A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  Soothed by the steady thrum of rain on the slate roof, I walked to the double doors and looked through the glass. A railing outlined a balcony, but beyond that everything was black, until a branch of lightning lit up the grounds below, and my eyes swept over the back yard. To the right, near a thick line of trees were what looked like stables, a riding ring, and a small house, a guest house, maybe. In the distance, to the left, all was flat-black. The lake.

  Sensing the housekeeper stirring behind me, I turned and watched her click on the bedside lamp.

  “I’ll bring a supper tray up directly. It’s too bad your aunt and uncle are out for the evening. You can meet them tomorrow.”

  I didn’t try to hide my surprise. “Tomorrow? You mean, I won’t see them at all. Tonight, I mean? They knew I was coming. It’s been planned for weeks.”

  Miss Emma’s face softened then. “Please, don’t take it personally. They’re at a charity ball. It was planned long before they knew about your trip here. They’re spending the night at a hotel in Roanoke.” When she saw my disappointment, she added, “Your aunt and uncle have many social obligations.”

  “Oh. But my cousin—could I meet my cousin?”

  “I’m afraid he’s sound asleep. Jefferson is an early riser. He tried to stay awake to greet you, but it was an unsuccessful struggle. It’s late for him, and he’s such a sound sleeper, I doubt even this storm could rouse him.” She walked to the door, opened it, and looked out into the hall. “Ah, Luke has delivered your bags, I see.” Bending, she moved my suitcases into the room, hefting them with surprising agility. “Now, I’ll leave you to unpack while I get you some food.” For a moment she paused like she had more to say, but suddenly she wrenched the creaking latch and let herself out.

  The atmosphere felt heavy—that blanketing, smothering sensation again. Stripping off my damp clothes and buttoning on a bathrobe from my suitcase, I puttered around the room, touching the furniture and getting a feel for my new space. I wanted to keep moving, to stir the stagnant air with activity in this room which seemed to have stood empty for a long time.

  A light rapping at my door made me jump. Miss Emma stepped into the room carrying a tray with sandwiches and chips and a pile of obviously home-made chocolate chip cookies, along with a tall glass of iced tea. “You’ll want a candle.” Placing the tray on the dresser, she pulled a slim, new taper from her apron pocket. She removed the cellophane wrapper before slipping the candle into a blue china candle holder resting on the dresser. Then she reached into the same pocket and brought out a box of matches, which she laid alongside the candle.

  “A candle? Why a candle?”

  She hesitated slightly. “The lights. They go out frequently around here.”

  “You mean, because of the thunderstorm?” I became aware again of the rain drumming on the roof.

  “Storms.” Miss Emma searched for words. “And other times, too.” She looked at the candle. “Especially in the old part of the house. Especially in this room.” She looked away like she wanted to avoid further questions.

  “Miss Coleville—Miss Emma—whose room is—was this?”

  Again, that hesitation. “Why, this was Rosabelle’s room.” Her voice was so low I could barely hear.

  “Rosabelle?” I saw my eyes widen in the oval mirror. “Who was Rosabelle?” If she was an Overton ancestor, Dad had never mentioned her. I would have remembered such an unusual name.

  But Miss Emma had already retreated, leaving me standing before the mirror wondering as the old door latched shut. Oh well, I’d question her later, when I wasn’t so tired. She seemed to be an expert on anything having to do with the history of Overhome.

  Without thinking, I removed a match from the box, struck it, and held it to the wick. How many candles had stood in that very same blue candlestick on the old dresser over the years? What other Overton ancestors had occupied this room, and why had the housekeeper called it Rosabelle’s room? Had Rosabelle been the first occupant? The last? Suddenly I felt totally drained. Reaching for the tray, I carried it to the night stand and climbed into the bed. Plumping the pillows against the high wooden headboard, I leaned back to enjoy my late dinner in this fascinating, totally foreign place.

