Fiddler's Rest

When I came out of the bedroom and moved to the living room window overlooking the drive, I saw that Bill was gone.

And I hadn't seen him again from that day until now, when our eyes met across the docks at the Beaufort marina. But I could see that I was dead to him now. He acted like I wasn't even there, that we'd never made love, that he'd never seen me before.

And I never felt so sad and struck with loss as I did at that moment.

* * * *

I couldn't fault Bill Hamilton for the job he did in renovating Fiddler's Rest. Throughout that summer, he was on the site constantly, directing the work of an army of subcontractors and in the thick of every project himself, whether it was swinging a hammer or lovingly buffing the wood-paneled walls to a high shine.

And the quality of the work was superb and the materials he was using were of such high quality that at some point I began to question whether I would be hit with an impossibly high overcharge at the end—although when the bill came, it was on the dime of the estimate.

My apartment in the city sold quickly, and with nowhere better to go, I moved down to Beaufort while the work progressed on Fiddler's Rest. I found a great B&B right on Bay Street, the Cuthbert House Inn, which overlooked the river, and where I was given a room with a desk in a turret, where I could sit and tap away on my computer and watch the sailboats drifting in and out of the marina to my heart's content.

The writing went very well, but the closer I came to the completion of my next manuscript, the more restless I became about the work out at Fiddler's Cove. The house was shaping up now and was becoming a true gem. Each day I was more grateful that I hadn't had it demolished. I couldn't wait to take up residence there.

I took to rushing my writing and review work in the morning so that I could drive out to the construction site in my new Volvo convertible and watch the men at work.

I found, increasingly, that I was there to watch Bill Hamilton at work. He worked feverishly and with what I thought was total concentration on getting the finest craftsmanship out of his workers—and himself—that he could. He worked stripped down to his jeans and construction boots, and after a few sessions of following the movement of his bronzed, well-muscled torso around the construction site, I began to wonder if I was coming to watch the progress on the house or him. When I was honest with myself, I knew it was him.

As the summer progressed, I found myself coming to the site earlier each day, so that it wasn't long before I was there before the workers broke for lunch. Most of them left the site for their midday meal, and then I was mostly watching Bill Hamilton. It took a while before it dawned on me that he wasn't breaking for lunch with the others.

And so, I began bringing a lunch for both of us and making him stop to eat it with me. We'd go back near the riverbank in a grove of trees to the southeast of the house. And while we ate, with the food I brought spread out on a blanket, we'd talk. He'd tell me stories of the locals in Beaufort and of the town's history. His family had been here forever, and Bill was able to look on the ways of the townspeople and their foibles and dignity with humor and grace. It was only when we approached talking about his immediate family that Bill's face clouded up and he became reticent. I quickly learned that the subject was not open for discussion, and I wondered what pain or tragedy resided in that.

I, in turn, told Bill of my work. I was pleased that he didn't belittle or minimize that I wrote for a living or what I wrote—that I wrote mainly uplifting books for lonely women. Rather he talked to me of underlying themes in stories and showed that he understood the universal truths I strove to bring out in them. He treated my themes with respect, and I found that he was able to help lead me into insights in the manuscript I was then working on that would help me to make it better and the various threads of the story to take on more significant meanings.

Neither Taylor nor Don were able to bring my best work out of me that Bill could within the space of an afternoon's lunch out on the riverbank.

And, amazingly, Bill seemed to take interest in me as a woman. There was never a reference to my plumpness or any crass reference to the size of my bust or my hips. No leering or suggestive phrasing.

And that was all fine, but, increasingly I found myself wishing that there was some of that. I was interested in him as a man, although I kept telling myself that he was in a league far above me—the sort who would date the homecoming queen or the captain of the cheerleading squad—not the plump and buxom girl sitting in the corner and weaving her stories of fantasy lovers.

