A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  “Sarah? Who is Sarah?”

  “She’s th’ one standin’ next to Emma there. She an’ Emma was sisters.” He pointed. “Sarah Coleville Murley, my wife. She passed on some years ago. Died in childbirth with our only son. He was Luke’s father, y’ know.”

  “I’m really sorry, Abe.”

  He appeared not to have heard me. “Emma jest couldn’t get over her sister ‘marryin’ down’ as she called it. And after Sarah died, why, Emma took it upon herself t’ tell me how t’ raise my own son. ‘Do this, Abe. Do that, Abe. Teach ’im manners and raise ’im up to be a man of worth.’ Then she got on a toot about sendin’ ’im to college. That damn woman hounded me fer years about savin’ money fer college. But I was agin’ it. I knew if my son left th’ land he’d never come back. Th’ land Lenore wanted us Murleys to live on. So what if we started out as poor tenant farmers? We was always smart. Proud, too. And we was never too good to git our hands dirty like them uppity First Family of Virginia Colevilles. So, I put my foot down ’bout college. I never got past fourth grade m’self. A high school diploma was good enough for my son, an’ it’s good enough for my grandson. I’ll swanny if that old crow, Emma, ain’t tried to sneak th’ college idea into Luke’s head, too.”

  Luke returned in time to hear this last remark. “Oh, Please. Don’t get ’im goin’ on my Aunt Emma. I swear she’s as psycho about this ghost crap as Abe is.” Giving me an annoyed look, he pointed to the scrapbook. “Well, have y’ seen enough?”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen my Grandmother Lenore yet.” I spoke in my sweetest voice. “It would mean a lot to me, Luke.”

  “Oh, go ahead. But there’s a lotta work to be done around here, y’ know.” He clomped off again.

  Unperturbed, Abe began turning page after page, offering a running commentary on each fragile newspaper clipping, fuzzy photograph, and moldering program bill from horse shows long since over. There stood Abe in one picture, a much younger, taller, and handsomely smiling Abe, alongside a pretty, dark-haired woman, my grandmother. With perfect posture, her figure slim and vibrant in a flawless riding outfit, she stood holding a loving cup between them. “She always insisted I be in th’ winner’s photos,” Abe said dreamily.

  Suddenly, something slid from the back cover, given its freedom, perhaps, from age-dried tape. I bent to the floor to retrieve the fragment of newspaper clipping. “What is this, Abe?”

  Abe’s face fell. “Oh, that. I never could bear to paste that one in permanent,” he said after a minute.

  I read the headlines. “Barn Burns on Colonial Estate. Overhome Hit with Double Tragedy.”

  “It happened soon after Lenore died.” Abe sounded tired.

  Silently, I read on. “Exactly one week after the tragic death of renowned equestrian Lenore Overton, the barn at Overhome, the family estate, burned to the ground in a fire of suspicious origins.”

  Abe spoke from the hollow of his chest. “Fer days she laid there, still as death. It was a turrible fall, a fluke. Without warnin’ and for no reason, her horse shied, then run her under a tree limb. She fell—hit her head—an’ she never come to, except for a few minutes th’ night she died. And then th’ fire. Th’ barn went up in flames. All th’ horses escaped, every ridin’ mount, except one. Lenore’s horse, Capitola, th’ one she was on when th’ accident happened. It was burnt to a crisp. Dead. Just like Lenore.”

  No wonder Dad was so close-mouthed about his family’s history. And Miss Emma had urged me not to stir up the past. Such haunting memories. Such sadness.

  “Investigators never turned up no clues as t’ what started th’ fire. But I knew.” Abe appeared to be talking to himself now. “It was Rosabelle. Rosabelle burned that there barn down. It was her way ’a gettin’ even fer Lenore’s death.”

  “Getting even? What do you mean, Abe? I’m not following you?”

  “Lenore saw Rosabelle as her guardian angel. Rosabelle killed Lenore’s horse to get even. Don’t ya see? That horse had no call to run Lenore under th’ limb. So, Rosabelle, well, she jest took care of it. Rosabelle could be like that. A good protector takes revenge when revenge is called fer.”

  “And you’re sure it was Rosabelle who started the fire because…”

  “I found it th’ next day. The rose. The one she left, like always. Oh, it was Rosabelle, all right.”

