white women are always like “more strong kickass female leads!” and when i say i want to see a black female love interest who is allowed to be girly and fall in love they give me weird looks and say that i’m supporting gender stereotypes and heteronormativity but what a lot of white women don’t get is that black women we’ve had hundreds of years of having our femininity ripped from us, of being deemed unworthy of male (especially non-black male) attention. black women in media are never allowed to be the “cute” ones or the love interest, we’ve always been the “strong kickass street smart woman” trope that white women want so badly. so basically if a black girl says she wants to see another black girl fulfill the role of “love interest” there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that and it isn’t a hindrance to feminism
That cat is legitimately getting a state funeral, several statues, a weepy 10 thousand word obituary from The Guardian and an Elton John tribute song when he goes.
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 9
Desire—A Night-Blooming Flower
“She was one of those languid women made of dark honey. Smooth and sweet, and terribly sticky, who take control of a room with a syrupy gesture. A toss of the hair, a single, slow whiplash of the eyes—and all the while remain as still as the center of a hurricane, apparently unaware of the force of gravity by which they irresistibly attract to themselves the yearnings and the souls of men.”
Perfume - Patrick Süskind
Annie stared out the kitchen window of Nellie’s home, the pad of her thumb caught on the tip of an empty pea pod. She could see Nellie’s mama in the yard hanging linens from the clothesline. Beyond that, the hum of Fourth Street crept through the backyards and alleyways of the neighborhood. Smoke rose from the railroad depot a street over, coughing thick black puffs into the air that looked like a blemish against the bright blue afternoon sky. And somewhere in the distance, the sweet, rotten smell of the Sunflower River floated its way through the cracks of the modest shotgun off Ashton Street.
“Louisiana?” Gigi asked. She shelled a pea with quick hands, dropping the pod in the waste bowl. “You over there daydreamin’.”
“With a big ass grin on your face, too,” Verity chimed in.
Annie blinked twice. “Yeah. Just thinkin’.”
Nellie grinned. “Mhmm. She thinkin’ about her man.”
Annie rolled her eyes but her mouth twitched. Her man. Her mouth felt dry, words trapped in her throat, but she didn’t dare swallow. Not with Nellie sneaking glances at her, Pearline watching her closely out of the corner of her eye, and Gigi eyeing her curiously. Eventually the conversation folded back into itself. The phonograph skipped to a new song, shells hit the bowl in the middle of the table with a hollow tap, Verity started talking about living in Bronzeville. But desire bloomed under Annie’s skin like a bruise the more she thought of Smoke, spreading through her veins like a whisper of lightning before a storm.
“So are you gonna…you know…” Pearline started. “Give him your virgin?” she whispered.
Annie turned her head to Pearline.
“Uhh, I-I think so.”
“You think so? Or you know so?” Gigi asked.
“Don’t do it if you ain’t sure,” Pearline added.
“I am sure.”
The answer settled into the room.
“You scared?” The question came from Verity.
A beat.
“Yeah.”
“Of what?”
Before she could answer, another question followed, this time from Gigi again. “You scared of what it’s gon’ feel like, or how you gon’ feel after the deed is done?”
Annie hummed in thought.
“Both,” she said finally. “But mostly what it’s gon’ feel like.”
She fiddled with her fingers. “Do it hurt?”
She looked up then, avoiding the direct gaze of the faces staring back at her.
Verity spoke up.
“At first, yes,” she said honestly. “Then it feels good. As long as he know what he doin’,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Mhmm.”
“Oh,” Annie trailed off. She rubbed her arms, looking down at her work. Their pile of peas was dwindling down as the day dragged on.
Pearline placed a hand on Annie’s forearm, the touch reassuring. “I feel like you in good hands.”
“‘Specially since he snatched you up so quick,” Nellie added. “He ain’t waste no time.”
“None.”
Annie chuckled. She rubbed her arms again. “Yeah, I guess so.”
She shifted her weight on the chair, her chest tightening. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her chest, and she tried to ease it by taking deep, controlled breaths. As the conversation in Nellie’s kitchen turned into something lighter, Annie’s thoughts drifted back to what she finally admitted out loud.
The next day…
A bloody sludge of gills and guts covered Annie’s apron. Her fingers, the edge of the kitchen counter—coated in it. She cleaned and gutted catfish, then skinned, trimmed, and sliced them with a thin, sharp knife, separating the scaly skin from the fillet after removing the entrails. The heads sat in a corner of the countertop, where Felix sat on the kitchen floor just below. Tail swinging, eyes wide, he looked like he was ready to pounce.
Annie watched him out of the corner of her eye.
“Aht aht!” she scolded, pointing the tip of her knife at him. “Don’t even think about it.”
Some of the gunk from the knife flew onto his paw, which he looked down at like he was personally offended by its presence. He looked up at Annie and meowed, a short trill of frustration.
She talked back like he could understand what she was saying, looking up from scooping the kidney out of a fish. “What?”
“Mrrp,” he meowed.
Annie rolled her eyes. “That ain’t my problem.”
“Mrrrrrrrrp.”
“Since when you scared of a lil’ blood?”
Felix yawned and rubbed his head with his clean paw, licked the blood off his other one, then meowed again.
“Le pauvre,” she teased.
He whipped around, slipping out the back through the slightly cracked door. Just then Aunt Della walked through the same door, a basket at her hip full of root vegetables. Her hair was pinned back and kept in place with a lavender headscarf, her temples displaying hues of vivid black and silver kinks, coils, and curls that spoke to time and memory. She set the basket and her gardening gloves down on the kitchen table next to the chipped ceramic bowl of onions.
“What you do?”
“To who?” Annie wiped the sweat beading on her brow with the back of her arm.
“Felix.”
“I ain’t did nothin’ to that boy,” she huffed. “He wanna stand in the rain and be mad he got wet.”
“Figures,” Aunt Della chuckled. “You almost done?”
“Almost done, auntie,” Annie answered. “Got two more left.”
“Lemme start heatin’ this oil up then.”
Three knocks on the front door interrupted their routine, causing both ladies to turn their heads. Loretta Hightower stood at the door, visible through the front window in a tailored three-piece set and matching hat. The vibrant green suit dazzled under the sun that cloaked the porch in a veil of honey-gold. Annie, elbows deep in fish guts, turned back to the catfish while Aunt Della walked over to answer the front door.
“Delilah!” Loretta squealed.
“Loretta!”
They embraced. A long, familiar hold that spoke of history and friendship. The low murmur of their conversation carried into the kitchen as Annie stood facing the large back window. Felix was bathing himself with his tongue, staring at her like he had an attitude. She stuck her tongue out at him.
Soft footsteps and the click-clack of heels approached the kitchen.
“Annie! Loretta got somethin’ for you.”
Annie gasped softly, turning and wiping her hands off on her apron. “What is it?”
“You got a letter back.”
Annie jolted and hurried to the wash basin.
“Oh, let me just…” She submerged her hands down to her forearms in the soapy water, picking up a brush to scrub under her fingernails. “Just gimme a second. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hightower.”
Aunt Della and Loretta chuckled.
“It’s not goin’ anywhere, baby,” Aunt Della assured her.
“And it’s a thick one, too, Annie,” Loretta added.
Annie’s heart went from leaping, to soaring, to beating so fast it almost bolted out of her chest. She scrubbed death off her hands until they started to prune. They shook gently underneath the water, vibrating the basin and splashing droplets onto her apron. Aunt Della and Loretta could both hear the soft sniffles she tried to hide underneath the sounds of splashing water. Aunt Della approached her and Annie felt a hand on her back as she whispered something that made her calm her frantic movements.
Annie slowed her motions, dried her hands, and took the envelope, holding it like she held the world in her palms. She brought the paper to her nose, inhaling the familiar scent of her mother’s perfume and her father’s aftershave, breathing it into memory. She gently detached the adhesive of the envelope with wobbly fingers, her heart thumping in her chest as she removed a stack of thick, wide paper folded delicately from the envelope, taking care to notice the flower petals that were packed along with it.
Blue lobelias.
They were her favorite.
It was a visually striking perennial that grew in clusters in the field by her great-grandmother’s shack. She remembered hiding behind them when she played hide-and-seek with her brothers as a child.
Annie wiped a tear that threatened to fall down her cheek carefully and unfolded the letter. The first thing her eyes ran across was her mother’s beautiful cursive that filled the page with soft, whimsical strokes.
Our dear Annie, was all she read at first. Then she reread it. And read it again.
The words hit her right in the gut. Homesickness burned deep under her skin, hotter than the afternoon sun that hung large and heavy and beamed through the kitchen windows. Deciding to read the letter later on, she tucked it back into the envelope, careful not to spill any petals. The thick envelope went into her apron pocket.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hightower. Thank you so much.”
Loretta took a step towards her, then widened her arms, bringing her into a hug. She rubbed her back with a soothing, maternal warmth.
“Lemme know if you need anything else, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Annie felt the long tail of Felix tickle the side of her calf as he contorted his body around her ankle and tilted his head up at her.
“Mrrow,” he purred.
“Guess you ain’t mad at me no mo’, huh?” Annie pursed her lips at Felix as he stared at her for a moment before disappearing into the front room.
“Well, I better be goin’,” Loretta said. “Almost supper time at the restaurant.”
“Thank you again,” Annie said.
Loretta nodded, gave Aunt Della a hug, then walked towards the front, the floorboards groaning under her heels. She hesitated at the door, looked back and gave another winsome smile, then slipped outside without another word.
For a moment, the cool air that crept in made the room feel less stuffy, like the crack of the door let something slip out with it.
Annie exhaled, her shoulders relaxing.
“You okay, sugar?” Aunt Della asked.
“Yeah,” Annie looked around, rolling up her sleeves. “Just need to do somethin’ with my hands.”
She crossed the room to the woodstove and scooped a heaving amount of lard into the cast iron pot to heat up. She checked the pot of beans on the back burner, stirring it once before covering it back up. Aunt Della moved to the counter, rolling her own sleeves up and cleaning the catfish filets while Annie mixed the batter together.
The scent of frying oil filled the kitchen even as words didn’t.
The two women worked together quietly preparing supper as the shuffle of boots became louder, attracted by the smell of spice and fried cornmeal.
Annie stood at the stove frying fish in batches, watching the corners curl up and waiting to feel the underside was the perfect shade of golden before it was ready to flip.
Annie was in her head.
Because that’s where the letter lived. Not the words. Not yet. It was the smell of her parents soaked into the paper. The flower petals that brought her back to her childhood.
She didn’t hear the door creak, the screen door slamming shut in that playful way. Didn’t notice the floorboards acquiesce under the weight of his soldier-like footfalls. Didn’t feel the air in the room shift. Didn’t hear him greet Aunt Della in the background. And definitely didn’t hear him approach her.
Two large hands gripped Annie’s waist. The scent of tobacco and peppermint, potent and personal, floated over her shoulder eclipsing the smell of hot grease.
Annie smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Smoke set his chin on her shoulder, his hands firm on her hips. “How you be?”
“Good,” she hummed, the answer an affirmation that settled deep in his chest.
Better now, she thought to herself.
