Down Home Dixie

“Even so, we can’t imagine what it was really like. We’re not going to die out there of dysentery or be captured and sent to a prison and we’re not going to take a musket ball in the gut when the charge is rushing over the hill. At the end of the battle, we’ll go home to a warm bed and decent food and people who love us, as many of those who really fought that battle never could. Why do we do what we do? To remember. To keep them alive in our hearts.”

Dixie had always regarded reenactors as little boys indulging in pointless games. But what Kyle Sherman had described to her bore solemn witness to the lives and deaths of men caught up in the horrible war that had torn the nation asunder, a wrenching conflict that still had a direct bearing on the way many Southerners lived their lives today.

Kyle had captured her imagination, which was altogether too taxing at the moment. She was ready to rush out the door and back to the house. Her hand rested on the doorknob, then she turned back toward him. There was one thing she had to know.

“Your name,” she blurted. “Kyle Sherman. It was General Sherman who earned the hatred of Southerners for all time. His foragers destroyed and pillaged, leaving people in their path, mostly wives and children, with no place to live and nothing to eat.” She paused, trying to figure out if his blank stare meant that he was merely surprised or if it presaged something more severe—anger.

Kyle raised himself on one elbow as Dixie drew a deep breath. “Are you related to General Sherman in any way?” she asked all in a rush.

“Yes,” he said gently. “He was my great-great-great-grandfather.”

She nodded. He was more attractive than she had first discerned, and other than the sharp nose and large ears, he bore little resemblance to those pictures of General William Tecumseh Sherman in the history books. The tiny lamp by the bed illuminated his high cheekbones, dusted his lashes with gold.

She didn’t say any more. Nothing else seemed relevant. She was deeply attracted to this man, to the sheer physicality of him and the soft reasoning way in which he spoke.

As she walked through the night back to the house, she pondered not only what Kyle had revealed about his heritage, which was startling enough to a girl who was Southern-born and –bred, but how he honored the soldiers who had fought and fallen in that long-ago war, and what it meant to him to do so.

Maybe the local United Daughters of the Confederacy chapter would have a hard time understanding how she could shelter a descendant of General William T. Sherman, yet for herself, it was time to let bygones be bygones. She had captured a Yankee, and she was determined to encourage him to stay around as long as he liked.

That decided, the only thing she had to figure out was whether to fix meat loaf or hamburgers for dinner.

Chapter Two

When Kyle Sherman woke up the next morning, he had the impression that he’d fallen down a rabbit hole. He recognized nothing about his charmingly rustic surroundings—not the teeny-tiny green-painted table decoupaged with pictures of kittens, not the tray sitting on the midget kitchen counter and certainly not the woman who was swinging down the path toward the little house.

She was gorgeous. Despite her well-rounded body parts, she was all glide and no jiggle. Her hair bounced around her shoulders, pale blond and gleaming as if spun from sunshine. Her face was a perfect oval, makeup tastefully applied, and she wore a pink dress, the hem of which was caught up at intervals with white ribbons, the better to show off shapely calves. Kyle used to be a boob man; nowadays he was strictly into legs, and this woman’s were spectacular. He’d noticed them right off in the parking lot yesterday.

The memory reminded him how he happened to be here. The battle reenactment at Rivervale Bridge, his toothache, the subsequent root canal and the anesthetic knocking him for a loop. Then, and by far the most pleasant thing about that miserable day, the sweet angel of mercy who had gallantly came to his rescue and who right now was knocking on the quaint door to this Hobbity cottage where he lay naked beneath a quilt pieced of pastel calico.

“Come in,” he said, wishing he’d had time to get dressed. His uniform was neatly spread over two of the teeny-tiny chairs, and he didn’t recall putting it there. Maybe the woman had. He suddenly recalled that her name was Dixie, a perfect appellation for a perfect Southern belle.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, giving the impression that she really cared.

“Better.”

“I’m going to church. When I get back, I’ll take you to get your truck.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe what happened yesterday. I felt as if I was spinning off the end of the world when I was standing there in the parking lot. Thanks for helping me out.”

