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Chapter One

March 14

Daphne Whitaker Duvallon always suspected that jilted fiancés could spell
trouble, and—in certain circumstances—might even be downright dangerous.

Of course, nobody thought that on the night the classical harpist ditched
Jack Ebert at the altar in front of five hundred wedding guests at Saint
Louis Cathedral in the heart of New Orleans’s French Quarter. Most folks
thought that Jack took the public humiliation remarkably well. However,
from that candlelit evening onwards, any unbiased observer would say that
Daphne’s life became the female version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Even so, how could she have known that an entirely new path would emerge
from the supernova her life had become, or that the orbit of nature
photographer Simon Chandler Hopkins was destined to intersect her own?
Looking back, she realized that surely the stars must have shifted in the
heavens the instant she retrieved that fateful phone message one raw,
rain-filled night in New York.

“Hey there, Botticelli angel girl! How y’all doin’ up there in Yankee
land?”

Daphne pictured her older brother clasping an amber bottle of Dixie beer
in one hand and his cordless phone in the other, perfectly at ease
chatting to his sister’s voice mail in faraway Manhattan.

“It’s a lovely spring evenin’ here in New Orleans, and I just wanted you
to know that your only siblin’s still very much a man in love. So guess
what, darlin’? Corlis and I are finally goin’ to do the deed! Kingsbury
Duvallon is—at last—gettin’ married. Next week, in fact.”

Next week?

The mere mention of a wedding—any wedding, even her beloved brother’s—made
Daphne’s heart pound erratically and her breath come in short gasps. It
had been just over two years since she’d fled back to New York after
bailing out of her own Christmastime marriage extravaganza—an
eighty-thousand-dollar event replete with nine bridesmaids; three flower
girls; twin-boy ring bearers; acres of roses and pine boughs, supplied at
cost from Flowers by Duvallon; seven limousines, supplied gratis from the
Ebert-Petrella chain of funeral homes; not to mention sixty-six tall,
ivory tapers affixed one to a pew at twenty dollars a pop and the
stillborn reception at the posh New Orleans Country Club. And of course,
who could forget the television crew in the church balcony sent by WWEZ-TV
to cover the “wedding of the season”?

Was it any wonder, Daphne thought, that King’s reference to nuptials
involving her family in New Orleans made her feel as if she might slip off
her kitchen bar stool in a dead faint? She scanned her minuscule,
fifth-floor walkup and wondered if her cordless phone would still work if
she stuck her head out of the window to get some cool, northeastern air.

“To make up for such short notice,” her brother continued carefully,
sounding as if he could imagine her discomfort when she heard word of this
impending family gathering, “you’ll probably be mighty pleased to hear
that we’re not tyin’ the knot in the great state of Louisiana.”

“Amen,” she murmured, closing her eyes and offering up a prayer of thanks
to whatever voodoo gods were handling her case. She leaned her elbows
against the kitchen counter for support and held onto the phone receiver
like a life preserver. Someone in the next apartment slammed a door and
yelled
a curse in Spanish that was immediately answered with a string of
Anglo-Saxon epithets. Five stories below, car brakes screeched and horns
honked furiously. “Manhattan cab driv-
ers,” she muttered.

“Corlis and I have decided our little shindig’ll work jus’ fine in
Natchez, instead of New Orleans, so you have no excuse not to be there,”
King’s voice message continued. “We’ve almost got the church lined up,
with the rest of the details—like the reception—to follow. Y’have to come,
Daph.”

King’s mellifluous Southern drawl was soothing. Daphne would bet a new set
of harp strings that her brother and his fiancée were lounging on King’s
elegant, fern-strewn gallery overlooking the French Quarter, relaxing
after work.

She could imagine her brother’s tall, lean figure slouched in a chair, his
handsome dark head framed by a fan of white wicker, his feet propped up on
the wrought iron railing. Even over the phone line she could hear the
sound of a jingling harness, the faint clip-clop of a mule passing by on
Dauphine Street below, and the shout of a tourist-carriage driver speeding
toward the city’s livery stable a few blocks away. According to her
kitchen clock, it was still early evening in New Orleans. The gaslit
street lamps would be glowing through a riverine mist obscuring the modern
skyscrapers that loomed over the Quarter. Those steel-and-glass
monstrosities towering above Canal Street had made King’s efforts as an
architectural historian to protect the city’s remaining store of venerable
old buildings a cause célèbre in the Big Easy—and justly earned him the
title “The Hero of New Orleans” in the Times-Picayune. To his younger
sister, however, King had been a hero long before that. He’d been her
rock. Her bulwark against—

“Guess I’m takin’ up all the space on the ol’ voice mail,” her brother
said apologetically, jolting her back to reality. “Call us, sugar,
a.s.a.p. And don’t let any of this weddin’ stuff freak you out. It’ll all
turn out jus’ fine. Take good care, y’hear?”

