“Sarah, James loved you. He couldn’t keep his promise because he died in battle.” Brianna remembered the medal Cynthia had showed her. “James was a hero, Sarah. He received the Distinguished Service Cross for dragging one of his comrades to safety, despite being mortally wounded. You would have been proud of him.”
A faint white vapor began to take shape on the landing. It took on more structure until a young woman stood before them, bathed in the amber hue from the stained glass window behind her. Sarah stood with the ethereal halo surrounding her body. She smiled when a second shape joined her—James, in his military uniform. He took Sarah’s hand in his, raised it to his lips, and kissed her palm.
A quick glance at Ben and Denise told her they were witnessing the same awe-inspiring vision.
A baby’s whimper disturbed the silence. Sarah now held a baby, wrapped in swaddling clothes, in her arms.
Love spilled from James’s eyes as he gazed at his child, nestled safely in the arms of his beloved Sarah. He stroked the baby’s cheek. With his arm around Sarah’s shoulders, the three specters slowly faded until they disappeared. A prism of amber light shining through the window was all that remained.
Brianna couldn’t find the words to express the deep emotions welling up inside.
Denise was the first one to speak. “Sarah was right; you were meant to save them. Your home is now clear.”
Ben and Brianna thanked Denise for coming on such short notice, and after arranging to meet her for dinner, Ben walked Denise to her car.
Brianna stayed in the vestibule, staring at the landing where the three ethereal figures had vanished. The house was filled with a lightness that wasn’t there before. The oppressive sadness was gone. She realized she loved this house. That was why she’d fought so hard to keep it. Her mother always kept a plaque in the kitchen that said, “Home is where the heart is.” That was so true. Ben had her heart, and it didn’t matter if they lived in Carmel or here in Fairmont. It would be home because they would be together.
She knew Ben had returned when the door latch clicked, echoing in the vestibule. She turned to face him.
“I’m glad Denise was successful,” he said. “You did great.” When she didn’t respond, he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face where tears threatened to spill. “Bree, you shouldn’t be sad. You found a way to bring the souls of James and Sarah together after all these years. That’s something to be proud of. Not many people get to see what we just witnessed. It was pretty awesome.”
“But they never had a chance. All they wanted out of life was to get married and raise a family. It wasn’t fair what happened to them or what happened to my parents. It makes me realize how fragile life is.”
“It is, so let’s not waste a moment of it. I’m thankful for what we have. Today, you’ve proven true love can overcome all obstacles, even death.”
The briefest smile touched her lips. She was thankful. Her parents had given her a wonderful life filled with love. She would miss them, but she would go. Denise had given her the peace she needed. Her parents were together, and her father had forgiven her. It was time to forgive herself.
Ben frowned.
“What’s wrong, Ben?”
“After everything you’ve gone through lately, I can’t believe you still love me.”
“Silly,” she said, giving him a playful push. “Not only do I still love you, I’ll love you forever.”
“Promise?”
###
NOW A SNEAK PEEK FROM GLENDARA: HOUSE OF LOST SOULS, ANOTHER BOOK BY D. L. MERRITT
Go back! Go back to Glendara! Those words had been a profound mantra in Casey Culpepper’s brain for months. Unsuccessful in ignoring the message, she surrendered and found herself driving down unfamiliar country roads under a sky full of threatening rain clouds.
A year of frustration bubbled to the surface after enduring miles and miles of road construction, and she wondered what had taken control of her otherwise logical brain that would compel her to take this journey.
The car in front of her came to an abrupt halt, forcing her to slam on the brakes, and her temper exploded.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me! Not another damn detour. I don’t understand why they have to work on the roads during the busiest time of the day.”
A man waved a flag to direct traffic into a single line. The car in the lane next to her edged over in an endeavor to cut in. The driver looked at her with an amused expression, and she realized he had observed her carrying on a conversation with herself.
To conceal her embarrassment, she rifled through her purse, pulled out her cell phone, held it up and continued to talk, hoping the man would assume the phone was on speaker and she wasn’t suffering from schizophrenia.
Several minutes later, the traffic began to flow again as the cars split into two separate lanes. She got lost after attempting to follow all the detour signs. The GPS was no help as it kept a continuous monolog of “recalculating, recalculating” until she gave up and switched it off.
After another thirty minutes and a few more curse words than usual, she arrived at her destination—Glendara. The car idled at the beginning of the gravel road leading to the plantation that belonged to the maternal side of her family. The property had passed from one heir to another for almost a century and a half. Her Aunt Abigail was the last family member to live here. After her death, it had passed to her mother and then it became hers—along with a sizable trust fund—the night her parents died.
I haven’t been here since that summer eighteen years ago. I’m here now, but why did you want me to come?
Requiring answers, she pressed the gas pedal to forge onward. As the car crawled toward the house, she squinted through the windshield at the abandoned two-story Victorian structure that stood steadfast at the far end of the lane, sinister and welcoming at the same time.
On occasion, fleeting shafts of daylight broke through the dark, gloomy clouds suspended as a backdrop in various shades of gray. It gave the house a sad, distressed presence.
