Flashback Page 3

  Hattie paused and eyed Laura appraisingly. “I don’t recognize you, and from that accent of yours, I assume you’re from up north.”

  “St. Louis,” Laura revealed.

  “That’s out by the Mississippi, ain’t it? I had a cousin who went on one of those steamboat cruises once, the ones they have out yonder. You ever been on a steamboat cruise?”

  “Uh, no, but I toured a steamboat once when I was in grade school.”

  Hattie gave off something halfway between a huff and a snort. “Funny how we never take advantage of what we have in our own backyards. There’s lots of things right here in Virginia I’ve never bothered to see.”

  During the awkward silence that followed, Laura gazed out the window. Now that the pleasantries were over, she hoped Hattie would perhaps nap or read or otherwise keep to herself.

  “Who’re you visiting?”

  No such luck, Laura thought. “Actually, I’m moving to Bufordville.”

  Hattie’s mouth fell open, her expression incredulous. For several seconds, the old woman appeared to be speechless, but she finally managed to croak, “Why would you want to do that?”

  Laura smiled, restraining a chuckle while wondering why someone wouldn’t want to live in Bufordville. “My aunt died and left me her house in Bufordville.” As soon as she said the words, Laura wished she hadn’t.

  “Who was your aunt?” Hattie asked, her eyes narrowing.

  “Laura Buford.”

  Hattie covered her mouth with her hand. “My goodness! Such a young and pretty thing as yourself being burdened with that place. And I notice you’re not wearing a ring. Not that it’s any of my business, but do you know much about tobacco?”

  Blood rushed to Laura’s face as she saw that Hattie’s loud voice had drawn some of the passengers’ attention. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice her, but then she realized that Hattie could perhaps give her some information. “You knew my aunt?” Laura asked carefully.

  Hattie smiled. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, not personally. In these parts, everyone has heard of Buford’s Bluff. It’s the largest plantation in the valley—I think Lettie said it’s over eight thousand acres. I used to come here years ago and attend the annual Harvest Moon Festival. Needless to say, I was a young girl then, but it was quite a festival, and it was held on harvest moon night. The dinner could beat all dinners. The festival was romantic too, with dancing and courting and all kinds of carryings on. It’s too bad they stopped having it . . . too much of a burden, I suppose.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but what exactly is a harvest moon?”

  Hattie leaned toward Laura and tapped her arm. “It’s nothing more than a reason to have a party . . . and for some people to get drunk, if you know what I mean. Of course, it didn’t start out that way—at least, I don’t think it did. Let’s see, there’s the snow moon in February and the strawberry moon in June—I love strawberries—and the cold moon in December. I can’t remember them all. It was a way of keeping track of the months long ago. But the harvest moon was special—I remember my papa explaining it. The harvest moon somehow lasted longer than the other moons, and it has something to do with autumn and the change in seasons. That extra dose of light came in handy for farmers who were working long days to harvest their crops in September.”

  “So the Bufords always hosted the harvest festival for the town?” Laura asked.

  “A lot of people in the area worked for the Bufords at some time or the other, so I suppose in a way it was like having a company party. Of course, the whole community was invited—that’s the way hospitality works here in Virginia, but you probably know that.”

  “Actually, I don’t know much about Virginia at all. This is my first time here, since my parents moved to St. Louis before I was born.”

  “Are your folks still living there too?”

  “Actually, they’ve both passed away,” Laura answered with a twinge of sadness in her voice.

  Hattie sighed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. I know a bit of loneliness myself. My Harold has been gone for ten years, and I go to bed each night longing to tell him about my day. I want to tell him when I’m sad and when I’m glad—I want to tell him everything. Sometimes I find myself talking to him.” Hattie bit her lip, lost in thought for a few moments, and then added, “I guess some people would say that’s crazy.”