Daphne inhaled shakily, depressed the “save” button on her voice mail
system, then speed dialed the familiar number in New Orleans. As expected,
she got King’s answering machine. Daphne knew he routinely screened his
calls to avoid any unexpected verbal confrontations with Magnolia Mama, as
their mother, Antoinette Kingsbury Duvallon, was known among her intimates.

Daphne’s brother concluded his taped greeting with his customary wry
dispatch. “Y’all have a decent day, y’hear?”

“Hi guys . . . this is Daphne. Congratulations are definitely in order—”

“Hey! Daphne!” King’s deep voice broke in. “Corlis said it’d be you.
Whatcha think, angel girl?”

“I will be forever in your debt for not getting married in our hometown.”

“Cousin Maddy, up in Natchez, is over the moon ’bout us holdin’ the
weddin’ in the Town That Time Forgot,” he replied with deliberate irony.
Natchez, Mississippi, and New Orleans, Louisiana, sparred in an age-old
rivalry as to which riverside city was held in higher esteem by
historians, or possessed the most revered architecture. “She’s offered us
that tumblin’ down ol’ mansion of hers, overlookin’ the river, as Weddin
Central.”

“You’re getting married at Cousin Maddy’s house?” Daphne asked
incredulously. A mental picture of her elderly cousin’s chaotic abode
materialized in her mind: the lopsided veranda supported by six shaky
Corinthian-style front porch pillars, five years of magazines stashed
under priceless antique furniture throughout four floors, and a good half
inch of cat hair dusting every horizontal surface. Cousin Maddy was a
sweetheart and a superb music teacher, but a tidy housekeeper she was not.

“Oh, good Lord, no!” King assured his sister. “Our very abbreviated bridal
party’s just sleepin’ there ’midst the rubble, since everything in town
was booked for Spring Pilgrimage.”

“You’re getting married during the home tours? You are brave.”

“The ceremony’s planned for First Presbyterian on Pearl Street. We’ll know
for sure later today if we got the church, but I’m pretty sure we lucked
out there.”

“Mmm . . . it’s gorgeous . . . and a lot smaller . . .” Daphne murmured
into the receiver.

“I just don’t think any of us could have stomached seein’ those same ol
people in that same ol’ cathedral on Jackson Square this time ’round.”

“I’m afraid my stomach might have made me a no-show,” Daphne admitted
sheepishly.

“Naturally, Mama’s fit to be tied not being able to overdecorate Saint
Louis Cathedral with Flowers by Duvallon again, but what else is new?”

“Nothing,” Daphne declared, pronouncing the g distinctly. She’d worked
hard on losing her Southern inflection in a conscious effort to sound like
other New Yorkers.

“First Pres bein’ only a third the size of the cathedral means most of
Mama’s friends will be highly insulted not to be invited—as she informed
me this mornin’—but it’ll all work out, eventually. I keep tellin’ her the
bride gets to pick the church, but you know magnolias . . . they think
they rule the world.”

“You got that right,” Daphne agreed with more pique than she intended. How
could things “work out eventually” when her mother and father had refused
to speak or communicate with her in the twenty-seven months since she’d
bolted from her wedding at the absolute eleventh hour?

“Now, don’t you start worryin’ ’bout Jack gettin’ wind of this. He’s moved
to Dallas. And besides, everyone on this end’s sworn to secrecy—even ’bout
the date of this thing. Waylon claims he’s goin’ fishin’ next weekend, so
there won’t be trouble on that score, either,” he added with an
uncharacteristic edge of bitterness. Daphne’s throat tightened at her
brother’s oblique reference to another family problem.

“Oh, King . . .” she murmured. “Daddy’s so impossible sometimes . . .”

“You gotta trust me ’bout all of this, Daphne,” King insisted. “We’ve
tried to think of everything.”

