Ciji Ware by A Light on the Veranda Read Free Book Online

too much fresh air, Ms. New Yorker,” King teased. “Sure, honey. Hit the sack. I’ve assigned you the bedroom next to the sleeping porch. You remember, turn right at the top of the stairs.”
    Suitcase in hand, Daphne headed straight up the staircase, passing family portraits that stared down on her from high on the walls. A sketch of a sinister-looking hawk— Falco Peregrinus —purportedly by John James Audubon, hung crookedly at the top of the stairs. The drawing had been given to some member of the family when Audubon briefly lived in Natchez, and its presence suddenly made Daphne think of the handsome photographer again.
    Heading down the shadowy hall, she studiously avoided peeking through open doors at bedrooms she knew to be chockablock with upholstery sorely in need of refurbishment, rain-stained wall coverings, and threadbare draperies. She quickly got ready for bed, doing her level best to avoid any mental review of Cousin Maddy’s disordered lifestyle.
    What was there to say? The woman tolerated clutter. Feng shui and simplicity were definitely not part of her lexicon. Who could be critical when they knew about the life-and-death issues this wise and wonderful woman contended with the last four years? End of story.
    Madeline Whitaker was one of the dearest, kindest people in the entire world, and that was all that mattered, Daphne considered sleepily, sinking between clean but wrinkled sheets. Her thoughts drifted as she closed her eyes and heaved a grateful sigh that she and her harp had arrived safely. Good thing she could store it in the locked Explorer, for there didn’t seem an inch of space left in Maddy’s front parlor. For some reason, a French nursery song sprang to mind. It was one that Maddy used to sing to her when she was a child visiting during the summer and first learning to play the harp. She softly sang the words to the familiar melody as she snuggled into a comfortable position beneath the ancient satin coverlet.
Frè-re Jac-ques… Frè-re Jac-ques…
Dormez vous? Dormez vous?
Sonnez les mat-in-es… sonnez les mat-in-es
Ding, dang, dong… ding, dang, dong…
    And despite the French rhyme’s message to wake up, she slept.
    ***
    A grandfather clock downstairs tolled three chimes, its lingering tones echoed by two French timepieces sounding the hour—one of which had apparently decided it was four o’clock. Daphne swam to the surface of consciousness but somehow couldn’t force herself to open her eyes. Disoriented by the unfamiliar night sounds, she tried to remember where she was.
    Her apartment in New York? Juilliard? Her parents’ house in the Lower Garden District?
    Somewhere, she could hear a harp being played faintly, as if someone was practicing in a far-off rehearsal room in Lincoln Center. No, she thought groggily, she was in Natchez. At Bluff House. Was Cousin Maddy having a sleepless night?
    The delicate staccato roused her to a more conscious state and she sat bolt upright. The harp was playing the same French nursery song that she’d been remembering right before she fell asleep. She could hear the strings being plucked with precision, just as if accompanying a chorus of little children in ages past… just as she had heard it played and sung by Madeline Whitaker some twenty-five years earlier, in an antebellum mansion on the edge of a bluff overlooking the mighty river.
    Frè-re Jac-ques … Frè-re Jac-ques …
    Daphne grabbed her robe, crept toward the stair landing, and looked down. Cousin Maddy’s antique instrument was usually woefully out of tune, she remembered suddenly. But not this night.
    Slowly, she advanced down several stairs until she had a clearer view through the front foyer and into the sitting room. Moonlight streamed through the windows that faced the river, illuminating with remarkable clarity the parlor and its peeling wallpaper. Daphne caught sight of the first harp she had ever touched. The antique instrument had fewer strings than its