A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

  “Too late for what?” I pressed her hand.

  “Don’t you see? Whoever stole Lenore’s diary—he or she knows everything Lenore meant to keep secret. In the wrong hands, it might be, it could mean danger.”

  “Danger? For me? I don’t understand.”

  “There are other reasons why I can’t… Let me just caution you to be careful about revealing what you’ve learned. Careful about where you go and what you do. I realize I should have told you this long before now.” She frowned and shook her head. “Luke made that clear when he spoke to me yesterday.” She gave me a knowing look. “The dear boy is in love with you, you know.” She stood stiffly. “I only hope there’s still time… Now, we need to get ourselves in before the sun hits the lake and the household arises.”

  As we made our halting way back to the house, I could see that Miss Emma was worn out. She had been up for much of the night, had walked a fair distance over dew-wet terrain, and had poured out her soul in emotional memories. I remained silent as we worked our way along the stone wall, but when we reached a flat stretch of land, I could no longer resist asking something that had been gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. “Miss Emma, if Rosabelle was Lenore’s protector, how come she didn’t take it out on her dirtball husband, my Grandfather Thomas?”

  “Oh, but she did, Ashby. She bedeviled that man in every way possible.” The house keeper shook her head.

  “Bedeviled? What do you mean?”

  She drew a breath before answering. “Well, Rosabelle caused Thomas never-ending trouble by wreaking havoc on the property, upending the heavy watering troughs for the horses, breaking boards in the bridge, opening the barn doors at night, and such.”

  “You mean, like the Night Riders?” I gasped.

  Miss Emma appeared not to hear my comment. “It was almost comic, at times,” she went on. “Almost like annoying, practical jokes. But, after Lenore died, Rosabelle outdid herself abusing Thomas.” Again, she wagged her head slowly from side to side. “And when they were damming up the lake, and it was up to Thomas to move Rosabelle’s grave and the slave graves, why her fury was unleashed, for sure. She began ripping up trees by the roots, denting his truck, pouring sand into the gas tank of his tractor, actually threatening bodily harm by luring him into danger with a candle. She deliberately killed his prize-winning cow. It won a blue ribbon at the county fair one day. The next it lay stretched out, stiff and bloated, with flies swarming all over it.”

  “So, you’re sure it was Rosabelle doing all these terrible things? Not just some horrible string of bad luck or something?”

  “No doubt about it. She always left her sign, you see.” The old woman yawned and wearily rolled back her shoulders one at a time. “For the cow she left a whole bouquet resting beside the corpse.”

  “God. No wonder you’re reluctant to dredge up the past.” I put a sympathetic arm around her stooping shoulders. “You must be exhausted, Miss Emma. Thank you for telling me all of this. I know what an effort it’s been, but you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  “I’m afraid I’m all done in, Ashby. My voice is raw and my bones ache. I plan to take to my bed and stay there all day, if possible.”

  As I watched her let herself into her quarters on the lower level of Overhome and made my own way to the back entrance, I pondered the surreal events of the past few hours.

  * * * *

  Dawn painted the horizon as I let myself into my room. Faint pink streaks bleeding into the sky cast a rosy glow onto my stucco walls. But it was my sense of smell that drew me, the odor of strong, black coffee. Coffee was something I had missed at tea-drinking Overhome. Now, there was no mistaking the rich smell wafting me to the bedside table where I was surprised to find a daintily-set tray. Beside a folded linen napkin sat an exquisite cup and saucer of pale, delicate bone china. A scalloped pink flower designed the edges with graceful, hand-painted roses. It was identical to the china stored in my parents’ trunk in the attic. Next to the cup and saucer was a tall, slim china pot. Creamy white, with tiny cracks spreading like veins over its patina, it looked ancient. Fragrant steam curled from the spout.

  Throwing off my robe and kicking out of my flip flops, I propped myself against the headboard, staring for a long time at the graciously-laid tray. Any other day I might have considered the tray a pleasantry provided by Miss Emma. Unusual, but not completely unlikely. But this morning, of course, that would have been impossible. As I reached for the napkin to spread on my lap, from under the soft folds, something dropped to the floor. I retrieved it, knowing already what it must be. Lifting the delicately fragrant flower, I held it to my cheek, inhaling the freshness. Placing it on the night table, I leaned forward and poured myself a cup of coffee, then turned on my radio to reflect against a background of Garth Brooks.

