Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,2,457982-southern_gothic.html
“I know, Mrs. Coleman, I’m trying to take it easy. I’d like to go up to Athens for the game, but I doubt I will make it.”
“Oh, that would be grand. I don’t know if I told you, but my dear Monty took me to New Orleans to see Herschel win the National Championship.”
Meredith had heard this story many times—and had seen the snapshot to prove it.
“Mrs. Coleman, did you see anything unusual today at my house?”
Mrs. Coleman frowned and thought about the question. “Can’t say I did, dear. I haven’t been outside long because I had to watch my programs, and then Alexander called. And I had to do something about the dreadful state of my begonia beds.”
Meredith took a sip of tea. Mrs. Coleman always had something to say about her begonia beds.
“Alexander has big issues at the law firm. Says nobody knows how to practice law these days. Says it’s a shame.”
Ever since the divorce, Meredith had heard about the magic of Mrs. Coleman’s son, Alexander, who could do no wrong.
“I sure wish he would come here to see me. I sure think you two would be a great match.”
Meredith had met Alexander once, and he seemed like Lance with a mustache and better job.
“Your gentleman caller did come around today. If you’re not going to date Alexander, you should at least introduce us,” Mrs. Coleman said with smile.
At almost eighty, Mrs. Coleman struggled to distinguish between the past and present and her imagination and reality. Meredith had been her neighbor long enough to know which of her stories were most likely true and which were not. But this ....
She forced the panic out of her voice as she turned back to Mrs. Coleman. “My what?”
“Your gentleman. The man at your house. I mean, I’ve seen him gardening, and I’ve seen him sneaking out the back door and out by the carriage house a couple times.” She smiled and winked conspiratorially.
“You mean my former husband, Lance? The short, balding guy?” Meredith gave the most charitable description she could.
Mrs. Coleman laughed a full, hearty laugh. “Oh no, dear. Not Lance. The ... what would you say? Swarthy fellow? With the long hair. The good looking one. No offense to your husband and all.”
Her legs forgot how to work for a second, but she managed to stand. “I should probably get back to the bookstore. Let me help you back to your house with the tray.”
Meredith waited until Mrs. Coleman rose to her feet and escorted her home. “Thank you, Mrs. Coleman. Have a lovely day. I’ll stop by later, okay?”
She left wanting to ask Mrs. Coleman a million more questions but was too embarrassed. She walked back to her house, more confused than ever.
Chapter 4
When she reached the porch swing Meredith sat back down and surveyed her world. The cool breeze put goosebumps on her arms, making it feel cooler than it really was. She pulled out the ribbon, which felt like it was burning in her jeans, and stared at it, willing it to explain itself. Who else knew about Red Ribbon? Jennifer and Terrie. Lisa. Maybe some people in her writing workshop. And then there were the countless publishers and writers she had sent it to. It seemed such a long shot to consider them. Her novel had been submitted years ago. If it were really about the book, why would a stranger wait so long?
After an agonizing half hour, she decided to walk back to the store. Work would take her mind off her full-fledged mystery.
When she got back to the store, Nate was busy with customers. She tried to pretend it was another normal day. She called her distributors, worked on the schedule of author events, and tried to tackle the inventory. But she couldn’t focus. Every loud noise made her jump, every time the phone rang her stomach did a flip, and whenever she heard a man’s deep voice, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was him.
Nate glanced at her, as he had been doing since her return. He had kept quiet, but finally broke the silence. “Anything?”
She shook her head.
Nate adjusted his glasses down on his nose in a way she hated and loved at the same time. “You’ve been awful quiet. Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. Just a lot to take in.”
“You know, maybe the police could help.”
“Since when has your left-leaning ass become such a fan of the police?”
“And since when have you become a straight-up gangsta?”
Meredith laughed. “I guess a lot can happen in twenty-four hours.”
