CAFÈ AU SUCRE ROUX

The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots. 

It was late. 

The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover. 

Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.

Something was on Aunt Della’s mind. 

Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.

Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.” 

There it was. 

Annie looked up.

Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.

Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why. 

“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.

Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm. 

“You like him?” 

Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.

“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.

Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.

Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded. 

“Yes you do,” she answered back. 

Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking. 

But she was so young. Barely 18. 

She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.

It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son. 

She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.

The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.

Elijah and Elias.

She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry. 

She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece. 

She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.” 

A moment passed. Then two. 

Aware. 

That’s how Annie felt when he was around.

Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound. 

Loose.

Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things. 

But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.

Seen.

She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.

She tried a different angle.  “He good to you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard. 

“Respectful?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He pressure you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”

Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”

Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You intact?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.

“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off. 

It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too. 

“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.

Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious. 

Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.

Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”

Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.

“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”

Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?” 

“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.

“The truth do just fine.”

Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles. 

“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.

“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.

“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.

Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”

Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood. 

She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?” 

The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.

Annie blinked. “Ma’am?” 

“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?” 

Annie blinked twice this time.

All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen. 

Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once. 

Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way. 

She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home. 

But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.

She kept getting four when she added two and two together.

But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.

“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.” 

Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently. 

Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”

The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”

Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”

The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip. 

The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it. 

“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.

“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.” 

Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.” 

The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”

Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm. 

“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.

“Goodnight, Annie.” 

Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.

The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon. 

Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.

The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say. 

Two questions came to mind. 

What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her? 

What made her change her mind?

It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment. 

Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note. 

Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids. 

She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night. 

Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin. 

Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.

That was hers. 

Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.

The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination. 

She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.

The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation. 

An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.

Then he was gone. 

All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside.  No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.

She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.

The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day. 

“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.

The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.” 

“I been sleep this whole time?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…” 

“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back. 

Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.

One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.

Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.

“So you gon’ tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”

Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.

“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.

Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip. 

“What about her?”

Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”

The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation. 

“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.

“About?”

Smoke didn’t reply.

Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”

Smoke shot him a look. 

Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?” 

It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times. 

“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady. 

Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”

“That’s right.” 

“This ‘bout my girl?”

“It is.”

Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.

“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.” 

“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms. 

Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.

“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.

“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”

Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to.”

“I will. Wanted to ask you first.” 

She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”

“I don’t do half.”

Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”

“She did.”

“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”

“I won’t,” Smoke replied. 

Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room. 

Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper. 

Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.

“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“How much?” 

“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.” 

Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”

“I am,” he said with finality. 

Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.

“Still seein’ other women?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Ain’t what I heard.”

Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.

“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.” 

Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”

“It ain’t?”

“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.” 

“Then why they still talkin’?”

Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.” 

Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.

Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.

Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously. 

“That’s on me,” Smoke said, jaw tight. “But I’ma handle it.” 

“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?” 

“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.” 

“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.” 

Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Della started. 

“Miss Della—” he started. 

She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.” 

Della sighed. “Alright.” 

Smoke’s face relaxed. 

“There’s rules.”

“Okay.” 

“Handle that business, first.” 

“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.

Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?” 

He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted. 

She didn’t flinch. “That it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him. 

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”

“Can I leave this for her?”

Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.

“What is it?”

His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”

“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.

Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”

“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet. 

Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat. 

Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields. 

Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt. 

Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.

Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.

Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.

Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied. 

Memphis appeared thirty minutes later. 

The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise. 

There was a lightness here. 

But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.

“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.

“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. 

“Whatever it is.” 

Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”

Smoke waited.

He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”

Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”

Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”

Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly. 

“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.” 

“Who, Annie?”

Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”  

“Nigga.”

Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by. 

“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…” 

“Aight….” Smoke mumbled. 

“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street. 

“You know she good for you, right?” 

Smoke’s eyes cut over. 

Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.

“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.” 

Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.” 

Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”

Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.

They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper. 

Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”

Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”

“Nervous?”

Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”

The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.

“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.

The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.

“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up. 

“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her. 

“You ‘bout to find out.”

The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”

Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze. 

Then the daylight. 

Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers. 

Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.

More shelves.

Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things. 

Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish. 

“This where we gon’ start.”

Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”

“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.” 

She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.” 

Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her. 

She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing. 

Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said. 

“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”

She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”

Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.

Aunt Della gave her a look.

“Not sage,” Annie winced.

Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”

Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.

“You askin’ or tellin’?” 

“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.

Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”

Annie smiled despite herself. 

“What’s it for?”

“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.” 

Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the  jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.”  She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.” 

She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”

They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.

“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You was.” 

Annie huffed softly, frustrated. 

“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”

Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.

“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted. 

Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands. 

“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.” 

Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.

The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind. 

There was no wind down here.

Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs. 

Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly. 

“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.

“Not today.”

“Really?”

“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.” 

She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?” 

Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”

Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand. 

Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”

“A promise?”

“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”

Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left. 

Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”

le 31 octobre 1919

Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there. 

Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her. 

“Name it.”

Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.

She smelled first. 

Looked second. 

And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.

It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.

It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger. 

An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business. 

“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”

Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.

His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.

His hand shook suddenly on the second. 

He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.

Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm. 

He exhaled with relief. 

It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.

He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.

Annie.

He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on. 

Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.

He had to think about something safer.

Like lips or eyes.

But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?

Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.

He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.

“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—

“You good?” 

The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side. 

It was Stack. 

“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”

”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.” 

Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs. 

One Week Later…

It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.

Especially people’s relatives from up north.

There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south. 

And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing. 

That ‘Northern’ polish. 

Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun. 

Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.

She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.

Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.

Especially about the women they dealt with.

Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered. 

“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”

“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”

Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.

Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?

“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.

She looked up. 

“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket. 

“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.  

Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”

She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside. 

The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food. 

Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.

Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.

Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open. 

Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him. 

Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.

The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.

“Afternoon,” she said softly.

“Afternoon.”

“You hungry?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them. 

Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”

“Long.”

“That it?”

“Mostly.”

Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.

“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.

“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.

“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.” 

“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question. 

She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie. 

“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”

Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly. 

“Better now.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers. 

Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut. 

“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.

Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache. 

He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head. 

“You leavin’?”

Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.” 

He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.

“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.

“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.

He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”

Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment. 

Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money. 

“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!” 

“Got it,” Felicia huffed. 

The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks. 

She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out. 

—

Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away. 

Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.

When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.

The Blue Room was Coahoma County’s most popular Black supper club. Music, fine foods, good liquor, and special company. Just north of Clarksdale, it sat on a small island in Moon Lake—a crescent-moon shaped oxbow lake that curved delicately into the Mississippi River.

Smoke stood just outside the back entrance watching his truck while Stack and Della stepped inside to speak with the club’s owner, Clay. The leveled brick roads were damp with the aftermath of a sudden shower, the earthy scent of rain and exhaust smoke wafting through his nose carried by a cool October breeze. The lantern above the back door was still lit from the night before, its flame flickering in the wind like it was barely hanging on despite its thick glass cover. Smoke was leaning against the tarp covered truck, arms folded across his chest, when the back door of the club suddenly flew open. Stack stomped outside, wet leaves crunching under the steel toe of his boots. A familiar voice followed right behind him. 

“Why you can’t just be cool?” 

Smoke sighed hard, running a hand down his face. 

Mary.

The octoroon offspring of Cecily, the woman who nursed him and his brother after their mother died in childbirth and their father started drinking his earnings away. She took them in later on when his fatherhood turned into fists. 

Cecily was like family.

But Mary?

She was a pale little thing. Slender frame, pointy nose, mousy brown hair. She stepped outside into the muddy grass in just a rose-colored silk robe, a few clusters of pearls around her neck, and fire in her eyes.

“So, you can flirt with her in my face? You said—” Mary hissed.

“Keep your voice down now, Mary,” Stack’s voice boomed in the silence of the alleyway as he looked around to make sure nobody else was listening. Rain dripped slowly from the gutters onto the street. 

“I ain’t witchu. Ain’t ever gon’ be witchu. You need to get that through that thick skull a’yours sooner rather than later,” Stack snapped, pushing back through the door with a look and not another word. It slammed shut with a loud thud, leaving only the sound of an engine idling and Mary’s soft sniffles. 

She cleared her throat, swallowing the words that got stuck there. She wrapped her robe tighter around her small frame when she saw Smoke looking dead at her. His eyes were tight little beads void of any warmth as he closed the distance in the narrow alleyway behind the club. He could smell the heavy perfume that she piled on to disguise her helplessness. 

“Mary,” he said firmly. He paused, taking a second to cool the rage bubbling up inside. “Don’t make me choose between mercy and my brother. Understand?”

Mary’s bottom lip trembled. She turned on her heel to leave when Smoke grabbed her forearm. Not too harshly, just enough to stop her in her tracks.

“I said,” he repeated slowly. “Do you understand?”

A single tear fell down her right cheek. “I get it, Smoke,” she said with a trembling voice. 

He released her and she stumbled back into the club. He wiped his hand on his trousers and walked slowly back over to his truck, looking up to the windows of the next-door building to see if anyone was watching.

No eyes. 

Good. 

He was sick of running interference for Stack. Especially over a liability. His teeth ground together just thinking about it. 

His mind drifted away to a better place. Somewhere that would calm his spirit. Take the edge off. 

Annie.

His irritation cooled a little faster thinking about her. Her warmth. How light he felt around her. He could almost taste her scent on his lips when he kissed her the night before, the sweetness of her skin like a tattoo, hitting nerve endings every time he licked his lips. He’d been doing it since he left her under the magnolia tree, like a damn fiend. 

A few minutes later, Stack peeked out from the back entrance, signaling it was time to bring in Della’s wooden box of things from her cellar. Her special liquor, tonics, and special blend teas. He grabbed the box, secured the back, and cut the engine. 

The air in the supper club was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of black-eyed peas from the kitchen. Smoke stepped inside with the box, nodding at the workers and greeting the women who moved around him as he walked through the hallway behind Stack. They reached Clay’s office where Della balanced a thin cigarette holder and a slice of whiskey cake at his desk. Clay reached over to light her cigarette as he took another puff of his own. 

“Have a seat,” he gestured to the plush leather chairs in front of his office desk.

A few minutes earlier…

The whiskey cake was a sugary, buttery, boozy delight that melted in her mouth. Della carefully wiped the side of her lips with a napkin before taking another bite. 

“Congress movin’ forward with the prohibition bill,” Clay said, exhaling a puff of smoke above his head. “It’s official.”

“What they sayin’?”

“January.” 

“This good!” she mumbled between chews. 

“Ada used a spice cake this time instead of vanilla. Give it more kick.” 

“A lot more kick. She put her foot in this!” 

“Ada!” Clay yelled to the open doorway. 

“Yessir,” Ada yelled back from the kitchen.

“Bring us some more of that cake! Four more slices!” 

Clay sighed and turned in his swivel leather chair towards the window. Rain beaded slowly down the glass, the sky behind it a solemn, murky gray. 

“What vice talkin’ bout?”

“I ain’t worried about them. I’m too deep in they pockets.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Railroads. They puttin’ vice on the railroads startin’ in January.”

“Shit.” Della’s fork clinked loudly in the silence after her words.

“I was thinkin’ bout the twins. Usin’ they network. They got the North on lock. I got Memphis in my back pocket. Together, we can make a good team.” 

The doorway darkened. Stack entered first, then Smoke with Della’s box which he set in the corner by the liquor cabinet.

“What you got for me this time, Delilah?” He asked, lighting her cigarette. He stood, moving to the cabinet where he poured two fingers of whiskey in two glass tumblers and handed them to the twins. 

“Have a seat.” 

Smoke set his tumbler on the desk as he sat down. Stack took a sip of the brown liquid as he made himself comfortable in the chair next to his brother.

Ada walked in with four slices of whiskey cake on a platter and mirth in her eyes. She wore a thin blouse tucked into the tiny waist of her skirt that stopped at her knees. Her hair was pulled back with a satin headscarf folded once and tied over it. 

“Mornin’,” she cooed as she set the platter down on the office desk. She smiled politely at everyone before returning to the kitchen. Clay’s gaze followed her with heat in his eyes as she sauntered out of his office. Nobody missed it. 

Mary slinked past the ajar office door with a sad look on her face. The sound of her pearls and sharp click of her heels echoed in the hallway.

“Mary?”

Mary stopped just in the doorway looking hopeful. 

“Instead of mopin’ around here, how ‘bout you bring us some coffee?” 

She nodded at Clay, her eyes automatically falling on Stack. “Comin’ right up, sir.” 

Della cleared her throat slowly and Smoke took the opportunity to reach for some cake, and immediately dug into a slice. He closed his eyes and hummed in satisfaction at the rich taste of the whiskey, spice, and sweet glaze.

“Never took you for a sweets man, Smoke,” Clay chuckled.

“This nigga got a sweet tooth if I ever seen one,” Stack joked. “Surprised they ain’t fall out yet.”

“Still got time,” Smoke mumbled between chews. 

Mary came back with a steaming pot of coffee, four cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, and a small ceramic bowl filled with sugar cubes on a silver serving tray. Sitting the tray on the liquor bar top, she offered coffee to everyone in the room before taking her leave. 

“Shut the door behind you, Mary.” 

Mary left the room without another word.

Everyone took sips of their coffee and let the room settle before Clay finally spoke again. Smoke dumped his whiskey in his coffee. Stack did, too. And Della stirred a sugar cube in, the silver stirring spoon scraping gently against the porcelain cup in a steady rhythm. 

“I was tellin’ Delilah here, I wanna bring you two in on my operation.” 

The statement registered, then settled deep into both of them like water in dirt when it rains. Smoke’s chewing didn’t slow, but Stack could almost feel his brother’s jaw tighten over the words. “Oh yeah?” He leaned closer. “Talk to me.” 

Clay Chavis was a Black man in his 50’s. Salt and pepper coils cropped short and moisturized so well they looked shiny. Clean shaven except his sideburns—the one sentimental thing he allowed himself. 

He wasn’t born with silk pocket squares, eating whiskey cake. Maybell Plantation raised him. Reconstruction taught him possibility. Jim Crow taught him ambition. 

Hustler. Entrepreneur. Pimp. He was whatever he needed to be to get shit done. 

He saw Black folks who came out of the Civil War as politicians, illustrious statesmen, business owners. Pockets fat with real money, not that plantation scrip. 

He saw how power had changed his community for the better. 

And he’d seen it fall. 

It stirred a hunger in him that couldn’t be satiated by money alone.

So, he played their little game. Paid off racist sheriffs and crooked politicians because he could. He even had a few senators on his bankroll to look the other way. 

But deep down was a festering anger. 

So, he poured his heart into his creation: The Blue Room. The supper club and social room was his muse, his baby, his safe haven and his one true love besides Black opulence. 

The music, liquor and women may have been its heart, veins, and arteries, but he was the blood. The pulse that kept it moving.

Clay snuffed his cigar. Cleared his throat. Smoothed out his cuff links. 

“Tell me ‘bout Harlem.” 

Smoke and Stack shared a look. 

Stack spoke up first. “What about it?” 

“Long story short— they crackin’ down on the railroads. Sendin’ vice to inspect the cars.”

“Shit,” Stack sucked his teeth.

“Right,” Clay agreed.

“Pay ‘em off,” Smoke cut in. “Find ‘em, pay ‘em off. No more vice.”

“It ain’t that simple,” Clay said simply.

“It ain’t?” Smoke said incredulously. 

“What my brother tryna say is…” Stack gave Smoke a look out of the corner of his eye that said back down. “What that gotta do with us?”

“How much time you two spent in Harlem? Before the war.”

“Few years.”

“You seen how they operate up there. The mob and the mafia.”

Smoke mumbled something under his breath. He took another bite of whiskey cake. 

“Well, Chicago mob like to come down to my club every so often. Their leader some cracka who go by the name of Diamond Jim. They call him Diamond ‘cuz he like to carry a bunch of fuckin’ diamonds on him for no reason.” 

Stack snorted into his coffee. Smoke worked his way through Stack’s slice of whiskey cake. 

“Fat mufucka just walkin’ around with diamonds in his waistcoat. Shit don’t make sense.”

Aunt Della giggled and shook her head. 

“He and his wife like to talk to my girls. Don’t do nothin’ else, just talk to ‘em. They own a bunch of brothels up North,” he continued. “Town don’t like ‘em…but I do. You know why?” 

It was a rhetorical question. 

“Cuz they see green, instead of just black and white.” 

Clay continued. “See up North all the peckerwoods divided amongst themselves. Irish, Italian, Polish, Scottish—they all the same down here but up there, there’s a difference. A pecking order.” He paused, took a sip of coffee and let the heat linger on his tongue. Then he set the cup down, the saucer clinking against the mahogany office table. The sound was loud in the quiet of the room, like everybody was holding their breath waiting for the punchline.

“That gives us an opportunity.”

“And what’s that?” Smoke asked, voice flat. 

“Divide and conquer.” 

Annie didn’t realize how late it was until Luella’s assistant stepped outside to light the oil lamps.  “Oh Lord,” she murmured, blinking towards the windows.

Luella’s shop was covered in warm amber light, the colors of the evening settling over lace collars and half-finished hems while jazz crackled softly from the phonograph in the corner. Somehow between talking, laughing, and getting measured for alterations, she’d lost the entire afternoon.

Luella looked up from pinning a sleeve. “What?”

“I forgot how early the sun goes down this time of year. What time is it?”

“I know right?” Luella glanced at her pocket watch. “It’s almost five.”

“Oh shit…I gotta go.” 

Luella grinned. “Where you rushin’ off to? Meetin’ somebody?” Luella asked casually, carefully stripping her of the dress mold. Annie slipped her robe on and bent over to gather her things. 

Luella’s eyebrows lifted. “Ohhhhhh, you are!” 

“It ain’t like that,” Annie muttered, scurrying off to the washroom. 

“Mhmm.” Her voice was teasing, playful. Knowing. “I should have the shell stitched by next Monday. Can you come back Thursday to pick out accessories?”

“Yesss,” she said through the washroom curtains. “Thank you.”

She walked past shoppers and onlookers admiring sequined handbags and velvet shawls, through the narrow hallway connecting Luella’s Dressing Room and Ritzy Beauty Salon, up the stairs, and onto the sidewalk. Outside the sky had darkened into deep blue, the last pieces of sunlight caught low against the rooftops. Her feet carried her towards the boarding house quickly where the porch light was already lit. She slowed her steps as she climbed the porch stairs, opening the door with the same amount of care. 

“You finally done galivatin’?” Aunt Della said from the stove in the kitchen. She didn’t need to turn around to recognize the shape of Annie’s presence. 

Annie rolled her eyes softly. “I was at Luella’s.”

“Mhmmmm.”

Then, casually—

“Twins was here earlier.”

Something tugged low in Annie’s chest before she could stop it. “Oh.” 

“They ain’t stay long.”

Annie nodded once, setting her bag down carefully beside the stairs like she suddenly had to think about where her hands belonged. She decided to put them to work, washed up, then helped in the kitchen. Supper passed without incident, a simple meal of fried fish and spaghetti. Dessert was a drunken peach cobbler. It was around 7:30 that evening that Annie had an unexpected visitor.

“Annie, Georgia’s here!” 

Annie came out of the kitchen wiping her hands with a kitchen towel. “Hey Gigi.” 

“Annie!” 

Gigi was dressed nicely, like she was coming or going to or from town. 

“Hungry? We got leftovers I can put in the warmer.” 

“No, I already ate dinner at home.”

Annie stopped just short of her. “What’s up?” 

“Well…I was heading to the Savoy to see a play and…I wanted to see if you wanted to go.”

“Tonight?”

“Mhmm.” She looked at her watch. “In ‘bout an hour.”

Annie thought about it. 

“Oh come on! Live a little. It’ll be fun. Just go put somethin’ on real quick!”

“Okay fine,” she said already heading toward the stairs. “Gimme like 15 minutes.” 

Their steps made the stairs groan as they made their way to Annie’s room. Gigi followed right behind her, automatically going for her dresser drawers. 

“Ohh, wear this one!” 

She pulled out a royal blue dress with a white collar and trim. Annie paired it with a pair of Oxford heels and her handbag and in thirty minutes they were out the door. 

The air was that balmy type of cool, the one that sat on top of the skin. The marquee lights of the Savoy on Issaquena shone bright in the nighttime as people congregated in front of the ticket box. Annie and Gigi bought their tickets and were heading for the concession stand when two men approached them. 

Isaiah.

And the man Gigi had her eyes on during the churchyard picnic. 

Annie felt her heart drop. 

“How y’all doin’?” the man with Isaiah asked.

Isaiah kept his eyes on Annie. She could see Gigi and his friends were eying each other down. 

“We good,” Gigi answered for both of them as the concession line moved forward. 

“I’m Will, this is Isaiah.”

“I’m Gigi, this is Annie.” 

“Nice to meet you, Annie.” Will said first.

“Yeah, nice to meet you Annie,” Isaiah said, holding his hand out. 

His voice was deep. So deep she could feel the bass deep in her chest like a vibration. She shook his hand politely. “Nice to meet you, Isaiah.”

“Where you from?” 

“Louisiana.” 

“Ah okay. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Yeah…” she trailed off. “I figured that much.”

Isaiah smirked. “You been here a while?”

“‘Bout a month,” she replied, trying to look around discreetly.

Isaiah blinked. “You lookin’ for somebody?”

Annie frowned. “Nah, it’s just—this my first time here.” She recovered quickly, rubbing her arm as a distraction. 

She looked over at Gigi who was fully enthralled in conversation with Will. This little heifa planned this. She looked way too comfortable with Will for somebody who didn’t even know his name yesterday. Annie made a mental note to bring it up later. She wasn’t slick at all trying to set her up and make it look like a coincidence. 

The play was a series of skits. It was filled with romance, drama, comedy, even a murder mystery. 

They were sandwiched between the two men, with Gigi resting her head on Will’s shoulder while Annie sat stiff in her chair feeling Isaiah’s eyes burn holes through her during the show.  

During intermission he caught her coming back from the washroom. 

“You want some more popcorn?” 

“I’m all good.”

“Somethin’ to drink then?”

She almost said no. But then she looked at his face and relaxed hers. “I could use a milkshake.” 

Isaiah’s face softened, and when his teeth were revealed between his parting lips she saw a peek of gold at the bottom. 

The rest of the night went surprisingly smooth. Annie and Isaiah whispered amongst themselves while Gigi and Will disappeared until halfway through the second part of the show when they snuck in the back row. She learned Isaiah was originally from Bogalusa. He worked for the sawmill there until the labor strike in August of this year, then hightailed it to Clarksdale to work for the railroad. 

“I knew I heard a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ in your voice,” Annie remarked. “A lil’ Louisiana in there.” 

Isaiah chuckled low. “Did you like the show?” He asked Annie as they walked up to meet a very bashful looking Gigi and Will. 

“Yeah, I did,” she sighed satisfactorily. “I’m glad I came out tonight.”

Isaiah paused. “You should let me take you out sometime. Just us.” 

Annie hesitated a little. Isaiah caught it.

“Just think about it,” he reassured her.

Annie nodded. “I’ll think about it,” she said genuinely. 

“I stay at the Yellow Dog rooming house.”

“Okay.”

She had no idea what or where that was.

“It’s the only yellow one,” he said with a smile. “Right by the tracks.” 

“Got it,” she said. 

Annie smiled politely. Isaiah was handsome. Nice. Engaging. But he just wasn’t…

“Well,” Gigi started, linking her arm with Annie’s and damn near dragged her away from the front of the theater. “It was nice seein’ y’all. We gotta go. Yall have a good night!” 

She waited until they were far enough from Will and Isaiah so they couldn’t hear their whispers. Annie snatched her arm away from Gigi. “Girl don’t be draggin’ me? Why the hell you runnin’ away from that man?” 

“I never wanna see him again,” she declared as they hurried down the street. 

“Why? I thought you liked him the way y'all were all over each other.” 

“His feet.”

Annie blinked. “What?”

“His feet stink,” she repeated slowly.

“I heard what you said. I’m just tryna understand how you saw his feet on the first date.”

“When we came back from gettin’ food,” she started. Annie narrowed her eyes. “Anyway, when we came back the ushers only allowed us in the back row.”

Annie crossed her arms under her chest, curious as to where this was going. “Uh-huh.”

“And he said he wanted to take his shoes off. Let his feet breathe a little.”

“And they smelled like shit,” Annie finished for her.

“Almost burned my nose hairs off.”

Annie snorted. “Nose hairs?”

“Almost became a casualty of an atomic bomb.” 

Annie laughed quietly. A mix of amusement and disbelief. “Lord…”

“I’m serious.”

“I believe you. The way you got us up outta there, I knew somethin’ went wrong.” 

They had reached Aunt Della’s house by then, the chirp of crickets carried by the wind over the rooftops. 

“Seems like you and Isaiah hit it off.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. He asked to take me out.”

“And you said yes, right?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I said maybe.”

“Mayb—,” she sighed hard. “We'll talk about this later. Lemme get out of here before it gets too late.” 

“You sure you don’t wanna stay? Walk back when it’s light out?”

“I'm on the next street over.”

“Well, don’t make any stops on the way.” She looked Gigi up and down. Gigi just rolled her eyes.

She turned to leave then turned back for a second while Annie idled in the doorway. Her voice sounded genuine, warmer than it had since she met her. Even a bit grateful. “Thanks for comin’ out with me.” 

Annie smiled warmly. “Night, Gigi.”

“Night, Louisiana!” she threw over her shoulder as she skipped down the road. Annie watched her until she was out of sight. 

The next day, Smoke came over to fix the wire on the backyard fence so the chickens couldn’t escape. He stood in the backyard in a wife beater and a pair of trousers that hung loose on his hips. Suspenders not suspending a damn thing. Annie clutched her ileke beads. Lord forgive me, but that man look unfair, she thought to herself as she discreetly watched him through the back window. She shook her head. 

Earlier that day she had been collecting eggs from the chicken coop at five somethin’ in the morning when Smoke scared the shit out of her, appearing from the backyard mist like the hero in a romance novel appears from the shadows.

She gasped when she saw him through the morning fog. Loudly. Her breath fogged the air in front of her. 

Smoke looked genuinely amused. “What was all that shit you was talkin’ the other day? I can’t…what?” 

“Shut up!” she snapped, but her words held no bite. 

They went about their work, sneaking little glances at each other out of the corner of their eyes. 

“How you feelin’?” Smoke asked. 

Annie sighed. “Tired as hell.” 

“Up late?”

“Out late.” 

Smoke’s ears perked up, his jaw tightening. “Doin’ what?” 

Annie smirked at his concern. “I went to the Savoy with Gigi,” she started. “This girl I met at church the other day.” 

“How was it?” 

“Good,” she replied quickly. 

Smoke grunted.

“You good over there?” she teased. 

Smoke grunted a very distracted “mhmm” while tightening a piece of wire with a pair of pliers. 

Two days later she waltzed through the front door of Luella’s to browse accessories to match her Harvest Party dress. She felt him before she saw him. He was across the street at the barbershop again, those same eyes piercing through the store window. 

By Friday he was back at Aunt Della’s when she got home from work. This time with Stack. They were reattaching the tin roof to the top of the shed in the back.

She was gonna let them work, but she decided to bring out a pitcher of ice water and two sandwiches. 

“Hungry?”

“Hell yeah!” Stack said eagerly taking one of the sandwiches from Annie's outstretched hand.

Smoke wrapped his arms around her before grabbing a sandwich and pulling the wax paper back from the top to take a bite. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Stack looked at Smoke. Then he slowly looked over to Annie.

He decided to keep his mouth shut.

This time.

Sunday night they were underneath the magnolia tree again. Annie with her sheets of paper, Smoke with his pipe, puffing circles into the air. They talked about friends. The past. Occasionally, their conversation hit somewhere deeper than expected. 

Smoke talked about the day he realized the war had become part of his bone marrow.

September 30th, 1918. Séchault, France. 

His regiment was occupying a small town by the ocean. They had run the Germans out. Bombed their strongholds and blown parts of the French countryside to pieces.

Then there were the trenches. The noise. Taking cover while the world exploded around him. The ringing in his ears that felt like a strong vibration reaching far into the depths of his soul.

He had gotten up early that morning to walk along the boardwalk like he always did. It helped clear his mind.

It was peaceful by the water. As peaceful as wartime occupation could be. He even saw a few kids playing with seashells by the shore.

At first, he thought it was just a shiver. A result of the cool air that came off in waves from the Atlantic. But by the time he got to the mess hall his hands were still shaking. 

Annie talked about her family. All six siblings, even the one who died in the war. How she was the youngest and he was the one she was closest to. How she says a prayer for his soul every morning and night, knowing his spirit isn’t settled on that foreign land. 

That night ended with another kiss. This one was longer, more exploratory. Their tongues met and did a short dance before they pulled away from each other. 

By the following week, he was asking about her work schedule. He’d show up to drop her home if she worked past sunset and come sit with her if he was in town and business was slow. 

Lunch rush. Business was steady. Smoke was sitting at the bartop with a catfish sandwich in his hands and crumbs all over his mouth watching Annie refill coffee and yell out orders. 

“I made the catfish batter today,” Annie said proudly. 

“Mhmm,” he said between bites, “this shit good too.” 

Annie clicked her tongue. “I know.” 

“Y’all got anything sweet?”

“Apple pie.”

“It’s decent?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Lemme get two slices.” A beat. “And some ice cream.” 

They spent weeks getting pulled into each other’s orbit and accidentally falling into a routine. A missed connection turned into a budding bond. A magnetism. A tether that lived behind the ribs like a slow, settling ache. Two people quietly becoming important to each other before either of them fully realized it.

Annie’s hair was currently a giant halo of ebony coils that reached up to heaven. It had been washed, stretched, and air dried, and now she sat between Aunt Della’s legs on the steps of the front porch as she separated it into sections and oiled her scalp. The cool feeling of almond oil hit the sensitive skin on her head, and she relaxed back until she was leaning against her aunt’s thighs.

“Don’t fall asleep yet. I ain’t even got the first row braided,” Aunt Della warned. 

Felix leaped from the porch railing to the space next to where she was sitting. She stroked his back and listened to him purr under her touch. He curled his body up and laid under her hand like a velvety loaf of bread. 

“You just want straight backs?”

“Yes, please.”

It was early evening, the golden sky being swallowed by the purple shadows of nighttime. Porch lights started to flicker on as folks moved from the supper table to the porch. Annie felt herself drifting off as Aunt Della swiped a bead of hair grease from the back of her hand and put it on her scalp as she started her first cornrow. 

“I remember when you were younger, you used to fall asleep every time ya mama put some braids in your head.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm. Sure fire way to get you to stay still, though.” 

Annie sighed deeply. “I hope she got my letter.”

“I know she did. Loretta’s good at what she does.” 

“I hope so.”

“I know so.” 

Annie yawned where she sat and a shiver went down her spine from the sudden breeze that made goosebumps form on her arms. “Ooh!” she exclaimed. “Got cold all of a sudden.” 

“Almanac said it’s gonna be our coldest winter yet.”

“How cold?”

“They forecastin’ snow this year. As early as Thanksgiving.”

“Guess I’ma need a heavier coat, then.”

“We can go to the 1 & 5 cent store next week. See what they have. If they don’t have anything, we can order one from the Chow’s.”

“What about Luella?”

“She only do fancy stuff. Big furs, stuff with sequins. You want somethin’ practical.” 

“She said she’d make my harvest party dress without charging me extra.”

“What y’all decide on?”

“A flapper dress with sequins on it. She even givin’ me a handbag, some shoes, and a thin little coat to wear over it with furry trim.” 

Aunt Della hummed. “How you doin’ your hair?”

“She said I should straighten it out, then curl it, and pin the curls into a bob.”

“That’d be nice.”

“I wanna do a red lip too, since the dress is dark green. Almost black.” 

“Look at you all excited. Aren’t you happy I convinced you to go?”

“Yes ma’am.” Annie grinned and ran her hand over Felix’s coat. She’d only been in Clarksdale a month and a half and already felt like she was starting to find some sort of community for herself within the town. 

But something was still missing. 

“I wanna get back to practicin’,” Annie said suddenly.

Aunt Della had finished her first cornrow by then, and paused as she was parting her hair to start the next one.  “Practicin’ how?”

“I wanna start mixin’ teas and makin’ tonics again,” she lamented. “Like I was learnin’ to at grandma’s shop.”

Then, a little quieter. “I feel disconnected from her. From them.” 

“You been doin’ your prayers? Your rituals? You shouldn’t feel disconnected, baby.”

“I have, but I do. I wanna…make things. Help people. Not just myself.” 

Aunt Della swallowed hard. She hadn’t yet shown Annie the underground storage where she spent time while everybody else slept. But maybe now it was time. She sighed into her words. “We’ll start lessons Monday,” she said simply. “First thing after we send the men off, just after breakfast.” 

Annie rubbed her great-aunt’s bony knee and whispered, “Thank you.” 

“Word of warning though,” Aunt Della continued. “I might be ya grandmother’s sister, but…I ain’t her.”

“What you mean by that?” Annie’s face twisted up. 

“The way I teach is a little…unconventional.”

Annie blinked. “You do left hand work?” she whispered.

“I do what works for me, sugar.”

“Oh…okay.” 

“But I’ll only teach you what you comfortable with, and how to send back what you ain’t.” 

“I ain’t got no problem with that.” 

“Good.” Aunt Della smirked a little and continued her braids. Another breeze blew by, bringing with it the warm scent of impending rain. “Let’s go inside. Storm about to come.” 

“Come on Felix,” she picked up the tuxedo cat from its place on the steps. “Inside m’piti.” 

Annie sat comfortably on a pillow on the floor as Aunt Della resumed her braiding. “Auntie?”