  In reflective solitude, in the blushing light of sunrise, I sat drinking the strong, hot coffee from the antique cup. Coffee with Rosabelle. In my room—our room. I was warmed from the inside out as I consumed the entire pot, cup by cup.

  Morning was well on its way when I reached for my laptop. For once, the bluebirds had taken a break from pecking at my door. The silence was most welcome. Where to begin? So, so much had happened in a few short hours.

  Dear Diary:

  Since when does two and two not equal four? How many books have I read where spirits are to be feared? A Christmas Carol. The Exorcist. Beloved. Wuthering Heights. Speaking of that, Miss Emma’s soulful cries of “Ashby, Ashby” were chillingly like Catherine’s “Heathcliff, Heathcliff.”

  And I’ve seen horror movies like Poltergeist and the Amityville Horror. Cold, scary, blood-curdling stories about spirits. When Miss Emma describes Rosabelle’s fury and her violence when she’s pissed off, okay, so then my ghost fits the stereotype.

  Yet, here I lie in Rosabelle’s presence. Warm. Contented. Grateful! My ghost puts me into a trance, where I can feel and hear her and smell her perfume, where I can sense her in every way, even see her in my mirror or in my dreams, but where I seem to have no control over myself, my actions, or my feelings. Today I tasted her strong-brewed coffee. Took it for a love offering and enjoyed every drop.

  Miss Emma says to beware the danger. Does she mean danger from Rosabelle? I simply cannot equate danger with my loving, watchful Rosabelle all around me. And, Miss Emma says my spirit is a protector and a champion for Overton women. For sure, I am a legitimate Overton woman. Where, then, is the danger? Who, then, should I be wary of? My own kinfolk? Eddie Mills? Someone lurking in the woods? Someone who knows more than he or she should? How should I conduct myself any differently? What is this old family retainer holding out on me? And, why?

  Also, how very odd it is that Rosabelle’s vendetta against Grandfather Thomas parallels what Luke and Abe call pranks of the Night Riders. If it is, indeed, Rosabelle who is now vandalizing the property, the question that looms large is why? Surely, she doesn’t have a bone to pick with poor old Abe. Or, does she take revenge on men, in general?

  I’ve learned a lot from Miss Emma, my “ghost” on the lawn, but I have the feeling it is only the tip of the iceberg. I am as confused as ever.

  Oh, Diary, I need Luke. Need to let him know that he was successful—that he convinced Miss Emma to let go of some secrets, if not all she knows. Need to confide in him that there may be danger for me here. Need him to put his strong arms around me and tell me everything will be all right. Then, I think, how can I be so selfish, knowing that Luke is rightly centered on Abe’s critical condition. I never imagined that the home of my ancestors would dredge up so many conflicting emotions and events as to change my life forever.

  Well, on with my day. I’ll catch some Z’s, and then I can look forward to an afternoon playing mindless games with Jeff, riding my beautiful Sasha, paddling away my worries in the lake. I vow to put the night’s revelations behind me for as long as the sun shines on this day and place all my thoughts and hopes, instead, on Abe’s recovery.

  The a
ntique cup can hold my little pile of saved rose petals.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Oh, boy! Did I get in trouble today!” Jeff announced with a grimace as he skipped from left to right, serpentine-fashion, through the green tunnel.

  I had never seen a kid tell on himself like my cousin. “What happened, Jeff?”

  “Oh, Tina made me sit in the timeout chair for fifteen minutes during recess.”

  “Tina?”

  “Tina’s my counselor at day camp. Sometimes she’s mean.”

  “What did you do? I mean, why’d you have to sit in the timeout chair?”

  “I was bumping the seesaw is all. Stupid Jennifer told on me.” He frowned. “Girls don’t like it when you bump the seesaw. They only want you to tap it on the ground. Sheesh. Girls are such sissies.” He looked at me quickly. “’Cept for you, Ashby. You’re way cool.”