She looked at her watch. She needed to get out of the bookstore but had no intention of going home alone yet. She texted her three closest friends, Jennifer, Terrie, and Lisa, and asked if they’d be open to drinks. All agreed. She grabbed her purse, told Nate she had to go, and headed out the door.
Chapter 5
Downtown Savannah always reminded Meredith of Rome. She had visited Italy as a teenager, and while most cities give a sense of when they were built, Rome was like a movie without a continuity check—one era folded right into the next. With an amazing hodgepodge of internet cafes, ancient ruins, modern apartment buildings, and historic cathedrals, walking through the city was like sliding through a panorama of history.
Meredith had grown up in Savannah and made her best friends there. She went away to Athens for college—even though her hometown would always remain her favorite place, she knew it would be smart to go away for a while. She always knew unless she married a head of state she’d be coming back to the marshes. The town was small—especially during her divorce—and she was not the kind of person who found salvation in affairs and rebounds, which were impossible to hide. Instead, she enjoyed having the community’s support and friendship.
Outside, waiters set up white plastic tables under portable heaters for those who weren’t ready to let go of summer just yet. She passed the statue of Johnny Mercer and tweaked his nose, her little tradition that always drew at least one disapproving look—today, from an older woman with her hair fixed and set like it was 1978. Meredith smiled and winked at her, humming “Moon River,” and continued on.
To her right, people lined up for Paula Deen’s restaurant, The Lady and Sons. No amount of bad publicity kept them from the place, and she couldn’t blame them. The food tasted monstrously good. The crowds kept Meredith away most of the time, but she occasionally gave in and ordered up a big plate of fried chicken, green beans, and cornbread. Paula occasionally came into the bookstore, and once, she even complimented her on her cherry pie. Meredith never got tired of dropping that tidbit in conversation.
Like Paula, she had found her own success with her bookstore and her baking. So why had a silly red ribbon bothered her so?
She crossed Bay Street and headed into the trees around City Hall. The area wasn’t square like the beautifully laid-out spaces dotting downtown, but it took her breath away nonetheless. The Spanish moss hung heavily from the ancient oak trees, giving the city an air of mystery.
Someone broke into her house. Someone was now taunting her. Was this a warped game or a full-on assault? Should she shelve her plans and stay at the DeSoto instead?
Meredith took a deep breath and regrouped. She’d figure out those things later. If she needed to, she’d stay somewhere else for a few days. For now, Savannah demanded her attention.
By the time she passed the sinister-looking arches containing the old cotton warehouses and reached the cobblestone streets at the edge of the river, she felt more at ease. Always on the wild side, River Street opened up to day-drinking bars where tourists struggled to keep up with the regulars. It held palm readers and a dozen havens for the curio seeker.
Savannah, a city full of secrets. Ghost tours hinted at the unexplained. Civil War buffs traded explanations for the things going bump in the night. With long shadows and crisp breezes, the city felt wrapped in an otherworldly tale. She loved the feel of Savannah, a city that communed with the dark corners of history.
She walked in and out of the shops, trying to maintain the calm she found under the oak trees and
working to keep the uneasy feelings at bay. She bought wine for her guests, tried on dresses, and had a glass of chardonnay at one of the bars—anything to avoid being home alone. Then the wimpy sun started to set, the wind picked up, and the streetlights turned on at once, cloaking the streets in an ancient orange glow. Normally she loved the change in atmosphere. Now it seemed too much like foreshadowing.
Chapter 6
Meredith couldn’t make her hand stop shaking. On the third try, she finally got the door open, only to see nothing where the red ribbon had been hanging. Relieved her friends weren’t there yet, she hoped they wouldn’t notice her nerves.
Her long-time best friends were regular visitors to her house. They often stopped by for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie, the radio turned to their favorite 80s station. They measured their days in coffee spoons. Meredith couldn’t be more grateful for these women who had supported her through her divorce and the opening of her store, and sometimes, she worried she didn’t do enough to return the favor. The difference was they had all married rock-solid guys, men who should have been her fate instead of lumpy and grumpy Lance.