The homesickness—gone. Thoughts of the place she called—used to call—home, all melted under his touch. It soothed her somehow. The way his grip was firm but gentle on her waist. Possessive when he pulled her in tighter and rested his chin on her shoulder. Restrained when a shaky breath hit the delicate skin of her neck.
Smoke noticed it all.
The way her shoulders slackened when he touched her.
The little jolt that ran through her body. Barely noticeable, but there.
The way her breath hitched.
The way she tried to hide it all.
That was his favorite part; the way she tried to mask her reactions.
Then she did something unexpected.
Before he knew it she reached behind her, her fingers finding the shell of his ear. She grazed it just once with her fingertips, the touch barely there. But still. He couldn't help but shiver. It was a full-body one. His grip tightened on her waist, fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt for a second before relaxing again. He watched the corner of her mouth turn up as she turned a fish filet in the cast iron pan. Then he grinned too. His lips twisted playfully, the dimple in his cheek caving in.
“Y’all lookin’ mighty cozy over there.”
Stack.
He walked in, brows high on his forehead when he saw Smoke behind Annie like a vat of hot oil wasn’t bubbling right in front of them. Steam rose slowly from the pot, beading sweat on both Annie and Smoke’s foreheads. One bad decision and a body part could end up with a third-degree burn.
But neither of them seemed to care.
They didn’t seem to notice he or Miss Della were even there.
Annie swayed a bit as she flipped and dipped fish. And Smoke moved with her, a hushed conversation taking place between them as he rested his head on her shoulder.
Stack looked at Aunt Della like “you seein’ this?” She shrugged. He walked over and gave her a hug as she prepared sides with serving utensils, all the while eyeing the perfectly golden-brown catfish strips piling up on a platter next to the stove.
His mouth watered at the smell of the crispy fried crust and the spice of the batter—and he just knew once he bit into it, it’d steam and flake just the way he liked it.
So he took a chance.
He reached for a piece at the edge of the platter and two heads snapped towards him.
“You tryna get popped?” Annie asked.
Stack pulled his hand back. “I’m tryna get some fish, actually.”
“You’ll get some when it’s ready.”
“It looks ready.”
“I mean during supper. At the table.”
“I just wanna taste.”
Annie smirked, her chin tilting up playfully. “Later.”
Stack reached again.
“Boy!” She pointed her tongs at him.
Smoke watched the whole thing, amused. He didn’t move from his position.
“Girl!”
“You tryna get burned? Stack, you too close to the stove.”
Stack blinked. “Y’all basically knee deep in oil.” He smoothed out his shirt. “Besides. A lil’ burn won’t hurt me, woman.”
“You gon’ get popped with more than just oil if you don’t move,” Annie said with a grin.
“Make it worth my while then,” he teased back. “Lemme get a lil’ piece.” He was relentless. He eyed a strip with a crispy end that he could break off easily. He reached out for the third time.
Annie sighed. She had turned back to watching the pot now, but still caught Stack out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t move that hand.”
Stack smirked.
Annie rolled her eyes, breaking off the end of the piece Stack was eyeing. Steam curled into the air as the fish broke apart in flaky, white pieces. “Here, greedy!” She placed it in his palm before turning back to the stove.
“I’ll be that,” Stack teased. He hummed as soon as the savory spice of the fish hit his tastebuds. “Thank ya kindly.” He swaggered into the front room satisfied.
Smoke finally moved.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” he said. He rubbed her shoulders and kissed her cheek before following his brother out the same way.
Annie chuckled to herself, shaking her head as she finished the last pieces she had left to fry.
“I reckon everything goin' well between you two.” Aunt Della said.
Whole time, Annie had completely forgotten her great-aunt was even in the room. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of a moment—any moment with Smoke, really—being watched.
“Uh yeah,” she replied. That familiar tingling she only got when she thought about him spreading across her skin like wildfire. “We are.”
Annie felt Aunt Della’s smile from across the room, even with her back turned. She left the kitchen to ring the supper bell, the fabric of her skirt fluttering around her.
Men made their way into the dining area one-by-one, fresh from cleaning their hands. They carried with them the smell of musk, turpentine, and a hard day’s work. It was heavy. Masculine.
The twins walked in last.
Stack came in first, all dimples and bright eyes.
Smoke walked in behind him still sporting that same dimple that showed up earlier when his eyes found hers.
He didn’t hurry to sit at the table. Didn’t hurry to grab a plate. He stood at the edge of the room, waiting as Annie and Miss Della brought in the food. A large platter of fried fish, a steaming pot of beans and rice, skillets of cornbread, and a large pot of greens went to the middle of the table.
The dining area filled with rising steam, watering mouths, and low conversation as the lodgers began to devour their supper.
Annie dropped her arms and stepped to him, the faint smell of pipe mix and soap clinging to his clothes.
“You not gon’ eat?” she asked.
“Was waitin’ for you.”
“You ain’t gotta do that.”
He grabbed her hands. “I do.”
Annie tipped her head towards the kitchen. “Lemme go wash up first.”
“I’ll fix you a plate. Before these niggas eat it all.”
Annie giggled softly.
“Whatchu want?”
“Just some fish…,” she said, walking backwards to the kitchen, “and some beans and rice.”
Smoke nodded once. “I got it.”
Supper was spent at the high-top four-seater table in the corner of the dining area. Smoke and Annie sat next to each other, Stack and Aunt Della directly across from them. They talked. They laughed. They ate. They drank.
Every so often, Annie’s shoulder would brush against Smoke’s. She’d reach across the table for something—her glass, the saltshaker. When she pulled back their arms would press against each other and they’d stay there. Close. It felt like both of them were waiting for the moment something would force them to pull away from each other. It didn’t.
Occasionally, Smoke would brush lint from Annie’s clothes or thumb a crumb from her cheek. His fingers would linger for a second too long, like they were waiting on her to pull back. She didn’t.
By the time supper was long over, the heat still lingered.
It wasn’t from the food.
Even outside where a cool breeze swept through the night in broken intervals, pulling a delicate, melodic sound from the windchimes that reached back into the yard where Smoke and Annie stood. A fading oil lamp hung up high, casting gold across the backyard and leaving the rest of it in shadows.
Annie didn’t know why she pulled Smoke to the side of the lean-to shed. Or maybe she did and she just didn’t want to admit it to herself.
She stood by it, back pressed against the wooden siding, hips tilted out slightly as her fingers twisted in the fabric of her skirt.
Smoke stood in front of her, jaw tight, hands at his sides. They flexed periodically, twitched like he was fighting something.
Nature’s soundtrack felt even louder tonight. The chirp of crickets shuddered in the grass. The deep bellow of a bullfrog echoed in the distance. And somewhere down the block, a harmonica played a gritty blues bend that floated down the street like smoke curling from a cigarette.
But the moment Annie shifted, the sounds began to slowly fade away.
She moved in one smooth motion. Her hands rose to the collar of Smoke’s shirt, fingers twisting around the edge. Then she tugged, just once. The movement pulled him in until his hands bracketed her on the shed.
She didn’t hesitate.
The kiss started softly.
The slow smack of lips drowned out the crickets first, then the bullfrog. Then the metal-on-metal tapping of the water pump, its handle moving stubbornly with the wind. Smoke pulled Annie towards him as their mouths moved against each other. His hands found the small of her back, making it bow into him until she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave in to his pull. He sighed as the feeling of soft, plush curves met a hard stomach, strong arms, and broad shoulders carved by war and Mississippi cotton fields.
They kissed slowly. Like they were savoring the taste of each other. Their lips met and released, connecting in a slow dance that was all their own. Then the kiss deepened, their tongues coming out to play as they twirled around each other.
Annie’s hands moved from his neck to his shoulders to steady herself as their heads swiveled and they explored every corner of their mouths. She gasped, then groaned, when he pulled her bottom lip into his mouth. Biting, then soothing the sting with a lick.
Their tongues flicked against each other, slow and nasty. Like the harmonica still playing down the street. It had slowed down its tune, the legato wailing all sultry and soulful through the night.
Even that sound disappeared after a while. It was quiet in the bubble they created when it was just them two, just shared breaths and gasps for air.
Annie tasted like pot likker and the peppermint stick she sucked on after supper. Like home on a quiet winter evening in front of a fire. Smoke tasted like tobacco and grass from the cigarette he finished right before Annie pulled him into the backyard when she thought nobody was paying attention.
Her hands fell from his shoulders to his chest, rubbing her palms against the solidness that sat underneath the cotton. His hands traveled south from her back to the curve of her ass, his calloused hands smoothing over all the thickness that sat back there.
His blood sparked hot.
His hands itched to grip, wanted to grab—but he pulled back instead.
“Annie,” he rasped, his voice low and rough.
Their breaths were heavy, lustful. What began slowly was quickly turning into something more gluttonous than supper. He felt it in him. He saw it in Annie.
He pressed his forehead to hers. Her eyes widened as the noise from inside swelled abruptly. She turned her head towards it as her pulse sped down and her breath came out slower. When the noise dimmed down again, she turned back.
“Why’d you stop?”
The question cut through the silence.
Smoke looked at Annie, her brows knit, her eyes searching his.
The oil lamp above them crackled one last time before completely snuffing out, leaving them with just the dim light that pooled outside from the kitchen window. A large wax candle sat on the sill, its fire burning dimly through the window. Annie looked at Smoke. Even in the near darkness outside, she could feel the hunger in his gaze.
And she felt the same way.
Famished.
Smoke lifted a hand. His fingers brushed the side of her face, grazing the smooth skin of her cheek. Annie’s eyes fluttered under his touch. Her hand grabbed his wrist and his hand stilled, but it wasn’t to stop him. It was to hold him there.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, gulping when she saw the darkening of his eyes.
“I ain’t never…” was all she got off before the words disappeared in her throat.
She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t need to.
Everything in Smoke went still except the muscle of his jaw that twitched once then stopped.
He looked away.
He wasn’t surprised. That was the thing.
Her words were confirmation of something he’d already assumed about her.
But there was something about the way she said it that he filed away for later.
She’d never been touched.
Not like this.
And while he stood breathing desire down her throat with his hand on her ass, he felt something twist in his chest.
Guilt.
It moved in quickly, crowding his thoughts. Guilt for moving too fast. Guilt for letting his want for her carry him far enough that he had to stop himself before she did.
“I know,” Smoke said finally.
Annie looked away.
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t look at him at that moment.
Not because she was embarrassed, ashamed, or insecure. Not really. She just felt inexperienced. Young in a way she hated feeling in anybody’s eyes.
Her eyes traveling up his chest to his collar where she picked at a loose thread. “I want you,” she whispered, “to be my first.”
The words were so quiet that the night almost took hold of them.
Smoke’s eyes closed for half a second. He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers.
“You ‘sho?”
For a split second, his words sounded like a plea to Annie rather than a question.
“Yes,” she said, grabbing onto the folds of his shirt.
The backyard held its breath. Here in their little bubble, the only thing that existed was Smoke, Annie, and this moment between them. Smoke took Annie’s hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, keeping his eyes trained on hers.
“You mine?”