Aunt Della hummed.

“Who taught you that…left hand work?”

She breathed deeply, like she was choosing her words carefully. “My mama. Your great-grandmother.”

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She was born a slave. Separated from her mama as a baby. Raped by the massa, his wife, and his son.”

Aunt Della took a moment to collect herself. 

“One day she went to a woman lookin’ for a hex to put on the family. She told her she was gifted, said she was born with a caul. Could tell just by lookin’ at her.”

Annie listened carefully. 

“Well that lady taught her how to protect herself. It ain’t evil work if you protectin’ yourself from the evils of this world.”

“White folks.”

“Mhmm. They ain’t all bad. But a lot of them are.”

Silence hung between them. A skin deep, ancestral silence. 

“You was born with one, too.”

“With what?”

“A caul.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a little piece of afterbirth that sticks to your face when you come out. Like a veil.”

“Oh,” Annie sighed.

“I remember it like it was yesterday. The Mississippi was high that whole year. Gulf waters was reckless. Storms bad all summer, oh Lord, the bayou kept floodin’,” she laughed to herself. “Then you came.” 

“You real special, Annie,” Aunt Della continued. “More than that. I knew it then, and I can feel it now.”

She stopped braiding for a moment and grabbed Annie’s chin from behind, tilting her head so she could look into her wonder-wide eyes. “So make sure you guard your gift, and be careful what and who you use it for. You understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” she said quietly, her mind going a mile a minute.  “Now tilt your head down chile,” Aunt Della declared. “You can fall asleep after I’m done.”

The alleyway between King Tamales and Blackbird Café smelled sinful. Freshly steamed corn tortillas with succulent meat smothered in red chile sauce on the inside, wrapped in corn husks and steamed to perfection. Catfish. A perfectly seasoned batter, crispy on the outside, perfectly done on the inside. And the rich, savory aroma of pot greens. It made Stack Moore’s stomach twist with hunger. It made him divert from what he was doing and step into Blackbird Café. He wiped the beading sweat off his brow when he stepped through the door, the cooler air a balm against the heat on his skin. 

The first thing he noticed was the emptiness. No servers by the register. No Luther grunting himself into a chair by the hallway to watch the dining room. Just a lone diner that sat in a booth by the window nursing a drink. 

Please Have A Seat, the sign read. So he sat, choosing a stool at the bar by the kitchen’s pass-through window.

He was looking at the menu when he heard a familiar voice that made him look up. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

Annie moseyed over to Stack in a black short sleeved shirtwaist dress with a white collar and a half apron overtop. Her hair was neatly cornrowed and pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. Her nametag sat just above her heart, a small rectangle with a white background and black lettering.

He couldn’t help but smile. “Hey Annie.” 

“Hey Stack.” She looked him up and down. “What can I get you?”

“Lemme get uhhh…,” he looked down at his menu again. “Porkchop sandwich and a Coke,” he tapped his finger on the bar top while Annie wrote his order down on a pad of paper. “And a slice of that pecan pie.”  

“Comin’ right up.” She turned to the pass-through window. “I need a porkchop sandwich and slice of pie!” 

“I didn’t know you worked here,” Stack questioned as Annie wrote the total in the ledger. 

“I just started last Monday,” she admitted as Sheila checked the order ticket. 

Sheila mumbled to herself. “A porkchop sandwich and a—hey Stack!” 

“Sheila,” Stack said with a grin. 

“You been stayin’ clean?” Sheila asked as she slung a clean kitchen rag over her shoulder. “You always into some trouble.” 

“What can I say? Trouble love me,” he joked. “Like it’s my middle name.” 

“It is your middle name, Stack.” Sheila winked at him before turning around. “I’ma fry you one fresh right now. Extra crispy,” she called out over her shoulder. 

“Just how I like it, thank you baby.” He straightened out his suit jacket.

Annie chuckled under her breath. “Aight Romeo, that’ll be forty cents.” 

Stack took the coins out of his coat pocket and into Annie’s open hand. She dropped them into the till then wrote something else on the ledger before closing it. She was fixing to turn the corner when Stack’s voice got her attention again.

“So what made you work here?” he asked.

Annie slowed. Stopped. Turned around looking confused. “What you mean?”

“Don’t you do…” her eyes narrowed. He almost said the quiet part out loud but he recovered quickly. His voice dropped a little.  “The same shit as your aunt?” 

“You mean work at the boarding house?”

Stack nodded. 

“I still do.”

“So why you got two jobs?”

“Because…I’m savin’ up for somethin’.”

“Order up!” 

She set Stack’s food in front of him and grabbed a bottle of Coke and a cup from the cabinet behind the bar. “For what?”

“You said you savin’ up…for what?”

Annie sighed, letting all the air out of her chest. “A shop.” She said it quietly, like saying it too loud would make it real. Which is what she wanted, but the thought still scared her a little.

Stack took a bite of his sandwich and looked Annie over as she stood in front of him. She put her hand on her hip and leaned against the bartop. “What kind?”

Annie looked off into the distance. “One like my grandmother has. A cafe and apothecary.” 

“You mean sellin’ those teas and shit like your aunt?”

“Mhmm.”

“Anyone buy them from you now?”

“No, not yet—”

“Well how you gon’ open a shop with no customers?”

“They’ll come when they need them—”

“They gotta know they can get them from you first.” Stack put his sandwich down. “First rule of business is you gotta sell the product before you sell the product. Understand?”

Annie nodded her head. “Yeah.”

“You gotta market yourself. Start with friends first. Then word of mouth will get around. Before you know it you gon’ have people comin’ to you instead of you goin’ to them.”

Annie nodded again, taking his words in. “I can do that.”

“You tryna rent a place?”

Annie’s eyes lit up. “I wanna own one.”

Stack looked at Annie perplexedly. “You.” He dusted his hands off and pointed at her. “Wanna buy a shop…by yourself?”

“Mhmm,” Annie said proudly, digging into her apron and taking out the sketch she'd been working on. “Like this.”

She slid the drawing to the side of his plate, a sketch of a modest shack with a shed attached to the side. Sitting on cinderblocks, surrounded by trees. It looked like something quiet. Peaceful. Something Smoke would like. Something he’d love. Annie explained where everything would go— a smokehouse, a root room, a chicken coop and goat pen, even where the sun needed to rise and set in order for her vegetable garden to flourish. Stack looked at the expression on her face, the excitement in her voice, the spark in her eyes. His voice softened. “How long you need to work and save for it?”

“Bout a year.” 

Stack grinned. Annie did too. “So, in a year I can come to you for a slice of that bread pudding I heard all about?”

Her cheeks warmed. “Mhmm,” she hummed. “That’s what I’m workin’ toward.”

“Well, I hope it all works out for you,” Stack muttered. “Truly.” 

“Thank you, Stack,” she said sincerely. “Anyway, enough about me.” 

Stack had resumed eating his sandwich, the crumbs from the bread gathering at the corners of his mouth. “What’s up with you, Stack?”

“You know me…just shootin’ the shit. Bein’ on my best behavior in these Clarksdale streets.”

“Oh,” she said, voice flat, rolling her eyes. “Okay.” 

He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “How you and my brother been?”

Annie paused. Her face gave nothing away. Or that's what she liked to think.

“Yeah,” he remarked, pushing his plate back. “I know.” He popped open the top of his Coke with the ring on his finger. 

Annie crossed her arms across her chest. “What you think you know?” 

“Enough,” he shot back, leaning back on the barstool. 

Stack stared at Annie. And Annie stared right back.

“You ain’t gotta admit nothin’,” he said finally, taking a swig of his soda. “But y’all both make it obvious. Actin’ all giddy around each other.”

“I don’t act giddy.” 

“So there is somethin’ goin’ on.” He studied her face. She still didn’t crack even though her heart started beating faster ever since he first mentioned Smoke. 

“I don’t act giddy,” she said. Quieter now, like she was trying to calm the pulse lodged in her throat. 

“My brother can’t hide nothin’ from me. No matter how hard he try, Annie.”

Annie huffed, turning her head away. Stack stood up to leave and stretched his arms above his head. “My brother…he a good man.” 

“Stack, I ain’t no child. I don’t need no advice on how to handle a man.”

“I ain’t givin’ you advice. I’m just lettin’ you know.”

“I got eyes. I can see just fine.” 

Stack chuckled softly. He liked her spunk. Her fire. Her wit. She was playful, but she could turn deadly if need be. “See you next week.” He tapped his hand on the bar top twice before heading towards the door. “Headin’ to Memphis soon.”

“What?” she didn’t mean for the word to slip out so…desperately.

Stack smiled fully, his eyes almost looked warmer at her slip up. “Just til’ Friday. Don’t worry, your man gon’ come back in one piece.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Bye Stack.” Annie tried to act like it didn’t catch her off guard, like she actually understood what they got up to in Memphis. She didn’t. But she wasn’t naive. She could take a wild guess and probably land somewhere close. But for some reason, her stomach twisted a little thinking about Smoke being gone for that long. What was worse was she didn’t understand why his leaving bothered her this much yet. 

Smoke and Annie were sitting at the kitchen table in the boarding house. The window was open, a gentle breeze flowing through it, making the corner of her paper lift up slightly as she sketched the side of his face. At least that's what she was trying to do. Smoke agreed to let her draw him, then kept fidgeting where he sat.

“I’ma be gone ‘bout a week.” 

“When you leavin?” Annie replied. 

“Tomorrow.” A beat. “We goin to–”

“To Memphis,” she finished. “I know.”

Smoke tilted his head. “How you know?”

“Stack came to my job the other day and—will you quit movin’?” 

His jaw clenched a little when he heard his brother’s name. 

“I ain’t movin’.”

“You is. Arèt.”

Smoke mumbled under his breath. “That another French lesson?”

“Another—nigga I said stop movin’!” she said with a playful slam of her pencil. 

He wanted to grin. He could barely stop the one threatening to spread across his face when she fussed at him. Why? He ain’t even know. She wasn’t the first girl who did. Wouldn’t be the last. It was something about her tone. That purry Louisiana lilt. The way she rolled her L’s. The way her tongue wrapped around his name. Smoke. He wondered how she’d say his real one. 

“You ain’t say that’s what it meant.”

She looked up at him slyly as she blindly shaded in his left dimple. “You still knew I meant stop, though.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. It was those eyes again, those big brown eyes that wrapped him up in warmth and wouldn’t let go. Those perfectly shaped eyes that almost looked feline. Deep, almost endless. Dark, like midnight couldn’t hold a candle to them. Dangerous, like he need to quit starin’ out the corner of his eye before he got himself in some trouble. 

“Now you can’t talk?” 

“You told me to be quiet.”

“I told you to be still.” 

“Same thing,” he grumbled. 

“No it ain’t.” 

“You done yet?”

“I said don’t move.”

He sighed heavily. “Aight.” 

A few more strokes of her pencil and she was done. 

“Done.”

“Can I see it?”

She exhaled sharply. “No.”

Smoke sucked his teeth. “Why not?”

“Ion like it.”

“You made me sit still for how long just to not let me see it?”

“Guess so.” She smiled mischievously. 

“You somethin’ else, Annie.”

“I know,” she said gleefully. 

He reached for the folded up paper and she hovered her pencil above the middle of his hand.

“You finna stab me over a picture?” 

Annie shrugged. Eyes daring. 

“Better put that thing up, woman.” 

They looked at each other in silence for a minute. Circling. Nothing but suppressed smirks and squinting eyes. Smoke broke first this time, pulling his hand back before he ended up with a hole in it. 

“Crazy ass.” 

Annie just grinned. 

“When you work next?” 

“Tomorrow.”

“You makin’ decent money at that place?” 

“Mhmm. Tips good.” 

“People?”

“They good, too.”

“Nobody givin’ you a hard time?”

“Nope.” She moved from the kitchen table to the icebox. “Besides, I can handle myself. I keep tellin’ you this.”

There she go, fussin’ again. The grin threatened to return. He bit his bottom lip instead. 

“Want somethin’ to drink?” 

“I’m good.” 

“Suit yourself,” she said, taking a cold Coke from the icebox. She popped it open and took a long sip. 

Damn he looks good doin’ that, Annie thought to herself. She pretended not to look at him while she was definitely looking at him. That plump, soft lip pulled between those pearly white teeth. Lord have mercy. She cleared her throat, and those thoughts, from her head. 

“You go in early tomorrow?”

“Late. They got this band comin’ up from Tutwiler to perform at supper and they need some extra hands in the kitchen.” 

“How late?” he asked quickly. 

“Probably til close.”

His jaw clenched. “And what time is that, woman?” 

Annie’s face twisted up. “Smoke, I know you ain’t just lose yo damn mind in my home.” 

Smoke shook his head. “I don’t want you walkin’ by yourself that late.” 

“And who is you?” she sassed playfully, blinking her eyes slowly at him. 

Smoke paused, like he was actually thinking about it. Then he chuckled low. A little too low. Because what’s so damn funny? The sound reverberated deep in her chest and sent a shiver, no, a shock, up her spine. She almost gasped at the feeling. He stood up and stalked to her seat at the table, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

Her gaze was unwavering when she looked up at his unreadable one. His hand moved from her chin to cup her cheek and when he kissed her, it stole the breath out of her lungs. She pulled away from him dazed with kiss-bruised lips.

“See you next week.” 

He whispered it but it sounded stern, damn near like a warning. But the energy radiating off of him was so heavy, so mannish, that it made her thighs press together like she had no control over herself.

Damn that man, she found herself thinking. 

Annie’s eyes followed him as he tipped his hat and dipped through the front door silently. He bit back a grin as he slipped into the afternoon heat. But not before he said one last thing. 

“Be good.”

Annie’s mouth dropped open, but no sound came out.

The screen door didn’t snap closed like it usually did. It fit into its frame quietly, like it was scared to fall out of line too. 

“Hi, I’m Annie.” 

Annie stood in a group with the servers as they introduced themselves to the entertainment of the night. It was a small band of two, just a quirky guitarist and a singer. 

The place was already starting to fill up in anticipation, and Mr. Hightower was taking care of drinks at the bar while the other staff helped the musicians with their set up. 

“I’m Reeny, and this D.W.,” she said with a bubbly disposition. 

She was a cute girl. Couldn’t be more than five feet tall. Caramel colored skin, a patch of freckles across her nose, and a pendant necklace that caught the dimming lights of the café every time she bounced around like a ball of energy. She wore a tan dress, similar in design to their uniforms, with a simple pair of yellow flats. 

“Where y’all from?” Loretta asked them. 

“Shelby.” 

“How long y’all been playin’?” Sheila chimed in. 

Reeny and D.W. looked at each other. “‘Bout five years,” D.W. said.

“Y’all look young!” Loretta exclaimed. 

“I’m 26. He’ll be 30 next year.” 

“Damnnnnnn,” Felicia said, pointing at Loretta. “You need to get your eyes checked. Mr. Hightower— you sure it’s a good idea for her to be head cook? She can barely see….” she joked walking off towards the bar. 

The guitarist strummed a few notes to warm up. Then the melody kicked in. It was a mix of bass and alto that sounded so enchanting it felt like they were casting a spell. Reeny’s voice was breathless but deep, magnetic but so light it made the air in the room feel like a whisper against skin. She belted from her diaphragm, giving all she had into that little microphone like she was in front of an audience of thousands instead of the 30 or so people packed into the dining room of Blackbird. 

People on the street stopped what they were doing to look inside and couldn’t believe the big voice coming from this little woman. 

I got the deep river blues

I would never lose you…

The spiriiiiiits they soak my soul…

I said, them water spiriiiiiiiiiiits…they live in my soul… 

I got the backwoods, muddy water, deep bayou river blues—

And I could never lose you…

The heady warmth of the blues spread through the café like heat in the dead of summer. The guitar rolled low underneath the angelic, soulful sound of Ruby’s voice that drowned out the sounds of…everything. Time, space, surroundings. What was left behind was pure magic. Excited shouts and joyous stomps made glasses rattled on tables as couples engaged slow two-steps and gyrations to the sultry rhythm of the music. 

Of course it wasn’t magic in the literal sense. The magic was in a community finding joy in the little things. Music. Love. Gathering together. Carving beauty out of a world set up for them to fail. Annie eventually caved and joined in, even with a serving platter in her hands. Sweat dripped down her neck as she shook her hips and shimmied her shoulders in tandem. 

The song ended with a roaring applause. Whistles, cheers, stomps rang out from the room and all the way down the block. Almost everyone on Fourth Street had stopped to witness the show at Blackbird. Tips were rolling in, drinks were flowing. Mr. Hightower even looked like he was enjoying himself instead of micromanaging or waiting around for something to go wrong. 

“You walkin’ home?” Mr. Hightower stood with his arm hanging off the counter by the kitchen as Reeny and D.W. transitioned into a slower tune. 

Annie turned at the sound of his voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Gon’ home.” 

“You sure?”

“Gon’ git. Before it get too late.” 

“Alright alright I’m goin’,” she said. “Goodnight.”

He nodded and disappeared down the hall. Annie padded behind him and turned into the break room. She put her apron in her locker, slipped her purse around her shoulder, then slipped out the back door. 

The moon was high, nighttime glittering all around her. The sound of the music faded slowly as she made her way back to Aunt Della’s, but the bass still thumped behind her ribs like a heartbeat. She felt sated. Electric. She walked up the steps of the front porch glowing from head to toe. She took a deep breath and let it out.

She felt home.

Annie could see candles burning in the kitchen as she stepped through. The house was asleep. All except Aunt Della. She was rummaging around in one of the kitchen drawers for something when she heard the front door close and lock. 

“How’d it go?” 

Annie exhaled loudly, her bag sliding down her arm. 

Aunt Della chuckled. “That night shift rough, huh?” 

“My arms feel like wet noodles,” Annie whined as she slumped into a chair in the front room. “And my ears won’t stop ringin’.” She exhaled hard. “But I had fun.” 

Aunt Della walked into the front room with two mugs of sweet smelling liquor. “Here,” she held a mug to Annie’s lips. “Drink.” She sunk into the middle of the couch, crossed her legs, and took a slow sip from her own mug. 

“What’s this?” Annie asked, not waiting for an answer before she tasted it.

“Somethin’ to take the edge off. Relax after a long day.”

She hummed in delight as the taste of orange blossom, cinnamon, and honey flooded her tastebuds. A little fizz. The sharpness of hooch, without all the bitterness. “This gon’ put me right to sleep.” 

“Mhmm.” Aunt Della cleared her throat and set down her mug on the coffee table. “‘Before I forget,” Aunt Della said matter-of-factly. “Smoke left this for ya before he left.” 

“Oh, did he now?”

She grabbed the book from the coffee table and set it on Annie’s lap. It was larger than a standard book. Thinner. Sturdy. Leather bound. Smelled like tobacco and old wood. A picture book maybe? 

She opened it to find blank pages.

Nothing but a line at the top to write in titles or dates. 

It was a sketchbook. Something she could use to keep all her drawings in one place. 

Her cheeks warmed and a grin spread across her face before she could tighten her lips to stop it. As she flipped through the pages, a small piece of paper slipped out and floated onto the floor landing face down. She bent down to pick it up and flipped it over in her hand. 

His handwriting was neat. So neat. Tight. Precise. Just like him. 

Except his j. 

It was traced over a few times, like somebody bumped his arm while he was writing and he tried to fix it. She read the message and released a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

For Annie,

To remember what they for. 

Elijah

The train came to a stop with a sharp, metallic squeal. The Pullman porters stepped off first, men in tailored black uniforms and matching hats, setting up steps and opening cargo latches on the sides of the train cars. Cicadas buzzed, their screeching lullaby heard all the way from the trees that loomed over the tracks at the isolated train stop, just an hour outside of the busy Y & M.V. depot in Clarksdale. There were no musicians or folks hanging around here, just a small clapboard-sided building with a segregated ticket window, a single employee, and a dilapidated outhouse. 

The conductor stepped off the train to relieve himself. The comptroller made himself comfortable in the crew cabin while the station master strolled out of the ticket office, whistling and swinging his pocket watch in one hand. Watching. Waiting.  

One of the porters, a 19-year-old kid from Clarksdale slipped out from the back of the freight car and spotted Stack whose truck sat idling by a small loading dock just beyond the tracks that was hidden well by the tall blades of pale green prairie grass fluttering in the autumn breeze. 

Stack stood at the back of his truck like sin dressed in silk. He wore a sharp suit, a cream colored silk shirt underneath with a double chain hanging from his neck. Satin pocket square. Double holster secured just above his waist. He held a lighter in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. His cologne was strong— something clean with a hint of clove, the spice lingering in the air around him. 

He stood by closely while crates were loaded into the back of his truck one by one, the dry wood creaking underneath the weight of what was inside. Black newspapers—Chicago Defender, Voice of the Negro, Indianapolis Freeman, New York Amsterdam News—publications that the sheriff didn't like distributed around Clarksdale because they told the truth. Bottles of liquor—rum, whiskey, gin—all packed tight and padded up tighter so they wouldn’t clink together on the backroads, and some ammunition and military-grade firearms from up north. All packed under and between pounds of heavy textiles. 

Another porter was helping passengers off the forward cabins when he caught a glimpse of Stack and his coworker in the distance. He was younger than other porters, a bit more wide-eyed and curious. He strolled to the back, dust kicking off his boots. He leaned on the edge of the freight car flipping a coin between his fingers.

“Need somethin’?” Stack asked, lighting his cigarette. He raised a brow, taking a deep pull and letting the smoke blow towards him. 

The second porter shook his head, “No.” 

“Well, you can help then,” Stack shot back, holding up a crisp one dollar bill between his index and middle finger. 

The second porter went to grab it but he pulled his hand back, taking another drag of his cigarette. “You know what this mean, right?” he asked, holding the bill up again.

“No, sir.”

“It means you ain’t hear nothin’ and you ain’t see nothin’ — understand?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You heard of the SmokeStack twins?”

“Yes, sir,” the second porter said again.

“I’m Stack.” 

He put his hand on his hip to pull his suit jacket back, revealing the pistol sitting in its holster. The gesture made the kid straighten up where he stood. Stack looked him over thoroughly. He was sweating, no doubt caused by the heat and his stiff uniform and not nervousness. Stack’s gaze drifted over to the other porter who reassured him with a nod. He slowly lowered his hand, allowing the kid to take the bill from his hand.

Stack looked around while the crates were loaded. The station master lingered on the platform a moment, his gaze drifting over to Stack’s truck. He met his eyes, holding him there for just a moment. Stack didn’t flinch, in fact he flashed him a smile. A wide one at that. All golds, gums, and Southern charm. The station master turned on his heel back to his office just as the conductor walked back to the engine room none the wiser. 

Stack’s smile dropped instantly once he turned around.  “Y’all almost done?”

“This the last one.”

“Good,” he said, holding out a two dollar bill. “Got a tight schedule today. Got places to be.” He pulled out the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. 

When the porters were done loading, they covered the back of his truck with a loose tarp and tied the ropes down tight. Stack straightened his suit jacket out and slinked into his car before peeling out of the train station and making the short journey back to Clarksdale.

First stop was the houses by the swamp. The ones with leaning porches and rotting clapboard siding that he had to walk on foot down muddy dirt paths to reach. Then the shacks on the plantations and the churches there. After that, he moved into the town. He stopped by the Chow’s, the cash store, the jukes, the barbershop, the drug store, the undertaker, the library, the Colored Knights of Pythias lodge and the gentleman’s supper club. The last stop was Luella’s Dressing Room to drop off the textiles. 

By the time he left town and headed home he only had his and Miss Della’s crates left, but the stack of money in his coat pocket had quadrupled in size. When he got back to the house, all that was left was Miss Della’s crate and a few others for the folks who would have to come find him themselves—the farmers, the planters, and folks from the smaller, surrounding counties.

Smoke’s truck was gone when Stack pulled up to the house, the modest cottage was quiet when he stepped inside. The spice of the smothered neckbones from lunch earlier still stuck to the walls. The meal that Smoke took the time to cook earlier that day when he just so happened to drop by the house and find little Miss Annie sitting at their table. 

Hmm. 

After lighting some incense and propping open a few windows, he walked out through the back of the house to the still that was partially hidden by the tree line. He checked the coil, stoked the fire, made sure the lid was set, and walked back into the house. He poured himself a drink, pulled out his ledger from the bookshelf and his stacks of cash and did what he did best. He started counting.

The front windows of Miss Della’s caught what little remained of the fading sun. A small glimmer of light reflected off the thick glass windows, piercing through the windshield of Smoke’s truck, cutting right through the passenger seat cushion. He put the car in reverse, watching the same sliver of light cut through the space he left behind as he backed out of the narrow alleyway, before thinning out completely. 

It wasn’t just the kiss that sat on his mind. 

It was the breath before. 

The hesitation. 

The way her lips lingered on his skin for a moment longer. The softness against his stubble. 

The single bead of sweat that trickled down between her cleavage. 

The crinkle in her bottom lip when she pulled it between her teeth. 

The way her eyes flicked up at him.

The way she climbed the porch stairs with that slow, hypnotizing swing of her hips that she probably didn’t even realize she was doing. He licked his bottom lip and shook his head trying to shake the thought of it. He couldn’t. 

Night spread across the sky as Smoke drove the short distance to his home in the Mississippi countryside. The sound of swamp frogs and the rotting, earthy, iron-tang of the Sunflower River reached in through his open windows like overgrowth claiming something abandoned.

When he reached his house, he cut the engine, the headlights of his truck blinking off with a cooling tick. The surrounding land went dark. Not the same type of darkness that cloaked the town with its street lights and candles in the window to soften the edges of night. The light from their porch lantern was nearly swallowed by the depth of pitch blackness that laid claim to the woods after the sun set. 

He kept the windows down. Reaching behind his ear, he brought the cigarette to his mouth. The lighter flickered to life. Open flame dancing in the darkness. He let the ember burn bright before he tapped the excess off on the outside of his truck door. He took a deep inhale of the tobacco blend Bo got him, then exhaled through his nose. He let his head fall back into the headrest and closed his eyes. 

When Smoke stepped through the door, Stack was still up. He found him at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled, two fingers of something brown on the table next to him. A red leather-bound ledger was spread open beside a candle burning low while he counted a stack of bills, writing numbers down in between. 

“Station?” Smoke asked, toeing his boots off at the door. 

Stack counted each bill meticulously, wetting his thumb in between. “Clean,” he replied quickly.

“Stops?”

He stopped to write down a number in the ledger, “Smooth.” 

Smoke crossed the room, sinking into the couch. “Who brought it in?” 

“Same kid. Jones.”

Smoke nodded once. “Anyone watchin’?” 

“Another kid looked curious,” Stack replied, nodding toward the bookshelf where stacks of crates draped in thick cloth sat on the floor. “Ain’t look stupid though.”

“Curious turn into brave real quick, when a white man start askin’ questions.”

Stack kissed his teeth, “Already handled it.” He finished his count, shuffled the money together neatly, and wrapped them in a rubber band. Then he stood, moving towards the back of the house to their stash. “Ain’t no problem.” 

Smoke crossed the room to the backshelf and grabbed the newspaper on top. He flipped through the pages as he walked back to the couch, relaxing back with a sigh. 

Stack walked back in the room, swiping the glass of whiskey from the kitchen table and sitting across from Smoke in a straight back chair. 

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, brown liquid catching the dim light in the room, a sly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

He was ready to give his brother shit.

About Annie. 

About whatever happened while she was there. 

The remark was right on the tip of his tongue.

Then something made him pause, the glass of whiskey in his hand stopping mid-air. 

Silence sat between them for a moment. Silence that made Stack’s eyes narrow.

He looked at his brother. Really looked at him, his eyes sweeping over him thoroughly like he was checking for injuries after a fight. 

That’s when he noticed his jaw.

It wasn’t clenched. 

And his shoulders.

They weren’t wound up tight with tension like they always were.

Even the permanent crease that usually sat above his brow was softened.

He looked…relaxed. 

“You good?” He asked. His voice wasn’t soft, but the usual sarcasm it held wasn’t there.

“I’m straight,” he replied. He flipped the newspaper to the next page.

Stack raised an eyebrow. There was another beat of silence. This one was loud.

Smoke finally looked up, locking eyes with his twin. 

A second passed. Then two. Then he looked back down at the paper, and flipped to the next page. 

Stack’s smirk didn’t just return— it widened slowly like sunrise. It was a long, mischievous thing, one that showed off the gold on the side of his mouth.

He stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping against the floor, taking the rest of the whiskey to the head, and letting the liquid trickle smoothly down his throat until he could feel the burn everywhere like a fire lit deep in his chest. 

Annie stood in the doorway as the warmth of the house wrapped around her. It was a cozy space. Candles and oil lamps burned openly, their light tracing the shadows of the lodgers sitting in the front room. She took her boots off at the door, immediately dropping her basket and purse.

Her lips still tingled from where she kissed him. The taste of his skin lingered on her lips longer than the time it took to do it. She didn’t even mean to. It just happened— her body reacting before her mind could reel it back in.

The smell of molasses and whiskey brought her back into the room where the low hum of conversation hung in the air, the aroma of cornbread sitting heavy, and underneath it all, something slow-cooked and personal. She walked towards the warmth emanating—in both smell and feeling—from the kitchen.

“And I told him straight up,” she heard a man say, his voice drifting easily through the air like a Sunday morning. He leaned back into his chair casually, the wood groaning under his weight. “Faith ain’t always loud. Sometimes it sit quiet, waitin’ on folks to catch up.” 

Aunt Della hummed softly from across the table, hands laced around a cup of something.  Deep violet in color with a ruby red undertone, the drink shimmered in the kitchen, the hint of gold from its honey infusion catching the dim light. 

The man leaned back where he sat, his head tilted towards the front door. His eyes shifted sharply at her entry, landing on Annie like he’d sensed the exact moment she’d stepped through the door. 

“Evenin’, baby,” Aunt Della said, looking up. “Wash up. Supper ‘bout done.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“This here’s Reverend Carter. Reverend Carter, this here’s my great-niece. Annie.” 

He tipped his hat. He wore a thin silver band with a figurehead on his middle finger that he rubbed slowly with his thumb. “Call me Carter.” 

“Nice to meet you, Carter.” 

Something sparked there. Not romance. Not attraction. Not really.

Familiarity. A deep one. The kind that made her gut twist. 

Annie walked over to the wash basin and dipped her hands. She grabbed the bar of lye soap to create a small lather, moving the suds over her knuckles and under her fingernails. She felt the warm familiar tail of Felix wrapping around her ankle, his purring a calming vibration against her ankle. 

Supper was a warm mix of familiar and new faces, and light conversation. Every so often, Aunt Della’s eyes landed on Annie. 

“How was your day, baby?” 

Annie nodded between bites. “It was good. Lots of roots to sort through.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, passing the cornbread down the table. 

“Heard a car pull off when you came in.” 

“Yeah, Smoke dropped me off,” she replied quickly, forking collard greens into her mouth. She felt her aunt’s eyes on her. “He was just bein’ nice.” 

“Mmmhmm,” Aunt Della replied sharply, but she couldn’t hide the grin that pulled at the corner of her lips. 

Neither could Annie. 

Supper ended quietly and while some of the lodgers played cards in the front room, Annie made her way to the bathtub to wash up quickly before bed. 

Freshly bathed, hair oiled, and belly full, she said her good nights to Aunt Della and made her way to the staircase. It was a rugged, narrow thing, with steps that creaked loudly no matter how light you were on your feet. She shut the door to her bedroom and plopped on the bed. She quickly drifted off into a satisfied sleep, looking forward to what the next day would bring. 

Sunday morning. 

It arrived like it was dressed in white. 

Not the actual color white—but the respectability of it all, polished to a shine and worn proudly, like spiritual armor. Complete with neatly pressed linen, fancy shoes, and gloves folded in careful hands, this part of the morning held its own ritual.

Annie stood in front of the mirror in Aunt Della’s room while she pinned the last stubborn piece of her hat in place. It was a honey-colored straw-woven hat with faded blue grosgrain ribbon circling the crown that tied into a soft bow on the right side. A singular silk flower was stitched near the ribbon, small enough to feel sweet. The brim of the hat curved gently at the edges, casting a soft shadow over her eyes. Her hair underneath it was pinned carefully in a low bun at the nape of her neck with two loose curls on each side to frame her face. 

“Hold still.”

“I am,” Annie replied, although she was clearly fidgeting.

“No you ain’t,” Aunt Della said, playfully smacking the side of her arm.

Annie huffed softly through her nose but clasped her hands in front of her while Aunt Della stepped back to inspect her work.

“Just beautiful,” she breathed.

Annie wore a pale lavender Sunday dress with a lace collar, the cotton light enough for the Mississippi heat that still lingered at the edges of early October. It was clean and proper, the hem falling modestly just below her knees. Her ileke beads were pressed into the skin of her collarbone, tucked delicately under the dress. Her stockings stretched around her skin, her white gloves folded and resting beside her Bible on the bed. It was a modest one— small and leather bound. The cover was worn down to the hide that peeked through at the edges with little strings from the binding sticking out at the spine. The pages were almost see-through from time and use, with little notes scribbled in the margins like a glimpse back in time. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, a gift she gave Annie before she passed away.

“Wait,” Aunt Della said, stepping forward again to fuss with the collar of her dress once more. She exhaled, then nodded. “Okay. There. You look just darlin’.”

“Thank you,” Annie said, looking at herself fully in the mirror. 

Aunt Della turned, smoothing the front of her own cream-colored dress, her church hat already perched high and proud like it had seniority over everybody in town.

“You got your letter?”