  “I don’t think it’s crazy at all,” Laura said reassuringly. After all, she still talked to her mother sometimes. As the weeks raced by from the time Laura had called her aunt’s lawyer to the day she stepped on the plane for Washington, she had thought a great deal about her mother, wondering if she would’ve approved of her daughter’s decision. Laura wasn’t sure she herself approved. She had turned her car and apartment over to Megan, and she had arranged for a year’s leave of absence from her teaching job. She had some money in a St. Louis bank account, so if things didn’t work out in Virginia, she could return home as if the whole incident had never happened.

  The dream that had plagued Laura for so long had come less frequently during those intensely busy days of preparation. However, she had dreamed of her mother several times, and she wondered if her mother disapproved of her moving to Virginia. Sarah McClain had chosen not to return to Virginia, even after her husband died and there was no reason to stay in Missouri. As far as Laura remembered, her mother had never even gone back to Virginia on a visit. Sarah had mentioned her childhood home a few times, but it seemed almost painful for her to think or talk about her sister Laura or about Buford’s Bluff.

  Laura turned and gazed out the window at the mountains covered with a dreamlike lavender mist. These were the famous Blue Ridge Mountains, and Laura knew she should appreciate their beauty. But instead, her thoughts kept going back to her parents.

  Eventually the turmoil of emotions brought on by her mother’s death had finally started to settle down, and the wounds began to heal. Then the letter from Virginia had arrived, tearing the wounds open again, and Laura felt as if she had been left bleeding.

  She wasn’t quite sure when the anger had begun to creep up on her. At her father’s funeral, she had sat with her arms stoically crossed, warding off the outside world. She had kept her composure at her mother’s funeral as well, never giving in to her inner turmoil. At the cemetery she hadn’t let anyone see her pain, though she’d stood wondering if her security might disappear into the graves that had swallowed up her parents.

  In retrospect, Laura realized that the anger had probably begun to simmer with her father’s death, but she first noticed it when she returned to the apartment after her mother’s funeral. As she sat alone in total darkness, tears running down her cheeks, she realized she was all alone. That was when the anger had started to temper her grief and shock. How could her parents abandon her like this? She had counted on them, and now they were both gone! And though the anger brought guilt along with it during those first terrible weeks, the anger may have been the only thing that had kept her functioning. The anger had resurfaced as she was trying to decide whether to go to Virginia. Her mother had chosen not to introduce her to Aunt Laura and wouldn’t tell stories about her family. Laura had begun to feel resentful that so much had been kept from her.

  But now, that was all behind her. She respected her mother’s choices and hoped her mother could have respected hers. She recalled a conversation she’d had with Megan, but now it wasn’t Megan she pictured across from her in the apartment. It was her mother. “This is about discovery—finding out about yourself and the family you don’t know,” she imagined her mother saying. “Maybe it will be like coming home.”

  5

  “You’re home, Laura.”

  Laura opened her eyes. “Home?”

  Hattie was gently shaking Laura’s arm, so she sat up and looked out the partially open bus window. The odor of cigar smoke wafted in from the outside. A small white building attached to the bus station featured a revolving red-and-white-striped electric barber’s pol
e, and men sat smoking on benches out front while an assortment of faces gazed out the barbershop window. Apparently, this was downtown Bufordville.

  A small crowd had gathered in front of the Greyhound bus station, and some of the spectators stood on their tiptoes, trying to peer in the bus. A lady with a large straw hat and thick oblong glasses stuck her face as close as she could to the partially open window next to Laura. “Eleanor?” she asked hoarsely. Startled, Laura leaned back.

  Laura felt like she was in a foreign land, surrounded by strangers. But somehow she would make the best of things. In fact, she planned to be happy here in Bufordville, whatever it took.

  She glanced back at Hattie, who gave her a reassuring smile and stood to get her belongings from the overhead rack. Noticing the elderly woman struggling with the large bag, Laura lifted it down for her and followed her off the bus. A white two-story house with a wide front porch filled with rocking chairs and a few benches stood on the other side of the station. A sign over the door indicated that the place was a boardinghouse. Honeysuckle and morning glory covered the porch rails, and bees buzzed around the fading blooms.