Annie grinned, nodding once.
“Nah,” Smoke gripped her chin again, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. “I wanna hear you say it.”
She lowered her head, then looked up, her big brown eyes certain and glittering in the sliver of moonlight that peeked out from behind the clouds. Her lips parted. “I’m yours. Tout.”
“Creole?”
“Mhmm,” she grinned proudly.
Smoke hummed— a deep vibrating sound that shot up Annie’s spine. Her words were a soothing balm, loosening the hooks of guilt lodged in his back.
“Good,” he said. He rubbed her back with wide strokes, holding her close as the nighttime settled around them, comfortable and warm despite the November cold.
“Ou m’ap pèm?”
“What’s that?”
“You mine too?”
“Teach me how to say it back.”
“Mwen se ou.”
“Mwen se ou,” he repeated back.
“You gettin’ better,” she gasped, her whole face lighting up.
Smoke smirked smugly. “Gotta good teacher.”
“Mwen se tout ou.”
“That too,” he grunted.
Annie snorted, turning her head briefly. “Don’t be makin’ fun of me.”
“I ain’t,” he shrugged. “That’s what you sound like.”
He gave her a real smile then, dimples deep in both his cheeks. He couldn’t hide it.
“I was so nervous,” she admitted, her grin wrapping around her words despite herself.
Smoke raised a brow. “Nervous ‘bout what?”
“To tell you.”
“That you a virgin?”
Annie nodded, hand finding that loose thread again. Smoke grabbed her hand and kissed it.
“You ain’t gotta be nervous to tell me stuff, you hear?”
Annie sighed, pressing her palms to his chest. “I know.”
Smoke stared down at Annie. Her soft, panting breaths, her heart beating against his own chest. He raised his right hand to hers, covering her right palm that lay directly over his heart. His thumb brushed over her knuckles. The gesture—the warmth in it—made her look at him. Their eyes locked and held, the look between them speaking louder than any words could at that moment.
“I’m scared,” she said quietly.
“Scared of what?”
Their mouths moved but their bodies were still. Smoke’s hand sat over Annie’s on his chest like it was frozen there, his heart beat steadily under her palm.
“What it’s gon’ be like,” she mumbled, barely a breath, “the first time.”
“What you think?”
Annie shook her head, unsure. “I don’t know.”
Smoke ran his tongue along the back of his teeth.
“How you want it to be?”
Annie’s lips twisted in thought as Smoke’s eyes pinned her in place. Their hands stayed where they were, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand.
“Don’t be scared.”
Annie said nothing. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak but decided against it.
Smoke’s voice dropped low and deep, rough with something—but not sultry. He wasn’t trying to make her shiver or choke on a gasp. Not right now. Right now he wanted—needed—to assure her. He needed her to feel the promise in his words. Needed her to know he meant it.
He looked Annie in the eye, the weight of his hand pressing harder against hers where it rested on top of his heart. “I’m gon’ take good care of you, Annie.”
The words were simple, but she felt them in her core. Her skin lit up with that familiar tingle, her heartbeat thumping hard against her ribs.
Annie looked down at her hand, shifting it slightly under his.
She could hear the promise beneath the words.
And something in her—something that felt older than her—told her to believe it. So, she did.
“I ain’t even thought about it like that. Not for real.”
Lie.
Smoke raised a brow. “Never?”
Annie shook her head once. Then she nodded, pursing her lips so the corner of her mouth would stop twitching.
“Well,” she breathed, the gust of air warming his collarbone. “A little.”
She rolled her lips inward and finally looked up at him.
The heat that had reduced to a simmer sparked up again. Smoke’s eyes darkened at her words, her curiosity, her comfort. Her closeness felt like second nature to him, but her vulnerability hit something deeper in his chest.
“What you was thinkin’?”
Annie’s eyes trailed from his eyes down to his lips. They sat perfectly on his face— thick, plump, and so soft against her own.
“Tell me,” he insisted, voice low and coaxing.
“I had a dream…” She looked away. Her eyes went to something different now since she felt his gaze piercing her soul. She focused on a bush of moonflowers by the fence, their wilting petals fluttering in the breeze like little ghosts. “About you.”
“‘Bout me?” he drawled. Smugly, almost. “And what happened in this dream?” His hands traveled up and down her spine.
Annie fidgeted nervously.
“I don’t remember.”
Smoke tilted his head. “How you know it was about me then?”
She hesitated.
“‘Cause….”
“‘Cause what?”
“How I felt.”
“How you feel?”
The flashbacks came in waves. Along with a feeling she couldn’t find the word for until now.
“Full.”
The word came out so tiny, it sounded accidental. It was barely a word. More like a faint expulsion of air that drifted through the seams of his mouth. But it was raw, and it settled like a presence in his chest, latching onto the corners of his soul that housed devotion and something deeper.
Restraint pressed against every instinct he’d ever possessed and the inside of his slacks.
This woman had no idea what she was doing to him.
“We should go inside,” he muttered. “Befo’ your aunt come lookin’ for us.”
Annie giggled softly, his shoulders relaxing at the sound.
“You scared of Aunt Della?”
“Yes.”
Annie laughed for real this time, the tension loosening just enough to let them breathe again. They walked towards the back door and Smoke held the door open for her to fully step inside.
The moon hung high above the rooftops, cutting through the inky black sky like a blade of silver light. It poured through the windows of Annie’s bedroom, making the lobelia petals that were scattered across her covers glow around the edges like they were suspended in a dream.
Annie unfolded her letter, her eyes scanning through the words briefly, but she was only looking for one thing. Something she’d been holding in since Loretta first placed it in her hands.
The end.
The signatures.
She read it with shaky hands.
All our love,
Papa & Maman
Nana
Junior
Vernon
Leroy
Raymond
Maurice
They were all there.
Except one.
Uriah.
He was her closest brother.
Annie didn’t know why she expected his name to be scrawled among the signatures, his chicken scratch inked deep into the paper. He’d been dead over a year at that point. But the absence felt worse than accepting he was dead.
She still felt him, like him slipping through the cracks of the earth didn’t necessarily mean he would be missing from a letter sent from home.
She knew it wasn’t really his missing signature that made tears pool in her eyes, it was his soul.
Since the government refused to send his body back from France after the war, his spirit had been unsettled. Restless.
She felt it the most when she took her ilekes off. She always covered them, sandwiching them between two thin, white cloths that belonged to her great-grandmother, then set them in a drawer taking care that they didn’t touch the surface of the wood.
She’d say a prayer for him at the tiny altar in the corner of her room that sat on top of a warped, lopsided, low table. It smelled of old wood, herbs, and dust.
Salt for protection and peace of mind.
A pinch of soil.
A Mississippi river rock.
His name written on a piece of paper. Pinched and folded in half towards her.
A half-burned taper candle.
Blue cloth. A snippet from his baby quilt, stitched from her mother’s, grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s hands.
Molasses chews. Because those were his favorite growing up.
She lit the candle, the flame catching blue at first before bleeding orange. When it steadied, she bowed her head.
“Uriah Silas Antonio Royal,” she said. Her voice sounded tiny and helpless in the confines of her room.
“Blood callin’ you even though your bones ain’t make it back.”
She paused, taking a shaky breath.
Then she laid her offering.
“Water for the journey. Salt for your peace. Light so you can see. A piece of home so you remember. Think of us, and remember where you belong.”
The candle flickered violently.
“Ancestors, please,” she said, looking out the window to the moon. “Don’t let him cross alone, he scared.”
Annie swallowed hard to clear the lump that swelled in her throat, a tear drop falling directly onto the flame. It flickered and smoked, but the amber light held the line in the darkness of her room.
She bent over, crying quietly into the fabric of her nightgown, her tears dampening the delicate white cotton. She closed her eyes and the present slipped into the past, seamless and real. She could see it all— the draw, the aim, the shot. The scream she could feel in her bones, muffled by wet soil, quicklime, and tarp.
Annie opened her eyes and the scent of graveyard dirt and saltwater hung in the air. The silence that came after wasn’t peaceful. It was eerie.
After a while, she spoke again.
“Ain’t no guns tonight,” she said. She cleared her throat to silence the tears and took a few deep breaths. “Ain’t no shoutin’. Ain’t no mud in your mouth. Just light. Just a way home.”
The flame flickered again, its shape bending against the darkness like someone was pushing on it.
Annie wiped the grief that lay wet tracks on her cheeks.
“It’s okay,” she rasped, catching her breath. “Come on home.”
The flame finally settled into itself.
Only then did she blow it out.
The next morning felt like a slow exhale. Annie moved around the boarding house with a lightness that felt like the rainbow after a thunderstorm. Morning duties went by smoothly, followed by breakfast, chores, lessons, and a quick lunch. By the afternoon she was tying bundles of roots in the kitchen while Aunt Della sat in the front room writing a letter at her desk. The house groaned around them as cool air settled into its bones. The phonograph was playing low in the background when they heard a knock on the front door followed by two impatient honks of a car horn.
“I’ll get it,” Annie called from the kitchen.
She wiped her hands and walked towards the front.
“Hey Pea,” Annie said when she opened the door.
Pearline frowned as she laid eyes on Annie.
“Annie girl, why you ain’t dressed?”
Annie looked at Pearline. Then she looked at the car idling on the street. Then back to her, confused.
“Dressed for what?”
“Your fittin’ today!”
“Oh my Lord!”
Aunt Della shook her head as Pearline stepped in, watching Annie trip halfway up the stairs.
“How you doin’, Mrs. Clark?”
“Doin’ fine,” Aunt Della responded. “How you?”
“Doin’ mighty fine myself.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Aunt Della put her pen down and looked at Pearline as she stepped further into the front room. She pulled a small drawstring pouch from the pocket of her dress and placed it on her writing desk.
Pearline took it and quickly stuffed it in her purse. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You welcome.”
Aunt Della's eyes flicked down to Pearline’s stomach before she turned back to her pen and paper.
Twenty minutes later, Pearline and Annie were on their way to Issaquena Street. The ride was quiet, with Pearline staring out the passenger window while her husband drove. Annie sat in the backseat, lips rolled and hands in her lap.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. George,” Annie said to Pearline’s husband. “It completely slipped my mind.”
Mr. George grunted as the car came to a slow stop in front of the shop. “That’s alright.”
The girls climbed out of the Model T Ford.
“Pearline?” He called after his wife.
She looked back as she stepped on the curb. “Yes?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Alright.”
The sign for the shop hung overhead as Pearline and Annie inched their way toward the door. As they walked down the steps and down the short, covered walkway to the modiste, Annie’s thoughts drifted to the excitement waiting for them next week.
The Harvest Party.
LUELLA’S DRESSING ROOM & ALTERATIONS
“Smoke gon’ forget his own name when he see you,” Pearline teased Annie.
Luella smirked, adjusting a corset frame where it was pinned to one of the Dressmakers’ mannequins.
Annie blushed where she stood barefoot on the platform in front of the three-way mirror, knee-length robe wrapped around her thick frame, long hair braided into a coily crown.