“Oh!” Annie exclaimed, already retreating to her room. “Thank you. Can’t forget that.”

“Mhmm. Get it, and I’ll meet you on the porch.” 

Outside the town was already moving.

Rickety wagons, the occasional Model-T, and a sea of people moved along the streets. Church folk spilled onto the sidewalks in twos and threes, women balancing hats and children, men in suspenders and polished shoes, all of them heading in the same direction like a pilgrimage. The air held the smell of wet grass, pressed hair, and somebody’s breakfast frying three doors down. 

The building sat at the edge of Fourth Street like a symbol— a mark of authority, tradition, and refuge for the Black community. First Baptist Missionary Church rose from the soil like something determined to be seen and impossible to miss. Dark red brick looked brighter against the morning light, wide front steps worn smooth by generations of Sunday shoes, and tall windows thrown open to let in the heat and the Holy Ghost. A giant steeple with a brass bell sat on the top like a punctuation mark, towering over the modest faded wood and clapboard businesses surrounding it.

Ushers in matching suits flung the doors open. 

Voices, laughter, and the sound of a tambourine rattling somewhere in the back spilled outside, the low hum rising like the heat. 

Aunt Della walked beside Annie with the ease of somebody who had been making this walk for most of her life. Annie kept pace, eyes forward even while she felt others burning holes through her. She held a pan of bread pudding she’d made the night before firmly in her grasp. It was snug in a glass pan, wrapped in a kitchen towel embroidered with daisies. 

Women stood beneath shade trees, letting their conversations bend just slightly as they passed. 

A pause too long. 

A glance held a second past politeness. 

One older woman leaned toward another, saying something behind the fan pressed to her mouth. 

Annie kept her face forward. 

This wasn’t New Orleans. 

New Orleans was loud, fast, easily distracted. People there noticed, then quickly moved on. 

Clarksdale noticed. 

And it remembered.

“Smile,” Aunt Della murmured behind clenched teeth, without looking at her. 

Annie forced a smile. It wasn’t wide, her mouth parted just enough that Aunt Della’s jaw unclenched.

At the church steps, greetings came easy. 

Aunt Della answered what she wanted and ignored what she didn’t, moving with a grace that commanded respect above all. 

Annie stood beside her, shaking hands that came out to greet hers, nodding politely as she let herself be looked over like produce at a market. 

Eyes scanned her over, some genuine, some judgemental, all quietly judging the young woman in front of them. 

Was she pretty enough? 

Proper enough? 

Was she a perfect puzzle piece or a square trying to fit into a circle?

“Come on now, let’s get inside,” Aunt Della said, leading her from the steps. 

The back room of the church felt like a different world than the sanctuary. The sanctuary was all pressed linen and polished shoes. But this room was a space where women could laugh loudly and speak freely without too much judgment. The area was small, crowded, and smelled like perfume, powder, and wood polish. 

Annie stepped in carefully with the pan of bread pudding balanced in both hands, the dish still warm through the towel wrapped around it. 

“Set it there, baby,” Aunt Della said, as she moved near the long prep table arranging serving spoons like she was preparing for battle instead of Sunday service. “And if Miss Bernice asks, no, you did not use rum.”

“But I did,” Annie chimed in. 

“Then lie.” 

That earned a quiet laugh from somewhere close. Annie turned to her right. There, three young women stood near the side table, church gloves and hats firmly in place. 

One leaned against the wall. She was pretty and looked sharp. Her dark green dress was pressed neat, her eyes bright with the kind of trouble that wore makeup. 

“Well,” she said. “Is this her?” 

Annie blinked. “I’m sorry?”

The girl folded her arms. “Everybody been talkin’ about Miss Della’s Louisiana niece like you descended from heaven in stockings.”

One of the other girls sighed loudly, “Gigi.” 

“What?”

Annie fought back a smile. “It’s me,” she said, setting the dish down where her aunt instructed her. “In the flesh.” 

Gigi grinned. “Oh, I like you already.” 

Beside her stood another girl, softer in the face but no less present, adjusting the cuff of one of her white lace gloves with the careful precision of somebody raised to know exactly how women were expected to be seen. Her wedding band caught the light when she reached for a serving spoon.

“I’m Pearline,” she said warmly. “Ignore her. She think bein’ loud is her birthright.” 

“I ain’t loud, I just don’t mumble like some quiet little church mouse,” Gigi fired back. “I’m Georgia—Gigi—and that there’s Nellie.” 

She paused. “She real quiet,” she whispered loudly. “Like a little church mouse.”

“I heard that,” Nellie shot back.

“That was the point, dumplin’.” 

Nellie stood closest to the long table, fixing church fans into a neat stack like the fate of the congregation relied on symmetry. “Very nice to meet you, Annie.” 

“Nice to meet you too.”

“So,” Gigi said, stalking towards Annie with a mischievous grin. “Tell us all about New Orleans.”

The sanctuary held heat differently. It trickled down from the corners of the vaulted ceiling, stretching across the congregation like morning dew. The air inside was thick with the scent of wood polish and old hymnals. Sweat and perfume. Talcum powder and fresh flowers near the pulpit trying their best to mask it all. Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows in long jewel-toned slants, catching dust in the air like holy hands.

Aunt Della moved them towards the middle pews, where women with strong perfume and tight lipped smiles greeted her with warmth only reserved for a woman like her. Annie followed behind, her eyes moving about the room subtly. Once to the left, then the right, then the back. She didn’t know why she expected him to be there. Maybe because church felt like the kind of place a town would require of a man like him. Maybe because after yesterday, some foolish part of her thought she might see him anywhere now. But Smoke wasn’t there, and neither was Stack. The absence sat with her longer than it should have, louder than his presence would have been.

She lowered herself into the pew, smoothing her skirt over her knees. Her Bible rested in her lap, her purse settling to her side.

Aunt Della opened her fan with a practiced snap. “You alright?” she asked, fanning herself.

Annie blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Della gave her a look that said she didn’t fully believe that, but Sunday morning wasn’t the place for an interrogation. 

At the front of the church, Carter stood near the pulpit speaking quietly with Deacon Lewis—the standing pastor. He wore a dark suit, pressed sharp, that same signet ring catching the light that poured in the windows whenever he lifted his hand. Even from across the sanctuary, something about him felt too familiar, and the unease from the night before crept through her like a tangible thing, making her frown where she sat. 

The organist struck a chord. 

Deacon Lewis raised his hands from where he stood at the pulpit, the room rising with them. The organ sounded again, the sound rising slow at first, then all at once. Voices layered over it, some young, some old, some skeptical, some certain. Aunt Della sang beside Annie in a clear alto that sounded older than the room itself, pitch perfect but haunting, like something ancient, and passed down came out without her trying. 

Annie stood perfectly still with her hymnal open in her hands, though her eyes barely touched the page. Her voice joined where it needed to, soft and practiced, but her attention kept drifting. To the strange feeling sitting just beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat. It felt both new and like a memory she hadn’t asked for.

The hymn ended in a rustle of old pages and the sound of bodies settling. Fans opened again like angel wings. A baby cried once and was swiftly carried outside. 

The deacon began the first prayer…

…and just kept on going. 

He prayed long and loud enough to make up for every sin committed in Clarksdale that week. 

Heads bowed and amens sounded when the prayer finally came to an end, shoes shifted across loose floorboards trying to shake out sleeping limbs from standing in one place too long. 

Deacon Lewis used his handkerchief to dab his sweat pooling on his brow, the droplets beading in the creases of his forehead. “Please be seated.”

Linen and cotton whispered against the old wood pews that creaked under the weight of generations. Fans clacked open, their methodical flutter echoing against the walls of the sanctuary. 

Deacon Lewis’s voice was like fire and brimstone, melodic and daunting all at once. 

“I’ve been hearin’ about a young preacher man,” he started. 

A soft Mhmm! Came from the crowd. 

“Heard he brought out great crowds, white and Colored, SAINTS AND SINNERS, men and women, all stations of life, the merchant prince and sons of toil, for one of the greatest old time fire and Holy Ghost revivals ever witnessed in this country.” 

“Amen!”

“Well, I found him. Brought him to the good town of Clarksdale…to lead the most MIGHTY spiritual awakening this town will ever see.”

More shouts from the crowd, a few stomps and tambourine jingles. 

“Can I get an amen?”

“AMEN!”

“Please rise, for the esteemed reverend. Give him a hand.”

The congregation erupted. Stomps, shouts, and hands flew up as Reverend Carter stepped forward with unhurried ease. He set his Bible down on the pulpit and let the room settle around him first, like his silence had its own authority.

“Now tell ‘em who you are,” Deacon Lewis said, his voice booming from the side. “Where you from.”

Carter paused. “Good mornin’, church.” 

“Good mornin’ Reverend!” A wave of greetings met him in response. 

“My name is Reverend Dr. Thelonius Carter. Born and raised in Houston, Texas.” 

Another wave of Hey Reverend Carter’s and grunts of acknowledgement filled the air.

“Got ordained at the First Missionary Baptist Church in Handsboro,” he continued. 

Aunt Della’s fan slowed once. 

Then resumed.

At the pulpit, Carter opened his Bible, then smoothed the crease gently with his palm. 

“Now, I been told y’all feed a preacher real well in this town,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. He rolled each side twice, slowly before he continued. “So, if this sermon run a little long, just know I’m workin’ for my supper.” 

Laughter moved through the room. Aunt Della smiled. So did Annie.

He rested one hand against the pulpit. “But this mornin’, I wanna talk about paths. Purpose.”

The congregation stilled. 

Carter continued, voice smooth as river water. “Now, everybody in here like to talk about blessings. Everybody like to testify about what the Lord brought ‘em to. But folk get mighty quiet when it come time to speak on what He brought ‘em…through.” 

He paused dramatically.

A few congregation members hummed in agreement. A sharp “that’s right” came from a church mother sitting on the stage next to Deacon Lewis.

“See, purpose ain’t always some…dramatic declaration.” He waved his hands around for emphasis. 

“It ain’t always thunder and lightnin’.”

“Talk to ‘em!” Someone shouted from deep in the pews. 

Sometimes it’s like a regular ol’ Tuesday mornin’, like a path you done walked a hundred times.”

“Until one day, it ain’t the same path no ‘mo.” 

“Until that path…become a crossroads.”

Annie’s gloved fingers tightened around the Bible in her lap. 

He held a finger to his lips, his eyes darting around the congregation. “Sometimes the Lord place a thing in your path,” Carter kept preaching. “And your spirit know it before your mind catch up.”

He grabbed the edge of the pulpit with both hands. “But we stubborn creatures, ain’t we?”

Sounds of agreement came from the crowd.

“We like proof. Permission. We like to pretend we ain’t heard what was already said.”

More scattered laughter flowed through the room, softer this time. 

Annie’s eyes stayed in place. Forward. Not scanning the room. Fixed. On the pulpit. On Carter. On how he pulled the crowd in like he was bewitching them. How he used eye contact like a weapon. On how he knew exactly when to whisper and when to shout. 

Carter smiled faintly, turning to a page in his Bible. 

“Book of Jeremiah. Chapter six, verse sixteen.” 

Pages turned instantly. The shuffle of delicate paper fluttering against leather and the sound of clearing throats and quiet coughs made its way through the church. Carter stood, patiently waiting for the sound to settle.

“Thus saith the Lord— say it with me.” 

The congregation joined in. 

“Thus saith the Lord, stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein.” 

He stopped, waited for the congregation voices to die out. Then continued, emphasising each word individually, his voice booming over the sound of the crowd. “And ye shall find rest for your souls.”

His finger tapped once against the page as a round of grunts, hums, and amens filled the air. 

Carter looked up, holding up a hand. The congregation went quiet.  

“Oh, I ain’t done,” he teased, a slight smirk on his face. 

“Folk hear that and think it mean safe. Easy.” 

His eyes flicked around the room. “It don’t,” he said flatly. 

“Verse sixteen goes on to say,” he started. “But they said, we will not walk therein.” 

“The right path will ask somethin’ of you. Might cost you comfort. Might cost you pride. Might cost the version of you, you most committed to protectin’.” 

A soft murmur moved through the church.

Carter leaned forward slightly on the pulpit. “And some of y’all,” he said, voice dropping lower. Gentler somehow. “Some of y’all already know exactly what path I’m talkin’ about.” 

Silence fell over the crowd. Not an empty silence, but one that felt full. Knowing. One that felt less like preaching and more like being told something you didn’t want to admit. He let the silence sit. Let a smile spread on his face. Easy. Disarming. 

“But I’m just a guest in this here church, and Miss Della already threatened me if I kept y’all too long, so I’ma leave the rest between y’all and the Lord.” 

The room finally broke. Laughter, a sound that felt like relief at the moment, echoed through the rafters. Carter stood at the pulpit, smile flashing across the sea of people like a man who’d done nothing at all.

Aunt Della leaned over just enough to murmur behind her fan, “That man dangerous.”

Annie’s nose wrinkled. “How come?” 

Aunt Della’s fan snapped once, the crack echoing in the laughter that had begun to settle into an earned silence. “Cuz he ain’t preachin’. He prophesyin’.”  

They stood for the final hymn. This one much shorter and softer than the first, like an exhale instead of a held breath. It let the sermon settle into the congregation. Let folks turn Reverend Carter’s words over in their heads quietly while they sang, so they could decide which parts would stay with them and which parts they planned to leave in the sanctuary. 

Annie stood beside Aunt Della, voice light, eyes fixed on the hymnal, her fingers toying with the edge of her glove until the seam pressed into her thumb. 

The hymn ended. Benediction followed. Hands lifted. Heads bowed. And just like that, holiness settled into a regular old Sunday afternoon.

The sanctuary came alive in a rush. Children were letting out pent-up energy by weaving through pews. Women adjusted the pins that kept their hats secure. Men rolled their shoulders loose under their shirts like salvation itself weighed heavy on them. 

Aunt Della was pulled into conversation before the final amen had fully landed. A small crowd of women formed around her, laughing as they traded gossip back and forth. Annie smiled politely and took a step back to relieve herself from the haze of heavy perfume and pettiness. Her eyes moved around the sanctuary. Towards the sides, the front, the back room. 

No Smoke. Not that she expected him now. Service was over. 

Still.

The absence still sat there anyway. 

“Lookin’ for somebody?” The voice came smooth beside her. 

Annie started to turn quickly, then slowed herself down. Carter stood there, hat in one hand, the other extended politely toward one of the church mothers getting up from her pew. 

“No,” Annie said too fast. 

One corner of his mouth moved. It wasn’t a smile, just a flicker of amusement. Or satisfaction. “Mm.” He let the silence sit between them just long enough for her to hear herself in it. Then he rescued her from it himself. “You sing pretty.”

Annie blinked, tilting her head. “You couldn’t even hear me.” 

“I heard you. Loud and clear.”

Annie let out the smallest laugh despite herself. 

“My aunt say you talk too much,” Annie blurted out. She folded her arms across her chest.

Carter’s eyebrows lifted. “Your aunt is a wise woman. I been tryna tell people that all day.” 

“She also say you dangerous,” she added, immediately wishing she’d kept that remark to herself.

That made him smile fully, intrigued now. The silver teeth on the bottom row of his mouth gleamed in the light. “Did she now?”

He adjusted his hat beneath his arm and leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping lower, but somehow gentler. “What you think?” 

“I think,” Annie said carefully. “You ask a lot of questions for somebody who already know the answers.” 

Carter looked down at his hand, pressing his thumb once to the face of his ring, then he looked up at Annie again. 

Aunt Della’s voice cut across the room. “Annie!”

She turned on her heel. “Excuse me.”

She crossed the room towards her aunt in a few long strides, feeling his gaze leave her slower than it should have. Aunt Della was gathering her gloves in one hand, her fan in the other. She was engaging in conversation with a woman in a butter yellow dress with a ruffled lace collar. “You got that letter?”

Annie half-jumped, reaching in her purse for the envelope. “Oh! Yes.”

“Miss Loretta works for the postal service. Her husband owns the Blackbird Cafe.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Loretta,” Annie said, eyes warm. She shook her hand before handing Loretta the letter and a coin for the postage. “Can you tell Mr. Hightower that I’d like to accept the position at the cafe? I can start tomorrow.”

Loretta received her warmly, letting her land linger on hers for a moment. “I’ll let him know. And I’ll make sure your letter gets back home.” 

“Thank you,” Annie said emphatically. 

Aunt Della took Annie, looping their arms through each other as she guided them to the church’s backyard.

Outside, the sun climbed higher. Brighter. More unforgiving. It pressed heat into the town’s Sunday best where it lingered, creeping into the seams of collars and where made sweat slick underneath stockings. Men loosened their ties like Jesus was no longer watching now that church had let out, and children ran wild in their Sunday shoes, shamelessly staining the polished toes with grass and Mississippi mud. 

The backyard of the church was set up with tables neatly covered with lace tablecloths that had been passed down and mended neatly throughout the years. Dishes covered the tables— fried chicken and fish hot off the grease under dish towels, deviled eggs dusted with paprika, macaroni and cheese and collard greens steeping in deep bowls. Sweet tea and iced water sat sweating in glass pitchers. Annie’s bread pudding—a rich combination of dark brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and the heavy sweetness of whiskey and rum-soaked raisins—sat at the end of the table, keeping the other desserts company. 

Annie stood behind the food table with a serving utensil and an anxious smile. Her gloves had come off, her Bible tucked away in her purse. The only thing left from the sermon was a full belly and sore cheeks. Her new acquaintances stood along her, Gigi, Nellie and Pearline spread out behind the long table of food, the line in front of the serving tables stretching nearly halfway across the church yard. 

Gigi slid another piece of fried catfish onto a plate while Pearline scooped greens beside it. 

“You keep givin’ Brother Jenkins portions like that, we gon’ run out befo’ the deacons eat,” Gigi murmured under her breath. 

Brother Jenkins, hard of hearing and entirely too closely hovering over the food, grinned despite not hearing a word Gigi said. 

“What was that?”

Gigi smiled sweetly. “I said enjoy your meal.” 

Nellie snorted so loudly, sweet tea always flew up her nose. “You gon’ burn in hell,” she mouthed. 

Gigi passed another plate down the table calmly. “Prolly. ‘Least I won’t be hungry.” 

Annie bit back a laugh as she reached for another serving spoon. The rhythm of the line settled into something easy. Scoop. Pass. Smile. Repeat. There were the occasional outliers. Church women with their judgment and heavy perfume. Children begging for an extra slice of cake. Men flirting horribly. Annie, Gigi, Nellie, and Pearline worked around all of it. 

Enter Claudine Thompson. She was a viper of a woman, with a daring smile that never actually meant that she meant well. She wore a frilly peach colored dress, a powder blue Sunday hat, and matching powder blue gloves. She stepped in front of Annie, who offered her a slice of her bread pudding. 

“You settlin’ in fast, ain’t you?” She asked, voice dipped with poison as Annie put a generous helping on her plate. The women around her laughed softly. Not cruel enough to challenge, but not kind enough to ignore. 

“I’m tryin’.” 

Claudine nodded slowly, eyes traveling over her hat, her gloves, the way she stood. “We noticed,” she hummed. 

Annie tilted her chin a little higher. “Well,” she said, voice even. “I’d probably be worse off if I wasn’t.” 

Claudine lips moved into a thin line, a rather reluctant smile. She looked Annie up and down again. “Cute,” she said with a slight dip of one of her shoulders. 

Before Annie could decide whether that was a praise or a warning, Aunt Della appeared at her elbow like she was summoned. “Be gone, Claudine. She don’t need no supervision. Especially not from you.” 

The silence that followed was brief. Then Claudine laughed like it had all been friendly banter. “Lord, Delilah,” she said, waving her hand. “Can’t say nothin’ round you.”

“And yet,” Aunt Della replied. “You keep tryin’,” she said with a head tilt and a sharp look.

The women laughed again. Claudine’s eyes snapped sharply to them before turning on her heel and stomping away. 

“Never think you need to explain yourself to a woman like that,” Aunt Della said as she helped herself to a generous serving of macaroni and cheese. “They don’t be askin’ cuz they want answers. They tryna check your temperature.” 

Annie exhaled through her nose. “I noticed.”

“Good,” she replied firmly. “Means you learnin’.” 

“Or maybe it just means church women are miserable and need hobbies,” Gigi said from a little ways down the table.

“Georgia.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Aunt Della shot her a look before leaving to sit with the deacon. “Behave.”

“Always.”

Gigi leaned against the table while Annie cut another square of bread pudding. “So Louisiana,” she started. “Y’all really got people walkin’ around speakin’ French down there?”

Annie nodded once. “And Creole.” 

“Say somethin’.” 

Annie laughed softly. “Why?” 

“Because church almost killed me from boredom and this heat ‘bout to finish the job.”

“Georgia Mathers,” Pearline gasped dramatically.

“What? Reverend Carter fine self already saved my soul this mornin’. I can say what I want ‘til Wednesday.” 

Annie shook her head, smiling to herself before saying something low and quick in Creole. 

“Well damn,” Gigi said. 

Pearline sighed softly, scooping another healthy serving of greens on a plate. “That sounded pretty.”

Gigi pointed at Annie with a pair of tongs. “If I learn another language, I’m only usin’ it to insult people.” 

“You already insult them in English,” Nellie muttered.

“That’s because the Lord made me honest.”

“And loud,” Pearline added.

The four of them dissolved into laughter again.

Another older church mothers drifted past the table slowly enough to make her presence known. “Well,” she said pleasantly, while Nellie poured her a glass of sweet tea. “Y’all certainly lively today.”

Gigi smiled instantly, the kind of smile that matched Sister Claudine’s a bit earlier. “Yes ma’am,” she replied sweetly. “We still young enough to enjoy life.”

Annie and Nellie gasped underneath their breath. The church mother’s lips tightened almost invisibly before she moved along the line. 

“You gon’ say the wrong thing to the right person one day,” Pearline said, letting out a breath through her nose.

“One day the right person gon’ ask the wrong question.”

Annie looked between the two of them quietly. 

“What?”

“You don’t get nervous talkin’ to church mothers like that?”

Gigi shrugged. “They already decided who I am to them. Might as well enjoy myself.”

The line in front of the serving tables had dwindled down now that most people were settling into the slow part of the afternoon. Behind the table the girls had switched positions, Annie refilling a glass of sweet tea, while Pearline cut a square of bread pudding with practiced care. Nellie was in charge of the fried chicken and fish which were almost gone, and Gigi dished out the sides. 

Nellie leaned forward suddenly, her eyes narrowing toward the far side of the church yard. 

“Oh Lord,” she muttered under her breath.

Gigi squinted, following her gaze. “What?”

Nellie nodded subtly towards a man standing near the pecan tree laughing with two deacons and a church mother, “Leroy.” 

“He over there sweatin’ right through that tired ass gray suit.” 

Annie and Pearline looked up, following their gaze. The man was handsome. Deep brown skin gleaming beneath the afternoon heat. His collar loosened just enough to show the thick line of his throat. His suit fit well across his shoulders. A little too well. And every time he laughed, a silver tooth flashed near the back of his mouth. 

“He do got a nice laugh,” Pearline said softly.

“And a wife,” Gigi corrected. 

“That don’t mean I can’t look,” Nellie chimed in. “Lord gave me eyes for a reason.” 

Annie raised a brow. 

“He also gave you discretion,” Pearline muttered while stacking clean plates. “And respectability.”

Nellie rolled her eyes. Gigi did, too. Annie laughed quietly to herself. 

“Oh, don’t act innocent, Louisiana. I know you got your eye on somebody already.”

“I never said I didn’t.” 

“Alright then. Who?”

“Never said I did either.”

“Well what’s your type?”

Annie shrugged. “Ain’t got one. I like what I like.”

“Hypothetically….”

“Here we go,” Nellie said, scratching her head.

“Hypothetically. Lookswise. Do you find any of these men attractive?” 

Annie blinked. “Sure.” She could already tell where this was going.

“So pick one.”

“Pick what?”

“A man.”

Pearline groaned. “We really ‘bout to play this game,” she muttered.

Annie huffed. “You want me to pick a random man? For what?” 

“Just a man you think is cute.”

Annie sucked her teeth.

“Ok hear me out. I’ll go first.” A group of young men passed nearby carrying folding chairs back towards the church building, Gigi’s eyes locked on one of them. He was tall. Dark brown skin. Slim waist beneath his suspenders, white shirt clinging damply to his back from sweat. It outlined the clean movement of muscle beneath it every time he lifted another chair onto his shoulders. “Mhmm,” she hummed approvingly. “That one right there.”

“You don’t even know him,” Nellie sighed. 

“I know enough.”

“What enough?”

“Look at how he carry weight.” 

“Well, if we bein’ honest,” Pearline said, pointing discreetly towards the far tables where an older man stood near the barbecue pit speaking with Reverend Carter. He was thick in the chest and shoulders, suspenders pulled low against his stomach. His hair was beginning to gray at the temples, his face carrying deep smile lines that deepened when he spoke. He looked solid. Steady. “That’s my husband.”

“See now Pearline,” Gigi said, her face twisting up like she just ate a lemon. “Every time you point him out I get sad.”

Pearline rolled her eyes. “Why?” 

“‘Cause he look like he read the almanac before bed every night.”

Nellie and Annie burst into laughter so suddenly they made heads turn towards them. Annie covered her mouth quickly. 

“He’s a nice man,” Pearline said, a little bit wounded. 

“I’m sure he is,” Gigi replied. “I ain’t say he wasn’t.” 

“He got nice hands,” Nellie said. “Big ones.”

“And big feet too,” Gigi added with a grin.

Pearline sighed and rolled her eyes again. “He take care of me.”

“I bet he do,” Gigi said, giggling under her breath and nudging Annie gently with her elbow. She laughed too.

“Your turn, Louisiana.” 

Annie shook her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her mouth as she glanced out across the way. Men stood in clusters throughout the church yard. In their dark slacks and rolled sleeves, leaning easy against trees smoking cigarettes, or arguing over baseball stats loud enough for the whole congregation to hear. Her eyes drifted until they landed on a man sitting near the edge of the folding tables. 

He looked tall from where she could see him. His suspenders stretched across a white shirt that had gone soft with wear. His sleeves were rolled neatly up to his elbows, revealing long forearms darkened by the sun. He sat tipped back in his chair, balancing dangerously on its back two legs while he listened to somebody talk, one hand lazily rubbing across his broad chest. His eyes glimpsed towards Annie and she looked away quickly, but not before Gigi caught who she was looking at. 

“Ohh, she like the quiet ones.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.” 

Pearline leaned to the side to look. “Mmm,” she hummed. “He is handsome, though.” 

“That’s Isaiah,” Nellie said, barely looking up. “Works for the railroad.” 

“Look at lil’ Nellie knowin’ every man’s occupation like she work for the census.” 

“What can I say? I like men with jobs.”

“And I like men who fine enough to ruin my life,” Gigi shot back. “Just a little.”

Annie barked out a laugh. “That’s how women end up cryin’ on porches.” 

“Or men end up gettin’ a root put on them.” 

Nellie snorted into her glass of lemonade. Annie shook her head smiling. “You always this dramatic?” 

Gigi leaned in towards her. “Only in public.” 

Annie found herself laughing harder than she had since she’d been in Mississippi.

After the buzz from the church, her newfound acquaintances, and Sunday dinner wore off, Annie found herself just looking for a peaceful place to sit. She padded to the porch, equipped with a few sheets of paper and her foraging basket.

Her shoulders sank when she got there. Men were out there slapping dominos, drinking, playing the harmonica. The sounds of late summer floated down the steps and onto the street that was alive with the after-church crowd. 

Way too crowded. She needed quiet. 

She sighed, rounding the front porch until she found a spot. She found one under the big magnolia tree whose branches scratched her bedroom window when the wind blew at night. 

She spread out her blanket in the grass. From her basket she took her roots, flowers and herbs and spread them out, organizing them by types. Then she went to the backyard and pumped a small bucket of water for cleaning. She started with the roots. Trimming and peeling back bits and pieces that weren’t useful. Running a damp cloth over them to clean, then laying them out carefully. 

Smoke stood on the porch of Miss Della’s boarding house with a crate full of her things and heat on his neck. He stepped into the front room, letting the screen door slap behind him. In the crate were copies of the Black publications sent down from up north and a small box that he promised Della him and Stack would pick up from Memphis.  The slap of the screen door caught Della’s eye and she nodded towards the lean-to in the back. He followed her outside. Once the door was closed, she lifted up the entrance hidden in the floorboards and guided him down the stairs. 

The space was expansive. Cooler than the surface. Della lit a series of oil lamps as she made her way through the underground space that was the length of the entire house. The walls and floors were lined with stone and mortar to keep the damp out, the floors smoother in the middle from constant wear. 

Shelves lined the walls from top to bottom, loaded with peaches, plums, oranges soaked in sugar and rum. Vanilla beans in moonshine. Nuts dipped in chocolate. Delicacies— pickled savory treats, candied sweet ones. Preserves and jams. Jars dusted with time stacked on top of each other. A thick, deep-purple syrup dripped from honeycombs into molds. Infused with a special blend of rum, it would harden into crystallized candy sticks and small square hard candies, or melt effortlessly into a smooth liqueur to stir into drinks. Small bottles with oils and dried flowers stood throughout the space too, along with some root vegetables and dried herbs. Cases of liquor, shelves of wine with bottles so old they’re covered in dust and cobwebs. 

Smoke put the crate in the corner by one of the rooms in the back. He took out the newspaper bundles and brought them to Della who instructed him to bring them upstairs with him. She looked over them for a second before patting him on the shoulder and looking him in his eyes. 

“Thank you for watching out for my girl yesterday.”

Smoke’s breath hitched a bit, enough for Della to notice. She gave him a little grin, “Mhmm. She ‘round here somewhere if you wanna say hi. Try some of her bread pudding. It’s in the kitchen,” she said as she moved around him and disappeared up the stairs. 

Back upstairs, Smoke enjoyed a serving of bread pudding topped with sticky rum sauce while he looked out on the porch for Annie. She wasn’t there. He finished his dessert, putting the dish in the wash basin before washing his hands and rounding the back to finish his search. He stepped out to the backyard and circled around to the side where a little patch of grass fanned into a grassy alleyway. The area was small but plush, the sun hitting it just right. A wire fence separated the boarding house and the house next to it. A magnolia tree stood in the middle, tall and proud, its branches hanging low like a veil over Annie’s head. She sat underneath it on a patchwork quilt, its colors vibrant, stitched with heat and history.

Annie was sitting with a quiet focus, tracing the edges of a plant on a piece of paper. She wrote the name at the bottom with a little detail about it on the side. She wore a sleeveless lace patterned dress— long, to her ankles—with a tan work apron overtop. A pair of brown ankle boots, scuffed at the toes, laced up her feet. A large floppy mesh hat crowned her head of coils, keeping the heat and sweat away. Her ileke beads sat tucked underneath the neckline of her dress, completing the look. Smoke approached her slowly, the grass flattened beneath his boots as he walked closer. He watched the side of her mouth curve up like she already knew he was there. 

“Can’t sneak up on me today.”

“Wasn’t tryin’ to.”

“Smoke.”

“Annie.”

She dusted the dirt off her hands as he held out his hand to help her stand up. He looked put together. Effortless. Dark trousers and a faded shirt with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. The sunlight caught the gold-brown of his skin in soft flashes between the shadows of the magnolia tree. 

“You hidin’?” he said finally, his eyes briefly drifting towards the quilt. 

Annie huffed out a quiet laugh, “Maybe.” 

He nodded once. He understood that completely. 

“Didn’t see you at church today,” she said, crossing her arms under her chest.

“Little busy.” 

“You too busy for the Lord?” She asked teasingly.

“Nah,” he said, stretching his arms. “He too busy for me.” 

“He ain’t never too busy for his…children.” 

“I ain’t on that list.” 

“Nah, I think you right at the top. Next to Peter and Paul,” she said, turning around to drop her blade down on the quilt. 

“Definitely ain’t no saint,” he said to the side. 

“That don’t make you a sinner, Smoke.”

A silent beat passed between them. A breeze blew by, making the windchimes on the front porch let out a low jingle. 

“That happen a lot?”

Smoke narrowed his eyes, “You got a lot of questions.” 

“And you answer almost none of ‘em.” 

A low hum, almost a laugh, left his chest. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“Can’t threaten me with a good time.” 

Smoke looked down at Annie, his gaze dropping to her lips briefly, then back up to her eyes.

“Me and Stack went to my uncle’s church.”

And they did. Macedonia Missionary Baptist, their uncle Jedidiah’s church right on the edge of the Sunflower plantation. It was a small rickety building, white-washed with high wooden ceilings and low pews. They sat in the back row, in their whitest whites like they always did. After service, they helped distribute the allotment of wine their uncle got from the county every month for communion. Since prohibition started, he’d sell some off on the side for extra money to offset the quota that he wouldn’t fulfill, even with all the little ones he and his wife, Ruthie, had.

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “So your uncle’s a preacher?” 

“That’s what he say, anyway.”

“Are y’all—,” Annie started to ask before noticing his jaw clench suddenly, “— nevermind.” 

She tilted her head at him. “Why don’t you come to one of the services in town?” 

“Habit.”

“Makes sense.” 

He paused. Took a breath, his eyes drifting to the quilt again then back up. “I used to go to the services in town. Before my uncle became a pastor,” he started.

Annie watched him carefully. “When’d he become a pastor?”

“Few years back. ‘Fore the war.”

“Oh,” she said, letting the sound of her voice fade into silence while he continued.

“We went every Sunday before then. Stack liked the singin’. I liked the quiet after.” 

