In the afternoon I meet Jeff at the bottom of the drive where his vanpool du jour lets him off. We walk through the green tunnel—that’s what we call the canopied driveway—and have lunch. Then it’s play, play, play! We swim, throw the football, play croquet or board games, and, of course, visit with Sunshine and Sasha. No, my gal pals back home just wouldn’t get it. I’m even surprised myself; playing like a kid can be awesome.
Lacking e-mail and having to search for a cell phone signal makes it hard to stay connected with friends at home. Even for a wannabe writer, letters seem agonizingly slow and archaic compared to IM-ing and text messages. And none of my friends would ever write a letter back to me. I’m going to have some explaining to do when I go home. Of course, it’s impossible to reach Mom and Dad without e-mail. I look at the gorgeous postcards they mail me from various ports of call and know they are having an amazing time. That makes me happy.
My aunt and uncle remain swathed in mystery. Okay, so I’m being over-dramatic. I mean, I don’t feel I know them at all. Monica is totally wrapped up in her social life. It’s all she talks about, but sometimes I feel her enigmatic eyes searching me, like she is trying to figure ME out. And Uncle Hunter is all about business, both on and off the estate. Whenever they appear together, we go through the cat and mouse act with Jeff.
To his credit, Hunter makes it a point to ride as often as he can with his son. The only other thing so near and dear to Jeff’s heart is when Luke takes a break from his work to throw the football with us on the back lawn. As a feminist, I like to think I hold my own with the boys, and I throw a mean lateral. But I have to admit watching Luke play is half the fun.
Putting my laptop aside, and turning off the light, I pulled the bedspread up under my chin and gazed across the room in a pensive mood. Pale streamers of moonlight filtered through the French doors. “Rosabelle’s room,” I whispered. Did she gaze at these same glass doors fifty years ago? A hundred? I reached to turn off my light rock radio program. Oddly, every time I turned on my radio, it was on some country music station, even though I, myself, had never switched stations since my first night here. When I asked Miss Emma if she’d been tuning in bluegrass while cleaning my room, she got all pissy and told me she had no idea how “that contraption” works. Oh, to quiz her on Rosabelle’s and my room, yet I admit I’m more than half-afraid of the response I might get. And Marian and Wash, my birth parents. Not a mention of them since my first talk with Uncle Hunter. Well, I know it’s time I started digging for my roots. I drifted into dreams.
Abruptly awake, a chill swept over my shoulders and face. Afraid to move, holding my breath, I looked around my room with wide-open eyes. Nothing unusual. The moon had moved higher in the sky, altering the slant of moonbeams through the glass doors; otherwise, nothing had changed since I’d fallen asleep. Wait a minute. Was one door slightly open? Or was it merely an optical illusion created by the deceptive moonbeams? I had to check it out.
Sliding from the bed, I made my way to the French doors. They had been locked securely, of that I was sure. Scaredy cat that I am, I checked them every night before getting into bed. My room was warm as ever, yet a shiver began at the nape of my neck and ran the length of my spine. As I reached the doors, I saw that one of them was unlatched, open about an inch. Hypnotized, I watched my hand reach for the knob to let myself out onto the balcony. The night air was mild and still and not the least bit chilly. An almost-full moon glowed halfway down the sky, throwing golden slices of light onto the dark lake surface and casting shadows from the barn and guest house onto the yard. Not a breath of air stirred. I looked over the balcony. All was quiet below.
Raising my eyes to the moon in the deep night sky, I wondered if I could possibly have imagined the chill. Had I been dreaming? A light breeze brushed my face, wafting a sweet perfume all around me. Roses. The unmistakable fragrance of roses in the air. I looked down again at the yard, but all was undisturbed. Then, something caught my eye. The table I had pushed to an out-of-the-way corner earlier in the day. Old, made of wrought iron, it must have stood on the balcony a long time, with its peeling, rusting paint. I remember how the finish crumbled when I pushed it aside to clear the view of the stables. Okay, I admit it, I moved the table to get a better view of Luke at his work. But something was different. I moved closer. In the center was a glass bud vase. It was the old-fashioned kind of glass, thick and crackly. It held one perfect rose, a deep-red rose just emerging from the bud.