  Using her hand to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight, Laura looked across the street. A row of redbrick buildings stood against a backdrop of rolling mountains speckled with orange and yellow. Maple and poplar trees grew from round holes in the concrete sidewalks, and on a hill in the distance stood a water tower with Bufordville painted in huge black letters.

  Hattie was by now hugging a gray-haired woman, who Laura assumed was her sister, Lettie. Laura was turning to survey the view in the other direction when a handsome older man in a dark suit approached her.

  “Laura?”

  “Yes?”

  Tall and lean, the man had a fine-boned face and full, wavy white hair combed back neatly. He gave off an air of sophistication and dignity, though Laura thought his white goatee made him look a bit like Colonel Sanders. “You’re your aunt’s image,” the man said in a deep, pleasant voice with just a hint of Southern drawl. “Beauty does run in the Buford family.”

  Laura’s cheeks warmed as he reached out his hand. “I’m Roger Ballister, your aunt’s attorney.” As Laura took his hand, he shook hers firmly.

  Suddenly Hattie ran to Laura and grabbed her other hand, shaking it vigorously. “If you need a friend, Laura McClain, give me a call. I’m staying at my sister’s house—Lettie Larsen.”

  “Thank you, Hattie. Have a good visit.” Hattie released Laura’s hand and hurried back to her sister.

  Roger smiled. “I see you make friends easily. Your aunt was that way too.”

  Laura felt her smile fade. “I’m afraid I’m not usually that way, Mr. Ballister.”

  “Please call me Roger. My car is right over there on the street. Let’s get your luggage.”

  Roger and Laura carried her bags to his gold Buick, where the luggage fit easily into the large trunk. He opened the passenger door for Laura and sauntered around to the driver’s side. Swallowing hard, Laura felt the sense of doom she always experienced when confronted with a social situation. Riding in the car with her aunt’s lawyer would be like standing in the elevator with a stranger, only worse. An elevator ride was usually over in seconds, although it sometimes felt like it took much longer. Laura wasn’t sure how long it would take them to get to Buford’s Bluff—but she just knew the ride would be excruciating.

  Her palms were sweaty and her throat was dry, and it occurred to her that she should have found a water fountain in the station. After all, she would need to speak. She took a deep breath and began silently rehearsing her positive mantras. I’m a valuable individual with an intelligent mind. I don’t have to impress anyone. I need to be myself because I’m a worthy person.

  When Roger got in and slammed his door shut, Laura couldn’t recall a single mantra. In fact, in that moment, all she could remember was that her name was Laura and that she came from St. Louis.

  Roger drove slowly down the street, and Laura peered out the passenger-side window, turning the back of her head toward him. Bufordville was charming in a run-down, weathered sort of way, Laura decided as they passed the city library and a general store. In the back of her mind she could hear Roger talking, but his words seemed faint, and she could barely hear them above the sound of the motor.

  As she tried unsuccessfully to focus on what the man was saying, Laura recognized the onset of a panic attack. She felt trapped, and she glanced over at Roger to see if he had noticed her shaking. But he was still talking, apparently assuming she was listening. What should she tell him?

  Excuse me, Mr. Ballister. I need you to take me back to the bus station so I can get the heck out of Bufordville. You see, I’d feel a lot safer back in St. Louis in my own apartment with Megan. As Laura tried to take deep breaths to calm herself, the car approached a railroad crossing with flashing red lights. Roger stopped the car just in front of a fading white line on the pavement, then glanced over at Laura and smiled. She forced a smile apologetically. Roger had finally stopped talking, and Laura knew that her silence had revealed her inattention. The quiet was momentarily broken by the wail of the train whistle, and then a headlight appeared down the track, followed by a few empty, rattling railcars and a caboose. Laura wasn’t sure if the Buick was swaying or if she was about to faint.

  When they started across the now-clear tracks, Laura cleared her throat and said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I just realized you’ve been talking and I haven’t heard a word. I’m just overwhelmed at being here, I guess. I’ve never been out of Missouri until today.”

