Catch a Shooting Star jd edit 03 12 2012 html Read online

  He was gone. Good riddance. On with life, she thought as she left the door and crossed the drawing room floor toward the grand staircase that would carry her up to the sanctity of her room. And once she was behind the wooden barrier, she hugged herself to ward off the shaking that seemed to overtake her body.

  After long moments of anguished shuddering, she sighed deeply and straightened her back, shaking off the notion that any man, much less that smooth-talking Mexican, could cause her to experience such passion, such pleasure, such panic. With a huff of determination, she thrust the thought of Don Diego from her mind, once and for all.

  Thankfully, days turned to weeks, weeks into months, and finally months turned to years, taking with them, the anxious awareness that Savannah yearned for him to return. Time slowly disintegrated her desire for the handsome don to validate the unspoken vow of morality and to take her to places to which she had never dared to voyage: places from which respectable women kept their distance but toward which most of them ached to accelerate. They craved that same passage toward a province of pleasure that propriety denied decent Southern young ladies, yet one that called to them from the deepest recesses of their lonely souls. This avenue of ecstasy that Savannah, herself, had also painfully desired slowly waned with the passing of time.

  So, too, did Father’s health decline with the cycle of seasons. He never fully recovered from the gunshot wound to his hip bone, where the bullet had lodged itself, a constant and painful reminder of that horrific night when Sherman’s men had murdered his wife. He took to his bed, only venturing out with the aid of a special-ordered wheeled chair and Savannah behind it.

  It was in that wicker-lined chair that Father told her of his plans to have the grandest party ever given in her honor on her nineteenth birthday. Flattered though she was, she argued with him to change his mind so that they could celebrate quietly, together—alone. But he was adamant in his desire to make this birthday as memorable as any that she would have, so she finally conceded and brought paper and pen to him so that he could make lists of guests and embellishments for the occasion.

  He seemed to heal himself with the preparations for the party and even started to walk on his own, strutting around with the aid of a silver-handled cane announcing his displeasure in the decorations that were going up in the grand ballroom. His booming voice echoed throughout the house with his loud declaration that the crystal punch bowl that he had ordered was not large enough to suit him.

  “Damn Yankee catalogue company,” he growled, dropping a dainty crystal cup onto the pink silk cloth that covered the long table at the end of the gallery. “You’d think they would be smart enough to tell you the dimensions of their products instead of just drawing a weak rendition of it. When people pay that much for something, you’d think they would get their money’s worth.”

  He stomped out of the room, just as Savannah was entering and he brushed by her in a rage, his voice never wavering from his angry outburst, “They won the war and now they want to take everything we own. And they will get it. If it’s not from their carpetbaggers or their outrageous taxes, they’ll get it through their unscrupulous sales tactics. Devil’s minions, all of ‘em!”

  Savannah watched Father stride toward the front of the house and out the large mahogany door, her face awash with unvoiced questions. What had caused this sudden burst of anger, she did not know, but what was certain was that his mood would not improve if she told him of her plans to boycott his precious party.

  She would have to wait. She walked into the gallery and looked at the silk-covered table that took up most of the back wall. She strolled over to the table. With a delicate touch, she ran a hand across each of the things that it held.

  The table was covered in all manners of crystal glasses, silver dishes and fine china. A large crystal bowl with a matching crystal ladle dominated the center of the table, its fine etchings were its crowning glory. She stared at the cavernous bowl with a questioning frown as she wondered why Father had complained of its impractical size. Then she picked up the catalogue that had fallen to the floor and looked at the page that was facing her.

  There, on the page was a picture of the punch bowl and its matching cups and ladle. Beside the picture was a paragraph describing the product and next it was a price for which the patron would pay.

  “Oh, my!” Savannah breathed as she looked from the book to the bowl and back again in surprise. “What a costly thing you are!”

  Immediately filled with guilt for wanting to call off the party because of a rumor that she had just overheard in the stables, she pulled in a breath of resignation and placed the catalogue on the table next to the crystal bowl.

  She would go through with it but she would not enjoy herself knowing that Father had planned her party as a bazaar for eager suitors. She was not a heifer taken to market or to be sold out for breeding. And she would never allow any man to use a ring, whether it is through the nose or on a finger, to force her to follow his lead.

  Turning the catalogue around on the table and closing the paper cover, she read the ornate inscription as her fingers traced the letters.

  ‘Cox & Corbett Treasures & Trinkets, Albany, New York’ were printed in large, bold letters which would catch the eye of anyone within fifty feet of the book. She knew this because after she left the long gallery and stepped toward the foyer, she found herself looking back at that pricey punch bowl and the words on the catalogue screamed their proclamation to her from across the room.

  “Damn Yankee catalogue company,” she found herself repeating her father’s rant at the company that had compelled him to buy such an expensive item for such an extravagant engagement.

  “Engagement indeed,” she seethed at her own ironical thought.

  That crystal punch bowl, sold by those filthy Yankees to her loving father, who’d bought it in order to find her a husband, would certainly be her undoing. If it had not been so expensive and if the party did not mean so much to Father, she would march right back in there and smash that Yankee punch bowl to bits.

