Southern Son by Victoria Wilcox

Author:Victoria Wilcox
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781493044702
Publisher: TwoDot
Published: 2019-06-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

VALDOSTA, 1872

HIS FATHER, HOWEVER, HAD OTHER PLANS FOR HIM.

“I hope you’ve had your fill of big-city life,” Henry Holliday said over supper on John Henry’s first night home. “Time you got back down to the business of things, started pullin’ your weight around here. Dr. Frink has generously kept a position open for you. You’ll start tomorrow as his assistant until that diploma arrives and he can make you a partner. Rachel, pass the greens.”

And that was the end of the conversation, if it could be called that. Henry didn’t say another word and Rachel sat silent as well, and the only sound at the table was the clatter of china and silver as the plates went around and were instantly refilled.

It was all he could do to sit through the rest of supper without shouting out his feelings. He wasn’t the same boy who’d left home two years before, hot-headed and anxious to find something he couldn’t name, nor was he a struggling dental student dependent on his father’s continued good will. He was a man now, well-educated and well-traveled, and he knew what he wanted: freedom and space and some say-so in his own life. And he didn’t want to go into partnership with Dr. Frink.

But until he came into his inheritance, arguing with his father wouldn’t do any good. So he kept his troubles to himself, then escaped to the quiet refuge of the front porch as soon as the last plates were passed and cleared away. And as he had been the year before, he was struck again by how empty the country nights were. There was no noise of horse-drawn cars on cobbled streets, no raucous piano music coming out of corner saloons or street vendors hawking their wares in a crowded market place. Looking across the yard toward dusty Savannah Avenue, he could hear nothing but the chirping of katydids in the trees and the stifled beating of his own restless heart.

The creak of the door opening and closing behind him was startling in the silence, but Rachel’s voice was surprisingly soft, as if she didn’t dare disturb the darkness.

“Mind if I stand here awhile?”

“Suit yourself,” he answered, not bothering to glance her way. He didn’t have to look at her to know she was still wearing her white serving apron. She still smelled of cooking grease and cook stove smoke—homely smells that might have made him feel welcome, but only reminded him that he was home where he didn’t want to be.

Rachel stood in silence for a while, then said: “Thea Morgan’s been asking after you.”

“What’s she want? I fixed those bad teeth of hers last summer. She can go see Dr. Frink if she’s got more trouble.”

“Well, I don’t ‘spect it’s tooth trouble she’s got. More like a sweet tooth, I reckon. Looks to me like she’s sweet on you, John Henry. Been that way, so I hear, ever since you sparked her last summer.”

“Sparked her!” he said with a laugh. “I never sparked Thea Morgan! All I did was kiss her a little.

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