A Red Red Rose

by Susan Coryell

We both laughed before he took me in his arms. When I could catch my breath, I looked around. The small area was set off by a cliff of hay bales on one wall. The warm smell of dry hay permeated the loft and made me sneeze. Occasional puffs of damp outdoor air from the one window freshened the atmosphere. Rain tapped percussion on the tin roof. Luke had spread a blanket over a couple of bales to fashion a makeshift table where he had arranged plates and napkins and forks, a platter of cold fried chicken, potato salad, and a pile of brownies. A battery-operated light that looked like a Coleman lantern cast a soft glow over the repast.

  “I checked in with Aunt Emma. She claimed she’d been resting all day and was full of energy. She insisted on sending me away with all this food,” Luke said. “Y’ shoulda seen me tryin’ to haul it up here. She threw in an old quilt for good measure. D’ya think she knew there’d be two of us for dinner?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me one bit,” I plopped on the floor that was slick with years of hay storage. “Miss Emma is omniscient.”

  Luke handed me a bottle of cold soda, then opened one of his own. “The soda is my contribution. Dig in. If you’re as hungry as I am, we can finish this off in no time.”

  “Come to think of it, I’m starving.” I held out my plate for chicken and salad. “Now, tell me all about Abe. Everybody is so worried.”

  “Abe’s a tough old bird. Th’ doctors were actually surprised, I think, when he rallied like he did.”

  “When will they release him from the hospital?”

  “Don’t know. It’s one-day-at-a-time.”

  “Luke, Miss Emma took me out to the gazebo in the middle of the night to tell me all kinds of things about Grandmother Lenore and Rosabelle and…”

  “I know all about it.” He pointed to the picnic dinner. “While she whipped up this dinner, she filled me in.” Luke pulled me up from the floor. “I thought we’d never be alone.”

  I swiped my hand over my hair, suddenly self-conscious about my disheveled look. “I wanted to look nice for you tonight. But I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I couldn’t believe what I’d written on my laptop…and I don’t understand how…”

  He put his finger on my lips. “Shush. You’re even more beautiful than ever. And you smell like roses!”

  They say love is blind, I thought. I made an impatient gesture. “But I have to tell you about my computer screen. There was all this crazy writing, and…”

  “Remember when we were stargazing?” Taking my hand, Luke led me to a low stack of hay bales, tossing Miss Emma’s quilt on top. The natural light was growing dimmer by the minute. “There’s no stars tonight, so let’s just lie here and listen to th’ rain on th’ roof.” Pushing one of the hay bales against the wall to make room, he folded his arms around me and bent his face to mine.

  Suddenly, Luke jumped up with a yelp. “Crap! What was that?” He began swatting the air around his face and shoulders. “Wasps! I must’ve jostled a nest when I moved that hay bale. Damn! They’re all over me!”

  Grabbing Luke’s hat from the floor, I flailed like a windmill, batting the manic insects right and left, trying to avoid stepping on them with my bare feet when they fell to the floor.

  We were two whirling dervishes as the wasps drove us to the other side of the loft. “Whew! They’re gone,” Luke sighed, after several stressful minutes of combat. He rubbed the front of his shirt. “They got me good.”

  “Here, take your shirt off. I’ll pour some of the cold soda on it and swab the bites.” I helped him pull the shirt over his head, gingerly stroking several swollen, red welts on his torso with my fingertips.

  “No need for swabs,” Luke said. “Can’t y’ just kiss the ouchies and make ’em well?” He pulled me against his bare chest.

  His skin smelled like summer, earthy and fresh. I could hear the drumming of his heart, louder than the rain above us. Against my cheek his chest hair felt silky and soft as a baby’s downy head. I pressed my lips to his warm, berry-sweet skin.

  “Did the wasps bite you?” His voice was low. “Can I kiss your ouchies for you?”

  Together we pulled off my T-shirt and unhooked my bra.

  Lightly, he stroked me with gentle fingertips. His lips were more insistent. With every touch, I felt liquid fire radiating beneath my skin, coursing through my body in peaks and valleys. “Th’ quilt,” I heard Luke say through the rush of feelings sweeping me from coherent thought.

  In one motion, we slipped to the floor.

