Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,4,457982-southern_gothic.html
She arched her brow. “Should I?”
Outside, the rain beat against the house.
He paused for a moment, eyes focused on the wine in his glass. “I guess I deserve your distrust. I thought a little mystery in your life might be appreciated.” He raised his gaze to meet hers. “I know you want to hear the story. So unless you stop me, here goes.”
Michael took a sip and set the wineglass on the table. “An emotional young woman, someone I never should have become involved with, became increasingly unstable, and one day, she left.”
“Quinn.”
He nodded. “I thought I knew her, but I had barely scratched the surface. That’s about as simple as I can make it.”
“I like simplicity. But her emotional instability didn’t mean you had to disappear.”
“You’re right.” He wet his finger and ran it around the rim of the wineglass, making it sing. “But truthfully, I didn’t want to go back to Kate. I know I sound like a horrible person, but she was difficult to live with before she got MS. She turned the kids against me. Never could get them back. I knew the press would eat me alive if didn’t go back to Kate. I couldn’t handle the drama, and I sank into a deep depression. So I disappeared.”
“So are you ‘coming back’ now?”
He laughed. “Hell no! It’s been the best thing I’ve ever done. Life is simple and kind.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“There’s only one thing I miss.”
She knew what he would say. She saw it in the way he dropped his eyes and then looked up expectantly at her. “Writing?”
He nodded. “That’s part of it. But actually the whole process. Writing, getting published, the readers. Seeing others fall into my stories and them telling me about it.”
“And you can’t do that if you’re dead.”
“I thought about dangling a manuscript out a couple of years ago, but there was still so much attention regarding the disappearances. I figured better safe than sorry.”
“So what is this?” She pointed to the package sitting next to him. “What’s the proposition?”
Michael gave a lascivious look. Then he smiled. “It’s not really a proposition,” he admitted. “It’s not mine; it’s yours.”
“Is it ... different?”
Michael laughed. “Pull it out. Take a minute. I’ll excuse myself and use the bathroom.” He looked at her with a twinkle in his eye.
She moved to the couch and flipped the reading light on.
RED RIBBON
Chapter One
Leah was an impossible combination of passion and common sense. She was a realist, bordering on pessimism in her daily decisions, but her energy was so strong it seemed as if the whole world moved at her command. To have her on your side was like having a tribe of wild angels doing your bidding—you knew you couldn’t lose.
She had been my rock during the time I considered leaving the website. The money was getting scary big, and I was out of my comfort zone. I wasn’t built to run Fortune 500 companies, and despite the fact we were maybe eighteen months away from buying-Caribbean-islands kind of rich, she didn’t complain when I wanted to walk away. She reminded me I was walking away with more money than all four of our parents had made in their entire lives—probably twice as much. With plans to move to the country, we would never have to work again if we didn’t want to. She said she could think of a lot more interesting things to do with our time.
Leah was passion personified. She lost herself when she made love and was unapologetic for the sounds she made and the curtains she ripped. She kissed deeply; she bit; she scratched. She had a look that reminded me of past passions and alerted me to future rendezvous. I’ve never seen that look in another woman, no matter how fierce the connection. People wax poetic about what they would give to see someone smile or taste the salty essence from a lover’s neck, but they tend to inflate what they would give up to have that feeling one more time. I’m lucky to have that one more time look in a few of the photos she let me take, ones I had to develop myself because her nakedness—the magnificence of her body, the perfect curve of her breasts—was the least intimate thing about them. I have never shown anyone. Not once. I never exposed her, not even after all the strangeness that was to come.
Leah was the one who initially suggested The Shoals. The property had been in her family for generations and was owned by an uncle, one who was perpetually in need of money and not particularly interested in the history of a dying plantation. We bought the place for $20,000, which was a steal even if you razed the mansion and just rented the place out for farmland or sold the timber. It was a beautiful structure with good bones despite its weathered condition. There were no houses for a mile in any direction, and we fantasized about wild summer parties with people spilling out on the lawn, cocktails, loud music, and dancing until sunrise.
There was a moment that first evening we saw The Shoals together, holding hands in the absent-minded way we always did. It had rained earlier that day, and our appointed walk through had been postponed until late afternoon. The place was sticky and hot when we arrived, the cobwebs heavy with dust. The wood buckled and creaked under our footsteps. I turned to her and was struck by her beauty and the gentle way she tilted her head to look up at me.
“So, when are we moving here, Rhett Butler?”
I grinned. “This is a long way from an Applebee’s, you know.”
“My point exactly! Authentic culture! Bootstraps! All the things we say we long for!”
I shook my head, knowing she had me. “Let’s do it.”
Leah kicked her heels up and squealed. She smiled at me in a way that let me know she had always known we were going to do this but also said she was very happy I agreed.
The clouds had moved out, exposing a late-spring Georgia sky, the wet green of the grass, and the sight of a woman beaming with laughter and life. It was a forever moment, one where the word isn’t spoken because it’s utterly unnecessary. We stood there for a long time, both of us taking in what this decision meant. I looked at her and thought of what she meant to me: permanence, stability, commitment, and desire. Most men never find all of those qualities in the same woman. I had.
