Classified (The Godmothers) Part 1

FERN MICHAELS.

Cla.s.sified.

I'd like to dedicate this book to some truly wonderful people who recently came into my life.

To Ben Harrison, the finest lawyer in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Many thanks for introducing me to Mark Mc Ma.n.u.s, Kenny Church, Steve Duncan, Sam Maw, the owners of the Beacon Restaurant in Spartanburg, and to Tommy Lee, Barbara, Karen, Jerry, Cartwright, Calvin and Ruby for making me the best Philly Cheese Burger in the whole world. And there are no words to describe the Peach Cobbler that makes me wish I lived next door so I could eat it every day.

Thank you all, Fern Michaels.

Prologue.

Having tossed and turned for the past hour, Abby finally rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. It was 3:00 AM, the witching hour. Chris had fallen asleep on the sofa downstairs in the formal dining room. She didn't have the heart to wake him. She knew by the time he walked upstairs and showered, he would be wide-awake, and it would take hours for him to get back to sleep. He'd spent fourteen hours today stripping the wood floor in the dining room-backbreaking and exhausting work. He was sitting on the sofa when Abby went to the kitchen for ice tea. When she returned, Chris was sound asleep. She covered him with a light throw and decided to go upstairs alone.

Unable to sleep without Chris by her side, she switched the lamp on. A swatch of fabrics for the new drapes she wanted to order was lying on the night table. She picked it up, felt the different textures, examined the colors, feeling unsure. While she didn't want something dark and heavy, she didn't want something so light you could see through it. What she needed was something in between, yet something that stayed true to the Clay Plantation decor. Her mother had advised her and had spent many, many hours with her, going over the long history of the plantation, for she, too, had lived here for a short period of time when she was married to Garland, Chris's father. There were old pictures of the many rooms, but they were so faded she could not even begin to guess what kind of fabric had been used to decorate them. One thing Abby knew for sure, she had to get rid of the heavy dark green velvet drapes. They reminded her of The Carol Burnett Show parody scene of Margaret Mitch.e.l.l's Gone With the Wind, which she'd watched late one night on TV. Carol Burnett, playing Scarlett O'Hara, had ripped the heavy drapes from the window and worn them as her new dress, hoping to impress Rhett Butler, who had just returned from fighting in the Civil War. Abby had laughed until she cried, but the drapes had to go. They were just plain ugly.

Not seeing any fabric or color that caught her eye, she found the remote and channel surfed for ten minutes. When none of the television programs captured her attention, she turned the TV off. She flipped through the latest edition of The Informer. Josh was doing an excellent job, but the stories didn't capture her attention, as they once had. Frankly, she thought they were silly and a waste of time. Why the sudden change of heart? She'd almost died because of that paper and that total idiot, Rodwell Archibald G.o.dfrey-behind his back, they referred to him as Rag. He'd kidnapped her, locked her in a tiny closet, tied to a chair, while he waited for his ransom money to be delivered. As it turned out, her mother was the owner of The Informer, something that was unknown to her at the time. Clearly, Rag was also unaware of that minor factoid. It had been a horrifying experience for everyone, as well as one of the princ.i.p.al reasons she and Chris had moved to Charleston.

Now, for the past month, she'd been having trouble sleeping, only to be completely wiped out during the day. She thought of going downstairs to the kitchen to warm up a gla.s.s of milk, but she didn't want to risk waking Chris. He'd worked so hard, and their new venture required his legal skills, making sure all their doc.u.ments and contracts were legal. But he continued to tell her he wanted to be a farmer, and she now believed him. She remembered his telling her this when they had lived in Los Angeles, but she hadn't believed him then. Of course, they had only been friends at the time. And he was her stepbrother, but not in a gross way. Her mother and Garland were married for a short period of time; Chris had been away at college; she'd been a teenager, spending time with her girlfriends, shopping, going to the movies, gabbing. Before she knew it, Garland had pa.s.sed away. She and her mother, whom everyone called Toots, had moved into the house, which her mother would share many years later with Abby's three G.o.dmothers.

Finally, Abby started to get drowsy, and she turned out the light and curled up beneath the sheets. She drifted off to sleep quickly.