I froze, trying to make sense of the scene. The vase. The rose. They had not been on that table before I went to bed. I reached for the heavy vase and brought it to my face. The petals brushed like perfumed velvet against my cheek. For a long time I stood there, feeling the summer night wrapped around me, breathing the soft rose smell. At last, I went in, latching the doors from habit. I placed the vase in front of the oval mirror beside the blue candlestick, thinking: A red rose is a symbol of love. Who could be brave enough to climb a very tall ladder, place the vase on my balcony table, somehow open my locked door, and then slip silently off into the summer night? I sank into the soft mattress, but it was some time before I slept again. My last thought was, “It’s this room. Rosabelle’s room.”
* * * *
Next morning, I sat up, rubbed my eyes and shook my head in utter confusion. I couldn’t believe what I saw. On my dresser, the crackle-glass vase stood empty, and beside it, the candle was burned down to a nub in its china blue holder. I remembered the events of last night—the blast of cold air, the opened door, the budding rose in the vase on my balcony. It was not a dream. The vase was proof of that, empty though it was. Still in a daze, I moved to the dresser and picked the vase up. With the crackles imbedded deep in the thick glass, it felt cool and smooth in my fingers. I turned my attention to the candle, the very same candle I had used only once, ever so briefly my first night in the room. Candles don’t burn themselves down. Or do they? I noticed the French doors were still latched.
“Okay. This is beyond weird,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “I’ve gotta talk to Miss Emma. Get some answers about Rosabelle and her room.”
From the sideboard in the dining room I helped myself to tea and toast. I was up early for my riding lesson with Luke; the dining room was empty. I decided I would take my breakfast to the sun porch where I could think. Before I could move, as if by magic, Miss Emma appeared at my elbow. “Shall I scramble up some eggs for you?”
“Oh, no. Thanks. Tea and toast will be fine.” She was turning to leave, when I asked, “Miss Emma, could I ask you something?”
Her face was colorless, closed-in, her eyes wary.
“Miss Emma, my first night here you told me I might need a candle in my room. You said that the lights frequently go out in the old part of the house. Do you remember?”
The old lady looked at me and nodded. A stripe folded itself between her eyebrows.
I hurried on. “The candle you gave me? This morning I found it completely burned down, but I didn’t light it. I didn’t touch it.” I drew a quick breath and plunged on. “And there’s this old tune I keep hearing, it comes from nowhere…and a rose…”
She jerked her head toward the gilt-framed mirror which hung above the sideboard. “Not here,” she whispered through tight lips. “Not in this room.” Every feature of her ashy face reflected terror. Hurriedly, she turned and left me standing with my mouth open.
Now what was that all about? What could cause such abject fear? Moving slowly toward the porch so as not to slosh my tea, I mulled over the encounter. Was she totally whacked? Dad had always talked of her as the salt of the earth, but, then, he hadn’t seen Miss Emma for a long time.
Suddenly my cell vibrated. So, the porch was good for a signal, at least for today. It was a text from a friend back home: SUP? KIT. Any other time I would have welcomed the buzz, but I was so totally absorbed in Miss Emma’s response, and in my unexplainable situation, I couldn’t think about anything else. TTYL, I text-messaged back with a half-hearted vow to c
all my friend later when I could get my mind off all the woo-woo. For a nanosecond, I considered calling her on the spot. Running the whole story by her. On second thought, I realized she would think I’m under an ancient voodoo curse or something. She’d try to get me to come home and take me to see a shrink, whisk me back to the real world. Funny—before Overhome, I’d been tied to my cell. Finding no bars, no signal here, well, it totally bummed me out. Today? Today my cell phone seemed more of a nuisance than a comfort. How quickly things can change.
Pulling my chair close to the porch table, I ate while I ran over Miss Emma’s furtive look and jack rabbit response to my innocent questions. No answers emerged. In frustration, I picked up a local garden magazine and began thumbing through it. Though Virginia could be called lush by any standard, many of the plants here are also native to New Jersey. My home was not called the “Garden State” for nothing. Mom and I had worked long and hard to coax our little plot of land into a showpiece of many of these same perennials: boxwoods, azaleas, ivy. The mountain laurel was new to me, as was the Virginia creeper, but I could relate to the ground covers. Periwinkle and pachysandra. We planted both everywhere we had a blank spot. Of course, there were roses galore splashing the glossy pages with a full pallet of color.