  I was a long time finding my voice. “D-did you ever see her, Abe? Did anybody see Rosabelle?”

  Abe gave me a sad, distracted look. “Well, Luke don’t believe it neither.” He rose, shutting the scrapbook gently. “There’s some things y’ jest know, is all. It don’t take no college degree to recognize th’ truth when it’s right in front of yer face.” He turned, then and went into the next room, shutting the door, decisively.

  My glance zeroed in on the crushed rose petals Abe had taken from his pocket. “Right in front of my face,” I whispered.

  ELEVEN

  Aunt Monica and I faced each other over the glass-topped table on the covered deck. Linen napkins, creamy china, a vase of fresh flowers on each table, and a stunning view of Moore Mountain Lake completed the picture of posh luxury my aunt and uncle enjoyed at their country club.

  “Carole Norton and her daughter will join us shortly,” Monica said. “The Nortons live in Northern Virginia, but they summer here at the lake. Tiffany Norton is a bit younger than you, Ashby, but I think you will find her compatible.” My aunt looked absolutely at home in this regal setting.

  Taking in the vista of golf greens and lake, I could easily imagine the swishy “summer home,” my aunt’s club friend might live in. No sense being negative, but what could Tiffany Norton and I have in common? Uh oh. That’s exactly the same attitude Luke had held about me.

  “I told Hunter we simply had to get you away for a little R and R. After such a dreadful morning. That animal, drowning like it did.” My aunt shivered. “Hunter was more than happy to spend the day with Jefferson while you and I took a breather. They can be such good pals.”

  My aunt’s tone was wistful. “Hunter is a good father. And Jefferson adores him, but…” She trailed off, fiddling with her napkin. Taking a sip of her iced tea, she gazed over my head. “But, Hunter is frequently so intense, so controlling. I worry that he might curb some of that wonderful spirit I so love in our son.” She stopped as though finished, then added, “You know, I think Jefferson actually is afraid of his own father, sometimes. Because of that intensity.”

  Wow. This was way too much information. I kept quiet.

  As if she’d forgotten me, Monica continued her monologue. “Oh, I know I drill Jefferson on his manners. Sometimes, I think that is all I am good for. It is the way I was raised. By my nanny, of course. My parents were far too busy, socially and otherwise, to pay me much mind. Consequently, Nanny and I were quite close. Such a warm and loving person Nanny was. My mother insisted Nanny work on my etiquette. It was politeness and manners, at all times.”

  Suddenly my aunt teared up. “Oh, I never intended to tell anyone this, Ashby. I cannot imagine why I even began… Something to do with that creature attacking you and then t-turning up so--so horribly d-d-dead. It is s-so upsetting.”

  “Aunt Monica,” I found my voice at last. “It’s all right. I’m all right. Really.”

  She waved my words away as she dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “You do not understand, dear. The scare with the wolf—it was a catalyst. Whenever I become upset, really upset, I…m-my flaw—m-m-my glaring flaw returns. They, my parents, they dismissed Nanny, sent her packing when she could not erase it. They sent me to that horrid b-boarding school to be…to be fixed.”

  “What do you mean, fixed?”

  “C-cured of my c-condition.” She wiped her eyes again. “You see, I stuttered. It is caused by a neurological glitch between the brain and the vocal cords and lips, the ability to produce speech. This I learned much later, but only after I suffered years of embarrassment. I cannot think of those years without reliving the humiliation of n
ot being able to answer questions in class or the paralyzing fear that I would be called on to read aloud. Even now, n-now that I only stutter when I am under s-stress, I still feel the pain of that rejection.”

  So that explained Monica’s curious enunciation. Still, I was shocked at her unloading on me like that. I mean, all of our conversations around the dining room table at Overhome had been so formal, trivial and dry.

  She took few deep breaths and shook her head several times, then reached across the table for my hands. “Please forgive me. What I really want you to know is how happy I am with the way you relate to our son. I wanted you to be a companion for him, yes, but not just anyone would do. I knew you would be perfect, another only-child of the Overton family, just like Jefferson, but having a solid family upbringing, and a mother and father who adore you, without pampering, in your growing-up years. Parents who would never banish you to a boarding school. I feel I know you from Helen’s letters, know you to be well-rounded, happy, energetic, self-sufficient, all the attributes I never had the opportunity, or the wherewithal, to develop for myself, or to impart to my child.”