And so I was ripe for that Tuesday morning when I arrived with a bottle of wine, several wedges of cheese with crackers, and a vegetable tray—to find the site deserted. Or so I thought at first. A truck was in the drive when I pulled up, but there was no sign of activity. Only then did I remember that the crew had been given the day off because there was a regatta festival that day, and every strong arm that could hold a sail steady in the wind was being put to the test out on the river. But there was a truck parked in the drive, so I thought that maybe someone was here. I called out, but there was no response. I entered the house and found him there—Bill—standing on the porch, where the old, rusting screen had been pulled off and the new screening had not been strung yet. Just standing there and looking out at the water.

"This has been my favorite view since I was a child," he said, not turning toward me as I entered the porch from the house, but somehow knowing I was there—and that it was me.

"A child?" I asked as I came up beside him.

"Yes, my father used to bring me here—the place was deserted even then—and we'd just stand here and look out into the river. But he'd never say anything, and after a while he'd take my hand and lead me back to the car and we'd drive home. He'd never mention the visit to my aunt or to my grandfather, who was living with us then—or, rather, we were living with him—in the big family home on Hamilton Street. And somehow I knew I wasn't supposed to mention it either. And so I never did. When Dad died, I stopped coming. I don't know why. But I never forgot being here."

"So, the house means something special to you, does it?" I whispered. "That's why you are restoring it so lovingly."

"Yes, I suppose it does," Bill answered after a moment of silence. "But I can't quite grasp why. I just know I was as happy as I could be when you bought it and agreed to renovate it rather than tear it down—and let me do the job."

"I know how you feel about it," I said. "I have grown to love it more and more each day, as you have brought it to life for me. It has brought both of us—you and me—something to love."

Bill turned and looked deeply into my eyes at that more. "More important," he whispered, "It has brought me someone to love. If only you—"

I lifted my trembling fingers to his lips and shushed him. And then, not believing either that I was doing it or that he was letting me, I took his hand and led him out to the grove. Once there, I turned and dropped his hand and moved my shaking fingers to the buttons of my top.

I was lost to him the moment his hands cupped my cheeks and his lips sought out mine rather than either going directly to my breasts.

What followed was unlike any lovemaking I had ever experienced before. He lowered me to the blanket, the same one we'd put in place for all of the luncheon meetings here over the past couple of weeks, and his hands moved everywhere on my body. Opening and loosening and releasing. And I was open to him and to his roving hands, finding and molding to every mound and crevice of me, centering, centering, until his fingers possessed me while his mouth captured my muffled moans and I began to move with him—on his impaling fingers—shuddering and exploding with the mere touching of his fingers. Then and only then did his lips go to my nipples and his hands to my hips, and he was entering me. And the waves of passion began crashing all over again, and I was lost in his glorious taking and giving.

Hours later he was gone and I was still sitting on the edge of the dock, humming to myself and trying to decide if my life had ended or only was beginning. I had never opened to a man like this before, and I felt like dancing and laughing and, at the same time, like crawling under a rock in shame.

"A breeze is coming in from the sound, honey. You need to put this sweater on, or come inside."

I turned and smiled a wan smile at Maddie as she put the sweater around my shoulders and went down on her haunches on the dock beside me.

"Oh, Maddie, thanks . . . I—"

"He's a good man, girl."

"You saw?" I wanted to scream, but it came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Maddie sees everything, girl. No worry; I've seen this comin' for weeks. He's a good man. He isn't like this just for his own fun. He connects you with this house. And any fool can see how much he loves this house by the love he has put into restoring it."

"He says he came here in his childhood and he can't remember why."

"He said that, did he?" Maddie said. And the little catch in her voice made me turn and look into her face again. She looked a little confused. Then, as I watched a small smile curled into her lips and there was a gleam in her eye. "Yes, I guess he might have remembered such visits at that."

"What is it, Maddie?" I asked. "What is it that you know about this place that Bill doesn't? You tell me you see everything."

"It would mean tellin' you the story of this house and of its builder," Maddie said. "You never asked about the history of the house or how it came to you. I thought maybe you jus' wasn't curious about that."

"Not curious? How do you figure that, Maddie?"

"Did you read the papers you signed on the house and the codicil that came with it?" Maddie was looking at me hard now.

I was embarrassed. I never had read them; I'd just put them in my safety deposit box and hadn't bothered to read them. "No, I'm sorry. Everything was such a blur at the time. I didn't read them when I signed them, and I guess it just slipped my mind."

