Luke wooed Martha with little effort. Well enough that she was swept off her feet. After a courtship of letter writing after he had returned to North Carolina, when he got off the train in October of 1916, they went directly to a “preacher” Martha had introduced him to on his last trip and got “married.” Did the thirty-year-old bride wonder if it was a real marriage? Did she suspect that he had another family in the mountains? Luther told her he was a widower with grown children back in the mountains. Martha told Luther that the few months each year that they were together was the happiest she had ever known.
“Luther, even when Paul was living, it wasn’t as sweet as being with you. He tended to drink a bit much, and we often argued. I like it that you don’t drink,” Martha had told him.
The closer he got to St. Petersburg, the less he thought about Zanny and the more he thought about Martha. She was a great lover and companion for a man away from home. Did he love her? He didn’t want to think about it. Their relationship just was.
He thought about Maggie, too, her daughter. I’ll bet Maggie will be just as anxious to see me as Martha.
Indeed, Maggie was with her mother at the train station awaiting the 4:15 in from Jacksonville. “Momma, I sure am glad it’s time for Papa to come home. I was thinking about him last evening as the sun was setting. I remember when we walked along the water and he told me of colors in the sunset I never knew existed. I love it when he plays his music and sings, but when he recites poetry, I just swoon!”
“Swoon, is it? Maggie Lindsey, where do you get such words? It’s time. I miss him, too. But since he isn’t able to tolerate the heat of summer, we only get to enjoy his company when it is cold up in the mountains.”
“I wish he could stay here year-round. I love him so.” Maggie swooned again. At sixteen, she and her girlfriends always talked about swooning over someone, particularly Rudolph Valentino and Douglas Fairbanks.
“Maggie, you swoon over everything. What would Papa Luke say if he heard such nonsense?”
And there he was. Luke’s flamboyance made him bigger than life. The great shock of white hair beneath a derby hat, penetrating blue eyes, trim mustache, immaculate black suit, and hand-carved cane made of mountain ash, and he was standing tall and erect. As always, Martha’s heart melted, and the agonizing months of his absence melted away with her heart.
After a tender embrace, he noticed Maggie and broke into song.
“Little Maggie sittin’ in her cabin door, combin’ back her raven black hair.”
The song was his version of an ancient ballad. He had so many ballads, and his people had reworded and retuned them to fit in with their mountain image.
Maggie giggled as he tickled her under her chin. “My, but you’ve grown into a real lady, Ms. Maggie, since last April. I’ll swan! I think you are plumb grown-up. D’ye have a feller come a-courtin’?”
“No, Papa. I’m saving my love for someone just like you.”
He gave her an extra hug and pretended he was going to bite her neck, but as he did so, he noted the pallor on Martha’s face. Releasing the girl, he asked Martha, “Are you well, my dear? You seem a bit wan.”
“Oh, I am fine. Just tired, I suppose. Shall we move along and get out of this heat? I have a cab waiting.” And she knew it was more than “just tired,” not just tired but fear. There was a lump in her breast, and she hoped he wouldn’t notice. He will. She took a deep breath and shook off her fears. For now.
“Georgie has your favorite St. Petersburg cooking ready for dinner.”
“Ah, shrimp and grits!”
Luke settled back into the routine of living by the bay and playing his music, not in churches and restaurants as Zanny supposed, but nightclubs or speakeasies where his derby would be filled each night. During the day, he would peddle his musical instruments.
Chapter 4
Susan
Apalachicola, Florida, July 2009
Handcrafting musical instruments in the early part of the 1900s was a means to a livelihood for some of the mountain people. They lived with the basics. Harry’s banjo, if not built by her grandfather as she believed it was, was definitely one of those beautifully crafted mountain banjos.
After Susan and Mac left Harry to go to whatever pressing matters he had, Susan was troubled. She brought Mac up to speed on her family connection with the banjo and the music, and explained the jolt she had experienced.
“Mac, I have little doubt that banjo was made by my grandfather. I have been trying for twenty years to locate one of them since I first learned that he made them for peddling and took them south into Florida. Daddy was sure there were Luther Willson banjos and fiddles floating around South Florida, if none could be found in the North Carolina High Country. They have been as elusive as wind. Some of his fiddles and dulcimers are still around but not the banjos. But this banjo is the first one I’ve seen that adheres exactly to the pattern he used, and I know there has to be more. I memorized that pattern. After Grandpa died, Grandma had the three sketches of his instrument plans framed and placed over the fireplace. I know that banjo by heart!”
“So you are certain it is one your grandfather made.”
“Yes. That banjo is in great shape and despite the fact that it was built ninety years ago. I was lousy at it but plays like a dream. I want one now more than ever.”
Mac laughed heartily. “I knew about your family and music but not that someone was actually a luthier and balladeer. You probably told me, but it didn’t sink in. Even though we have known one another for over a year, I love that I am going to get to know more and more about you. You are a good musician, I know, but I didn’t understand about the ballads and folk music. I used to go to old-time jam sessions, but I know very little about the folk music scene. Now if it was the pipes, I might have gotten as excited as you are.”
“Oh? Are your bagpipes a family instrument?”
“Yeah. They were my uncle’s. He was really good at it, including the marching competitions.”
“I want to hear you play. Promise me.”
Mac gave her a big grin as they strolled hand in hand back toward their hotel, turning heads of those watching seventy-somethings as lovers.
“Mac, I want to hunt this Harry up again tomorrow. I think there is more to his story that he was reluctant to share.”
“You may be right, Susan, but let’s enjoy our honeymoon and get ready for our dinner tonight.”
Back in their hotel room, they changed out of shorts to blue jeans and polo shirts. In Apalachicola, no one overdresses for dinner, even when making reservations. Laid back. Casual. They looked fine.
As they entered Tamara’s, they were surprised that Harry was there to entertain, having moved up the street from the little storefront where he had been earlier. The hostess took them to a table in a quiet spot, Mac having suggested that this was their honeymoon.
“Miss, could we have a table near the banjo man? Would it be too much to switch?”
She eyed Mac and then smiled when he nodded his approval.
There was a table directly in front of where Harry was playing. He barely acknowledged them and went on playing and singing. “Crawdad,” “Johnson Boys,” “Little Maggie,” and song after song from Willson’s Cove. Susan noted that he had another banjo, one with frets. It looked like a Vega White Ladye, open back. Not a cheap instrument. She knew she could play it every bit as well as he played