The confession surprised her. Not because it was ground-breaking, but because he gave one. At all. “What changed?” 

Smoke got quiet like he was searching for the right words, his gaze shifting towards the road beyond the fence. “People.” 

Annie swallowed hard. People. Something about the way he said it made her chest ache unexpectedly. He pivoted quickly, like he could feel it too.

“Annie?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s all this?” 

“Drawings,” Annie said, sitting back down on the quilt, drawings spread out evenly across the fabric. Smoke cleared his throat, then lowered himself down beside her with the same quiet heaviness that accompanied everything about him. 

The sun was dipping low, throwing a veil of gold over the landscape. The sound of a guitar floated over from Fourth Street. Folks were sitting on their porches, enjoying the slight drop in temperature.

“I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

Annie pulled a knee to her chest, absentmindedly tracing her fingertip along one of the quilt seams. “Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for,” her voice drifted off as a loud buzzing sound got closer. 

A hummingbird. 

Its sharp beak poked at the gardenias clustered by the fence, their petals still closed. It floated from one flower to the next, searching for sugary nectar it could feed on.Annie’s hand touched a vial of water that sat on the quilt next to her legs. She picked it up, pointing the tip at her outstretched finger. 

“Watch this.”

A hummingbird hovered overhead, the flapping of its wings a dull buzz. It floated to her finger that she held up, its long beak piercing through the cap of the vial. Smoke flinched a little at the rapid movement of its wings, but quickly recovered. 

“How you get them to come to you?”

Annie shrugged her shoulders slightly. “They like the sound of my voice.” 

Smoke’s gaze went from the bird perched on her finger up to Annie. Her grin, her delicate finger, the way her chest moved with her breathing. The way the setting sun smiled on her skin. Smoke watched her as she watched pieces of sunlight flicker across the yard through the leaves. 

A breeze moved through the magnolia branches overhead carrying the faint floral scent down with it that mixed with the smell of freshly laundered cotton from the sheets hanging in the backyard, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Annie smelled sweet—like sugary vanilla, cinnamon, and rum from baking. Her sweetness wrapped around his senses, pulling him in like the song of a siren. He used to hear tales about them during the war. With their eyes and the sweet, sultry sound of their voices that were known to lure soldiers into a watery grave. 

Smoke didn’t believe in any of that shit. 

Not in ghosts, not in magic, and definitely not in no tall tales. But he couldn’t help but feel time slow down around her. At this very moment, right next to him, she looked—

“Smoke?” 

His vision snapped back into focus. He cleared his throat, swallowing the words he really wanted to say. “Hmm?” 

“You okay? Look like you were somewhere else for a second,” she remarked. 

Smoke comes back to himself. “Just thinkin’ bout that bread pudding you made.”

Lie.

“You had some?”

“Mhmm. Earlier. Your aunt gave me some.”

“You liked it?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders, “It was aight.”

“Ugh!” Annie tutted, smacking Smoke’s shoulder playfully. “That’s how I know you a damn lie.”

“I thought you not supposed to be cussin’ on a Sunday.” 

“Not when you out here…insulting my cookin’.” 

“I was just playin’,” Smoke teased, his lips flattened to suppress the grin that was quickly spreading across his face.

The evening heat wrapped around them, creeping slowly up their necks. Smoke picked at a loose thread near the edge of the quilt while Annie studied him quietly. The roughness of his hands resting against the quilt. The slight tremor in his right palm. The heaviness he carried in his shoulders even when he wasn’t moving. The stillness. The tension underneath the stillness. For the first time, she realized how much of him always seemed braced for something. At this very moment, spread out on a quilt under a magnolia tree. 

The thought sat strangely in her chest. “You look like you always ready for somethin’,” she said softly before she could stop herself.

Smoke looked at her, immediately focusing on her face in a way that made Annie almost regret what she said. He didn’t look angry. Didn’t look defensive. The expression flashed behind his eyes before disappearing just as quickly as it had arrived.

Vulnerable?

Not quite.

Not in a dramatic way. But just enough to realize she was watching him. Had been watching him. And for Smoke? That landed hard. Because he hadn’t realized she was paying attention. Not like that. For a long moment neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke. Smoke looked away first, gaze dropping towards the quilt between them then back to her. 

“That so?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Annie nodded once, “Like you never really…let yourself settle.” “Or be settled,” she said, voice just above a whisper. 

The magnolia branches stirred overhead again, their shadows moving slowly across the grass beneath them. 

Smoke spoke again. This time, his voice carried something new and unknown in it. “Most people don’t notice.” 

“Most people don’t sit still long enough to notice a lot of things.” 

Smoke paused for a beat. This time it stretched longer. The cicadas screamed louder for a moment, filling the silence neither of them seemed interested in breaking. Annie looked towards the back of the house when she sensed movement. She relaxed when she saw somebody moving past one of the kitchen windows. Then—

“And you do?” Smoke asked finally.

Annie turned to face him. She shrugged softly, “Somebody got to.”

A faint smile pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth. 

The sun dipped deeper into the horizon. The sky darkened further. It was a smooth shade of black with a twinge of gold from the warmth spilling out of the neighborhood windows that caught against Smoke’s face. He leaned back on one arm, gazing up towards the sky. His hand drifted next to where hers was on the quilt. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat of him on her skin. 

“What you got goin’ on this week?” His tone was almost hesitant, like he shouldn’t be asking this kind of question, but decided to do it anyway.

“I start at the cafe in town tomorrow.”

“Blackbird?”

“Yep.”

Smoke nodded in approval. “What time?”

“Nine.” She took a breath. “Why? You comin’ by tomorrow?” 

Her eyes widened. The question slipped out before she could catch herself. Again.

Smoke watched her for a second, “Maybe.” 

The kitchen window above where they were sitting slid up suddenly. 

“Annie!”

Aunt Della’s voice. 

Both of them looked up. “You left these dishes sittin’ on my counter like they pay rent!” 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. Annie groaned softly under her breath, her head dropping back dramatically, “She soooo…” she groaned, already reaching to pack her things.

“She family. I gotta go anyway,” Smoke said. Like something came over him, his hand rose to find the small of her back, his hand moving up and down gently. 

The sudden burst of fragrance from the night-blooming jasmine that laced through the fence like roots and moonflowers that hung like little white bells wafted towards them as the crickets began their rhythmic chirping and the cicadas changed rhythm. 

Annie stopped what she was doing. The warmth of Smoke’s hand on her back made her turn towards him slowly, her face close enough to his that she could feel his breath on her collarbone and smell the scent of tobacco and spice that clung to his shirt. They locked eyes. Smoke held hers a second, not long enough to call it anything but long enough to feel it anyway. He licked his lips, leaned in, and kissed her cheek. His warm, wet lips lingered softly against her skin, sending shivers down her spine and warmth beneath her ribs. The silence after that stretched in a way that made it feel loud. Louder than the crickets. Louder than the heartbeat that thumped violently in her chest. 

Smoke shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Annie said quickly. 

Their faces were still close. He leaned in again and this time brushed his lips against hers. Just enough for Annie to feel the pressure of his mouth. Annie’s lips followed his, giving back that pressure so he knew she was feeling the same way. Their lips separated slowly, pulling away with a soft, wet smack. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” she said. Voice warm but with a hint of something else behind it. 

He stood up, grabbing her things for her while she folded up her quilt.

“Goodnight, Annie,” he said, walking towards the front of the house where his truck sat parked on the street. The side gate creaked open as he walked through it. 

“Goodnight,” she sighed softly as he disappeared from her view. 

Aunt Della’s voice cut through the romantic haze bubble that had her staring dreamily at the street. 

“Annie, get yo ass in here!”

The small, rusty shop bell above Blackbird Café didn’t really jingle. It clanked with an exasperated, dull thud like it was already over the day. It was Monday morning, the small space slightly busy with diners sipping coffee and tea and enjoying steaming breakfasts of scrambled eggs, fried meat, and fluffy biscuits. The first thing that Annie noticed was the sound. The scrape of chairs against old wood floors, the hiss of grease hitting hot cast iron, the sound of a knife moving against a cutting board in a familiar, practiced rhythm. It smelled like coffee grounds, hot grease, bleach, and lemon cleaner soaked deep into the walls over the years. Something lived-in, almost ancestral. 

Annie made her way past the hostess stand to the back room. Mr. Hightower stood near the kitchen doorway, broad-shouldered and already sweating through his collar despite the early hour. His suspenders stretched over a white button-up rolled at the sleeves, a freshly laundered apron in his hands, his expression serious in a way that older men often wore when they were actually amused. 

“Go change, washroom’s in the back. Then I’ll show you around.”

“Okay.”

Annie padded to the washroom. She wrapped the uniform apron around her waist and stared at herself in the mirror. Her forehead was still shiny from oil Aunt Della had anointed her with that morning. She wiped a small crumb from the curve of her mouth from the tea biscuit she had earlier, slathering vaseline balm on her lips before making her way to the kitchen for Mr. Hightower. 

The kitchen was hotter than the rest of the building by at least ten degrees. Two women worked the stove already, moving around each other like it was a song and dance they’d been doing all their lives. One of them glanced up briefly at Annie before returning to the skillet.

“That’s Loretta,” he said, putting his hands on the cook’s shoulders. “She’s head chef. Loretta, this Annie.” 

“Heyyy, Miss Annie,” Loretta said amusingly, tossing a skillet of onions and peppers together. 

“Nice to meet you, Loretta.”

“And this,” he said, moving to the woman thinly slicing tomatoes, “this Sheila. Sheila – Annie.” 

“Nice to meet you, Sheila.” 

“Mm,” Mr. Hightower remarked. “Try not to scare her off before the lunch rush.”

“Aint you Della’s girl?” Loretta asked.

“Mhmm, niece.”

Sheila snorted. “She from New Orleans, she’ll be aight.”

Mr. Hightower pointed as he talked, moving quickly like he expected people to keep up. “Coffee station here. Tea there. Carry plates confidently, even if you scared. Folks tip better when you check on them often.” He pointed out towards the swinging doors that led from the kitchen to the dining area, “And don’t let them blues men flirt you into forgettin’ things.”

“Blues men?” Annie repeated.

“Musicians,” Sheila corrected. That earned a laugh from Loretta. 

The dining area looked different once people started to fill in. By noon, smoke curled thickly near the ceiling fans, dominoes slapped against tabletops near the windows where men argued over cards, and the low sound of a guitar rolled through the room, soft as heat from the jukebox near the wall. 

Annie moved carefully through the cafe at first. Coffee pot full of freshly brewed chicory coffee in one hand, plates balanced in the other. She listened more than she spoke and watched how the room moved before taking action, observing closely which customers wanted conversation, which wanted speed, and which wanted to be left alone with their thoughts.  The work settled into her body quicker than she expected. There was a rhythm to it here, a sort of dance. Not a graceful one, but something practiced and practical. Not only with the customers, but between the other servers as well. 

“Behind you!”

“Door!”

Annie learned those phrases quickly, at one point narrowly avoiding a clash with another server when she didn’t register the meaning quickly enough. By the second hour, she stopped hesitating before moving through crowded tables. By the third, she’d identified who were regulars and who were just passers-by. 

“You catch on quick.”

Annie looked up from wiping down a booth. One of the younger waitresses, a girl named Felicia, stood beside her with a tray against her hip and a smile on her face.

“I got six brothers. I’m used to chaos,” Annie answered. 

Felicia barked out a laugh, “Oh, you definitely gon’ fit in here.”

Over by the stage, a guitarist plucked a few lazy notes while setting up for the later crowd. The sound rolled through the cafe, settling low and heavy in the air. Outside, Fourth Street buzzed beneath the muggy Delta heat. Inside, Blackbird Cafe dishes clattered, voices did too, and the sound of the blues drifted slowly through cigarette smoke. 

By three, the cafe had settled into its late afternoon lull. Annie wiped down the counter one last time before untying her apron. Mr. Hightower glanced up from his ledger near the till. “See you tomorrow, Annie.”

Annie folded the apron over her arm. “Tomorrow.” She smiled to herself, satisfied, as she headed towards the back door. Just as she reached it, Mr. Hightower’s booming voice made her pause. 

“Annie?” he asked, peeking around the corner. 

“Yes sir.”

“You did good today.”

Annie smiled faintly, “Thank you.” 

The sky began its slow shift into gold. The evening air wrapped around her warm and damp, carrying the smell of riverwater, fried food, and dust. Annie adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and started down the sidewalk. 

A feeling started to hit her all at once. 

Exhaustion. 

She tried to wind her mind down, but her body was still acting like she was at the cafe. Moving quickly around corners and slower around blind spots, her mind counting things automatically. 

But beneath all the tiredness in her limbs sat something else, too. 

Pride. 

She made her way down Fourth Street, past men leaning in doorways, women talking on shaded porches, and children chasing each other barefoot through red dirt near the edge of the road. One man tipped his hat as she passed by. A man right next to him catcalled something ridiculous enough to earn a laugh. She walked past both of them without breaking stride.

She turned off Fourth and onto Issaquena. 

The sign hung just ahead. 

Luella’s. 

It was a worn, weathered sign that hung over the sidewalk from a wrought iron bracket and chains that swayed gently in the breeze. Pastel paint peeled slightly at the edges of the rectangular wooden plaque with carefully painted gold lettering in the center. A gold frame was tacked on sometime later to make the sign look more polished. Warm light glowed through the front windows, and inside were bolts of fabric, sequined accessories, and hanging garments of every color imaginable swaying faintly in the breeze that flowed through the window like they were alive. 

The floorboards creaked under the weight of Annie’s feet as she stepped through the door and walked down the stairs leading into Luella’s Dressing Room, bringing with her a whirlwind of humid Mississippi air. 

There were a few customers lingering, some by the spools of ribbon, some in the front where bolts of fabric were lined on shelves and piled on top of the large wooden workspace in the center of the shop. Curtains hanging in front of the store windows kept the sun from dulling their vivid coloring, along with bulbs hung from the ceiling that created a cozy, buzzing atmosphere. Glass displays with accessories—gloves, purses, stockings, shoes— lined the walls that were decorated with fashion plates and fading photographs as Annie made her way to the back of the shop. 

The heels of her Mary Jane pumps clicked against the wooden floors as she crossed the room to where Luella was looking at a dress posed on a mannequin, her glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She wore a chatelaine around her waist with small measuring tools hanging from the hooks, and stood with a tape measure slung over her shoulders, her expression perking up as soon as she heard the groan of the floorboards coming her way. 

“Annie,” she said, instantly wrapping her hands around Annie’s middle. 

“Miss Luella,” Annie replied warmly. “I’m here to get my measurements taken.” 

“Gimme a second, baby. Lemme finish up pinnin’ this dress.” 

The back room was fitted with two dressing stalls, a three-way floor-to-ceiling mirror, and a few velvet chairs and a settee for guests. Annie made herself comfortable on one of the chairs, taking a peppermint twist from the jar on the table next to it. 

After a few minutes, she was ushered through a narrow corridor leading to a private alcove flanked with damask velvet drapes, a small platform, and a set of mirrors. The smell of rose scented perfume hung heavily in the air, a pair of Dressmakers’ mannequin sat off to the side, displaying sequined fabric held up by pins. 

Luella gave her a robe, a washcloth and towel, then pointed her to the washroom where a basin full of warm, soapy water was waiting for her. When the door finally shut behind her she sighed. She stripped naked then lathered and dragged the soapy washcloth across her body, scrubbing away the smell of grease and exhaustion from the day. Once she was done, she shrugged the robe on, the feel of satin cool against her skin. 

She stepped out of the washroom freshly oiled with the scent of lavender on her skin and stood on the platform while Luella’s assistant, a quiet, young girl, took her measuring tape while Luella took the measurements down. 

“Hips 46.”

“Good child-birthing hips,” Luella remarked.

“Bust 44,” her assistant continued.

“And they just gon’ get bigger once you start poppin’ out babies.”

“What kind of neckline you want, sugar?” 

“Somethin’ I can tuck my beads into,” Annie replied. 

“Gon’ need a little bit extra to hold these up,” she teased.

Annie laughed quietly and looked at herself in the mirror as she felt the measuring tape tighten around her ribs. The breeze from the small fan by the curtains hit her exposed skin, the sudden chill giving her goosebumps.

“Waist 33.” 

“We usin’ that fabric you picked out last time?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Luella moved in front of Annie with a finger on her cheek in contemplation. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She tapped her cheek with her finger. Once, twice. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Annie looked at her assistant through the mirror who shrugged. Luella disappeared into the store, then returned excitedly with a bolt of a lush dark green velvet fabric.

“I was thinkin’ a straight drop waist, hem just below the hips. Plunging neckline. Maybe some scalloped detailing to frame it. Have them titties sittin’ up high. Decorate it with some silver fringe at the bottom. Like one of them flapper dresses. What you think?” 

“I don’t have the—”

“Don’t worry ‘bout the money. Your auntie said you can get whatever you want. Plus I been dyin’ to get someone in here so I can practice sewin’ a push-up bra.” 

“Push-up bra?”

“Mhmm—supposed to push ‘em in and up,” Luella said with a sly look, gesturing with her hands.

“So, you in?”

Annie nodded once, “I’m in.”

Luella clapped her hands, “I’ll even gift you a necklace and a coin purse to wear with it.” 

“A…necklace?” she asked, her hand instinctively going to her beads. 

“You can’t wear this ol’ thing,” she said, her face softening when she saw Annie slowly trace a bead with her fingertips. 

“It’s just for a night,” she said softly. 

“Okay,” Annie replied with a smile. 

“You should wear your hair down. Finger waves. I can sew a decal in the middle here a few inches above the hem. Mhmm, let the fringe hang from the bottom….” 

Luella’s voice began to fade away as Annie stood in front of the mirror. Her assistant continued taking measurements and writing things down while they circled around her, narrating her entire look for the harvest party. A twinge of nervous energy fluttered in Annie’s belly. Her gaze dropped to her stomach, the few rolls on her upper torso and pudge that sat underneath her belly button. She pulled at it through the robe, sucking in her stomach a bit and smoothing a hand down her torso before just letting it be. 

She’d always been taught to love her body, and she did. But this was Clarksdale, a small town with a lot more small people than she was used to, and she towered over a lot more men here than at home. 

What would a dress made for a short, skinny woman even look like on a tall woman like her? 

What would people say? 

Would they laugh? 

Would they sneer? 

Luella’s gentle hand rubbing her arm soothingly pulled her out of her thoughts. She had pulled a fashion plate from the wall of her shop and brought it over for Annie to look at. 

“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asked, handing Annie the sketch of the dress inspiration.

Annie looked over it carefully, then traced the edges with her fingertips. “Don’t you think I’m too…tall to be wearin’ stuff like that?”

Luella looked at Annie like she knew what she really meant to ask. “Don’t worry, sugar,” Luella whispered with a wink. She rubbed her arms from behind. “You gon’ be the prettiest one in the buildin’.”

Annie smiled, standing just a little bit taller. 

A thick wax candle burned unevenly in the dark. Tiny dancing shadows flickered against the thin walls of the bedroom, the soft light catching the glimmer of oil on Annie’s arms still warm from her bath. 

She sat at her desk. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration while her pencil moved across the page. 

She drew a curve. 

Then another one.

She angled the pencil to flatten the tip. 

Shaded. 

Used the pads of her fingers to soften that. 

The line blurred—not right. 

She scoffed under her breath, erased, and tried again, this time squaring off at the base where the hand felt broader than she expected. 

Her eyes fluttered shut. 

A shape appeared. Then another one, right on top to give it dimension. 

Shade. Mark. Smudge. Erase—until the sides of her hands were stained with graphite. 

She paused at the knuckles, pressing the tip of her pencil down just a little harder, roughing them in before softening the edges with her finger. 

For a moment she felt like she was back at home. Watching her grandmother in the apothecary, sketching the detail of her skirt on any scrap of paper she could find. 

She set her pencil down, letting it roll to the edge of the table as she looked down at her half-finished product. 

Still—something in it didn’t quite feel right. 

She pressed her thumb lightly over one of the lines, then stopped. Folded it up. Tucked it in the drawer of her desk. Closed the drawer carefully. 

A few moments passed. A few shallow breaths. 

She listened to the sounds of the boarding house. Heavy snores. An occasional throat clearing. The house cat purring gently just outside her bedroom door—legs tucked, eyelids heavy, ears always alert. 

Outside, the chickens were settled in their coop. A chain-link fence rattled somewhere down the road, where a fox lingered behind it, watching them restlessly. 

Annie opened the drawer again, this time to pull out a clean sheet of paper. She grabbed her pencil from the edge, dated the letter, then began to write. 

Mama, she started. 

Skipped a line. 

Paused. 

I made it to Clarksdale, she continued. It’s—

She paused again, tapping the pencil on her cheek. 

Tap.

Tap. 

Tap.

Thunder rumbled outside, slow and dangerous, like a rolling boil. Her gaze followed the sudden sound. Lightning followed, finding the shadows that clung to the corners of her room. She turned back to her letter. 

…different. Skipped another line.

The Delta got demons.

She could already hear what her mama would say. “What she mean by that?” She imagined them all there—mama, daddy, grandma, brothers— standing around her while she sat reading it to them. Arms crossed, eyebrows raised, faces scrunched up.

At this point she didn’t even know what she really meant. Smaller, obviously—but they knew that. She knew that. They knew that she knew that. 

Clarksdale was less spooky than New Orleans, but somehow more haunted. Life here hummed along while something else lingered quietly in the shadows.

Outside, storm clouds hung high and heavy, waiting for their moment to break open. Rainfall started slowly, just a light pitter-patter at first, then more steadily, drumming the streets, the land, the roofs.

Annie’s pencil hovered over the paper. 

I got a job in town to save for my shop, she wrote. On the colored side, so don’t go worrying. 

I ain’t looked at any places. But if Aunt Della can have something of her own, so can I. 

She blinked twice, hesitating. Then—

Send grandma, daddy, and my siblings all my love. I hope y’all can come see me soon. 

Love, 

Annie

P.S. Ain’t found good fried catfish yet. 

Annie’s gaze lingered on the letter for a moment. She folded it neatly, pressing a gentle kiss in the center like an invisible seal. The chair scraped against the floorboards as she stood, thunder crashing just as she blew out the candle. Her room was blanketed in near darkness until the flash of lightning lit up the shadows again. She tiptoed to her bed. The creak of the iron frame was silenced by the sounds of the storm as she sat down in the middle, bringing her knees to her chest. She looked outside, her mouth twisting into a sleepy, satisfied smile. The wind whistled through the cracks of the siding, carrying raindrops along with it, smearing them across the windows in long streaks. She cracked it, leaving it slightly open with a small block of wood, before laying down and tucking herself under the covers.

Outside blurred into sheets of rain. Inside, the room blurred into a sheet of darkness as Annie’s eyelids started to feel like lead. 

All of a sudden she was in the kitchen, the house held under its familiar morning hush.

A fire crackled faintly in the stove, smoldering low just like it was left. 

She set the kettle on top, reaching for her special blend in the cupboard. Her fingertips brushed the shelves, gliding over jars, vials, canisters, mismatched mugs with chipped rims, and something soft tucked in between, until they landed on an empty spot— the one where her favorite mug usually lived. 

She turned. Her eyes searched the room– the table, the shelves, the door, the wash basin next to it— until they landed on it. Her face relaxed slightly, perking up again when the kettle let out a deafening whistle. 

Annie grabbed the mug from the wash basin, the lingering warmth on the handle making her pause—just for a second. She relaxed again as she took a slow sip, testing the heat on her tongue. 

Somewhere in another room, in a house that never settles, a floorboard creaked.

Water trickled. Then ran smoothly. 

The floorboard creaks got heavier. Closer. 

A shadow darkened the threshold. Her eyes followed it. Then—

Rain hammered the tin roof of the boarding house as night dragged on. 

A silver stream of moonlight sliced sharply through the darkness in Annie’s room. She was staring at the ceiling—jolted awake by a loud boom of thunder that shaken her out of her sleep. The storm had thinned out to a familiar, early fall rain.

She listened to the echo of crickets through the window. They chirped low, mimicking her heartbeat— a rapid, arrhythmic flutter. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and slowed her breathing.

Didn’t work. 

Annie scoffed, sitting up to lower her window some, careful not to close it completely. 

The outside noise had faded— crickets, rain, animals. Gone. Mostly. Annie tucked herself in again, her eyes slowly beginning to close. 

In a few minutes they were back open. 

Because it wasn’t the night that was too loud. 

A gentle wind slipped through the crack of the window, bringing with it the earthy smell of rain— but the breeze did little to cool the heat that crept through her body. 

Her hand moved along the curve of her, stopping at her right ear where her fingertips grazed the side. It was hot to the touch, like his breath, his voice, his words were right there.  

Her breath hitched when she realized the turn her mind had taken, her hand snapping to her side as that heat—froze. 

Chill. 

Sharp and sudden, a shiver slid down her spine before disappearing just as fast. 

She rolled to her side suddenly, pulling the covers tighter, squeezing her eyes harder— pleading. 

The rain tapered off, now reduced to an audible drip from the edge of the roof by her bedroom. Slow. Methodical. Taunting. 

Her eyes didn’t snap open this time. She didn’t get flustered. She just laid on her side facing the window, watching the sky like she knew what to expect. 

Because she did. 

And dawn was approaching.

It arrived as it always did, a gentle, pale wash of color that slowly softened the edges of darkness. 

Annie’s body moved ahead of her mind, her legs sweeping over the edge of the bed as she stood to her feet. She was tracing the outline of her ileke beads with her fingertips when she realized— it was Saturday.  

Which meant today would be easy. 

Breakfast chewed slow, coffee sipped slower. Everything a little lazier, a little less urgent. She could get out of the house, take a walk by the river, follow it to the place Chayton showed her—a spot he said the grass was tall and honeysuckle grew sweeter. 

After washing up, she slipped on a dress made for sunlight—a green wrap dress—and practically floated toward the staircase until she heard movement downstairs. She tiptoed down the stairs, turning the corner slowly to find Aunt Della in the kitchen, rolling biscuit dough, her movements deliberate, unrushed.  

“Where you think you goin’?” She asked without looking up. 

Annie set her bag beside the woven basket on the table by the door. “Out to the woods.” 

“This early?” 

“Mhmm.”

“Where?”

“That place Chayton took us to the other day.”

“Hmm. Well, stay off the roads. Stay to the side and don’t be out there daydreamin’. Keep your ears open.” 

Aunt Della clapped her hands free of flour, then pulled something from her pocket. She approached Annie, grabbing her hand and putting it firmly in her palm. Annie looked down at it. It was a switchblade, small, foldable, with a bone handle and a sharp, serrated blade. Her thumb grazed the inscription carved into the handle— Seven Sisters. 

“Keep this on you,” Aunt Della said firmly. “Always.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Annie said, slipping on her work apron, then slipping the knife into her apron pocket.

“Come here,” Aunt Della insisted, grabbing her arm. “Have some tea first ‘fore you go.” 

Annie slid into a stool in the kitchen as Aunt Della poured boiling water over a pack of herbs. The smell rose quickly. Jasmine, sassafras and mint. She stirred a spoonful of honey in, the spoon clinking against the insides of the ceramic cup. 

“I wrote a letter,” Annie said as Aunt Della slid the cup towards her on the table. “To mama.”

“Mmm?” 

“Was hopin’ you knew how to get it to her.” 

Annie sipped from her cup, letting the tingle of warmth wash over her. A familiar feeling found her ankle. The gentle brush of the house cat’s coat. 

“Tsk tsk tsk,” she tutted. “Coucou, Felix,” she lulled. The cat purred, the sound a deep rumble against her skin. He contorted his slender body against her like a long wave, then sat at her feet, his tail stroking her leg every other breath.

Aunt Della took a sip of her own tea before placing the cup down in its saucer. “Bring it with you,” she said. “To church.”

“Don’t let me forget,” she said quietly, staring at her aunt with pleading eyes. 

She reached over to touch Annie’s hand where it rested on the table. The warmth from the tea cup lingered like a pulse between them. “I won’t, baby,” she said softly, reassuring. 

“We leave for church a little after first bell. Just before the night clears.” 

Annie took another sip of her tea. “When’s that reverend due to come in?” 

“Before supper.” 

“And he’s preachin’ tomorrow?”

“Mhmm. Got a big followin’,” she said, stirring her tea with her finger. “They say he’s one of the most successful soul winners in the country,” she added, emphasizing every word sarcastically. 

“Hmm,” Annie hummed, putting her teacup down. She stood, dodging Felix still curled up at her feet, and took it to the wash basin.   

“I’ll be back before supper,” she said while rinsing her cup. “Probably little after lunch.”

“Be careful, Annie,” Aunt Della insisted, as she slipped into her boots and grabbed her things by the door. 

The screen door shut firmly behind her, the porch steps still damp from morning dew and last night’s storm. Annie walked down them carefully, dodging puddles and pools of mud in the front yard. 

The road painted a picture of the night it had suffered through— wet, soft and dark. Annie walked with purpose when she stepped onto the packed dirt, keeping to the sides of the road, partially hidden by shrubs. One arm was hooked through the handle of her basket, the other found its place in her pocket firmly palming her switchblade. 

She looked at her surroundings— fall was approaching Clarksdale.

Leaves of all shades, burnt amber to pale green, lay along the packed dirt road like an offering. Cicadas still screeched from their treetop lairs while Spanish moss swayed elegantly in the early morning breeze. Little bits of milkweed seed blew gently through the air, leaving small blossoms in her coils like little white stars. She left behind a trail of jasmine and river water, like a midnight garden blooming in the crisp morning air behind her.

Annie was just to the riverbend when she felt a chilling stillness that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The same feeling from her first day in town when they passed the white section, that tightness around her throat. It made her stop suddenly in her tracks. 

Then she heard it, the sound of an exhaust pipe sputtering and wheels crunching up the road.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath.  

The road sloped downwards into the woods surrounding both sides. She ducked off into the brush, boots sliding over the slick mud at the top of the bend. 

The brakes let off a lingering squeal as the wheels slowed, then stopped completely. 

A door opened, a rusty creak of a sound that echoed in the silence of the morning. It shut carefully, with a quiet click.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. 

She stepped over a fallen log to find cover behind a large oak tree, the fallen leaves rustling underneath her careful steps. 

It was silent for a beat, her heartbeat hammering in her ears as a mix of anticipation and dread took over. 

“Annie?”

Annie squeezed her eyes shut when she heard the familiar voice. Relief washed over her like a cooling balm on a burn. But she didn’t move. Not yet.

“Annie,” the voice said, louder, more firm. 

She peeked out from behind the tree slowly. Just her head. 

Smoke stood at the top of the bank, peering down into the trees. He wore only trousers and suspenders, a simple undershirt clinging tightly to his muscles in his broad chest. 

“What you out here for?” 

Annie’s mind went blank for a second. Smoke raised a brow in response. 

“Work,” she said finally. “Just doin’ work.”

He tilted his head, his hands flexing at his sides. “What kinda work?”

“Foraging.”

“Right here?”

“No,” she said, nodding towards the road, “a lil’ further up.”

He sighed. “Annie–”

Annie stepped out from behind the tree, slowly. Her voice echoed off the trees. “I’m fine, Smoke. Really.”

Smoke scanned the treeline before he spoke, jaw tight. “These roads ain’t safe to be walkin’ alone.”

A pause.

“I’ll take you.”

She gasped under her breath. “You ain’t gotta—”

“I said,” he interrupted. “I’ll take you.” 

Annie exhaled slowly. Something in his gaze took the fight out of her.

He held out his hand to her to help her up the bank, looking down at her face that was tilted up at him. Her eyes were lighter here. Bigger, somehow. A warm chocolate brown with a flicker of gold in the irises where the sun touched them.

Annie looked down at Smoke’s hand, then back up to his face. Up close, his features softened. Or maybe it was just the way the sun hit them. 

Either way, she held her hand out, accepting his help as she stepped out of the brush. 

The wind whispered delicately around them, Annie’s skirt blowing slightly in the gentle breeze, exposing the swell of her thigh. Smoke’s jaw tightened at the movement, his eyes dropping to where the fabric lifted. His hand hesitated for a moment, before smoothing the side of her skirt down. 

“Thank you,” Annie said softly. 

Smoke held her gaze for a moment before rounding the front of the truck to the driver’s side door. 

The drive was quiet except for the light tap of Smoke’s thumb against the steering wheel. Annie rested her right arm out the window as the landscape moved past her in flashes of muted orange, green and brown. The land was dead, or at least that’s what the color of it told her, the once green shrubs and brush shedding like snakeskin, baring itself for winter to swallow it whole.

“So what you lookin’ for?” Smoke asked, cutting through the near silence. 

“Some herbs. Roots and such,” she replied plainly.

“So you–” he said, then hesitated. He swallowed, then continued. “You like your aunt? Do all that hoodoo stuff?” 

Annie smiled, just faintly. “Yeah,” she said, looking over. “That stuff.” 

“You believe in all that?” he asked, eyes fixed on the road.

“Believe in what?” 

He paused before he spoke. “Magic.”

Annie smoothed her hands down her skirt, setting them on her lap gently. She looked out the window. “I believe in people. What’s passed down from ‘em,” she answered. Paused. Then, “What you believe in?”

Smoke’s head turned to the side, tilting. “Money. Respect.”

Annie hummed in acknowledgement, turning her head back towards the window.

“What exactly you need?” Smoke probed. 

“Stuff you can find in the dirt. Plants. Herbs.”

A quiet sigh escaped from Smoke, making Annie turn her head again. She arched her brow. A silent prodding.