"Well, I'se been sorta wonderin' about that. I sorta thought you just didn't care."

Her voice had a hurt tone to it, and I put my hand on her forearm and said, "I'm sorry, Maddie. It was just an oversight. Please tell me what you know about it."

The old woman sat there, a pensive look on her face.

"But if you'd rather not, I understand," I whispered.

"No, it ain't that I don't want to tell you, Missy. I'se jus' not sure where to start. OK, here goes. I think you been told about this house bein' built by a man named Fiddler—his name was Will Fiddler."

"Right, I remember that."

"And that he came out here because of some botched affair with a woman in town. A high society woman."

"Yes."

"That woman was Aida Hamilton, Bill and James Hamilton's grandma."

"Oh, now that you mention it, I do remember the double reference to Hamiltons."

"Well, the affair didn't really stop there," Maddie continued. "That Aida Hamilton come out here whenever she could get away. And Will Fiddler lived for jus' three things in life: makin' this house ever bit as nice as the house Aida had in town, the visits from Aida, and makin' Aida's visits as long as they could be."

Maddie paused for a moment, and I saw that her lips were pursed, as if she didn't know whether she should go on. "The rest of this isn't very nice, Missy Meghan. I'm not sure you want me to go on."

"Please, Maddie. Don't stop now."

"Well, that Will got what he wanted eventually. Aida came out here on one of her visits and jus' didn't return to town. And when she didn't return to town, her husband got together some friends of his and they come out here in the dark of night with torches and guns and stuff and took her back. And when they did that, they also beat that Will to within an inch of his life. But that weren't the end of it. A week later, Aida broke free and came back out here. And that same day she and Will got on his old sailboat right here at this dock, and they sailed out into the sound into the arms of a squall. The bodies came up on the rocks down near the tip of Port Royal a few days later. No one could ever say if they was tryin' to go somewhere else or if they rode into the storm on purpose."

"How awful," I said. "And I guess that's why Aida's son, Bill's father, brought him out here when Bill was a boy. And I guess it's why Bill feels such an affinity to the place. That's all obvious from the attention he has given the restoration. But I wonder why he let the house run down, why he didn't just buy the house himself and restore it."

"You should read that codicil, Missy Meghan. Especially as it applies to you too. The Fiddlers put a stop on any future sale of Fiddler's Rest to a Hamilton. It was the only payback they were able to make for what Will had gone through. Bill Hamilton couldn't buy the house. He may never have known the full story why he couldn't, but he only had to go to the courthouse to find out that he never could own it. I imagine watchin' it deteriorate as it did was punishing him some, seein' as how it was built to honor his grandma. And I guess that's what the Fiddlers wanted. Well, most of them, least ways."

"And how do you know so much about the paperwork on the house, Maddie? I know you say you see everything, but you certainly seem to know more than anyone else about this."

"Well, if you'd looked at the papers on the house sale, you might of been able to figure it out, Missy."

I looked at Maddie again, and her eyes were laughing, as if she were about to spring a joke. And there was only one joke I thought she could spring.

"You. It was your property I bought," I said.

"Yep," Maddie said. She said it with a grin, but then her eyes dimmed again and her lips were compressed in a small frown. "I owned it, but Lawd knows I couldn't afford to keep it up, and I was hopin' for years some angel would come along and save it. And she did."

"Thanks, Maddie," I murmured, and I started to rise from the dock, but Maddie placed her hands on me and held me there.

"I ain't finished," Maddie said. "I've said this much, so I might as well say the rest. What's in back of me owning the house is at the bottom of why the story of Aida and Will was such a tragedy. I held the property because Will Fiddler was my grandpa. The love between him and Aida Hamilton was the worst sort of taboo that could be in these parts at that time. A black man and a high-born white woman. And that's probably why Bill and James have never been told the full story. Their dad would have been old enough at the time to know, and he probably loved his mother so much in spite of it all that he came out here to be near her. But the family's shame of mixin' the races would have been just too much for any Hamilton to talk about, even within the family."

We sat there for several moments in silence before I finally spoke. "Thank you for telling me, Maddie, but I don't suppose I'll ever tell Bill of it."

