Traces

by Betty Bolte

  Traces

  Ghosts of Roseville, Book 1

  Betty Bolté

  Published 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62210-101-6

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr., Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © Published 2014, Betty Bolté. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Meredith Reed, a forty-year-old architect turned demolition expert, desperately searches for the means to bury her grief. When she inherits her family’s historic plantation home in Tennessee, she decides to start anew by razing the antebellum house and replacing it with a memorial garden. A plan met with outrage from her family and her grandmother's estate lawyer.

  James Maximillian “Max” Chandler needs two things to complete his life plan: become a senior partner and find his soul mate. He’s been promised a promotion once his proposed legislation to protect all of the county’s historic properties is approved. The wife part he finds more challenging, having never met the right woman in all of his forty-six years. If only the talented and attractive Meredith weren’t so aloof toward him and didn’t want to destroy the very property he’s grown to cherish.

  Meanwhile, Meredith’s estranged sister moves in and refuses to leave. The memories of their childhood spent there causes turmoil between them. And while Meredith struggles to reconcile her past and her future, she learns a lesson from the spectral Lady in Blue that may save both her family and the family home from destruction.

  Dedication

  To Chris, my own forever love.

  Acknowledgements

  Not only does it take a village to raise a child, I’ve learned that it takes one to write a book, as well. My dear friend, Deborah Neel, shared her architect’s eye and reaction to architecture to inform Meredith’s view of the plantation house. Rhonda Pepper, Facilities Development Engineer at NASA Marshall Space Flight Center, and Thad Stripling, Civil Engineer at NASA Marshall Space Flight Center, provided insights into the world of demolition and restoration of historic buildings. The owners of the Rattle and Snap Plantation, Dr. Michael and Bobbi Kaslow, graciously answered many questions about the history of their property. Jillian Rael, the director of the Fayetteville-Lincoln County (Tennessee) Public Library, educated me on the National Register for Historic Places and how Tennessee historic properties are managed. Michael C. Moore, State Archaeologist and Director of the Tennessee Division of Archaeology, answered my questions about regulations and procedures surrounding private cemeteries and burial sites in Tennessee. Patrick McIntyre, Jr., Executive Director and State Historic Preservation Officer of the Tennessee Historical Commission, answered my questions related to procedures to be followed after finding remains on personal property. Last, but by no means least, my nephew, Ben Hay, trumpeter and musician extraordinaire, provided guidance on the appropriate music choices for the high school concert and solo. Thank you all for your willingness to share your expertise with me.

  Chapter 1

  Meredith Reed glared at the plantation home she’d inherited from a grandmother she only vaguely recalled and plotted its demise. A pair of ancient live oaks, the inspiration for the Twin Oaks name, guarded either side of the sprawling two-story brick dwelling, providing shade and funneling cool air through the house. Sunlight filtered through the Spanish moss draped on the massive limbs. Meredith raised one hand to shield the glare as she scanned the façade. The architect in her appreciated the symmetry of the Greek Revival style as well as the quality workmanship of the brickwork, but neither aspect added value for the salvage companies.

  First, she’d dismantle it one piece at a time, removing anything of value and selling it off quickly to whomever had the money to buy it. She studied the once-elegant antebellum house, its wide front steps missing a brick here and there, its six elaborate Corinthian columns and intricately carved woodwork surrounding the double doors. The property description listed ten bedrooms, four bathrooms dating from the early twentieth century, a gourmet kitchen, two parlors, an upstairs ballroom, and several outbuildings. Despite the building’s grand scale, the house was too small to warrant using dynamite to implode. Damn. But she could visualize a nice, hot fire licking up the exterior. Yes, a fire would serve the purpose of bringing it down.

  The estate lawyer, Max Chandler, who had driven her out to the four-hundred-acre property, had barely spoken during the entire trip except to relay pertinent details of the surprise inheritance, including the fact she had also inherited her grandmother’s sizable and diversified investment account. She’d have preferred to drive her own car, especially since he drove one of those redneck pickup trucks. Sitting in any vehicle, let alone with an attractive man, set her teeth on edge. Worrying about what might happen tensed every muscle in her body. He also didn’t need to know how edgy being with him made her, as if her skin burned the closer he drew. But he’d insisted until she ungraciously relented. She picked her fights, and that one wasn’t worth the effort. The rolling Tennessee countryside had flowed past the window, immense fields dotted with horses and cows. Green shoots poked through the tilled earth in rows, reaching for the early spring sunshine. She’d noticed her surroundings automatically, but none of the hauntingly familiar sights held her interest. Once she no longer sat in the unfamiliar truck, her tense muscles eased, and she drew a deep breath as she studied the building.

  Why on Earth had her grandmother, whom she hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years, chosen her to receive the grandiose house that stood for everything she would never have? The family she could never have? Pain combined with a deep-seated longing blossomed in her chest. Three front steps led up to a brick porch with its immense white columns announcing to passersby that the building was more than a house. Unlike the small, boxy ranchers and nondescript houses they’d passed on the drive to the plantation, this structure cried out for a large family. Her parents had often carried her and her sister Paulette from Memphis to visit Grandma when she was a young child. Back when love and laughter echoed through the many rooms. The huge yard, graced with several shade trees—the site of barbecues and softball games, with the extended family arguing over who potentially cheated or whooping with glee when a good shot was made—now stood silent, accusing her of neglect and indifference.

