Tainted Harvest Read online

  Unlike her parents, she longs for diversity, and perhaps this is the reason she enjoys traveling the world and making a home in Brooklyn’s multicultural community. She believes her travels are ventures toward something meaningful but always returns with the same sense of emptiness, hoping the next trip will fill the void. Maybe her friends are right—travel writing is pure escapism, avoidance of significant work. Writing about something more profound than honeymoon destinations might inspire greater satisfaction.

  Faint scents of Marseille’s Mediterranean mistral’s garrigue that clung to her clothes and skin, wafts from her body as she collapses back into the sofa. Spice and pine mixed with stale cigarette fumes she hadn’t had time to wash off after the previous evening’s rooftop dinner after oversleeping and having to rush to catch a flight to the States the next morning. She’d shared a rich cassoulet and abundant glasses of malbec wine with Anya’s family, friends she’d made a year ago on her first assignment in Marseille. The classic meal reminded her of her mother’s spicy gumbo. No one, not even she, makes gumbo so savory, tendered with the perfect roux, thick with crawfish, andouille sausage, stewed tomatoes, and okra.

  A loud patter against the window pulls her gaze toward the worsening downpour. Sinking further into the sofa, she lifts the teacup to her nose, inhales rising blueberry aroma, closes her eyes, and ponders the new assignment. Why does the city of Natchez sound familiar? Maybe she’d heard it from her family, who often spoke of friends in Mississippi. She takes a sip of tea and places the mug on the table.

  “Natchez . . . Natchez,” she repeats, tapping the envelope on her bottom lip. Conceivably, she’d seen the city name on a freeway destination sign when she traveled to a classmate's wedding in Jackson, Mississippi, three summers ago during the worst heatwave she ever recalls and cares never to experience again.

  Simone yawns aloud, her eyes sinking further into her sockets. The time zone and late-night party take a toll finally. Unable to lift her heavy eyelids, she allows the intense urge to sleep fall over her weary body and mind.

  Minutes later, an odorous dampness and movement stir her awake. She lifts her head from the sofa, lost to her whereabouts for an instant, pondering how long she’d slept, and glances toward the foyer.

  “Stacy? Jude? Mitchell? Anyone home?” she calls, believing someone entered the brownstone, waking her from sleep. No. They would have answered her or come into the living room in their usually noisy arrival.

  She sits straight, alarmed by the quiet. If possible, the silent room quietens further, as though smothered by another layer of air. Only once had Simone experienced this sensation―on a coal-black night in Baton Rouge when a passing hurricane deadened electricity in the home. But the lights are on in the brownstone.

  Simone turns her head right and sniffs.

  What is that?

  Smells like fruit . . . Mangoes? Plums? No, peaches. Not again . . . The last time she returned home from a trip, a sickening musk saturated the space from assorted fruits rotting in a syrupy soup on the dining table.

  When an evanescent flicker moves in her periphery, she twists her head, catching a fruity scent emanating from the sectional’s corner. A chill ripples down her arm, not from cold, for the room is warm, but from an uncanny sensation, alerting her senses. Pale light from the window flickers across the floor, bouncing onto the rolled sofa arm. She releases a sigh. It must be a passing car or light from the promenade.

  She lowers her head into the plush pillows and sniffs to the edge of the sofa, believing humid weather has drawn embedded odors from the upholstery. The synthetic smell of microfiber and age-old musk fills her nostrils.

  The kitchen.

  Rising from the sofa, she drifts past the dining area into the L-shaped galley, finding ripe but unspoiled Granny Smith apples on the counter. Back in the living room, she glances around before taking a seat on the sofa, wondering if she’d imagined the smell. A mere second after she sits, the scent returns. An obscure lyric invades her thoughts as though someone whispered in her ear.

  Below the bluffs of Natchez Trace, the Devil's Eden lies in waste.

  The cryptic words prickle her spine. A presence beside her stirs the air. An alarming tightness constricts her chest as she anxiously turns her head and stares into space, searching for the inscrutable essence. She lowers her hand onto the cool cushion with a head shake, laughing at her foolishness.

  What are you doing?