  He stopped to watch a salamander crawl over a rock. “Can you ride? Is your hurt hand okay now?” Before I could answer, his quick mind had jumped ahead. “Let’s ask Miss Emma if she can pack a picnic for us to take on the trail. We can eat under a tree.”

  I laughed. “My wrist is A-OK. And the picnic would be a fine idea, except that I understand Miss Emma is taking the day off. How about you and I make up some PBJs and a thermos of lemonade?”

  “Hey! Maybe Luke can come, too… Oh, I forgot. Luke’s still at the hospital with Abe, isn’t he?” Jeff’s face clouded. “When is Abe coming home, Ashby?”

  “I wish I knew, Jeff.”

  We entered the house with Jeff headed for the kitchen at a sprint. “Come on, Ashby,” he hollered at the top of his lungs.

  “Jefferson, Jefferson! Where is your indoor voice?” Aunt Monica held her hands to her ears as she emerged from a side room. “Now, I want you to go back to the front door and come in again, this time like a civilized young man who has learned some manners.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes at me when he was sure his mother could not see. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve had a rough day.”

  I suppressed a laugh, gratified to see that my aunt was also amused. “He had to sit in the timeout chair,” I said in an aside to her. “Bumping the seesaw.” She chuckled.

  “Oh, that is much better,” she said as Jeff entered the house in slow-motion and practically on tiptoe. “Now, I have some very good news for you and Ashby. I have just come up from Miss Emma’s room. She is feeling too tired to work today, but she wanted to be sure you both know. Luke called to say Abe is out of ICU and that he is on the mend.”

  “Oh,” I squeaked. “That’s wonderful. Jeff and I were just wondering when Abe would get back home.”

  “That has not yet been determined,” Monica said. “But Luke sounded very relieved. I believe he plans to come home himself sometime today.”

  “Abe’s getting well? He’s coming home? We’ll have to celebrate, right, Ashby?” His gaze turned from me to his mother. “Can me and Ashby pack a lunch, Mom? We want to take the horses for a picnic in the woods.”

  “Ashby and I, Jefferson,” Monica corrected. I watched her hold out her arms for a hug from Jeff before she bent to kiss his flying hair. “I love you, sweet boy, you know that?”

  Jeff took off like a runner from the racing blocks, squealing his sneakers on the tile floor. “Thanks, Mom!” he called back over his shoulder. “Oops. Sorry about that.” He slowed to a walk but still managed to slam the door behind him.

  “Thank you, Ashby,” my aunt said with a smile, leaving me wondering what she meant as she moved to go. “Oh, by the way, Hunter said to ask you to join us for family night at the Club this evening. It is a seafood buffet, I believe. Music, games, I suppose. I am afraid we have not attended very many family nights, but I hope that is going to change.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Monica. Thanks for including me, but I’d like to be here if Luke comes home from the hospital tonight. We’ve…we’ve become…good friends. I think he may need someone to talk to after the scare with Abe and all…”

  “I understand completely, my dear. So thoughtful of you to want to be there for Luke. I shall tell Hunter it will be just the three of us for tonight.” With a warm smile, a little wave, and what I thought might be the barest hint of a wink, she turned and wafted down the hall.

  I heard a signal from my cell phone. Quickly stepping outside, I flipped it open to read the text: MEET ME AT STABLE, 6:30 2NITE. L.

  My thumbs flew as I typed my reply. C U THEN. LUV U.

  I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm myself. Jeff and I would take our horseback ride, enjoy our picnic, and I’d still have plenty of time to freshen up before meeting Luke. I had so much to tell him. So much to ask. And, then, there were those strong arms of his. My heart flipped at the thought. “Luv U,” I whispered to the phone.

  * * * *

  A crack of thunder startled me from a deep sleep. The last thing I remembered was propping my laptop for a quick diary entry as I settled back against the headboard. I awoke with my hands still resting on the keyboard. Shaking my head, I tried to clear the sleep-fog from my mind.

  Jeff and I had had a long, hard, exhilarating ride, a race and a canter and a trot and another race after our peanut-butter picnic. My slumber party with Miss Emma at the gazebo the night before had drained me, and the heavy Virginia humidity before the thunderstorm had sapped every atom of my remaining energy. I’d returned to my room, sweaty and exhausted, taking what I thought would be a few minutes to refresh my mind at the keyboard before showering. I planned on ample time for dressing, primping, even a little makeup, which I rarely bothered with.

