Shade and Shadow
by Theresa Jenner Garrido
Published by L&L Dreamspell
Spring, Texas
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Copyright 2008 by Theresa Jenner Garrido
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real people is a coincidence. Places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN- 978-1-60318-077-1
Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
For my sister and brother-in-law who introduced me to my sleepy beach island town.
PROLOGUE
She descended the narrow staircase into impenetrable darkness. The fingers of her left hand grazed the crumbling tabby wall for guidance. She should have brought a better flashlight. This ridiculous penlight was too feeble to compete with the suffocating blackness—a tangible Thing that seemed, somehow, alive and aware. She knew she should go back—tell the others of her discovery—but she didn’t. She wanted to taste and savor and gloat for a while. She did not want to share this incredible secret with anyone, least of all her sister. Maybe after the selfish prig apologized, she would show her. Maybe. Now, the adventure was hers and hers alone. Her own delicious mystery.
ONE
“I think insanity runs in my family, M.C.. Just thinking the word ‘ancestral’ gives me a prickly sensation up my back. Do you realize I’m on a plane right this very minute, headed for some freakin’ mansion somewhere in the Low Country of South Carolina? Did you hear me? Low Country. Know what that means? Swamps. I’m about ready to freak, here.”
Randy glanced around to see whether other passengers were listening. Convinced that no one was paying her the least attention, she continued speaking into the tiny phone pressed against her left ear. “If you’d told me a month ago I’d be visiting my mother’s ancestral home...isn’t that a great word...I would’ve said absolutely not. I mean, jeez. There’s no way I want to spend one night in a crumbling, Civil War monstrosity...let alone an entire month. And with relatives I’ve never met? M.C., I haven’t even talked to any one of them on the phone. Not ever. My stupid dad is being totally insane about this whole thing.”
The captain’s voice announcing departure interrupted M.C.’s sympathetic response. The pert flight attendant strolling up the aisle waved a hand in Randy’s direction and wrinkled her nose. With a shrug, Randy cut her friend short and said, “I gotta go. They’re telling us to turn off all electrical devices, yadda, yadda, yadda. I’ll call you when I get there. Bye.” She snapped the cover shut and tucked her cell phone in her purse.
Staring out the window at nothing in particular, Randy thought about this trip her dad had forced upon her. The whole thing was stupid. And grossly unfair. Her mother had been dead for over ten years, and she and Dad had absolutely nothing to do with these South Carolina relatives.
That they were her mother’s own family was beside the point. They weren’t her family—well, in the familial sense, anyway—and she had no desire to meet them now. She didn’t even remember her mother. She’d been only three when her mother, Emily Bainbridge Smith, had her fateful head-on collision with a drunk driver. No, this little jaunt wasn’t her idea.
And the piece de resistance? Her dad had the gall to get married the day before yesterday. After thirteen years of just Dad and she, living side by side in their comfortable rut (Gladys, their housekeeper, didn’t count) he’d gone and met wealthy widow, Phyllis Sheldon, fallen head over heels in love, and proposed. As nauseatingly simple as that. A real fairytale ending. And while they prepared to cavort all over Europe on their honeymoon, she, Randy Lynn Smith, was about to embark on a disquieting and most inconvenient journey into the vast Unknown. Thirty-some miles south of Charleston, a motley group of total strangers waited for her.
She’d wanted to stay in Seattle with Gladys. She’d intended spending the whole idyllic summer with M.C. They were going to fill the hours shopping, swimming, water skiing, discussing their upcoming junior year in high school, what colleges they’d send applications to, and whether Dennis G. Folgerty and Cindi Ann Manzanetti would still be an item next fall.
But, oh no. Good old Gladys, who’d been with them for as long as Randy could remember, needed a vacation. She planned to visit her sister in Arizona whom she hadn’t seen in over five years. That was fine with Randy. Gladys could go. She deserved a break. That shouldn’t have anything to do with her. She was sixteen, after all, and very capable of sticking a frozen dinner in the microwave and locking the door at night.
Even though Randy had begged and argued and cajoled, insisting that at sixteen, she could stay by herself—even get her own apartment, and why didn’t he trust her since he was the one who raised her? Her dad hadn’t budged. Her age and reliability didn’t matter. It was time, he’d said, for her to meet her mother’s family. She had aunts and uncles and cousins she didn’t even know, and a grandmother who’d like to see her before she died. It was settled. Her uncle would meet her at the airport.
Playing her last card, she’d complained that it would be impossible for her to find this ‘uncle’ in a major airport since she’d no idea what he looked like, and wasn’t going to walk around carrying a sign declaring her name in big, block letters. Her dad had only laughed. “Oh, Randy, Randy, you’re priceless.”
She’d come back with, “Priceless, am I? Jeez, Dad. Get serious. I don’t even know these people. They’re complete strangers.”