“Of course I trust you,” she replied in a rush. “I’m really touched you
and Corlis are thinking so much about me when—”

“Of course I’m gonna look out for you, darlin’. You’re my baby sister,
aren’t you?” he teased gruffly.

The lump in Daphne’s throat swelled to the size of a pecan and she found
she didn’t dare say another word. At the time of her breakup with Jack,
everybody, including her brother and her, had learned that Daphne’s
father, Waylon Duvallon, was not, in fact, King’s biological father. She
was still recovering from the shock that she was merely King’s half
sister, and things within the family would never be the same.

Don’t go there. Just don’t go there.

In the background, her soon-to-be sister-in-law, Corlis McCullough, was
saying something. “Oh, yeah . . . ’course.” King chuckled into the phone.
“Here, ask her yourself, California.”

Corlis’s happy voice interrupted her melancholy mus-
ings. “So. Are you surprised we’re finally getting hitched, girlfriend?”

“A little,” Daphne admitted. “But I’m really thrilled about it, Corlis. I
hereby declare you my real sister, and not just a sister-in-law. You and
I’ve got to stick together in this clan.” Daphne silently thanked the
mysterious fates that the Duvallons were acquiring such a welcome addition
to their ragtag ranks.

“Count on it, sweetie pie,” Corlis said, suddenly sounding solemn.

“And brava for finally saying yes to the poor guy!”

“Oh, I said yes to the guy ages ago. I just didn’t have the nerve to say
yes to getting married. Now, here’s the deal, angel,” Corlis said,
becoming serious again. “We would really love you to play your harp at the
ceremony. It’d mean a lot to us both.”

“Of course I’ll play,” Daphne assured her, though, privately, she wondered
if she could actually make it through a Duvallon family gathering.

“Listen, Daph,” Corlis said softly, reading her thoughts, “I know that
assembling your clan again for a wedding isn’t number one on your list of
wishes, but King and I have tried to make this pretty much a no-frills
event. And if hauling that big harp of yours all the way down here from
New York and plucking out ‘Here Comes the Bride’ sounds too much like
work, I’d love you to be one of my bridal attendants. Both Althea LaCroix
and Aunt Bethany say they’re game to walk down the aisle ahead of me at
this little dog and pony show, if you are. Want to be an attendant
instead?”

“I’m totally up for this, including transporting the harp to Natchez,” she
replied with more conviction than she felt. “What kind of threads are we
talking about for this clambake? Evening gowns? Afternoon garden party
stuff?”

“The latter. The wedding’s at four . . . reception starts at five.
Everybody’s wearing whatever pretty dress they want,” Corlis announced
breezily. “My great aunt Marge’s giving me away in her Hedda Hopper
turban. As luck would have it, Hollywood Harry’s shooting a game show
pilot next week in LaLa Land, and my daffy mother’s chanting in a
monastery somewhere in Tibet, so . . .” Corlis paused to catch her breath
following her flippant description of divorced parents who had put their
small daughter in the care of an aged relation so they could “follow their
bliss,” as Corlis had once told Daphne privately. “It’s the perfect moment
to hold this little hoolie, wouldn’t you say? As you can see, this is not
your average Miss Manners event on either side of the aisle.”

“Well, as New York’s greatest shrink says, we’re all grown-ups now, aren’t
we?” Daphne offered. “We can do what we damn well please, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” Corlis agreed emphatically. “So it’s totally up to
you how you want to handle this. We just want you to be there, and maybe
even have a little fun. Oh! Another call’s coming through. Hope it’s the
minister at First Pres. More details to follow. Love you madly. See you in
Natchez on Saturday. Bye.”

Click.

Have fun at a wedding?

Not anytime soon.

Then, a giant thunderbolt erased all thoughts about disastrous nuptials,
disgusting ex-fiancés, self-centered parents, and trips back home.

See you Saturday?

Daphne inhaled a gulp of air and stared, horrified, at the silent phone
receiver.

“Saturday?” she wailed to her kitchen’s four walls, prompting the
cockroaches to run for cover. “Oh no! Not this Saturday!”

The following morning, the skies over Manhattan continued to dump steady
March rain on every pedestrian in the plaza fronting 10 Columbus Circle,
including the umbrellaless harpist dashing from the subway exit toward the
entrance of the Juilliard School adjacent to the Lincoln Center for the
Performing Arts. As Daphne ran, she silently practiced her speech to the
conductor, Rafe Oberlin, about having to be at her brother’s hastily
organized nuptials in Natchez on Saturday. Despite her well-rehearsed
patter, she knew that the thirty-five-year-old musical wunderkind was
bound to make the next half hour of her life an absolute misery.