After a few minutes, she heard the doorbell and walked over to let them inside.
Jennifer was a taller “twin” of Meredith with the same coloring and similar hair. She always took control. After a hug and kiss, Jennifer headed straight to the kitchen to turn up the music.
Terrie was the tallest of the three, her blonde hair cut into a pixie cut. She was the most thoughtful and the most spontaneous. She liked pearls and jeans, and her work as a teacher kept them all laughing at the funny stories her students provided.
Lisa had dark brown hair and an eternal smile. She stayed quiet while the others steered the conversation, but she was stalwart. Meredith loved to spend the occasional evening with her, sipping wine and reminiscing.
Meredith stirred her famous marinara sauce. “So, I had a little excitement today,” she said, lengthening the words to relieve their tension. “Had someone call me from inside my house.”
“Whaaaaat?” Terrie said.
“Yeah. Don’t know what it was about. Some guy called the store several times, and the last time, it showed up under my caller ID.”
Jennifer frowned. “You’re not staying here tonight.” She announced this as if she were the governor.
Meredith laughed. “Oh yes I am.”
Everyone offered assurances and concerns, growing more pronounced with each glass of wine.
Jennifer, who had read the scariest books outside of Meredith, acted the most worried. “Come to my house. Or get a hotel room. You can’t have possibly looked in all the places someone could hide.”
“I’ll be all right,” Meredith said.
Even to her best friends, she couldn’t tell the most important details of the day, leaving them hanging invisibly in the air. Each of these women had read Red Ribbon, and none understood why it hadn’t been published. So why didn’t she want to tell them?
Leaving her friends for a moment, she took some bread and plates to the dining room table, where a small packet of neatly stacked paper sat, with a binder clip clamped on the left corner. Someone had placed it in the center of the table, making it hard to miss. The words jumped out at her from the first page:
RED RIBBON
A Novel
By Meredith Harper
Her stranger had returned.
Before Meredith had a chance to hide the evidence, Lisa came into the room and quickly grabbed the papers.
She flipped through the stack while Meredith’s face reddened. “What’s this, Mere?”
Terrie peered over Lisa’s shoulder, a smile on her face. “Are you holding out on us?”
Meredith reminded them it was time to eat and fought to get the papers back.
Lisa handed them to Jennifer, and then all bets were off.
“So you’ve been writing again?” Terrie had always been Meredith’s biggest fan and had kept pushing her long after she had lost hope herself.
Jennifer took the pages and moved to the living room.
“The food is ready,” Meredith said, trying to hide the fear in her voice.
“Dinner can wait. I think we should all come and listen to the words of our great friend Meredith Harper, who has finally come to her senses and started writing again,” Jennifer said in an overly-formal tone meant to be funny.
It probably was, but Meredith felt too embarrassed to find humor in much of anything.
“It’s not new ...” Meredith started to protest, but Jennifer had already started reading.
RED RIBBON
Prologue
There was a time when nothing in my life was as it seemed. Up was down, left was right, backwards and frontwards chased each other’s tails in front of me. A lonely man, I buried more loves, literally and figuratively, than anyone should ever have to.
I didn’t invite trouble, or at least, it didn’t feel that way. Even though I was a grown man living a respectable life, I was no match for the ghosts of The Shoals, an old Georgia mansion filled with two centuries of haunted memories. It was the most terrifying and the most beautiful place I’d ever seen, enriched by the passing of the epochs. One’s opinion depended, I suppose, on whether the ghosts appeared. Or if they ever saw you. I buried my truest love there and haven’t been the same since. I am certainly haunted and, more than likely, wanted by the authorities. I haven’t come out of the woods to find out. If I told the story, they wouldn’t believe me. There are times of reflection when I don’t believe it myself.
In the South, you see, ghosts are everywhere. They live in the tops of trees, call out to us in the pitch black, and tiptoe with us to our beds at night. There are the ghosts of childhood death, of raging dark anger, the angelic spirits of unrequited love. Sometimes it seems as if the world haunts the ghost instead of the other way around.
