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Secrets at Rose Arbor

By Gail Gaymer Martin

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Chapter One

Home.
Susan Boyd stood in the dusky light and gazed at the small Louisiana plantation cottage where she’d been raised. Inside the clapboard house, she knew her mother waited. Whether she was pleased or not was an unanswered question. All Susan knew was she had come home.
With a sigh, she turned and opened the trunk of her small sedan. She shifted the boxes and dragged out her luggage. Coming back to Devereaux weighed heavily on her spirit. She’d hoped that time and maturity would have healed the wounds that happened seventeen years earlier when she was sent away, but it hadn’t.
She shifted her gaze toward the plantation manor next door, barely visible through the oak trees dripping with moss. The manor’s imposing lines were only a silhouette in the failing daylight. One bright thought about coming home had excited her—Libby Taylor, owner of the estate, but tonight instead of Libby’s welcoming lights, she saw the manor’s dark windows. Though disappointed, she looked forward to running next door later to say hello to the wonderful woman who’d meant so much to her.
Libby had been a bright spot in her life. From her, she’d learned so much. Yet... No need for melancholy now.

Edging around to face her mother’s house, she drew back her shoulders, ready to face the world. Really to face her mother. At times, Margaret Boyd seemed as encompassing as the world.
She stacked her luggage and rolled it toward the back door. A light burned in the kitchen, and her hope lifted knowing her mother was anticipating her arrival.
When her luggage wheels struck the wooden porch steps, the back door opened, and Margaret pushed aside the screen. “Welcome home, Susan.”
“Thank you, Momma.” She surprised herself using her childhood endearment for her mother.
Though her mother had spoken a welcome, Susan heard a restive undertone that made her question whether or not welcome was the word. In spite of the tone, age had softened her mother’s determined chin. With time, gravity had loosened her taut skin and tight lips to an easier expression. Yet the old resolve shone in her mother’s eyes.
When she’d struggled her luggage onto the porch, Margaret stepped forward and relieved her of one suitcase. “I wondered how late you’d be. I didn’t keep dinner.”
Susan nodded, not surprised.
Margaret walked ahead of her, rolling the medium suitcase while her heels smacked the hardwood flooring with her purposeful steps. “I dusted and vacuumed your old room.”
“Thank you.” The comment raised the hope she was truly being welcomed.
Ahead of her, Margaret opened the door and vanished inside while she maneuvered the other luggage to make the turn from the narrow hallway. As she crossed the threshold of her childhood bedroom, a lamp sprang to life, spreading a soft glow over the pure white walls.
Memories flooded back, and she stood a moment to accept her decision to come home to make amends and to find herself after so many years.
“I’ll leave you be,” Margaret said. “There’s a cold plate in the refrigerator if you’re hungry.” Without waiting for a response, she left the room and closed the door.

Susan sank to the edge of the mattress and studied the room. A mahogany dresser, a single bed and a large wardrobe with a mirror so filled with patina she looked speckled. A round rag rug covered part of the plank flooring and sheer curtains hung at the windows with the shades already drawn. The only adornment on the walls was a picture of Jesus knocking at a door. Susan had spent many youthful nights, wondering if anyone had answered.
She rose and moved to the window to lift the shade. The dusky light did little to brighten the room. Seeing the quickening night, she pulled down the shade again and set about unpacking her luggage.
When she’d finished, she checked her watch. Eight-thirty. She hoped Libby had returned home by now, so she could run over to say hello. At the manor house, she would be greeted with open arms. Libby’s demonstrative love was a given.
After a last look around the room to make sure everything had been put away, Susan opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The television sounded from the living room as she headed for the kitchen to check the cold plate her mother had mentioned.
When she looked inside the refrigerator, she saw cold cuts and salad. She owed her mother a thank you for her thoughtfulness and few moments of conversation before she visited Libby. She strolled into the living room and settled on the edge of a chair, waiting until a commercial began before interrupting.
The program flashed off and focused on a tube of toothpaste. Susan drew in a breath. “How have you been?”
“Good as can be expected.”
Their eyes met in undefined emotion.
Susan brushed her moist palms against the upholstery. “You seem better than the last time we spoke.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Did you come home because you thought I was dying?”
“No. I came home because I need a change. I need to find myself.”