“I know that. What kind?” 

Annie looked at Smoke skeptically. “Why?”

Smoke shrugged his shoulders slowly, “Just wanna know.” 

Annie faced forward. Exhaled. Took her time with her answer. “Comfrey. Honeysuckle. Mugwort. Stuff like that.”

“I know a place,” he said, looking over briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “If that’s okay with you.” 

Silence settled for a beat before Annie realized Smoke wasn’t driving in the direction she pointed him towards. She looked over her shoulder then back to Smoke, then back over her shoulder again. Her face twisted, but not with panic— curiosity. “This ain’t where…Smoke…where we goin’?” 

“I told you, I know a place,” he said simply. 

Annie sat forward in the seat—skeptical—her eyes tracing the side of Smoke’s face. “Where is it, Smoke? Where you takin’ me?” 

“There’s a spot,” he said, clearing his throat. “In the woods. It’s safe. Nobody goes out there but us.” 

“Us?”

“Me and Stack,” he clarified. “That okay with you?” he said a bit louder, looking over to meet Annie’s gaze once more. 

Annie’s hand tightened in her lap. “If it’s not?”

“I turn around, take you to your spot.” 

Annie considered for a moment, then nodded. 

“Okay.”

—

Smoke pulled up to a stretch of land, split in two by a rough dirt path. 

The ancient oak and sweetgum trees were tall surrounding it, bent over almost as if they were in reverence.

Smoke ushered Annie out of his truck, holding her steady by the waist so she wouldn’t fall victim to the uneven earth that made up the path. 

Leaves brushed the walkway, crunching underneath their boots as they made their way further into the forest. Smoke walked just ahead of Annie— sure in his steps, leading the way, looking behind him every so often to make sure she was still there. 

Annie’s eyes darted from the oak trees, to the blanket of fallen leaves beneath it, to the tiny animals that scurried in the thicket. 

The cicadas screeched above them, dulling the trickle of the creek just ahead of them— but Annie still felt the current. 

“Right here,” Annie said, stopping in her tracks, kneeling— her bare knees burrowing in the rich dirt where she landed. 

She brushed away the few leaves that laid over the spot, hands hovering over the earth. 

Then she dug. 

Smoke stopped when he didn’t feel her behind him. He turned around to find her completely absorbed in the ground.

Annie planted her hands in the dirt, soil instantly collecting under her fingernails. Her fingertips wrapped around a plant rooted deeply underneath the surface. 

She paused before pulling it towards her, pressing her other hand into the soil to steady herself. 

She stopped. 

Pulled the switchblade from her apron pocket, and made a clean cut at the root. 

Then she whispered something under her breath— not loud, just audible enough for Smoke to hear it. Her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the plants, the soil, her own instinct. 

Smoke kept his eyes on Annie as the cicadas went quiet. 

The rustle of leaves faded. 

The silence of the woods lingered before it started to feel deafening. 

He took a step towards her before crouching down. Not interrupting, just giving into a sudden urgency that seemed to overtake his instinct. 

He balanced himself, his palm pressing into the soil next where Annie’s hand was firmly planted. 

A moment of silence—almost like he knew better than to interrupt—passed between them. 

“You good?” he whispered suddenly. 

Annie looked up towards Smoke, her hand pressing deeper in the soil. 

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice almost a whisper. She finished pulling the root, brushing dirt from her hands. “I’m good.” 

Smoke didn’t move right away. Neither did Annie. 

His hand flexed once in the soil, his thumb pressing into the dirt like he needed the touch. 

“Okay,” he replied, standing when pressure built in his ears that had his eyes scanning the woods. He cleared his throat, flexing his hands as he took a step back. 

“I’m right here,” he said, pointing to the outline of a house a ways down the dirt path.

Annie nodded again, turning back to her work as the sound of Smoke’s footsteps disappeared down the trail.

Time felt like it stood still.

It was afternoon now, the rays of sun that peeked through the trees the only indication of the day passing. 

Annie worked slowly, reverently—pulling, dusting and stacking in her basket until she felt like she collected enough. 

She sat on her knees, exhausted, wiping a small bead of sweat from her temple. 

Then she pulled out her paper and pencil.

She smoothed the paper as much as she could as it curved over her legs. It found the dips and grooves in her skin and the wrinkles in the fabric of her dress.

The tip of the pencil hovered for a moment before touching down. She drew a line, light at first. Then another, curving off it without closing. She paused, glancing at the ground, then back to the page. 

The roots pushed through the dirt the way they wanted, twisting under the surface before breaking through. She followed that with her pencil, letting the line bend where it needed to. It dragged slightly where the soil had been packed down. She smudged that part with her thumb. 

Light cut across the page unevenly— patches of it catching, others falling into shadow. She tilted the paper just slightly, filling in those parts with softer strokes. 

The lines didn’t come together cleanly. They spread, overlapped, smudged, and shaded, fading into one another until something like a moment took shape on the page.  

She looked at it for a minute longer, then slid the pencil back into her apron pocket. She folded the paper up until it was just a small square, and tucked that into her purse. 

Then she was back in the dirt.

Pressing soil back into place, covering what had been disturbed, working her hands until the ground looked just as she’d found it. 

—

Annie was gathering her things when she heard him in the distance. She perked up, her head craning over her shoulder. 

Her eyes narrowed as the bright afternoon sun blinded her from the sight walking up the path in the distance, but she could hear boots crunching against the bed of fallen leaves.

Smoke.

She raised a hand to block out the sun, her eyes sweeping up his frame until they landed on his. 

“Got lunch if you want some.”

She nodded once, moving to push herself up to her feet in one swift motion. Smoke caught her mid-motion on the arm, helping her stand all the way up. “Thank you,” she said, wiping her hands against her apron to shake off the dirt.  

Smoke turned, motioning his head for Annie to follow him. They walked side by side, the occasional birdcall or soft snap of twigs beneath their feet the only sounds between them. The house came into full view through the trees, a modest, well-preserved shotgun on cinderblocks. 

They stopped at a wash basin outside where she scrubbed her hands clean before moving to the porch. It was wide, slightly sagging, with sun-scorched floorboards that lifted on one side. Annie stepped through the door slowly, her eyes moving without hurry. 

The smell hit her first. The savory aroma of meat. Something smothered, simmered low and cooked slow. And spice. Enough to make your nose tingle, but not enough to make you sneeze.

The inside of the house was warm, but not in temperature. It was cozy—a neat space maintained with care. 

The space was deep, one long room sectioned off into separate areas. Two cots at the front behind a divider, and two heavy, metal trunks with rusted latches stood at the foot of each bed. The living area was just beyond that, decorated with bookshelves along the walls and a brown striped fabric couch in the center covered in plastic. By the back door was the kitchen— a wood-burning stove, table and chairs, and wooden shelving along the walls. 

Everything had its place, but not in a way that felt stiff. Stacks of clean dishes in the kitchen, neatly folded blankets on the couch, a slew of medals arranged carefully on a bookshelf, set apart from the other items in a way that made Annie pause. 

Smoke saw her glancing at them, but said nothing. The silverware clinked where he began to set them on the table.

“What are these?” Annie asked, pointing. She took a step towards them, careful not to touch. They were held inside a velvet box, displayed on a bed of faded cream-colored satin.

Smoke shrugged. “Shit from the war,” he muttered, moving past her to pull out glasses and plates like the question didn’t need much more than that.

Annie narrowed her eyes, leaning in just enough to read. Her lips moved faintly over the inscription.

 “République Française,” she read. She paused, looking across the room where Smoke was setting the table. “Why is it French?” 

Smoke exhaled sharply, setting a plate down harder than he meant to. “That’s who we fought with.”  

Annie’s brows pulled together. “What you mean?”

Smoke’s jaw ticked. “We fought…with the French army.”

“Why?”

That made Smoke pause.

“Jim Crow.” 

Annie didn’t say anything back. She had heard the stories. Knew them intimately. One of her own brothers was packed up and shipped out of Hoboken. Six months later, they sent word he was accidentally shot. Didn’t say how or why a man in the engineering battalion was subject to gunfire. 

They wouldn’t even send his body back. Said they wouldn’t pack it on a ship with the bodies of white men. 

All on account of Jim Crow. 

She slowly turned back to the medals. Green and red striped fabric affixed with brass stars sat at the top, at the bottom was the medal, its color a dull bronze. A round, raised figurehead sat in the center, intersected by two overlapping swords and four triangular spokes alternating between them. 

It looked delicate. It looked dangerous. It looked like something earned with blood, bone, and brutality.

“You speak it?” Smoke threw over his shoulder. 

Annie took her time to answer. She was still looking over the medals, drawn in by the detail. “Huh?” 

“French.”

“Yeah,” she said slowly, still looking at the medals. “I do.”

A beat passed. Annie’s eyes moved to the row of bound notebooks on the shelf next to the medals. Threadbare bindings, some canvas, some leather— all neatly aligned. On their spines were neat handwriting. Precise, thin, cursive, written in a deep, onyx ink. 

“Where you learn that?”

His voice came suddenly. Deeper. Closer. Right there next to her ear, just like in Chow’s.

Annie’s eyes fluttered shut, then snapped back open. She sighed, then twisted her neck over her shoulder to look Smoke in the eye.  

“You sho’ do live up to your nickname,” she drawled, squinting.

Smoke tilted his head. He had a twinkle in his eye and half a smirk on his lips. “What you mean by that?”

“You have a habit of sneakin’ up on people.”

He tilted his head to the other side, huffing a quiet laugh under his breath. “Ain’t sneakin’ if you payin’ attention, Miss Annie,” he teased.

“Who said I wasn’t payin’ attention,” she fired back, her Louisiana lilt wrapping around more than just her words. 

Smoke’s eyes flicked down slowly, following the curve of her face before landing on the pulse in her throat. It was steady. Too steady. His eyes flicked back up. 

Annie turned, fully facing him and crossing her arms lazily under her chest in one smooth move. “Back in Louisiana,” she answered, holding his gaze. “Everybody there know some kind of French.” 

Smoke answered with a grunt. Annie answered back with a hum, then moved around him to the kitchen. She sat at the table, easing herself into a chair that faced where he was still standing. Smoke let her go. He didn’t follow her—but his eyes did, body twisting slightly, hands flexing once at his sides. 

“You learn any?” She asked, leaning forward a little. “From the war?” 

Smoke turned until he was facing her where she was sitting across the room. Slowly. Not like he wanted to make a show out of it, just like her voice pulled him there. He walked back into the kitchen where cups and plates were stacked haphazardly on a row of shelves. He grabbed two glass mason jars, looking them over for a second before turning towards the table with them. “Little bit.” 

Annie tilted her head, something playful in it. “Like what?”

Smoke set the glasses down, one in front of Annie, the other directly across the table. “Hi. Bye.”

Annie smiled. “That it?”

“Mhm.”

She leaned back slightly in her chair, looking at him like she didn’t believe that for a second. “What else?”

Smoke paused for a second. Then shook his head. “Nah, nothin’.” 

Annie’s smile curved into something sly. “Tell me.” 

“Nah.” Smoke shook his head again. “Nothin’ a lady need to hear.”

She let out a soft laugh, fingers curling on the table. “Smoke, I got brothers,” she sassed. “Ain’t much I ain’t heard.” 

“That don’t mean—” He paused abruptly, cursing under his breath. Whatever was starting to curve up on his face flattened into a straight line.

He could hear it in the distance, the rumble at the edge of the dirt road that led the path to their home. The tread of tires crunching over leaves and fallen branches. The roar of an engine. The sudden cutoff. Then bootsteps. Familiar, unhurried, confident— like a walking permanent smirk. 

Smoke didn’t look up. 

The screen door reared back and slammed shut just as fast. In with it came the sweltering Mississippi heat like an unwelcome guest—and Stack. He stepped through the threshold casually like he owned the room, jacket hanging loose on his shoulders.  

“Smell somethin’ decent for once. Thought I was comin’ to the wrong hou—” 

He paused, standing in the doorway. His eyes moved quickly out of habit— from Annie’s hands resting lightly in her lap, to Smoke leaning over the table, then back to Annie.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a grin. 

Smoke looked up then, meeting his brother’s eyes. Something quick and quiet passed between them, making Stack’s brow rise a fraction. Just barely. Stack looked at Annie, her eyes darting between the two of them curiously. 

“Hey, Annie,” Stack said warmly.

Annie’s mouth curved, just a little. “Hey, Stack,” she replied just as warmly.

“Thought you was goin’ out,” Stack remarked to his brother as he moved further into the room. 

Smoke reached for the pitcher of tea, pouring it into glasses like nothing in the air had shifted. “Change of plans.”

Stack pulled out a chair and sat, leaning back like he was settling in to watch something play out. He nodded towards Annie. “You settlin’ in alright?”

“Yeah,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea. “Still learnin’ my way around.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Ain’t too much to it. You’ll get used to it just fine.” 

Annie nodded, considering. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stack’s eyes swept the room again. Table set. Two glasses. Two plates. Smoke at the counter, reaching for a third. Annie at the table. “Y’all ate?” Stack asked, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. 

“‘Bout to,” Smoke replied. 

“Good,” he answered with a grin. “Came home at the right time, then.” 

Smoke uncovered the heavy pot on the stove. The savory scent of smothered neckbones filled the air— even more fragrant now. The aroma mingled with the sharp scent of bay leaf from the rice on the burner next to it. 

Smoke set Annie’s plate down in front of her, then set Stack’s plate down on the table and slid it to him, before setting his own down.

They ate their meal quietly, just the clinking of plates, occasional clearing of a throat, and hum of satisfaction that came with a good meal. 

Annie took slow bites, her eyes flicking between Smoke and Stack every so often, before drifting over to parts of the room she could see without turning her head. 

Smoke took slow, deliberate bites of his food— eyes much more steady, finding Annie where she sat across from him, then over to Stack where he was looking between the two of them with a glint of something in his eyes. 

Stack took a healthy bite of rice and meat, then set his fork down. He grabbed the mug in front of him, took a large audible gulp of tea, then set it on the table a little harder than necessary. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and cleared his throat dramatically, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. 

Smoke didn’t react. Annie paused for half a second before returning right back to her food.

“So what y’all been doin’ all day?” He asked.

Annie looked across the table mid-bite at Smoke, who spoke up first.

“Miss Della asked me to give Annie a ride,” he said, looking at her while he spoke. “So she could do some work.” 

Stack’s eyes lingered on his brother before looking over at Annie, then back over to Smoke. “That right?” 

Smoke turned his head, looking Stack dead in the eyes. “That’s right.” 

Stack leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Why she ain’t ask me? I was already in town.” 

Smoke shrugged casually, his eyes still locked on his brother’s. “Gotta ask her.” 

They shared a look— whatever passed between them this time made Stack stand down. He leaned back in his chair, still smirking, eyes still sharp. “What work you doin’, Annie?”

“She tryna eat, Stack,” Smoke said firmly. “Her basket by the door since you so curious.” 

Stack put his hands up in a playful surrender. “My bad. Shit.” 

Annie’s legs swung under the table as she reached for her tea. She took a sip. Set the cup down, then cleared her throat. “This a nice place y’all got.” 

Stack rubbed the rim of his glass with his fingertips and looked up. 

Smoke rose from the table, taking his plate and Annie’s with him. “Thank you.” 

Annie stood up. She walked around the room slowly, eyes focusing on everything and nothing at all. “It’s just y’all two?” She asked, fingertips grazing a stack of quilts folded neatly, piled high on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Smoke answered quickly. “Just us.”

Annie processed that answer, then proceeded—hesitantly, for some reason. “Y’all got family here?” 

Stack’s jaw tightened. “Uncle. Aunt. Cousins.” 

Annie could feel the tension with her back turned. She didn’t push. 

“What ‘bout you?” Stack asked. “Miss Della the only family you got in Mississippi?”

“Mhmm,” Annie responded. “She the only one who left Louisiana.”

“Nobody else left?” Smoke asked.

“Nah,” she replied with a shake of her head.

“Why not?” Stack asked. 

“My family been there since we crossed…you know. We got land there. History. Guess they don’t want it fallin’ in the wrong hands.” 

“Makes sense,” Stack replied. 

Stack was still sitting at the table. Smoke was standing by the wash basin, arms crossed. They were both looking at her.

“I should get back,” she sighed, turning around. “Aunt Della’s probably wonderin’ where I am.” 

Smoke nodded, pushing himself off the counter. He crossed the room and grabbed his hat, keys, and Annie’s basket by the door, holding it open for her. “Ready?” 

“Yeah,” Annie said quietly. She stopped towards the door and paused. “Nice to see you again, Stack.”  

“Good seein’ you, Annie,” Stack said as she slipped out the door. His golds flashed. Smoke looked back at him once before stepping out behind Annie, giving Stack a look that made him grin a little wider just as the door shut behind them. 

—

The air outside felt like an exhale. The rays of sunset bled through the trees, splaying a single streak of gold across Annie’s shoulder where her top had shifted slightly. She walked just ahead of Smoke to his truck. She took a second to look back at him, just to find him already looking at her. She smiled a little, almost instinctively, before turning forward again. 

“Thank you, again,” she said as they reached the truck, her back flush to the passenger door. “For today.”

Smoke said nothing. He tilted his head down at her. Took a step closer. Then his gaze dropped. His hands rose, hovering over her shoulders. They hesitated for a second. Then they lowered, fingers hooking underneath the straps of her dress. He pulled it over her shoulders where it had slipped from them. Patted them gently, like his touch would make the fabric stay in place. Only then did he look back up at her— just before reaching behind her to slowly open the passenger side door. 

Annie didn’t exhale again until he rounded the front. 

The truck roared to life underneath them, bouncing over grooves and holes that the storm had made slick. The transition from countryside to town was quick, but that didn’t make it any less quiet. The sound of cicadas was traded with wagon wheels and commotion on the street. In one place it was just the land that watched, but the closer they got to Fourth, the more it felt like the town had eyes too. 

Annie hung gently out of the passenger side window, watching the scenery go by. Old equipment lay discarded in vines and weeds until the countryside gave way to wooden buildings and wire fences. Livestock turned into faces that stared back intently. She waved at some people she recognized out of instinct. Some she remembered from Chow’s, others from Luella’s and everywhere in between. They paused for a moment, whispering to one another. Their wave finally came, but it was a second too late. The feeling it carried with it was a little too stiff. Annie noticed it all—the hesitance, the whispers. 

She didn’t react all at once. 

First it was her arm. It moved from the window down to her lap. 

Then her head. It went from looking out the window to looking down. 

Then her shoulders slumped. Just slightly. 

Smoke looked over to the passenger side. To Annie’s hands gripping the hem of her apron, fingers fiddling with a loose string at the edge. She wasn’t looking out the window anymore. Smile was gone. Her head was down, her lips moving slightly, but no words were coming out. She almost looked smaller like this. Not dramatically, just enough for him to notice. 

But that wasn’t even what really bothered him. 

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Aye,” he said. “Don’t pay ‘em no mind.” 

Annie kept her eyes on the loose string, her fingers flicking it around. 

“You hear me?” Smoke asked as they came to a stop. He cut the engine, leaving them with only the sound of their own thoughts. 

Annie straightened up a little. “I’m good,” she replied. 

Smoke raised a brow, one hand on the wheel. “Good. Cuz we still gotta schedule our lesson.”

“Lesson?”

He tilted his head down, looking at Annie under his lashes. “Our French lesson.”

Annie chuckled, crossing her arms gently. “French lesson?” 

She blinked slowly, her long, thick lashes framing them delicately. “I thought I was too much of a lady for you to tell me what you learned over there, what changed?” 

Smoke gripped the wheel a little tighter. “Instead of me teachin’ you, I reckon you can teach me.”

“Teach you?” she asked incredulously. “What makes you so interested in French all of a sudden?” She continued, eyes wide.  

He looked over to the boarding house, then back over to Annie. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping a fraction. “I like the way you say it.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed. “I said two words, Smoke.” 

“And I like the way you say it,” he said slower. 

Annie blinked, slowly, hands still crossed over her chest. “Hmm.”

He paused for a moment, eyes searching hers. 

“You sure you good?” He asked again.

Her breath caught. “Yeah,” she replied earnestly. “I’m okay.” 

“People ‘round here always got somethin’ to say about me, my brother. Especially people who ain’t even had a conversation with me. Don’t let that bother you none.” 

Annie felt her heart beat a little faster. His words, the care they carried with them, settling into her skin. Her eyes sparkled, that edge from a few moments earlier— softened a smidge. 

She hesitated first, then leaned over, planting a quick, innocent kiss on his cheek. 

“Bonne nuit,” she said gently. 

Smoke’s breath hitched. 

He heard the creak and thud of his truck door opening, then closing.

Watched Annie as she made her way up the steps of the boarding house.

Waited for her to disappear behind the door. 

Only then did he exhale.

Dividers: @/chrisssiren @/strangergraphics

Taglist: @milkywayzard @bananajoeclone @myheartsaysyes @nika324 @brownsugarcoffy @soufcakmistress @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @dealore @thedutifulone @lilbitt @kkbeauty86 @nyifly22 @brownskincheyenne @atpeaceinthestars @explodesallovertheplace @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @sweetarchivistsiege @zunibugsiren @blue4everrsworld @xeebop @hdfen2474 @girlmath101 @sintizc @chromexbarbie @theogbadbitch @shereeluvssinners @anniensmoke3 @og-goddesstrill @thebumblebeesworld @merrymaryfebruary @partylikemajima @numb1smokeanniestan @shamansha @nicanotnika

“OKAY!” Delta Slim held his hands up to silence the loud group. He had been gracious enough to let six people join him since they had been effectively banished from the larger cabin that Smoke and Stack Moore owned—the former was not present and the latter sat off from the rest of the group smoking a cigarette like it was his lifeline. Who was responsible for the predicament they were in now was anyone’s guess. “Now, y’all know I don’t mind you bein’ here but we can’t do all this yellin’ and fussin’ ‘round here. Why don’t y’all go one by one and explain what happened?”

“Well, we can start with Grace and Bo,” Mary pointed at the couple. “How did that stuff even get to a spot where Smoke and Annie could get it? I heard her tell y’all to put it away.”

Grace stood up scandalized by the accusation. “Excuse me? You seriously think we dosed our friends with somethin like that? You of all people, Mary!” 

Mary crossed her arms and stared the smaller woman down. “Yes, me of all people, Grace. How did it get out of your possession?”

Grace’s face crumpled trying to remember the details. “I don’t know! I took it to our room and put it in our—” She paused, the memory of that night coming back to her.

2 Nights before NYE

The bulk of the group had arrived at the SmokeStack cabin in the Smoky Mountains. When Grace and Bo arrived Stack, Mary, Smoke, Annie, Pearline, and Sammie were already there.

Annie put together a charcuterie board and finger foods for everyone to snack on after they took their luggage to their rooms and freshened up. It was truly a spread fit for a magazine or one of those food blogs that obviously took a lot of work and everyone quickly partook. 

Except Smoke—he sat away from the group scowling like he’d rather be any place but where he was. He had spent a considerable amount of time warning everyone that, even though it was winter, bears could still be roaming looking for food in the woods nearby so they should be cautious. As usual, they teased him about going into “Papa Smoke” mode and went on about their day.

“Aww. He’s grumpy,” Annie joked. “You’d think his heart would’ve grown three sizes during Christmas.” Her smile was wide but it was obvious that she was tired from the previous day’s travels plus everything she did to prepare for the rest of the group to arrive.

“Annie, I can hear you callin’ me a grinch,” Smoke called to her, his expression turning neutral.

“Good, I didn’t think I was speaking loud enough,” Annie shot back. “Come on over here, Smoke. We don’t bite.”

“I ain’t got proof that you don’t bite,” Smoke grumbled before joining them at the dining table and taking in all of Annie’s hard work. He shot her a disapproving look before taking a grape and popping it in his mouth.

“Slim said he rented out a cabin nearby so we can invite him over on New Year’s Eve,” Stack told the group.

“Imma have to make sure all the liquor locked up then,” Smoke sighed.

“Ooh! Annie, I forgot to show you what we picked up on the way in!” Grace pulled a small satin pouch from her pocket.

Annie groaned already knowing what was in the pouch. “I told you not to waste your money like that, Grace. That ain’t nothin’ but a few dried herbs and some mint oil. It doesn’t even have any natural aphrodisiacs in it.”

Grace waved her friend off. “The girlies on TikTok swear this is the real deal. A love spell in a bag, they say. Said a little pinch of it keep you and your man goin’ all night.” She winked at Annie.

“Don’t be pinchin’ nothin’ around here this week and put that stuff away before somebody confuse it with some seasonin’.” Her phone dinged with a text message. Looking at it, she shook her head and put her phone away.

Sliding the bag back in her pocket, Grace giggled. “Once we find you a man, Annie, I’ll give you a little bit of this.”

“And we will find you a man,” Mary flashed her the ring on her left hand. Her engagement to Stack on Christmas Day only strengthened her resolve to make sure Annie was partnered in the new year.

“I don’t remember losin’ a man so you don’t have find one for me,” Annie countered. No matter how much she insisted that she didn’t want her friends involved in her dating life, they never missed an opportunity to insert themselves anyway. Especially during the holidays when they felt sorry that she was alone.

Smoke scoffed catching everyone’s attention. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Can’t believe I’m agreein’ with Annie. Shit sound like a waste of money.”

“And Scrooge McDuck here ain’t one to waste a nickel,” Annie cracked as she gave him a pat on his head. The two walked a fine line between playful banter and all-out arguments. On separate occasions before this trip started, they had been warned against getting too heated and spoiling the fun for everyone else.

“Annie,” Mary warned looking pointedly at her best friend. She was a major proponent of the “keep Annie and Smoke from killing each other” mission. She could not handle another situation like the one they had on a trip to New Orleans the previous year.

Rolling her eyes, Annie removed her hand from Smoke’s head and went to walk away from him before feeling the sting of a slap on her ass. “Fuck!” She rubbed the spot where it stung turning to get back at him but was dragged away by Mary. 

“Nope, nope, nope! Go put some ice on it or somethin’. Y’all ain’t doin’ this shit this week.” Mary shoved her towards the kitchen and turned back to Smoke. “Now why you do that?”

Smoke shrugged. “Seemed like she needed it.” He bit into a cube of cheese and  sat back like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You better sleep with one eye open, Smoke,” Bo laughed. “Annie ain’t lettin that one go.”

“She better,” Stack pointed at Smoke, “or both of y’all gone be sleepin’ outside with them damn bears for all I care. I ain’t havin’ a repeat of New Orleans.” It was evident that Stack was beyond fed up with Smoke and Annie’s antics.

The evening was peaceful for the most part with very little interaction between Annie and Smoke as the group spent time playing drinking games. Not a huge fan of alcohol, Annie stepped out to smoke a blunt she rolled earlier and make a quick phone call. She returned to her friends laughing uncontrollably and slurring their words.

“Annie! Annie!” Bo yelled her name when she closed the door behind her. “Do you think Smoke is a boob man or an ass man?”

She shrugged, her eyes low and a little red. “I know he can be an ass, man.” 

This set off another round of laughter from everyone except Smoke who was staring Annie down like he was planning his revenge.

“Who was you talkin’ to on the phone?” Smoke asked casually sidestepping her joke about him.

“Yeah, you been on your phone a lot,” Mary pointed out. “You hidin’ a man from us or somethin?” 

Annie grabbed her head obviously tired of this topic. “If I was hidin a man, Mary, you’d be the first to know where I buried his body.” 

“So who was on the phone?” Smoke pressed again.

“Ya mama, Smoke! Damn!” She removed her coat to hang on the coat rack before sitting down on the floor beside Mary.

Mary cleared her throat, her brows furrowed and her face red from the few shots she had downed during their game. 

Annie looked down knowing the topic of Sharon Moore was a sore spot for Mary. She stayed silent the rest of her time with the group, expertly dodging personal questions with jokes and witty quips.

Around 8pm, she called it a night and went upstairs to bed. Smoke retired to his room about thirty minutes later, not wanting to deal with any more obnoxious laughter or comments about his sex life. It wasn’t until 10pm when everyone else started to feel the toll the day took on their bodies and they ended the night as well.

Grace went to get ready for bed, her head swimming from the amount of liquor she consumed. In her room, she emptied her pockets pulling out the bag from earlier. As she went to put it in her luggage she heard clapping coming from Annie’s room. “What the hell is she celebrating this late at night?”

She went to the wall shared between the rooms and pressed her ear against it. There were a few muffled grunts before the clapping started again. Just then, Bo walked into their room making electric guitar noises, startling her. “Bo, you’re being too loud. Folks are tryna sleep.”

“Baby, ain’t nobody but Smoke and Annie sleepin’ right now.” He closed the door and put on a wicked grin and stalked closer to his wife. “You definitely won’t be for a few more hours.” He lunged at her and gathered her in his arms.

All thoughts of the sounds from Annie’s room forgotten, Grace squealed as her husband dropped her on the bed and covered her mouth with his.

*****************

“So I don’t think I put the bag in our luggage but it was definitely in our room somewhere,” Grace insisted. “Somebody had to go in and take it.”

“Yeah, that’s possible,” Mary agreed. “Or you did what you said you were gonna do and put that stuff in her drink?”

“Fuck off, Mary! I said I’d give her some once we found her a man! And what about you? The first one to point the finger is usually the guiltiest. The way you and Stack just left them at the overlook without telling them where we were goin’. You wanted this to happen so you could have your ‘no drama, no stress’ trip. That was more important to you.” Grace threw her hands up and walked over to Bo and took a seat in his lap.

“Don’t you try to spin this around on me, Grace Chow! Me and Stack were the only ones keepin them from rippin each other’s heads off so everyone could have a good time. Besides, why would I want them two together? It’s obvious they hate each other.” 

“It would be cute though, right? You and Stack and Annie and Smoke. Maybe you put it in a spot where they could put in their coffee or somethin,” Pearline chimed in. 

“Ugh!” Mary groaned running her hands through her hair. “Not you too, Pearline. Why would I do something like that? How would I do something like that? Annie doesn’t drink coffee anyway.”

“Nah, baby, you ain’t gotta explain nothin to them,” Stack spoke up, the scowl on his face matching one that Smoke would normally wear. “So they six hours into a sex marathon. They’ll come out of it and either they won’t do all that bitchin’ they like to do or they’ll be even worse than before.” He put his hands up in prayer. “I PRAY this fix all the shit they be causin on these trips.”

“So Stack did it,” Sammie said matter-of-factly after observing quietly the entire time.

“Hell naw, nigga,” Stack went to slap his cousin upside the head. “You think I wanted to hear my brother beggin’ Annie to sit on his face at 10 o’clock in the damn mornin?! Maybe it was you.”

Sammie put his hands on his chest astonished at the accusation. “Me?!”

Pearline considered this for a second. “To be fair, it kinda makes sense, Sammie.”

“Well, I’m glad we agree that it wasn’t me,” Mary held up her hands and went to have a seat on the floor.

“How does that make sense, Pearline? Annie and Smoke? I wouldn’t do that.” Sammie crossed his arms wondering how he got dragged into it.

Stack chuckled. “Is it Annie and Smoke, Sammie? Or is it mommy and daddy to you?” He stood in front of his cousin and crouched down like he was about to explain something simple to a child. “This whole trip, you stayed close to at least one of them. Asking Annie to cook for you, sew up somethin you ripped, layin your head in her lap while we watched a movie. The only thing she didn’t do was tuck you in at night! And if Pearline wasn’t here with you, you probably would’ve asked Annie to read you a bedtime story.”

“I can’t help that she’s a comfortin’ person, Stack! That don’t mean I gave her any of that stuff y’all talkin about.” Sammie looked over to Pearline who was deep in thought.

“And with Smoke?” Stack continued. “Oh, that’s Papa right there, ain’t it Sammie? Followin him around, askin’ him for advice or how do make somethin’, even dressin’ like him sometimes.” He flicked Sammie’s chain which was similar to the one Smoke wore often. “These trips make you miss Uncle Jed and Aunt Ruth so you had to have somebody to fill in, huh? Smoke and Annie naturally filled that void but they argued too much and Lil Sammie don’t like when mama and daddy argue so he made a plan to fix it.”

Sammie just shook his head furiously. “I ain’t do that.”

“But Sammie, you did—” Pearline was cut off by Sammie’s hand over her mouth. Instead of fighting against him, she bit his hand. 

This had everyone’s attention. Delta Slim took a swig from his flask watching in fascination. “Nah, let her speak now, boy. If it done caused y’all to end up in my cabin, we need to hear it.”

“Fuck, Pearline!” Sammie clutched his hand and looked at his girlfriend in fear. 

Pearline cleared her throat and folded her hands over her knee. “Sammie did want Smoke and Annie together. It didn’t go the way he expected it to yesterday though.”

*****************

1 Day before NYE

Things were tense in the cabin after the group left Smoke and Annie arguing at a scenic outlook and spent the day without them.

Annie was cordial to everyone but not warm like she usually was. She cooked the meal Sammie wanted with her earbuds in and avoided conversation. Smoke was in the woods nearby taking pictures of the sunset through the trees.

Sammie sat at the kitchen island waiting for Annie to acknowledge him. He wasn’t used to the silent treatment from her and he felt a little guilty that he listened to Stack and didn’t tell her where the group went. He honestly thought some extended time together would help them and he’d been thinking of something he could do to maybe bring them closer.

He walked over and tapped Annie on her shoulder. His heart warmed the way her face softened for him. She really couldn’t stay mad at Sammie. “Smoke need your help outside. Said somethin’ about the exposure on his camera and you could help.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily, he impressed himself.

