Moonshine Page 11

  We reached the car. The rest of the carnival attendees had gone home and, aside from a few unseen critters moving around in the dried shrubbery, the roadside was deserted. Rose and Gideon seemed to be thoroughly enjoying each other’s company, and I couldn’t have been happier for her. She needed a little romance in her life, something to keep her from dwelling on her broken heart.

  Jackson opened the door for me, and I climbed into the backseat. He walked to the front to crank the motor for Gideon and then scooted onto the seat next to me. Rose hopped into the front seat, and we were off.

  Rose turned back and winked at me. The grin plastered across her face made the whole night out worth it. “Are you planning on dancing tonight, Charli?”

  I looked over at my date. He was waiting for a response.

  “I don’t know. I’ve forgotten how tiring opening day can be. Especially when my act comes at the end of it all. I was just sort of imagining myself sitting at a table, listening to music and sipping on a Mary Pickford. Do they make them at this place we’re going to?”

  “The bartenders at Breakers have been running juice joints for awhile. I’m sure they know how to make one.” Jackson smiled at me. “I should have figured you for a sweet drink kind of girl. Although, I suppose it would be stupid, or ignorant, to figure anything about you. There seems to be a surprise around every corner.”

  “No more surprises tonight.” Oncoming headlights splashed light into the dark cab of the car, illuminating Jackson’s face and reminding me just how incredibly handsome he was. It took me a second to gather my thoughts again. “Tonight it’s just little ole me in my frumpy dress and slightly fancy shoes sipping sugary, sweet drinks.”

  He looked down at my feet. “I do like those shoes. But I think you could end off those gams with just about anything, and they’d look fine.”

  I blinked up at him. “My goodness, you sure are practiced at those sugarcoated compliments, aren’t you?”

  Gideon’s laugh rumbled off the front windshield. “She’s got your number, Jacks. You’ll have to try a different tack.”

  Jackson shook his head, looking slightly embarrassed, which was probably not something he was used to. For a second it seemed his brother’s comment had shamed him into silence. I was wrong. “Not a problem. I’ve got more tacks than a sailor in a hurricane.”

  Laughter filled the car. Charm and fine looks was a lethal combination, and Jackson Jarrett had both in quantity. I would have to keep my feelings guarded and not let my feet leave the ground. No matter what happened between us, I needed to remember that in six weeks I’d be packing up and leaving the charming and fine looking man for good.

  ***

  The melodic but rambunctious sounds of brassy instruments, bass strings and drums vibrated the walls of the dark, somewhat dank speakeasy. Jackson explained that the building had been a library at one time, but a fire had consumed all the literary contents, leaving behind only the brick walls and charred skeletal remains of bookshelves. What was once a burnt out shell was now several good sized rooms lined on all sides with round tables. Several gleaming counters stretched down the middle of the large front room.

  The patrons were dripping with glad rags. Men were clad in fashionable wool and tweed coats, starched white shirts and every style of hat. The lights above reflected off the black and white polished patent leather of their shoes as they leaned over counters and relaxed back on the chairs. The women’s shimmery jewel-toned dresses glistened with silk adornments and glass beads that quivered as they chatted, laughed and took sips from stylish glassware. The aura of camaraderie was palpable. Everyone there, no matter who they’d walked in with, had the same sense of community, a group of young people mocking the rules handed down from the stout chinned men on Capitol Hill. We were all part of the same clandestine group who believed our rights had been trampled. Toasts and glasses were lifted all over the place in a show of freedom.

  Jackson spoke quietly to the man at the door, who let us in without so much as a second glance. We were then led to a table in a corner close enough to see the band but far enough not to have to scream over each other for simple conversation.

  Jackson pulled a chair out for me. Gideon did the same for Rose. Jackson sat down and leaned over. “I ordered you that Mary Pickford.”

  “Thank you. Do you come here often?” I asked. “It’s just the table came suddenly available, and they let us in without the usual password.”

  “I don’t come here all that much, but I work for the owner.” He clamped his mouth shut. It seemed he wanted to take back what he’d just said.