But he can’t forbid me to go, she tried to assure herself. This sort of
thing falls into the category of “family emergency,” right? It’s covered
in our union contract.

Maybe so, but March 20 at eight p.m. marked the fledgling Oberlin Chamber
Orchestra’s debut concert at Lincoln Center, and contract or no contract,
Daphne steeled herself for trouble.

“So? You wanted to see me?” Rafe waved her into his office deep in the
bowels of the Juilliard School, where he continued to teach conducting
while his star rose steadily in the musical firmament. “You have exactly
seven minutes to tell me what this is about before I start a master class
next door,” he announced, gesturing toward a chair. “Next time, I suggest
you phone for an appointment.”

“This will just take a minute.”

The dashing blond impresario wore knife-pleated gray flannels and a
turquoise polo shirt that complemented a physique more suited to the
winner of the Tour de France than a classical music conductor. Rafe leafed
through a mammoth score on a desk large enough to accommodate
architectural blueprints for a skyscraper. He made no attempt to disguise
his annoyance occasioned by Daphne’s unexpected arrival.

“By the way,” he said, staring down at his score, “you were late coming in
on bar thirty-two at rehearsal yesterday. Make sure that doesn’t happen on
Saturday, will you please?”

Daphne found it bitterly ironic that she remained under the baton of the
man whose abject betrayal had thrown her directly into harm’s way in the
first place. If she hadn’t been so dazzled by the maestro’s magnetic
personality, she might have seen a lot sooner what an absolute rat he was
underneath all his celebrated charisma and might have avoided a classic
rebound romance with Jack back home.

Good Lord, Daphne thought, cringing at the memory. She’d certainly been
naive when she arrived at Juilliard. Rafe had swiftly wooed and won the
virginal heart of the younger, more impressionable Ms. Duvallon, late of
New Orleans, failing to mention in the white heat of their mad affair what
everyone else in New York already knew: that he was married to a British
ballerina who was away on a year’s tour of Commonwealth countries.

“But you weren’t wearing a ring,” she’d wailed when she’d confronted him
in a storm of grief and chagrin that swept over her like straight-line
winds down the Mississippi Delta—and immediately felt like an even greater
fool.

Her hasty exit from Rafe’s magnificent Westside apartment was even more
mortifying because it had left her feeling like an idiot and a trollop.
Far from taking time to lick her wounds and consider the genesis of her
folly, she’d crawled home
at Christmastime to the social whirl of New Orleans. Shell-shocked from
Rafe’s betrayal, she allowed herself to be flattered, wined, and dined by
the son of her parents’ business partners, Alice and René Ebert, co-owners
of a chain of funeral homes in Louisiana that—along with the proprietors
of Flowers by Duvallon—had a virtual lock on the lucrative business of
being laid to rest in the Big Easy.

Daphne briefly lowered her eyes to stare at the musical score on the
conductor’s desk, angry all over again at herself and everything that had
happened since her double-barreled debacle with Jack and the almighty
maestro Oberlin. She attempted to gather her thoughts and continue with
the matter at hand.

“Rafe, I know how important Saturday’s concert is, and I realize—”

She hesitated, as unhappy images skittered through her head, erasing the
carefully prepared words she’d hoped would soften the news of her untimely
departure.

Rafe waited an instant, then said with rising irritation, “Well, what is
it? I’m five days away from the most important night of my life, Daphne. I
don’t have time for chitchat.”

Daphne inhaled swiftly and spoke before her voice froze. “I’m very sorry,
Rafe, but I can’t play the concert on Saturday. My brother is getting
married in Natchez on the same day and I have to be there.”

Rafe shot her a look of disbelief, and snapped, “It’s a joke, right?
People plan weddings months in advance.”

“No. They just decided yesterday and called me last night.”

“They’re eloping,” he said flatly. “Nobody wants a lot of family around
when they elope. They’re just being polite.”

“They’re not just being polite and they’re not eloping,” she replied
doggedly. “It’s a full-on church ceremony in Natchez, Mississippi, and
it’s my brother’s wedding, Rafe. Remem-
ber him?” she added, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “The man
who contributed ten thousand bucks to your orchestra?”