  Nothing’s there. Positing the scent and whisper were just figments of a jet-lagged mind, she retrieves the HBM envelope that slipped to the floor when she dozed off. The Natchez assignment and mention of peaches triggered the fruity redolence and some long-forgotten poem or song. Is it a refrain she’d heard in Louisiana as a child? But the adventitious lyric didn't sound familiar.

  She stares hard at the laptop, lifts it onto her thighs, and logs into her email, debating whether to call or email Bridgette. Too exhausted to compose an email or fetch her cell phone in the foyer, she FaceTimes Bridgette from the laptop.

  The phone rings five times. Just as she’s about to hang up, an invisible person picks up and a distant muffled voice somewhere in the room says, “Hold on.” On the screen, a bright white backdrop decorated with gold-framed family photos and abstract paintings emerge beside a window overlooking Manhattan’s West End Avenue.

  Bridgette’s head rises with disheveled blonde strands covering her face at the bottom of the screen. She places something on the desk with a thud, pushes hair off her face, sitting back in the chair with a breathy exhalation. “Oh, hi, love. Sorry, I spilled my drink under the desk trying to get to the laptop. Ah! Simone! Look at you. Your hair looks gorgeous. If I didn’t know it was you, I’d think Halle Berry FaceTimed me accidentally,” she says with a chortle. “You look like a younger version of her.”

  “Not Rihanna? How about Josephine Baker,” Simone suggests waggishly, twisting her head left to right and up and down, showcasing the cut.

  Bridgette scrunches her face in consideration. A pink flush colors her pale cheeks. “Um . . . Nah, definitely Halle,” Bridgette says, shaking her head. “When did you arrive home, love?”

  “Only moments ago.”

  “Did you receive my letter and payment for the New Orleans article?”

  “It arrived before Marseille’s scent wore off my skin,” she quips. “But I’m not complaining. I can always use the money and another opportunity to travel. So, without further ado, I’m thrilled to accept the Natchez assignment.”

  “Oh, love, that’s great!” she says with a slight British lilt that’s faded since she moved with the love of her life to the States several years ago.

  “I’ve heard of Natchez but never been to the city. I’m looking forward to a new town and meeting Parker, and Amelia. And I know the perfect dessert our readers will crave. Peach cobbler. It was my mother’s specialty and favorite dessert.”

  “Très southern.”

  Très . . . Simone chuckles at Bridgette’s new word. Last month it was fabulous, the month before brilliant, words abandoned like last year’s fashion trends. What catchphrase will augment her lexicon in July? She smirks inwardly. “Yes, très southern,” she mimics and smiles. “Natchez is not too far from my parent’s home in Baton Rouge, so it gives me a chance to visit my dad after the assignment. Bridge, what do you know about Natchez?”

  “Only what I’ve heard from Parker and Amelia and read on the state’s website. Why do you ask?”

  “Before I called you, the strangest lyric about Natchez popped into my head.”

  “An anthem, like New York’s big apple song?”

  “God, I hope not. It’s rather cryptic.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Below the bluffs of Natchez Trace, the Devil’s Eden lies in waste.”

  “Yipes! That’s downright creepy. Gave me goosebumps,” Bridgette says, brushing her arm. “Nope, haven’t heard it and would never forget those words. You should ask Parker and Amelia when you get to t
he city. I’m sure they will know.”

  “Of course, it’s their hometown. Oh, when does the assignment start?”

  “Look, here’s the thing. The B&B’s booked all summer, so Parker only has a room available next week, of course at no cost to us. They can book you in the Bluff-side suite with a private patio and gorgeous views of the Mississippi River on Monday for seven days.”

  “Next Monday?”

  “Vroooooooooom!”

  Bridgette’s five-year-old son’s blonde head pops sideways on the screen. He circles her chair with a toy plane above her head, making zooming sounds. Annoyed, she snatches the plane, places it on the desk, and pulls him into her arms. “I’m talking to Simone. Don’t be rude, OK?”

  Brett nods his head. Bridgette ruffles his floppy mane and looks back at the screen. “Sorry, Brett gets restless this time of night.”

