Georgia - Night of the Cotillion (Americana 10 - Georgia)

CHAPTER ONE

“THANKS FOR THE RIDE, Tobe,” said Amanda, bending down to peer in the car window, the scarlet sheen of her hair burning brightly in the rays of the late-afternoon sun.
“Be sure to have Brad call me tonight.” He nodded as he gunned the engine and shifted the car into reverse.
“Will do,” she promised. “See you!"
With a wave of her hand she turned toward the house, smiling to herself as she imagined her mother grimacing at the way Tobe Peterson had roared down the street. No matter how many times her mother reprimanded him for driving so carelessly, he still did it—mostly, Amanda thought, to annoy her mother who treated Tobe like one of her own sons. Amanda was convinced that was the very reason he spent so much of his time at their house, because he felt a part of their family. Tobe and her brother Brad had been inseparable friends since their first day of kindergarten.
The Petersons had large cotton holdings, exceeded only by those owned by Colby Enterprises, but Tobe's supposedly superior status in the community didn't interest him one bit. All of the Bennetts, including Amanda, tended to forget who his family was. His clothes and car were more expensive than theirs, and that seemed to be the only difference.
She took the porch steps two at a time, swinging open the screen door of the large, two-story house and letting it slam behind her. “Mom! I'm home!"
“Sssh!” Her mother appeared in the dining room archway. “Your grandfather is taking a nap."
“I was,” came a grumpy voice, “until that young fool blasted out of the driveway."
“That was Tobe,” Amanda announced unnecessarily. “He gave me a ride home. Don't let me forget—he wants Brad to call him tonight.” She walked swiftly to the elderly man who appeared in the doorway, his broad shoulders stooped with the weight of his advanced age. “Hello, grandpa,” planting a kiss on his leathered cheek. “How are you today?"
“Ah, my hip is acting up on me again,” he grumbled, but his eyes were twinkling as he looked at his granddaughter. “Must be going to have a change in the weather."
“There's lemonade in the refrigerator,” her mother spoke up.
“Sounds great. Does anyone else want a glass?” Amanda called over her shoulder as her long legs carried her toward the kitchen.
“Not me.” Her grandfather shook his head.
“I'll have one.” And her mother followed her out to the kitchen. “How did it go today?"
“Hectic,” Amanda sighed, removing two glasses from the cupboard and the ice tray and pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. “For a while this afternoon I was almost wishing the term wasn't over and I was still taking the end-of-term exams."
“Please don't wish that on me,” her mother laughed, shaking her dark auburn hair, which was just beginning to be streaked with gray. “With all three of your brothers and yourself in college and Bonnie in high school and all your final tests falling within the same week, I don't know if your dad and I can live through that again."
“It was pretty wild around here, wasn't it?” Amanda smiled, a tiny dimple appearing in each cheek. “All of us burning the midnight oil and fighting over the typewriter to get term papers done. I guess the pace was a bit more frantic. But teaching three new girls the ropes out at Oak Run is a little nerve-racking too."
“I'm rather proud that Mrs. Matthews put you in charge of training them. Usually she insists on doing it herself"
“I've been a guide there since I was seventeen. That's more than four years. I know as much about the plantation as she does. Besides, she's all wrapped up in the plans for the cotillion. Which was another reason things got out of hand today. She was there with the florist trying to decide what flowers should go where, et cetera."
“Talking about the cotillion,” Mrs. Bennett inserted, “let's go and try on your dress. I tacked it together this morning. We can see how it fits and get the hemline pinned. Leave your lemonade here,” she ordered quickly as Amanda started to walk out of the kitchen with the glass in her hand. “Don't bring it into the sewing room. I don't want to spill anything on that taffeta material."
“Are they having that dance at Oak Run?” her grandfather mumbled as they walked through the dining room toward the small room Bernice Bennett used as a sewing room.
“They do every year, grandpa,” Amanda answered, exchanging a knowing look with her mother.
“Jeff Davis would turn over in his grave if he knew,” he declared angrily. “It's an outright crime to celebrate his birthday in that damn Yankee's house!"
“It's a tradition, grandpa Bennett,” her mother replied soothingly. “And Oak Run was a Confederate home long before Colonel Colby bought it."
“That makes no difference! A Yankee owns it now. They should find somewhere else to hold their cotillion."
“Oh, grandpa,” Amanda scolded teasingly, wrinkling her nose at his long-held dislike of anyone born north of the Mason-Dixon line. “If it weren't for Mrs. Matthews and the Colby money, there wouldn't be any cotillion. Try to forget who owns the plantation and remember that we're celebrating the birthday of the former president of the Confederate States in a fine old southern home. The way you carry on sometimes about Yankees, a person would think you'd fought in the Civil War yourself."
“My grandpappy did!” he answered testily, his dark brows gathering together in a thunderous frown. “Many's the time he sat me on his knee and told me stories about the burning of Atlanta and the way Sherman's army raped and pillaged the land on their way to Savannah."
“All that happened more than a hundred years ago, too,” Mrs. Bennett reminded him. “And it's best forgotten."
“Nobody's forgotten, nobody in Georgia, leastways. If they had, you wouldn't be having any cotillion to celebrate Jeff Davis's birthday,” he retorted smugly.
Mrs. Bennett lifted her shoulders in an expressive shrug toward her daughter and Amanda smiled. There wasn't any reasoning with her grandfather. There was the North and the South, and if he had his way, never the twain should meet.
“Come on, Amanda,” her mother waved to her. “Let's try that dress on."
Amanda followed her into the sewing room while her grandfather began whistling “Dixie” as loud as he could. “The old reprobate,” Amanda said smiling. Then her eyes saw the gown on the dressmaker's form. “Mom, it's beautiful!” she breathed.
“You'll have to put the hoops on so I can make sure it hangs right. I don't think it will matter if you don't have the petticoats on."
Eagerly Amanda stripped down to her underwear and stepped into the wide-hooped underskirt while her mother carefully removed the old-fashioned-style ball gown from the form and placed it over her daughter's head. She stood impatiently while her mother put in the essential pins to keep it on, then dashed to the full-length mirror.
“You are a genius, mom,” Amanda vowed. But while she was admiring her reflection, Bernice Bennett was frowning in dissatisfaction as she put in a tuck here and there.
“With six children to clothe and feed and send to college, I'd better know how to sew to save money,” she murmured, adjusting the shoulder straps designed as mock sleeves. “I doubt if we could have afforded to buy you a gown to go to the cotillion."
“I would rather have this gown than any you could buy,” Amanda answered fervently. “I look like a genuine Southern belle."