Sunlight came through the curtains in golden slits, turning the dust motes suspended by the window into glitter. The click of heels and the low hum of sewing machines faded away behind the damask velvet drapes that separated the private alcove from the showroom. It felt cozy back here— like warmth, perfume, and whispers. Gloves, hair combs, purses, and other finishing touches were lined up on a table on the side where the crystal jars filled with candies added to the plush decor.
Pearline sat on a velvet ottoman, one leg crossed politely over the other. Her gloved hands came together in her lap, her fingers mindlessly playing with the lace trim at her wrist.
“I can’t wait to see it,” she said. She smiled at Annie through the mirror—but it was bittersweet. Pensive.
Annie’s brows knit together. “What’s wrong?” she mouthed.
Pearline just shook her head and looked down. Annie tilted her head at her friend.
Just then, Luella’s assistant walked around the corner with a garment bag. She handled it carefully, hanging it on the clothing rack before rolling it from behind the seating area to rest at the side of the viewing platform. “You ready?”
Annie turned, her face lighting up, but she still watched Pearline carefully out of the corner of her eye. She had a melancholic aura to her even though she tried to cover it with excitement for her friend. Her spine was snapped straight, her legs politely crossed— but something hung in the air between them.
Annie nodded, signaling she was ready. Luella stepped to the clothing rack and unzipped the garment bag as her and assistant removed it from its cover. She gasped when the rich, deep green velvet bodice caught the dim light of the alcove, then hopped off the platform, padding over to the rack.
“Wow,” Pearline stood up in awe. “It’s beautiful, Annie,” she whispered. She ran her gloved fingers down the sides of it, skimming over the delicate beadwork and fringe.
It was a one-of-a-kind piece, made to stand out and be seen through the low lights and smoke in the juke.
Luella and her assistant went over accessory ideas with Annie— purses, coats, shoes. Even some hair ideas. They talked to her about pressing her hair and wearing it pinned back into a chignon with a side part. Her excitement grew by the minute until she looked to the side and saw Pearline. The teasing from earlier was gone. Now she was quiet.
Polite.
But barely there.
They finally got to the jewelry options. Lightweight earrings, delicate necklaces, beaded bracelets. Luella held up a thin silver chain for Annie to look at, but Annie almost winced at the idea of wearing anything but her ilekes. She ran her finger over them.
“You can’t wear that necklace with,” she pointed to it, then to the dress on the rack, “that dress!” Luella’s assistant exclaimed.
Luella quietly agreed. “She’s right, sugar.”
“But, I always wear my beads,” Annie rubbed one, taking a small step back from the accessory table.
“Every single day?” Pearline asked.
“No,” she shook her head. “Not every day.”
Pearline shrugged. “So you can go one night without ‘em,” she trailed off as a hand reached over to touch them.
She stopped herself when she saw Annie’s eyes grow wide.
“I can’t touch ‘em?”
Annie shook her head no.
Pearline crossed her arms, putting her weight on one hip. “Why not?”
“Cuz they blessed.”
Pearline scrunched her nose up. “What you mean, blessed?”
Annie looked towards the window, then back. “I don’t really know. But my great-grandma told me I can’t let anyone touch ‘em, or she gotta bless ‘em again. And she dead, so...”
“Annie,” Pearline pleaded quietly. Her face relaxed like she recognized this wasn’t a conversation to have here. Not while they were surrounded by pearls and sequins, lace, leather and perfume. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Luella and her assistant sorted necklaces while they continued their conversation in hushed tones.
“She gave ‘em to me when I was seven.”
Pearline’s eyes softened.
“Told me never to take ‘em off.”
“Have you?”
“No,” Annie sighed. “Only on certain days.”
She exhaled again, her lips curving up into a sly grin. “But I guess I can go without ‘em…for just the night.”
Pearline smiled.
Luella’s assistant came over and squealed with glee while Luella picked up a long silver necklace with a small diamond pendant that hung like a teardrop in the center.
Luella’s assistant pointed at it. “Annie, what you think ‘bout this one?”
Annie’s eyes lit up, intrigued. “I like it.” Her hands fingered the delicate chain. “A lot.”
She turned to reach over and rub Pearline’s shoulder as Luella and her assistant continued to talk her ear off about her jewelry options.
“Wanna get a soda after this?” she asked.
“I’d love to.” Pearline couldn’t agree fast enough.
The walk back over to Fourth Street was brisk. Annie and Pearline walked the streets, arms folded across their chests, wool overcoats wrapped tightly around them.
The sidewalks were even busier today. Despite the unusual cold front that blew into the Delta, most sharecroppers were stuck in limbo waiting on their settlements to come back from the plantation owners. Which means they’d make their way to town looking for some way to entertain themselves.
Besides the cafes and jukes, Fourth Street Drugs was a popular spot. It held a soda fountain on the right side of the store with ice cream, soda, and other fizzy drinks.
Step through the narrow wooden door that separated it from the drugstore and it felt like you were stepping into a different world.
The space was a haven for young folks—swirling on lacquered stools, sipping sodas, floats, and malts. A polished oval countertop ran along the mirrored wall, a bar-like soda fountain directly in front of it. Ice cream, fruit, and syrups stood in a line up for the soda jerk to easily mix flavors. Light snacks sat in glass displays at each end of the countertop.
The bell above the shop dinged twice as Annie and Pearline stepped through.
They made themselves comfortable at the bartop, unwrapping scarves and taking off their hats. Annie ordered an ice cream soda from the soda jerk and Pearline decided on a cherry phosphate over ice.
They enjoyed the live music— an elderly man in dark blue and black checkered shirt and overalls playing his harmonica and singing. He was tall, dark-skinned, and lanky, but his eyes were warm. His harmonica sat between his hands like a silver smile.
🎵 Don't get mad at me, boys, if your buggy don't ride like mine
I said, don’t get mad at me if your buggy don’t ride like mine
'Cause it's an easy-ridin' buggy, rarin' to go all the time* 🎵
Annie didn't recognize the song, nor the man. But she recognized the sound of that harmonica. The way he bent his notes felt familiar to her, like it was the soundtrack to something special.
The memory hit like a freight train.
Her and Smoke in the backyard after supper.
She barely heard, let alone remembered, anything from that night. Not besides the sound of Smoke’s voice. But she remembered that harmonica playing while they kissed slow under the moonlight.
She instantly got chills.
“That’s my time for today, my name is Delta Slim and I thank ya for listenin’.”
The whole room exploded with applause as Delta Slim slipped from the stage to the backroom.
Annie watched him disappear down the hallway, then turned to Pearline.
She could tell she was only halfway present.
She tried to be cheerful while sipping her drink, but every time the shop bell rang her eyes would drift towards the entrance. Annie watched her out of the corner of her eye, wiping the corner of her mouth when a drop of ice cream landed on her chin.
“I can’t go to the party,” Pearline admitted.
“Why not?”
Pearline sighed. “My husband.”
Annie’s lips pressed into a straight line.
Pearline’s husband was an older man. Good bank job. Well-maintained house in a decent part of town. He was respected in the Black community of Coahoma County.
He was protective over Pearline when it mattered.
She found it sweet at first. Endearing.
But that protection started to feel like a suffocating control.
And Pearline was starting to feel like a fish out of water.
Annie shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Pearline looked down, swirled her drink, and took another sip.
“He's a good man, Annie,” she said, staring into her cup like that would make it true.
Annie felt skeptical but she was unwilling to push her friend into feeling uncomfortable.
“You happy?”
Pearline took a full minute to answer.
“Yeah.”
“Well,” Annie grabbed Pearline’s forearm, stroking her skin. “That’s what matters then...that you happy.”
Pearline gave her a weak smile.
A Few Nights Later — Moon Lake, Mississippi
Smoke and Stack stepped foot into the building, overhead lights so bright they had to blink so their eyes could adjust. It was something Smoke never got used to—the lights. He’d seen the Mississippi sun become a furnace in the sky— but this new, artificial shit? It was stronger. Blinding.
He didn’t like any of it.
Stack was prepared. He always was when it came to his twin.
He handed Smoke a pair of American Optical aviators that they were fitted for during the war. They had smoked out dark lenses, a thin metal frame, and a double bridge that sat comfortably across his nose.
The twins walked through the casino like men on a mission. Smoke kept his hands in his pockets, but he still met eyes. A bootlegger on a craps table. Another man in a fancy pressed suit, elbows deep in a blackjack game to the right.
They made their way to the side of the room, shoulders squared, eyes sharp, steps measured, cutting through a maze of fumes, lights, and laughter, until they were standing in front of the walkway that led to the private gaming salons.
A narrow, low-lit corridor loomed in front of them. Dark green doors stretched down the hallway lined up like little soldiers. The walls were covered with patterned maroon wallpaper that looked like old blood dripping slowly from the panels. Smoke hovered overhead, suspended at the ceiling like a thick, tobacco-filled cloud. Floorboards groaned underneath heels and two-tone spectator shoes while furniture legs groaned under men all looking to play the long game with duffel bags full of cash.
Door 14. The Roulette Room.
Laughter slipped out the open door.
The room was cozy but not small, decorated to feel expensive with its soft lamplight, burgundy wallpaper, velvet drapes and deep mahogany woodwork.
A large roulette table flanked by carved wooden chairs with upholstered seats sat in the middle, the dealer leaning over the table with practiced focus. Framed paintings hung high above tall wooden panels, fireplaces, and wall sconces that divided the space.
The room wasn’t full but wasn’t empty either.
And most people present weren’t there to play.
Not really.
Members of Clarksdale’s fraternal lodge were scattered around the room—Pythians with their ceremonial hats and others in regular suits. Smoking, fraternizing, throwing drinks back. Women in sequined dresses, strappy shoes, and pressed waves socialized among them.
Clay stood in the middle, leaning against a fireplace with two fingers of something dark in his hand. Maybe whiskey. Maybe brandy. A crystal glass decanter sat by his elbow. He swished his drink around, taking small sips while he listened to a man speak, voice low under the soft clatter of chips and murmured bets.
It was a white man. Rotund build. Dressed in a white single-breasted suit jacket and trousers, white shirt, and striped bowtie. He had a thick unibrow and mustache, and a hearty laugh that echoed off the walls but a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t look flashy; he looked comfortable. Too comfortable.
And that was just from a distance.
Smoke’s lip curled up instantly.
Stack elbowed him in the arm when he saw the raw expression on his brother’s face.
“Chill out, nigga.”
Smoke grunted.
When Clay saw the twins across the room, he didn’t flinch. He just waved them over, setting his glass down on the mantle.
They split up like they always did when they first entered a space, Smoke rounding left, Stack circling right.
It was part of their routine. A twin language developed from survival and war.
They didn’t discuss it. They didn’t need to.
They orbited the room. The movement looked casual, but they were quietly filing away every detail. Every glance meant suspicion, calculation, or warning. Nerves that had nothing to do with gambling. Shifty eyes. Hidden weapons.
Smoke was the quicker draw of the two, and he always rolled deep. Two pistols. Bolo knife. Always tucked away but easily accessible.
Stack was slower to draw but had a way of disguising danger as charm before anybody realized it was danger. He kept a colt .45 and a brass knuckle knife hidden seamlessly in his clothing.