  She pressed my hands. “You are making my dreams come true. I have seen so much evidence already—how you are bringing out all the good qualities in Jefferson—the independence, the spirit, the love. You are such a positive family role model…I cannot thank you enough.”

  I murmured something incoherent. I was relieved Aunt Monica had ceased to stutter.

  “Neither Hunter nor I had much experience with motherly love. I often feel guilty spending time at the club, leaving Jefferson at home, just as my mother did to me. And Hunter. He was so, so deeply affected by his mother’s death. Perhaps, too deeply. Your uncle has a dark side. A side most people never see. He…”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of Carole and Tiffany Norton, a bright mother-daughter couple who looked more like sisters—petite, blonde, and bouncy as cheerleaders. I noticed that Monica patted her hair and sat up straighter, holding her head at a regal angle.

  “What fun!” Carole chirped as she gave me a little hug. “The more young people who come to the lake, the happier we all are. After lunch, you can go waterskiing with Tiff and some of her friends, if you like.”

  Tiffany cocked her head and gave me a look that said, Only if you want to. I liked her immediately for that.

  “Sure! I’ve been dying to learn to ski, if somebody is willing to teach me.” I cut my eyes toward Tiffany. “Uhhh…understand, I’m a complete rooky. I hope I won’t be too much of a drag on your party.”

  “Me and my friends love to get people up on skis for the first time,” Tiffany assured me. “We take pride in every conquest.” She gave her mother a cheerful smile. “Let’s order lunch. I told everybody we’d meet them at the dock at two o’clock. Drew’s got his family’s ski boat for the whole day.”

  “Sweet!” I heard myself say. But my mind was only partly focused on the long-awaited opportunity to learn a cool, new sport. The other half kept mulling over the odd puzzle pieces of information I had already learned today, about Luke, my Grandmother Lenore, my aunt and uncle. And about Rosabelle, of course.

  Dear Diary, Where to start? First, I must say I was shocked to find that Tiffany Norton and her friends remind me of my buds back home when we were a couple years younger. Tiffany and Drew and Jordon, and the others are my newest country-clubbing amigos. Okay, so they’re as used to the high-life as us peons are to breakfast, all enrolled in or planning to attend Ivy League colleges, but they must’ve left any snobbery back home. And…they know how to teach a total klutz to ski in one easy lesson. Well, make that a whole day of lessons. Drew himself, who skis on the Lake Team, admits the sport is not a one-shot deal. But by day’s end I was getting up with every pull and staying up until my legs felt like linguini. That’s on a pair, of course. (See, I’ve even picked up on the ski-lingo). Everyone agrees a gymnastics background helps with the old balance, though, and they’re sure I’ll be hanging out on a slalom ski before long. We parted with plans to ski again soon.

  Aunt Monica is one needy chick, as I discovered from a long tete-a-tete (Thank you, Mary Stewart for that lovely term) with her today. Just getting out of the gloomy, old rooms at Overhome freed her up and loosened her lips, is the way I figure the deluge of tears and confessions. Okay, so I’m getting some insight into the psycho-dynamics of this dysfunctional family, but, for the life of me, I see no evidence of my influence on Jeff. Monica is all gushy about me making a positive change in Jeff’s attitude—yada, yada, yada—but he’s still playing his mom and dad against each other for all he’s worth. Have I missed something here? Maybe instead of studying writing in college, I’ll go for a psych degree. If anything, Jeff has made me change for the better. I feel like a big sister who’s all grown up and learning to take responsibility for somebody other than Ashby Overton. I mean, the whole time I thought about my visit to Overhome, it was all about me—my roots, my adventure, a background for my writing, and, hey! They’re still high on the list. But that little freckle-faced kid has added a whole new dimension to life. And I never saw it coming until it hit me in the face.

  More good news: When I draggled in after hours of skiing and boating in the punishing Virginia sun (Yes, Mom, I slathered on the SPF 30 and I reapplied), Miss Emma came knocking on my door. She promised she’d usher me into the attic first thing in the morning. At last! A chance to glimpse a real slice of my mother and father’s life, their short, happy, life, as they say in literature.

  Oh, I almost forgot. Talk about short and happy. For a brief moment Luke and I were on the same wave length, but the illusion was shattered, oddly enough, by rose petals.