  “No worries.” Simone perceives the frustration she’s caught on Bridgette’s face many times, though Bridgette has grown more patient with motherhood in the last year.

  “Love, if you need more time, Amelia and Parker can offer a smaller room adjoined to their suite, but you’d have to share their bath.”

  “Certainly not! I don’t want to impose on their privacy. I’ll take the Bluff-side suite Monday. Four days at home is more than enough time to recuperate from France.” Simone yawns, covering her mouth.

  “You look exhausted, but I hope the trip was worth it?”

  “Amazing, amazing, amazing! Every moment was superb. You’ll see when I email the article, but it needs one final tweak and I’ll send it tomorrow.” Another yawn skews her face. “Ooh! Excuse me,” she squeals midst a wider yawn.

  Bridgette chuckles. “Someone besides my son needs to be in bed.”

  Brett frowns and hides his sleepy face in her shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t worry about sending the article tomorrow. It’s not due for two days. You need to recuperate for your next trip. Now go and get some z’s, love.”

  “Thanks, Bridgette. I will as soon as we hang up.”

  “Oh, by the way, love, love, love the hair. It’s très chic and suits you well. Brett, say goodbye to Simone.”

  “Bye-bye,” he mutters, snatching the toy plane, varooming it through Bridgette’s hair and racing from her arm.

  “Ahh, you little brat,” she screams at his vanishing figure.

  Simone chuckles. “He’s adorable.”

  Bridgette huffs, fixing her hair with a scowl. “He’s a little rascal. Gotta put him to bed before he gets into more trouble. Bye-bye for now. Sleep well, sweetheart,” Bridgette says, blowing a kiss through the screen.

  Simone blows a kiss back, ending the call. Too jet-lagged to cook or edit the article, she laces her fingers around the teacup, inhales the blueberry-scented steam, and reclines between two oversized decorative pillows. She lifts her head, fixing her gaze past the window on Manhattan's skyline illuminated in brooding skies. Before fatigue overtakes her, she opens the Internet browser and types “Natchez, Mississippi.”

  The city’s official website explodes with images of antebellum mansions with tall white pillars, oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and tulip magnolia trees; a quaint downtown with antique dealers and coffee shops, restaurants and cafes, and horse-and-buggy tours; casino riverboats on the Mississippi River streaming past forested bluffs; ancient cemeteries with angel effigies that appear to move; and, like most southern towns, a haunted ghost tour.

  Another picture-perfect site, hiding Natchez’s impoverished neighborhoods. Why is Bridgette interested in Natchez? It’s no different from any other southern town, and it can’t be just their peaches. What’s the focal point of her article? It must be her friend’s bed-and-breakfast, but if not, she needs to uncover something unique to Natchez before she makes the trip.

  She yawns and continues browsing the Internet, pondering Bridgette’s interest in Natchez peaches. Isn’t Georgia the peach capital? If her memory’s correct, Mississippi’s known for its abundance of blueberries. She types Natchez peach orchards in the search bar, surprised to find only links to apple and blueberry orchards. “Hmpf . . .”

  When a WhatsApp text message slides across the top of the Mac, she glances at her wristwatch, still on France’s time, 2:15 a.m., and at the time on the laptop, 8:15 p.m., New York time. Why’s Anya up so late? Opening the message, she yawns wider and reads.

  Simone, I hope you’ve made it home safely. Give me a call tomorrow when you’re settled in.

  Anya

  xoxo

  Simone responds immediately.

  Anya, you’re up late. I’m back in rainy Brooklyn and missing everyone and sunny France. I will call you tomorrow after I’ve caught up on sleep. Thanks for allowing me to stay at your fabulous home and spend time with your delightful family the last days of my trip. It was the best part of my visit. Speak soon.

  Simone

  xoxo

  Anya’s concern warms her heart, comforted someone cares she made it home safe. Her mom always checked on her after a trip and always kept her travel itinerary. So does her father, who called her just as she entered the taxi at JFK International Airport. She checks her email, text messages, and voicemail, finding a welcome home text from Roderick Doucet, her father, and a two-week-old email from her roommate Mitchell she’s avoided opening since their last night together before leaving for France.