  Hungry as I was, I took my time savoring the food while settling into the mood of my retro surroundings. When I had finished the last crumb and inhaled the last drop of sweet tea, I placed the tray on the nightstand, then leaned back to close my eyes and open them again, checking to make sure this wasn’t all a dream. I had, after all, spent a good many years of my life dreaming myself into the past lives of literary heroines and movie idols. All I had to do was tour a historic home or watch a period costume show and I would find myself right there—mingling with the locals—no matter how along ago. Well, this was no drama. This was real. A whole summer to absorb two hundred years of Overton ancestry—their lives and loves and secrets. Especially their secrets.

  Rosabelle. Rosabelle. Rosabelle’s room. The syllables rolled off the tongue like poetry. My thoughts returned again and again to the melodious name; a feeling of contentment wrapped around me, and I felt myself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the rain. Without warning, there was a sharp slap of thunder, then the lights snapped, leaving the room dark except for the flickering flame from the candle. My heart thumped wildly as I sat up in bed, but I lay back, calming myself. “It’s a good thing the lightning woke me. I could’ve burned the house down falling asleep with a candle burning,” I told myself. For a while I watched the flame dance and jump and make wavy shadows on the dimpled walls, until I could feel my eyes drooping once more.

  A pistol crack of thunder lifted me again, and I realized the taper had gone out, snuffed by a puff of damp air, probably. Well, it saved me from getting out of bed. The room was silent and black as a cave. Gradually, my beating heart slowed to lullaby rhythm. Before I slipped into sleep, I was conscious of yet another strange sensation. I smelled the light sweetness of roses. I dreamed I was in a garden.

  TWO

  I awoke to the loud chatter of birds on the balcony. Propping myself up against the headboard, I struggled to remember where I was. Morning light streamed through the leaded glass doors, casting trapezoids of sunlight onto the wine-colored comforter of my bed. The bedside lamp was on. I had gone to sleep in the dark room in the midst of a storm, forgetting to turn off the lamp when the lights failed. I remembered, too, the warm, protective feeling of last night, but in the shining dawn the mood was different, almost playful. It made me feel like a kid ready for recess, energized, expectant, prepared to take on the world. And, believe me, I am so not a morning person. Can a room have a personality? I could still smell roses in the air as I threw off the covers.

  I peered into the old mirror. Tousled by sleep, my hair was a mess of honey-blonde with gold highlights. Mom and Dad had told me my biological mother had been a beautiful blonde. Too bad her light hair is our only genetic link. The rest of me is pretty much Overton. My blue eyes are lighter than what Dad calls the “Overton navy-blues,” which are so dark as to appear black at first glance. High cheek bones, a straight nose, a decisive chin with a tiny cleft looked back at me from the old mirror. I smiled a bit wanly. “Toothy smile and pale skin,” I told the mirror, shifting to catch my profile. “But I suppose I could have come out worse.” I turned from the dresser, looking for a hairbrush.

  Unlocking the French doors, I looked out upon a clear, jewel-bright day. The birds perched along the wooden balcony like they were performing on a balance beam. A rising sun cast ripples of chrome onto the blue-black water of the lake. Last night’s storm had washed the air clean and the endless green acres behind the house glittered with dew. Near the stables was the riding ring. Horses. Fascinating creatures. My thoughts flashed back to five years ago at summer camp—riding lessons—where I’d learned to respect horses but also to fear them. They’re big and unpredictable and they have heavy feet, believe me.

  Dad was a great fan of horses. “Overhome is
horse country, Ashby. A person’s worth is judged by her equestrian skills. When it came to horses, my mother—your grandmother—was top of her class.” I’d heard that many times. And yet, my Grandmother Lenore died in a riding accident. Dressing in cargo Capris and my new sandals, I mulled over my as-yet-unmet relatives, Uncle Hunter, Aunt Monica, and my cousin, Jefferson. What if I don’t like them? What if they don’t like me? “Oh stop being so self-centered,” I reprimanded myself. Quietly, so as not to awaken anyone, I slipped from the house into the yard. Part of me longed to head down the steep steps to the dock and the lake, but I found myself, instead, following the cobbled path to the stables. I was surprised to see someone stalking down the path in my direction.