  * * * *

  We sat cross-legged on a bale of hay, devouring fudgy brownies, still moist and soft from Miss Emma’s oven. The glow from the lantern cast funnels of light on the grainy walls of our little nest and the rain pattered a light rhythm on the roof as the storm tapered off. “Well, Luke, my favorite romance writers would certainly approve.” I licked my fingers.

  “Ya mean…about our roll in th’ hay?” He chuckled.

  “Don’t tell me! You’ve been reading English romances.”

  “Ha! No, I’m hooked on calculus.” He snagged the last chocolate morsel from the plate, holding it aloft like a prize. “Wanna share?”

  “Chocolate and love.” I smiled. “I’m full.”

  We sat quietly contented for several minutes before Luke spoke. “Now, what was it you were sayin’ before… Somethin’ about your computer screen?”

  “Oh, yeah. It was crazy. Words and letters and symbols all jumbled up and covering a whole screen page, not just a few lines like the BLOOD message. It made no sense until I made out the word FREE. I’m positive it wasn’t just a random spelling or something. FREE. What do you think it means?”

  “Rosabelle again?”

  “Funny, there was no rose. No song. No burned-down candle.” I thought for a moment. “Well, but there was this rose-scented powder.” I looked down my shirt and sniffed. “But when I woke up, I still had my hands on the keyboard. It was like I wrote it in my sleep. Like I was in a…”

  With an expression that clearly showed he questioned my sanity, Luke finished my sentence: “In a stupor?”

  “Uh, not exactly. Oh, I don’t know. I’ve read about such a thing. It’s called automatic writing—or something like that, when you write out words physically, but somebody else’s thoughts are guiding your hand.” I shivered. “Like Rosabelle is using my computer screen as her own electronic Ouija board.”

  “Well, it’s got me stumped. Aunt Emma gave me her take on th’ BLOOD message, y’ know, about th’ bloodlines, but what’s this Free? Free what? Free who? Why would a ghost, even a techno-ghost, write FREE on your screen?”

  “Maybe Rosabelle wants to free me of something.”

  “Hmmm. She could be referrin’ to herself, I suppose. Guess we’ll have t’ run this one by Aunt Emma, too.”

  “Oh, I haven’t told you about the coffee, either. When I came in from my gazebo gabfest with Miss Emma, I found a tray with coffee and a rose waiting for me on my bedside table. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you need a shoulder to lean on,” Luke put his arms around me.

  “While I’m leaning on your taut and muscular shoulder, maybe you can tell me why Miss Emma thinks I may be in danger. She has her suspicions, but she won’t tell me why or how or whom I should watch out for.”

  Luke pulled back to give me a skeptical look. “Taut an’ muscular? Ha! I like that. More from your romance writers?”

  “Nope. Straight out of my own book.”

  “Well, I don’t know what info my aunt could be hidin’, but if I had to guess, I’d say messin’ aroun’ with a violent ghost would have t’ be way up there on a list of dangers.” There was not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Maybe you’re right. Know any ghost busters around here?”

  Luke appeared to consider the question seriously. “Th’ way I understand it, kissin’ is the best way t’ ward off evil spirits. It sure worked for th’ bee stings.”

  He leaned in for a kiss, but I stopped him. “Wait. Remember the Wizard of Oz? There
was a wicked witch who caused all the trouble and then there was Glinda, the Good Witch of the East. Well, I know deep in my soul that Rosabelle is the Glinda of Overhome, at least for me. Why else the roses, the lullaby, the coffee? There’s an old love poem and she tunes the radio to serenade me with her favorite country music and writes me all-important messages on my lap top. Rosabelle is NOT wicked.”

  Luke frowned. “I wonder what ol’ Rosie thinks about our makin’ love. I’m not gonna end up dead on a dock like Eddie Mills’ dog, am I?”

  I grimaced. “God forbid! Although, Rosabelle does seem to have it in for males, you know, the dog, Sasha, and maybe even Abe. You know, it seems like the Night Riders are getting blamed for the very same things Rosabelle did to aggravate my Grandfather Thomas, according to Miss Emma.”

  I turned my face up for the promised kiss. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see, Luke. If Rosabelle’s on my side, she’s on yours. Still, unpredictable as she is, you might watch your step.”