Sipping my tea and picturing our garden at home with nostalgia, I heard something in the yard. Somebody was hurrying up the path from the stables. It was Luke. “Luke, Luke!” I waved. I trotted out to the yard.
He stopped and waited for me to reach him. “Hey,” he said. I could tell instantly that something was wrong.
“What is it, Luke?”
“I’m just back from th’ north pasture.” He gestured. “Abe sent me. Seems th’ Night Riders’ve been at it again. A waterin’ trough’s been beat up an’ we need t’ fix it right away.”
“Night Riders. What’s up with them, anyway?”
“They just get off on causin’ trouble.” Luke looked distracted.
“So, who are they? And why does Abe think they did it, wrecked the watering trough?”
“Nobody’s sure. I’ve got a few ideas, but…we’re gettin’ mighty tired of it.”
He shook his head. “They like t’ leave their sign. Confederate flag. This time they spray-painted it on th’ barn.” He frowned. “So, that’s gotta be cleaned up, too. Looks like we’ll have to put off your ridin’ lesson this mornin’. Sorry.”
He was sorry? Did he have any idea how sorry it made me? I loved these early lessons, riding atop my dappled gelding in the cool morning brightness. Just Sasha and me…and Luke. My face must have shown my disappointment
Luke looked at me as if he’d just discovered I was present. “We’ll make it up. I’m free tonight. We can use th’ lights for th’ ring. Maybe Jeff can join us.” I loved the way his grin warmed his face all the way up his eye brows.
“Okay. Tonight, then. Hope there’s not too much damage in the pasture, or on the barn, or wherever.”
Waving, he moved off at a trot. I watched him with mixed emotions. There was something I couldn’t get about Luke. He seemed to enjoy giving me riding lessons, but he was such a teacher. So detached. It just wasn’t natural. He had to sense that I had more than a passing interest in him. Why didn’t he return that interest? Maybe he doesn’t like blondes. Or, worse, he already has a girl friend. Somebody very horse-y who’s grown up on the land like him. I’ll bet she’s no damn Yankee, either.
Let it go, I thought. I have the whole morning to myself and I’m not gonna waste one second of it mooning over Luke Murley. Reading the flower magazine had already set my mind on gardening. Well, I’d spend the found-time exploring the grounds again. But this time, I would look for a garden.
SEVEN
Gardens need sun and an eastern exposure. The front grounds were overhung with trees. So I branched off the path and headed for the backyard. As I passed the house, I was surprised to see, tucked into a corner between two wings, a small screened porch that was obviously not used. The musty smell of rusting screens made me sneeze as I moved in to get a closer look. Ancient wooden rocking chairs, their paint a bare memory, their woven bottoms sagging like moldy waffles, were the only furniture on the porch. I thought of the people, now long-dead, who must once have rocked in those chairs, a creepy thought. Why had this one part of Overhome been left to molder and decay? I stood soaking in the antiquity of the scene until the chill prompted me to move out into the sun again.
I passed the ruins of some outbuilding. Small rock foundations, with here and there tumble-down fireplaces, poking up like tombstones, were remnants of plantation life, no doubt. Following a low stone fence that rolled down the hills of the extensive grounds, I came to a set of stone gateposts similar to those at the main driveway. A rusted wrought-iron gate stood between the posts, flanked on both sides by metal pickets. Lifting the latch, I stepped gingerly down several steep, narrow rock steps covered with creeping greenery and moss. The air was somehow cooler here. Damp. It just felt, well, it felt old. I was surprised to find myself in what must have been, at one time, a formal, fenced garden. In the center a mass of box woods, untrimmed, and tall as a man, branched out every which way. It was several minutes before I realized there must have been some sort of pattern to the labyrinth. A maze? On all sides patches of lilies, rhododendron, and mountain laurel mingled with English ivy and the Virginia creeper I’d just seen in the flower magazine. Near the back, in the corner, stood a small, weathered gazebo with a pointed roof. Once white, it was now a peeling grey. It looked like something in an Andrew Wyeth painting.