  It was an old, old man, in his eighties, I figured. Large-framed, with stooped shoulders and pure white feathers of hair ruffling from under a battered baseball cap. His face was as creased as a cauliflower, with years and years of weathering. Wearing denim overalls and strong, muddy boots, he pumped steadily toward me. Though he must have seen me, he made no effort to get out of my way on the narrow path. All I could think was, so, maybe I’m in his way, but what the heck? What the heck is this all about?

  The old guy came to an abrupt halt directly in front of me, squaring off to block me from passing him. Lifting his head, he rasped into my face, “Didn’t y’ see th’ signs? NO TRESPASSIN.’ This here’s private prop’ty. Now, git!”

  “B-but…I’m Ashby.”

  “Don’t care who y’ are.” He flailed his arms. “Go on. Git!”

  “Abe, wait. She’s th’ niece. She got in late last night.” Luke, my truck-driving chauffeur, ran toward us shouting. Catching his breath, he laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “It’s okay. This is Jeff’s cousin…” When Abe’s face remained blank, Luke persisted. “Y’ know, Lenore’s granddaughter. She’s here for th’ summer.”

  The wrinkles creased into a scowl. “Lenore’s granddaughter? Hmmm. Well, I don’t see no resemblance.”

  “It’s all good. Go on back to th’ stables. I’ll take care of this.” Luke’s voice was patient—like he was talking to a child. He turned away from me to watch his hobbling departure.

  I was pissed, and not just because of Abe’s reaction. I admit I was stinging from the old guy’s assault, his rejection, unexpected as it was. I was actually shaking. I mean, I have every right to be here, to walk the paths and breathe the air. I don’t need an old bully pushing me around from day one. But it was Luke’s words, “I’ll take care of this,” that really set me off. Like, I’m some kind of problem to be solved! I took a couple of deep yoga breaths while counting to ten. I’d heard Dad talk about Abe, who worked with the horses and, like Emma Coleville, had been here since time immemorial. I took the moment to look at Luke. In sunlight he had a pleasant enough face, very tan. His lively nutmeg eyes were brown and spicy, but his straw pile of hair was as messy as ever.

  “Sorry ’bout my grandfather,” he said, once he was satisfied the old bulldog was gone. “I hope y’ don’t take it person’ly. He’s always on th’ lookout for trespassers. We’ve had some vandalism.”

  The soft drawl I had noticed yesterday, the curious slurring of syllables, somehow didn’t go with the muscular frame. He grinned then, and I realized he was good-looking, in a rugged sort of way, with a firm jaw, even, white teeth and eyes that danced when he laughed. “The Murley family’s worked here for three generations—my grandpa, my parents, and me. Abe an’ I live in th’ house behind th’ stables. He’s caretaker here at Overhome, an’ I’m in charge of th’ horses.”

  “You mean…you’re the stable boy? I didn’t realize there are still places where stable boys work. I thought they only existed in old romance novels.”

  Luke’s look told me to get real. “Like I said yesterday, we have our own li’l civilization here in th’ South.” He gave an ironic laugh. Lifting a brogan, he inspected the sole. “Well, us stable boys muck aroun’ in a lotta…sh—manure.” Dropping his foot to the ground, he gave me a hang-dog look. “Shucks, ma’am. If I’d a known we was gonna meet agin’, I’d a dressed up.”

  His boots were actually quite clean, as were his jeans and T-shirt. I bit off a retort. “There aren’t many stables where I come from.” I shrugged. “I guess I have a lot to learn.”

  A half-smile lit his face. Luke Murley apparently had a better handle on our meeting than I did. “Tell me again. You’re from…”

  “New Jersey. Newark, New Jersey.”

  “Oh. Right. That’d be up North.”

  “So, call me a Yankee,” I replied.

  “Well, y’ know what we say about Yankees here in th’ South?” Without waiting for my answer, he continued, “We say there’s Yankees an’ then there’s damn Yankees.”

  “Okay. I’ll bite. What’s the difference?”

  “The damn Yankees are th’ ones who stay.” A grin lit up his eyes.

  Luke Murley sure could pull off the hick act. I mean, I knew I deserved the put-down. “Touché,” I said. But I couldn’t resist adding, “And I only know two things about the Civil War.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he waited for the punch line.

  “It’s over, and we won.”

  He smiled. He got it. It was time to move on. “So, you’re an equestrian,” I said lamely.