“Like I said, I was glad to do it. I fixed scrambled eggs, grits and bacon for breakfast. I, um, suppose you’re hungry?”

Because of his overwhelming urge to sleep, he’d barely sampled the meat loaf last night. “I could eat something,” he allowed.

“I’ll bring it out,” she said, though her gaze fell doubtfully on the little table. He glanced out the window where a picnic table stood near the dock extending into the lake.

“How about if I eat outside? It’s such a nice spring morning.” He was in awe of the gorgeous reds of the azaleas, the dogwoods with their ethereal pink and white blossoms, the pale flowers of the ornamental Bradford pear trees trembling gently in the breeze.

As Dixie turned to go, he made a point of glancing at her left hand, though he didn’t usually check. The third finger was ringless, which made him unexpectedly glad. He’d been in an off-and-on relationship with a woman named Andrea for a long time, but it was definitely off at present. Well, make that probably off, considering that she’d been leaving voice messages on his cell phone for the past three days. Not that he could have returned them even if he had the urge. His cell-phone service had been spotty ever since he’d crossed the state line into South Carolina.

He wasn’t on the prowl for a new interest. On the other hand, he’d never met anyone as appealing as Dixie Lee Smith. When she disappeared up the path toward the house, he sprang out of bed. Last night he’d figured that when he woke up he’d feel as he did when he had a bad hangover. He expected to find a straggle-haired stranger staring back at him from the teeny-tiny mirror—hollow of cheek, dull of eye and seriously due for a shave. Aside from a bit of swelling along his jawline, he looked fine except for needing that shave.

Taking heart from his appearance, he hit the shower. Though water pressure was low, the hot water was the right temperature and the soap made satisfying suds. After the makeshift shower arrangements at the battle site, it felt great. He dried himself on fluffy white towels and pulled on the blue uniform pants. He didn’t have a razor or any toiletries with him. He’d left them in his truck.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Dixie was standing at the door. “I set your plate on the picnic table,” she said. “Would you like me to find you a T-shirt?”

“That would be great,” he said. Always the quick comeback. Clever repartee was somehow out of his reach this morning, maybe on most mornings. He wished he had a line of patter guaranteed to get results with women, but he was a little rusty at present.

Dixie hurried away and came back with not only a shirt but a personal-care kit like the ones they provided on long airline flights. She noticed him studying the airline’s logo and gave a little laugh.

“I had that left over from an overnight flight to Rome to visit my sister a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t need the shaving kit,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said, meaning it. He hesitated for a moment, then plunged ahead. “You’re not going to make me eat breakfast alone, are you?”

She seemed disconcerted. “I’m teaching Sunday school today. I can’t be late,” she said after a few seconds’ delay.

“Sorry, I just thought—”

She didn’t let him finish what he was going to say. “I could sit for a few minutes, I guess.”

“I’d like that,” he said. He smiled at her.

While he stayed behind in the playhouse to shave, Dixie perched primly on the end of one of the picnic benches. At his approach, she smiled tentatively. He sat down across from her and lifted the domed cover on his plate. “Just like from room service,” he said with a grin.

“Some restaurant-supply items were in the house along with a whole lot of junk I haven’t managed to throw away yet.”

He mixed the grits with the bacon and a good-size lump of butter as he’d learned to do last week at the Reb reenactors’ camp. Breakfast really tasted good in the fresh morning air. From here he could see more of the house, a large clapboard-and-shingle structure with big windows overlooking a wide lawn. Brick-bordered flower beds, sadly unkempt, were scattered here and there, and an artesian well bubbled into a rock-lined pool nearby. The land, which was dotted with pine and oak trees, sloped gently to the fringe of reeds bordering the wide lake.

“Can you tell me something about this area? I’m not familiar with it,” he said.

“This is Pine Hollow Lake,” Dixie told him. “You’re in the sand hills of South Carolina. Many centuries ago, the Atlantic Ocean, which is now ninety miles to the east of us, rose right up to the ridge over there in the distance. When the nuclear plant was built here, Blue Creek was dammed to flood the hollow and that created the lake.”

“There’s a nuclear plant?”

