The scent of crushed magnolia blossoms and honeysuckle filled the humid air with an overpowering sweetness. The air was hot and sticky. Moisture clung to Martha and mosquitoes buzzed around her, in spite of smoke rising from rags set to smolder. In the heat and stillness the least noise was heightened. Drumbeats were heard throughout the island. Laughter and occasional shouts brought the gaiety of Cora’s toe-party to Martha’s front porch. Martha felt a loneliness tugging at her that she could not dispel. She did not want to go to Cora’s party, would not have gone had she been invited; but being treated as if she did not exist was taking its toll. Martha sighed. It had been more than a week now and no word had come from her teacher in response to her letter. Not even acknowledgement of receipt. It was hard for her to refrain from asking Ovide if he had delivered it. She hoped he had given it to Miss Boudreaux right away. Now she was more worried than ever that she would never get away from the Gulf, from the woods, and the women who could never understand her longings.