  TWELVE

  Miss Emma sorted through her fist of keys until she found the right one. Though the attic door looked like any of the other doors in the long hall, it opened to a steep set of unfinished wooden stairs. Stale air that heated up with every step pushed into my face until I reached the top and surveyed the area. The attic and everything in it was powdered with a fine layer of dust that made me sneeze. Where to start? Crammed full, it looked like an abandoned museum, or possibly, a fun house, preserved and waiting for someone to re-discover it. I moved on, stepping around ancient cradles, a wooden rocking horse, an old treadle sewing machine, a phonograph, several dress mannequins, dolls in a little wooden bed, and a host of other forgotten and discarded objects. By the time I finished my survey, there wasn’t much of the attic left unexplored. At last, I located the trunk that had, no doubt, been sitting there some eighteen years, ever since the accident that had sent my parents to their grave and me to live with my adoptive mother and father. Someone had written with a black marker that was fading to gray, “Marian and Washington.”

  Two lives in a trunk, I thought. This is all that’s left. It was a depressing thought.

  A little choked up, I watched my fingers shake as I raised the creaking lid that protested my invasion of its privacy. Looking over the top layer of neatly-organized items, I spied a tuft of tissue paper. Opening it up, I found a filmy wedding veil covered at the crown with delicate seed pearls. Next to it was a glass jewelry box containing a string of matching pearls. My mother’s wedding veil and pearls. Shouldn’t they be handed down to me to wear when I become a bride? Another tissue tuft revealed a carefully-folded white baby’s dress, probably a christening dress, but whose? Mine? My mother’s? I picked up the garment and held it to my face. It smelled of cedar and moth balls, not at all like baby smells. But it was as soft as summer air against my skin. Gently replacing the tiny dress, I next lifted a silver-framed photograph showing a sweetly-smiling, dreamy-eyed bride, who stood alongside a handsome groom, looking sharp in his tuxedo. My birth-parents’ wedding day, caught forever in time. She with the flowing, light hair, the slim neck encircled with pearls. He sporting the same patrician bone structure, dark hair, and cleft chin as his brothers, the unmistakable genetic imprint of the Overton clan. What would my life have been like had they lived?
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br />   Lifting out the upper layer divider, I encountered a small paper-wrapped bundle, which, with much unwinding, turned out to be a lovely antique cup and saucer. Its delicately scalloped edges were outlined with hand-painted pink roses. Most likely a family heirloom treasured by my parents. Putting the pair gently aside, I continued to sift through the assortment nestled in the lower part of the trunk. Piles of medals embossed with race cars, some attached to red-white-and blue neckbands, a tangle of trophies similarly adorned, a book of dried and pressed corsages that smelled musty, and a silver baby cup, tarnished with age and engraved, simply, WASHINGTON OVERTON. I lifted a cigar box on which was written “My Memory Box.” It contained ticket stubs, prom photos, a high school football program, a fine lock of light hair and a packet of envelopes tied with twine, which, when untied revealed a dozen greeting cards, everything from valentines to birthday cards, each signed “I love you, WASH.”

  Underneath the memory box lay a high school yearbook. A quick glance inside the covers showed me how some things never change. The signatures under the photos, the tidbits of advice and humor were not much different from those in my own yearbook. Below his picture someone named James Poole had written, “Go for the gold, Wash!” While, right beside him Rusty Porter had penned, “Forget the gold, buddy. Go for Marian!”

  I flipped through the pages until I found, in the Senior Section, my father’s young and smiling face, with the ambition “To win the Indy 500” printed underneath. Laughing eyes, old-fashioned haircut, my dad looked so full of life, but he was so dead. A heavy sadness tightened my throat. Life. Death. Both seem terribly unfair sometimes.

  It took a while to find Marian’s picture, since I could not remember her maiden name. I located her in the M’s. Marian Mills. Mills? Where had I heard that name before? Of course. Eddie Mills. Luke had said Eddie Mills was the owner of the now-dead wolf-dog. Eddie Mills was, Luke thought, the leader of the Night Riders, the gang that vandalized the countryside. Were Eddie Mills and my mother related? Mills is a common name, but I would not be surprised since it seems everybody around here is somehow related. “To live, love, and laugh,” was her senior ambition. It was too ironic to dwell on. I snapped the book shut. Too painful. Too futile. All my discoveries only intensified my sense of loss.