“You signed a contract with me to play the harp Saturday night, remember?”
Rafe replied coolly. “If you don’t show up, you’re in violation. You know
the rules. You’re going to have to tell him to get somebody else to play
at his wedding.”

“Our contract allows for family emergencies,” Daphne began.

“This doesn’t qualify as one,” Rafe shot back.

“That’s not how I read the contract, but I’m certainly willing to pay for
my replacement,” she promptly volunteered, hoping she didn’t sound as
desperate as she felt.

“That’s hardly the point,” Rafe retorted caustically. “I can’t believe
you’d be so idiotic as to miss your chance to solo at the most significant
concert date you’ve ever played in your life.” Rafe’s lips had compressed
into a straight line and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Now, listen,
Daphne, if you were a true professional—”

Ignoring these warning signs, she jumped from her chair, her heart
pounding and repressed humiliation simmering
just below her ladylike smile. “No! It’s your turn to listen to me,” she
interrupted. “I showed up at every single rehearsal and performance even
after I found out you were two-timing me and—as it turned out—your wife
with another woman. And I never missed any planning meetings, either, when
you were barely paying your musicians minimum wage, before we unionized!”

Rafe eyes were practically slits now. He wagged a cautionary finger in her
direction. “There are hundreds of harpists just as well trained and just
as talented as you are. You’re lucky to be working for any wage, and I’m
the one who made that possible. I strongly advise you to show up Saturday
night or, believe me, Daphne, you will regret it.”

Daphne took a step forward and put both hands on his desk so she could
stare directly into his turquoise eyes. “I’m flying home this week,” she
said softly. “I’m going to play in my brother’s wedding on Saturday.
Evelyn Farnsworth can easily move up to principal harpist for this one
performance. She’s played at my side every rehearsal and knows the solo as
well as I do.”

“Good!” he snapped. “She can move right into your slot—permanently.”

How could she ever have thought this man was a grown-up?

“Look, Rafe.” She switched to a conciliatory tone she hoped would bring
them both back from the brink. “I’m rooting for all of us to succeed like
gangbusters Saturday night. Our Lincoln Center debut marks a watershed for
our group.” She softened her next remark with a crooked smile. “And I
truly believe you’d regret firing me because I’m the best damn harpist in
New York who ever played for union scale.”

“Then show me how good you think you are on Saturday, or you’re out.”

Daphne tried not to let a sense of panic take hold. “C’mon, Maestro,” she
cajoled. “You know I have the highest professional regard for this
organization you’ve created, and I very much want to continue as principal
harpist. Why don’t we call a timeout for now and we’ll talk it over when I
get back from Natchez?”

“I know what my decision is right now,” Rafe retorted, glowering like a
small boy who’d just lost a game of marbles. “You’re history, Ms.
Duvallon. Excuse me, won’t you? I have a class to teach.”

Unable to disguise her shock, she cocked her head to one side, and asked
slowly, “You’re actually letting me go?”

“I actually am,” he replied smugly, lifting his baton off the desk. “For
cause. Play or pay. Just the reason I was looking for. I’ve been thinking
for quite a while that you really don’t have what it takes to be first
rank.”

“That’s crap and you know it!” she cried in an uncharacteristic show of
vulgarity.

“It’s my well-considered opinion,” he said as if he were
enjoying this exchange.

“I’ll file a grievance,” she countered, while disjointed images of monthly
bills, stomach-churning auditions, and the shame of actually being canned
by a man with whom she’d been intimate collided in her brain.

“If you do, other colleagues in our business will hear my side of the
story. Face it, Daphne, it was consensual sex.”

“I don’t mean that,” she said sharply. “I’m talking about this.” She
pointed at him and then at herself. “You’re trying to intimidate me right
now to prevent my exercising my rights under our union contract.”

“You’ll be known around town as capital-T trouble, and you know what that
means.”

She certainly did. There were too many talented musicians chasing too few
top-echelon jobs in New York. The last thing a harpist wanted to be dubbed
was “trouble.”

“I’m willing to give you one more chance,” Rafe said with a calculating
air, “but you have to tell me right now you’ll play the Lincoln Center
concert—or you’re through.”

Daphne pictured her brother, King, swiftly stepping out of the line of
tail-coated ushers and whisking her away from her glowering groom, down
the aisle of Saint Louis Cathedral, and out the arched doors to freedom.