Octavia knew her time was coming soon, but prayed she would have a few more weeks left before she had to tell Mr. Clayton. He'd been sending for her since she'd been thirteen years old. She's tired, so tired, and it ain't even half day gone. Her belly hurts, an' her feets swollen, but she cain't stop 'cause there's so much work to do. She hates workin' in the big house. Ever' day she tries to upset the Missus in hopes she'd send her back to the field with her momma and sisters, but she says she be a "special" girl, and Octavia doesn't know what she mean by that. She dropped a fancy china plate yesterday, an' the Missus just tell her to clean up the mess, but Octavia might only be fourteen and three months, but she know the Missus knows she's with child. She seen her lookin' at her belly, she watches her, an' Octavia is scared, but not so scared that she's gonna stop tryin' to get back to her home with Momma. The little cabin ain't too big, but it be better than some other plantations have. They got real wooden plank floors, an' their house is made of the same bricks Mr. Clayton's got. They got a real fireplace, too. The beds is straw, an' the coverin's plenty soft, 'cause Momma cleaned them an' rinsed them in hot water, an' she put dried magnolias in the straw so's they'd smell good, too. Her back is hurtin' real bad, and she knows this ain't suppose to happen now. Her belly ain't big enough yet. How she wishes she could slip away to see Momma. She'd know what was ailin' her, an' what to do.

Octavia is gonna go see her momma tonight. After the Missus and Mr. Clayton go to sleep, she'll slip out through the kitchen door. Soon as she finishes her duties, she'll go. She hopes Mr. Clayton doesn't want to visit her tonight. She hates him. He crawls on top of her like she's an animal. Them sounds he make scare her, too. His breath is hot, and smells of tobacco. No, he'd been to see her last night. Maybe Telly would get a visit tonight. Telly was only twelve and four months. Octavia felt sorry for her, but she couldn't stop Mr. Clayton from crawlin' on top o' her any more than she could stop him from crawlin' on herself. She prays every night that he would die. She knows it's wrong to pray for bad things, but Mr. Clayton is a mean, bad man. He likes to use the whip on the men workin' in the fields. Her daddy had thick, ropy scars on his back and arms from Mr. Clayton's whip. Momma would cry when she see them. She'd rub lard on his wounds an' make a poultice that stunk to high heaven, but Daddy said it helped the cuts heal faster. Octavia knows as soon as he be healed, Mr. Clayton will rip him open again. And Mr. Clayton will laugh. She hates him, an' she hates the baby in her belly. A sharp pain rips through her back. She grabs the kitchen chair to keep from keelin' over. She takes a deep breath, an' the pain eases up. As soon as the pain's gone, she turns to head upstairs to turn down the beds, an' another pain hits her in the belly. She falls to her knees, pressing her hands against her, thinkin' this will stop the pain. Sharp searing pain in her back comes again. Tears fill her eyes, an' she bites the sides of her mouth to keep from screamin' out.

In the midst of her pain, she calls out, "Momma, I need you. Please, Momma, help me." Takin' a deep breath, she lets it out slowly, thinkin' her pain's all gone, when she feels another pain, this one worse than ever. She wants to push hard like she has to go to the bathroom, but she cain't. Rolling on her back, she puts both legs against the chair legs. She don't care no more. She pushes and screams. An' she pushes again. This time she feels like her woman part is tearin' in half. She screams again, not carin' if Mr. Clayton or the Missus hears her. She really hates him now and begs G.o.d to make him dead right now! She prays for his death and prays for her own as she gets. .h.i.t with another sharp pain, hot like a kitchen knife got stuck in her belly. She bears down again, this time so hard she feels the veins in her head an' neck gettin' so big.

Another push, an' she feels something warm and damp between her legs. She tries to push herself up with her elbows so she can see. Another pain, and she screams and screams and screams. Again, she feels something warm and wet between her legs, something heavy. Her body gots sweat ever' place. She tries to push herself up, when she hears a soft sound, like a baby cryin'. She struggles to see what lies between her legs an' sees a baby, but it ain't right. It's got an arm missin'.

"The devil!" she cries out. She'd just given birth to Mr. Clayton's devil.

No!!!