“Why Smoke just can’t look it up on YouTube then?” Annie rolled her eyes and went back to cooking. “He know more about cameras than I do anyway.” Her phone dinged in that moment she pulled it out, her eyes widened before she rubbed her temples in distress.

“You know how Smoke is. Plus, I think he left his phone upstairs.”

Annie looked at him skeptically but finally nodded. “Turn that pot off in about ten minutes.” With that, she left to go see what Smoke needed.

Pearline walked in as Annie left. She knew Sammie was up to something. “What you up to now, Sammie?” She had gone along with his plan to get Smoke and Annie together but after a few attempts, she was ready to give up. Nothing was working.

“Sunsets are romantic, Smoke and Annie are alone in the woods, easy peasy,” Sammie said simply as if that explained anything.

Pearline pulled some grapes out of the fridge and rinsed them off rolling her eyes at her boyfriend. “That don’t make sense, Preacher Boy. You think Annie just gone fall into Smoke’s arms because there’s a sunset?” Pearline felt sorry for Annie after only knowing her for a few months. 

It was obvious to her that\ everyone had their own idea of what Annie should do and what would make her happy. The work she put in to make everyone’s time at the cabin easier was obviously being taken for granted.

“Maybe, just gotta wait and see.” He tossed a grape in the air and caught it in his mouth. It didn’t take long for Sammie to get his answer when he heard a scream from outside.

“OPEN THE DOOR!” Smoke yelled from outside the cabin, his voice panicked. 

Stack rushed from the living room to open the door. “What the hell happened?” He moved back as Smoke ran in carrying an unconscious Annie.

Smoke took her in the living room and laid her down on the couch. “Annie, open your eyes for me.” Panic seeped into his usually steady voice. “Go get a cold wet towel or something!” He yelled at everyone that had gathered around worried. He took her hand in his. “Please, baby, open your eyes for me.” He tapped lightly on her face.

Grace returned with a wet towel and dabbed at Annie’s forehead. “Did she hit her head or something?”

“It was a fuckin bear! She smelled like food and it charged at her.” He felt her hand grip his and squeezed back. “We back in the cabin now, Annie. It’s okay, just open your eyes.”

Sammie stomach was in knots. The only reason Annie was out there in the first place was because he lied.

Blinking her eyes open, Annie groaned and tried to sit up but was stopped by Smoke and Grace. “I’m fine, y’all. There was—that bear it was taller than me—I think my grandmama spoke to me. Said I should’ve had my Black ass in Clarksdale instead of in the woods. Elijah, your camera is still out there!” She tried again to get up but was unsuccessful.

Everyone looked at her in confusion not sure how to take her rambling. Smoke kept her hand in his rubbing soft circles with his thumb. “You come face to face with a bear, get away without a scratch, and now you tryna go back out there for a damn camera? Maybe you did hit your head.” He rubbed the back of her head checking for any bumps.

The group was too concerned about Annie’s well-being to notice the way Smoke cradled her in his arms and whispered things they couldn’t hear. 

“Should we report this as a sighting or an attack?” Mary asked pulling out her phone.

“I don’t want to talk to no police tonight. Just say it was a sighting.” The adrenaline of the encounter began to wane leaving Annie feeling tired. 

“Okay, but what if the officer is single?” Mary tapped her head like she made a good point. “Be nice to have a strong man of the law come to your rescue, huh?”

If looks could kill, Mary would be six feet under with the way Annie and Smoke glared at her. “Girl, what the fuck? Stack, get your fiancée before she become bear food.” Annie gripped her head like she was in pain. 

Stack took Mary’s phone and tapped on it a few times before handing it back. “We don’t want pigs snoopin around here and we sho don’t want Annie to end up with one of em.”

“Why did you even come out there Annie? I told everybody bears can still be roaming the woods.” Smoke scolded still concerned that she had been hurt in some way.

Shrugging, Annie avoided glancing over to Sammie. “I wanted to see the sunset too. Unless that’s against the rules, Smoke.” 

“Hell yeah, it is when you smell like a bear’s favorite meal! You could’ve sat on the patio and saw the sunset just fine.” He still hadn’t let Annie go. In fact he pulled her closer to him as if something might take her away.

Groans erupted from around the room with Smoke and Annie getting back to their original selves. 

“Okay, Papa,” Annie words dripped sarcasm. “Can I finish dinner now—wait something is burning. Sammie did you forget to turn the stove off?”

Sammie’s eyes widened as he realized he was supposed to turn the pot off ten minutes ago. “Shit! I’ll get it!” He ran to the kitchen and saw smoke billowing from the silver pot. Turning off the stove, Sammie waved a towel around hoping to thin out the thick smoke filling up his lungs. 

Pearline joined him and turned on the fan above the stove and opened the kitchen window. “I hope you ain’t ruin Annie’s good pot or she gone put you outside with that bear.”

Annie walked in surveying the scene. Her favorite pot sat smoking and maybe it was the near-death experience that she had or maybe it was the sheer disaster this trip had become but she burst into tears at that moment and left out of the kitchen with Smoke following closely behind her.

Sammie stayed up late that night trying to get all of the burnt stuff out of the bottom to no avail. It wasn’t until Smoke came down and pulled out a strong cleanser that he was able to make progress.

************************

“I did try to get them together,” Sammie admitted. “But I absolutely had nothing to do with what’s goin’ on with them now.” He tried not to think of it because Stack was right, he did kind of think of them as parents what they did in the bedroom was not his business.

“Okay, so we still don’t know who was responsible,” Bo sighed. “Did somebody maybe see the bag and assumed it belonged in the kitchen?”

Everyone in the room shook their head.

“Do y’all think that maybe they are just together and didn’t take any of that stuff at all?” Pearline asked. “I know y’all said they don’t like each other but, they have been pretty isolated from the group.”

The tension turned to humor as everyone but Sammie laughed at Pearline’s suggestion.

“Smoke would’ve told me if somethin was happenin between him and Annie,” Stack said with surety. “I ain’t noticed him being weird around her or nothin’.”

Mary shook her head and wiped the tears that had slipped out from laughing so hard. “The only way Annie would even kiss Smoke is if she was under some spell or it was life or death.”

Grace snapped her fingers. “What if that’s it? What if that’s all this is? They’re both single in a group of couples and they both came face-to-face with a bear so maybe they needed some kind of release.”

“Okay, but you found the bag half empty in the kitchen,” Bo reasoned turning Grace slightly so he could see her face. “You think they just used some of it to get in the mood?”

“Maybe,” Grace shrugged. “They’ve never even flirted with each other before and now they’re…you know.” It was difficult for her to even say Smoke and Annie were having sex. “Like Mary said, it would take something powerful as hell to get them together like that.”

Stack’s phone dinged. “Okay, Smoke just texted me and said we can come back. I guess we can figure out what happened when we get there.”

Delta Slim’s shoulders shook as he laughed at the group in front of him. “Wait! I’m comin’ wit y’all. I bet I know how this all will turn out.”

*******************

Annie didn’t want to come to Gatlinburg for the holiday. She didn’t even want to leave her house, but she had Grace and Mary tag teaming her in their group chat so she decided to come along. Immediately informing Smoke that she didn’t want to be there in the first place.

Smoke supported her choice and promised that they could still spend some time together in the cabin. They weren’t quite ready to make their relationship public especially with all the trouble they caused back in New Orleans that led to them acknowledging their feelings for each other. It took many more months for them to act on those feelings and everything still felt new.

His request to Annie was to not do too much. No making sure everyone was taken care of before taking care of herself, no cooking full meals just because somebody asked, and no spending hours on an itinerary that no one would follow anyway. It surprised him very little when she did exactly the opposite of what he asked.

After seeing the meal she prepared for everyone ruined, she couldn’t hold back the tears. She wasn’t trying to ruin this trip and she wasn’t picking arguments with Smoke like their friends assumed.

********

1 day before NYE

“I didn’t even want to be here, Elijah,” she cried into the crook of Smoke’s neck. “They keep treating me like I’m the problem to be fixed and it’s just making everything worse.” She knew what Sammie was trying to do and it was the same thing Mary tried to do earlier that day after she shut down all of Annie’s suggestions for group activities.

He rubbed her back. “We can pack up and leave tonight if you want, baby. Let them do this shit without you.” He knew that this would be the case, but he didn’t have it in him to tell Annie that right now, especially when it wouldn’t do any good.

For months, Grace and Mary have been on her about “finding a man” so they could do couple things. For this trip, Annie spent a lot of time finding group activities for them just for Mary to opt for more couple centered activities. 

“And then they’ll say I’m overreactin’ and if I had a man, I wouldn’t be doin’ all this,” she sniffled, her head feeling heavy from crying.

“You do have a man though,” Smoke pointed out. “And I don’t think you should let them put you in a box like this. Even with me, I want you to be your own person.” He kissed her forehead. “You don’t listen to me half the time anyway so I don’t know what they think is gonna change with a man around.”

Smacking his shoulder, she couldn’t help but laugh at him. She ran her fingers across his face, her nail tracing his features. “You were right this time. I just have to accept I can’t do everything to please them. And your mama, Elijah. I love her so much but she’s been textin’ and callin’ me everyday because she had a dream about a baby and she swear it’s ours. She sent me a picture of an outfit she already bought! I love her but I’m not ready for kids yet.”

Though they were keeping their relationship secret from their friends, Sharon Moore had picked up on what was going on between them almost immediately. They swore her to secrecy but that didn’t stop her from bombarding them with questions about when they’d marry or give her some grandbabies. 

“I’ll take care of my mama. I love that she love you but she gotta know when to step back.” He kissed her forehead. “I damn sure ain’t gon’ let her scare you away from me. In the meantime, you need to start treatin’ Sammie like he’s a grown ass man. He know how to order food. He don’t need you cookin’ him breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday.”

Her heart softened thinking about Sammie. “But he’s still a baby to me!”

“He ain’t no damn baby. He’s 21-years-old and he know better. And you gotta draw some boundaries with Grace and Mary. If you say no the first time, let that be it. Don’t let them make you feel bad because you ain’t where they think you should be.” He lifted her chin up with his finger. “I’m fallin’ in love with you more everyday, Annie, and that’s because you got so much good in you that it get on everybody around you. I don’t want you doubtin’ that for a second. If they can’t see that, fuck ‘em.”

“But I don’t even wanna deal with them tomorrow. You wanna stay in the cabin with me and let them do their own thing?” 

“And what you wanna do in the cabin?” Smoke asked pulling her into his lap so that she was straddling him. His face immediately went into her cleavage. It was definitely his favorite place to be.

“Mmm,” she moaned feeling his tongue run across her chest before sucking lightly. “I wanted to watch some movies but I’m open to suggestions.” 

“As long as you open.” He gave her a few more gentle nips. “I need you to get some sleep tonight though because tomorrow, Imma keep you busy.” 

“Whatever you say. I can’t promise that I’ll be quiet like I been these last few days.”

“That’s what I’m countin’ on.”

**********

NYE

Once Mary woke and did her morning routine, she went to Annie’s room to check on her. For the rest of her life she would question why she didn’t think to knock. It was the most courteous thing to do. It was the smartest thing to do. It was the safest thing to do. Instead she was greeted with the vision of her friend’s legs in the air while a male figure rested between them obviously enjoying his first meal of the day.

The horror wasn’t in the what, it was the who. She knew the male figure because she had the same make and model. Before they knew she had barged in, she quickly shut the door and ran back to her room to wake Stack.

Shaking her fiancé with an urgency reserved for a house fire, Mary tried to wake Stack. “Elias, get up! Smoke and Annie—Stack get up!” She shook him harder until his eyes cracked opened.

Alert and alarmed, Stack sat up quickly and looked around for any sign of danger. “What? What happened?” His voice was thick with sleep. He rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. “Somethin’ happen?” 

Mary bit her lip trying to think of the words to explain what she saw. “I think Smoke and Annie are—

“Fuck, Elijah! Like that! Like that! Don’t fuckin’ stop!” Annie’s words were surely loud enough to wake the entire cabin.

“Aye, yo!” Stack threw the covers back and stood up to put on a shirt. “I know they ain’t—” He opened their bedroom door and saw Bo and Grace in the hall with the same confused expressions at the sounds coming from Annie’s room.

“Sit on my face, baby. I wanna drink it all!” Smoke’s pleading filtered through the door.

Without a word, they all filed down the stairs and into the living room where Sammie and Pearline were sitting watching a t.v. show.

“Is Annie up yet?” Sammie asked pausing the show. “I got her pot clean and I wanted to show her.” He was oblivious to the stunned faces of everyone who had just come downstairs.

Grace nodded, her mind far away like her brain was trying to solve a complex problem with no discernible variables. “She’s definitely up.”

“Okay, I’ll go up—” Sammie started to get up but was stopped by Pearline. It was then that he noticed everyone had weird looks on their faces. “What’s wrong?”

“Your cousin decided to grab him a bite to eat at Café Annie,” Stack said humorlessly. “Did y’all know about this?” He looked around to see if anyone would confess.

“Maybe Annie did hit her head gettin’ away from that bear last night,” Bo suggested. “Maybe both of ‘em did.” It was hard to fathom that either of them were of sound mind.

“I mean, it was a scary situation. Maybe Annie hasn’t snapped out of it yet,” Mary posited. “That’s it right?” Because what else could it be?

It took Sammie a moment before he understood what was going on. “Oh. Oooooooh! Smoke and Annie? Fa’real?”

“I’m surprised you can’t hear ‘em all the way down here,” Stack said before a loud moan traveled down to the first floor of the cabin. “Aw, HELL naw! This gotta be a joke. They just fuckin’ with us, huh?” He rubbed at his temples trying to make any sense of the situation.

Mary put her hand on his shoulder. “I promise you, they fuckin’ but not with us. I accidentally walked in on them. That would be one hell of a joke to make.” 

Rubbing at her eyes, Grace yawned. “I’m not even awake enough for this shit. I need some coffee.” She made a beeline for the kitchen while everyone else stood thoroughly confused about the turn of events.

“So we agree, they both hit their heads last night runnin’ from that bear? Or maybe they smoked some bad weed?” Bo asked. “That’s the only explanation I can think of right now.”

“I think I might have another explanation.” Grace returned holding up a small black statin bag—the love spell pouch. “This was in the kitchen and it’s been used.”

“Goddamn it!” Stack cursed and started pacing. “That shit work forreal? How long it take to wear off? How the hell did they even get it?”

“I don’t know, it depends on how much they had.” Examining the bag, she sighed. “It looks like half of it is gone. Fuck! They ain’t stoppin no time soon.”

“Well, I’m not stayin’ in here listenin to them all day,” Mary said. “We gotta get out of here. Maybe they’ll have it out of their system before midnight.”

The group prepared themselves for another day outside of the cabin. In the meantime, Smoke and Annie were off in their own world.

While Annie was recovering from her second orgasm of the morning, Smoke had latched on to her nipple. “Ahh! Elijah, I need another one, baby.”

He released her nipple with a POP and smirked at the way she squirmed underneath him. “You bein’ greedy now, Annie. I just gave you two.”

“And if you keep suckin my titties like that, it might be three.” She spread her legs and wrapped them around him. “I coulda gotten eaten by a bear last night. You really gon’ make me beg for it, Elijah?”

He refocused his attention her nipple and hummed. “Mhmm. That’s for calling me the Grinch and Scrooge McDuck.” He thrusted his hips making contact with her center but offering no relief. 

“Ugh! I’m sorry, baby! Please just put it in! You feel how wet you made me? You ain’t gone do nothin’ about it?” She pulled his face from her chest so he could see the pout she wore. 

Having already decided that he would give this woman anything she asked for, he crumbled immediately. Smoke reached between their bodies and slid his finger between Annie’s wet folds. “Imma take care of you, Ma, don’t worry.” He moved his finger until it was on her  hardened nub. He drew circles eliciting quiet whimpers from the woman beneath him. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting her again but he also needed to feel her clenching around him. 

Rolling back on to the bed, he pulled Annie on top of him, her massive breasts nearly eclipsing his entire face. “Ride it, baby. I wanna see you bounce on that shit.” 

Not needing to be told twice, Annie grabbed his thick length in her hand and lined it up with her dripping hole. She eased down on it her toes curling at the way she stretched to fit around it. “Damn, Papa, it’s so thick.” She bit her bottom lip to keep from squealing at the sensation of their connection. 

Bracing herself, with her hands flat on his chest, she dropped her hips down burying him deep inside her. Egged on by Smoke’s grunts of pleasure, she rose up and slammed her hips back down. She continued developing a rhythm that had them both moaning each other’s names. “You like the way this pussy grippin you, Elijah?”

“Fuck yeah, baby.” His eyes were closed tight as he focused on not finishing too soon. Smoke already knew that he’d give everything she asked him for but now he was thinking about stuff to give her that she’d never need. “Pussy feel like heaven. Keep ridin’ it, Ma.”

The sounds of their skin slapping together filled Annie’s ears and made her gush even more. Knowing the power she now held over Smoke, she leaned forward to grip his throat. “Don’t fuckin’ cum until I tell you to.” She switched from bouncing and rolled her hips at a tantalizing pace. 

The hand on his throat sent a jolt straight to his dick. “Annie, please, baby!” 

“Please, baby!” Annie mocked still teasing him with a slow roll of her hips. “That’s what yo ass get for makin’ me beg for this dick. You know who it belong to.” Gripping his throat tighter, she leaned forward. “Who this dick belong to, Elijah?”

“You, Annie. It’s yours! This dick belong to you!” He attempted to thrust his hips but was stopped by Annie putting her full weight on him.

“Try that again, Elijah, and Imma finish without you,” she threatened using her lower muscles to clench around him. “If it’s mine, let me do what I want with it.”

Smoke groaned and nodded. “Do what you need to, baby.”

Speeding up, she rode him like it her life depended on it. “Fuck! I’m close, Papa.” She threw her head back and let out a cry loud enough to scare all the wildlife nearby. Pleasure pulsed through her as her core spasmed uncontrollably. “Cum with me, Elijah!”

Smoke’s release was instant feeling the way Annie’s soft center massaged him. It was his turn to yell out, screaming Annie’s name like the highest praise he knew. He pumped all he had into her wet cunt his mind turning to mush. “You want a spaceship?”

Her mind still foggy from her orgasm, she flopped down next to him in bed sure she misheard what he said. “What?”

“I said do you want a spaceship? I think Imma buy you one.” Smoke’s words were slurred as if he’d had too much to drink. “I’ll buy you the moon too.”

Annie would laugh about it later but at that moment she just kissed him with every bit of her. “I love it when you get pussy drunk and start promisin’ me stupid shit, Elijah.” They spent time wrapped up in each other until the mood struck again and led them down paths of pleasure.

They stopped to give their bodies a break and hydrate but couldn’t stop themselves from falling right back into each other. One moment, Annie was preparing them a quick snack and the next moment, she was pressed into the countertop as Smoke plowed her from behind. 

“Yo pretty ass owe me for what you did upstairs.” He pounded into her, his pace brutal and unforgiving. “Who this pussy belong to?”

“Please, Smoke! I need to—AH!” A hard swat to her thigh made her remember who she was dealing with. “It’s yours! This pussy is yours!”

“I know it is,” Smoke chuckled darkly. “You better not forget it either, okay?”

“Okay, Elijah,” Annie whimpered losing all will to fight back. 

When they were finally able to separate, they cleaned up and ordered food. Smoke sent a message to Stack telling him the coast was clear. 

“They gon’ be mad,” Annie said as they sat down to watch a movie. “Stack especially. Y’all tell each other everything.”

“He’ll be all right. He get mad over little stuff sometimes but he’ll be good after I talk to him.”

Side-eying Smoke, Annie smacked her lips. “This ain’t little though. I know why we kept this between us but they might feel like we don’t trust them.”

“We don’t. You see how they been actin all week. They asses will get over it.” He wrapped his arm around Annie and pulled her to him saying no more on the subject.

************

Stack pulled up to the cabin and parked. “The next trip, we will be leavin they asses in the Delta. It’s always somethin with them.” He huffed, got out the car, and stomped toward the front door leaving Mary, Sammie, and Pearline to follow as Bo had pulled up beside them with Grace and Slim.

As Pearline exited the vehicle, something shiny under the seat caught her attention. She picked it up to see it was a silver hoop earring. “Mary, I think you dropped your earring. It was under the seat.” She held it up not expecting it to be snatched from her hand so quickly.

“This ain’t mine.” Mary clutched the earring in her hand. This is Smoke’s car, not Stack’s.” She promptly turned and rushed past Stack practically kicking the door open.

Inside, Smoke and Annie were cuddled on the couch watching a movie like they didn’t upend everyone’s day. 

Mary stomped in, her face red and her eyes narrowed taking in the couple before her while pieces of a puzzle she didn’t even know existed fell into place. “Hey, Annie. Smoke.”

“Hey, Mary,” Annie responded not looking away from the tv. “Y’all have fun today?”

“Obviously not as much fun as you did, Annie. And I guess you had as much fun in the back of Smoke’s car three weeks ago.” She held up the earring. “You told me you lost the other one at work.”

Stack stepped beside his fiancée confused. “What’s goin on?” He looked at his brother and Annie with their arms wrapped around each other. “So y’all a thing now?”

“Nah,” Mary shook her head as the rest of the group walked into the living room and sat down where they could. “This ain’t just happen now. They been hiding this from us for at least three weeks. Ain’t that right, Annie?”

“At least that long.” Annie confirmed and held out her hand for the earring. “I knew it would turn up somewhere.” She slid it in Smoke’s shirt pocket. “Keep that safe for me, baby.”

“What is she talkin’ about, Annie?” Grace was seriously confused. “You and Smoke?” She pointed to the two of them.

“Smoke, that ain’t true is it?” Under the anger that was bubbling in Stack’s chest was a twinge of hurt. 

Smoke just looked at Stack and shrugged. “We were gonna tell y’all soon and things kinda went crazy this week so now y’all know.”

“Wait so y’all didn’t take any of the love potion stuff?” Sammie asked, the excitement visible on his face. 

“What?” This time Annie did look at the rest of them. “Hell no we didn’t take that shit. It was on the floor by the stairs this morning. Half of it spilled out when I picked it up and when I went to clean it, somebody distracted me.” She nudged Smoke playfully. “I guess I left it on the kitchen counter.”

“Wait,” Stack held up his hand not caring about the love spell. “Smoke, you been hidin’ this from me? Your own brother? Why? I tell you everything! You was the first person I told when I wanted to propose to Mary. You think I was gon’ try to stop you?”

The liquid in Delta Slim’s flask was louder than the movie still playing as he took a swig. “Goddamit, I knew it! They been tryna shake y’all this whole week and y’all ain’t notice nothin. Bet not ever become detectives.”

Ignoring Slim, Smoke sat up and looked at his brother. “It wasn’t like that, Elias. We just wanted some time with each other for the last three months without anybody’s questions or pressurin’ us about what we should be doin’.”

“Three months?!” Stack, Mary, and Grace said together. Suddenly Smoke and Annie were hit with a barrage of questions. “Why not tell us?” “Don’t you trust us?” “How did you hide this from us?” “How did this even happen?”

“Stop! Be quiet, please!” Annie stood up, her head starting to throb. Silence fell across the room. The tv was muted. “This is why we kept it to ourselves. I’m tired of having to justify my choices to this group. Tired of every single time we’re together, it turns into the “let’s fix Annie” committee. So yeah, we kept this one from y’all until we were sure that it wouldn’t waiver under y’all’s judgment and questions.”

“But I don’t have a problem with you and my brother bein’ together, Annie.” Stack stepped forward. “It’s the fact that we don’t keep things like this from each other.” He glared at Smoke. “You ain’t tell me because you thought I’d break y’all up or somethin?”

“We ain’t tell nobody, Stack,” Smoke responded weakly. “It wasn’t just that we thought y’all would break us up. We didn’t want anybody chiming in on what we had goin on. Good or bad. Already bad enough Mama been doin’ it.” 

Annie’s head whipped around when she heard a squeak from Mary. “Mary, it’s not—”

“That’s why she’s been callin’ you? Because she knew already?” Tears filled Mary’s eyes. “I bet she been plannin’ y’all’s weddin’ and she don’t even care about mine. I guess she will get the daughter-in-law she actually wants.” She turned and left, her footsteps thudding up the stairs.

Stack shot a look of disappointment to Annie and Smoke before following behind her.

No one said anything until Sammie cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “I’m happy for y’all. I always thought y’all would make a good couple.”

“Shut up, fool.” Smoke threw a pillow at him. “We know what you been tryna do. We ain’t dumb. Leave my woman alone and stop askin her to cook for you.” He motioned for Annie to come sit next to him. “You a grown ass man.”

“What? But Annie don’t mind! Ouch, Pearline!” Sammie clutched the back of his head.

Pearline smirked. “You a grown ass man, Preacher Boy. You’ll figure it out.”

Grace observed Annie and Smoke from across the room and the two of them together made so much sense. “They’re kinda perfect for each other,” she whispered to Bo who had been a quiet onlooker most of the day. 

“Mhmm,” Bo agreed. “What the hell were y’all arguin about at the overlook?”

“Nothin,” Smoke said simply. “We just knew y’all would leave us alone if it looked like we was arguin. It worked. It was bullshit that nobody backed Annie up though. So we gon’ take our own trip somewhere and do whatever she want.” He kissed the side of Annie’s neck causing her to giggle.

“I knew once y’all said ‘bout that bear,” Slim slurred, “I knew then what these two was doin. They done had this big ole cabin to do whatever they want to do without y’all.” He stomped his foot and slapped his leg as his shoulders shook. “And look at ‘em done wore each other out. They ain’t gon’ make it til midnight.”

Annie stood and gestured toward the kitchen. “Well, we still ordered food for everybody to eat. Just a bunch of party food really and Smoke brought a nice bottle of champagne. Make sure Slim gets some food but don’t give him no champagne.” She looked down at her watch. “We got about two hours til the New Year but y’all can play some games or somethin’ ’til then.”

“You not stayin’ down here with us?” Sammie asked ready to run to the kitchen.

Shaking her head, Annie headed towards the stairs. “I’m tired, lil Sammie. Your cousin—” Her mouth was covered by Smoke’s strong hand. 

“Oh, so it runs in the family,” Pearline joked pushing her boyfriend towards the kitchen. “Happy New Year, Annie and Smoke. See you in the mornin.”

“Happy New Year, Pearly,” Annie sang once Smoke removed his hand. “Happy New Year Grace and Bo.”

“Yeah, Happy New Year, y’all,” Smoke threw behind him as he moved them both quickly up the stairs. “Don’t be down here destroyin’ shit.”

Annie moved towards her door but was dragged towards Smoke’s instead. “Smoke, please, Miss Kitty needs to recover from the day she had.”

“And she will.” He opened the door and pulled her inside. “My bed is ready for you to sleep in though. Ain’t gotta change the sheets and I already moved your stuff.” His lips traced her jawline  while his hands gripped her ass.

“You promised me sleep, Papa.” Even as she said it, she pushed herself closer to him. “You think Stack and Mary okay?”

“They’ll be fine. We can talk to ‘em tomorrow. Let’s get you to bed though.”

**************************

The next morning, Annie woke to her phone vibrating repeatedly on the nightstand. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she picked it up and saw that it was Sharon Moore. She turned over to hand the phone to Smoke because she could not deal with his mama this early in the morning only to find his side of the bed empty. Sighing, she steeled herself and answered the phone.

“Good morning, Ms. Sharon! Happy New Year!” She masked the sleepiness in her voice.

“It would be much happier if you called me Mama like I told you to, Annie but Happy New Year to you too, baby. Y’all have fun last night? I texted those sons of mine but they ain’t respond.”

“Oh yeah! We had a lot of fun,” Annie lied smoothly. “The town had a fireworks show that was visible from the cabin. What did you get up to last night?”

“Me and the girls stayed in and made drinks and watched that lil gay man—Andy or somethin—we watched his countdown on tv for a little bit.  Willie Mae got drunk as a skunk. She passed out in the guest room right now. Cathy up though, cookin’ breakfast but she don’t make the biscuits like you do.” 

There was yelling from the background that Annie couldn’t make out. “I’m talking to Annie!” A pause. “Cuz you don’t make biscuits like her, Cathy! Yo dough is too loose or somethin’. Chile, now she in her feelins. Anyway, I didn’t want nothin’ just checkin to see how y’all doin. You and Smoke gon tell everybody soon, right? I’ll keep ya secret a lil bit longer but I almost let it slip after a two margaritas.”

Annie was close to ripping her hair out hearing Sharon ramble this early in the morning. “We let them know yesterday. Most of ‘em took it well.” She rubbed her face not ready to talk to Mary just yet.

“I bet Elias and Mary had somethin’ to say, huh? He ain’t never liked when his brother kept stuff from him. Got mad at him a whole week when he found out Elijah was savin’ up the lil money that they got from me to buy me somethin for my birthday. They’ll be okay though. What about you and Mary?”

“I don’t know. I guess. I think she is feelin’ kinda alone with the engagement and wantin’ to plan the weddin’ since her mama is…you know. I think maybe she want you to help her.” Annie bit her lip hoping for the best but truly not knowing where Sharon stood when it came with Mary. 

She seemed to be happy that Stack and Mary were engaged but she didn’t bring it up much and she certainly wasn’t calling Mary on the daily to ask how she was doing or tell her random things.

 “Really? She want me to help?” Sharon sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think she wanted my help so that’s why I hadn’t said anything about it. Did she tell you she wanted my help?”

“You know the way you been callin and textin’ me all week? It kinda looks like you have a favorite especially to Mary.”

“I do!” She said without hesitation. “And Elijah better be putting a ring on your finger soon. That don’t mean I don’t like Mary though. She can be…a lot but hell, so can I. She just never seemed that interested in me and I ain’t one to push.” At this Annie had to roll her eyes. “If she want me to help her with the weddin’, I will. You know I like stuff like that.”

“I think that would make her feel a lot better.” Annie looked up to see that Smoke had come back into the room with a steaming mug. “And maybe the baby you’ve been dreaming about is actually hers and Stack’s.”

“No, I’m sure it was yours and Elijah’s. It was a girl with your pretty brown eyes. Elias and Mary’s first will be a boy. I know that for sure.”

Annie groaned. “Well, she won’t be around for a long time so I guess you’ll have a grandson first.” 

“No—”

“Elijah just walked in,” Annie interrupted her before she could say anything else. “I think he want to talk to you.” She handed Smoke the phone and took the mug of hot tea from his hand. Sharon was right, she was a lot and definitely too much for Annie this early in the morning.

After getting off the phone with Sharon, Smoke sat on the bed stared at Annie as she drank her tea. 

“What you lookin at, Elijah?”

“What you think I’m lookin at, woman?”

Looking down, Annie checked to see if she had anything exposed. “Well my titties ain’t out and we both know that’s the real reason you with me.”

“I mean, if I die with my face buried in ‘em, I wouldn’t be mad.”

“I would be. Planned on smotherin’ you between my thighs once I got a good life insurance policy on you. You talk to Stack?”

Smoke nodded. “Yeah, we cool. He still don’t like that I did it but he’ll get over it. He said Mary is mostly sad that Mama ain’t said much about their engagement.”

“Yeah and I talked to Sharon about that. I wanna leave that between them as much as possible though. I won’t answer for their relationship with each other and I don’t want to be their buffer. Everything else, Mary needs to get over though.”

“Well, she up if you wanna go talk to her. It’ll be a long drive back to Mississippi if y’all ain’t speakin’ to each other.”

“Uuuuugh, I guess. Let me get myself together before I do anything.” She rolled out of bed, her muscles aching from the previous day. “Shit! Maybe we overdid it yesterday.”

“I feel okay.” Smoke shrugged. 

“Because your legs weren’t up in the air, and your face wasn’t pressed against the mattress, and you weren’t bent over the counter, or laying down on the stairs.”

“I’ll give you a massage later on.” He walked up behind her and pressed himself into her back. 

“I don’t think me or my birth control is strong enough to handle one of your massages, Elijah, so I’ll have to decline.”

When Annie found Mary, she was outside on the patio wearing a coat over her pajamas. “You ain’t cold out here?” Annie was fully dressed with her coat on and still felt the chill in the air.

Mary shook her head. “I have my coat on. It’s supposed to warm up today a little. I need to apologize for last night. It wasn’t right to put my issues with Sharon on you like that.”

Sitting beside her friend, Annie nodded. “You know I’m not competin' to be her favorite.”

“But you are and I know that. I don’t even know if you’ll want to be my friend after I tell you this.” She looked off. “You and Smoke made more sense than I ever wanted to admit. I noticed it back in New Orleans Even when y’all would fight, you couldn’t be apart.” She laughed at the memory. 

“I just didn’t want y’all together because then you’d have the calm twin who wouldn’t second guess a lifetime with you and the attentive mother-in-law who would love to have you around. She always liked you but to have you as a daughter? I’m sure she was over the moon when she found out.” She sniffled and wiped away a tear. “That’s why I pushed so hard to find you somebody else—anybody but Smoke.”

Annie was stunned to hear this. “Mary, Stack loves you. He was nervous as hell that he’d mess something up when he was plannin to propose.”

“I know he loves me, Annie, but you weren’t around when we first got together. We fought harder than you and Smoke. He didn’t really take us seriously until I left him. I’m glad we were able to move past that but it would’ve been nice if it was easy. Knowin’ Smoke, he probably picked out a ring after your first kiss.”