  I scrambled to my feet, wiping brownie crumbs from my clothes. “Now, I’d better get in before our secret rendezvous is discovered.”

  “One last thing.” He drew me to him.

  “What? Another kiss? You’re beginning to remind me of Romeo, like in the balcony scene with Juliet. I believe he says, ‘Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?’”

  He tightened his grip. “Sorry. Shakespeare was never high on my reading list.”

  “Then, how about this. Juliet tells Romeo, ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’”

  “And he replies, ‘I love you.’”

  “Um…No, I don’t remember that in the script.”

  “Forget the script. This is me talkin’. I love you, Ashby.”

  “You sure know how to get another kiss.” I placed my hands on his cheeks, drawing him toward me.

  We climbed down the loft stairs and retrieved our footwear. “I’ve gotta spend some quality time with my favorite calc book,” Luke said, moving into his office. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Reaching into a drawer, he drew out something I recognized instantly: Abe’s scrapbook, crammed with my Grandmother Lenore’s mementoes. “I don’t think Abe would mind if you looked over this, Ashby. You might find somethin’ helpful in it.”

  I hugged the fragile book as if I might shield it from any harmful effects of night air. Another treasure from the past. My thoughts ran in rhythm with the soft plip-plop of my slippers on the damp stones. There was so much to think about.

  Dear Diary, Luke and I managed to escape for a few hours into a world of our own. A lofty world. A world free from ailment and uncertainty. “I love you.” Luke said it! “I love you, Ashby.” Yes, we’re in love. We made love. It was as natural as the rain on a tin roof.

  And now I have Abe’s scrapbook full of newspaper clippings and all kinds of press info, with photographs and facts, dates and names and events covering a pretty good chunk of my Grandmother Lenore’s life. I’m thinking I can find some clues here, thanks to Luke. He is keeping his word to help me solve the mystery of Rosabelle, the techno-ghost.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Feeling a little guilty about missing family night at my aunt and uncle’s club, I agreed to go shopping with Aunt Monica in Bradford, the county seat. I’d rather have spent the morning climbing onto Sasha and riding like the wind. I’d become addicted to horseback riding. I think riding provides the same endorphin high runners crave. Missing just one morning’s ride left me with withdrawal pains. Luke had gone to the hospital to see Abe, and Jeff would be hours at his piano lesson. I could have used the alone-time to commune with my beloved horse, but my aunt appeared so eager for my company. I didn’t have the heart to turn her down.

  We strolled through shops both quaint and trendy. Aunt Monica insisted on buying me some outrageously overpriced earrings and a silk scarf. The scarf I’d probably hand over to Mom someday, but I had to admit the dangly earrings were as fun as they were smart. I thanked her enthusiastically and, over a finger-food lunch at La Duchess Bakery, I modeled them for her.

  Aunt Monica patted her mouth delicately with the lacy, linen napkin. “Those earrings are so you, Ashby. They bring out the highlights in your eyes.” She placed her napkin beside her plate. “Now, I want to share a confidence.”

  I could not help remembering our last lunch date when she’d told me about her stuttering trauma and about my uncle’s “dark side,” I believe she called it, generated by his mother’s untimely death. Oh, Lord. What now? I thought. I never knew what to expect from my aunt, especially when we were away from the constraining mood and atmosphere of Overhome. Swallowing my inclination to protest, I smiled and tilted my head as a signal for her to begin.

  “I have already told you, Ashby, how grateful I am for your bringing out the best in Jefferson. I was so afraid he would turn into the self-centered, spoiled, only-child with no sense of family love and values.”

  “I-I don’t think…” I started to object, but she put up a hand to stop me.

  “No, no. Let me go on. He has positively blossomed under your guidance this summer. He has become a happy, self-sufficient, normal little boy. You already know how I feel about that.” She put her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “But there has been a totally unexpected bonus from your stay at Overhome. I have only just begun to realize it myself.” Shaking her head, as if with disbelief, she continued. “It’s Hunter. He has become so much more attentive, so attuned to Jefferson, to me, to family in general. You know, though he willingly spends quality time with Jefferson, I always had the feeling Hunter was humoring me, condescending to spend any time on what he considers my whims. It was as if he and Jefferson and I were three separate entities with nothing to connect us. Now, why, it was his idea to attend family night at the club. He has been talking about all of us spending a day at the Salem Fair together, and he has begun plans for a real family vacation this fall. Ashby, we have never had a trip away from Overhome, as a family, for more than a few days. Having you here has stirred a latent need in Hunter, triggered, I believe, his realization that family is all we have to remember us when we are gone.” She beamed with pleasure.