Abby bolted upright in the bed. Trembling, she turned the light on. Chris ran into the room. "Are you okay?" He cradled her in his arms. "I heard you screaming."

"Oh, Chris, I had a terrible nightmare. My G.o.d, it seemed so real." Abby pushed herself up in the bed and leaned against the headboard.

Chris cradled her against his chest. "Want to tell me about it?"

Abby took a deep breath. "There was this girl, a young girl. She was . . . she was a slave. In the dream, she was scared and so alone. She kept calling for her mother. It was so sad."

She stopped. Something in the dream was so familiar, tugging at the back of her mind, but she couldn't place exactly what it was. "She was having a baby! Alone. She was all alone! Chris, there is something in the dream that I should know, something I've actually seen, but I can't pull it up." Abby wrapped her arm around Chris's waist. "Sorry I woke you."

"Hey, I'm glad you did. That sofa is not meant to sleep on. Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You looked exhausted, and I knew that if I woke you, once you showered, you'd be wide-awake, so I let you sleep."

"And here you are in bed without me for the first time since we've been married, and you had a nightmare. What does that tell you?"

"Not to go to bed without you?"

"Yep. Now, since I'm up anyway, I'm going to take a shower. You want to join me?" Chris nuzzled her ear.

She gave a half laugh. "Not now, sorry." She glanced at the bedside clock. It was almost five o'clock. "I tell you what. Why don't you get your shower, and while you're doing that, I can make us some breakfast. I won't be able to go back to sleep anyway. If I get tired during the day, I'll have a nap."

Chris kissed her cheek and ruffled her hair. "You've got yourself a deal, Mrs. Clay."

As soon as Chris said "Mrs. Clay," she stopped mid-thought. "Chris, wait. Listen, I know this is . . . strange, but has this place always been called Clay Plantation?"

Standing at the chest of drawers, Chris pulled a pair of boxers out of the top drawer. "Good question. Why would you ask something like that?"

She didn't know, but she somehow knew it was important for her to find out. It was the dream. The man in the dream. The man the young woman hated, the man she wanted to die. "Just tell me, has the plantation always been referred to as the Clay Plantation?"

"To the best of my knowledge, it has, but then again, it's been around a few hundred years. It's possible that it had a different name at some point before the Clays owned it. Is it important?"

Abby's reporter instincts were at play. Instincts she'd scoffed at earlier. "I'm not sure. It's something in the dream. I don't know."

"Well, don't worry your pretty little head off. Now, woman, get your little rear end downstairs and fix that breakfast you promised me."

Abby grabbed her robe off the foot of the bed, careful not to wake Chester, who was still sound asleep at the foot of the bed. "Some guard dog you are," she said as she walked out of the room.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Abby started a pot of coffee. Her mind kept straying back to her dream, and it was silly. d.a.m.n, Abby, it was simply a dream. Weird? Yes. Strange? Yes. She opened the refrigerator. "What to make?" she asked herself aloud.

"Ruff!" Chester gave his low-sounding morning growl.

"You want some grub, old boy?"

Chester walked over and stood by his dog bowl. Abby had chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s left over. She chopped half of one, threw it in the microwave for a few seconds to get the chill off, then scooped the chunks of chicken into his bowl. Mavis had started doing this for Coco and Frankie. Chester had been over a few times and received the same meal. Now Abby had to bribe him with chicken b.r.e.a.s.t.s just to get him to eat his dog food. "You are so spoiled," Abby said, leaning over and rubbing him between the ears.

She grabbed a carton of eggs, a chunk of bacon, and a can of b.u.t.termilk biscuits out of the refrigerator. Usually, she loved the smell of coffee, but for some reason it gagged her now. She would swear she smelled a chemical smell coming from the pot. She lifted the carafe up to her nose. "Yuck." She took a chamomile tea bag out of the canister, filled a mug with water, and popped it in the microwave. She usually loved her coffee, but not today. She felt s.h.i.tty, like she was coming down with the flu. The last thing she needed now. With all that she and Chris had going on, she didn't have time to get sick.