When they reached Clay, he already had two cigars cut for them.
“Jim—” he said with a wide grin. “These the two gentlemen I was tellin’ you ‘bout earlier.”
“Ah, the twins!” this Jim character said.
He tapped ash from his own cigar on a lacquered tray and looked between Smoke and Stack who flanked him—one twin on each side.
“You fellas ever think about comin’ up North?”
Stack answered. “We been up North.”
“Where to?”
“Harlem.”
“New York...What about Illinois? Arkansas?”
Smoke spoke up. “Arkansas ain’t up north.”
“I know,” Jim replied.
“So why you askin’?” he asked flatly.
Jim shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Nah.” Smoke turned his head. “We don't go up North much.”
“But it depend on who askin’,” Stack added.
Both twins looked at Jim.
Smoke with his head tilted downwards and his hooded eyes that could look up through a man and pierce his soul.
Stack stood with his head tilted up so he was always looking down at someone, eyes twinkling, smirk wide, golds flashing.
Jim chuckled once, amused. At least on the surface.
The ice in Stack’s cup tapped against the glass as it melted, sitting completely untouched in front of him. Smoke had already smoked his cigar down to the nub and sat with his elbows on his knees.
Jim and his posse were long gone by now.
Smoke, Stack, Clay and two of Clay’s men sat around a small round table that was polished to a shine that caught the lamplight in amber streaks. They talked routes, distribution, provisions, collections, hidden shipments, payoffs.
Stack’s eyes sparkled every time someone mentioned Little Rock or Chicago.
Smoke’s eyes held an unimpressed dullness even under the golden pools of lamplight.
Clay noticed, his eyes flicking between the two of them, subtly eyeing the difference in demeanor.
“What you think?” Stack whispered to Smoke.
Smoke frowned then leaned over. “‘Bout what?”
“Big Jim.”
“I ain’t.”
Stack sucked his teeth loudly which earned a stare from Smoke.
Stack grumbled under his breath.
“Shut up, nigga” Smoke gritted.
“Just think about it,” Stack pushed. “Me. You. And Little Rock.”
Stack finally picked up his drink and took a swig. “You can bring Annie, too.”
Smoke just shook his head. Leaving Clarksdale was the last thing he was thinking about.
The casino carried on in the background. Jazz, smoke, and the sweet-sharp smell of corn liquor spilled from the large double doors every time a patron stepped out.
Smoke stood outside, the orange ember of his cigarette burning bright behind his palm.
He didn’t come outside for quiet. The casino wasn’t quiet. Moon Lake never was.
He stood at the dock and took a long drag of tobacco. It burned his chest. The cherry, spice, and the faint trace of lake humidity calmed the dull throb of a headache that sat behind his skull.
“People done carved out every corner of Chicago. Whole lotta money there. But Arkansas….”
Big Jim’s words echoed in his head.
And Stack’s.
He was always hyped about something. A scheme, a trick, a scam.
And Smoke would always be caught up right along with him.
But this one—
“Know a couple call houses in Little Rock need fixin’ up,” Big Jim said between puffs.
A member of his posse, another white man with olive skin, a stocky build and a scar on his left cheek spoke up next.
“Bathhouse in Hot Springs. Y’all would do good up there, too.” He took a swig of his whiskey. “Real good.”
Smoke pushed the thoughts away before they could take root in his mind.
His thoughts turned to Annie instead.
To the confession she made.
The thought he filed away for later resurfaced while he looked out at the water. Night blanketed the cypress trees and the shores and the forest beyond it while the twinkling lights of the Moon Lake island helped soften its edges.
Annie never shrank herself or made herself smaller for other people’s comfort. That’s one thing Smoke noticed the most about her. She was like him in that way.
But something was different about the look on her face when she said those three words.
I ain’t never…
She looked vulnerable. Timid almost.
His chest tightened at the thought.
Something flickered in her eyes that night, just for a second before it disappeared.
It wasn’t from the moonlight, from the candle on the windowsill, or from the oil lamp that hung above them on the shed.
It was deeper than that.
It was fear.
Fear of how he’d take it. Fear it would change his mind about her.
He could see it in how she rushed to cling onto something. The loose thread on his shirt, something in the backyard.
She showed him a part of herself. A part nobody else got to see.
She gave that to him.
And for just a second, she was scared of what he’d do with it.
Smoke’s jaw clenched.
He never wanted her to feel like that. He never wanted to be the reason she felt like that. Not again.
Because that softness, the most tender part of her that she revealed to him in a whisper, barely a breath—that was his to protect now.
Reeds danced with the current as it drifted downriver. The blades flitted across each other in the breeze, the low, whispery rustle felt gentle and soothing compared to the harsh sounds of the casino.
It felt like Annie.
Her scent arrived like a memory carried over water.
The lake carried the smell of some woman’s perfume. Smoke wouldn’t have noticed it, but the smell of lavender carried something sharper underneath that made his head snap around.
Night-blooming jasmine.
That sun-drenched, heady lushness that lingered on Annie’s wrists, behind her ears, and on her necklaces.
That combined with the smell of something brackish made him feel like she was standing in front of him, those soft arms wrapped around his neck while his head tucked into her chest smelling like a midnight garden.
It cut through the harshness of the casino. The haze, the booze, the sweat.
Moon Lake smelled like vice and pressure.
Annie was the opposite of all of that.
While moonlight turned lake waters into glass, Smoke closed his eyes and made a decision.
Then another one.
He showed up at Della’s a few days later when the house had lulled into its afternoon pace.
“Got somewhere I wanna take you.”
Those were the only words Smoke muttered before he whisked Annie out of the boarding house and into his truck. He wouldn’t tell Annie where they were going. All she knew was that they were heading north, the sun just starting its slow descent to the left of the road.
The fields were empty this time of the year, of both people and cotton. The bare stalks stood tall and rigid like silent witnesses.
“I got a letter from my folks back home,” Annie said, looking out the window.
Smoke kept his eyes forward. “What they say?”
“Everybody doin’ good.”
“Good.”
Annie went on, talking Smoke up about her nieces and nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles. By the time she stopped to catch her breath, she was beaming with pride. Smoke listened to her talk with a lopsided grin of admiration. Then she started talking about her immediate family. Her mama. Her daddy. Her brothers. Her words got slower. Her breath hitched a few times like she was choosing her words carefully.
Smoke noticed and started probing.
“Your mama a midwife, right? And your daddy—he work at the docks?”
“He a fisherman. You remembered.” She grinned and relaxed a little bit.
“How your brothers be?”
Annie tensed. “They good,” she said quickly.
“Hmm. And what they do?”
She rattled off five different occupations, but he knew she had six brothers. She told him.
Annie was her parent’s seventh child.
He waited for her to fill in the blanks, but she didn’t. She just stared out the window like she was holding her breath.
“What was his name?” he asked.
Annie looked down at her hands. They were fidgeting again, playing with the hem of her clothing. She had on a tan-colored shirtwaist dress that complimented the rich brown color of her skin. It sat underneath a grey overcoat made from a light material.
Mississippi weather was mild that day, a nice break from the cold front they experienced the past few weeks.
Stockings and oxfords completed her look, and a cloche hat with a cream-colored ribbon was pinned onto her low bun.
The cab of the truck was silent for a while as the wheels rolled over loose gravel. But after a few more moments, Annie finally let out the breath she’d been holding.
“Uriah,” she said quietly. “His name was–is–Uriah.”
Smoke’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “What happened to ‘em?”
“The war.”
“I’m sorry.”
Annie looked towards the road again. “Ain’t your fault.”
“Still.” He looked over at her briefly. “Y’all were close?”
“The closest.”
Smoke’s hand grabbed hers in her lap. She took a moment to rub the skin of his hands, his calloused palms warm around hers.
The road in front of them narrowed slightly. They crossed a bridge, the packed dirt turning into dusty brickwork as they traversed the water.
The sun was beginning to wane, writing its farewell letter in shades of orange and purple as it disappeared behind the trees.
On the other side of the bridge sat Moon Lake Island.
A twenty-four-hour haven of whimsy, seduction, and leisure. Hanging lights glittered like fireflies, their bulbs blinking rapidly like they were dying out. That was on purpose.
It was just a bridge away from Lula, but it felt miles away—a sharp contrast to the cotton fields and the back of plantation houses that sat just across a small stretch of water.
A supper club and casino stood like landmarks on the north island. The Blue Room was a pleasure palace that fronted as a place to enjoy oysters and prime cuts of steak at all hours of the night, and the Moon Lake Casino was its younger, slick-talking brother.
The Black Elk Lodge was a hotel that stretched across the entire span of the southern island, wide and proud like the hand of a giant. Small lake front cabins scattered along the shore surrounding the courtyard hotel, a place where the whole world could go quiet.
Smoke cut the engine. He kept a hand on the small of her back, the other hand holding onto a covered basket as he guided Annie to the small private dock where he’d rented a rowboat from the lodge. He tugged the fraying rope that moored it to the shore, pulling it up so it sat halfway on the bank.
The inside was a tight fit, but dry. It was deep, lined with fragments of mismatched, aged wood where he set the basket of food in the middle of the two benches. Smoke helped Annie inside, unleashing the boat while he took the oars in his hand.
His muscles moved beneath rolled sleeves while he rowed them away from the shore. He grunted under his breath as he stroked, moving his arms back and forth until their boat was dislodged from the thick mud on the shore. It glided smoothly into the water.
Annie’s thoughts were a tangled web. She smoothed her skirt down and crossed her legs, staring at the lake surrounding them to avert her eyes from the way his muscles clung to his shirt. A cool gust of wind swept over their boat drying the small bead of sweat that had started to form at her temple.
The lakefront cabins of The Black Elk Lodge lined the shore behind them. Small, wooden cabins with hanging lanterns, flower boxes on the porch, and warm orange light in the windows.
Sounds from the island started to fade as they rowed into a thinner stretch of the lake. Ancient trees stood tall like ancestors along the shore. Spanish moss hung overhead like lace curtains, turning the sun into little slivers of bronze light that spotted the forest floor.
“Pretty out here,” Annie remarked quietly.
She trailed her fingers along the water. It rippled and separated under her touch into gentle waves that sloshed along the side of the boat.
“Yeah it is,” Smoke agreed.
But he wasn’t talking about the lake. He was talking about her.
He couldn’t stop looking at her.
The colors of dusk shimmered on the water catching the contours of Annie’s skin that looked lit from within. Her cheekbones, full lips, button nose, doe eyes. She unpinned her hat and released her bun once they got further from the shore. Her hair—dark, thick and coiled down her back—caught the light in deep blue streaks that shimmered against the jewel-toned sky. She looked ethereal. Sunset made her beads glow against her skin; the multi-colored necklaces sat tucked gracefully under the neckline of her dress.
“You gon’ burn a hole in me, Elijah,” Annie said, eyes trained on the rippling water around their boat.
Smoke smirked.
“Just thinkin’ about how pretty you look right now.”
Annie huffed a laugh. “Just right now?”
“Nah,” Smoke chuckled. “You always beautiful…but you glowin’ different right now.”
