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“Of course I am,” Coral replied. “All Southern women are.” She grabbed Bobbi’s half-eaten plate. “Now, it’s time we made our way uptown. You promised you’d accompany me to the historical society building. And there’s no use in you moping about here when you can enjoy yourself
with me.”
Bobbi got to her feet with a smile and followed Coral into the house. It was hard to deny that kind of logic.
Chapter Ten
The Fairfax Plantation was not more than ten minutes from Belle Adair. Built in the mid-1800s, it was one of the only plantations in the state that was still held by the hands of the very family that built it. Charles Fairfax had commissioned the mansion for his new bride, Antoinette Legiere, after taking her from her family in France and moving to the new world.
He had a plan, a vision, and kudos to the man, because his vision still stood.
The large antebellum house was renowned for the number of windows and sweeping double doors on both the upper and lower level, the opulence of the French-inspired interior, the ornate detail, and the exquisite grounds. It was still a working sugarcane plantation, though on a much smaller scale, and in addition, it was a historic venue with a small museum on site, as well as an artist retreat with private studios tucked away among the impressive gardens that fell away from the house and meandered to the riverbank.
The current owner, one Marisol Fairfax DuMonde, was a patron of the arts and considered by many in the art world as both a friend and confidante. She’d come to a gallery a few years back when Shane had a showing in New York, though he’d missed meeting her in person.
He’d have to remedy that, he thought, as he got busy organizing a bungalow that was his private studio to use for the next four weeks. Aside from an open space filled with natural light from the abundance of windows and a skylight, the bungalow came complete with a kitchenette, bathroom, and pullout sofa. Most of the artists stayed at the plantation, and Shane supposed he could as well if he so desired, but with Bobbi back in Belle Adair, why would he?
His particular bungalow was close to the river, the view priceless, filled with oak trees heavy with Spanish moss that clung to the riverbanks, magnolia and wisteria and all sorts of greenery and color. The air was sweet with the scent of sugarcane, and muted voices carried on the wind as if bleeding through from another time.
At one time, the plantation had been home to slaves, and it was sobering to know that many of them had lived and died under the yolk of a rich white plantation owner. He’d read up on the place, and the Fairfaxes were purported to have been generous and fair owners, but owners they’d been. And out here, he felt the ghosts of the past; their spirit and perseverance hung in the air and filled his lungs.
Their strength gave him hope.
He’d just finished unpacking the canvases he’d had shipped out, as well as his brushes and paint supplies, when a knock at the door pulled him away. A smallish woman, barely five feet by his way of looking at things, stood there, her rust-colored hair secured in a tight ponytail that fell well past her shoulders. With diamonds sparkling from her ears, but not much else in the way of jewelry, she wore a colorful dress of blues, greens, and yellows that floated around her knees, and expertly applied makeup that did a lot to obscure her age. Shane figured she was anywhere from early fifties to mid-sixties.
“Why I do declare, Bernadette was correct.” Her voice was soft, drenched in the South. “You are one handsome devil, Shane Gallagher.”
Shane hid a grin. Bernadette was the woman who’d checked him in earlier and one hell of a character. She’d been smoking a pipe when he rolled up on his bike, dressed in faded jean overalls and a pink T-shirt underneath. A big old hat was plunked onto her head that covered most of her features on account of the mess of feathers that sat across the brim.
They spent a good half hour or so discussing bikes, and she’d promised to show him her shovelhead, a 1969 model in pristine condition.
“Well, now, you’ve got me at a disadvantage.” Shane moved aside to let her in, and the woman breezed past him, something like grapefruit or peony drifting in the air behind her. “Though I’m guessing you must be Marisol DuMonde.”
“Devilishly handsome and smart. That’s a lethal combination.” Marisol wandered over to the half-finished canvas he’d started months ago. It leaned against the far wall. She bent closer. Cocked her head to the side. Then she moved back a few feet.
“I see why you’ve come all this way.” Marisol turned back to him. “You’re in one hell of a slump, my boy.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Very much so.” A soft smile lit up her face. “But the good news is that here, in this place”—her arms swept the room and pointed toward the window and the river beyond—“in this slice of heaven, you’ll find all the inspiration you need, if in fact inspiration is your problem. If it’s something else, some thing that’s clogged your brain and hidden your talent, it will let loose here. I promise you that. And you are talented, my boy. I loved your showing in New York. Your eye is divine, and the way you use the medium to bring the canvas to life is something else. It’s not every day I meet an artist who moves me the way you do.”
Shane was momentarily quieted. He was used to praise, and it wasn’t an arrogant or egotistical thing to realize. It just was. People reacted to his art. Coming from Marisol, though, it meant something more than just a casual utterance by a buyer or a stranger in a gallery.
“I’m flattered,” Shane said, moving toward the kitchenette. “Can I get you something?” He’d stowed a six-pack of Stella inside and noted it had already been stocked with water, soda, beer, and wine.
“Goodness, no.” Marisol smiled. “I just wanted to swing by and say hello and to let you know that we’re very excited to have you here with us.” She paused as if mulling something over. “We have a group of young artists here to learn their craft, and I’m sure they’d be over the moon if you had time to stop in and chat with them at some point. They’re a great bunch, students from all over the world. It’s my absolute joy to watch brand-new talent unfold.”
“I’d like that.”
“Wonderful. Dinner’s at the main plantation house at six, and happy hour is four o’clock sharp, if you’re so inclined. I make a damn good martini, and the conversation is entertaining, to say the least.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be heading back to Belle Adair.”
“Oh, well, that’s a surprise. Most artists, especially those looking to find their mojo, so to speak, well, they usually stay here. The nights are magical.”
“I’m sure they are, but I’ve got a reason to be in Belle Adair.”
“You don’t say.” Marisol grinned. “Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to meet your reason during your time here. I’d love to know what kind of woman stole the heart of the renowned and elusive Shane Gallagher. Now, I’d best be going. We have another new arrival today. An author who’s staying across the way in the little pink bungalow, and I do like to personally welcome everyone here.”