Following a healthy path of periwinkle, I stood gawking at the tumbles of rose bushes on both sides of the crumbling gazebo. Approaching the thorny tangle, leaning over to pluck a fragrant blossom, I stopped mid-way at the harsh sound of a man’s voice. “What’re y’ doin’ here?”
I jumped, stabbing my finger on a thorn so that it bled. “Ooh!” I gasped.
“State yer business.” Abe Murley hefted his stooped frame from behind the gazebo.
“I-I’m…I was looking for roses,” I stammered. My pulse beat double-time in my throat. Damn. Luke’s grandfather again. Would I have to tangle with him every time we met?
“Give me yer name agin’. I don’t remember things like I used to.”
“Ashby. Ashby Overton. I’m here visiting my uncle…”
His old eyes were bright, hard beads. “Lenore’s granddaughter.”
I nodded vigorously
“Lenore died too young.” Abe’s tone had completely changed—from confrontational to dreamy.
Well, what was I to say to that? “The roses…they’re beautiful,” I choked out.
Abe appeared not to have heard me. “Lenore loved roses. She loved the gazebo. We used to sit here sometimes.” Leaning over, he cupped a rosebud in his calloused palm. At length he raised his head and looked at me. “Yer grandmother was a wonder. Thar wasn’t a horse alive she couldn’t ride. Ride like a queen. What a beauty Lenore was. She jes’ died too damn young.” He plucked a bud from a stem and handed it to me. “Roses was special to yer Grandma Lenore.”
I swallowed hard. “Special? Why?”
He looked at me without seeing, the light fading from his eyes. “Oh, it was because of Rosabelle, I expect.”
“How so?” I began eagerly, but he was already leaving. “Abe, come back. Please! Come back!” I didn’t mean this in a purely physical sense. Right before my eyes, he had faded into another world.
He loped toward the gate, shaking his grizzled head and mumbling. I heard snatches of his voice, “Too young. Too damn young.”
For a while I sat in the gazebo, taking in Abe’s tantalizing sound bites. Though I remembered every word, what played and replayed in my mind was the short phrase, “Because of Rosabelle.”
I wandered from the weedy remains of garden back along the stone fence. Roses. How did they manage to bloom in the overgrown garden? If Abe worked them in deference to my grandmother, he had done a crappy job of it. Was my
midnight rose plucked from the gazebo garden? Deep in thought, I almost bumped into Miss Emma, who was sweeping the back walkway to the house.
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked without preamble. “Where’d you get that rose?”
Taken aback, I spluttered. “I… Abe gave it to me. At the gazebo.”
She sniffed, but she sounded sad when she said, “Abe Murley is an old fool. Filling your head with his nonsense. Did he recall quaint, romantic tales about him and your grandmother? Well, you can’t believe a word of it. His people were nothing but dirt farmers before he hired on at Overhome. And he, always dreaming Lenore felt something special for him. Well, he’s wrong. Lenore was the kind of woman who made everybody she knew feel they were her best friend.”
“Miss Emma, Abe said roses were special for my grandmother because of Rosabelle. Do you know what he meant?”
The old lady gently took the rose. “Oh yes. I know.” She turned it over several times, then brought it to her nose. “Just the smell of this beautiful thing brings back so many memories. Wonderful memories. And sad ones.” She gave me a far-away look.
I was on the verge of getting down on my knees and begging her to spill everything when she dropped a bomb. “But, I have to remember my promise, my dear. My promise to Lenore just minutes before she died. You see, I was Lenore’s best friend. I didn’t just think I was.”
“So, my grandmother made you promise, what?”
“Not to tell anyone.” She snapped out of her reverie. “Not until I knew it was time.” She replaced the rose in my hand. “Just don’t believe everything Abe Murley tells you.” Without another word, she hurried into the house.
Rose in hand, I walked in the direction of the stables, pensive. I’d gone in search of answers this morning but found more questions than I’d started with. If I was going to unravel the strands of this complicated plot, I knew where I would start. I’d learn all I could about my grandmother, Lenore Overton, the one who died too damn young.
A Red Red Rose Page 5