“I love my brother very much,” she said quietly. “I can’t let him down and
miss his wedding. He saved me from mine.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . well, we all have problems. Mine is to fill your chair
before our final rehearsal tomorrow.” He punched his intercom. “Helen? Get
Evelyn Farnsworth on the phone.”

For a split second, Daphne nearly fell on her knees and begged him to
reconsider. A boss who wished her well could easily have interpreted the
family emergency clause in her favor. But by now she should know that Rafe
Oberlin cared about the advancement of Rafe Oberlin, period. She regarded
the handsome young conductor for a long moment as silence filled the room.

I will not cry, she scolded herself.

She breathed deeply and nodded acquiescence. Then she summoned her
sweetest magnolia smile and bid farewell
in a deliberately exaggerated drawl. “You take good care, now, Rafe. And,
all the best on Saturday, y’hear? Ah mean it sincerely . . .”

Hundreds of travelers, anxious to begin their revels on Bourbon Street,
surged toward the Delta Airlines baggage carousels. Daphne, however,
hardly noticed them. She pointed to her claim check and then gazed,
incensed, at the lost-and-found clerk standing behind the Formica counter.

“I watched them load the harp on board the plane in New York myself,” she
said with growing desperation. “It’s six feet tall and weighs at least a
hundred and fifty pounds. Not an easy item to misplace.”

“Perhaps it’s comin’ on another flight, miss,” the woman offered hopefully.

“Oh, please,” Daphne said, her exhaustion and stress level zooming into
the stratosphere. “It’s got to be here somewhere!”

First I lose my job. Now I lose my harp. What else can happen?

“I’ll contact New York and call you when we locate it,” the clerk said,
with a shrug. “That’s all I can do.”

“You need to know that this little problem will cost forty thousand
dollars to solve, so I suggest you—”

“Daphne!” King hissed. “Look over there. Quick!”

Startled, Daphne turned to stare in the direction her brother indicated. A
slender, sandy-haired man standing twenty-five feet away was in the act of
handing a fistful of bills to a grinning skycap.

“Jack?” Daphne whispered, dumbfounded to see the very person she never
wanted to lay eyes on again.

Jack Ebert.

Her almost husband.

A man she had known since they shared a playpen set up in the Ebert or
Duvallon back parlors by their mamas—two women engaged in endless
competition, yet who claimed to be best best friends. There stood the
person with whom she’d gone to grade school, high school, and college for
sixteen years—but had ignored as best she could for most of that time,
until later when, unbelievably, he became her short-term fiancé.

Daphne’s unhappy musings were cut short by the sight of Jack’s dark blond
head bobbing toward the pneumatic doors that led to the bus and taxi
stands. In that same instant, she knew that it was no coincidence that her
jilted fiancé should have suddenly materialized at the Delta baggage claim
just as she was attempting to find an industrial-size harp that had
somehow gone astray. She took off at a dead run.

“Hey, Daphne! Wait!” King called. “Let me deal with it!”

She ignored her brother’s urgent command. Instead, she bolted toward the
skycap, who was smiling to himself as he stowed the wad of cash in his
back pocket. She arrived at his side out of breath.

“Don’t you move,” she shouted, assuming her most abrasive New York
persona. “You can keep the cash,” she announced, pointing to the skycap’s
pants pocket. “But I’ll give you exactly two minutes to go wherever the
hell you stashed my forty-thousand dollar concert harp and deliver it to
me here. Otherwise,” she said, pulling out her cell phone, “I’m calling
the N.O.P.D. right now and having you arrested as an accessory to grand
theft!”

By this time, King was at her side. The baggage handler stared at Daphne
for a moment and then, with a shrug, sidled off toward a door marked
“Employees Only.” Within minutes, he reappeared pushing a handcart through
the crowds. The instrument loomed even larger than its six feet, shrouded
in a form-fitting, ink-black fiberglass case that weighed more than the
harp itself.

“Think that’s it?” King asked, deadpan.

Before Daphne could deliver a retort, the skycap asked nonchalantly, “Is
this what y’all are lookin’ for? It was in the locked room. For
safe-keepin’,” he added baldly.

“Yeah. Sure,” Daphne scoffed. The skycap lingered, his hand resting on the
retrieved harp.

“Forget it,” King snapped. “You already got your tip.” The man shrugged
again and slunk off in the direction of a flustered elderly woman
surrounded by suitcases.

