay to cut the cake with us? We’re having fireworks later.”

“I’ve had sufficient fireworks for one afternoon, thank you.”

A mortified blush spreads from Harlan’s collar to his crown. “Two seconds, then. Allow me to take Addie in to Father.”

“Very well.” Louisa’s eyes lock on Addie’s now. “I wish you great joy in your new situation, Mrs. DeLay,” she says, pursing her lips as tightly upon “situation” as her black taffeta bonnet is cinched around her face.

“Thank you, Mrs. Elliott,” Addie answers, with a mildness no less pointed, and she can feel Harlan’s fury as they enter and start down the hall.

Forty feet away, before the closed doors of the library, two women are in urgent conference, and Addie, at a single glance, knows who they are. Between them, they’re holding a white plate, each prizing with a hand, as though disputing its possession. There’s something on it—food for the invalid, Addie thinks. Paloma is tall, with shoulders like a man’s, but lean in a