Ancient oak trees lined both sides of the road. The abundant trailing vines of Spanish moss dangling from the branches created a cool canopy of green that mirrored the color of her eyes. As she surveyed the landscape, it appeared as if time had stopped centuries ago.
The car coasted to a stop at the front entrance as she eased off the gas. With the engine no longer purring, she took stock of the peeling gray paint and drooping black shutters that gave the house a perpetual frown. The wraparound porch with its pillared columns survived intact, but several spindles were missing from the railing. The house sat cradled between a massive magnolia tree with its white, cup-shaped flowers and a gnarled oak tree that had survived hundreds of years. The sweet fragrance of the blossoms drifted toward her on the wind.
The swing was still there, swaying in rhythm with the tempo of the rising breeze, although the rope looked threadbare. She had spent many happy hours on that oak branch that twisted and bowed before it almost touched the ground.
Kelly would love it here. No! Don’t go there. Don’t think of her. Not now.
As a solitary tear slid down her cheek, Casey jumped out of the driver’s seat, determined to block out the bitter memories and continue her assessment. She swiped at the dampness on her face and focused on checking the outer structure of the house. The elements and time had whisked away most of the roof tiles. Broken windows appeared blank, like the lifeless eye sockets of an ancient skull. She shivered, more from the drop in temperature than the eeriness of her surroundings, and pulled her sweater tighter across her chest.
The pungent, earthy aroma in the air announced the inevitable storm. The weatherman got it right, for once. I won’t have much time to snoop before it hits.
She hurried toward the house and stopped short of the porch steps to slip restless fingers through her sleek, dark-brown hair. Looking at the rundown house, she thought it would be more practical to pull the shoulder-length strands into a loose ponytail, and
she fumbled in her purse for a hair tie.
She approached with caution, not knowing what she would find inside. Even though the solid oak door hung askew from its rusty hinges, Casey could imagine the many happy returns as well as sad farewells that had passed this way.
Startled when a sudden gust of wind banged the front shutters against the side of the house, she paused to calm her pounding heart. Standing on the veranda, the smell, taste, and sound of the past lingered as the sweet scent of magnolia, mint julep, and the murmur of a genteel southern drawl still filled the air.
She reached into her pocket and touched the key. She’d spent hours rummaging through her parents’ trunks to find it. Even though she knew the violation of their privacy was necessary to gain access to her family home, the searing guilt and regret had cut like a knife.
Those trunks contained all she had left of her parents. With hands that trembled, she had touched each treasure with solemn regard. Her father’s favorite jacket still held the faintest scent of his spicy cologne as she’d buried her face in its leather folds. Her mother’s cherished collection of antique perfume bottles had survived the repeated packing and unpacking their nomad lifestyle had required.
Each possession she caressed held bittersweet memories, and a sharp pang of longing enveloped her. She yearned for the times when she would sit on her father’s lap, enveloped in his comforting arms while she listened to his velvety voice read her favorite bedtime stories.
She missed the gentle butterfly kisses of her mother when she tucked her into bed at night before smoothing the blankets into a cozy cocoon. Her father would then play the gallant knight and search the room, checking under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the closet for the ever-present boogeyman. After announcing the room clear of all monsters, he would kiss her good night with his usual parting words, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
How she wanted to recapture those days! They had slipped away, taking everything she cherished with them.
Leaves and branches flew across the front yard. She gazed at the darkening sky. She would need to hurry.
The key stayed hidden in her pocket, as the opening in the door was large enough for her to squeeze through. Once inside, she pushed hard on the heavy oak door, but between its hefty weight and the wind, she was unable to close it.
Advancing further into the house, she watched the scattered dust and leaves swirl in the air until settling on the floor to the right of the stairs. Casey followed its path to the room Aunt Abby had used as the study. Now it was empty where it had once held comfortable furniture.
A quick glance around revealed the wood floors had scratches and stains from years of use. The faded walls had dark patches where pictures once hung. The far wall’s built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase was devoid of all the old, weathered books she had loved to read. A rickety library ladder that had seen better days leaned against the wall in the far right corner.
This room had been her favorite place to play that summer. She would curl up on the recessed window seat and read stories that took her on the kind of adventures only a child could envision. The oversized window’s intricate cornice matched the design of the crown and baseboard molding. But in spite of the beauty of the decorative wooden adornments, the massive fireplace was the room’s dominant feature. The emptiness of the stone hearth beckoned for the warmth that had once filled the room.
Casey left the study and headed toward the dining room, through the butler’s pantry, and into the kitchen. The remodeling of this room was in the design phase when Aunt Abby received the devastating news of her diagnosis—metastatic pancreatic cancer. The radiation and chemotherapy treatments the doctors used to prolong her life had left her aunt debilitated, and all reconstruction was stopped. The house remained unfinished and vacant since her death. As a nine-year-old, Casey hadn’t noticed the synthetic wig and gaunt, ashen face of impending death. That was her first brush with loss, and its ominous presence had become a constant companion.