“Well, he better hold on to it for as long as possible. I’m not gettin married any time soon.” Annie hugged herself willing the weather to warm up. “And we knew back in New Orleans too, just didn’t do nothin’ about it until recently. But this ain’t about me and Elijah. Lots of women ain’t close to their husband’s mamas. What’s really the issue with Sharon?”

“I know it’s not her job to be my mama but it’d be nice if someone wanted to. My own mama blocked me on everything when she saw I got engaged to Stack, which is fine because she’s a crazy bitch. I just want some guidance through this and I have nobody. Sharon’s the only one.”

“Have you ever just sat down and talked with her?”

Mary shook her head. “No, she probably wouldn’t want to though.”

“Okay, I gotta be honest, Mary. It don’t sound like you tryin’ much with her and I’m blamin’ Stack too because he should’ve addressed this a long time ago.”Annie huffed not liking the fact that she had to explain to grown adults that they should just talk to each other. “Sharon supports y’all’s engagement one hundred percent. She made Stack practice his proposal so it would be perfect for you. She likes you but you gotta show her you want her involved. Go have lunch with her sometimes or buy her some scratch offs. She’s easy to get along with.”

“You forreal?”

“Yes! You don’t get blessed with frequent calls from Sharon Moore unless you’ve put a little effort in. Hell, at this point, I need a break before she starts planning the baby shower.”

Mary looked at her questionably. “Are you—”

“Don’t even fuckin’ finish that question. Absolutely not, but that ain’t stopped Sharon from insisting that I will be soon. Elijah may have to wrap it up for the foreseeable future.”

“That’s what she’s been callin about?” Mary doubled over in laughter.

“It’s not funny,” Annie grumbled sitting back in her seat. “I’ll let you take the honor of givin’ her her first grandchild. According to her it’ll be a boy.”

Mary looked like she saw a ghost. “You not serious. That’s just how older people talk sometimes, right?”

“Yeah, my grandmama used to say stuff like that. She was never wrong though. That’s why I’ve been freakin’ out every time Sharon call me. The fuck Imma do with a baby?”

“I sure don’t need one now. Gotta make sure me and Elias bein’ careful from now on.” The wind picked up slightly causing Mary to fold her arms together and hunch over for warmth. “We spent almost the whole day at Slim’s accusin’ each other of dosin’ y’all with that love spell stuff. Now it’s makin’ me realize why y’all didn’t tell us. I’m sorry for doin all that and pressurin’ you to come here.”

“Yeah, you gotta leave me alone for a week when we get back.” 

“A week?! Why that long?”

“Because, I wanted to be at my house gettin my feet rubbed by Elijah but instead, I let you talk me into comin’ here and ended up gettin chased by a damn bear.” Annie sucked her teeth.

“But he rubbed more than your feet yesterday. You tellin’ me you gon’ ignore me for a week when you got multiple days of Smoke foldin’ you like pressed laundry?” 

“Yep! Don’t forget I got chased by a bear.” Annie stood up. “If I stay out here any longer, I might turn into a block of ice. Come on.” The two walked in to see Grace standing near the door.

“Y’all kiss and make up?” She asked jokingly but her eyes were serious. 

“Annie said I can’t talk to her for a week when we get back home so yeah, we made up.” Mary pulled Annie over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And there’s the kiss.”

Grace looked at Annie in confusion. “Why won’t you speak to Mary for a week?” 

“I ain’t speakin’ to yo ass either, Grace. Y’all got me up in these damn mountains with bears and shit. Got love potions or spells or whatever the hell y’all was tryna give me.”

Mary leaned over to Grace with a faux-whisper. “She ain’t gon’ be able to talk no way if she screamin’ Smoke name the whole time.”

“I didn’t wanna say nothin’,” Grace whispered back. “But she barely able to walk today. After a week, she might be on crutches.”

Annie rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling at her friends. “While y’all standin’ here laughin’ I’m about to cash in on a spaceship I was promised yesterday. See y’all whenever.” She turned, trying to walk away as normal as possible but heard the laughter behind her. 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

He didn’t need to know what was said.

Didn’t even need to know who said it.

Smoke drove with both hands on the wheel, grip steady on the leather. The door of the Colored schoolhouse swung open in its hinges before fitting into its frame, and he walked through the threshold with a quiet determination. He wasn’t there to argue. He was there to be clear; to shut an old door he never meant to leave cracked open in the first place.

The kids were long gone. All that remained was the ghost of their feet shuffling against the floorboards and the echo of high-pitched laughter. And her. She sat at the desk at the front of the classroom with a stack of papers and a thick red pencil, making straight lines across words with clean, even strokes, and just the right amount of pressure. 

Sunlight cut across the empty desks, catching the chalk dust that still hovered in the air. The classroom was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. History, resentment, and two different versions of the truth hung between the two of them like a physical weight that made the room feel smaller. It pressed against the walls and the lone window on the side of the building like it could feel the tension brewing and wanted out.

Smoke cleared his throat. 

She scoffed. A quiet, annoyed expulsion of breath. Then she looked up, and when her eyes met his they held his gaze, then went up and down his form slowly. Canvassing, maybe. Taking in the seriousness in his posture. Taking notice of the cold calm he carried.

“Demetria.” Smoke’s voice was cold too, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. It usually was. But this kind of cold was more resolve than anything. 

“Smoke,” she said back. 

“We need to talk.”

“Well, hello to you too,” she said sharply.

“Hey,” he said. “We need to talk,” he repeated, tone flat.

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “About?” she asked with a challenge in her tone.

“Us.”

The word made her lean forward on her elbows. 

“I just came to say we’re done. For good this time,” he said firmly. He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he had something more to say but decided against it. 

“That’s it?” The look on her face went from amusement to surprise to something else in the span of a few seconds. “That’s all you have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry it took so long for me to say out loud. I should have said it sooner. That’s on me. But we been done a while. You know that.”

“You always did think silence was kinder than the truth,” she fired back. 

Smoke hung his head. Because she wasn’t wrong. Her anger, he could take on the chest. He at least owed her that. 

“Look, I don’t know what’s been said or who you been sayin’ it to,” he started. “But whatever’s been said, I’m here to put it to rest.” 

Something flashed across her face and left just as quickly. Recognition. And the sinking feeling of dread. “You must got somebody you care about a whole lot, to come all the way over here just so you could say it plain,” she said. “She know about me?” 

“I’m sayin’ it now,” he said, voice low. 

“Does she know about me?” She asked again. A little louder this time.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. 

“So there is somebody else,” she said carefully.

Smoke didn’t answer. 

She studied his face for anything— regret, sadness, anything. She closed her eyes to keep her composure and shook her head like it would somehow make the sting go away. It didn’t. But she put her dignity back on anyway.

“Well,” she said, almost breathless. “There it is.”

Smoke nodded once. Demetria looked at him like she couldn’t recognize the shape of the man standing in front of her anymore, then she went back to her papers with the same measured carefulness she always used. The force of her pen made the paper crackle on the desk. Her corrections felt more personal now. Like she was trying to cross him out of her life one red line at a time.

“You take care.”

“Or not,” she snapped.

Smoke nodded like he accepted the ire, then he turned towards the entrance. He walked into the cool Mississippi air outside and away from the tension that sat between them, ready to snap like a rubber band pulled taut. And when he closed the door to the schoolhouse behind him, he made sure it shut all the way.

“Mwen kontan.” 

She said it in such a sultry, whispery tone. Not on purpose, that’s just how Annie’s voice sounded to Smoke. Alluring and fragrant, like the scent of the magnolia blossoms scattered around them on the ground. 

It was an early Sunday evening in November. The magnolia tree that stood tall on the side of the boarding house was changing. Its delicate, white petals drifted loose from the branches overhead and fell soft into the yard like the last bit of summer was shedding itself, piece by piece.

They sat on her patchwork quilt under the remaining shade of the tree. Annie had her knees tucked beneath her, her new sketchbook open on her lap. Smoke was across from her, one knee up, forearm casually resting over it. His eyes were anything but casual, narrowed with a fierce concentration. A lantern sat close by the edge of the quilt. Its flame burned low and steady, painting gold shadows over the pages of Annie’s sketchbook and the tips of her fingers.

“Hold on,” Smoke fussed. “You gotta say it slower.” 

Annie chuckled. “Mweh con-tan,” she sounded out slowly.

Smoke was staring at her lips, trying to mimic the way she formed the words when she spoke. She was amused by his focus. Impressed. He had it in everything he did. That bitter resolve. 

“What that mean?” 

“It means I’m happy.”

“Mwen-kun-tin,” he tried.

Annie winced. “Close, but…just try it again,” she urged.

“No,” Smoke said flatly.

“Why not?”

“I said it just how you said it.”

“No,” Annie shook her head. “You didn’t.” 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. He looked away before it could fully turn into a smile. “Sounded close enough to me,” he grumbled. 

“Mweh con-tan,” she said slower.

“Mwen kun-tan,” he repeated.

Annie bit the inside of her cheek. He was doing it on purpose, with his stubborn self. 

“You laughin’ at me?” Smoke asked bitterly.

“No.”

“Yeah…you are.”

“Am not.”

A magnolia petal landed on the page. Smoke picked it up without thinking, turned it once in his hand, then placed it on the quilt like he was afraid to hold it too long for fear he’d crush it in his hands. 

“Say it again.”

“You’re enjoyin’ this too much,” he huffed.

“And you bein’ difficult on purpose.”

“Mm.”

“Mm,” she said louder. She laughed softly and shaded something with her pencil near the corner of the page. It was a sketch of the shape of his mouth. Just the corner and how it curved around the sound he kept getting wrong. How he’d pushed a nasal sound outward instead of dropping it down.

Smoke shifted closer by a fraction, looking down to the sketchbook curiously. “Can I see?”

Her fingers tightened around it out of instinct. 

“You ain’t got to.”

The gentleness in his words made her look up. Made her grip loosen. She turned the sketchbook towards him, setting it between them. On the page wasn’t just one drawing. There were several spread across the paper. The curve of a leaf. The twist of a root. The slope of a hand pouring tea. Felix curled up on the porch. Halfway tucked in the pages was a loose leaf drawing of the inside of a small house. Smoke stared at that one the longest. He knew instantly what it was. He’d seen her sketch of the outside of her shop before. But this one was different.  She pulled it out from where it was wedged and placed it in her lap. 

Bundles hanging from the ceiling on one side. 

A long counter in front. 

A curtain that led to other rooms. 

Small jars lined up neatly on shelves. 

He took in every section, every detail. 

“Your shop,” he said finally.

“One day,” Annie replied shyly. 

“One day, when?” 

Annie looked up. “When I got enough saved. When I know enough,” she listed off. “When Aunt Della thinks I’m ready. When…” she huffed out a breath softly. “When the world lets me, I guess.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. 

“It wouldn’t just be remedies,” she said, rushing to fill the quiet before it got too loud. “I’d sell teas, salves, tonics, food, too. It wouldn’t just be a shop,” she continued, searching for words that would land. “It’d be somewhere people can come when they got things they ain’t ready to say out loud, but they ready to stop lettin’ it hurt them.” 

Smoke kept quiet beside her. 

Annie took a deep breath. “My grandma had an apothecary. Nothin’ fancy,” she said softly. “Just a place where people came in whisperin’ and left breathin’ easier.”

Smoke watched her. Her eyes, the way they softened around certain words. Her hands, and how they fidgeted on the edge of the paper. He looked at the page again while she ran her finger lightly over the built-in shelves she drew. 

“I want that. Somethin’ with my name on it. Somethin’ I know how to keep.” 

He looked at her again. “You will,” he said firmly. 

The certainty in his voice made her go still. “You sound sure.”

“I am.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

Annie tucked the drawing away and closed her sketchbook halfway, her hand smoothing over its cover. “You know some of me.”

Smoke nodded once. “I know enough.”

Silence settled between them again. Easy. Annie watched him for a moment, trying to read what had changed in his face. He looked the same mostly. Quiet. Steady. Shoulders still carrying that heaviness. But his eyes looked different.

He sat up straight and faced her. “Annie.” He said her name and she felt her heart thump hard in her chest. She couldn’t figure out why. He’d said her name a million times, but he’d never said it quite like this.

“Yes?” she replied. 

“I talked to your aunt.”

“About what?”

“You.”

The night moved around them. Crickets chirping in the trees, distant voices from a house down the street. Dogs barking, chickens roosting. It all seemed to quiet around this very moment.

“I told her I wanna court you. Proper.”

“You did?”

“I did.”

“And now?” she asked quietly.

“Now I’m comin’ to you.” 

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes piercing. “I ain’t askin’ you for nothin’ you don’t wanna give,” he said. “And I ain’t askin’ you to stop what you been showin’ me.” 

Annie’s throat tightened. “That matter to you?”

Smoke’s eyes moved to the sketchbook, then back to her. “It matters to you,” he said plainly. “It matters to me.”

“I thought you ain’t believe in all that stuff,” she said. “Hoodoo.” 

“I don’t.” He shrugged. “I believe in you.” 

Annie drew in a small breath, tilting her chin up a little. “What does courtin’ mean to you?”

Smoke took his time to answer.  

“It means I come correct. I don’t sneak around corners with you. Don’t have folks guessin’ what you mean to me.  It means if I spend time with you, it’s cause I’m serious about you.” 

“You are?” 

“I am.”

She looked at him— a silent urge to keep talking, like he wasn’t already undoing her under this magnolia tree.

“I ain’t sayin’ I got everything figured out. I don’t. I got work that ain’t clean. I got Stack.” His mouth tightened faintly. “And I got things I still need to make right before I can ask for more than this.”

He sighed. “But I know what I mean,” he said. “And I don’t mean to waste your time.” 

Annie looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. This man, whose words always held weight, had looked closely at her dreams sketched in graphite and smudged lines and simply said —he wanted to be part of them. 

She looked back at him. “If I say yes,” she said slowly. “I want my shop. I want my work. I want…I wanna be somebody outside of who I’m with.” 

“You already are,” he said, voice low.

Annie blinked.

His voice stayed low. “I ain’t askin’ to make you smaller.”

Annie’s breath caught. “Then what you askin’?”

He paused for a moment, then— “To walk beside you while you grow.” 

The silence that sat between them wasn’t empty. It was so full that Annie had to look away just so she could breathe. 

That’s when she felt it.

A nervous laugh.

It rose up in her throat— not because anything was funny, but because the weight of this moment was so heavy, she had to lighten it somehow before it swallowed her whole. She tried to suppress it, but the corners of her mouth had already turned up.

“You laughin’ at me?”

He noticed. Of course he did.

“No!”

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!”

“You a bad liar.”

“I'm not lyin'...you just...makin’ me nervous right now,” she admitted softly.

His eyes softened. “You can take your time to think about it.”

Annie shook her head immediately. “No,” she said. “I don’t need time,” she assured him. 

His eyes got serious again.

“I’ll let you court me.”

Something moved across his face. Not quite a smile. Something much more dangerous to her composure. “Yeah?”

Annie’s lips curved into a fully encompassing smile that spread gently across her face. “Yeah.” 

He held out his hand for her. A question. She put her hand in his and they laced their fingers together carefully, palms warm and steady against each other. The answer.

The tree shed another petal. It drifted down between them and landed on their intertwined hands. They didn’t move it. The lantern burned low. They sat like that beneath the magnolia tree as the last of summer continued to fall around them.

The next morning was a blur. Between the demands of empty stomachs and the nervous tremor of her own hands, a nagging anxiety sat on her shoulders and butterflies fluttered violently in the pit of her belly. A sigh of relief left her lips as the last lodger headed out the door, leaving her and Aunt Della to at least be able to clean up the kitchen and dining room in a tempered silence. 

The wind chimes on the porch fluttered in the breeze, whistling a throaty, breathless jingle that did nothing to calm her nerves. Aunt Della glanced her way a few times, but said nothing. Even Felix tried to soothe her, his purrs doing little to bring her any real solace. 

Annie shoved a biscuit in her mouth to give herself something to do. The warm fluffiness filled her mouth and the butter satisfied her tastebuds with its rich, melty goodness. She sighed then took another bite, closing her eyes as the sustenance moved through her body.

Maybe she was just hungry. And maybe her anxiousness had nothing to do with him.

She moved quicker, stacking, sweeping, wiping, scraping until the house smelled like eucalyptus, lavender, and bleach.

Annie collapsed on the couch in the front room, but not from exhaustion. From adrenaline that had nowhere else to go. Her heart beat rapidly and she fingered her ileke beads like that could somehow calm it. Morning light cut warm and light through the front windows like a balm on her skin. She tilted her head back and let her eyes close, basking in the quiet after the chaos of breakfast. 

The scent of tobacco, peppermint, and bay rum floated through the screen door. Slowly—like the rich, layered smells that arrive in a kitchen when meat, butter and herbs fold into each other on the stove.

Then the screen door cracked open and Smoke stepped through. 

Annie’s mouth went dry.

The first thing she noticed was the way he darkened the doorway once he stepped past the threshold. He was tall, well over six feet. Large and imposing frame, and even though she was a tall woman herself, it felt like he towered over her. The muscles on his arms and shoulders filled out every inch of his white collared shirt, pressing against the starched fabric with a powerful, restrained strength. His suspenders held up trousers that sat comfortably around his hips. His boots were heavy on his feet even though his steps were light. It was a subtle contradiction that made her tongue feel like cotton in her mouth. 

The second thing she noticed were the flowers in his hand. Two separate arrangements— one a mixture of white, cream, and greenery. The other was a mixture of vivid colors that looked like a rainbow painted the petals. Each was wrapped in brown paper and tied gently with twine.

Smoke removed his hat and turned to see Annie spread lazily across the couch. Apron halfway untied, scarf to the side, legs hanging off the edge, dress tracing the curve of her hips. She looked beautiful with her feet dangling in the air, bent nickel hanging loosely off a string around her left ankle, shoulders relaxed like she didn’t have a care in the world. He liked that look. Wanted to see more of it.

He was doing that staring thing again, Annie thought to herself. The way his eyes slowly swept up and down her body gave her goosebumps, and she suddenly became very aware of how she was presenting. Worn dress, apron smudged with stains, hair fuzzy in her cornrows, barefoot and lounging on the couch. But the heat in his eyes turned a casual glance-over into a smoldering glare that pinned her in place. The paper around the bouquets crinkled under his grasp as he adjusted them in his hand. When his voice finally broke the loaded silence that had overtaken the front room of the boarding house, it was rough with something that made her spine snap straight. Her legs followed, then her hands, dragging her upwards until she was sitting up completely.

“Good mornin’.” 

Annie smiled up at him, a sight that beamed brighter than the morning sun. “Good mornin’.”

Smoke took a step closer, then two, and with one hand grabbed the white bouquet out of his other and extended them towards Annie. “For you.”

“Thank you,” she said, inhaling their scent. 

Smoke nodded once, then looked around the room. “Where’s your aunt?”

“Somewhere out back,” she said breathily, taking another sniff of the flowers. 

“These for her.”

“Awww, ain’t you sweet?”

“Don’t tell nobody,” he said in that low register that made her skin tingle, with a timbre that told her he wasn’t joking even though the corner of his mouth lifted when he said it. 

He proceeded into the kitchen then out the back door, leaving Annie with her own thoughts and the absence of…him. His presence stayed in the room even though he was gone, and it wasn’t just because the smell of his cologne lingered behind. Her head tilted when she realized what day it was. Monday. What was he doing here?

“What we doin’ today?” He asked as he stepped back into her space.

Annie’s breath stuttered.

Aunt Della listened in from the kitchen, looking entirely pleased with herself. 

Annie cleared her throat and shut her mouth that had opened at Smoke’s words. Not because she wasn’t used to him being forward. But because the look in his eye told her he was dead serious when he asked her that question.

“I gotta stop by Chow’s,” she started, to which he acknowledged with a nod. “Then the drugstore,” she continued. She listed things off until she stopped to look down at what she needed to do before anything else. “I gotta wash up first. Change.” 

“I’ma be right here,” he assured her, sinking deep into the couch, putting his head back, and spreading his legs. 

Annie took one more look at him and darted up the stairs.

Thirty minutes later she was in front of the mirror, blouse tucked into a halfway-fastened skirt. Her hair was taken down from her cornrows, oiled, greased, parted down the middle, and pulled back. 

Except one piece that just wouldn’t lay flat. 

She brushed it once, then brushed it again. It refused to lay right, refused to stay right. Her hairbrush clattered on the dresser where she dropped it. 

“What am I doing?” she asked like the walls could talk back. 

She gripped the edge of the dresser, then touched the open edge of her blouse still unbuttoned at the throat. Her fingers rested there a moment before she remembered to button it. 

Her fingers weren’t steady. She cursed under her breath, buttoning it with trembling hands. She smoothed the front down, turning to the side to make sure it was tucked all the way in. 

Then she picked up her hairbrush again. Went over the same spot. Got the same result. 

She threw her hairbrush down with frustration, flustered. 

All of a sudden she felt very alone. More alone than she’d felt since she got to Clarksdale. She tried to blink away the tears but one escaped her eye. It rolled down her cheek, dropping onto her dresser. 

She missed her friends from home. 

She missed her family.  

She didn't expect this. Didn’t expect him. 

And now she was standing in the middle of something new surrounded by people who barely knew her. No mama who always knew what to say. No brothers teasing. No daddy who would pretend it wasn’t making him emotional seeing his little girl stepping into her role as a woman.

Maybe it was a sign. 

She didn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t even get her hair right without falling apart.

What did she know about being courted?

The word felt strange in her throat. New. Like a dress made out of fine fabric that she hadn’t yet learned how to move in. Like something she wanted to be careful with, to not wrinkle. Something she wanted to spin in front of the mirror just to see how it caught the light. 

And maybe, just maybe….if it fit just right, she could keep it.

Her stomach fluttered. 

She didn’t know what came after she said yes.

She’d heard stories from her friends back home, but she was never in the thick of it to look around and see how it felt. 

She didn’t know how close she was supposed to stand beside him, what folks would hear if he said her name too soft. Didn’t know if holding his hand would feel natural or if she’d overthink every step. She didn’t know what part of herself was meant to stay guarded and what part was allowed to lean.

But between the frustration, and the fear, and the homesickness that had a vice grip on her nerves…she still wanted to try.

That was the part that kept resurfacing.

She wanted it. Wanted him beside her. Wanted to be beside him. And she wanted folks to see.

The truth of it rose up so plainly, it didn’t leave room for her to argue with herself about it.

She wanted to know what Smoke looked like when he didn’t hold himself back so much. Wanted to learn what his quiet felt like when it belonged to her. Wanted to see if walking beside him in the daylight felt like sitting beside him under the magnolia tree in the backyard.

She rubbed her ileke beads and let the touch ground her. Then she put some oil on her fingers, the special blend her mama made that halfway leaked out in her trunk, and brushed the worrisome part of her hair the way her mama always did when she got too frustrated to do it herself. Rub, smooth, brush, set. 

She looked in the small, age-spotted mirror again, and her mouth curved up into a small, winsome smile.

Maybe she didn't know what she was doing.

But maybe the only thing she needed to do today was walk downstairs, meet his eyes, and take it one step at a time.

The floorboards upstairs groaned and Smoke’s head snapped towards the sound. He rose slowly from his spot on the couch, keeping his eyes trained on Annie as she walked down the stairs with a hand on the banister. 

His gaze moved over her. 

She wore a deep mustard-colored blouse tucked into a navy blue ankle-length skirt and high button leather boots. Her purse was slung over her shoulder and her skin still looked warm from her bath.

“You look nice.” 

“Thank you.”

“Real nice.”

Annie’s cheeks warmed. 

“Ready?” he asked.

Annie smiled once she got to the bottom of the staircase. “I’m ready.” 

Aunt Della stood in the threshold between the kitchen and the front room, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes went from Smoke to Annie and back. “Y’all don’t have too much fun out there,” she smirked. “And watch my baby,” she said to Smoke.

“I will,” Smoke said as he put his hat back. He opened the door for Annie and stepped back to turn to Aunt Della. “Always.” 

Aunt Della shook her head playfully and turned back to the kitchen, arms still folded but a grin on her lips. 

The ride over to Fourth Street was quick—just two short blocks. People in front of Chow’s Grocery were few and far between, but the sidewalk was far from empty. Outside, business moved as usual. A vendor restocked produce while a worker inspected their freshness. A few customers left the store with items wrapped tightly in brown paper while their children skipped alongside them with peppermint sticks and molasses chews in hand. Wagons trekked by slowly with mounds of cotton in the back, and the constant hammering of picks chipping ice blocks apart echoed in the street.

Smoke rounded the front of his truck to open the door for Annie. He held up a hand for her to balance herself on and took care to make sure she was steady once she stepped out. He followed behind her as they walked to the entrance, his hand on the small of her back as he held the door for her.

The inside held the sweet pungency of chicory in burlap sacks being hauled from the back and piled high by the windows. Charles and Bo Chow stood behind the front counter, Charles weighing something on the scale while Bo wrote an entry in the ledger. A smirk spread across Bo’s face when he saw Smoke and Annie at the door and clocked their closeness. He nodded at Smoke, then slid his eyes over to Annie and waved at her, drawn by the warmth that always seemed to radiate off her. 

“Baby,” Smoke started, exchanging a look with Bo. “I need to go holler at Bo real quick.”

“Okay,” Annie responded in that sweet, syrupy Louisiana drawl of hers.

She drifted across the store looking at her list, then made her way down one of the aisles in search of something else entirely. Smoke watched her go, watched her disappear, replayed it in his head. Then he turned to Bo. He was wiping down a display as Charles rang up a customer at the till.

“How you been, man?” Bo asked.

“Good, good,” Smoke said. He greeted him with a firm handshake, then pulled back to get a good look at him. “Damn, fatherhood huh?”

“I look that bad?”

“You look like shit.”

Bo laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling with it. He looked tired, but content in a way that made his eyes twinkle. Like he was at peace despite it all. “Tired as hell. But I’m happy,” he nodded. “We happy.” 

“I’m happy for you, Bo.”

“Thanks man,” Bo replied, shaking Smoke’s shoulder. His eyes flicked over the store. “Della’s girl…that’s you?”

“You mean Annie,” Smoke corrected. 

Surprise overtook Bo’s face and he raised an eyebrow. A question. “Yeah, I mean Annie.”

“Yeah,” he answered. Firm. “She mine.”

Bo clapped Smoke on the shoulder, looking at him with a sense of shock and awe. “Oh shit,” he exclaimed, putting a fist in front of his mouth. “Look at you, fixin’ to be in my shoes soon, Smoke.”

Smoke shot him a look as he walked away, but something in him got quiet when the thought crossed his mind. Then it got warm.

Annie, a mother.

Him. 

A father.

He shook the thought away just as quickly when they became poisoned by thoughts of his own father. 

That felt like a metaphor for his own life— innocence being corrupted by its own blood.

The thought of being a father after putting his own in the ground felt devastatingly ironic, but hope flickered somewhere that maybe it could rewrite whatever went wrong with his own.

He shook his head and kept walking through the store, his legs carrying him past the aisles in slow, measured steps. He didn’t rush. He knew exactly where Annie was. 

Annie was still reeling. 

From him calling her baby. From the way he said it with that deep Mississippi drawl. Her cheeks were warm, skin flushed, and all of a sudden, everything felt hot despite the store being cool.

She stood in the aisle, humming under her breath, half bent over as she flipped through a wire basket on a shelf filled with seed packets. 

“Why she want this when we got it in the backyard?” She fussed. 

She shook her head, plucked the seed packet from the stack, and stood up. They dropped into her shopping basket as she walked further down the aisle. She picked up the small bag of feed and saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye. She ignored it and went about her business crossing items off her list when she heard it.

“Hey stranger.”

She turned around.

Reverend Carter stepped around the corner.

Red button up, brown tweed waistcoat, gold pocket watch hanging. And that silver signet ring that he rubbed with the pad of his thumb. She looked down in his shopping basket and her brows knit at the contents inside. 

Her lips tightened into a line, that same odd sense of familiarity crept up on her again and made her insides tumble with unease. 

“Hey.” She adjusted the strap of her purse around her shoulder.

A grin spread across his face. “How you been?”

“Good,” she nodded. “You?”

Carter nodded like he was choosing his words carefully. “I’ve been doin’ just fine,” he said slowly.

Annie shifted her weight. “So you’re back?”

“For a little.” 

She blinked. “Where you speakin’ at this time?”

“Church off Yazoo,” he said quickly.

She frowned for a second, then relaxed her face. 

Carter chuckled under his breath. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You stayin’ at the house?”

He smirked to the side then looked back. “I’m stayin’ with the pastor.”

“Makes sense.” 

“Yeah…makes perfect sense.”

His eyes dropped to her ileke beads, then back up. The glance was quick, barely even noticeable. But she did. The hand that wasn’t holding her basket rose to touch her beads protectively. 

Smoke noticed it too. 

He was at the top of the aisle, watching.

He saw Carter’s eyes dip to her chest. It was just a brief second, but the flicker made his chest tighten. 

He crossed the aisle in three long strides. He kept his eyes forward, locked on Carter who had sensed him looming and had since looked up from Annie. 

Smoke stepped behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, the motion tucking her into his side. The gesture was smooth, natural, like her body had no business not being there all along.

Annie let out a quiet exhale. It was a short, controlled breath that made her shoulders relax.

Then she moved—but she didn’t move so much as melt. She relaxed back into Smoke’s touch, folding easily into him. His fingers curled around her hip, but his eyes didn’t leave Carter’s.

“Afternoon,” Carter said politely to Smoke.

Smoke just stared at him, his dark hooded eyes like black orbs piercing into the depths of whatever lay behind Carter’s. No nod. No acknowledgement. Just a cold, tactical assessment.

Carter blinked. “Y’all goin’ to the Harvest Party next month?”

“Yeah,” Annie replied quickly. She felt Smoke’s grip tighten on her hip.“We—”

“What business a preacher got at a juke joint?” Smoke asked, voice flat.

“I ain’t goin’,” Carter said, rubbing his signet ring. He looked down at it, then looked back up at them. “Just tryna make conversation.”

Smoke and Annie glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes. 

“Well,” he said, tipping his hat. “Y’all have a good rest of your day.” 

Then he walked away.

The bustle of Chow’s went on around them but they didn’t hear it— like they only existed now in their own little bubble. Then Smoke dipped his head to her ear and pressed his lips there.

Three short kisses. Soft despite the intensity of the feeling behind them. Warm, from the closeness and something else entirely. They felt less like a kiss and more like a claim.

One right behind the ear, one lower on the skin right above the neck, and one right on the shell. His nose nuzzled there for a second before he opened his mouth and hummed right into her ear. Low, deep, right into the part of her ear that made his voice vibrate right down her spine. 

“You good?” 

“Mhmm,” she hummed.

She looked over her shoulder at him and his eyes were closed at the sound of her voice. She stroked his beard and his eyes opened to find hers darker. Her fingers grazed the shell of his ear. A gentle touch that made him fight off a shiver. 

“Behave,” he said, squeezing her hip gently.

Annie grinned. She turned away from his grasp and slinked out of the aisle like nothing happened. Then she glanced over her shoulder at him once more to bat her eyes at him before slipping completely out of his sight. Smoke stood there watching her walk away, his body still warm from where she rested against it. He flexed his hands at his sides to subdue the fire she stoked in him, then followed behind her.

Outside, the air smelled like spice and the bite of the chilly November air. Annie adjusted the paper-wrapped bundle from Chow’s against her hip and slipped it into her purse. Smoke stepped out behind her with the chicken feed sack tucked under his arm and the rest of Aunt Della’s order in his other hand like it weighed nothing. He watched a shiver run down Annie’s spine that she tried to hide.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“Here.”

Smoke shrugged off his jacket and laid it over Annie’s shoulders as they walked towards his truck. The smell wafting from King’s Tamales Stand next door stopped Annie in her tracks as a man working the booth shouted his prices to folks passing by and wrapped hot tamales in paper. Warm masa, spice, meat steamed softly inside of corn husks. Steam curled up from a heavy pot blackened by use and hit the inside of the tin roof of the stand that had a crooked hand-painted sign attached to the front.

Smoke glanced at Annie. “Hungry?” 

Annie looked at him with those wide brown eyes of hers. Then her stomach answered before she got the chance. She scoffed, looking down at it like it betrayed her thoughts, then back up at Smoke. 

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “Come on.” He shifted the sack higher beneath his arm and stepped towards the stand. “How many you want?” 

“One.”

“Just one?”

Smoke looked towards the tamale man. “We’ll take four.”

Annie blinked. “Four?”

Smoke looked back at Annie. “I’m hungry, too.” 

The man behind the stand grinned like he’d seen this before. “Two for the gentleman, one for the lady now, and one for when she gets hungry later.”

“Exactly,” Smoke agreed.

Annie scoffed, looking away before a smile broke out on her face.

“Hot?” the man asked.

Smoke looked back at Annie again. She lifted her chin, offended despite herself. “Hot.”

Smoke looked back to the grinning man and nodded once. “Hot.”

“You think I wouldn’t like hot?”

“I didn’t know that’s why I asked.”

“You forget where I’m from?”

“I remember.”

The tamales came wrapped in paper, steam rising as the man passed them over to Smoke. He paid, coins dropping clean in the man’s palm. “Enjoy,” he said as they turned down the sidewalk. 

They walked a little ways down the side of the building, stopping by a patch of shade where the street noise softened around them. Smoke set Aunt Della’s things carefully by his feet, then handed Annie her tamales. He unwrapped his own with easy hands. Annie watched him without meaning to. The way he carefully peeled back the husk. The way the steam curled around his fingers. The way he took the first bite and let it sit in his mouth before he started chewing. He chewed once, twice, then nodded faintly to himself. 