  To her, the Yankees were the cause to all of her problems. From losing her mother in the fire and causing her brother to suffer tremendous pain before his death, to making Father spend his last dollar to buy a fancy bowl for a party in order to farm her out to the highest bidder, those Damned Yankees had ruined her life. Cursing them inwardly while admonishing herself for the many occasions that she had done so out loud, she stomped out of the house and into the garden, where she found her solace on more confounding occasions than she cared to admit.

  Chapter Two

  Savannah stood in front of the ornate mirror and studied the figure that stared back at her with an unsatisfied gaze. The beautiful face was marred by a frown that caused the young visage to age before her. The furrows between her brows seemed to deepen with sullen remorse and fearful trepidation as the thought of the party loomed over her like a dark cloud. Her deep-seeded anxiety caused heaviness in her heart that was overshadowed only by the sadness that she would have to leave her beloved father and home if this night’s affair was successful.

  Fingering the delicate silk gown, she sighed heavily and rested her palm on her breast. She felt the rapid beating of her heart beneath her fingertips and closed her eyes to calm her fears.

  A soft knock at her door indicated to her that the time had come for her to make her appearance downstairs in the ball room. She glowered at the door and grumbled at the faceless messenger, “I’m coming!”

  The knocking at the door fell silent as she turned once more to the mirror. Narrowing her eyes at the woman who did the same to her, she threw the silver brush at the scowling face. The mirror shattered, raining slivers of glass around her feet.

  With a huff of indifference at the fate of the mirror, she kicked a large piece of glass across the carpeted floor and turned toward the door to face her future.

  With all the composure that she could muster, she walked proudly down the grand staircase to the foyer. A
s she stepped onto the marble foyer floor and turned on the ball of her foot toward the long gallery that flanked the grand ball room, she paused to look at the portrait of her mother, which had been spared the blazing fate of most of the paintings that had been destroyed by Sherman and his troops.

  The beautiful woman in the portrait stared lovingly back at her as if her mother was truly present. The soft smile seemed to approve of Savannah’s attire and poise, for the brushed green eyes twinkled with satisfaction at her daughter’s confidence as the girl left the painting and then glided passed the gallery.

  Pausing once more in the room which was filled with food and drinks and milling guests who had spilled out from the great expanse of the grand ball room, she smiled sheepishly at the attendees and then gallantly, regally, stepped into the ball room.

  She heard the room hush from the din that had filled it and then whispers of approval and murmurs of adoration reanimated the room as guests swept across the floor to greet her. She took in a breath as a sudden eruption of fear attacked her and she felt the urge to turn on her heels and dash back upstairs to the sanctity of her room.

  Answering the call of her fears, she began her departure when, suddenly, her father’s voice stopped her.

  “There’s the most beautiful girl in all of Georgia, Hell, in the whole South!” he yelled as he stepped toward her and leaned upon his cane as he touched a palm to her trembling cheek.

  The room of guests agreed with him in a sigh of concurrence as they surrounded her in harmonious admiration. The mob guided her to the rear of the room where she was left to stand beside her loving father while the guests lined up to present themselves to her.

  She smiled and nodded to each as they passed by her with outstretched hand and repeated the same phrase that the last person voiced, “Happy Birthday.” And when a hug was offered, she returned the warmth with a whispered, ‘Thank you’, into their ear. One by one, they stepped toward her, uttered their pleasure at meeting her or seeing her again, and then stepped sideways to allow the next devotee to do the same. All the while, Savannah’s mind hastened her to a place where she felt safe and alone.

  It was in this state of sanctuary that she failed to see the familiar face in the crowd that crept slowly toward her, waiting patiently for his turn to greet her. Drifting on an endless cloud of security, she never noticed his charming smile, the alluring twinkle in his dark eyes or the suave and debonair stance that brought him slowly closer to her.

  Savannah pasted the same thankful smile upon her ample lips with each passing guest, taking the hand that grasped hers and saying the same words over and over until his hand caught hers and his head bowed to place a warm and devoted kiss upon her fingertips.

  Suddenly brought to her senses, she froze at his touch, but then relaxed with his soft words of rich appreciation.

  “My lovely Savannah,” he said with the same thick accent as before when they had first met. “How you have grown into a beautiful swan.” He pursed his lips and shook his head as if he disagreed with his own opinion of her before he corrected, “Beautiful, you were before, but now—now, you are breathtaking!”

  Savannah blushed and shook her head to disagree, but he pursed his lips and squeezed her hand to assure her, “But you are, my dove. You are as beautiful as the morning sun, rising over the earth to blanket the land with her breathtaking beauty.”

  Her violet eyes widened as his arm flew above his head in a gesture to reinforce his words, filling her heart with joy. She felt his heated gaze upon her as he continued his gracious speech and, once more, she became uncomfortable.

  “Don Diego,” she stammered, removing her hand from his grasp and then placing it upon her heaving bosom. “How delightful to see you again.”

  “Delightful,” he repeated with a rumbling chuckle. “I would describe it was wondrous, exciting, invigorating, but not merely ‘delightful’.”