  So, I’d slept for two hours, according to my digital clock. It glowered its neon-green numbers: 7:00 p.m. Bloody hell! Luke would be waiting for me at the stable, wondering whatwas keeping me. If he’d tried to text me, my dead zone of a room would’ve prohibited communication.

  As I scrambled to log off my computer, the screen held my attention. What was this? A whole page of gibberish. Numbers, letters, capitals, symbols, even some italics scattered at random, all splattered on the screen as if a two-year-old had played the keyboard like a piano. Did I write this? Hey, I knew I was pooped when I went to type a diary entry. I mean, I fell asleep over the keyboard, but no way could I have written this gobble-de-gook. I tried to pull up my pre-sleep mind. I remembered writing Dear Diary. Yes. Those two words were clear. They were the only two real words to be found. Except…wait a minute! From the alphabet soup before me, I sorted out one word, all caps: FREE. Actually, it was 3u*c-!FREE!P9&fft. My eyes scanned the page again and again until I was convinced that was all there was to be read: FREE.

  “Rosabelle’s left me another message.” I sighed. “Rosabelle!” I shook my fist at the ceiling. “Your timing is terrible! I’m a mess and I’m late and I so wanted my meeting tonight with Luke to be perfect.” I looked all around for the telltale rose but came up blank. I could not shake the notion that I, myself, had actually written the script before me.

  With no time to clean up, I threw on a fresh T-shirt and ran a brush through my frowsy hair, looking with alarm at myself in the oval mirror. There was nothing romantic about the way I looked.

  My eyes fell on the china cup in which I’d been collecting my rose petal mementos. What? Out of nowhere a round crystal container had appeared beside it. Invitingly feminine, the container looked every bit as old and fragile as the ancient coffee cup. Lifting the lid, I smelled the faint fragrance of roses emanating from under a yellowing powder puff. Wondering how long the dusting powder had resided in its container, I powdered a liberal sprinkling under my arms and down my bra. “Okay, Rosabelle,” I whispered. “I get it.” Then, smoothing my spotty cut-off jeans as best I could, I jammed my feet into my flips. “Hang on, Luke! I’m on my way.”

  Outside, I was showered with a curtain of rain. I needed a shower, but not this kind. I tried to jump over the puddles along the path to the barn, which did nothing but splash muddy water clear up to the cuffs of my shorts. My rubber flip-flops slipped and slid
on the wet stones, causing me to slow down, lest I pitch head-first into the muck. By the time I reached the stable, I was a total disaster, soaked, muddy sweaty, and panting with frustration. Sasha greeted me with liquid eyes and a nickering for treats, but Luke was nowhere to be found.

  “Luke? Luke?” The door to the office was open, but the tiny room was empty. Did he give up, think I wasn’t going to show? I wondered with a sinking feeling in my gut. Then I saw the hand printed sign on the desk: “ASHBY: Follow my shoes.”

  Completely baffled, I looked around for Luke’s shoes. Running shoes? Boots? Sandals? What the heck did he want me to do? Leaving the office and returning to the stable, I finally spied a decrepit pair of flips butting flat up against the wall. “Am I supposed to follow his shoes through the wall?” I grumbled. “Good grief, Luke. What are you thinking?” Only then, as my eyes traveled directly up from the flips, did I realize there were wooden slats nailed into the stable wall, straight up like a tree house ladder and the same weathered gray as the siding. “Of course. The hayloft.” Sluffing off my own slippers, I dug in my toes and began the climb to the trap door in the ceiling, which I had never before even noticed.

  Reaching the top, I knocked on the small hinged door with one fist, gripping the rustic ladder with my other hand, afraid I might plunge straight to the floor of the stable. The trap door opened only a few inches on its rusty hinges.

  “What’s the password?” Luke poked his head through the crack to ask.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “Nope. Sorry I’m late is not the password. Try again.” He shut the trap door, then flung it wide and reached for my hands and pulled me up into the loft.