“You told me that Jack had moved to Dallas,” Daphne said, her breath
ragged. Her heart was still pounding, and she could actually feel
adrenaline thundering through her limbic system like the crescendo of the
“William Tell Overture.”

“He lives there, all right,” King said grimly. “Works as a public
relations flak for some oil company. Someone obviously tipped him off as
to exactly when you were expected to arrive in New Orleans, en route to
the weddin’.”

“Gee . . . who could that be?”

Brother and sister exchanged knowing looks.

“Had to be our sainted mama,” King said, with a resigned shake of his
head. “She left me a voice mail late this mornin’ sayin’ she wouldn’t be
comin’ to the weddin’ without a down-on-your-knees apology from both of us
for the way we humiliated the entire family at Saint Louis Cathedral—and
for everything since.”

“What a surprise,” Daphne replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of
her voice. “You support me when I refuse to marry a total jerk and Mama
hates us for life.”

“And I invited Lafayette Marchand to be my best man on Saturday.”

Daphne gazed at her brother in wide-eyed wonder. “Your father? Oh, boy.”
She rested her head against the harp case and heaved a sigh. “Jack must be
jumping for joy about all
of this.” She affected a shrug. “So Mama’s not coming to Natchez. Okay.
Maybe it’s for the best.” She patted her harp. “At least we rescued this
baby so I’ll still be able to play at your wedding.”

“Too bad you didn’t take up the piccolo, or somethin,’ sugar,” King noted
dryly. “Even on a good day, travelin’ with a harp must be as easy as
transportin’ a howitzer.” Daphne, long the recipient of such attempts at
wit, didn’t respond to his quip. “I’m goin’ to take you and your harp in
the Ford Explorer we rented in your honor, okay?” he proposed. “We’ll meet
up with Corlis and her aunt and they’ll follow us in the Jag. I figured
the drive to Natchez’ll probably give you and me our only chance to catch
up before weddin’ madness takes over.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed, nodding. She’d already decided not to
mention she’d been kicked out of the orchestra because of her decision to
come to the wedding. She didn’t want to put a pall over the proceedings or
burden King and Corlis in any way. Instead, they could talk about how
pleased she was to have checkmated Jack—and the son-of-a-gun didn’t even
know it. She pointed to the harp. “Just let me attach these two little
wheels to the bottom of the harp case, here, and away we go.”

As any refugee from a hurricane watch knows, the escape route out of New
Orleans is due west and then north on an interstate highway that
eventually leaves the bayous behind and joins a two-lane road that
meanders along the Mississippi through plantation country. Within the
hour, the two vehicles were whizzing by grand, pillared mansions glimpsed
through verdant arched canopies formed by two-hundred-year-old trees.

“Oh, King . . . look . . . there’s Oak Alley.” Daphne glanced in the
rearview mirror to make sure Corlis, in the Jaguar
behind them, was pointing out the landmark to her elderly relative.
“Doesn’t it always knock your socks off?” she murmured, gazing at the
double row of ancient oaks that lined the approach to a splendid Greek
Revival house with its celebrated twenty-eight columns, fan-lighted
doorways, and wide, welcoming verandas.

“Always,” replied King reverentially.

Farther down the road, another stand of massive oaks displayed branches
laden with cascades of gossamer gray-green moss. “We couldn’t be anywhere
but Louisiana, could we?” Daphne sighed contentedly and settled into the
passenger seat. She lowered her window a few inches and inhaled the
velvety March air laden with the scents of dogwood and pink jasmine. A
mere hint of humidity foretold a stiflingly hot summer a few months away.

By one o’clock, the Jaguar and the Explorer had crossed the state line
into Mississippi, and nosed into the parking lot of a restaurant called
South of the Border, renowned for its ten-alarm Bloody Marys, fried green
tomatoes smothered with crawfish rémoulade sauce, and drop-dead coconut
cake. Arm in arm, Daphne, King, Corlis, and a turban-clad Margery
McCullough strolled toward the entrance in the warm noonday sun.

“Daphne, dear,” Corlis’s great aunt said, giving the younger woman’s elbow
a gentle squeeze. “I’m so looking forward to hearing you play your harp at
the wedding. Corlis tells me you are superb.” The celebrated retired
journalist, wh

Excerpted from A Light on the Veranda by Ciji Ware
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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A Light on the Veranda

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