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//-->THE ESTATEJ. PAULETTE FORSHEYISBN 9781615086726All rights reservedCopyright 2013 J. Paulette ForsheyThis book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.For information:http://SizzlerEditions.com/Sizzler Editions/Intoxication RomanceA Renaissance E Books publication2CONTENTSCHAPTER ICHAPTER IICHAPTER IIICHAPTER IVCHAPTER VCHAPTER VICHAPTER VIICHAPTER VIII3CHAPTER ICuilean Keeley stuffed his hands in his jean-jacket pockets and rocked his six-foot-six frameback on his heels, half listening to the auctioneer's singsong call for bids. A quick check of thebrochure in his hand reminded him the items he'd come for wouldn't be on the block until later inthe day. Shifting his backpack from the ground to his shoulder, he decided to gently mingleamong the other buyers, looky-loos, and the serious local gossips.He’d traveled far to attend this auction, selling all of his possessions, save for the clothes onhis back, just to be able to make the trip. He walked up the weathered, graying flagstone path ofthe Bramguard estate, noticing the aged patina on the copper urns lining the way. Cuileanpaused, observing the shutters closed, half-closed, or hanging askew, reminding him of theflirting winks of dirty old men. Now, after all these years, the house with its lumbering,behemoth shape rose fat like a well-fed slug to sit beneath a labyrinth of vegetation.Except for a slight yellowing with age, the facade was still complete. Curious. Withoutproper care for several years, the paint should have peeled and flaked along the house's sides andaround its exotic carved trimmings. The grounds, though weed-choked, were well kept for themost part, despite the fact that the hedge could have used a more defined clipping. But then itwouldn't have hidden the rust-coated iron fence so well. Funny thing about that aged,pockmarked, corroded fence with its fixed-open gate and sections held up only by that hedge. Itstill managed to do its job and do it well. Indeed, the whole house, with all the despair hangingover it, was intact. The bits and pieces of conversation he overheard repeatedly commented hownot one vandal had ever dared harm the house or its contents.Slipping his pack from his shoulder, he hunched down to rummage through the bag’scontents. A flash of auburn underneath a large- brimmed hat caught his attention. He glancedup to see a woman wearing a faded floral dress weaving among the crowd. He stood and tried tospot her again, but saw her nowhere. Cuilean shrugged, returning to the business at hand.He deliberately chose a spot near a small group of women in their seventies. They were thetype his grandmother would say didn't repeat gossip, so you'd better listen well the first time.These Southern ladies were the haute couture of this peculiar little parish, a bit of sophisticationin this forgotten-in-time place. As their mothers before them, they wore gloves of white crochet,dresses, and skirts with lace-trimmed blouses, not shirts. Ladies, his mother once informed him,didn't wear anything as common as a shirt; that was what a man wore. These Southern belles'morning elegance was topped off with wide-brimmed hats, accessorized by purses and shoes thatmatched. They were, in this outskirt town of Savannah, the personification of genteelcivilization.Cuilean listened as the gossips twittered. They claimed that once the long, wide, gracefulwrap-around porch sported delicate white wicker furniture. Sadly, only piles of bits and pieceswere in evidence today. The gossips commented on how one could imagine fine ladies in palegowns seated on that white wicker, sipping lemonade, while young gents sporting straw hatsstrutted among them in their Sunday best. It could be imagined– but then, no one couldremember such an event ever occurring on that particular porch.Alas, only crumbling remains, memories of the past, lay resting on floorboards that protestedloudly as the inquisitive bidders trod upon them, allowing a musty, earthy smell to seep throughthe boards. When he'd made a closer inspection of the home, Cuilean noted the odor of a wet,wind- swept, dark, cold, forgotten graveyard hung like Spanish moss on the railings anddoorways.4It was already warm this morning; soon it would turn to sweltering. The humid, moist airchoked the yard with heavy scents of honeysuckle, jasmine, and roses. Idly the quintet fannedthemselves with hand-stitched handkerchiefs or colorful ornate fans. His peripheral visioncaught, but didn't acknowledge, the quick glances they gave him. He wanted to listen withouttheir knowing he could hear them plain as day.5 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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