Hurrying now, she removed a skillet from the cupboard, turned on the stove, and tossed several strips of bacon in as soon as the skillet was hot. She cracked half-a-dozen eggs into a bowl, added a splash of milk, and then, with a wire whisk, beat the mixture until the yolks were no longer in evidence. She'd seen this technique used on some cooking show, with the chef saying that the eggs would be much fluffier. It worked, so she'd been using it ever since. She heated another skillet, dropping in a tiny bit of b.u.t.ter. She stared as it sizzled and turned a creamy light brown. She poured the egg mixture into the skillet, then remembered the biscuits. "Oh, the h.e.l.l with it. We can have toast." She took the can of biscuits and put them back in the fridge.

Chester ran through the doggie door, scaring her. "Darn, boy, you scared the bejeezers out of me." She hadn't even heard him go out.

"Hey, I thought you'd have the table all set with the fine china and cloth napkins. What's this?" Chris asked. He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"You smell good. And you're lucky I'm making your breakfast. Don't get used to it, either, because I promise not to make this a habit. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to exist on mint chocolate-chip ice cream."

Chris kissed her head, then poured a cup of coffee for himself. "You're not having your coffee?"

"It smells weird to me. I'm having tea." She removed her mug from the microwave and dropped the tea bag in the hot water. "Does it taste okay?"

Chris took a sip. "Excellent."

"You can't smell that chemical smell? Like iron or something?" Abby asked as she stirred the eggs, then removed the bacon and placed it on a paper towel to drain.

"You're imagining things, Abs. This is perfectly fine. If it weren't, I wouldn't drink it."

She just nodded and set about finishing breakfast. She took two slices of wheat bread, put them in the toaster, then removed the eggs from the pan. She dabbed at the bacon with another paper towel, put four slices on Chris's plate, together with most of the eggs, just as the toast popped up. "Good timing, if I say so myself."

Abby put Chris's plate in front of him. "Remember, do not get used to this."

She took her mug of tea to the table and sat across from him. Chris dug into the food like he hadn't eaten in weeks. She smiled. She loved this man.

"How come you're not having anything?" he asked between bites. "You think the food smells weird, too?"

"No, I'm not hungry. Must be coming down with the flu or something. I can't seem to shake this."

"You need to rest."

"Yeah, well, tell that to . . ." She wanted to say "that poor girl in my dream," but she didn't. Still, she couldn't shake the dream. There was something about the man in the dream. The girl kept calling him something.... Mr. Clayton! She'd called him Mr. Clayton in the dream.

"Chris, are you sure this place didn't go by another name?" she asked again.

"Not that I can remember. When you live in one of these old places as a kid, it's almost an embarra.s.sment. I remember thinking, when I was a kid, why couldn't I live in one of those McMansions that all my friends lived in? Of course, I was too stupid to realize the history, and too young to appreciate it. Why don't you ask your mother? She lived here, too. She might know."

Abby brightened. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of that? "You're a genius. Thanks." She took her tea into the living room. Her mother was an early riser. She glanced at the big grandfather clock. It was ten to six. Her mother was up. She grabbed the portable phone and took it back into the kitchen. They were going to get a phone installed in the kitchen, if it was the last thing she did. The house was old, but there had been many updates throughout the years. Unfortunately, a phone jack was not one of them.

She sat back down at the table. Chris took his plate, rinsed it, then put it in the dishwasher. He refilled his cup and came back to the table. "You going to call Tootsie?"

"Yes." She punched in her mother's number.

"Abby Simpson-Clay, what are you doing up so early?" her mother asked. No "h.e.l.lo."

Caller ID is killing the pranksters, Abby thought.

"Well, I just finished making breakfast for my adoring husband. I couldn't sleep, so I got up early, and Chris was up, so here we are. Mom, listen, I know this is going to sound odd, but do you recall the Clay Plantation being called something else? I'm talking way back in the day, when those slave quarters were in use."

"Let me think a minute. Hmm, I don't really know. I have some of Garland's papers stored away in a box somewhere. Seems like there were several doc.u.ments that were connected to the plantation. Why do you want to know? You're not thinking of changing the name, are you?"

"No, nothing like that." Abby wasn't sure if she wanted to tell her mother about the dream just yet. It kept clinging to her; it was as though she were supposed to remember something from the dream for a reason. She just didn't know what it was.

