Beneath the Canopy
by
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New Orleans, Louisiana October 9, 1881 On a brisk, early-autumn evening, while occupying a solitary table at Antoine’s Restaurant, an obviously preoccupied man sat absentmindedly moving his untried food from one side of his plate to the other. He was a handsome man – in a rugged sort of way. His hair was the deepest sable; his eyes were the blue of a sapphire, deep, clear and comforting. When he smiled two sensuous lips parted, revealing the whitest of teeth against skin that was tanned and smooth. His nose was straight and nondescript except that it ended in nostrils that were slightly flared. He had a fine-chiseled jaw line which sat firm and resolute above a neck and shoulders tempered by long years of willingness to roll up his sleeves and work alongside his hired men. He had strong hands: hands that could crush, yet they could likewise caress. Upon entering the room, he had stood six-foot-one, but he had appeared to be much taller. Men like Jack Reynolds always do. As he sat there alone, Jack was engrossed in troubling thoughts of a lovely lady. Those eyes of hers: he caught himself looking for those fascinating liquid eyes in the faces of every woman he had encountered since meeting her. And when she drew near, he had found her essence to be enchanting: roses and woman had combined into a quiet, simplistic elegance. She was beauty; she was grace; she was lady. She was perfection personified. And she had totally captured his being. October 11, 1881 Jack looked up from his desk to the office door. It was slowly opening to admit a haggard Phillip who looked unkempt and exhausted. "Phillip? . . .What’s wrong? You look terrible!" Jack exclaimed, rising from his chair, his tone reflecting his sudden anxiety. Struck by both the realization that Phillip appeared distraught and by the subsequent thought that it precipitated, he added, "Has something happened to your mother?" At that point, Phillip sank limply onto a nearby chair, hopelessly shook his head, and dropped his bewhiskered face into his trembling hands. His broad shoulders began to shake uncontrollably. Jack came to kneel beside the weeping, young man, laying a comforting hand upon Phillip’s shoulder. "What is it, son? What’s happened?" Jack asked, genuine concern being evident in his tone. "I’m in trouble, Mr. Reynolds – bad trouble. I’ve killed someone and his father is out to get me," Phillip managed to say. Jack handed Phillip his handkerchief , saying encouragingly, "Pull yourself together, and tell me what happened." Reynolds rose and returned to his desk in deference to the young man’s pride. He sat quietly while Phillip composed himself sufficiently enough to continue. "When I arrived at Tall Trees, Charles Murchison was in Mother’s face calling her a slut. I pushed him away from her: that’s all I did. He was just a kid – fourteen, Doctor Crawford said. "Charles started running his mouth about how his father had said we were trash, and then he ran out of the room – we were in the small, downstairs parlor. "He returned with a pistol in his hand. I caught hold of him attempting to take the gun away from him. The struggle carried us out into the main hallway. Then, the gun fired, and Charles slumped against me. I eased him down to the floor: he died soon afterward. "Mother was afraid that his father would kill me, so she and Ben – the butler – insisted that I leave right away. Ben almost dragged me out the front door. He hitched a wagon and drove me to Doctor Hiram’s house. The doctor put me on a boat for New Orleans the following morning. "Doctor Hiram is blaming himself for the whole thing, because his letter was my reason for going up there," Phillip recounted and stared forlornly at the floor in front of him. "It’s neither of your fault. He did right by sending you the letter, and you didn’t pull that trigger. You were merely attempting to get the gun away from the boy: it was a natural reaction. "I wish now that I had gone up there with you: I had a strange feeling about it later that evening. "Don’t hang the blame for this on yourself, Phillip; that would be an unfair burden to have to bear. You are in no way responsible for that boy’s death, and neither is Doctor Crawford," Jack counseled.
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Twelve year old Josie Hunnicutt could not have possibly imagined the extent to which her life would change when her curiosity prompted her to follow a red fox through a dense thicket of brush instead of returning home to her shanty house alongside the Mississippi River. Twelve year old Ginny Lathrop could not have possibly imagined the extent to which her life would change when she slipped off to the kitchen of her nineteenth century plantation house for molasses cookies. Yet, the two girls from opposite walks of life were to bond a friendship known by few and go on to experience lives fraught with poignancy, endearment, tragedy, fearfulness, adventure, and romance. An unexpected turn of events brings about a startling conclusion revealing a surprising secret that had been closely guarded for twenty-two years.