  She’d ignored the attraction between them for as long as she could. During a moment of weakness, they had both succumbed to a moment of need, an inebriated kiss. A mistake she regrets. When she mentioned it to Bridgette, she’d said, "Don't shit where you eat." She’s direct, but always right. A relationship with Mitchell is not what she needs. He’s a male version of her, noncommittal and always searching for something greater than love. Besides, she can't afford to screw up her roomies’ perfect living arrangement.

  Dreams

  Contemplating the climb to the second floor, she closes and lifts the laptop, forcing herself off the comfortable sectional before fatigue cements her to the sofa for the night. She shuffles upstairs, listening to silent upper floors, her movement the only sound in the home. At moments like this, she misses her roomies, dreading sleeping alone in such a colossal place. Past three quiet rooms to the end of the narrow hall, she enters her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

  She places the laptop on the dual-purpose pedestal table, used as a nightstand and a desk, beside the midnight-cherry wood sleigh bed centering the room. Both pieces left behind, as was most of the home's furniture when the Lawson family moved. She prefers the sparse, ready-to-go-at-a-moment's-notice aesthetic.

  Slipping from her robe into an oversized T-shirt, she proceeds toward the mantel, lighting each candle around the hearth and gazing at the mosaic of shadows cast by the lantern’s metal lattice pattern. The cryptic lyric repeats like a broken record in her head, struggling for the next word. “Below the bluffs of Natchez Trace, the Devil’s Eden lies in waste . . .” she recites again, reclining on the edge of the bed.

  She retrieves the laptop from the table and types “songs and poems on Natchez” in the browser, receiving unrelated search results. When she types the lyric’s exact words, the search engine populates the page with a Christian website, biblical verses on the Garden of Eden, and a site about Natchez Trace, a historic 440-mile forest trail stretching from Nashville, Tennessee, to Natchez, Mississippi.

  After several minutes, her head dips and rolls upright as she struggles to stay awake. Her eyes open to a webpage displaying a forested cliff. The view spirals down through a thicket of trees to the banks of the Mississippi. The image swivels as if someone’s turning in circles with a camera. Simone’s eyes widen when a ghastly face flickers across the screen and vanishes. The website darkens, returning to the home page.

  “What was that?”

  She back clicks, unable to find the site. When she types the stanza into the browser again, the strange website doesn’t materialize. Drunk with weariness, she places th
e laptop back on the table, failing to see the screen flash and fade on a forested area near the banks of the Mississippi River.

  Beneath lavender-scented sheets, her gaze drifts to the Okame Cherry tree flanking the casement, peak pink when she left for France, now a deep green. Raindrops tap against the window, fading to white noise as images of Marseille and castle ruins flit in nonsensical patterns in her mind. Deep in sleep, a fruity aroma seeps into her dream.

  Clanging metal wakes Simone to an unfamiliar room. Floral bouquets and roses circle the space. Through an open patio door, a sweet aroma wafts in moonlight, bathing the humid night. A scraggy girl in tattered clothes flows on mud-caked feet toward the entrance. Chains braid her swollen belly, trailing her soiled petticoat hem, clanging over garden stones. She cradles a cloaked bounty, wafting pungent into the room, curling mesmeric around Simone. Her glassy pupils drop to her round belly, flattening as a bundle rumbles from beneath her skirt onto timber floors. Moonlight elongates her quivering shadow across a carpet of grass as she turns, drifting past the door.

  Entranced, Simone slides to the edge of the high bed and descends a three-rung bed step, drifting toward tall glass French doors. A ruby-gold trail rolls from beneath the girl's ragged skirt, a reptilian appendage to her bony tail, slithering beyond a row of shrubs. Simone bends and scoops a plump peach bowling from the bush to her feet, running her nose along the corpulent downy skin with a deep inhalation. A voice rises from the shrubbery.

  “Sweeeeeeeeet . . . Bite it!”

  Her hypnotic tone goads an uncontrollable, mouthwatering bite into the intoxicating flesh. Bittersweet pulp spurts her brow, soaks her lips, dribbles chin to breast, streaming from hand to wrist.