“Find yourself? Isn’t it too late for that? You should have given thought to that years ago.”
Susan controlled her instinct to wince. “So, what’s happened in Devereaux? Anything new?”
Margaret gestured toward the side window. “Libby Taylor died. Funeral was yesterday.”
The news struck her like a slap. Susan’s lungs collapsed, then with a gasp, she breathed. “Libby died?” The words were unbearable and unbelievable. Death. Libby had seemed eternal. So filled with life, death could never stop her. The TV blatted while her mind struggled to accept what she’d heard.
Hoping to hide her emotion, Susan swallowed the lump. “What happened?”
Her mother shrugged. “Stroke, I think.”
“But why didn’t you let me know?”
Her mother frowned. “Don’t look so startled.”
“I am startled. You know I thought a lot of Libby.”
“You worshiped her and her evil ways. That’s what got you in trouble.”
The lump in Susan’s throat grew. “Blame me. Not Libby.” She studied her mother’s expression. “You could have called me to let me know.”
Margaret looked toward the TV commercial. “I figured he would let you know.”
He. “I haven’t spoken to Justin since I left Devereaux. I haven’t had contact with anyone from here except you.”
“Me?” Her mother’s voice shot to a grating pitch. “I rarely see you.”
The tone of her voice took Susan back many years when she’d neglected her homework or forgot to do the dishes. “I know, Mother, but I’m here now. I want to—”
The TV program had begun again, and her mother’s interest had returned to the television.

The age-old problem. The eternal bitterness. Susan feared she’d made a terrible mistake coming home, but as the thought entered her mind, it sagged and died. Where else would she go? Roads always seemed to lead home. For better or worse, but she’d hoped for better.
She left her thoughts and eyed her mother’s stoic profile. “I’m going out for some air.” She rose, not waiting for a response.
Her legs felt unsteady as she hurried to the back door and stepped outside. The pleasant spring evening washed over her, and she sucked in the fresh air while memories tore through her like the sorrow that wracked her frame. Libby had been a source of joy, her mentor. Coming home meant seeing Libby again. Now—
Swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, she felt beckoned across the grass. Her feet carried her to the property line and through the stately trees guiding her into Libby’s garden and to the rose arbor.
The arbor. Memories prickled down her neck.
She stood in its shadow and looked across the moon flecked lawn where the plantation manor sat shrouded in darkness. The fragrance of roses and honeysuckle hung heavy on the air—as heavy as her heart. She ran her fingers along the wooden bench, feeling the rough, weathered plank, the white paint fading to a gray ghost.
She sat, leaning her back against the hard wood and stretching her legs, as her mind drifted to her youth—fresh scrubbed and innocent. Since she’d been a child, Libby had entertained her with lemonade and wonderful stories. Even in later years on Susan’s rare visits home, Libby had opened her door and her arms in a warm greeting.
Susan pictured Libby sitting on the gallery, her auburn hair lightened by sun and age, wisps curling from her natural waves. Sometimes the curls formed a halo around her face, and she would brush them back with long fingers, so pale and delicate they reminded Susan of her grandmother’s China doll that sat on a shelf in her mother’s living room.

Libby had the look of a Southern belle from the days of ruffled hoop skirts and gracious living. In her mid-sixties, she’d been too young, too full of life and hope to die.
And now what would become of the plantation manor? A single woman, Libby had doted on her handsome nephew. Justin Taylor Robard. Even his name sent a shiver along Susan’s spine. Justin had caught her interest with his dark brown hair and eyes gray as a stormy sky.
He’d beguiled her, not by his own efforts, but by her imagination. Her young girl fantasy wove around his brooding good looks, and without knowing it, he’d caused her deep grief.
Tangled in bittersweet memories, Susan brushed her finger over her locket which held two miniature photographs—portraits from a different time, a changed world, but the same place...as if time had stood still. She pushed her hair behind her ear, rose and stepped away from the arbor for another look at the silent manor before heading back to her mother’s.
The dew-laden grass spotted her sandals and dampened her toes. Her footfall swished on the lawn, and the silence wrapped around her until a faint sound drifted from the gallery. She faltered, then held her breath to listen. The squeak of a rocking chair. Frissons prickled her arms.
The creaking stopped, and footsteps thudded on the wide gallery planks. She held her breath and narrowed her eyes, peering into the darkness.
Tales of a ghost’s presence had been a legend at the manor since she could remember, but her good sense and Christian upbringing told her it was only a myth. But the eerie sounds sent her imagination on edge.
Bathed in hazy moonlight, a tall masculine form surged toward her. She swallowed her fear, pushing the foolish ghost notion out of her mind. The tangible shape had to be a realtor or another neighbor paying tribute to Libby’s memory.
“May I help you?” His voice rolled from the shadow.