  Roger smiled. “Oh, my dear, no need to apologize. I can certainly understand—I was just babbling on about the town history anyway.”

  Laura knew she needed to attempt conversation, so with great effort she forced herself to vocalize the first question she could think of. “Why didn’t my mother help Aunt Laura run the plantation?” Laura inquired, her voice cracking a little. “I mean, it was the family business for generations, right?”

  Roger didn’t answer immediately, appearing to mull over the question. “Well, your mother met your father. He was an independent sort, and I must admit that Laura Buford was a bossy lady. Your father and mother moved to St. Louis to find their own way. Your aunt Laura was unhappy about it, but she accepted what had to be. She was quite a bit older than your mother, so she was used to taking care of things without troubling her little sister.”

  He hadn’t told her why her parents had moved so far from Bufordville, but she assumed there must have been a disagreement between her mother and her aunt. Roger obviously didn’t want to disclose the actual reason—perhaps he didn’t know.

  “Why did Aunt Laura leave the place to me?” Now that she’d spoken, the conversation would be easier. The first sentence was always the hardest.

  Roger started to speak, then paused for several seconds. Finally, he glanced over at Laura and began again. “You’re her only living relative, Laura. She didn’t have any children, and your mother was her only sibling. You’re her namesake, and she felt a special closeness to you. She believed you could keep this plantation alive.”

  Laura shot an incredulous look at him. “She didn’t even know me.”

  He smiled back at her. “But she knew the Buford bloodline.”

  Remembering with a start that she hadn’t yet inquired about her aunt’s death, Laura abruptly asked, “How did she die? She wasn’t very old. Let’s see . . . my mother was thirty-two when she had me, so if she were alive she’d be fifty-six. How much older was Aunt Laura?”

  “Ten years.”

  “That would make her sixty-six.”

  “Yes, your aunt Laura was sixty-six when she passed,” he stated with a sad smile. Laura realized a few minutes too late she could have questioned Roger without all the mathematical tricks. She felt her face warming again.

  “Heart failure,” Roger said.

  “What?”

  “Your aunt died of heart failure. She always ha
d a bad heart.”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  As they headed north, the car coasted down a hill, and a vast river stretched out before them. “That’s the James River,” Roger explained, “and there’s Buford’s Bluff, your new home.”

  Through the trees, across the river, Laura caught a glimpse of a large white house. The road wound down the hill, where they eventually crossed the river on a long metal bridge. A variety of barges and boats sailed on the river beneath them. “An active place,” Laura remarked with some surprise in her voice.

  Roger smiled. “Oh, yes, Buford’s Bluff is prosperous. They ship the tobacco from the plantation down the river to the big cigarette factories in Richmond.”

  “I don’t know much about the tobacco industry,” Laura admitted, wondering how she would tell Roger she found tobacco positively repulsive. She decided to worry about that later, after she settled in and learned about her aunt’s business.

  “Tobacco seeds are planted in seed beds in late winter and covered in plastic,” Roger declared, apparently willing to give Laura her first lesson in the family business. “When the plants get big enough, field hands move them into the field. When the plants bloom, toppers lop off the tops so the plants can grow heavier. When the plants are mature, the stalk cutters cut the plants down and leave them on sticks in the fields for a day or two until they’re wilted.”

  “Is that what those tepees are?” Laura queried, pointing to what looked like the silhouette of an Indian village on a far hillside.

  “Yes, those are stakes of wilting tobacco. Pretty soon the curers will hang the wilted plants in the curing barns to air cure. Those are the sheds you can see over on the horizon there.”

  Laura studied the shacks standing guard on a hill of reddish mud that looked freshly plowed. “So the tobacco goes from the curing houses to the cigarette factories?”

  “Well, Charlie Osborne, your plantation manager, hauls the tobacco on barges down to Richmond, but it takes a while for the tobacco to be made into a finished product. Freshly-cured tobacco has a sharp aroma and a bitter taste. The factories place the tobacco in storage barrels for aging and fermentation before using it.”