“Why, thank you.”
Just then, the sun cut sharply, burning into her eyes. Her entire iris flooded with a deep bronze color just long enough for it to make Smoke blink twice.
“What?”
Smoke shook his head. “Nothin’.” But something about the evening sky and the water bleeding into each other had him feeling like he was seeing something that wasn’t really there.
“You hungry?” he asked.
Their picnic basket was lined with sheer fabric and made of handwoven old reed with a handle covered in spiral carvings. It carried a couple baloney sandwiches with mustard, mason jars with sweet tea, and a brown paper bag filled with boiled peanuts rolled in honey and brown sugar.
“‘Could use somethin’ sweet.”
Smoke uncovered the basket. Annie removed the paper bag from it and inhaled its sugary scent. She reached in and popped a peanut in her mouth. “Want one?”
Smoke looked at her like she should already know that answer.
Annie smiled. “You know–I never thought someone like you would be a sweet tooth.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause you walk around like you eat straight salt for dinner.”
Smoke sucked his teeth and looked away.
Annie laughed lightly. “You know it’s true.”
Smoke looked back at her. “It ain’t.”
“Here.”
She put a peanut in her hand, holding it up to his lips as he held onto the oars. It went in easily, his lips leaving moist heat on her fingertips that went through her body in waves.
Smoke hummed at the salty, sweet taste. “Mmmm.” The echo of his voice vibrated deep in her body. “That’s good.”
“You like it?” Annie teased with a sultry voice.
Smoke raised a brow as he set the oars in the boat. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
Smoke looked down at the peanut she had ready in her palm and leaned towards her anyways. He parted his mouth just enough. His lips touched her fingers again this time, his tongue licking through the opening of her fingertips as he took the candied peanut in his mouth. He licked his lips when he pulled back, eyes on her.
“Trouble.”
“Me?” she snickered. She clutched her chest, taunting. “You the one tryna swallow my fingers.”
The air outside felt thicker over the water. The sky grew darker now, the brightness of the day dimming to something that looked like the glow of a low-burning oil lamp spread across the sky. Annie tossed the bag of peanuts back in the basket and screwed the cap off her mason jar of tea, taking a nervous sip.
“You come out here often?” she asked.
Smoke shrugged. “From time to time.”
“For what?”
Her eyes drifted to a pair of wood storks nested together along the bank. It was lined in reeds, soft mud, and the thick, tangled network of cypress roots that reached like fingers into the water. Annie thought it looked like the kind of place old spirits preferred. Somewhere quiet enough to listen and deep enough to hold secrets. Smoke favored that part too—the quiet, the shade, the way the trees swallowed noise and gave a man room to think.
“To quiet what won’t settle anywhere else.”
Annie turned to look at Smoke. This wasn't just a date.
“Thank you for showin' me this place,” she said. “Your place.”
She leaned in and he met her halfway.
The front room was dim.
Not because he was trying to set the mood, but because he only had the patience to light two candles. The soft light brushed the walls, the flames coaxing shadows into a slow dance. Outside, the night breathed in low drones. An owl hooted somewhere—a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the trees. The wind fluttered through fallen leaves and whispered secrets through branches. But inside, the living room of Smoke and Stack's home held a calm, comfortable level of domesticity despite the hum of outdoors.
Smoke and Annie sat next to each other on the couch in Smoke’s house. Annie played a crossword puzzle from the Chicago Whip, stretched sideways across the couch with her feet in Smoke’s lap. Smoke had his hands on her feet as they went back and forth about the answers.
“What’s a three-letter word for a four-legged animal with spots?”
“A cow,” Smoke said easily.
“No, that don’t fit my crossword.”
“What? Lemme see that…”
Smoke reached for the newspaper, but Annie moved it away from his grasp.
“It's a dog.”
“It could be a cat, too…since we just sayin’ shit.”
Annie swatted him with the newspaper.
“What was that for?”
“For bein' a smart ass.”
Annie set the newspaper down.
“Givin' up already?”
She shot him a look that could have cut through glass. “I’m tired.” She propped her head up with her hand.
Smoke started to push off the couch. “You ready to go back?”
“No,” her hand shot out, “not yet,” she said softer.
Smoke sat back.
Annie tugged on his arm, and he followed her pull as she brought him towards her. Slowly.
Not because he was scared.
He hadn’t been scared since he was a child.
But because he cared.
He laid down behind her, his front pressing against her back, and automatically wrapped an arm around her waist. His hold on her was tight, possessive.
And Annie loved it.
She stroked his hand with her fingertips. It sat just above her bellybutton with a firm grip.
She melted into him.
He kissed the back of her shoulders first.
Light, delicate pecks that left warmth on her skin.
His lips moved to her neck and the kisses lingered longer, his arm tightening around her waist. He heard her gasps, her short panting breaths, and decided to keep going.
And Annie could feel everything.
His kisses became closer together.
Somehow, her hand lifted to the back of his head pulling him closer to her.
She finally let out a word that wrecked him.
“Elijah,” she gasped.
Smoke chuckled, the sound forced a breath onto the delicate spot just behind her ear, and he heard something from her he never heard before.
A sharp, sudden intake of breath.
It was nothing like the noise she let out when he kissed her the other day. This one was quick, unexpected, new. It made her eyes widen.
It made her roll her hips once. The friction was there for a second and gone just as fast, but it pulled a low groan from him.
She laced their hands together and turned, just slightly. The movement pulled her under him.
Their faces met first.
They looked into each other’s eyes and rubbed noses.
“Damn,” Smoke whispered. “You so beautiful.”
He leaned forward and their lips met gently. The kiss quickly turned passionate, their hunger urgent and palpable. Annie’s back pressed into Smoke’s front, and she could feel him behind her, hard and growing and right there.
Between the breaths and the pants and the tongues and the lips, he pulled back from her a second. Smoke looked down at her kiss-bruised lips and her blown pupils, and the want written all over her face.
They were so wrapped up in each other that he almost missed the sound of a car turning onto the dirt path that led to their home.
Almost.
But the soldier in him never knew a full night's rest.
Smoke’s head turned towards the door out of instinct. He listened carefully, then heard it clearly.
The rumble of an engine.
Wheels erratically crunching over dirt.
Stack.
Smoke looked at Annie who had stilled under him, trying to figure out why he stopped.
“He's back.”
Annie paused for a second, then exhaled sharply and swung her legs over the side of the couch. She stood up slowly, smoothing the fabric of her dress along her hips as the adrenaline started to fade and annoyance started to set in. She walked over to the mirror to check her hair which had become a mass of crushed kinks, coils, and curls, and tried to tame it back into place even though she herself was completely undone.
Smoke sat on the couch, just staring at the floor.
He rubbed a hand down his face.
He couldn’t help but feel like Stack picked this very moment to come back—on purpose. He checked the Elgin watch on his wrist, 9:30pm. Stack never came in this early— not on the weekend anyway.
Doors opened and closed in succession. Car door first. The snap of twigs and the crunch of polished shoes over solid earth next. Then the screen door creaked open and the bolt on the front door unlatched.
Stack walked in the house completely aware of what had just transpired, but he knew better. He was well versed in reading a room.
He noticed the way Smoke was sitting. Noticed how he was staring at the back of Annie who was fixing her hair in the mirror. He saw the pillows on the couch that look just as deflated as his brother.
He looked between them and his smirk spread slow and smug on his face.
“Well good evenin’,” he announced, his voice cutting through their quiet tension.
Annie looked over from the other side of the room. “Evenin’,” she said warmly, putting the last of her pins in her hair.
Smoke didn’t respond. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed off the couch.
“Annie,” he said to get her attention. She turned around as he stood up to grab his coat and car keys. “Let’s get to gettin’.”
Stack crossed the room and sat right on the couch. He got comfortable, putting an ankle on his knee before pulling a small notebook from his pocket. “Leavin’ so soon?”
He looked at Smoke, then Annie, then back to Smoke.
“It’s gettin’ late,” Smoke grumbled. He grabbed Annie’s hand and held the door wide as she slipped underneath his arm.
“Bye, Elias!” Annie said as she practically skipped to Smoke’s truck with Smoke’s gaze following right behind her.
“Bye, Annie!” Stack yelled after her. “Bye, Elijah,” he said to Smoke in a slower, more teasing manner.
Smoke rolled his eyes and grunted as he walked down the steps to his truck. He opened the door for Annie who hustled into the passenger seat. Smoke shut her door carefully then rounded the front to the driver’s side. Once he got in, he let the quiet sit for a second before adjusting himself in his seat.
Annie pretended she didn’t see it, but her face, half shadowed in darkness and the light from the front room of the cottage, betrayed her. She looked out the window smiling as the engine started with a rattle and sputter of the exhaust pipe.
The drive back to Aunt Della’s boarding house was quiet. Moonlight flooded the cab of the truck, highlighting the contours of Smoke's face—his eyelashes, his lips, his mustache all bathed in a pale, lunar glow. His hand rested on her thigh, holding firmly onto the supple flesh. Annie traced along the veins of his hand with her fingertips before laying her palm on top of his.
“I had a good time tonight,” she said after about a mile of silence.
“You did?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Good,” he said quietly.
The stars sprinkled tiny silver blessings above them as they made their way to the boarding house, the occasional animal darting in the road, drawn like a moth to a flame to his headlights. Smoke and Annie laced their fingers together as the road to town stretched in front of them.
-
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<- Chapter 8
-> Masterlist
*Song by Bud Spires
Note: Sorry this took so long to post. I was lowkey scared. 😂 But on another note— The Harvest Party is coming up next!
Annie, an 18-year-old from New Orleans, moves to Clarksdale with dreams of building a life all her own. There she meets Smoke, a 21-year-old war veteran with a dangerous reputation. What grows between them is sweet, sticky, and Southern— a smoldering love set against a world of bootlegging, Hoodoo, and blues.
Chapter 1, Behind The Lace
Where there is a woman there is magic.
If there is a moon falling from her mouth,
she is a woman who knows her magic,
who can share or not share her powers.
A woman with a moon falling from her mouth,
roses between her legs
and tiaras of Spanish moss,
this woman is a consort of the spirits.
Sassafras, Cypress & Indigo
September 1919 — Clarksdale Depot
Clarksdale appeared in pieces.
The faded platform baking under the afternoon sun, the peeling paint of the depot building, the thin haze of late summer heat floating just above the ground.
The train eased into the station with a long, mechanical sigh. A whistle sounded, a thick puff of black smoke curling upwards into the air before spreading sideways like two outstretched arms.
Annie stepped out of the train car, bag clutched so hard to her side that her knuckles blanched around the handle. The fabric of her travel dress clung to the back of her knees, the edges damp with sweat and dust from the cramped quarters of the cabin. She took a deep breath, searching, almost desperately, for fresh air. Instead, she was greeted with the smell of industry— iron rails, coal smoke, and wood.
She was a long way from New Orleans where she grew up, a place where even the shadows had their own pulse. Walking through its narrow quarters always felt like floating. Like being tipsy —and not from liquor— but from a heightened awareness. Legend had it, New Orleans was where the veil was worn thinnest. A spiritual port of sorts.