“I know, my dear, and it’s my fault,” he’d sighed. “I take full blame for that.” He ran a hand through his thick brown hair with the gray smudges at the temples and contrived to look crestfallen. “When your mother married me, I was living in Seattle so we settled here. Our life was busy...what with my burgeoning law career...and, well, let’s just say we never seemed to have time to spend on traveling anywhere, not even to the East Coast. And, then, of course, there was the problem with your aunt. Your mother and she’d had a falling out. We didn’t talk about it much. Your mother said the past was the past, and she only wanted to live for today and plan for tomorrow.” At mention of her mother, his forehead had creased, making his heavy eyebrows look like a furry caterpillar.
She’d countered with, “So why are you making me go to a place my own mother hated?”
“I never said she hated it, Randy,” he’d answered right back. “Your mother loved the old plantation house.”
“Great. She loved the house but hated the people.”
“Oh, Randy, be reasonable…” and he’d left it at that.
Now, as she leaned back against her seat and closed her eyes, the thought of meeting relatives who were absolute strangers bothered her more than she wanted to admit. They meant nothing to her. There was nothing to draw her thoughts their way, no mental images. She barely remembered her mother. Only a hazy picture of a woman rocking her in a huge wooden rocking chair tickled her memory. Whenever she caught a whiff of lilac perfume, the rocking chair memory teased her. It was never quite there—just a phantom-like thought that played hide-and-seek with her consciousness.
She had to empty her mind—think about something else. She put on the in-flight earphones and settled back to listen to music. No use worrying about it now. There’d be plenty of time when she arrived.
The f
light to Atlanta went without incident although it was long and tedious sitting still for so long, and she was more than happy to disembark. A sauna greeted her as she stepped off the plane, however, and the sudden blast of hot, moist air shocked her. It felt like someone had thrown a heavy wool blanket over her, making it hard to breathe. So not Seattle. She wouldn’t last the month. And wasn’t Charleston supposed to be hotter than Atlanta, which sat at a relatively high altitude?
This is great, Dad, just great. Thanks a lot.
TWO
Randy made her way through the dozen or so people milling around the rather laid-back Charleston airport and searched the faces for a flicker of interest. Nobody caught her eye. Most stared straight ahead or talked with companions as they made their way to baggage claim. She was on her own, so with a half-hearted shrug and a roll of her eyes, she found the correct carousel and waited as suitcases and duffel bags rode the turning track.
Spotting her suitcases, she made a frantic lunge for the bigger of the two. Hefting it over the carousel’s edge, she waited for the smaller one to make its way around again. When a hand touched her shoulder, she flinched and whirled around to face an older man with watery blue eyes. At her look, his outstretched hand retracted.
“E-excuse me, miss, but...would you...by any chance...be Miranda Smith?”
Caught off guard—she blamed it on the heat—Randy just returned his stare for a second.
“I’m-I’m sorry if I-if I startled you,” he said, his right eye twitching so much her eyes couldn’t leave it. “I was...I was looking...for my niece, Miranda Smith...and I saw that you were alone...and about the right age...and I thought...I thought...”
Randy blinked, wet her lips, and pulled her gaze from his right eye. “Yeah. I mean, yes, I’m Randy Smith.” She extended a hand. “Hello.” He was as tall as her father—who was over six feet—of slender build and in remarkably good shape for a man who had to be close to seventy. His thick, wavy hair was snow-white and combed back from his face. He was a handsome man—if you liked the retro thirties look—but the pronounced facial tic betrayed his discomfiture. It was obvious the old guy was not a happy camper. She nodded again, hoping to encourage him. “Hello?”
He appeared confused for a moment then smiled in relief. “Oh, fine...fine...hello...I’m so glad I found you, my dear.” He took out a large white handkerchief with the initial ‘B’ monogrammed in one corner and wiped his perspiring face. Hesitating, he looked around as though uncertain of what to do next.
“And you?”
“I beg pardon…”
“And you are?”
A flood of color bathed his neck. He’d already picked up her suitcases but set both down, took out the limp handkerchief and once again mopped his face. Randy noticed that the facial tic grew even more pronounced.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear,” he stammered. “How thoughtless and gauche of me. What would Amanda say...dear me.. I am...I am your Uncle Arthur, uh, that is...Arthur Philip Bainbridge...your dear deceased mother’s eldest brother.” He sucked in a ragged breath.
Randy was tempted to demand some identification but instead said, “Well, Uncle Arthur, I’m glad to meet you. Do you live at the house with my grandmother and Aunt, uh, Amanda?”
“Yes, yes, I do. It’s a big house, my dear...a big house. Plenty of room...plenty of room...”
“Great,” Randy muttered.
With a suitcase in each hand, Uncle Arthur led the way out of the terminal. Randy followed, her eyes soaking up everything around her. She gasped when he stopped behind a maroon oddity taking up two parking spaces. She’d never seen a car like it before and asked the make and model.
“This? Oh...it’s a...it’s a Plymouth...a 1952 Plymouth, P-23, Cranbrook, to be exact,” he explained as he put the bags into the back seat and ushered her into the front.
Randy shook her head in amazement. “1952. You’re kidding, right? You’re telling me that a car that old hasn’t bottomed out yet? You’re pretty close to the ocean. How’ve you managed to keep it from rusting to oblivion?”