  “Hoo-boy! I like th’ sound of that! E-quest-ri an!” He accented the first syllable. “It sounds a lot classier than stable boy.”

  I wanted to tell Luke Murley he could knock the chip off his shoulder. He looked like he wanted to say the same thing to me, then, abruptly, he changed the subject.

  “So, you on a school break or somethin’?

  “I just graduated from community college. I plan to take a gap year and then go for my bachelor’s after that. Study to be a writer.”

  “College.” Luke gazed off into the distance for a moment. “I’d like t’ think someday I could get away from here—go t’ college myself.” He paused a second before adding, “But Abe needs me t’ help full time. This place’s too big. It’s too much for ’im. There’s other workers, of course, but I guess it’s hard t’get good help these days, ’cuz fer sure me ’n Abe do most of th’ work.” Again Luke shifted gears. “Have y’ met Jeff yet?”

  “I haven’t met anybody yet. I mean, except you, of course, and—and—”

  “Abe. Call him Abe.”

  “Okay. Abe. And Miss Emma, as you know.”

  Luke nodded and chewed on his lip for a while. All the humor had gone out of his eyes. “Well. I think you’re in for a very, um…a very interestin’ summer,” he said. “I’ve gotta get busy. See y’ later.” With a wave of his hand, he turned and trotted back to the stables.

  As I meandered around the grounds, my mind rolled over my encounter with Abe Murley and his grandson. Were these guys for real? Or am I the weird one here? I had never met anyone like either of them before. This place was offering up one surprise after another.

  The house, I decided, was even more imposing in the daylight. The sun mellowed the antiquity of stone foundations and chimneys and vaulted roofs. I had the feeling that Overhome had always looked old. Situated on a knoll, the house stood guard over rolling hills and emerald pastures fringed by dense forest. A creek cut through high banks along the border of trees, occasionally jutting out into the cleared areas. Near the bottom of a gentle slope behind the stables was an arched wooden bridge. It was a scene worthy of any writer’s imagination.

  On impulse, since it was still early, I decided to take a look at the lake. I made my way down the steps to a large dock where a big, slick boat sparkled in the sun. Cream-colored and wrapped in a ribbon of teal-painted stripes, it hung suspended on the lift like a ginormous birthday gift. Cool. How fun it would be to tool around the lake in that sweetheart? The covered dock was bright with ceramic pots of red geraniums. Blue and white-striped cushions on the lounge chairs completed the jaunty, nautical look. The sun brushed the shimmering waters with strokes of orange and pink. A band of g
reen foothills ascended to two mountain peaks, one higher than the other, then tapered off again, circling the lake like a wreath. Though a gentle morning breeze cooled my face, nothing stirred the mirror surface of the lake.

  A slight movement on the low floating dock stopped me in my tracks. A huge bird—it was almost a yard tall—stood like a sentinel on the wooden planks. Gray-blue in color, with a snipe neck and a prominent beak, it balanced on one foot like it was practicing yoga. Then, slowly and deliberately, it latch-stepped its way across the length of the dock and back. Mesmerized, I held my breath and watched. How could anything so large and ungainly-looking move so fluidly? I must have stood there, without moving a muscle, for ten minutes or more, afraid I’d startle the creature into flight. Finally, it lifted into the air like a graceful kite.

  I heard, then, the distant purring of a boat motor, and I realized the bird had flown off when it sensed the intruder—a ski boat gliding into view from around the point. Behind the boat, a slalom skier swayed from side to side, carving sets of smooth parentheses onto the jeweled waters of the cove. I looked longingly again at the boat up on the lift. Surely water skiing was another adventure to look forward to this summer. With the skier’s wake sloshing against the floating dock, I turned to retrace my steps to the house.

  The balcony leading off my room, perched a good thirty feet above the ground, I judged, what with the slope of the back yard. Well, I’d just have to get over my acrophobia when using it. There were no steps, and I liked the feeling that my little balcony was all my own, that it could only be entered from my room. Very private, indeed. Letting myself in the door, it occurred to me that in all my explorations something was missing. There was no sign of a garden. There were no roses anywhere.