  So be it. She stiffened her spine. She would not wallow in self-pity nor give in to the temptation to hug her arms around her waist and cry. She squinted at the glare from the windows nestled into the brick walls, noting the ivy climbing up one front corner. Willy would want her to move on, build a new life, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Even after five years, the grief and anger stewed in her brain, sizzled in her veins, and throbbed in her heart. But soon Twin Oaks would help her define the path to alleviate the pain. She’d finally struck on a course of action that would assuage her turmoil, thanks to the surprising inheritance. She’d bury her grief through the catharsis of a fresh beginning by returning the once-beautiful but now decaying plantation to nature. Let the land heal her, as her grandmother had long ago told Meredith their Irish ancestors believed, though perhaps not in the way she meant.

  “Shall we go inside?” Max leaned his tall frame against the hood of the green F-150 pickup, arms folded, his curiosity evident in his expression
.

  The color of his eyes as he waited for her response reminded her of the crystal blue of glacier ice, and that thought evoked the bittersweet memory of her and Willy on their honeymoon trip to Alaska. The glorious clear sky that day had created a perfect backdrop to the pod of whales they watched blowing a mixture of air and water. She heard again the cry of eagles as they soared majestically above the surrounding mountains. The trip of her life with the love of her life. Back when they had their entire lives stretching before them, full of promise and hope.

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking the spell of Max’s intent gaze. She fished the contraption out and glanced at the screen before answering. “Buddy, what’ve you got for me?”

  “One close to home for you. Salisbury, Maryland.” Her boss’s brusque, businesslike voice helped her focus, steady her breathing. “An old chicken processing plant needs to be refurbished. Two months enough time for you to finish your mysterious personal errand and then go assess the scope and cost?”

  Scanning the front of the house, she automatically categorized which pieces of the architecture were salvageable. One shutter clung precariously to an upper window frame. Ultimately, what could be saved didn’t matter as much as how quickly she could do her job and subsume the grief into the ground. The chickens would have to wait, but soon she’d return to work. Hopefully, the inside decor didn’t include any faux painting. Otherwise, much of the woodwork would prove worthless. With any luck, the fireplaces would be real marble. She’d have to contact a local appraiser to determine the true value of the items worth recovering from a historical perspective. Then salvage anything else for scrap that would help offset the cost of either the heavy equipment needed to take it apart or for hiring the guardian firemen to conduct a controlled burn.

  Burning down the building in a controlled fashion tugged at her desire to contain the pain, to manage it and flush it once and for all out of her system. Perhaps afterwards she could breathe without the raw hiccup of intense grief snatching at her lungs. Maybe she’d be able to sleep in her half-empty bed without missing her Willy like a severed limb, the ghostly ache never far from her mind.

  A flash in an upstairs window drew her attention, and she peered at the pane. A pair of turkey buzzards spiraling high above reflected off the window, wings outstretched so that the tips of their feathers stood out against the sky. She didn’t have long, as her schedule stayed tight because her expertise remained in high demand. She’d figure something out, but her stay in the little rural community of Magnolia Grove, Tennessee, would last no more than a month, maybe two, tops. “Sure. That gives me enough time here to wrap things up. Is it a partial demolition or the entire thing?” She yearned for the satisfaction of a complete demolition, allowing a tiny spark of hope to kindle in her soul that she’d need dynamite to bring it down. The brief joy that thrilled through her when she ripped apart a building never lasted long enough to dissipate the pain in her heart.

  “Partial. I’ll e-mail you the details.”

  Meredith ended the call and slipped her phone back into her pocket as Max pushed off from his spot near the front of the truck.

  “What is it you do again?” Max aimed mirrored sunglasses in her direction.

  “Demolition.” She slid her purse strap more securely onto her shoulder. She snatched the manila folder off the hood of the vehicle, a file Max had handed to her at his office. Inside were copies of the legal papers he’d reviewed with her across his massive mahogany desk. “Why?”

  “Your grandmother said you were an architect. Demolition is a rather unique profession for a woman, isn’t it?” He let his gaze drift away from her to scan the hundreds of acres of fields and trees and the various outbuildings surrounding the plantation house. A circle of trees nearly hid the old gazebo from view, but they couldn’t stop the surge of memories of afternoons spent with her sister, Paulette, playing under its roof. Glimpses of white painted boards and black wrought-iron trim appeared through the dense branches and limbs sprouting with new growth.

  “I like to be different.” Meredith dropped her attention to the folder, severing the thread of the past, and turned a page without reading it. Once she’d built homes and offices, spaces conducive to living and loving, but that was five years ago. Why did Max care what she did? She slanted a questioning glance his way. “Keeps things interesting, ya know?”