  She cleared her throat to calm herself as the uncomfortable feeling rose and she corrected, choosing one of his words, “Exciting, then.”

  She watched his face turn from a disappointed frown to a pleased smile as he took her hand once again. She allowed him to possess it once more, the warmth of his large hand overtaking her from the point of his invigorating touch and then coursing throughout her body.

  Without asking permission from her father or the other guests, he pulled her from her position of receiver and guided her away from the crowd. His firm grip on her forearm caused her to follow him out onto the veranda where he whirled her away from the door as he closed it behind them.

  “Mi Querida,” he whispered into her hair as he pulled her into his arms. “I have missed you so.”

  Taken aback by his familiarity, she stiffened in his arms, and then tried to pry herself from his grasp, only to be held fast by his strength.

  “Don’t fight it, my darling,” he whispered. “It was meant to be.”

  “I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered into his chest as he melded her to his formidable form.

  “Our love,” he breathed in a thick and boastful voice as if incredulous that she did not agree wholeheartedly while he thrust her to arms’ length. “You cannot deny it any longer. You felt it years ago, I know, for I felt it also. And now, my love, you feel it even more.”

  “No,” she shook her head in protest as she fought to breech his grasp. “I don’t. I can’t.”

  “Oh, but you can, Querida,” he cooed as he slipped his arms around her once again. “You can and you will. For you are mine. Your father has promised me.”

  Savannah’s overwhelming anger and surprise gave her the strength to push herself from his grasp. Putting her hands up to ward off his intended advance, she growled, “My father? Promised you?”

  Diego shrugged as if she should have known about the secret arrangement set forth two years ago and finalized only this evening in the drawing room with her father over cigars and glasses of warm brandy.

  “It is your father’s dying wish that you are well cared for, that you want for nothing, my dear,” he said in a smooth voice as if he felt that she should agree in order to please the man whom she adored.

  “But I will be,” she argued. “His estate, his wealth will assure that.”

  Diego clucked his tongue and shook his head in feigned disappointment at her arrogant tenacity, then reached for her once again, divulging, “His wealth, my dear, is no more. This estate is now mine.”

  Savannah shook her head in shattered disagreement as she backed away from him, crying, “No! It’s not true!”

  “It is, Mi Querida. He gave me a promissory note just two years ago when he borrowed money from me. And then, when he could not find the finances to repay me, he contacted me and agreed to my offer to marry you so that the estate could stay in the family. So, you see, my dear, you cannot refuse me.”

  Continuing to back away from him, her steps took her closer to the edge of the veranda until she found herself teetering and then falling toward the ground. Strong arms caught her and pulled her to safety as his soothing words compelled her to give in to his advances.

  “Do not fight it, my dove,” he cooed as he brushed a dark curl from her forehead and leaned nearer to her face so that his lips were so close to hers that she could feel his words upon them, “I am all that you have.”

  “No,” she growled, pushing him away again and stumbling her way back toward the house. She yelled at him without looking back, “I will never marry you!”

  She threw open the door and was assaulted by the noise of the guests and their reverie, the music and the boundless joy that filled the ballroom, then she turned back toward Don Diego and glared as she repeated, “Never!”

  Don Diego chuckled lightly as he watched Savannah make her escape, then he turned away from the light of the house and peered into the nightscape with a sigh of victory.

  “You will marry me, Savannah Star,” he told the night sky. “And your life will be mine to control.”
>
  He turned back around to look inside at the raging tirade that she had begun and he laughed a hearty laugh of triumph as he swore, “All that you have will be mine to control.”

  Savannah’s anger roiled into an explosion that caused the guests to wonder whether she was sane or not as she stomped by them, through the ballroom and into the gallery. She ignored their questioning stares and appalled gasps as she stormed toward the table that had been carefully decorated for the occasion. With one quick movement, she bent to clutch the pink silk tablecloth into her fists and pulled with all her angered might until the entire contents of the table lay in a shattered heap at her feet. Pink punch mingled with crystal shards and delicate frosting and moist cake smeared the marble floor, creating a colorful painting of blended tints that echoed her violent rage.

  Stepping over the mess, she hitched up her gown and glided toward the grand staircase as if nothing was amiss. Her pleasant smile and delicate poise carried her up the stairs and away from the wide eyes of the crowd.

  Benjamin Star watched his daughter’s fury in action with just as much surprise as the guests and when all was quiet again, he cleared his throat and tapped the bottom of his cane on the soiled floor, asking whoever would listen, “Where’s the music?”

  Between the long silence that followed Savannah’s outburst and departure and her father’s boisterous declaration that all was well in that one demonstrative question, there seemed to have been hours of staunch stillness where all looked to one another for an answer to the reason as to why the honored person had brought a sudden end to the party. Having Benjamin denounce their theory caused the guests to suddenly come alive with merriment as they all twirled around and re-entered the ballroom where lively music greeted them.

  Savannah slammed the door to her room knowing that her one last angered gesture would not be heard by the crowd below, for the music had begun to fill the house once again. She pulled at the gown to remove it and then tossed it to the floor. She twisted the combs from her hair and threw them toward the shattered mirror on her dressing table and then fell upon the bed in anger, confusion and grief.