She nodded and pointed out a distant white plume of smoke. “Way over there.”

“What was in the hollow before they flooded it?”

“There’re whole farms and houses down there under the water. It’s kind of eerie, isn’t it?”

He nodded and took another bite of grits. “What happened to the people?” he asked.

“The electric company paid them well for their land and relocated them. I can’t say some of them were too happy about it, from what I’ve heard. Well, that’s progress.”

He considered what it must have been like for those folks to see their homes covered with water. He shook his head.

“Maybe progress isn’t always good,” he said.

She shrugged. “Without it, where would I be? Developers are building on the other side of the lake now, and I’m selling expensive homes to retirees who have recently discovered the area.”

“That’s what you do? Real estate?”

“I’m in sales, and I’ve discovered that I’m good at it. I’ll take the exam for my broker’s license as soon as possible, and then, who knows? I could own a business someday.” She stood up and brushed a dried leaf off her dress. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. One thing about our pastor, he starts services on time.”

“I understand,” Kyle said, smiling up at her.

“See you later,” she said, and he watched as she walked toward the garage. She had a bounce to her step and a sway to her hips that was most fetching.

Stop it, he told himself.

You could get to know more about her, said a wee small voice inside him, though he wasn’t sure it would be wise to heed its counsel. On the other hand, what if it was time for a new life, new friends, a new perspective?

He finished his breakfast as he thoughtfully gazed out over the lake where cattails swayed gently in the breeze and a lone sailboat was tacking toward the far shore. In Ohio, spring had yet to be sprung, flowers had yet to bloom, and in some places, snow had yet to melt. Back home he had an apartment, a dracaena that needed watering and a landlady who insisted on mothering him. At the moment, the most important thing seemed to be the dracaena, which ought to tell him something about himself, his life and what he planned to do with it.

Back home was a situation that he was loath to face, but he wasn’t ready to admit that yet even to himself. And so he daydreamed of buying a sailboat of his own and sailing it across Pine Hollow Lake without a care in the world and with a charming woman by his side.

She looked a lot like Dixie Lee Smith, but she could have been anybody. Anybody he didn’t know.

WHEN DIXIE ARRIVED home from church, Kyle was weeding the flower beds.

She didn’t notice him as she parked her Mustang in the detached garage, but as she walked toward the house, she stopped short at the sight of him wearing old khaki shorts that he’d found in a box labeled Church Charity Closet. The box had held other garments, none of which appeared as if they’d fit Dixie—a pair of boys’ overalls, baby things, children’s winter coats.

She stood there, hands on her hips and head cocked to one side. “Why, Kyle Sherman!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Work that needs to be done.” He straightened and smiled at her, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

“I certainly didn’t expect you to hire on as my yard man,” she said, but it was clear that she was pleased. She walked around the flower bed, studying it. “I plan to plant marigolds here, all colors,” she said.

“That would be pretty,” he said. “I figured that in this climate, you might be ready for planting.”

“It’ll be soon, but I’m not much of a gardener. My sister, Carrie, used to have the most beautiful plantings all around the home place. That’s where she lived before she got married. She and her husband claim they’re going to take up residence there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they do.”

“That’s the sister who lives in Rome?”

“She’s only visiting there while her husband is on location. She’s married to Luke Mason, the movie star. She met him when he was filming a movie here.”

“I never knew anyone who married a movie star.”

“It took everyone in our family by surprise.”

Kyle knelt again, determined to finish this job before she made him leave. “I figure we can go get my truck after I’m through here. If you have time, I mean.”

“I drove past the dentist’s office on my way home from church. That sure is a different-looking truck you have, all that chrome and the boxy shape of it.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had been curious about the truck, a modified pickup. “I’m a farrier,” he said.

“A what?”

“A horseshoer. I shoe horses. I carry equipment with me. Forge, anvil, grinders, horseshoes, things like that.”

She appeared intrigued. “You’re the first farrier I’ve ever met. Where do you work?”

“I have my own business and service stable horses, pets, a few mules here and there. I love what I do, and it fits in well with my hobby. I take care of the cavalry horses at the reenactments.”