Her uncle coughed as he inserted the key and started the engine. “Yes, well, I know…it is a bit strange, no doubt, but true, nevertheless. Automobiles are so expensive these days. Therefore, we take very good care of ours. Don’t want to waste money on something we don’t need. No...we don’t want to do that.” Another clearing of the throat. “We, uh, also have a 1973 Ford at home, but I...I like to give the Plymouth a run...now and again.”
Randy didn’t say another word as she digested this piece of information. The uneasiness returned. What was she getting herself into? What kind of people drove cars thirty and fifty years old? And good ol’ Uncle Arthur stepped straight out of a Dickens novel. It was too bizarre. Wait ’til she told M.C.
They drove on the highway for an eternity, then made an abrupt turn onto a two-lane road bordered with large oak trees dripping Spanish moss. Uncle Arthur had the windows closed, but no air conditioner cooled the old car. Perspiration dripped down Randy’s face and neck making her wet and sticky and just a tad carsick.
“Excuse me, Uncle Arthur, do you mind if I open a window? I’m really hot.”
Uncle Arthur, who’d been mopping his face with the now limp white handkerchief, nodded. “Yes...yes, of course...open your window...don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”
Randy struggled to crank open her window. It took a few seconds to wrestle with the handle, but she managed. The hot wind felt good on her feverish face. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head on the door. Her short hair blew into a tangled mess, but she didn’t care. The wind, humid as it was, cooled her and, when she closed her eyes, the queasiness lessened.
She dozed for a while, only stirring when they turned onto a bumpy gravel road. Wide marshes stretched out on either side, and Randy could smell the grasses and slimy black mud. She wrinkled her nose at the rotten egg odor. Oh, great. This must be the ‘Low Country’.
In the blink of an eye a jungle-like growth of tall pines and live oak trees swallowed them whole. The spreading branches met overhead in a canopy of vegetation, leaving the gravel road beneath lost in shadows dimpled by spots of sunlight. Randy sat up and took in the eerie surroundings. Day had melted into a ghostly twilight.
“Gosh, it’s dark in here, isn’t it?” She glanced up at her elderly uncle. She noticed that his hands clenched the steering wheel and his eyes—the one twitching to beat the band—were glued to the road. He didn’t act like he’d even heard her. “Uncle Arthur? Uncle Arthur?”
As though she’d snapped her fingers in front of his face, her uncle gave a start and glanced her way. “Oh...sorry, m’dear...lost in thought...bad habit...”
“It’s okay.” He was just getting old. It occurred to her that she didn’t know many elderly people.
They drove through the open gate in a high stone fence; down a long lane lined with more gnarled live oaks wearing beards of Spanish moss. The sign at the gate read The Shadows. No wonder. The place was drowning in gloominess. At the end of the long driveway, a large brick and wood house sat in the gauzy darkness like a giant mythological being waiting for its prey. It seemed to be cringing—avoiding the sunlight. Vines crawled up one side of the house and over and under and in and out of the iron railing enclosing a large porch that took up three sides of the old mansion. Tall Doric columns graced the front entrance. Paint curled up in several places, giving the walls a nasty case of eczema.
Randy stared at the monstrosity with mouth open. The scene was right out of a movie—a horror movie. A low-budget horror movie. Was this really where her mother had grown up? This was the place her father said her mother had loved as a girl? It seemed impossible. Even in mid-afternoon, the place wallowed in shadows. No sunshine welcome here.
Uncle Arthur parked the car beside a large barn-like structure that Randy assumed served as the garage. She fumbled with the handle then almost fell out of the car in her haste. The house stood four stories high with little win
dows in small gables at the very top. Wide stone steps led up to the front door, which faced the marsh and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Randy could hear the faint crashing of breakers in the distance and wondered whether she’d be able to get to the beach that day. Dipping into warm seawater would do a lot for her morale.
The front door opened, as though on cue, and two women and a girl about Randy’s age stepped onto the wide veranda. One of the women—who looked to be in her fifties or sixties—shaded her face with her hand as if the light bothered her eyes. Randy wondered how such dim shadows could be considered too bright to look at. Too weird.
“Come along, my dear...meet your aunts and your cousin...they are waiting...they are waiting,” Uncle Arthur pointed to the women and, with a hand on her shoulder, guided her along as though she might lose her way. At the foot of the stone stairs, Randy looked up at the three strangers and swallowed, waiting for one of them to make the overture.
The older woman—the one who’d shaded her eyes—was tall, thin, and stern. Her black hair, streaked with gray, was done up in a severe style that accentuated the firmness of her narrow face. She gazed down at Randy and nodded. The girl standing beside her pushed long, brown hair away from her face with a languid hand and stared at Randy like she was a curiosity in a museum. After what seemed an eternity, the other woman spoke.
“Well, well...I’d know you anywhere. You are the spittin’ image of your precious mama. Come up here, honey. We aren’t goin’ to bite.”
Slapping a smile on her face, Randy started up the stone steps until she was within arm’s length of the speaker—a blond, plumpish woman of indeterminate age. Randy stuck out her right hand. “Hello, I’m Randy...”
The woman clasped both of her slender hands around Randy’s one and smiled. “Hello, Randy, I am Carolina, Colton’s wife.”
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