She moved next to me and toyed with the buttons on my shirt. She bit her lip and caught my eye.
“Got that blanket in the car?” she asked, knowing the answer.
The sun bathed her face in a mix of soft oranges and yellows. She looked like a movie star and gave me a soft, expectant kiss.
Luckily, the car wasn’t far away.
I spread the blanket on the porch, which looked more enticing than the muddy ground. When I rose from bending to spread it out, she kissed the back of my neck. I almost turned to meet her lips, but something stopped me. This was her moment. She wrapped her arms around my chest, her breasts pushing into my back. Looking like a nymph of summer, she turned around to face me and whispered in my ear.
“You will never forget this day.”
And then, like a storm rolling in over a foreboding sky, she kissed me firmly on the lips and dug her nails into my back. She bit my cheek so hard I thought she had broken the skin. Leah stepped back, smiling, waiting to see my response. I grabbed her and pressed her against me, fully aroused, and bit her lip so hard I was afraid she would bleed. She didn’t. But she took me with a fury I hadn’t ever seen. It didn’t take long for both of us to reach the heavens and tumble back to earth. We lay there, half-naked, soaking in the old house and the wet Georgian dirt and hoping it would be that way forever.
I couldn’t wait to move to The Shoals.
Chapter 12
Meredith didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she finished reading the chapter. This was her novel, and yet, it wasn’t. She flipped ahead quickly, scanning pages to see what changes were ahead. The characters and plot were generally unchanged, and yet, the reading experience couldn’t be more different.
The book read like a Michael Black novel. Th
ese characters had their own, distinct voices. They came to life on the page and felt real. And at that moment, she realized how silly it had been for her to ask for this man’s approval.
Meredith looked up to see Michael filling their wine glasses. “I don’t understand.”
He joined her on the couch. “What’s to understand? You had a great premise. It just needed some work.”
“This is more than just some work. “
“I enjoyed the challenge—fitting my work into someone else’s plot. I’d never done it before.”
Meredith’s head swam. She didn’t like wanting to forgive him so easily. And yet, there it was. The manuscript lay there on her lap. It had her name on it. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She waited breathlessly to see what he would say about the million-dollar question.
“I told you. It’s yours to do with as you wish.” Michael inched closer to her.
His eyes were hard to look away from but harder to meet.
“You can put it in a drawer and keep it hidden away, or you can give it to the world.”
She looked at the manuscript, then at Michael, and then at her glass of wine. She grabbed it and drank it too quickly. “Why did you call it a proposition?”
He waved her off again. “A bad joke.”
“I need to read it first.”
“Of course.” He grinned at her.
The manuscript burned in her hands and begged to be read. She wanted to return to it, but she wanted to hear about this man’s journey to ... where? The rain kept up its steady cadence, punctuating their discussion with thunder and the occasional damp breeze through the windows.
Her initial anger receded, replaced with a sense of wonder and curiosity. Here stood a man the entire world searched for. Yet he didn’t go to the New York City literary lights. He chose to be with her, looking at the seashells she had collected, and begging her to partner with him on a novel. Her novel.
“Why me? You have many defenders online. Ones with better-known sites.”
“There are many whys, but you are far lovelier than any of them. When I saw your site and put two and two together with the manuscript, you were the obvious choice.”
She frowned when he mentioned her looks. It temporarily broke the spell the manuscript had woven. “Is this just some sort of elaborate scheme to get in my pants?”
Michael smiled. “What would you say if I answered yes? A grand romantic gesture—the gift of literary immortality for the momentary pleasure of your bed?”
Meredith blushed. She remembered some of the passages of his books, ones as familiar to her as Bible verses. “I’d have to say it was the nicest invitation I’ve ever gotten.”
“Would you consider it?”
She frowned again. “Is that why you did all this for me?” She held up the manuscript like a rare vase.
He winked. “You’re a beautiful woman. Let’s just say tonight isn’t the first time I thought of it.”
“Well, you tell me, Mr. Black.” Meredith moved her body slightly but with great intent. She twirled her hair in her hand, something she hadn’t done in decades, and made him wait on her next words. “Is this a great novel?”
“This novel by Meredith Harper is a good one.” Michael looked at Meredith.
His eyes burned into her, and this time, she couldn’t look away.
Then, just as quickly, he dropped his gaze. “Go and read it and decide for yourself.” He stood up slowly. “Now, where am I sleeping?”
She folded her arms and clutched the manuscript. She wasn’t expecting him to be so blunt, but she realized she might as well get used to it.
Michael picked up on the hesitation. “I’ve just given you the greatest gift of your life. You can at least give me shelter for the night.”
She wanted to be more forward than she had ever been in her life—to step towards him and dare him to kiss her. But she stayed in place. She smiled big enough for both of them. “The guest room is all yours.”
But the smile faded. She remembered the strangeness of the porch. He seemed to know how trusting and accommodating she would be. She wanted to be contrary and not so easy to read. But she felt intrigued and aroused, and she wanted to get back to reading. Despite her trepidations, she led him to the guest bedroom.