Dixie sat on a nearby tree stump. “Some of the things you said last night about reenactments—they touched me,” she said. “Though I could do without your being related to General Sherman.”

He glanced at her briefly, but kept weeding, tossing uprooted plants into an old bushel basket. “If it’s any comfort, my great-grandfather was never formally acknowledged by the Sherman family. He was the illegitimate child of the general’s unmarried son and took the Sherman name only after his father died.”

“Oh. Is that a sore point?”

“Not to me, but you won’t find our branch of the family on any genealogical charts.”

She thought that over for a moment. “Um, where can I go to a reenactment?”

“In Camden there’s an excellent one every fall. It’s a Revolutionary War reenactment, so I don’t participate, but you might enjoy it.”

“The battle of Camden…didn’t the Americans lose that one?”

He grinned. “I’m afraid so. You’re up on your history lessons.”

“I won a medal in eighth grade for the highest average in middle-school history courses. I was proud of it.”

He stood up, surveyed the flower bed. He’d eliminated the weeds, but it still needed edging. “That’s a whole lot better. I’d be glad to clear the weeds out of the other beds for you.”

“Aren’t we going to drive downtown to get your truck?”

“Well, sure.” He leaned back, hands on his hips. “It’s just that I don’t really need to be anyplace special right away. I have another guy covering my business for me back in Ohio. In fact, I’d like to ride around the horse country near Camden, and if you’re agreeable, maybe we could barter a few more days’ lodging in your cottage for my work around the place.”

“Yankee, you’ve got a deal.”

He reached out his hand to shake hers then quickly withdrew it when he realized his was too dirty to touch anything but more weeds. “I guess I’d better take another shower,” he said ruefully.

“Okay, I’m going to change clothes. I’ll be going on to my grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner.” She hesitated, clearly unsure of her ground. “You could come with me if you like. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple family meal, but you’ll leave well fed.”

“I’d like that,” he said slowly. “I’d like it a lot.”

Dixie aimed a smile at him, one that could knock a man over at twenty paces. Her skirt swung with a flirtatious flip as she started toward the house. “Be ready in half an hour, and I’ll tell Memaw that there’ll be one extra. We’ll go get your truck first and drop it off here on our way to her house.” She stopped and frowned, half turning around. “Another thing,” she added. “While we’re there, don’t tell anyone your last name.” She disappeared into the house, the door shutting firmly behind her.

What the heck does she mean, don’t tell anyone your last name? Kyle wondered as he hefted the basket of weeds. Still puzzling over it, he went to check his cell phone. It still hadn’t revived, but that was okay. Suddenly he didn’t feel a need to be connected, and that was a freeing feeling. Whistling, he went inside to take a shower.

WHEN THEY WENT into town to retrieve Kyle’s truck, Dixie put the top down on her convertible. Her hair ruffled in the wind, and they passed countless fields readied for spring planting. Dixie drove a little too fast for Kyle’s taste, but she was a competent driver and he didn’t object.

At the dentist’s parking lot, she was curious to inspect his truck. “The cargo area’s built on the chassis of a regular pickup,” Kyle explained. “The sides and back open upward so I can get to my equipment.”

He flipped up the rear hatch. “This makes shade where I stand to work if there isn’t a tree or barn around.” He also opened the sides, which lifted up like wings, so she could see the variety of horseshoes stacked on “trees” expressly made for that purpose. Racks and compartments held rasps and nails. He kept his equipment scrupulously neat and clean, and Dixie seemed impressed.

“Maybe I’ll get to watch you shoe a horse someday,” she said.

“Maybe you will,” he told her, liking the idea.

They dropped his truck off next to the sasanqua hedge beside her driveway, and Kyle slid back into the passenger side of the car. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect at this gathering of the Smith clan, so Dixie explained about her family as they drove into the countryside.

“Our branch of Smiths have resided in the area since before the American Revolution,” she told him. “Several of my ancestors fought in the War Between the States. Their names are engraved on the base of the statue of the Confederate soldier in Memorial Park downtown.”