  It took me only a moment to put together the puzzle. “That man, Griggs, he’s the owner?”

  Jackson nodded. The evening had been nice thus far, and I decided to drop the subject. Jackson didn’t look as if he was keen on talking about his relationship with Griggs. And, truthfully, neither was I.

  Even though she’d done three dance shows, Rose was anxious to cram onto the small dance floor between the crush of bodies twisting and gyrating to the beat of the music. It took Gideon three whiskeys to loosen up enough to agree.

  Jackson and I both looked at the overcrowded dance floor with the same grim enthusiasm. I had no real desire to leave my chair or my extremely tasty drink, which I sipped with slow delight. More than one woman had stopped by the table to say hello, and, each time, Jackson had quickly introduced me as his date. It took off some of the irritating edge of having a seemingly long string of pretty, well-dressed girls flounce over to interrupt.

  Jackson pulled out a cigarette and offered me one. I declined. “Do you mind if I have one?” he asked.

  I swept my gaze pointedly around at the smoke clouded atmosphere above our heads. “I don’t see how one more can hurt.”

  It was his faint smile that I found the most appealing. It always gave an impression of a man who liked to laugh and smile but who’d seen enough sadness to keep him from taking things too lightly.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, leaned back on his chair and eyed me through the stream of smoke. “Who taught you to ride a motorcycle?”

  It was a question that came up often, and even though it always carried with it that terrible memory, I’d learned to answer it without going into too much detail. “My mother used to be the stunt rider for the show. After she died,” I said the words quickly, plainly, as if I was mentioning the weather, “I stayed with Buck. I had nowhere else to go. My real father died of a heart attack when I was five. At first, Buck tried to sell off the sphere. There was no one to ride in it, and it was a drag on profits. It takes two trucks to move the thing. As a teenager with no real skills except helping the other carnies clean-up after the show, I was a drag on the profit as well. Buck was going to have the sphere dismantled and destroyed, which felt like a stab in my heart. It had been my mother’s stage. I decided to continue her legacy by learning to ride. With a little help from Dodie, our show mechanic and master fiddler, I managed to learn the tricks and pick up where my mother left off.”

  He took a sip of his whiskey. “Master fiddler? Was that the man playing before you performed? He was talented. Unfortunately, the crowd made it hard to hear him clearly.”

  I was absurdly thrilled that he had noticed Dodie’s playing. It gave Jackson another layer that I hadn’t expected. “That’s him. Dodie’s had an interesting life—”

  “Jackson Jarrett!” A man who was clearly drunk stumbled toward the table. He was in his early twenties with a long, narrow face and physique to match. His lids looked as if there were weights on them, and he used our table to keep upright.

  “Harold, either this room is tilting or you aren’t walking straight,” Jackson said. “You look and smell as if you’ve been swimming in a tub of gin.”

  “Something like that.” With a shaky arm, the man managed to find his forehead for a military salute. With some effort, he trained his unsteady focus on me. “You do realize that you are sitting with a war hero.” His words were long and
stretched but quite comprehensible.

  And they made Jackson stiffen. He sat up straighter on his chair. “Harold, you ought to find a ride home. Where’s Betty?”

  Harold’s eyes closed for longer than a blink, and I half-expected him to fall face first onto the table. He opened them again. “Betty closed the bank on me.” He waved his arm, and the movement nearly swept him sidelong into the next table. “She wants to get hitched. Told her I didn’t need to walk no middle aisle for any woman right now. We’re through.” He swayed on his feet for a second and held onto the table edge for support. “Our Jackson, here, earned himself a shiny hero’s medal in France.” He tried to point at Jackson but gave up and lowered his hand again to hold onto the table.

  I looked over at Jackson. His jaw was clenched tight. “All right, Harold, go dry up somewhere, would ya? Why don’t you ask the barkeep for a cup of Joe, eh?”