RED RIBBON
Chapter Two
We disengaged from other activities and started spending more time at The Shoals. We braved the increasing heat and marveled when flowers opened and trees bloomed. The pines didn’t change, of course, but there was enough in bloom around us to make the adventure that much more real. We brought sleeping bags and had a routine, one which allowed for a couple of hotel stays each week in Washington or Thomson. We learned how to talk to the locals and get their approval for our adventure. Of course, we didn’t need it, but it meant for a whole lot less interference when everyone felt like they were a part of our reviving of a town jewel like The Shoals.
I learned to ask questions, sometimes knowing the answers, at hardware stores and town diners. Early on, Leah and I agreed we would not be secretive or standoffish. “Everybody wants to be a part of this,” she said, bringing up a point I had never considered. “They may not have the money to refinish an old home, but they’ll be happy for us if we just don’t act like assholes.” I loved that side of Leah, sidling up to Dan Kirkland or Ronnie Johnson at the grocery store and flirting just enough to see their interest change, filling them in on all that was going on at our “country spot” as she called it. I reminded her we no longer had a “city spot,” but she was unfazed.
I needed her, because I was overwhelmed. The work was so much more physical than anything I did previously. I pulled my back the second day of the strenuous labor and felt every twinge of the next week’s work trying to get it to heal. She had her own long list of tasks to accomplish, but she found time and energy to make me forget my pain. We were in the woods and alone and made a daily ritual of long, almost spiritual sex. My other relationships had sex as a component, but Leah met me on every level. I never had to apologize for wanting her, never had to schedule ecstasy. The way we breathed, the way we talked, the glances we shared in the company of others. It was all a part of that connection, spurred by a smell of her perfume or a Roxy Music song. It was a union so special I knew and felt it at the time, never having to be reminded by anyone else. We didn’t complete each other in the sense of a Hallmark card; we just existed on another level, with no thought of how others existed. We were special and perfect together.
Those evenings, that summer, too many to number, too marvelous and precious to catalog, now are the bedrock of my memory, my nightlight. The world changed, but my allegiance to that universe never will. It will be mine forever.
And then, one day, Leah found a letter.
One afternoon, as she was cleaning out some built-in bookshelves, Leah noticed a letter sitting up top, wedged next to the wall. It was an old letter from bygone days, in a script both beautiful and very hard to read. It was yellowed and torn, and the writing seemed to fade off the page. We made out it was written, most likely, by a woman whose name was C, but the letter wouldn’t yield any more secrets. It was too faded and delicate, and no matter what light we brought to try to decipher it, we agreed we had gotten no further.
Working on a house in the condition of The Shoals, especially knowing the evening would mean I would taste my lover’s sweet body yet again, meant each day felt like a penitentiary sentence. Time dripped like an old faucet. I found myself gazing into rooms and thinking about objects—what they meant and how significant they might have been in other lives. We understand the earth-shattering moments, when the Civil War comes through your front yard, when we all watch the towers fall together, but the constant connection to life and change is really where the moments live on. Births and deaths and calm nights in. Days turning into years, turning into lives lived. I was determined to live that purposefully with Leah. Each day was a potential paradise. Why waste even one?
Maybe a month into our serious pursuit of conquering The Shoals, as I waited for the evening’s bliss and my constant quest to learn the details and mysteries of the place, I examined the absolute wonderment of the detailed, ornate woodworking pattern carved into one of the fireplace mantles, all flourish and intricacy, painstaking and vibrant. How much had we lost, I thought, when we lost that level of beauty and richness in every detail and left it all to computers. Every day seemed like a new vote for The Shoals Life, as we took to calling it. But that day, I heard an angry, distressed sound. One I hadn’t heard since coming to this place.
I turned around and moved to the window. Something caught my eye outside.
It was Leah. She was downstairs on the lawn. She was furious, and I opened the window to see why. I almost called out, but something kept me quiet.
“You’re wrong,” she said, emphasizing the word. “You’re wrong as you can be.”
I struggled to see with whom my wife was arguing. Did I need to go downstairs and help? But I couldn’t see anyone. The lawn was empty, the forest beyond quiet.
She sat there, still in reverie, lost in time.
“Leah?” I finally called out, unable to take any more of the mystery. “Who’s there?”
Leah did nothing for a moment and then finally turned to look at me. She found my face in the window and smiled, seemingly happy for me to break her concentration. “What do you mean, honey?” she asked.
“The person you were just talking to,” I said, confused.
She looked left and right. She turned back to me. “What are you talking about?”
I didn’t ask her any more questions about it. But the scene unsettled me, and her face, normally my personal Rembrandt, now came to me wearing that sad, harrowing frown.
Chapter 13
Meredith read well into the night. The sounds of Michael rustling around in the guestroom came through the walls, but after a little while they silenced. It had been so long since she had read a new book by Michael she had forgotten the sheer pleasure of it—the sense of dread in the narrative, the atmosphere, the fullness of characters. Then she corrected herself—this wasn’t a Michael Black book; it clearly said Meredith Harper on the first page.