Page 37 of In This Moment

Rebecca laughed as she pulled up to her house. Aden’s family had worked for Scarlett’s since before they were born. He was in their graduating class, where he’d gotten a degree in annoying the hell out of her. Sometimes friends, usually frenemies, they had an odd push/pull no one but them seemed to understand. With her blessing and support, he’d started his own business on her family’s estate doing horse drawn carriage rides for tourists and events.

“Anyway,” Scarlett said on a dramatic sigh. “Mama’s original bookclub had forty-three members. Not accounting for the two that have passed away, I emailed the rest. Only a handful responded, Dorothy’s mother included. No tellin’ how many will show based on your notice in the Gazette.”

Rebecca’s mom being one of the two who’d died. She wondered who the other was, but let it go. “What snacks do you think I should get? Fruit and vegie platter? Maybe chips and salsa?”

“Fine by me. I’d grab a few packages of cookies from the bakery.”

“You got it.” Rebecca climbed out of the car and unlocked the front door. “I just have to change and hit the market. Be there soon.”

Thirty minutes later, she drove past Peach Park and wove through the historical district of town. Vallantine Cemetery was on the right, huge plantations on the left. Brick-laid curvy roads, large sprawling acres, ornate gardens, and hundred year old oak trees teeming with Spanish moss. Some townsfolk called it black or long moss, but the very older generation, like Gammy, referred to it as horsehair. Probably due to its resemblance. Rebecca supposed it did look like a greenish-gray version of a horse mane.

She’d done a project on it in high school, and it gave her an idea now for an upcoming article. Most tourists and a bunch of residents didn’t know squat about it, other than it was pretty. Funny thing? Spanish moss wasn’t actually from Spain, nor was it moss. It’s actually a bromeliad, a tiny flowering air plant that clung to itself as it dangled from tree limbs, gulping moisture or nutrients from the surrounding atmosphere and rain.

She chuckled to herself, surprised she’d remembered. Gammy used to say Rebecca was a plethora for useless knowledge and her mind was a sponge.

Lord, how she missed Gammy. An ache that would never abate, Rebecca feared. She rubbed the hollow sensation in her chest, glancing at headstones in the cemetery. Gammy was there, in the newer section. So were Rebecca’s Mom and Dad. Countless others, dating all the way back to William and Katherine Vallantine. Some tombstones were large, baroque, and darkly weathered by time. Others were simple markers with flowers.

She sighed, glancing ahead. This area of Vallantine was gorgeous, and she’d almost forgotten. As girls, Rebecca and her besties often hung out at her house or the library. Not all the time, but usually. Dorothy’s folks had been dubbed boring by their teenage selves because bedtime had been eleven and it was strictly enforced. Scarlett’s parents were on the pretentious side and treated sleepovers as if they were a royal circus. Plus, her house was like a museum. Gammy hadn’t cared how late they’d stayed up, so long as they didn’t wake her, and always had a batch of homemade cookies waiting. Thus, the go-to location.

It had been some years since Rebecca had ventured this way. During daylight, the wispy hanging moss that clung to the trees was reminiscent of romantic days gone by. Old south and its hidden gems. Sitting on the front porch drinking sweet tea and waving to passersby. Not a care in the world, except if it would rain. But, at night, moss played tricks on the mind or added a dreary, creepy sensation. Fingers crawling up the spine. Snarled dangling limbs that forever reached. A reminder that shadows hid dangers. True murky fantasies gallivanted at night.

Honestly, Rebecca just thought it made the oaks seem sad.

Scarlett’s plantation was the first estate on the corner, which was convenient since she’d turned hers into an event business. Several others on the lane had been converted to B&Bs or inns, but the ones farther from town remained private residences.

Rebecca pulled into the brick-laid driveway, long and winding, and lined with massive oaks that made it appear like the gnarled boughs were hugging the path. Welcoming. Waving hello. Once she finally got to the mansion, she parked on the far end of the circular drive beside the fountain instead of the parking lot Scarlett had put in a number of years ago for event guests. Easier access to leave later.

She stood by her car, shaking her head, as a floral-scented breeze teased her strands.

Dang, but the place was huge. And gorgeous. It had been built pre-Civil War and impeccably maintained. Two-stories, white siding, and black shutters. Boxy and symmetrical. A true Antebellum southern home with neoclassical Greek-revival architecture, twenty Corinthian columns, and ten Doric ones. There was a cast-iron balcony that wrapped around the mansion’s upper level, and the front portico centered the covered front porch spanning the width of the house. Triangular pediments and detailed dormers. Inside, there were thirteen furnished rooms, five of them for events.

The Taylors had been cotton farmers, and like most southern plantations, they’d had slaves. All of the fields had been turned into landscaped gardens with gazebos and vast sitting areas for entertaining by Scarlett’s grandmother. The former slave quarters had been torn down and the barns had new added additions. When Scarlett had inherited the estate, she’d dedicated a room to black history for her guests and customers. Many other places offering guided tours of southern plantations glossed over the atrocities of slavery, instead focusing on romanticizing the lives of the slave owners who’d run the plantations. Scarlett refused to do that. She’d dug up as many old photos and farming tools as she could for display.

Honestly, looking at the place gave Rebecca an overwhelming sense of sorrow. She couldn’t put her finger on why, other than specks of childhood memories where she and her besties had fantasized about their future weddings. Unlike Scarlett, Dorothy and Rebecca had come from middle-class families, and all this was but a dream, never to be a gleam in their eyes. Not to mention, lovely and breathtakingly beautiful as the estate was, Scarlett had done exactly what she’d envisioned. She’d turned a chunk of her family history into something amazing. Not just a private mansion to stare at from a distance, but a part of Vallantine where everyone was welcome. It made Rebecca feel like she’d settled or never reached her potential.

Stupid, being jealous of her best friend. Sighing, she hit the fob to open her trunk, where she’d set the snacks for bookclub.

Someone called her name. Turning, she shielded her face with her hand to block the sun.

Aden Abner, having rounded the driveway from the direction of the barns, strode toward her. His strut was exactly the same. Long, labored, and at his own leisurely pace. He’d get there when he felt like getting there. No need to rush. He had on a worn pair of jeans and a blue tee that fit snug against his contoured torso. Biceps bulged, straining his cuffs. A product of physical labor and tending to his horses. Wildly cut sandy blond hair was disheveled and his grin could still melt panties.

“Damn, that is you.” He jogged the rest of the way to her, opening his arms. He swept her in a hug, spinning her around. “Still pretty as a picture.”

She laughed as he set her down. “Aww, well thank you. You’re still a charming good ole southern boy, I see.”

“Why change perfection?” He shrugged, expression affable. “How’s the Gazette treating you? I hear you and the Yankee got a romance blooming.”

Hmm. Small towns and their gossip. “It’s going well, and where did you hear that?”

“Around.” Ah, that mischievous smirk. Now she recalled why he gave Scarlett such fits. The blue eyes were merely an exclamation point. “It true?”

“No, and don’t you be spreading rumors.”

“Hard to do that when word’s already out, darlin’.”

Whatever. “Wanna help me carry these inside?” She pointed to the trunk. “We got bookclub tonight.”

“I heard it’s been resurrected. I done signed up.”

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