"I can look for that box, if it will help."

"Thanks, Mom. Would you mind if Chester and I came over and looked through it with you? He's needing a doggie love fix anyway. And I'm sure Coco and Frankie could use a Chester fix."

"Come on over. We're on our third pot of coffee. I'll make a fresh pot for you."

"No, Mom, really, I'm drinking tea today. I think I have a bug, and coffee isn't agreeing with me right now. I'll be over in half an hour."

"Okay, dear."

"So, what did Tootsie have to say?"

"She didn't know, but she has a box of your dad's things at her house. She said she thought there might be some papers in there connected to the plantation. I'm going to take a look and see if there is anything in there. Chester, do you want to take an early-morning walk to see Coco?" Hearing the magic word Coco, the shepherd rushed out through the doggie door.

"I take it that means yes," Abby said. "You want to come with us?"

"No, I better pa.s.s. I'm expecting an early phone call. You go on, tell everyone 'hi' for me. I'll see you when you return."

Abby wrapped her arms around him, then stood on her tiptoes in order to reach his mouth. She planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. "I've got to dress now, Mr. Clay. I told Mother I'd be there in thirty minutes. She probably started a stopwatch the second I hung up the phone."

"Go on, woman, I'll be here waiting with bated breath."

Abby raced upstairs and grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt. She crammed her feet into her sneakers. In the master bath, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. She looked at the ma.s.s of curls and balled her hair into a knot, securing it with a couple of bobby pins.

She raced down the stairs and out the back door. Chester was waiting at the gate. If she hurried, her mother's house was a ten-minute walk. She needed the exercise. Her clothes were starting to feel a bit too tight. It's all this Southern cooking, she thought.

Chester raced ahead, then stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him. "Smartest dog in the world, aren't you?"

Ten minutes later, she was at her mother's house. She tapped on the back door so as not to startle her or whoever was in the kitchen at this hour.

"Abby, Chester, I'm glad you came over. I needed a daughter fix."

Chester saw Coco and Frankie in their corner and took off. "He's happy, that's for sure. He needed a Coco fix, too. Did you find the box?"

"Right there." Toots pointed to a large plastic carton. "Some of those doc.u.ments are very old. You should probably take them and have them preserved. The historical society will help you with it."

Abby dragged the box over to the table. Sitting in the chair, she removed the lid on the box. A musty odor a.s.saulted her, and it was all she could do to keep from throwing up. d.a.m.n, she really hated feeling bad. She started removing papers, careful not to tear them. The doc.u.ments were old and yellowed, stiff with age. Abby dug through the box and stopped when she pulled out a thick volume labeled THE CLAYTON PLANTATION.

"Oh, my G.o.d, Mom, now I know what's been bothering me about the dream I had this morning! Yes, that's what woke me up. There was this girl-she was young, in her early teens. In my dream, she was a slave, and there was something so familiar about the dream. You know, sort of like deja vu? It's really been bothering me ever since. It was like there was something I was supposed to know, and now I think I remember. In the dream, there was a small brick house. It's where the girl lived before she was moved to the big house. It was one of the buildings at the plantation-I know it was. And in the dream, the girl kept saying something about a Mr. Clayton. She was pregnant, and the baby was his. Oh, my G.o.d, Mother, the dream was a nightmare."

Amazed at the significance of her dream, she said, "I know that what I dreamed really happened. I don't know how I know this, but I just do. Maybe I'm psychic, too!"

Octavia pulled her hand away, frightened when she felt another gush of somethin' warm comin' from her woman parts. She clenched her teeth and felt a crampin' sensation in her belly. Then, as fast as the pain came, it stopped an' was just a dull ache, like she got when she ate too many peaches. Fearin' Mr. Clayton an' the Missus had heard her hollerin', she knew she had to act fast. Not wantin' to, but knowin' she had no other choice, she pushed herself up into a sittin' position. The thing was still attached to her, an' she remembered Momma sayin' somethin' 'bout this. She couldn't remember what her momma called it, but she knew she had to cut the thing loose from her. The kitchen was dark, but Octavia didn't mind; she was glad for the darkness. She didn't wanna see that thing in the light. Workin' in the kitchen, she knew her way around with her eyes shut. She remembered usin' the butcher knife just this mornin' when she'd shown Telly how to cut up a chicken. Next to the pump on the choppin' block. All she had to do was slide across the pine floor with the thing stuck to her; then she could reach the knife.