“That good?”

“Mhmm.” He took another bite. 

Annie unwrapped hers, holding it carefully between her fingers as the heat bled through the paper. The first bite was soft and smoky. The cornmeal was tender, but not enough to fall through her fingers. The meat was rich with salt, pepper, and something earthy underneath. She chewed thoughtfully, her mouth analyzing every flavor. Smoke was already on his second tamale, but was chewing slower now, watching her. 

“What?” she asked.

“You makin’ a face.”

“I’m thinkin’.”

Smoke’s brows knit together. “About a tamale?”

“Mhmm.”

His mouth curved. “That so?”

“Absolutely.”

She took another bite, slower this time. “It’s good.”

Smoke nodded but kept his eyes trained on her for the—

“But.”

“I knew it.”

Annie smiled faintly. “It could use a lil’ more depth.”

“Depth?”

She nodded. “Depth.”

Smoke looked down at his half-eaten tamale then back up at Annie. “It’s a tamale.”

“And?”

Smoke looked amused now. He tilted his head. “What would you do to it?”

Annie shifted her weight. “I’d give it somethin’ to round out the pepper,” she said. “So it don’t just sit on top.”

Smoke just looked at her. “You always this particular?”

“With food? Yes.”

“And everything else?”

Annie opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked down at her tamale, then back at him. And when she spoke, her words came out softer than she expected them. “I know what I like.”

Smoke’s gaze hadn’t left her. “Good.” He took another bite, slowly. The cornmeal broke apart clean between his teeth. A long chunk of saucy meat landed on his tongue and he slurped it down his mouth without breaking eye contact.

“You starin’.”

Annie blinked. “Am not.”

“What you lookin’ at then?”

“You got somethin’ on your face.”

He ran a hand through his beard. “For real?” 

“It’s gone now.”

He couldn’t ignore the mirth in her eyes. She looked away, unwrapping the last tamale with more attention than it needed. The corner of Smoke’s mouth lifted. 

“Where I’m from, folks put more life into they food,” she said, turning back to him.

“More life?”

“Yep.”

“What that mean?”

“It means…” she said, looking towards the street like she could find the words there. “Food should taste like somebody remembered where they came from when they made it.”

“You sayin’ the people who made this…forgot where they came from?”

“No.” She smiled into her food. “They just knew wherever they was goin’ didn’t like it hot!”

Smoke huffed a laugh. Fourth Street moved around them, unconcerned. And the tension from inside of Chow’s softened into something easier. Something with steam, spice, and a little more kick. 

“I’ll make sure to let King know.”

Annie swatted his chest. “Smoke, don’t you dare!” 

When they were done eating, Smoke gathered Aunt Della’s order again and Annie threw the empty wrappers into a nearby waste barrel. She wiped her fingers against her handkerchief, the taste of pepper and cornmeal still heavy on her tongue. 

They left their items from Chow’s locked in Smoke’s truck, which he left in front of the grocery store at Annie’s insistence. Annie enjoyed the scenery as they walked leisurely towards the next stop on her list of errands. Smoke enjoyed the scenery too— her. Her hair, tucked into a thick bun, had tendrils hanging down the sides of her face that blew with the wind. One kept sticking to the shell of her ear, tickling her when it hit just right. The beads tucked under the neckline of her dress rattled if she moved a certain way. And she still had his jacket on to shield her from the wind. The sight of her walking around with his suit jacket draped over her shoulders did something to him that he couldn’t explain and didn’t want to. 

They neared the crossroad where Fourth Street met Issaquena, the street lined with shops for personal and grooming services. Luella’s Dressing Room & Alterations, Ritzy’s Beauty Salon, Brown’s Barbershop, and others sat along a row of close-knit brick and wooden storefronts with mended awnings and handmade signs.

The noise of the street got louder as they approached the block where Luella’s and Ritzy’s stood across from the barbershop. Or maybe it was just the noise in Annie’s head. She walked closest to the sidewalk with Smoke right beside her, watching her closely. His hand would find her lower back if he saw her steps falter or slow. They dodged some kids roughhousing, a stand or a low hanging sign, a crack in the sidewalk.

The area in front of the barbershop was full of men standing on lampposts smoking cigarettes, people watching, and chatting each other up. Suspenders loose or off, hats sitting low, legs bent, feet on the brick barbershop building while they waited their turn. The striped pole outside spun slowly with the wind. The smell of shaving soap, pomade, and hot comb smoke drifted upwards from the barbershop and the beauty salon across the street. The men outside let their eyes wander when Annie approached them on the sidewalk— and froze when they saw Smoke right next to her. Conversations paused, necks craned slowly. Smoke guided her through the crowd that parted for them with his hand at her back. The men acknowledged him, some giving him daps, others giving a firm nod. Some said a few polite words, tipping their hats and greeting them both as they walked by. But Smoke kept his hands on Annie. Always on her. 

Sunflower Music was painted in gold lettering on a black wooden sign that hung perpendicular to the sidewalk. The awning was a muted red, the color faded by the sun and wear, and stuck out of a narrow brick storefront with tall display windows in the front. Folks walking by would just stop and stare at what was inside— sheet music, instruments, phonographs, a lone Columbia Graphophone. Stacks of records displayed like treasure. Once the shop bell guided them through the door, the smell of paper, varnished wood, and cigars turned the crisp winter air to something with more bite. The space was long and spread out. Wooden floors. Pressed-tin ceiling. Ceiling fans turning slowly overhead. Most of the displays were spread out across the walls except a few items that were secured behind glass cases and oak cabinets shined to a mirror finish. 

A musician tested out strings by the wall where the instruments were displayed. A few church mothers Annie recognized from First Baptist Missionary were flipping carefully through church hymn sheet music displayed in stands on the other side of the shop. 

The owner stood by one of many phonographs with a record in his hands. He placed it in one, cranked the machine, and dropped the needle, all in one smooth, practiced motion. The customer standing next to him waited for the beat to drop. The record spun, the sound cracked slightly, then the smooth sound of a brass band spread throughout the room. Annie paused. The customer bopped his head to the fast-paced, soulful music coming from the phonograph speakers. 

Then the cornet solo hit.

Annie stilled entirely. 

The sound of conversation faded away, even the pointed looks of the church mothers who recognized her walking hand-in-hand with Smoke, she paid no mind. The familiarity of the music made her chest twist painfully. It sounded like home. Felt like it too. Like street musicians, second line parades, and rain hitting tin roofs during summer storms. 

“Annie?” he asked, voice low. He touched the small of her back.

Once she caught her breath, she whispered, “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, blinking back the tear that threatened to drop from her left eye. “Just reminds me of home.” She blinked and she could see it clearly. A rickety old shack. The fierce, stubborn, woman who lived inside who felt more like a spirit than a memory. “My great-grandmama,” she said a little softer. “Before she passed…she loved listening to the cornet. I don’t know why but that was the only instrument that made her face light up no matter how out of it she was.”

Smoke rubbed her lower back and they moved deeper in the store but Annie felt like she was walking through water. They ended up by the stack of records which stood close to the instruments along the wall. 

“That’s the thing about music,” he said. “It has a way of bringin’ you back to somebody, even after they long gone.”

Annie exhaled sharply. She went through the Vaudeville records but she wasn’t really looking. Smoke stood by her side, facing her, waiting. 

“We lost her to the hurricane. Back in ‘15.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“She wouldn’t leave.” Her voice cracked. 

“What you mean?”

Annie took a deep breath.

“She lived deep in the bayou. Water filled with gators,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “She knew the storm was comin’ before it did. Said if the water’s fixin’ to take her she ain’t gon’ run.” 

Annie looked towards the window like the memory called her there for some reason. “She said she had somebody on the other side waitin’ on her.” 

Smoke nodded once, eyes patient. “You know who?”

“No,” she said. “She was sold downriver ‘fo she could remember anyone.”

“Damn,” Smoke whispered. 

She smiled. It was faint, like it was pushing through the grief. “She was alone her whole life…’til she started having babies.”

“How many?”

“Fourteen.”

Smoke whistled low.

Annie hummed. “She was somethin’ else.”

The memory of her great-grandmother flashed quickly through her mind like a blur. Eyes that looked different…older than her age, and much younger at the same time. Her frail hands dragging a stick through swamp mud, leaving marks that looked less drawn than remembered.

“What was her name?”

Annie blinked and it was gone. Her hand rose to her ileke beads again, then she looked up at Smoke with the softest, widest, brown eyes, and the tenderness in them made him sigh. 

“Antoinette,” she said finally. Like the name pulled something out of her that made her hesitate to say it out loud.

Smoke rubbed her shoulder, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. 

Annie put a hand on his chest, leaning into his touch. 

They let the silence sit between them for a few moments. Let the quiet ache until it dulled into something easier to move on from.

“Anyway,” she said finally, pulling herself together. “Let’s get what I came here for.” Her fingers walked the records in search of the ragtime one Aunt Della wanted.

“What kinda music they listen to, over there in France?”

“They liked a lot of the stuff we brought over.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Our regiment had a band and everything.” 

“Were you in it?” She teased.

His mouth twitched. “Nah.” 

The musician testing out guitars hit a chord with a slider that made Smoke’s hand tap once against the record box before he caught himself. He looked at Annie and she was already looking at him. 

“What?” he asked.

Annie arched her brow. “You like that?”

“It’s nice.”

“Why?”

Smoke exhaled. “It’s slow. Got a little ache to it.”

Annie chuckled low.

The guitar player took his slider off and played something a little louder, a little faster, a deep Blues riff.

“You like this one, too?” 

“This more Stack’s style.”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“What?”

“It’s more Stack’s style but your hand been tappin’ away since he started playin’.” 

Smoke looked down at his hand then back to Annie. “Don’t mean I can’t enjoy it.”

“You right,” she smirked. “But you tappin’ along like you know this song by heart.”

“I do.” 

Annie frowned. “From where?”

“My daddy.” He paused. Looked down. Sighed. “He played the guitar.”

“Oh,” she mouthed. She heard something in his words even though his voice was steady. Pain. Shame. Guilt. Loss. Whatever it was, it weighed heavy.

His jaw tightened. “Back then…” he drifted off. “The music felt kinder than the man.” His eyes found her again.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

Annie rubbed his arm, then pulled it around her. The gesture made his shoulders relax, and she wrapped her arms around his chest. “Elijah,” she whispered up to him.

His name on her lips felt as warm as her hand on his chest. 

“Hmm,” he answered, looking off into the distance.

She rubbed his back. “You alright?” she asked quietly.

He looked down at her, then wrapped his arms around her tighter. 

“Yeah,” he said into her hair. He inhaled her scent—jasmine, rosewater, and vanilla.

Annie didn't push. Just let him stay in the moment a little longer, with her to hold onto.

Across the room, one of the church mothers cleared her throat entirely too loud, and just like that the tenderness snapped. Smoke and Annie both frowned, then looked over with expectant gazes. One cold, one more curious but still annoyed. The church mother’s mouth snapped shut and she scoffed, turning back around. Smoke and Annie both laughed as they walked towards the register, his arm around her shoulder.

“I’ma get an earful on Sunday ‘cause of you,” Annie joked, lacing her fingers with the ones hanging over her shoulder.

“They need to mind they own business,” Smoke said. Loudly. Right towards where they were congregating off to the side by the sheet music.

Their heads snapped over immediately.

Annie swatted his chest.

“What?”

“Lord,” she mumbled. “You was just tellin’ me to behave and you out here talkin’ crazy.”

“Tell the truth, shame the devil. Ain’t that what they say?”

“Smoke!” She tried swatting at him again. This time he caught her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Annie rolled her eyes but she couldn’t stop a grin from spreading on her face.

“Nuh-uh,” his voice dropped low, right by her ear again. “You know my name.”

Her breath hitched.

“Mhmm,” he drawled.

They stepped to the register. 

“Find everything you were lookin’ for?” The clerk asked. 

The words sat between them. Smoke looked at Annie.

“Yeah,” Annie said. “Just this.”

“This a good record,” he remarked. “Classic.” He set the W.C. Handy record in its sleeve, then wrapped it twice in newspaper.

Annie listened.

“His band still play around town, in Tutwiler, and down in Mound Bayou.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched, then unclenched. Annie saw it. Saved it for later.

“Bayou?” she asked.

“Mound Bayou. All black town, just a little ways south of here,” the clerk remarked. 

Annie nodded curiously.

The clerk slipped the record in a brown paper bag. “That’ll be 75 cent.” 

Smoke had it in the man’s hand before Annie could pull out her pocketbook. He watched her hesitate and shot her a look that dared her to pull her own money out. That’s all she needed to see to keep her hand right where it was— wrapped tightly in his. 

Smoke kissed her hand again before grabbing the bag.

“Y’all have a nice day,” the clerk said.

They turned to leave a few minutes later, bags between them as they fell in step beside each other. They didn’t talk much, but their hands stayed laced, like they both needed to touch the piece of themselves they just shared. When they stepped out of the building and the noise of the street came back, the moment didn’t disappear. It just followed them out into the cold. The chilly air whipped wildly across their faces, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising between them, or the thrum that sat underneath all the tension.

A month went by, but not quietly.

The air got colder. November flew by like a gust of wind off the gulf where Annie used to catch crabs with her brothers when she was a little girl. The house got louder. Out of towners, people trying to get up North before the snow up there delayed the trains. Blackbird got busier. Annie kept storing her money in the tea tin that fit perfectly under the floorboard in her room. Soon she’d have to get a bigger one, she thought to herself. And find another hiding place.

Annie’s lessons with Aunt Della continued behind padlocked doors. 

Dress fittings at Luella’s became less frequent as her Harvest Party look came together. 

Smoke got busy, too. Quiet meetings on the outskirts of town. Trips to Memphis and business at Moon Lake. He came around the boarding house even more. This time he didn’t need to feign usefulness.

Meetings under the magnolia tree became their ritual. Every Sunday when the afternoon stretched its arms out into evening he’d come around back. Like clockwork, he’d show up, the side fence creaking open before he stepped through. They’d sit outside and talk until the mosquitos got too bad.

It became a place where they shared pieces of themselves. 

A place where ordinary conversation became sacred. 

Nellie, Pearline and Gigi squealed when she finally told them about Smoke. And time with them became more frequent too — nights, afternoons, or mornings in town before the roads got too crowded. 

As long as it didn’t touch Sunday night. 

Those belonged to Smoke.

“Louisiana,” Gigi started. Casual, like she was just asking about the weather. “You ain’t mounted that horse yet?” 

The words cut through the laughter, the sound of peas dropping in a bowl, even the phonograph that played soft jazz from the corner. Somebody choked mid-chuckle. Everybody turned to look at Annie, then froze. Three sets of eyes stared at her with a glittering curiosity that made her palms feel clammy in that moment. Gigi tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. Pearline fiddled with her hands. Nellie looked at Annie like she could read the answer in her face. But Annie wasn’t bothered. In fact, she was a little amused. This wasn’t a new question.

The four of them were sitting around the kitchen table after congregating at Nellie's house following their weekday bible study. Nellie’s mother took one long look at the four of them lounging around the front room and put them to work. She set a bowl and some peas on the kitchen table and walked out the room without another word. A pot of greens soaked on the counter. Pepper and onion sat chopped in a cast iron for later. Flour still sat in the cracks of the table from breakfast. 

She sighed softly. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“She said she ain’t ready, y’all,” Pearline chimed in for her. “She say this every time y’all ask this question.” Then quieter. “It ain’t always like what them singers be goin’ on about.”

“Maybe not for you,” Gigi rebutted. “But you ain’t mountin’ a stallion.”

“More like a donkey,” Nellie joked.

Annie snorted. Even Pearline laughed under her breath. 

“So y’all just been kissin’?” Gigi probed.

“Mhmm.”

“You let him…touch you?” The question came from Nellie.

Her body flushed warm at the thought. Annie looked over to Nellie. “No.”

“Shame,” she sighed. “He look like he know what to do with his hands.” 

“Mhmm,” Gigi agreed.

“He should know,” Pearline said matter-of-factly. “Him and his brother done ran through half the town.”

“More than half,” Nellie muttered.

Annie sighed. Rolled her eyes.

“Stack more than Smoke,” Nellie confirmed. 

“Don’t I know it,” Annie replied.

“I heard Stack got a mean appetite,” Gigi said slyly.

That made Pearline gasp. “Gigi!” 

“What?” Gigi asked incredulously. 

“Please,” Pearline insisted in a hushed tone.

Annie shook her head. “Oh my God,” she protested. “I don’t need to hear this about my man’s brother.”

“Your maaaan,” Pearline teased playfully. Annie smiled.

“I heard Smoke manhood so big, it touches your soul,” Nellie said.

Annie’s head turned towards Nellie. “Who told you that?”

Nellie shrugged. “Is it true?” 

Annie shrugged.

“Every woman in town want a piece of them twins, I’m just surprised you ain’t took a bite yet.” 

“Not even a nibble?” Gigi asked. She looked shocked.

Annie chuckled low. “Not even a nibble.”

“But you seen it, though? Felt it? Backed up on him and let it poke you a little?”

“No,” she said. “I ain’t seen it.”

“But you felt it.” Gigi’s eyes grew wide. “It’s big ain’t it?” 

“He walk around like it’s big,” Nellie said plainly.

The room exploded with laughter, squeals, and giggles. Annie fumbled with a pea. 

“What’s big?” A voice rang out from the other room.

Nellie froze, then groaned and rolled her eyes when she realized who was talking.

“Awww don’t sound too happy to see me lil’ sis,” she continued. She stepped into the kitchen, t-strap heels clacking against the floorboards. Nice dress, nicer stockings, hair styled differently than Annie had seen in Clarksdale or New Orleans. Baby on her hip and another child at her waist, vice grip on his shirt like she was trying to keep him from running off or touching something he wasn’t supposed to.

Nellie rolled her eyes again and kept on shelling peas. “Hey Verity,” she said flatly. She looked up and her eyes softened when she saw her niece and nephew. “Look at how big you are!” she exclaimed. 

“Aunt Nellie!” 

Verity released the little boy and he ran over to give his aunt a hug. She adjusted her grip on her daughter, bouncing the babbling toddler on her hip. 

“Baby,” Verity said calmly with that mom warning underneath, “gon’ and help your daddy outside.”

The little boy rushed out the front door, leaving just the girls in an awkward silence before they quickly changed the subject. 

“Hey Verity,” Gigi and Pearline said together. Verity greeted them back, staring curiously at the stranger sitting at her mother’s kitchen table. 

“Verity,” Nellie started. “This is Annie, she’s new, from Louisiana. Annie, this is my sister Verity. She’s in town from Chicago.” 

Annie wiped off her hands on her apron and held out her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Verity.”

“Nice to meet you too, Verity. My goodness, you’re so pretty.” 

“Thank you,” Annie beamed.

Verity looked around the room. At each woman’s face individually. “What was y’all in here talkin’ about?” She asked like she’d already heard too much.

“Nothing,” Nellie said firmly.

Verity’s eyes narrowed.

“Men,” Gigi admitted bluntly.

Nellie shot her a look, to which she just shrugged and kept shelling her peas.

“What about ‘em?” Verity asked as her baby grabbed the collar of her dress. She untangled her fingers carefully while waiting for someone to say something.

“Annie here got herself a suitor already,” Nellie called out. “Smoke Moore.”

The look on Verity’s face said that she was busy putting a name to a face before it finally clicked. “Oh, one of the twins!” She wiped drool off her baby’s lips before it dripped on her clothes. “So they both came back from the war,” she remarked. “That’s good.”

Nellie rolled her eyes. “She done forgot about everybody she grew up with.” 

“Did not! They’re both so much younger than me.”

“You’re only 27.”

“And I been in Chicago for the past seven years,” she quipped. “How old are they now?”

“21,” Gigi answered.

“Babies,” she whispered, pinching her daughter’s cheek.

“Anyway, do you mind? Us babies,” Nellie said sarcastically, “tryna talk here. About somethin’ you don’t need to know nothin’ about.”  

Verity sighed. She was older, but still young enough to remember being where they were. Young and unmarried. Always being in a position to be told or met with judgment. Mostly from the women closest to her. 

She’d moved to Chicago and was met with a different type of perspective. The social scene was different, much different, probably something that’d make her mother clutch her pearls if she heard the lasciviousness that was considered normal, and that she had a taste of it before she met her husband. 

So, she knew all about flirtation and temptation. About men who only knew how to talk pretty, men who knew how to be tender, and men who confused possession with care. And behind the venom in her words, she could hear something more vulnerable in her little sister’s tone. So, she pulled up a chair at the table, put her baby between her legs, and went to work shelling peas. They worked together in silence for a while. Nothing except the occasional sigh, the sound of the baby hitting the table with her palms, and the house creaking and settling around them.

“Anyone else seein’ anybody new?” Verity asked.

Nobody replied. The air in the tiny kitchen held an uncomfortable type of tension. But it wasn’t anything unique. It was generational. A hesitance that usually exists in the gap between women just becoming and women who’d already been in their shoes. 

“How’s your husband, Pea?” 

Pearline cleared her throat. “He good,” she responded. She kept her head down while Verity looked at her knowingly. 

The front door practically flew open with all the energy of a hyper five-year-old boy. He took his shoes off by the door then ran down the hallway. 

Another person stepped in. His steps were much slower, but his energy was just as powerful in a measured, grown man kind of way. All six heads in the kitchen turned at once. Skin the color of chestnuts, bulky shoulders, broad chest, piercing light brown eyes that could stop a woman mid-sentence. He took off his hat to reveal a head full of low-cut slicked down hair. His three-piece suit matched the sharpness of Verity’s dress like a lid to a pot. He flashed a smile and damn near every woman at the table gulped hard. 

He waved his hand to greet everyone. “Hey y’all.” His voice was deep and gruff. A hint of southern twang in it, like the South had somehow rubbed off on him but he wasn’t born and bred here. 

“Hey,” everybody said back. 

Verity smiled, clearly unshaken by his presence because this was her husband. 

“Can you take the baby? She gettin’ fussy and I’m tryna help the girls with supper.”

“Sure.” He crossed the room to the kitchen and planted a kiss on her waiting forehead, then grabbed his daughter from her lap. 

“Thank you.”

“Hey sugar plum,” he cooed. He spoke softly to his daughter. She giggled and rested her head in the crook of his neck as he took her down the hallway.

Once they heard the click of a door shutting in the distance, the kitchen could finally exhale.

“That’s your husband?” Gigi asked breathlessly, looking towards the hallway like she needed him to reappear out of thin air. “Girl he is too fine!”

Verity grinned. “That’s my man,” she said proudly.

“Where you find him at?” Gigi continued. “And do he have any brothers?”

Annie kept her thoughts to herself as she snapped a pea under her thumb. While they sized him up her thoughts drifted over to Smoke. How his smile was easy when he showed it. How he didn’t show it to anybody but her. The way he’d walk in and suck the air out the room. The way his muscles filled out his clothing. Her breath sped up at the thought. She felt flushed. Hot all of a sudden, all over again.

Verity laughed at Gigi’s remarks and shook her head. “He do, but he’s the only good apple in the bunch.”

“Lord,” Annie chuckled.

Verity looked over at her expectantly.

“I got nothin’ but brothers,” she explained. “Got one, maybe two of them decent. The rest ain’t got the sense God gave a goose.” 

Everyone at the table laughed, the tension easing into something more relaxed. 

“It would take God and all his disciples to drill some decency into ‘em,” Pearline let slip out.

“Pearlie!” Nellie gasped at the revelation. Sweet little Pearline with her lace gloves, quiet eyes and her perfect posture like she was afraid that if she didn’t stand up perfectly straight someone would come behind her with a ruler to put her back in line. 

She shrugged casually, clearly pleased with herself. 

“Gigi,” Annie kept on shelling peas. “You ever see Will again?”

Gigi made a sound like she was vomiting and Annie broke out in laughter. 

“Verity,” she looked at her. “This man had the worst smelling feet I’ve ever smelled in my life!”

“Not smelly feet.”

“A horse’s hoof smells better than that man’s feet,” she grimaced. “Besides,” she smirked like her face held a secret she’d been dying to tell. Her voice got low. “I’ve been keepin’ company with Rodney again.”

“Not surprised,” Nellie mumbled.

“Who’s Rodney?” Annie asked.

Nellie answered for her. “Just the man she been stuck on since we was kids.”

“Ohh….” 

“I ain’t stuck. He’s just familiar.”

“More like that hmmhmm” she gave the table a knowing look, “is familiar.”

“Hush!” Gigi swatted Nellie’s shoulder. “It’s reliable.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with goin’ back to an ol’ reliable.” Annie whipped her head around. The voice came from Verity.

“That’s right,” Gigi agreed smugly.

“Annie ain’t even done nothin’ with that twin of hers yet.” 

Annie rolled her eyes. “Here we go.”

“Why not?” Verity asked.

She huffed a small breath out her nose. “Just waitin’ for the right time.” 

“You waitin’ til the party huh?” Gigi asked with a grin. “All that liquor runnin’ through you will loosen you right on up,” she teased.

Annie shook her head, laughing.

Pearline spoke up quietly. “Don’t let the liquor make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”

“I ain’t,” Annie said.

“You keep it for yourself until you good and ready to give it away.”

“Exactly,” Pearline said. “And if he really cares, he won’t mind. Not one bit.”

“My husband waited a whole year for me to let him in. Didn’t pressure me. Didn’t make me feel bad. Didn’t make it ‘bout his needs,” Verity recalled. “What matters is what he does when wantin’ you, means he gotta take it slow.”

Her words landed. 

“Do he know?” Her voice was small. Pearline’s. “That you a virgin?”

Annie exhaled sharply. “I ain’t told him,” she confessed. 

Pearline spoke again. “And…he ain’t tried nothin’?” 

“We ain’t been alone like that,” she said softly while fumbling with the hem of her apron. “And I ain’t found the right time to tell him yet.”

“He gon’ wear you out once he get his hands on you,” Gigi said dramatically. “You know that right?”

“I believe it.” And she did.

“Whew, chile,” Nellie drawled. “I’ma say a prayer for you. And for your—” 

“Eleanor!” Verity snapped.

Annie snorted.

Verity looked over at Annie, eyes warm. “You’ll find the right time,” she assured.

The kitchen was a little quieter after that. Just the sound of knuckles cracking, shells snapping open, peas hitting the bottom of the bowl, throaty jazz still coming from the corner. And a glaring question that hummed underneath the noise. 

“Do you want to…you know, with him?” Pearline asked.

Annie stopped shelling for a moment and looked to the side to collect the whirlwind of thoughts that spun around in her head. 

Her and Smoke had been having outings. Not running into each other by chance, not catching a glimpse across the sidewalk. Together. In public. On purpose. It was mostly whatever it was she wanted to do. Smoke liked it that way.

They tucked into their own little routine as what was blossoming between them slowly became familiar. Since her conversation with Aunt Della she hadn’t taken the time to sit down and think about what exactly it was or where it was going to go. All she knew is that in this new rhythm with him…it felt right. 

He’d touch her gently. Carefully. Like he was holding onto something fragile. But even the slightest contact sent shivers down her spine. 

A hand at the small of her back.

He’d lean in close when he needed to say something to her. Always did.

But sometimes he’d drop his mouth right by her ear just to hear her gasp under her breath.

He’d wrap his hands around her waist and she swore she forgot how to breathe. 

But she didn’t move away.

His desire for her was palpable. 

He was hungry. 

She could see it in his eyes and feel it in his restraint. 

But he was tender with her, like he was dousing his own desire until she was ready to cross that bridge, and that ignited her curiosity for more like a spark lit in a dry room.

She knew she was in trouble when she started to notice the absence of certain things. His closeness. His touch. The feeling that came from it.

She thought about his mouth a lot. What it felt like pressed against hers. The way his tongue would trace the seam of her lips like a man standing at a threshold, waiting to be invited in. 

Her thoughts usually stopped there because they were too overwhelming. 

Kissing wasn’t new to her. Desire wasn’t either. Not entirely. 

She’d heard things. Sensed them. She wasn’t naive in an ignorant way. 

But as the baby of the family, and the only girl, she’d been crowded. She was always loved and protected. But love and protection always felt like being watched and managed by people who assumed they knew what was best for her.  

Then Smoke came along. He unsettled her because he didn’t hover. He waited. With his quiet attention and something deeper that sat underneath the surface. 

He listened.

He chose her. 

He made space for her to choose herself. 

And for a girl who spent her whole life being guarded, space felt dangerous. 

It felt like freedom. 

Freedom to be held but not held back.

She wanted to step into it, the new version of herself that was emerging from sheltered beginnings.

Craved it.

Craved him.

Badly. 

Even though she didn't fully know what that meant, she wanted to be close. Wanted to experience everything that came along with that closeness.

And it wasn’t just a physical thing. It was a primal, desperate ache that rose from the depths and swept through her body, hitting every single nerve ending along the way.

She even started dreaming about him. It was always the same one. She’d wake up in a mess of her own making—nightgown clinging to her curves, sheets damp. Then she’d spend the rest of the day feeling a dizzying pulse between her legs, like her heart had found a new home there.

It was like his soul had floated to hers while she was sleeping, and wanted to make sure she was ready for the day she finally just...let go. 

“It never feels right when one of them ain’t here. She could’ve just lost track of time, it ain’t often we let her go out without one of us dropping her off and picking her up.”

Elijah’s grip tightens on his phone. Everything she was telling him made sense, but the knot forming in his stomach was telling him otherwise. 

He’d been sitting around stiffly since she left, and it eased slightly when she texted to let them know they made it. However, as more time passed, he found himself even more tense than he was before. 

Annie leans closer to him, making him unclench his jaw when she leaves a few kisses on it.

“If she needs you she’ll call, Papa. You reminded her of the safe word, right?” she asks, and he nods. 

Elijah’s eyes meet hers, and she can see the worry pooling in his irises. The thought of Arielle needing to use it made the feeling in his gut intensify. The word was only to be used if she was in a situation she couldn’t get herself out of, and the idea of that made his chest tighten.

“I should’ve taken her. This is why I always take her to wherever she’s going. Annie, I swear, if she has to-”

“She’s not gonna need to use it, Elijah,” Annie cuts him off as he rises out of the bed, his phone forgotten on his pillow. 

“She can handle herself. You and Stack made sure of that.”

“I know she can handle herself,” he starts, beginning to pace back and forth. “I know how them lil niggas can be. Her knowing how to defend herself ain’t gon’ stop one from trying something.”

Annie sighs softly. She stands and steps into his path, making him stop in front of her. There was a deep frown on his face, and his brows were furrowed so deeply that Annie could tell he was panicked more than anything else.

“You are working yourself up,” she says firmly, her hands finding his forearms. 

“You just want her to be okay. Me too, but she don’t need us makin’ all the decisions for her anymore, and it’s time for you to start getting used to that.”

He exhales deeply, his hands finding Annie’s waist as he closes his eyes and tries to ground himself. 

After a few moments, he opens them and is met with Annie’s soft gaze. Her hands move up to his biceps, rubbing soothing circles in them.

“She hasn’t even texted, Annie. She normally texts if she’s gonna be late.” 

“It won’t be the first time she does something she don’t normally do. It ain’t the last time it’s gon’ happen either.”

Elijah raises an eyebrow as he listens to Annie’s tone. He looks at her, not missing the way her eyebrows twitched when she finished speaking.

“It’s something you ain’t telling me?” he questions, making Annie shake her head.

“No. I just have a feeling,” she replies. He looks at her, waiting for her to explain.

“I heard her talking to Marley on the phone earlier. Something about meeting some boys,” Annie tells him, her grip on him tightening slightly when she sees the deep frown reclaiming its place on his face at the mention of the one friend of Arielle’s that he wasn’t too fond of.

“I didn’t think she’d stay out so long past her curfew, so I didn’t say anything.”

“You should have, because I would’ve told her she couldn’t go. She lied to me, Annie.”

“She didn’t lie, Elijah. She said she was going to a party with her friends. Even gave you the address like you told her she had to, and that’s where she’s at. Don’t look or sound like a lie to me, plus she's 17. Think about what you and Stack were doin’ at 17 and be glad that ain’t her,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

He smacks his teeth and looks away from her. 

“If she needs you, she’ll call, and if she doesn’t, you’ll get to practice your disciplinary skills when she gets home.”

“I discipline my kids just fine,” he rebuts halfheartedly, making Annie laugh.

“Even you don’t believe that,” she says, her fingers intertwining with his. “Remember when she cheated on that test?”

“I talked to her about that.”

“Yeah. You talk to her every time, and she knows that’s all you’re gonna do. She makes you think she hears you, then she moves on to the next thing as soon as you let her go. That’s Elias with a bow, and each time she plays you with those sad eyes and that pout.”

Elijah looks away for a moment before finding Annie’s eyes again, the hint of a smile on his lips.

“She got your eyes, though.”

“That’s how I know what she doin’,” Annie replies with a smile, leaning up to peck his lips.

“If she’s just out late and nothing’s wrong, then 3 weeks of early curfew,” he says.

“Good job. Now make sure you stick to it,” Annie says with a knowing look.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Elijah replies, leaning down for a kiss. 

Just as Annie’s hands find his face to pull him in for another, his phone rings. 

Elijah’s eyes shoot open and lock on Annie’s. They look toward his phone at the same time, Elijah pulling away to grab it after a moment.

“It’s Ari,” he mumbles, the tension in his body seeping into his voice again.

He answers it after a second, Annie’s hand finding his arm as he puts the phone on speaker.

“Arielle.”

“Papa,” she answers, and her parents clock the unease in her tone.

“I need you to come get me.”