Conway is a peaceful southern town. Or is it? Across the river from this quiet burg is a row of saloons, and Maude, a feisty octogenarian, believes something doesn't feel right. Along with a young physician named Adam, Maude is beginning to think the so-called saloons are actually havens for unsavory and illegal activities. This collection of saloons is a blight on the town of Conway, and someone should do something about it. Why shouldn't it be old Maude and Adam? Together, they organize a crusade to get the saloons shut down. It's a moral battle more than anything else, or so they believe. When one of the saloon owners disappears, however, the moral battle becomes a battle to stay alive, despite opposing forces and the predatory Tony Caruso, who holds all the cards. The Splendor of Light follows Maude and Adam as they continue down the dark path of their crusade. Lives are in danger of being lost; a town is on the verge of collapse. Will Maude and Adam remain steadfast in their cause, despite a predatory and ruthless adversary? Will they accept the consequences of their answers, or will they fall into moral darkness themselves and lose everything they value?

The Splendor of Light

A NovelBy Vernon Sanders

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 Vernon Sanders
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-8112-6

Chapter One

Friday, March 10th

A flock of crows, black as soot, sailed ghost-like through a graying sky. The sun had slipped behind a distant tree line, casting long shadows across fields of fledgling plants. A chorus of crickets welcomed the darkness with evensong and cicadas chirped in shrill counterpoint.

Ben leaned against a large column and looked wistfully at the vast expanse of farmland; rich black soil, germinating the seed. Even as a child, he'd known that Madison Parish was cotton country and ten thousand acres belonged to Jacob Hamilton and his father before him. The elder Hamilton had left the Eastern shore of North Carolina before the Civil War, survived the hardships and dangers of an arduous journey, and dug his roots into the rank earth of the Delta.

Later, Ben learned the real reason his grandfather settled in Conway, once an old fort and trading post. He valued the river that flowed past the town; for its barges laden with cotton and produce and lumber, steaming south to the port in New Orleans; for the riverboats trailing black steam, paddle wheels churning the murky waters, bringing news and mail and passengers from distant places.

Ben turned to admire his stately antebellum house with its high ceilings and solid oak floors; walls of solid brick, stuccoed to give the appearance of stone and painted a pale yellow. The slate roof with dormer windows was crowned with a glass belvedere, a reminder of the Carolina coast.

Surrounded by giant magnolias and ancient oaks, the house sat majestically on a rise between Willow Road and the river. Ben could smell the sweet fragrance of jasmine and flowering quince rising from the early spring gardens.

He crossed the circular driveway and headed for his favorite tree, a towering sycamore, where as a boy he'd spent long hours among its sturdy branches. A bifurcation, halfway up, became his sanctuary following his mother's death. Ben was only twelve years old when Martha Hamilton developed lobar pneumonia with complications. He had vivid memories of those last days; the flush of fever, her racking cough, old Dr. Stafford nervously mopping his brow, an elixir that smelled of wintergreen. Her death left Ben despairing, and for weeks he cried himself to sleep.

Ben still believed it was his mother's illness that shaped his future; a decision made near the top of the sycamore tree. He shuddered when he remembered his father's heated reaction; an only child—the last in the Hamilton line—abrogating his sacred birthright. Despite the bitter protests, Ben kept the promise he'd made to his mother ... and to himself.

He was grateful she had encouraged him to be a good Samaritan, imbuing concern for the less fortunate; giving something back were the words she used—matters of no moment to his father. Ben could still recite the Browning poem his mother framed and hung above his desk.

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: And straight was the path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

Nostalgia swept over him as if carried by the brisk March wind. He conjured her image out of the darkness; soft-hands, easy smile; her eyes the color of turquoise, ash-blond hair which fell below her shoulders. His shaving mirror was a reminder: he had inherited the symmetry of her face, the blond hair and fair complexion of her Swedish ancestry. While he looked nothing like his father, he possessed the rough edges and mulishness of a Hamilton. How often he'd wished for his mother's affectionate nature and her gentle ways. Even as a teenager, he had measured his parents—so different—and wondered about the forces that had drawn them together.

"Ben! Ben, are you there?"

He saw Knox in the lighted doorway. "I'm here ..."

"The guests will be arriving soon."

Ben tossed his cigarette and walked slowly toward the house. Over his shoulder he caught headlights turning into the driveway. In the distance, a barn owl screeched his defiance, an unsettling cry that pierced the darkness.

* * *

Adam, detained at the hospital, was late for the party. Knox greeted him in the foyer and brushed his cheek with a kiss.

She took his hand and led him to the edge of the crowd. Adam surveyed the living room. "Looks like half the town is here. Guess I'd better put on my party face and join in."

He felt her gently nudge.

Maude Harrington, shoulders bent, stood near the marble fireplace nursing a glass of wine. She was one of Adam's favorite people, full of sparkling wit and southern charm.

They had met during his first week in Conway. Maude had come to his office with a minor complaint which he believed was pretense for a get-acquainted visit. There he learned she had lived alone since the death of Ed Harrington ended a childless marriage. Looking for a constructive interest, she began the local newsletter, which later expanded, at the insistence of the business community, into a weekly newspaper with parish-wide appeal.

Adam chuckled at her admission: the weekly was more gossip than news. Marriage announcements, obituaries, and the weekly calendar of the local churches were front page material. The political climate in the nation's capital and important international events were relegated to an inside page under a column entitled, "Other News, Other Places."

He had read Maude's editorials, highlighting the back page ... subjects ranging from regional politics to church picnics. Adam admired her candor, speaking straight from the heart. In his opinion, The Review reflected her wholesome sense of humor and the transparency of her Protestant conscience.

She greeted him with a hug, then pushed him away while still holding his hands, and looked him over as a mother might inspect a son who had just returned from a long journey. "You look tired," she said.

"Well, there've been some long hours ..." Adam explained: The town was full of the flu. Some folks were real sick. Others were just running scared. A cough or a sneeze had them calling for a prescription or coming into the office for reassurance.

She understood and patted his hand. "Have you considered adding on?"

"You mean another doctor?"

"It would free up some time for your family." Maude picked up her glass which she had placed on the mantelpiece. "You and Allison could spend a few days in the mountains. I have a cottage with a glorious view and the dogwood and rhododendron will soon be in full bloom. You're welcome anytime." She hesitated, her shoulders sagged. "The vicissitudes of old age prevent me from using the cottage. Probably should sell the damn place."

Maude's salty tongue made Adam smile. "Thanks for the offer. I'd love to find the time."

She took a sip of wine and winked. "The nectar of the gods."

"Sorry I can't join you. But being on-call, well ..."

"You should have gone to law school or sold real estate like the dubious Mr. Warren standing over by the piano chewing on that disgusting cigar. You could have made some real money and had the time to go deep-sea fishing in the Gulf or cruise the Caribbean during our wretched winter weather. And ... you could share a glass of vino with me." Maude held up her glass which sparkled with light from the crystal chandelier. "But I guess it's too late for a career...