"No, I don't suppose that would be too wise. But he's a good man, Missy Meghan. I don't think he'd hold any truck with this mixin' of the races being scandalous even if he knowed the whole story, but I don't this it would do him good to know of the trouble within his family. That Bill Hamilton, he's a good man. I doubt any woman could do better. I hope you won't stop seein' him."

"No, I don't suppose I'll stop," I answered in a whisper that I knew she could hear—but just barely.

* * * *

The following fall and winter were both heaven and hell for me. Fiddler's Rest was heaven—by September it was finished. I was moved in, and Maddie was organizing the furniture and me, protecting my writing time from anyone and everyone demanding my attention. All except Bill Hamilton. Maddie couldn't refuse Bill anything, and she continually said he was good for me. I didn't even pretend to disagree with her—I saw Bill as heaven too.

But I had never been in a relationship like this before, and I couldn't bring myself to believe that it was real—that Bill was paying attention to me for me. The man was gorgeous—everything a woman could want. And being desired by a desirable man hadn't been my lot in life. It was probably a defensive mechanism that I had started fantasizing stories of women like me getting the hero; my vivid imagination was my best friend in that regard.

And disbelief in truly being desirable to Bill wasn't my only reservation; there also was Fiddler's Rest. His love for Fiddler's Rest had come out so strongly that I had to protect myself. I had to acknowledge the very real possibility that it wasn't me he was interested in at all, but having access to Fiddler's Rest. I had to consider that he surely knew of the codicil that kept him from ever owning the place, and, given his love for the place and the impossibility of owning it, that the next best thing for him was to cozy up to the one who did own it.

"He's a good man," Maddie would say stubbornly each time she quizzed me on why I was distancing myself from Bill a bit, why our relationship, as warm as it was, seemed to be on hold. "He wouldn't do that. It's you he's interested in."

"I'm sure you're right, Maddie," I would say. "I'm sure I'm being silly. I just need time. This is all so new to me."

And Maddie would give me that hard look of hers and say, "Bill Hamilton isn't no gold digger, Missy Meghan. You just go on up to his house in town and look around, and you'll know that he don't need none of your money."

But this was rather beside the point. It wasn't that he might want my money that held me back; it was that he might want Fiddler's Rest and that courting me was the only way he could get it.

"And, besides," Maddie continued, "if he just wanted to use a girl to get at the house, he could have courted me when I had Fiddler's Rest."

I had to look away to stifle a giggle on the image of that, but Maddie saved me by launching into a snorting laugh herself.

Maddie's cajoling aside, I couldn't bring myself to discuss this with Maddie except when she brought it up. She had already declared for Bill Hamilton. She was an easy woman to talk to—on every subject but Bill Hamilton. I just couldn't believe she was objective on that topic.

"What you need is a girlfriend, someone your own age you can talk to and giggle with," Maddie said out of the blue one day.

"What I need to do is to finish these proofs and get them back to the publisher," is what I said. But my heart was aching. I realized that this was exactly what I needed. I even dialed Julie's number in New York. I knew this was her busy season at the advertising agency, but I felt that if she could just come down for a week—or a weekend even—I wouldn't feel so alone with my concerns. And Julie had always been my steady hand anyway. I'd trust her to take a look at the situation and Bill and to tell me the truth. God knows she'd seen me through the two most serious relationships I'd ever had—and in each case she'd declared my boyfriend a bum who would not stick with me. And she'd been right on both counts. But when I called, I found out that she was on assignment in Europe—too far away and too busy to help me.

It wasn't only the concern in the back of my mind motivating my "take it slow" attitude with Bill that concerned me and drove Maddie to distraction. I sensed that Bill was reticent too. He was affectionate—God, he was affectionate—and attentive to me. But he seemed reserved as well, and a little sad too. I asked Maddie what was behind this, but she was evasive and claimed not to see it. Her evasiveness didn't fool me, and I decided that if she wouldn't discuss it, it must be something that didn't show Bill in a favorable light. And this is probably what made it much easier to believe he was just toying with me when I ultimately saw evidence of it.