It makes sense there are more ghosts in the South; we have always borne the saddest stories. Stories of enslavement, battlefield valor, honor, and untimely death. Bigots and burdens. I’ve always figured that’s what brings the ghosts out—the need to make their voices heard, to retell their stories. Sometimes they’re warning us, uncovering danger signs long ago hidden in kudzu. Sometimes they remind us of paths long obscured by the progress of man. But mostly, I’d say, they’re rolling their own personal rocks up a hill, only to see them tumble back down like Sisyphus doomed for eternity.
None of the haints I encountered at The Shoals seemed malevolent at first; they simply exhibited human emotions. They wanted attention, and I listened. Their moods changed like quicksilver, and they held grudges. I did my best to play along until my beautiful young wife transformed into one of them, living among them and becoming part of their madness.
Some would say, for sure, I followed her. I would say I didn’t. I’ll let you decide for yourself.
I first got to my new home in Georgia in 2009 after a disastrous time in Augusta. I had just cashed out from my startup and had enough money to live comfortably for several years. I was tired of caring about money so much. It was weighing my soul down. I missed my freedom, the thoughts of long afternoons spent in my lover’s arms, evenings curled up with a good book and a tumbler of scotch. As Leah mentioned the idea of The Shoals, it sounded perfect. I wanted to work on a piece of history outside my own.
Re-doing that old house, filled with cobwebs and character and a century’s worth of stories, was a chance to rewrite my own story. In reshaping that old building with my two hands, I moved a world away from the startup culture I had come to despise. I was the hero of one of those Southern tales, stirring up bones buried deep in that red clay, becoming a part of the Georgian land. My modern Georgics, if you will—all apologies to Virgil.
The Shoals had been in my wife’s family since before the Civil War. People talked about it with reverence, wanting to join in its story. I played along as well, feeling as if I had walked into a dream.
The place got its name from its proximity to t
he Ogeechee River. It had been constructed nearly half a century before the Civil War near the then-bustling town of Washington, Georgia. Washington was a true power then, filled with antebellum homes and a generation of powerful men who would sire some of the highest leaders of the Confederacy, including Robert Toombs and Alexander Stevens. A hundred or so miles from Atlanta, now it was no longer one of the most important hubs of commerce in the state it once was. This was a sad goodbye to a storied past but another sign of the way the world had moved on. Old, sturdy storefronts closed down, and modern conveniences displaced the old and quirky. It sure seemed like a long slide from the time of The Shoals.
By the time we had bought it, the trees had enclosed the property like a green prison. Very isolated. Claustrophobic. There was a state marker there with the history of the place, and maybe a quarter mile up the road, you turned back toward the river. Our place was completely hidden and a full mile back down a bumpy road ready to punish cars.
This was not a short walk back to civilization. This was commitment and sacrifice. And we gladly chose to make it.
Often, you can see glimpses of the way things were before the Civil War. Half a mile through the dense brush are the railroad tracks, bent like an old man’s spine. They were once the nervous system of the community.
The place was in the process of being eaten up by the earth. The painstaking pegged construction, wainscoting, and molding, bursting with exacting detail seen nowhere today, now was peeling and fading away. The balcony’s ornate railings were angled askew or missing altogether, and the floorboards were warped. If we had given the earth another twenty years, it would devour this magnificent dinosaur without even leaving the bones. But despite all of this, the house’s quality shone through. We could take it for ours and maybe save the soul and body.
I was lucky enough to do this work with my “bride and joy,” as I called her. We would reconstruct it together—our forever place, destined for decades of love-making and lazy weekends away from the ever-stressful city and the silliness of man. It seemed like a dream that would extend past my middle age and comfort me as I grew old. Would I have done something different if I had known it would only last for less than a year? Or that a different location might well provide a different outcome? I can’t answer that. Grief is a never-ending series of what-ifs. I’ve tried to move past all of that.