This was apparently the root of Dixie’s reluctance to mention his last name to her family. Kyle didn’t understand; generations had lived and died since the end of the Civil War. People should be over it. Still, twenty-nine years ago, because that’s how old she said she was, someone had named this woman Dixie Lee to commemorate an ill-fated nation and its greatest general, Robert E. Lee.

Dixie kept talking. “Memaw Frances is my paternal grandmother. My daddy died some years ago of heart disease, and Mama was just plain prostrate with grief. Then, in a worst-case scenario, she suffered a fatal embolism shortly after we lost Daddy. I’ve no lack of relatives, so I have a large extended family. What my sister and I would have done without them, I can’t imagine.”

Kyle, whose father had retired to the Florida Keys where he earned a marginal living as a fishing guide and whose mother had run off with a magazine salesman not long after he was born, knew little about big families and said so.

“Why, I can’t imagine not getting everyone together on Sundays like we do,” she said with honest astonishment. “What on earth do you do instead?”

Kyle couldn’t really answer that. Sunday was just like any other day to him, only there were a lot more sports programs on TV. Sometimes Andrea stayed over, and they’d go out for breakfast, or he’d get together with his reenactor friends. He’d never considered that he was missing anything.

Along the way, Dixie pointed out the Smith family’s old home place, a large Victorian house that belonged to her sister, Carrie, and her husband. About a quarter of a mile down the road, Frances Smith lived in a sprawling brick rancher at the end of a long driveway winding through a pecan grove.

He followed Dixie into the house. A picture of Ronald Reagan hung beside the door and a well-worn Bible lay on the hall table. Dixie’s grandmother looked to be a spry eighty. The guests included Dixie’s cousin Voncille, an ample-size redhead with a hearty laugh and a husband who barely spoke a word. The husband’s name was Skeeter, and he and Voncille had four children, stair steps named Paul, Liddy, Amelia and Petey.

Claudia, Frances’s sister, who was hard of hearing, had brought her unmarried son, Jackson, who immediately pulled Kyle aside and asked him if he liked to watch pornographic movies. Another male relative named Estill, hollow of chest and bald of head, lurked on the outskirts of the group, and Kyle had no idea what his relation was to anybody else, nor did anyone explain it.

The children were all extremely handsome and reasonably well behaved, excluding the younger girl, Amelia, who kept wailing that she wanted a Tootsie Roll, and right now, please. No one paid any attention to her. Kyle considered suggesting that he run to the nearest convenience store and buy her the Tootsie Roll just to shut her up, then decided that if her parents didn’t care about her whining, he should try to get used to it.

After he brushed off the question from Jackson about the porn movies, Kyle tried to stick close to Dixie, which meant that he was recruited to snap the ends off green beans while she fried the chicken. Memaw Frances busied herself mashing potatoes by hand, and once she’d eliminated all the lumps to her satisfaction, she dug around in the pantry for pickled okra that she never found.

“Memaw didn’t make pickled okra last year,” Voncille whispered to Dixie and Kyle on her way to the refrigerator to pour juice for Petey. “She keeps forgetting is all.”

Frances’s big lace-covered walnut table provided plenty of room for everyone, and it was set with fine china and crystal. Dixie seemed to take everything in stride, including being seated next to the profoundly deaf Claudia, who had to be told everything twice, even if it was only to please pass the salt. Kyle was seated on Frances’s right, which meant that he had to endure a spate of tough questions while steering her away from queries about his name. Not only that, Dixie had also suggested quite strongly that he not mention the reenactment at Rivervale Bridge or the fact that he’d worn a blue Yankee uniform.

Kyle didn’t like to meet Dixie’s family or anyone else and not be able to tell them who he was, but he honored her request. That wasn’t difficult to do when he recalled that while riding in the car with her to get his truck a while ago, her hand had so softly brushed his arm as she reached to slide the key into the ignition. His skin had crinkled into goose bumps at her touch and he wondered what would happen if their skin made contact again.

“YOU’RE FROM WHERE, CAL?” Claudia shouted across the table, knotting her face into a frown that rolled lines of pink powder from wrinkle to wrinkle.

“OHIO,” he shouted back, unsure whether to correct Claudia’s pronunciation of his name.