  “I’d imagine. Listen, I hate to rush this,” Max said, his words clipped, “but I have a client to meet in an hour. Let me show you around.” He indicated for her to lead up the steps.

  Bristling at his tone, Meredith pinned him with a stare. “Look, you don’t need to. It’s been a while, true, but I have been here before. I know the layout. We can go.” Then she wouldn’t have to go inside and relive the happy, carefree days of her childhood through the weary eyes of an adult while Max watched.

  He shook his head, his dark chocolate hair touched with gray sweeping his collar, watching her. “Things have changed. You may be surprised by what you find inside.” He tapped a hand against one thigh and cocked his head to gaze at her for a long moment. “Either way, you should take stock of what you’ve inherited.”

  He didn’t appear much like a lawyer, truth be told. Didn’t lawyers wear prescription glasses and look nerdy? Not that she believed in stereotypes, but all that studying must make their eyes weak. Max was the other end of the spectrum. Perhaps her grandmother had a need for eye candy when she chose him as her estate planner.

  He was delicious to contemplate, that’s for sure. Probably a couple inches taller than a cornstalk with a soccer player’s physique, Max could double for a cover model. She appreciated his classic good looks, straight nose, and strong jaw. Dressed in khakis and a deep red polo shirt, he seemed more ready for a round of golf than a client meeting. He represented the unattainable type of man for her. The kind embodying something too smart, too handsome, too much for her taste. Even if she were in the market for a man, which she was not. None of that mattered since she would be staying in the area for a short while. Despite her hard shell of indifference to the opposite sex, she couldn’t help a moment of succumbing to the temptation of drinking her fill of his appearance. But only for an instant. If she let her guard down, her personal destruction would soon follow.

  “I don’t want to keep you, is all.” Meredith waved a hand at the vehicle. “I’m a big girl. Take me to my car. I’ll come back on my own.”

  “Actually, your grandmother made it clear she wanted me to show you around when you claimed the place,” he replied. “She wanted to be sure you appreciate the extent of the inheritance and had an opportunity to see how much work is needed to put it to rights. So, if you’ll follow me?” He nipped up the steps, obviously expecting her to concede the point.

  “And Grandma always gets her way.” With a sigh, Meredith shadowed him through the white double doors into the chilly front hall. She stopped inside the doorway to look around. The sickly smell of mildew hit her senses like a wrecking ball, bringing tears that smarted the corners of her eyes. Crossing the threshold into this house made her feel as though she stepped back in time to another era. “It’s exactly like I remember. Well, except for the smell.”

  Max nodded. “Mrs. O’Connell prided herself on ensuring any necessary repairs matched the original decor and architecture. But as time went on, she wasn’t able to keep up with the issues of an old, historic home. A few repairs will be necessary. Your talents, skills, and expertise are why she left Twin Oaks to you instead of your father. You know, so you can ensure the repairs are appropriate to its original grandeur.”

  Dark wood floors reached throughout the plantation house. The stairs rose slowly from the left, boasting dark wood treads with white painted fronts, up to a wraparound loft. A cherry table sheltered against the wall beneath the stairs, showcasing a dainty crystal lamp centered on a lace doily. She smiled, spying the small door standing invitingly ajar, leading to what she recalled was a games closet tucked under the stairs. A co
lorful rug bade guests to cross the space toward the ladies parlor on the right or the double parlor on the left. In days gone by, the gentlemen would have adjourned to the larger retreat after dinner to smoke and drink. Farther down the hall leading from the foyer, light spilled onto the wood floors from the windows in the back rooms. A chill settled on her shoulders. The back room on the right had been her grandmother’s sewing room—her favorite spot in the entire house—and the room in which she’d died, according to Max. Meredith shook off the thought and focused instead on the condition of the house.

  She moseyed into the parlor, noting the dusty, cobwebby, overstuffed chairs and dark wood furniture. Faded and peeling, the rose-patterned wallpaper competed with the brocade drapes for attention. Above the rose marble fireplace, she spotted the relief carving of the Irish Claddagh: two hands reaching toward the center where a heart wore a royal crown. Her grandmother loved to tell stories about the Claddagh, representing bonds of love, friendship, and loyalty. She inhaled, smelling dust and cold ashes from the fireplace mingled briefly with a faint yet familiar scent she couldn’t place. She mentally shook her head. No matter.

  Scanning the room, Meredith let her gaze touch each piece of antique furniture, each grimy objet d’art, each vase of tired silk flowers. The dismal scene before her contrasted sharply with how everything once shone with loving attention. She hardened her resolve. Emotional reaction must not sway her course. She had made up her mind before she even packed her little suitcase, tucked Grizabella into her cat carrier, and started her car to make the two-day drive through Roseville and back to Magnolia Grove. Back to her past. She couldn’t stay. Tennessee would never be home again. She’d call an auction company to take the furnishings and furniture. Then arrange for the dismantling of the house and outbuildings. What difference did it make if the floors were dusty or the furniture saggy? If cobwebs draped over everything like Spanish moss? Nothing would remain standing when she was finished returning the property to a green field.