Not knowin' how she was gonna get across the floor with that devil thing from Mr. Clayton's crawlin' atop her, Octavia gathered the warm bundle in her skirt an' wrapped the thing up. It was whimperin', an' she felt sad, but she had to cut it away an' get to Momma's. With one hand holdin' the thing, she used the other to push across the floor. She felt another gush of hot liquid spill from her insides an' knew somethin' was wrong.

When she reached the choppin' block, she used her free hand to feel for the butcher knife. Careful, she ran her slim honey-colored hand along the edge of the choppin' block, then felt the heavy wooden handle of the knife. With her fingers, she grabbed the knife an' held it tight in her shakin' hand. In the darkness, she could see the heavy steel blade as moonlight glistened through the big kitchen window. The thing made a sound again, an' Octavia thought it sounded like a wounded polecat.

Her hands were shakin' as she unfolded her bloodied dress. The Missus would lash her, for sure, when she saw it. As her belly grew, her housedresses had squeezed her so tight, she was sure they'd strangle her. That's when the Missus gave her that bolt of cloth, told her to sew a new dress. An' she had, an' now it was ruined. Octavia smelled the coppery smell of her own blood, felt the stickiness thickenin' on her skin. The thing cried out again, only this time it wasn't a meow like a kitten or a strange sound, like the ones she made when Mr. Clayton clamped his hand over her mouth when he crawled on top o' her. This was a real cry, like a baby, like her little brother, Abraham. She remembered her momma birthin' him. She been scared for her momma when she heard her moanin' an' screamin'. Like her, she stopped, an' then the cryin' started. Now Octavia felt tired an' weak, like all she wanted to do was rest, jus' for a minute. She closed her eyes, driftin' off, rememberin' when she was jus' a girl....

She jerked up, the knife still in her hand, the thing still nestled between her legs on her b.l.o.o.d.y dress. Before she blacked out again, she touched the thing, found the slimy snakelike part that grew out of its tiny belly. Without another thought, she took hold of the sliminess, an' quickly she hacked through the piece of snake. Frightened, she dropped the knife on the floor, the noise soundin' like gla.s.s shatterin'. Scared Mr. Clayton or the Missus would come down into the kitchen an' find her like this, she wrapped the baby in her b.l.o.o.d.y dress. With blood seepin' outta her an' drippin' down her legs, she raced out the back door.

The night air smacked her in the face. It was hot an' humid; flies swarmed around the bucket of chicken guts she'd set out for the hogs. Shoeless, her feet hit the dried gra.s.s, sounding like snapping peas as each foot bore down on the hard gra.s.s. Octavia ran as fast as she'd ever run before, both arms gripping the thing as tight as she could. She ran so fast that she could hardly breathe. Beads of sweat dripped in her eyes, burning. She blinked, not caring that she couldn't see, not caring that her side hurt so badly she wanted to scream like a wounded animal. All she could think of was Momma. When she got to Momma's, she would know what to do with this thing. Then maybe the Missus would see how bad she was, how she hated workin' in the big house, and then she would send her back to the cabin to work with Momma an' help her take care of the others. Then she wouldn't have to let Mr. Clayton crawl on her. She had a quick thought about poor little Telly, but she couldn't help her now. She'd have to get out like she was, but Octavia hoped Telly didn't have to have a baby with Mr. Clayton.

She didn't know how long she'd been runnin', when she saw her home, her momma's cabin, ahead. Dawn was just beginnin' to break; the men would be in the fields anytime now. She couldn't let them see her, or else the overseer would force the men to have her. She'd seen this once before, an' her momma said never let the overseer see you alone. He was meaner than Mr. Clayton; he never said nothin' nice to the men slaves, just to the Missus. She stopped to catch her breath and saw she still held the thing in her arms. Drawin' in as much air as she could, she ran faster now, spurred by the sight of the cabin, knowin' that hope lay behind those walls.