The Cherokee Rose. Tiya Miles

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      Grabbing a fresh can of Coke and an unopened bag of Twizzlers, Jinx headed out of the quiet house. She locked the door behind her and climbed into her Chevy. It was the same truck she had driven cross-country thirteen years ago, setting off for graduate school with Aunt Angie beside her. Jinx could almost see her now, a ghost riding shotgun, with burgundy curls, soft-veined hands, and thick eyeglasses.

      Headlights blazing, gas tank full, Jinx flew out of town.

      2

      Cheyenne Rosina Cotterell read the auction notice aloud, bracing herself for the onslaught.

      “Forty acres?” her friend Toni said in her pushy attorney tone. “You can’t be serious about this, Cheyenne. All you’d need next is the mule.”

      “Fourteen acres,” Cheyenne corrected as her girlfriends listened, stunned. “Right below the Cohutta Mountains. It used to be a five-hundred-acre estate, back in the 1800s, but most of the land was parceled out and sold off over the years. The original plantation house is left, some cabins, a peach orchard, and a whole lot of mosquito-ridden river cane. And yes, I am serious. I’m buying the place next week.”

      “Now I know you’ve lost your mind. You can’t live in the mountains, girl. You’re 100 percent city.” Toni leaned back in her chair and raised the smooth arch of an eyebrow. She savored the crispy end of a sweet potato fry that would probably go straight to her hips.

      De’Sha nodded, sipping her Chardonnay.

      Layla adjusted her black-frame glasses and skimmed the state auction notice Cheyenne had placed on the tabletop.

      Cheyenne eyed her three closest friends, a tableau of black urban chic. Toni wore a sleeveless tangerine sundress that showed off the deep tone of her shoulders and complemented her sultry bleached-blond hair. Layla was dressed in hand-dyed jeans and impossibly high heels, a look that punctuated her short natural haircut and stylish glasses. De’Sha was still wearing her beige crepe suit from work, her hair coiled in shiny black ringlets that touched the collar of her jacket. Cheyenne knew she had thrown a Molotov cocktail into their weekly dinner conversation. The four of them had met in a reading group for single black women a year before and instantly hit it off. Now they got together every Friday night at Aria, a hip new eatery in Buckhead with too many rich desserts on the menu for Cheyenne’s taste.

      “I thought that place was a public museum for Cherokee history,” De’Sha said. “I remember going up there for a field trip when I was in grade school. Is it even habitable? I mean, for a real person?”

      “I have to say I agree with them, Cheyenne. This plan is a little unrealistic,” Layla said. She was a graduate student in public policy at Georgia Tech and took it upon herself to play the role of the thoughtful one in their group. “Why would you buy an old house up in the boonies? A plantation house, no less. Doesn’t the idea freak you out just a little bit? You’re doing well at Swag. You just got promoted to lead interior designer. Is this really the right time for a change?” Layla nibbled on a warm ginger cookie with a dollop of fresh organic cream. She had inhaled her meal and moved straight to dessert, indifferent to the effect on her waistline.

      Cheyenne took a sip of her lime-freshened tonic water. “When I saw that house advertised for auction, it was like a dream come true. My family, my grandmother’s people, came from that part of the state. They probably lived on that plantation. You’re right, De’Sha, it was a museum back when we were in school, but the state closed it down. The house has been sitting empty for at least four years while the director of the Department of Natural Resources weighed what to do with the property. The state can’t take care of it anymore. But I can. I’ve always wanted to design and run a bed-and-breakfast. This, ladies, is my chance.”

      “But have you thought this all the way through, Chey?” Toni asked, her gold hoop earrings rocking with the emphatic motion of her jaw. “Where would you get your nails done? Where would you get your light Frappuccinos? How would you even find the staff to run the damn place? I hear they have a Dunkin’ Donuts up in North Georgia. And a bunch of Billy Bobs. Maybe you could get used to that, but I doubt it. You like expensive coffee and fine men too much.”

      “Fine men?” Layla pounced. “Did I miss a breakup story when I was away at that conference last week? And does this mean I can have Devon now?” She paused at a look from Toni. “Yes, Toni. I take Cheyenne’s leftovers. Her men are always beautiful, and you know I don’t have time to meet people while I’m working on my dissertation.”

      “Girl, that dissertation is working you,” Toni said. “What is this, year six?” She took a sip of Fresca and returned her attention to Cheyenne.

      Cheyenne forked a leaf of baby arugula. “I know this comes as a shock, but I am serious. Atlanta is less than an hour away in good traffic; I can drive back here on Fridays. You’ll hardly know I’m gone. And you can come up to the B&B after it’s open, relax a little bit.” She shot a cool look at Toni.

      “If you open a B&B, you can say bye-bye to Fridays and hello to a new identity as Butterfly McQueen,” Toni said. “You’ll be slaving away twenty-four/seven, washing other folks’ linens and handing out maps for hiking trails.”

      “I have to say I think you’ve got this all wrong, Toni. She’s not Prissy the maid in this story,” Layla chimed in. “She’s Scarlett O’Hara. Isn’t that right, Cheyenne?”

      “Which version of Gone With the Wind did you watch?” Toni said. “Tara was a plantation that ran on black slave labor, and the last time I checked, we were all black—even those of us who think they’re Indian because they have good hair and a legend.”

      “We all have good hair, girls,” Layla inserted in a warning tone. “Let’s not be catty.”

      Cheyenne ignored Toni’s dig and directed her words toward Layla and De’Sha. “I want something big in my life, something romantic. I’m tired of working at a rarified boutique, helping the society set pick out three-hundred-dollar throw pillows. I was meant for more. Buying this plantation house and bringing it back to life, that could give me purpose. I’d be saving part of my history, part of my family’s history.”

      “If you’re right about that Indian legend,” Toni said.

      Her friends’ expressions ranged from patronizing disbelief to misplaced sympathy. Cheyenne was hurt, but she refused to show it. She knew Toni had always been jealous of her. Toni craved attention, was used to it. But as striking as Toni was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Cheyenne. Cheyenne drew open, naked stares from attractive men—and a few women, too. People were transfixed by her willowy figure, toffee-toned skin, and swirling dark tresses. The hair was her inheritance from the mysterious Cherokee ancestor who jealous women including Toni loved to dismiss as fantasy. Most female friends she’d ever had were just like Toni—secretly wishing to see her fail, but hoping her charms would rub off on them like some kind of magical fairy dust. Cheyenne smoothed the skirt of her Lilly Pulitzer floral dress and flicked back the ponytail she had pinned with a rhinestone-studded clip. She was ready to go.

      “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind, Cheyenne,” Layla said, reading her body language. “I’ll come visit you up there, but only after you’ve fixed up the place. You know I don’t do rustic.”

      “Let me know if you need a home loan, Chey,” De’Sha, a banker, added with a grin.

      Cheyenne slid a fifty-dollar bill onto the table. “Desserts are on me,” she said, standing.

      c

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