large dining room table and, pulling out a chair for her, he obeyed the tall, military-looking woman’s request. From her greeting the first day he’d arrived, he knew she was Dalila Contee, the supervising maid and cook. She’d been here at Sandy Pines for more than thirty years.
“What did she just say?” Deena asked when they were seated and alone.
“She said it’s time for lunch. She’s speaking part Gullah and part English.”
“Gullah?”
Max nodded. “It’s a popular language in the sea islands of the south. Slaves from the Sea Islands of South Carolina and northern Georgia were brought to America largely from different communities on the Rice Coast of West Africa. They spoke many different languages, so in order to communicate with each other they combined the similarities of their language with the English they learned and formed the unique Gullah language.”
“Wow, I never knew that.”
“Most people don’t. I didn’t until I started researching the island of Hilton Head. It has a rich history in our rise from slavery, one I’m thinking we should preserve.”
“You’re probably right.”
“What other ideas do you have for Sandy Pines?”
There were already plates set on the table, good china, he surmised by looking at it closely. The glasses were most likely crystal, both in an older-looking pattern, that meant they’d been in this house and in his family for a while. It was certainly something to see firsthand some of what his ancestors had accomplished. Most people of African American descent didn’t even know from where they came, let alone the opportunity to sit at a table that a great-grandfather had probably used.
“Right now I’m just getting a feel for the place, for the island. I think there’s more here than history has told.”
“I think you might be right,” she agreed just before Dalila came back in.
“You Alma’s boy. Same lukkha her,” Dalila said, putting bowls on the table and smiling over at Max.
“You know my mother?” he asked.
Dalila nodded her head, her silver-streaked hair not moving at all as it was pulled back so tight into a bun. She wore a long dark skirt and crisp white blouse. No apron, no uniform, just clothes, understated but neat. There was an air of authority about Dalila, a no-nonsense aura that radiated from her. And there was knowledge. Max could see in her eyes that this woman had seen a lot, experienced a lot. And, yet, she was still standing. He both admired and envied her that.
“Alma was a good girl. Came here in the summer with her parents. Then wit’ her chillun. Two boys. Max and Ben. Strong names she give you.”
Max barely remembered their summer visits here. Now, he was embarrassed by that fact.
“Right,” he said as a way of agreeing but not admitting. “Are you the only one left working here?”
He’d seen a groundsman around when he’d checked in and of course there was the young lady that had taken all his information and his credit card the minute he’d walked through the doors. But in the three days since he’d been here he hadn’t seen anyone else.
“Old Juno takes care the outside. Me and Chiniya, Juno’s girl, we take care of the inside. Don’t need nobody else, don’t get more’n two or three here a month.
You from the city too?” she asked, moving closer to Deena.
“Ah, yes. I’m from New York.”
“Hm-hmm,” Dalila said, crossing long arms over her ample breasts. “Need to take time out. Go to town, take ‘em wid you. Attuh you eat.”
As fast as she’d come in, Dalila left. Deena hummed happily, lifting a bowl and scooping potato salad onto her plate.
“What are you so happy about? She didn’t have much to say to you.”
Passing him the bowl she said, “I think she did. I mean, I don’t think it’s actually the words but what lies in between that she said. She thinks we work too much, don’t take time to enjoy the scenery enough, wants us to go exploring after we eat. I’m with that.”
Shaking his head, Max put potato salad on his plate, picked up a piece of fried chicken and put that on his plate too. For somebody who didn’t know what the Gullah language was a few minutes ago, Deena sure had understood Dalila well. And she’d called him perceptive? No, Max was sure that Deena Lakefield saw more and deciphered more than anyone gave her credit for. Just another fascinating attribute that made her … what was she to him? Special? Unique?
He didn’t quite know, but planned to find out.
“Tell me more about your family?” he asked while they ate.
“Not much to tell. Monica’s my oldest sister but she thinks she’s my mother. She’s controlling and rigid in what she thinks is right. But I love her anyway.”
“It’s like that with family. We don’t have to always like them, but we love them. What about your other sister? She can’t be that bad.”
Deena shook her head. “Oh, no. Karena’s great. She had a hard time last year when she hooked up with Sam because she didn’t think she could be in a relationship and have a successful career. But she’s gotten over that.”
“Sam’s a good guy. He’ll treat her right,” Max said, not really wanting to talk about relationships, but acknowledging that it was probably going to be a little hard to skirt around that issue.
“What’s your family like? There are a lot of Donovans, I hear.”
“There are. My uncle actually lives in Dallas but all three of his kids have left home. His wife died years ago so we always think he’s alone, but he says he’s just fine.”
“Alone doesn’t always mean lonely,” she pointed out. “Some people just like to be by themselves. I think they can still lead normal lives that way.”
“I agree,” Max said because sometimes he felt more like his Uncle Albert than he was ready to admit.
“Do you like to be alone?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love hanging with my cousins. We have a great time together. And I like our family gatherings. But there are times I just need to be alone. You know, with my thoughts and stuff.”
“You look like a thinker,” she said before taking a sip of her lemonade. “Like there’s a lot on your mind that you’re trying to sort out.”
“It just seems easier to work things out that way.”
“I’m the exact opposite,” she told him. “I like to talk.” Then she chuckled. “I guess you can tell that already.”
He smiled. “It’s okay. I just figured you had a lot to say.”
“All the time,” she added. “My mother said I’ve been talking since birth. I don’t believe that but I was the first of her children to talk and walk. Like I’ve always had someplace I wanted to be or something to do.”
“And you’re on your way there with your writing?”
She sighed. “I love writing. It’s like having the chance to escape into my own little world. I really enjoy the freedom and the expression. I believe this was my calling. Despite all the other things I’ve tried.”
“Other things like what?” He wasn’t sure but thought it might be a little dangerous asking this question.
“Hmm, let’s see. I did a few months as a video dancer. Then I thought I might like acting. Those didn’t really turn out to be my thing. I like to be in the spotlight somewhat. But the thought of people staring at me and my body shaking all the time wasn’t very appealing. I tried catering, because I love to cook. But that required a little