  I tried to look like I shared Monica’s enthusiasm, but I had the uncomfortable feeling she was making way too much of my uncle’s so-called metamorphosis. She so wanted him to be warm and loving to her, to pay attention to her emotional needs, that she was eager to count any spark on his part as the kindling to a fire.

  “Ashby, can you believe it? Hunter is now deep into researching an Overton genealogy. Oh, he has always been a history buff, but when it came to his own mother and father and brothers, he refused to talk about them, avoided any mention of the family’s past, all a part of that childhood trauma over his mother’s death, I suppose. Now, it seems he cannot get enough of poring over their papers and journals. Last night he got out a rubbing of the Overton gravestones he and Jefferson did some years ago. He is like a man possessed, determined to unearth every nuance about the family tree. He is spending hours in his study.”

  This revelation made me sit up and take notice. I gathered my wits about me before asking, as casually as possible, “Did you say Uncle Hunter has been poring over family journals?”

  “Why, yes. A short while ago, I came upon his mother’s memoirs quite by accident. I was looking for an old photo when I discovered Lenore’s diary. It was tucked back in the corner of an ancient wardrobe in the keeping room, as though someone wanted to hide it. When I showed Hunter my find, he was quite excited. Come to think of it, that was when he began to take interest in working on a genealogy.”

  The lost diary Miss Emma had been lamenting. Lenore’s diary. I wondered what Miss Emma would have to say about it, and how it had come to rest, hidden in the keeping room. I couldn’t wait to tell her.

  Suddenly, Monica looked beyond me and waved at a smartly-dressed woman. “Oh, hi, Bitsy. How nice to see you here.” My aunt beckoned her friend to our table.

  “Ashby, this is Bitsy Coleman. She and her family belong to
our club at the lake.”

  “Hello, Ashby.” Bitsy shook my hand. “You’re Monica’s niece, I believe.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  She looked at my aunt. “Oh, why don’t you and Ashby come with me, Monica? There’s a marvelous sale at the antique shop just a block away.”

  Aunt Monica cocked her head at me. “Ashby? Are you interested?”

  “Thanks, Aunt Monica, Mrs. Coleman, but, actually, I would love to check out the County Historical Society. We walked past it before lunch.”

  “My family!” Monica looked at her friend with a toss of her head. “They’re all obsessed with history.” She turned to me. “Why don’t you visit the Historical Society while Bitsy and I are antique shopping? We’ll come collect you when we finish.”

  “That’d be great, Aunt Monica. Thanks.” It was the moment I had been hoping for. Bitsy Coleman was a godsend.

  Once I stepped inside the reference room, I didn’t waste any time, but went straight for the files about the building of the dam. I’d been doing a lot of thinking about Rosabelle’s FREE message, and something my aunt had just told me gave me an idea. I hoped I’d find something here to help me out.

  I sorted through several files before I found what I wanted: the graves. An old newspaper clipping revealed that it took two years to find all of the graves located in the valleys to be flooded to create Moore Mountain Lake. Power company employees were given a map showing where the project would be built and were instructed to locate any and all graves. They talked with residents and churches for leads and spent a lot of time hacking through honeysuckle vines and other weeds to find headstones. The graves had to be found and the kinfolks located to see if they wanted their ancestors’ remains to be dug up and re-buried. Otherwise, the graves would be forever submerged in very deep water.

  The certified cemeteries were easy, according to one press release. It was the private graveyards and the slave graves that officials had to work to locate. In total, they pinpointed 78 individual cemeteries, with 1,371 graves. No grave could be moved without authorization. However, if the family wanted the graves left in place, they had to sign an agreement to that effect. Each re-location was documented with the name of the dead, the original burial site, and the re-interment site. The catalogue, the article noted, is available for genealogy research.