  Harold’s gaze swept my direction. Again, the movement nearly toppled him sideways. “See, he doesn’t think it’s a big deal, our Jackson.” He pointed sloppily at Jackson again. “But those bleeding boys you dragged out of those ditches thought it was a big deal.” Harold pressed his hand against his side. “He even took a bullet pulling them out of there.” I thought back to the first time I’d seen Jackson. Rose had brought up the scar that she was sure was a bullet wound.

  Gideon and Rose returned to the table. Jackson seemed more than relieved to have the conversation interrupted.

  “Big six!” Harold leaned over to get a full look at Gideon and stumbled back. “How are you doing, big six?”

  Gideon held back a smile as he pulled out a chair for Rose. “Apparently, not as good as you, Harold.”

  The unsteady finger pointing returned. It seemed to help Harold focus on whoever he was talking to. The finger came toward me. “You know why I call him big six?” He answered himself before I could put forth a guess that it had something to do with Gideon’s size. “It’s because Gideon Jarrett is the strongest man I know.”

  Rose covered her mouth to keep back a laugh.

  “I’ll let you all get back to your date. I need to sit down so the room can stop spinning,” Harold muttered and wandered unsteadily away.

  “Will he be all right?” I asked.

  “Sure. After a long night of throwing up, he’ll be fine.” Jackson put out his cigarette. “This joint is closing in on me. It’s a warm night. Palmer’s Mill is just a mile from here. Would you like to take a walk, or are you too tired?”

  I glanced down at my shoes. They were definitely pretty and definitely highly impractical for a walk.

  “That’s right. I forgot your glittery shoes.” He turned to Gideon. “Do you mind if we take off with the car for an hour? Then we’ll swing back to pick you up.”

  Gideon looked at Rose, who looked more than happy to have the man to herself for an hour, even if it was inside a crowded club. Jackson’s brother seemed just as pleased with the prospect.

  Jackson took hold of my hand and navigated a path through the dancers and drinkers. Like he had mentioned, it was a warm night, but there was still a stark difference between the thick, almost misty, atmosphere of the speakeasy and the fresh night air. A tiny shiver shook my shoulders.

  “Are you cold?” He went to take off his coat.

  “No, I’m fine. It actually feels refreshing. The air inside was making me a little sleepy. We’ve been up since dawn getting everything ready for opening day.”

  He pulled his coat back onto his shoulders.

  I smiled at the gentlemanly gesture. It was easy to believe that the tall, handsome and extraordinarily confident man next to me had been a war hero. “Thank you, anyway.”

  I climbed in while he cranked the motor on the Model T. It wobbled side to side as the motor sputtered and chugged. He climbed in, took off his fedora and combed his fingers through his hair. He dropped the hat into the backseat and grinned, almost shyly at me. Again, I smiled.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that for a moment there you looked like a boy going out on his first date. Sort of comical, considering it’s you.”

  He faced the road. The lines on the side of his mouth creased with a lazy smile. “This date is different. I’ve never gone out with an Enchantress before.”

  “I promise not to cast any spells on you.”

  “Too late.” He looked at me. There was no smile or humor this time. “You have me completely bewitched already.”

  It was my turn to look shyly away. He’s a practiced sweet talker, I reminded myself.

  The landscape passed by in dark, billowing shadows of overgrown shrubbery and trees that had grown unmanaged and unfettered for years. The only sign of life on the vast stretch of land was the occasional hanging silhouette of a massive owl floating down to nab some unsuspecting field mouse or rabbit.

  “You don’t like to talk about the war much,” I said breaking the silence. “Can’t imagine how hard it was.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his throat moved with a swallow beneath the white collar.

  “Forgive me. It was a mistake for me to bring it up.”

  He pulled the car off on a rough swath of road. I clutched the door to keep from being tossed around.

  “I was nineteen,” he said quietly. “I thought I was invincible when I signed up. Tough as nails, as they say.” A sad chuckle tumbled from his mouth. “It took me a few long months on the front-line to knock me back down to earth.” He pulled the car along a path that traveled parallel with a quietly meandering river. A half-moon showered an old mill and the surrounding water with silver drops of light. The mill’s imposing wheel stood stock-still in the slow moving water. The mill’s wood siding, bleached white from the elements, seemed to glow in the dark. A thick carpet of green moss that looked almost teal-blue in the starlight softened the rough, splintered edges of the deserted structure. That same lush mound of moss lent its ripe, verdant aroma to the surroundings.

