Page 52 of Leave It to Us
He looked as he always did: too damn fine. His deep skin tone was accented by the cream-colored button-front shirt he was wearing, with khaki slacks and crisp white tennis shoes that were a sharp contrast to the work boots she usually saw him in.
“Now, you know my mama would curse a blue streak if I came to dinner dressed in my work clothes.” He chuckled, and butterflies took flight in the pit of her stomach.
She flattened a hand over the area, in shock over the sensation, and tried to keep her smile affixed.
He reached for her free hand and clasped it gently in his. “But seriously, you look really nice.”
She hadn’t styled her hair in any particular way, just washed and blow-dried it before adding a thin brown headband and letting it hangstraight to her shoulders. Same for her face—she only wore mascara and her favorite peach lip gloss.
“Thank you,” she said. “And you look really nice too.”
With the hand that had been unsuccessfully trying to tame the butterflies, she reached out and tweaked the collar of his shirt. “I like you in something other than work clothes.”
He grinned. “So my work clothes suck, huh?”
They started down the steps. “No, they definitely don’t suck,” she said, and prayed that the way she’d practically drooled over him in those rugged jeans or sweatpants—especiallythe sweatpants—T-shirts, and work boots on a daily basis wasn’t noticeable in her tone.
The smug grin he gave her just before he released her hand and opened the passenger-side door said he’d noticed.
He turned on the radio as they rode the twenty minutes of curving dirt road until they arrived at his mother’s house, so there was no more talking. But the moment he came around and opened the door for her, he took her hand and helped her out of the truck. She was about to say she could handle it herself, but she kind of liked this chivalrous side of him.
“Now, my sister, Emory—she talks a lot. And really fast too, but you might be used to that since you’re from up north.” He was still holding her hand after he closed the door and started walking her toward a lovely pale-gray house with a yellow golf cart parked in front of one of the windows. She kind of liked how comfortable it felt to walk hand in hand with him, even if a bit of nerves had begun to bubble up now that they were actually at his parents’ house.
“You know you’re not funny, right?” she asked with a smile. “I do not talk fast.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, you do. And you’ve got that distinct Boston accent. I’m gettin’ used to it now, but your summers on the island sure didn’t do anything to curb that.”
She was about to give him another snarky reply, but she had to stop walking and just take in the scenery. The house was old—she knew that because of the structure of it, similar to that one-level layout of Ms.Janie’s. But it was obvious that some work had been done here, no doubt by Deacon. The roof was definitely newer, with shingles that looked more like those found in the city than what she’d seen on some of the other Daufuskie houses. And the siding was probably newer as well, but shutters on the windows and the door, all painted in a cheerful shade of light blue, were all Daufuskie. She’d seen doors and windows in this shade on other homes and had wondered if they’d all simply bought an abundance of this color paint at one time.
“Why blue?” she asked. “I guess I never really noticed it before when I was on the island, but I’ve seen it around a lot on this trip, so I was just wondering. It’s really pretty. Reminds me of robin’s-egg Easter candies.”
“Oh, yeah, that. See, the color’s called Heaven Blue, and the Gullah people who originated here on the island painted their doors and shutters this color to keep the haints—or evil spirits—from entering the house.”
She scrunched her nose as she looked away from the house to him. “You serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he replied. “And my mama still believes in it. Her great-grandfather was one of the freed slaves who’d worked the plantations here on the island. After the war, the cotton industry started to slow down, so he and some others who’d stuck around trying to make a way here on their own started oystering. Your great-great-grandfather used to do the same, right?”
Yvonne nodded, having heard a similar story about her family’s origin on the island from Grandma Betty, who’d gotten all the details from Grandpa Riley before he’d passed away. “Yeah, that’s true. Grandma Betty used to say how much she hated oysters, so whenever she was here on the island with Grandpa Riley, he’d only cook other seafood that hecould catch for her. But there’s so much about the Gullah culture that seems to be forgotten.” Or that she didn’t really know herself. In that moment, she felt like that was a horrible shame and something she needed to remedy.
“Not here on ’Fuskie,” he said. “At least, that’s what my mama would say if you mentioned that to her. This is her way of life, and she’s not trading it for the world.”
“How does she feel about you trading it for life in the city?”
They’d started walking toward the house again now, and Deacon was still holding her hand. She didn’t know why she hadn’t pulled away.
“I don’t guess she feels any kind of way, considering how much I come back. My goal was never to leave the island and forget all my heritage. I wanted to make something of myself so I could bring more of our culture to the forefront. So when those big-resort people came sniffing around here, I went to school and got my degrees; then I came right back and started pitching to them ways they could make their resorts reflect more of our culture here instead of trying to bring their whitewashed world down to us.”
“Oh, I bet that didn’t go over too well,” she said as he let her go up the three planked steps first.
“Not with everybody, but I’ve had a few contracts with them here and there. Mostly for some private cabins that are situated behind the main resort property. Several of them have the Heaven Blue doors and shutters, but in a much more modern-looking cabin. Still, they’ve hired some of the women from down here to cook in their kitchens.”
“I bet they did. How else are they going to live up to the authentic Gullah cuisine they have advertised in their brochures?” she said.
“You two out here, just a-chatterin’.” A boisterous woman with a wide smile and Deacon’s dreamy eyes pulled the front door open and stepped out onto the porch. “Dinner’s gettin’ cold.”
“We’re right on time, Mama,” Deacon said, looking at the watch on his wrist.
“‘On time’ is late in my house, Deacon Paul Williams, and you know dat. Who’s this pretty one?”