But this town felt different.
Heavier. The air, thicker.
It pressed against her collarbones where beads of sweat lingered, beneath her blouse, and onto her shoulders, settling like the grip of a firm hand.
The station was busy. New arrivals moved through, half-folded newspapers and worn suitcases in hand. Men in work shirts and suspenders stood in small clusters by a stack of crates, women in hats and gloves speaking softly nearby. A wagon idled, its mule flicking flies away with its tail.
Annie stood in the middle of the platform for a moment, just listening. She drowned out the shuffle of old boots, the conversations around her, until she heard nothing but the quiet hum of the land. Her grandmother always said some land talked louder than people if you knew how to listen, and Annie knew better than most how to tune into the quiet language of places. But the land here didn’t just speak. It wailed with both the cries of the dead and the pain of those left on earth to witness. And the deep crimson color of the dirt reflected its sorrow.
A man sat in the corner of the train station perched on an upside-down crate, harmonica at his lips. Another stood next to him on the guitar. A third, in the middle, belted something deep and soulful. They weren’t just playing music. They were putting melody to pain.
A crowd began to gather around them, snapping their fingers and bopping their heads along. Annie listened while slowly making her way towards the waiting room, eyes darting around the scene until they landed on a man posted just outside the waiting room, one knee bent against the wall.
He was already looking at her.
His smile arrived before his words did, sunlight catching the golds on the side of his mouth.
“That’s a mighty fine dress you got on,” he said.
Annie’s eyes narrowed as they swept over him. He was tall. Broad shoulders, shirt sleeves rolled up, suspenders loose. His voice was deep, his accent thick, but his cadence was playful. And he looked just as slick as he sounded. His eyes were low under the brim of his hat, but they gleamed. Maybe from the sunlight, maybe from something more nefarious. And although they looked to be swimming with mischief, they were still sharp. Measuring.
She blinked at him slowly as she took him in. “Thank you,” she said politely.
He inclined his neck, removing the toothpick that rested between his lips. “Where you headed, sister?”
Annie looked down to the crumpled paper in her hand— a map covered in faded graphite markings. “Somewhere off of,” she squinted, “fourth street.”
“Know where you goin’?”
“Not really. No.”
The man grinned, then cleared his throat. “Head south of the railroad tracks. You’ll see a church on your left, white frame, bell lean a little. Keep walkin’. Just past the barbershop, take a left,” he said quickly, gesturing directions while he spoke.
Annie nodded. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
“Where you from?”
“Louisiana.”
His eyes swept over her. “North or South?”
”New Orleans.”
He tilted his head. “You Miss Della’s girl?”
Annie clutched her bag closer. “Who you ‘posed to be?”
The man grinned wider, then put the toothpick back in his mouth. “Name’s Stack.” He pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. Then he grabbed her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. “Your aunt sent me to get you. You Annie right?”
Annie nodded once, the warmth of his lips still lingering on her skin. “Nice to meet you, Stack,” she said looking around. “How you know her?”
“Everybody know everybody ‘round here. But your aunt— she a good woman. Real good. Always looked out for me and my brother. Known her since we was kids.”
“Oh,” she replied. “You right about that. She’s a really good woman.”
Stack stepped closer. “You’ll come to find out…” he said, voice dropping low. “I ain’t wrong about much.”
Annie blinked. “Mhmm.”
Stack glanced towards the bag on Annie’s shoulder as she readjusted it. “You got a trunk too?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “You make it up here alright?”
Annie looked down at herself, then back up. “Part of me missin’?”
Stack chuckled softly, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks. “Any trouble?”
“Ain’t no trouble I can’t handle myself.”
“Mhmm,” Stack hummed. “Well…” he said, taking Annie’s bag off her shoulders. “I guess we best be on our way then.”
The sun sat high in the sky, the sweltering afternoon heat beating down on the landscape. Stack and Annie walked in stride, dirt softening the sound of their footsteps as they got closer to a line of cars.
Annie looked beyond the depot towards the town that stretched just beyond them. A few streets branched out from the tracks, lined with wooden storefronts and dusty sidewalks. Wagons rolled slowly through the streets. Somewhere, a hammer struck metal with a steady rhythm. But beneath the ordinary sounds of small town life, that hum still reverberated.
Stack looked over to her, following her gaze. “Different from home?”
“Yeah.”
They approached a truck parked crooked like it had arrived in haste.
“This me,” Stack said, opening the passenger door and loading Annie’s things into the backseat.
The engine rattled to life as they settled into the car. Annie looked around curiously as they rolled through town. A woman hunched over a washbasin. A man stalled mid-swing of his hammer, straightened, then politely nodded at Stack. A wagon rutted by, slinging mud off the wheel spokes. Children played hopscotch on the street, stopping to whisper to each other as cars drove by. The smell of coal and steam began to fade into something more familiar. Something fried, something smoky, and something sweet.
“So, Annie,” Stack started, driving past the church on the corner. “What brings you to Mississippi? Girl like you get lost in a big city like New Orleans?”
“My grandmother sent me up here to help my aunt with the boarding house,” she replied.
Stack grunted. “For how long?”
Annie shrugged. “A while.”
Stack’s eyebrows wiggled, but he didn’t push further. “Well, welcome to Clarksdale, Miss….”
“Royal,” she said slowly. “Annie Royal.”
“Well, Miss Royal…Miss Della been waitin’ on you,” he said. “Talked ‘bout you every damn day.”
“That so?”
“Mhmm,” Stack hummed. “Said you should be ‘bout as tall as a cypress tree. Like your mama. And just as stubborn.”
Annie’s lip twitched slightly. “She would say somethin’ like that.”
“She was right ‘bout the first thing. I guess we’ll see about the second.”
“I guess so,” she hummed.
Stack turned down a narrow street with small homes stacked next to each other and trees that lined the dirt sidewalks. Aunt Della’s house sat at the end, a faded yellow shotgun with white shutters and delicate lace curtains that covered the windows. Chatter drifted from open windows, the cluck of roosters competing with the screech of cicadas from trees that shaded the clapboard siding. The screen door was already cracked, the smell of cornbread and beans drifting onto the porch, rich, warm and welcoming.
The inside of the house was cooler than the yard. The large windows in the front parlor let in a substantial amount of light, the lace curtains that dressed them breathing faintly from the occasional breeze. Aunt Della sat on the couch, legs angled towards the door like she was waiting on this very moment. Her body was slender and frail, but her gaze was sharp. Her eyes softened though, when they landed on Annie. She stood quickly, crossing the room to bring her into an embrace.
“Annie,” she said softly. Her voice was smooth, like a warmed honeycomb drizzled over fluffy cornbread.
“Tante-t,” Annie replied, letting out a sigh of relief. They hugged each other tightly, swaying side to side in each other’s arms. Aunt Della touched Annie’s chin lightly, tilting her face towards the light that seeped through the windows. Annie could see the streaks of silver at her temples, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the intensity of her eyes. They were dark but luminous, like riverwater at night when the moon reflects off it just right.
“I’m so glad you here,” she said gently.
Aunt Della pulled back, then looked over to Stack who stood next to Annie with a sly grin on his face. “Elias,” she said warmly.
Stack reached in for a hug, “Miss Dee.”
She cupped his cheek. “Thank you for bringin’ my baby home safely.”
“Anytime, Miss Dee,” Stack said, grinning.
Aunt Della motioned for them both to sit.
“How was the train?”
Annie exhaled sharply. “Cramped. Dirty. Stank.”
Stack whistled low, resting his arms above the back of the couch.
“At least you made it in one piece. You should get some rest today. Tomorrow we’ll go into town.”
“I can show her ‘round,” Stack cut in.
“Boy please, you ain’t gon’ show her nothin’ but trouble.”
Stack’s eyes widened, fingers splayed across his chest in faux outrage. “Damn, Miss Dee. Thought we was better than that.”
Annie’s eyes flicked between the pair curiously.
“I’ll bring the trunk in,” Stack said, standing to his feet.
“Set it by the stairs,” Aunt Della said without turning. “And tell your brother I’d like to see him before sundown this time.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, Annie. Miss Dee,” Stack said, tipping his hat as he made his exit. The soft thud of the screen door fitting into its frame was loud in the quiet of the front room.
“Hungry?” Aunt Della asked.
“Starving.”
“Come on,” Aunt Della said, turning on her heel towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you somethin’ to eat.”
The two ladies moved towards the back of the house where the kitchen stood. It was big, large enough to feed a house of hungry boarders, but small enough to still feel intimate. Light flooded in from the large window that faced the backyard, throwing pools of golden warmth on the floorboards that were scrubbed smooth, worn by years of foot traffic. A long wooden table sat in the middle surrounded by mismatched chairs. Annie took a seat while Aunt Della made her way to the stove.
“This house been standin’ since ‘79,” Aunt Della said. “Seen floods. Sickness. Seen boys leave for war and return as men.”
She took the lid off the cast-iron pot. The smell of slow-cooked meat filled the air, along with the thick, dark, glossy aroma of red beans. The feeling struck Annie’s chest like a memory.
“You been here that long?” Annie asked.
“Just about,” Aunt Della replied. “Your uncle worked them fields ‘til his body damn near broke. Saved just enough before the union troops pulled out. Peckerwoods tried to take it from him.”
“What happened?”
“They used to come ‘round. Tried to set fire to the place a few times.”
“And?”
Aunt Della exhaled while she stirred. “They crops started dryin’ up. Cattle got sick.”
Annie’s eyebrows rose. “They still ‘round here?”
Aunt Della shrugged her shoulders. “Last I heard…they went west. Ain’t had no problems since.”
“That so?”
Aunt Della turned, looked Annie over once, then turned right back to the pot.
“You cook?” Aunt Della asked.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Good. You’ll help with breakfast and supper.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Aunt Della’s mouth curved just slightly. “Don’t ma’am me,” she said, pulling Annie into her chest. “You family.”
She plated Annie’s meal with care— stewed catfish with peppers, onions, and okra, and a wedge of buttery sweet cornbread, all ladled over a bed of rice and andouille sausage.
“Eat,” Aunt Della ordered, pushing the plate towards her niece.
Annie picked up her fork and brought a scoop of food to her mouth. The smells flooded her nose and warmth spread slowly through her belly. And not just from the spice, but from the sense of familiarity. She took a bite and her eyes rolled shut. “Taste like home,” she said quietly.
“You thought I forgot?” Aunt Della asked, eyebrows lifted. “Bayou don’t leave your blood.”
Aunt Della sipped from a mug of tea as she watched her niece with steady eyes.
“You miss it yet?” Aunt Della asked.
Annie considered the question. “Kinda,” she answered finally. “I miss mama. Miss daddy. I even miss my brothers. But I don’t think I’m meant to go back for a while,” she replied.
Aunt Della studied her over the rim of her mug. “No,” she said softly. “Not for a while.”
Through bites and sips, they talked about the train ride. About family. About New Orleans. Once Annie was finished, they both rose and ascended towards the front parlor, belly full and eyes low.
“Come on,” she said as they walked towards the staircase. “Lemme show you ‘round.”