  There was a touch of melancholy in Jackson’s expression, and I silently chided myself for bringing up the topic of war. Just as the subject of my mother’s death was a bitter topic for me, France was obviously a distressing subject for him.

  He took my hand again. I found myself enjoying the small sense of proprietorship that seemed to come with the way he held me. I’d never wanted to belong to any man, but having someone like Jackson around to feel loved and safe would make it worth giving up a smidgen of independence. But it was a fleeting thought. This was a short term, frivolous friendship and nothing more. It was entirely possible that he would bore of me much sooner than the six weeks. There was always that dreaded possibility that his interest would wane by the time he dropped me back at the carnival tonight. I hoped not, but I had to expect it from a man like Jackson.

  He led me to a soft, clean spot of grass near the riverbank and beneath the shadow of the old mill. He took off his coat and was about to place it down on the grass for me to sit on.

  “No, please,” I said, “this is an old dress. Your coat will be ruined.”

  “It’s an old coat.” He stretched the coat out and waved his hand for me to sit.

  He leaned his forearms on top of his knees and stared out at the water. “On nights like this, sometimes you can spot a blue glow, swamp gas, coming from that green marshy area around the mill. Comes from some of the plants and animals beneath the surface. It happens usually when we’ve had a long stretch of hot weather. Not sure if it’s been warm enough.”

  “The weather is certainly changeable here. After that rainstorm, Buck was worried we wouldn’t be able to open on time. But the ground soaked it up quickly.” I looked around at the picturesque surroundings. “This spot is lovely. But I don’t think it would be as beautiful without that mill perched out on the riverbank.”

  “That old place, what most people would call a relic and some would even prefer to see torn down, has so much character. Lots of stories to tell. It’s more than a century old. It has
seen this river swell up and over its banks, and its seen the water withdraw, starved for a current, its critters wandering aimlessly on the nearly parched riverbed waiting for relief.” He removed his hat, placed it down and leaned back on his hands. “This might sound odd coming from someone who has lived in a rural setting all his life, but architecture has always been fascinating to me. By far the best part of being a soldier was getting to travel through Europe. The architecture is astounding, and it’s different in every country.”

  “And those countries are so much older than our own. I imagine there was a sight to see on every corner.”

  “It kept my mind off of the real reason I was there.” Jackson looked up toward the dark sky. The moonlight cast shadows on his perfectly sculpted face. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him. Especially now, with the solemn expression, an expression that seemed to indicate that he was about to spill something painful, something that was constantly eating at him but that he’d buried, just as I’d buried the horror of my mother’s death. There was a deepness in his soul that I would have never guessed existed. It seemed I had judged him too quickly. An unfortunate set of circumstances always seemed to land me in his path at times that didn’t place him in the best light.

  He sat forward and rested his wrist on his raised knee as he gazed out at the mill. “There was this soldier named Ben. He was a member of my regiment, and we bunked in the same barracks in Camp Upton. It’s where we finished our training before being shipped overseas.” His deep, rich voice had already imprinted itself in my mind, and the sound of it now, as it coasted out over the flowing water, made my throat tighten. “He was one of those nervous, fidgety types,” he continued. “Even moved around in his sleep.” He laughed quietly. “Ben was always scratching his head, and I would kid him that he should have left his fleas at home with the family dog. He managed to pick up a postcard at every stop, Paris, London, even small farming villages in the middle of the country. Some were pictures of famous churches or rivers, others were pictures that went with the war, patriotic slogans, the Red Cross flag, even soldiers washing their faces outside the barracks.” He looked over at me for the first time since we’d sat. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this story. I never talk about the war.” He reached up and brushed a strand of hair off my face. His fingertips touched me briefly, but it felt like a caress.