Ciji Ware Read Online Free PDF Page B

the edges. The handsome photographer in khaki slacks and vest leaning against the entrance to the parlor at Monmouth Plantation had subtly been transformed into a young man from some other century who appeared to have recently dismounted a horse. Now, he was wearing a dark green, swallow-tailed riding jacket with a fountain of lace-edged linen at his throat. His knee-high riding boots and the thighs of his buff-colored breeches were caked with Mississippi mud. His dark hair glistened with sweat and he clutched a riding crop, which he beat repeatedly against the palm of his other hand, as if he were trying to make some sort of momentous decision.
    What in the world?
    Daphne was thoroughly rattled by the photographer’s inexplicable metamorphosis and wondered suddenly if Rafe’s dismissal and seeing Jack Ebert again, so unexpectedly, had sent her way, way over the edge.

Chapter 2
    As swiftly as the misty vision of a dismounted horseman appeared before Daphne’s eyes, it vanished, and the tall photographer reappeared, smiling appreciatively from across the parlor at Monmouth Plantation. Bewildered, Daphne threw her head back, closed her eyes, and continued singing, segueing into the musical bridge of “Georgia on My Mind.”
    “Other arms reach out to me … other eyes smile tenderly … ”
    When, finally, she finished the song, she rested her hands on her thighs and allowed the harp’s last notes to linger in the air. Absolute quiet descended upon the old house. Slowly, she turned her head and experienced enormous relief to see that the photographer was still standing there. From all indications, the absurdly good-looking figure was as real as the Canon and Nikon cameras he now removed and set carefully on top of his small duffel bag. He regarded her as if they were old friends.
    “Thank you for not stopping when you saw me.”
    Her breath caught when he pushed his shoulder away from the door frame and took a step toward the harp. She glanced self-consciously at her callused fingertips and her blunt, unvarnished nails and curled them into her palms.
    “Well…” she said slowly, shaken by the distinct feeling that she had somehow fallen in and out of some crazy time warp, “‘Greensleeves’ it ain’t!”
    The stranger laughed at her joke, which pleased her immensely somehow.
    “I’ve never heard a harp played like that before,” the man said. “Like a blues guitar… or a bass fiddle.”
    “I rarely play jazz on the harp—or sing, either—that’s for sure,” Daphne admitted ruefully, suddenly embarrassed by her flamboyant exhibition. “Not in public, at least. Only as backup a couple of times at a blues club owned by a friend’s family in New Orleans,” she amended, feeling more foolish by the second. “I was just testing out this old harp.”
    He advanced a few more steps into the parlor where he towered over the Victorian furniture. Extending his hand, he volunteered, “Hello. I’m Sim Hopkins.”
    “Sim?”
    “Short for Simon. If you heard my triple-barreled name, you’d understand why I go by Sim.”
    “I know the feeling. I’m Daphne Whitaker Duvallon,” she said with a laugh, shaking hands.
    “Will you be playing here later?”
    “At my brother’s wedding at First Presbyterian Church tomorrow, and maybe at the reception here.”
    “Oh. A private party.”
    There was a pause, and then she surprised herself by asking, “Are… ah… you staying here at Monmouth?”
    “I’m sleeping here, at least,” he answered with a faint grimace. “Most of the time I’m either on my belly in the woods or hip-deep in some swamp. I’ve taken a room here for a week or two, using this place as a base while I work on a book.”
    “Oh, really? What’s it about?” she asked, filled with curiosity.
    “It’s going to photographically document the series of birds painted by John James Audubon in this area some… oh… hundred and eighty years ago. At least the ones that aren’t