“Your room is here, in the front. Mine is in the back. Down the hall you have the wash room, and the rest of these rooms belong to boarders. Most of them work for the railroads or the sawmill. Some of them just passin’ through. I ain’t had any problems but if you do— you make sure you let me know. If any of them even look at you wrong or make you uncomfortable— I’ll have my boys take care of ‘em.”
“Your boys?” Annie asked.
“The Moore twins,” she replied, grinning slyly. “You met one of them earlier.”
Annie’s eyebrows raised. “Ah! Stack.”
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
Annie nodded. Aunt Della quieted, drawing closer to her, the floorboards groaning faintly underneath her steps. “You look so much like your mother,” she said, fitting a loose tendril behind her ear. “You know, back in the day, she had the whole Treme in a trance. She’d walk down to the docks with your daddy’s lunch. Every man within a mile couldn’t help but watch her walk.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm,” Aunt Della hummed. “She was like a siren, that woman. Your daddy stayed pullin’ her skirts.”
“He still do,” Annie said incredulously. “Bless his heart.”
Aunt Della chuckled lightly. “Unpack,” she continued. “Get rest. Supper bell ring at six. And tonight,” she said, “tonight you gon’ take you a bath. Wash this travel off you proper.”
Annie nodded once, hearing the echo of her grandmother in her great-aunt’s words.
Night baths pull things off the body that day washes can’t touch.
“You feel it yet?” Aunt Della asked suddenly.
Annie’s head rose slowly. “Feel what?”
“This place.”
Annie looked around the room. It was quaint. An iron-frame bed sat in the corner, a low wooden table by its side. A single window faced the house next door, shaded only by the branches of a magnolia tree. She looked out the window. At the rows of houses beyond the yard. At the setting sun that burned honey-gold onto the horizon.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s heavy.”
“Heaviness ain’t always bad,” Aunt Della started. “Some soil heavy ‘cause it rich.”
Annie’s lip curved up slightly. “Sound just like grandma.”
A beat passed.
“She always say– you see a glass half full, you take. Half empty, you gon’ pour into it.”
Aunt Della took a step closer. “Be careful not to pour too much.”
Annie walked to the window, her fingertips brushing the sill. A breeze blew in, carrying with it a faint smell of rock salt. The lace curtains whispered against the pane.
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
“You can arrange it how you like in here,” Aunt Della said finally, changing the subject. “Long as you don’t burn my floors.”
Annie smiled faintly. “I won’t.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Aunt Della said, closing the door behind her.
The brightness of the afternoon sky had begun to fade, the colors of sunset blooming across the horizon like a bruise. Annie sighed as she sat on the bed, fiddling with the Ileke beads that laid tucked under the neckline of her dress.
Fatigue set deep in her bones, exhaustion spreading through her body as it sank further into the mattress, begging for rest. Once she laid her head back onto the pillow and closed her eyes, sleep pulled her under almost immediately.
The colors of nighttime had swallowed the sun, deepening shades of black shadowing the corners of the tiny room like an obsidian veil. Stripes of silver bled through the windows, little slivers of light the moon felt like handing over that night. Annie woke up with the taste of saltwater on her lips. Her eyes blinked open to the darkness, her ears greeted with the rhythmic chirp of crickets and the low moan of a guitar from somewhere down the street. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, the floor creaking under her footsteps. She grabbed a nightgown and made her way into the hallway, drawn towards the sounds of hushed conversation floating upwards from the parlor. Warm light drifted from downstairs, along with the smell of cigarette smoke and something heavier, with a little more bite. The house was quieter now, settling into the steady rhythm of the evening.
Downstairs, Aunt Della sat on the couch, head thrown back in laughter, enjoying the company of two men — one seated in the chair across from her, one leaning against the wall. They turned to look at Annie as she walked down the steps.
”Annie,” Aunt Della said warmly. “You get some rest suga?"
“Yes,” Annie said, looking over at the men, nodding politely. “I think I’m ready for that bath, auntie.”
Della’s eyes lit up. “That bath is ready for you,” she said, standing to her feet.
They walked together through the house and out the door leading to the backyard lean-to. Inside sat a large galvanized tub, filled with steaming hot water. Aunt Della knelt down beside it. She crushed rosemary between her firm fingers, scattered epsom salts that sat on the surface like little white stars before dissolving into the warmth, and crushed bay, the dark, fragrant leaves floating around the edges.
“To make sure nothin’ took the journey with you,” Aunt Della murmured as she stood up. “Take your time, baby,” she said simply. She closed the door with a wink, leaving her to it.
Annie undressed slowly. She peeled off her dress, the cotton still clinging to the faint layer of sweat on her chest. Her slip went next, falling into a pile on the floor. She dipped a toe in to test the temperature, then stepped in— fully submerging herself into the water. The heat climbed her calves, thighs and hips, an exhale escaping her mouth as it wrapped around her. It coaxed something open in her chest she hadn’t realized was tight. She tilted her head back, letting the warmth wash over her scalp. Her hair was styled in two thick French braids that she undid quickly, her nimble fingers working to detangle the tight coils that fell to the middle of her back.
Annie lathered a rag with soap, then took to scrubbing off the memory of her journey. The rough fabric glided over her arms, stomach, toes, and legs, the fragrant aromas of lavender and lye filled the confinement of the lean-to. She dipped her fingers beneath the surface of the water and rinsed it slowly over her shoulders, the warmth sliding down her spine in warm ribbons. When she was finished she sat upright in the tub, knees pressed to her chest.
A few minutes of silence passed. The only sounds — the gentle trickle of water as she adjusted herself and the nighttime lullaby of nature.
As she relaxed back, legs extending outwards, head resting against the rim, a hum slipped through her lips. Not loudly, just enough for her to feel her vocal cords vibrate in her chest. A low note joined a softer one as she hummed a melody from memory. One her grandmother used to sing when hanging herbs up to dry.
The surface of the bath trembled faintly, the water shivering in thin rings, spreading outward until they brushed the sides of the tub. Outside, something in the yard rustled, the wind chime on the front porch giving a faint, fluted sound.
Annie closed her eyes, the warm water loosening the tension in her muscles. She stayed just like that, enjoying the moment, indulging in it.
Twenty minutes had gone by before she opened her eyes again, the bathwater now lukewarm and cooling. It streamed down her limbs as she stood, bits of rosemary and bay leaf clinging to her skin before falling back into the tub. Annie dried off slowly, rubbing herself down with shea butter and oils before she slipped into her nightgown. She sauntered back into the house, water still dripping from the damp hair hanging loosely over her shoulder.
The house was quiet now, the oil lamps of the parlor long extinguished. A single candle lit a path through the home, the low embers of the wood stove crackling softly as she tiptoed through the kitchen. Her nightgown melded to her body, the steam heat of the bath still clinging to her skin. She followed the dim light, stopping in her tracks when she heard the slow groan of porch boards. She paused long enough to hear voices, low and muffled, drifting in from the other side of the front door.
She padded to the front window, looking through the lace curtains that hung over them, the fabric thin enough to see through if she stood close. She peeked through it to find three figures standing on the porch boards, their shapes cut in silver by the pale wash of the moon.
Aunt Della sat in her rocking chair, moving back and forth slowly as if the gentle rhythm helped her listen better.
Stack, the man who drove her from the train station earlier, leaned against the porch rail like he owned the night. His arms swung loose as he spoke, his mouth moving faster than his hands as he gestured animatedly.
She looked to the right. Stack’s twin stood just beside him. Back straight, hat low, arms folded in front of him. Moonlight caught the edges of his face, hitting the curve of his cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the strength of his jaw. She stood there for a moment, studying him longer than she meant to, eyes fixated on the downturn of his mouth, the deep set of his eyes, the slight furrow in his brow, his energy.
Where Stack’s spirit felt restless, his twin’s held a different type of unease.
Annie leaned closer to the window, the curtain brushing softly against the swell of her cheek. She lifted her hand, the fabric whispering against her skin as her fingers gently pushed it aside just enough to clear her view.
Outside, Stack laughed at something Aunt Della said, but his twin didn’t.
Smoke stood on the porch between Stack and Miss Della, his eyes following their conversation better than his mind was. He took a drag of his cigarette, letting the tobacco blend fill his lungs.
Six months had passed since they stepped back into Clarksdale like they never left, him and his brother quickly reminding people of their reputation. He was always the quiet one, the brooder, the one with fire in his eyes and heaviness on his shoulders. The one whose presence suffocated a space. That’s why they called him Smoke.
So when he felt the air shift, his eyes naturally drifted towards it.
The house stood quietly behind them. The curtains hung motionless inside the front window, the whiteness of the lace shimmering against the darkness of the room beyond them. From the porch, the glass reflected the night sky more than the house itself. Smoke couldn’t see inside, and yet…
He straightened slightly and took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze still set on the thick glass. It was fogged at the edges, warped slightly from age. Stack and Miss Della’s conversation carried on around him, but Smoke wasn’t listening. He was trying to make out the shape of something— the ghost of an outline beyond the pane, a shift in darkness behind the curtain.
Inside, Annie watched him, their eyes drawn to each other through the thin veil of fabric.
Or at least that’s how she felt.
He didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. He just…looked. His eyes were more hooded than Stack’s. Dark with a heat behind them, like smoldering embers. He shifted where he stood, lifting his head just enough that moonlight hit his eyes, making his irises glow faintly. Annie’s breath hitched. Her thighs, still slightly damp from the bathwater, pressed together instinctively.
Everything else fell away, the moment narrowing to just the space between them. The crickets, the wind chime that trembled again with the night breeze, Stack and Aunt Della’s voices, all faded slowly into the background.
The moment stretched, their eyes holding for three seconds, five seconds, ten.
Annie hadn’t even realized she’d started to take a step back until the back of her leg bumped a sitting chair. She stumbled slightly, her hand trembling as she gripped the curtain. She exhaled shakily, putting her other hand over her chest as she recovered her balance. When she looked back out the window, his eyes held an intensity that made her gasp.
Smoke noticed it all from the porch. He was never one to give much away, his eyes narrowing only slightly at the soft flutter of the lace.
But for a moment longer, through thread, shadow, and moonlight, they let whatever was drawing them forward, keep them there.
Annie backed away first. She turned, tiptoeing up the stairs carefully. When she shut her bedroom door behind her, she could still hear the faint murmur of voices on the porch. And when she finally closed her eyes, the quilt pulled loose over her body, she could still see the steady darkness of his eyes behind the lace.
Stack clapped Smoke on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “We best get goin’.”
Smoke nodded, his eyes drifting once more towards the window before they turned to leave. But as he walked down the steps, his thoughts couldn’t help but to drift. To the quietness of the house. To the porch that settled back into silence as Miss Della stepped back inside. To the quiet certainty that someone had been there.
i absolutely love watching this fandom breathe life back into Valko. every fic, every piece of art, every tiny headcanon passed from one person to another.
there’s something really beautiful about a community deciding that a story isn’t over just because someone else said it was.
izzy806
theartofmadeline
vaporwave
andulkaphoto
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
tangentwithtanner
