The Sassy Belles. Beth Albright

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      Vivi was an only child, and her parents were quite a bit older than the rest of ours. Her society-bred mother was always somewhat sickly, and her father was a loudmouthed, hard-drinking, gambling partygoer who loved women—often several at a time. They lived on a massive plantation, and though she was surrounded by wealth, no one was ever really there to care for Vivi aside from her nanny, Corabelle, and the gardener, Arthur. She loved those two people like they were her parents. And truly, they were. In all the most important ways.

      Vivi ran the whole place now. It was certainly not a plantation anymore; it had been decades since it was even active, and little by little, acre by oak tree, it has been sold off to developers. There was about a hundred acres left of it, and Vivi and Arthur were the only ones who lived there anymore since they had moved Vivi’s mother to that fancy retirement center.

      After we finished high school, Vivi had gone to the University of Alabama and gotten her journalism degree. Now she did freelance work, writing articles for magazines and newspapers on subjects that were dear to her heart, such as women’s rights, gardening, home and friends.

      Vivi was deeper than she let most people see, and her energy and wild streak made her seem crazier than she actually was. But she was just fine running the place all by herself. “Plus, I have Arthur,” she’d always say. And she did.

      She loved that man maybe more than she’d ever loved anyone. They were family as far as she was concerned. He loved taking care of her and took such pains around the place to keep it feeling like home.

      Arthur had his own room in the house, and it had been appointed with the finest things. He was family since the beginning. Interestingly, he was actually born there, on the plantation, nearly fifty-five years ago when both of his parents had worked for the McFaddens. When Vivi’s father died when she was young, Arthur just moved in and took on the responsibility of caring for her and her mother.

      Corabelle, Vivi’s nanny, died a few years back when she was nearly seventy-five. Arthur and Vivi took it pretty hard, but you could just see that they would get through it with each other to lean on.

      Harry was always asking me why I kept rescuing her. Was it because I’m really all she’s got? Was it because that’s the way it’d always been and I love being needed? Well, maybe a bit of both. And I knew it would always be this way with us.

      As I held her in the moonlight, she fell asleep on my shoulder, trusting me, as always, to keep her safe. And I would, even if I didn’t know quite how at that moment. I knew I would figure something out. She was counting on me. I was her Swiss Army knife.

      * * *

      We arrived at the plantation at almost nine that evening. Harry pulled the car around the circular gravel drive. A fountain spilled over its edges creating peaceful, soft splashes under the moonlight. Vivi’s home was something special. A true Southern plantation, the main house was huge and stately, typical antebellum Greek Revival architecture. Wide, white, round columns surrounded a wraparound front porch, and floor-to-ceiling windows doubled as doorways much of the year. The upper level held a sweeping veranda, hugging the columns with a whitewashed wooden rail. Rocking chairs were scattered around every few feet. Hanging baskets were full to brimming and dripping with ferns, English ivy and petunias, while bell-shaped purple-and-pink verbena hung at every window and spilled over the sides of the containers. The gravel drive was long and shaded on either side by huge oak and magnolia trees that reached across the road and lay gently upon each other, branch intertwined in branch, forming a fragrant flowering tree tunnel all the way to the front of the house. The side yards were full of pecan trees and tall pines. Just as you reached the porch, the left side yard held a huge rose garden with every colorful variety imaginable growing and blooming. The fragrance surrounding the main house was mesmerizing on a hot summer night with a breeze drifting in the humid air.

      Located on the right and to the far back of the main property was Arthur’s new BBQ place. It had its own entryway down from the main road and would eventually be a takeout BBQ spot for pickup. He was busy working on it much of the time to get it ready for football season and the tailgating orders that came with it. The Moonwinx was what he called it and he planned to just serve good, sweet Southern BBQ. The whole plantation was regal and lovely and had been Vivi’s home her whole life, and her father’s place before her, going back for generations.

      Harry got out and opened the back door of the car to help Vivi out. We all walked up the four gray-painted steps of the porch.

      A note from Arthur was waiting on the door. G’nite, Miss Vivi. Hope you had fun visitin’ with your Mama. Tomorrow I think we should get those hydrangea bushes lookin’ good. Arthur.

      Exhausted, Vivi went directly upstairs and into the large master suite, and I followed her up to say good-night. She had taken the room over after her 71-year-old mother went to the Center. Vivi had had the suite redone in her favorite colors and fabrics, and the bedroom was spectacular, covered in periwinkle silk and taffeta. Drapes fell into a pale blue puddle on the wood floor, framing the old floor-to-ceiling windows. The night air drifted in through the open windows and the fragrance of roses and honeysuckle blanketed the room. I gave her a hug, but didn’t say a thing. We didn’t need words right now, just the knowledge that we were there for each other was enough.

      Back downstairs, Harry was waiting in the hallway, the moonlight bouncing off his glasses. “Let’s go,” he said, and leaned over and kissed my cheek.

      His face was rough with evening whiskers, and I was shocked at the closeness. He had let me in for a brief moment and I wanted to stay there, pressed up against him a little longer, feeling his skin and smelling his end-of-the-day cologne. He pressed his hand into mine and we turned and left the house. He held on to me as if he would lose his way in the darkness if he let go. We stopped at the bottom of the porch and Harry pulled me into him and said, “Blake, I need to talk to you.”

      I remembered it was our anniversary, but I could tell he was not thinking of that. I pulled away from him. I knew this tone and I didn’t like it.

      “What is it, Harry?”

      “I don’t know…I just have a strange feeling.”

      “About what?”

      “About Lewis,” he said.

      We sat down on the step, moonlight drenching the hydrangea bushes that bloomed on either side, framing the entrance. The humid night air kissed my skin and I took a deep breath. Lightning bugs dotted the darkness. I remembered Vivi and me as children, chasing the glowing amber fireflies every late spring evening when I spent the night there. We call them lightning bugs down South. They go hand in hand with sultry warm Southern nights when the damp humidity descends, the sun sets and the twilight sparkles with the flying magical insects. We’d catch them in old Mason jars and bring them inside and sit in the dark, telling ghost stories around the glowing jar, then we’d let them go. I listened to Harry but lingered in the safe memory of my childhood for another minute.

      “I don’t think that was Lewis tonight, do you?” he asked.

      I said no and asked him what he was thinking. He was rubbing his fingers through his hair and saying he didn’t know, but he just knew something was not quite right.

      “It’s just not clicking,” he said.

      “Harry, we’re both tired and we haven’t eaten. This day has been about as crazy as it could possibly be. Let’s just put this to bed for tonight, okay?” I was so exhausted all I could think of was a long, hot bath and my down-filled comforter. But Harry needed to talk and so he did.

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