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

neighboring modern version, and had never produced a very robust sound. In fact, when it was properly in tune, as it obviously was this night, Daphne would have recognized its tinkling, music-box quality blindfolded.
    Arriving at the foot of the stairs, the classically trained harpist grabbed the newel post and simply stared, awestruck, at a harp whose strings were vibrating—all by themselves.
    ***
    In the Lovell Room at Monmouth Plantation, Sim Hopkins awoke slowly, realizing in some distant sector of his brain that it was far too early even to stalk Audubon’s blasted birds. After a few moments, he realized what had caused him to stir. He could distinctly hear the sound of harp music tinkling through the planks of the thick cypress door to his elegant rented bedroom. He glanced at the coral-colored silk canopy engulfing his massive four-poster plantation bed and listened intently. These were not the earthy, bluesy chords that that angelic-looking young woman had played in Monmouth’s double parlor the previous afternoon, but rather, a child’s lullaby plucked on an instrument known for making listeners think they’d died and gone to heaven. Surely, the harpist with a set of legs that just didn’t quit couldn’t possibly be rehearsing for her brother’s wedding at the ungodly hour of—
    Sim glanced at his watch, the only item he wore to bed. Its luminous dial told him it was ten minutes past three. He reached for the velour robe draped over the bottom of the mattress and swiftly padded to the door. Oddly, the music didn’t grow louder when he crossed the threshold and moved toward the hotel stairwell. He descended the carpeted steps to the front hall and stood at the wide entrance to the parlor where he had leaned against the door frame and listened to Daphne Duvallon’s sensuous rendition of “Georgia on My Mind.”
    A shaft of moonlight slanted through a window, illuminating one corner of the Empire-period sitting room. Sim’s breath caught when he saw that the harp’s strings were still vibrating as the haunting melody faded into silence. What surprised him even more, however, was that the stool next to the harp was vacant, and there was not another soul to be seen in the room.
    ***
    The following morning, Daphne sat alone in the cluttered kitchen at Bluff House, sipping a steaming cup of chicory coffee laced with hot milk and trying her best not to think about the odd scene she’d witnessed in Cousin Maddy’s parlor at three in the morning.
    Or had she? she wondered. Maybe all the stress lately had suddenly caused her to sleepwalk? Perhaps she’d merely had one of those dreams that seem so real the next day?
    Groucho, belying his name, was peacefully curled up on a nearby kitchen chair, snoozing in the morning sunshine that filtered through the dusty window above the sink. Earlier, in response to the cat’s plaintive meows, Daphne had fed him a few morsels of chicken she’d filched from a half-eaten sandwich found in Maddy’s nearly empty refrigerator. While she was musing about the previous night’s events, the kitchen door opened.
    “Mornin’, darlin’ girl! I cannot tell you how wonderful it is to have y’all under my dilapidated roof.” Madeline Clayton Whitaker burst into the room, her arms full of groceries. “Just dashed out to the Piggly Wiggly, since all I had ’round here were those ol’ red beans and rice and half a chicken sandwich. Not exactly fancy fare to serve the bride and groom on the mornin’ of their weddin’, do you think?” She set the bulging grocery bags on the kitchen table and bent to engulf Daphne in an enormous hug. “Now stand up, and let me look at you!”
    Daphne rose and embraced her cousin heartily in return. “Oh. Maddy! It’s great to see you too!” She nodded in Groucho’s direction, and said solemnly, “The chicken sandwich is history.”
    Daphne gave her sixty-seven-year-old cousin an indulgent once-over, noting her faded denim skirt and flowered