She inspected the old-fashioned kitchen where the plaster had peeled from the ceiling. The white residue fell to the floor and left evidence of her presence everywhere she walked. The wainscoting needed sanding and new paint. The wood floor had water damage by the back door, and the appliances were rusted. The copper sink had the dark-brown patina of a well-worn penny. Despite the obvious decay, Casey could envision all the happy moments she’d spent in this room.
A crease formed between her eyebrows as a distant memory returned, one of soft whispers—secrets heard in snippets of conversation between her parents and Aunt Abby. An awful event had taken place at Glendara long ago, though she never learned what it was. She only remembered that the adults would stop talking every time she entered the room. What happened that was so awful I couldn’t know about it?
She pushed away the question and headed to the stairs where the bedrooms on the second floor awaited. From the bottom riser she had a perfect view of the landing where the stained glass window appeared undamaged. A streak of sunlight shimmered through the colored glass, casting jewel-toned blues and greens into the vestibule below. The surreal colors transformed the area into an undersea world of ethereal beauty. The artist had managed to portray the tranquil pond covered with water lilies and the single weeping willow tree from the backyard to precision. Casey stood transfixed, drawn to the stark, white blossoms amidst forest-green foliage and the vivid cerulean hues of water and sky.
Out of nowhere came an unexpected sense of foreboding. Casey took a steadying breath, shrugged it off as ridiculous, and advanced up the stairs, careful to check each step for any sign of weakness. They were solid.
The room across from the stairs was the master bedroom and the first project Aunt Abby had tackled. Tattered lace curtains fluttered in the wind that blew through the broken windowpanes. The floral wallpaper sagged in places, faded and torn.
“That paper needs to go,” Casey whispered. “It’s awful. I think a soft sage green would look nice in here.”
Casey moved into the room that was once the nursery. Aunt Abby had transformed it into a master bath that looked more like an expensive spa. Although it didn’t fit the style of the house, her aunt had been adamant she would have this one luxury—a long, hot soak at the end of the day with candles and a tall glass of wine. Casey had to admit that was one trait she had inherited.
Striding back into the bedroom, she walked to the double windows where she could see the rolling green hills and vast fields in the distance. The land that had once produced many bales of cotton was now overgrown with weeds and brush.
She listened for a moment, hypnotized by the tranquil warble of a trio of birds she spied in a nearby tree. As she stared at the barren yard below, she remembered spending every day with Aunt Abby’s dog, Bear. He’d been her playmate and constant companion that summer. The memory produced a rare smile, and a sense of calmness permeated the room. For the first time in months, Casey felt at peace.
The next image—her father mowing the lawn as she played in the tall grass, pretending she was a lost princess from a mystical land and Bear her magical, talking friend—brought tears to her eyes. The scent of fresh grass clippings and the rat-a-tat of a sprinkler swishing back and forth against windowpanes always brought those pleasant days to mind. That was the summer before pain and loss consumed her life.
A brusque, cold wind blew through the shattered glass. A shiver snaked across her skin, and her brief sense of well-being evaporated. Now would be a good time to leave. She would have more time to explore tomorrow. The weather report predicted a cool, but sunny, day.
Deep in thought, Casey jumped when the blare of her cell phone cut the silence. She glanced at the caller ID. Damn, I forgot to call.
Reluctant, she answered. “Hey, Ray.”
“Where are you?” Ray asked, an undertone of hostility in his voice.
“Glendara.”
“You promised you’d call when you got there.”
Casey paused for a second, w
ondering how best to respond. “I just got here.”
“How’s that? Macon’s only an hour away.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Then give me the short version.”
He’s still pissed about me leaving. “I got lost.”
Casey walked back into the bedroom and stared at the wall of rain edging closer, wishing those amicable feelings of moments ago would return. That was a much-preferred prospect than facing the likelihood of a bitter argument.
Ray’s voice dropped an octave as he asked, “With GPS?”
“I told you that thing never works for me.”
“You could have at least called and told me you were running late.”
“Sorry.” Casey chewed on her bottom lip trying to suppress the guilt. She hadn’t wanted to call.
“Me too. I didn’t mean to snap. I was worried, that’s all.”
“I understand.” Fight averted, her mood brightened.
All of a sudden, Ray changed the subject. “So what shape is the house in?”
“It’s—”
“The house is so old. We should have it condemned.”
With a nervous laugh, Casey replied, “No, it’s in great shape. I think—”
“If you had waited a few days, I could have taken some time off and come with you.”
She braced herself for his censure and felt the muscles in her neck tighten. Lightning illuminated the darkness as she considered the reason she hadn’t wanted him to come.
Over the booming thunder, she heard Ray sigh. “I heard that,” he said.
Alarmed, she wondered if he had learned to read her thoughts.
“The thunder sounds close. You’d better leave before it starts to pour. I don’t like you driving in bad weather.”
“I suppose you’re right. It is almost on top of the house.”
“Call me when you get settled into your room so I know you got to Madison and you’re safe.”
“I will.” Casey nodded as if Ray could see her.
Still, Forever, Promise Page 30