“Sorry.” She restrained the anxiety from her voice, “I didn’t know anyone was here.” She extended her hand to the broad-shouldered figure. “I’m Susan Boyd. A neighbor. I grew up next door.”
The form twitched, and she heard an intake of breath. “Susan?”
Her pulse coursed to her temples. She lowered her arm and moved closer. “Justin?”
He gave a faint nod.
She longed to embrace him, but good sense won over instinct. For once, she would act on her honest sympathy. “I’m so sorry about Libby.” Justin’s shadowed face couldn’t shroud his matured good looks. Susan steadied herself. “No one let me know, or I would have been here.”
“I looked for you at the funeral.” His voice sounded deep and heavy. “I thought your mother would have told you.”
Glad the dark hid her expression, Susan kept her voice even. “She didn’t. I’ve been living out of town and got back this evening.” She took a step closer, needing to feel his presence. They had both lost someone precious to them. “I loved your aunt more than I can tell you. I’ll never forget her.”
“I won’t either.” His voice resounded with so much meaning, it made her heart ache.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “I’ve been trying to find the courage to open the door.”
His candid remark whooshed through her chest. “You’ve been sitting outside all evening?”
“For a couple of hours.” His gaze searched her face. “Would you come in?”
Her thoughts tumbled, recalling the last time they were together before he left for college. She’d spent years clinging to her anger at Justin, even though she told her mother she hadn’t blamed him, and tonight she wanted to refuse his invitation, but seeing the sadness in his eyes and his drawn look that almost pleaded, she couldn’t refuse.
“It won’t be the same here. Ever.” Justin ran his fingers through his moonlit hair. “Libby brightened the manor even when she didn’t have the same spring in her step.”

His sadness washed over her. “Things change,” she said, repeating the same words from long ago on a night like this one. He was going off to college and she...she was staying in Devereaux. But this time her sadness was different.
His eyes searched hers. “You’ve said that before.”
He’d remembered. Time had never been gentle for either of them.
Motioning toward the gallery steps, Justin held back.
She hesitated, yet out of shared grief, she moved ahead of him. Silence hung between them except for the brush of their footfalls in the grass and the slap of their shoes on the wooden stairs. While he located the key and unlocked the door, Susan waited, washed in memories.
Justin swung open the door and reached inside to snap on a light. He motioned her forward.
Squinting at the brightness, she stepped through the doorway, overwhelmed by the sweep of nostalgia. Her feet moved on the worn oriental carpet...from Madagascar, if she remembered correctly. Libby had a story for everything in the manor.
“Let’s sit in the parlor.” he pointed as he backed away. “Let me find us something to drink.”
He moved with purpose through the broad foyer and vanished toward the kitchen.
Susan passed the curved staircase winding to the second floor and entered the family parlor. Gazing around the familiar room, she wandered to the secretary desk to eye an old photograph, then to the mantel saddened by the floral bouquet that had passed its prime. Finally, she settled against the toss pillows propped on the beige settee. The room smelled of dust and age, but a stronger scent of Libby’s potpourri...or perhaps her floral perfume still clung to the upholstery.
She drew in the sweet scent, reliving the many evenings she’d sat in this room with Libby. Her mind soared back, and a smile eased her tension as she remembered her dear neighbor.

Driven by nostalgia, Susan rose and strolled to Libby’s bedroom door off the parlor. The sweet scent seemed stronger there. She pushed back the door and stepped inside, her gaze sweeping the room—the towering armoire, her dressing table, the half-canopied bed. She caught her reflection in the cheval mirror, a silhouette backlit be the parlor’s light. Sadness overcame her as she moved forward and snapped on the vanity lamp.
She stood a moment, longing to talk with Libby. She’d anticipated Libby’s wonderful advice and her spirit. Looking down, she gazed at Libby’s comb and brush. White hairs still clung to the bristles, and she touched one, realizing that was as close as she could get to the woman who’d filled her life with so many good things.
She moved away, then turned back with her gaze settling on a ledger tucked beneath a jewelry box. Susan lifted the box. A journal. Her breath hitched. She grasped the volume, almost afraid to look inside. Replacing the box, she moved closer to the lamp and opened the cover. Her eyes scanned the dated pages in Libby’s neat script with her fancy flared capitals.
Susan clutched the journal to her chest and glanced into the parlor. Would Justin mind that she’d wandered into Libby’s room? She had no right to nose into Libby’s belongings.
She lifted the box to return the diary, then faltered. She could ask Justin if she could read it. What would be the harm? Drawing up her shoulders, she snapped off the light and returned to the settee, tucking the journal alongside her on the cushion. She heard Justin’s footsteps and tensed.
“Do you still drink sweet tea?” Justin stepped through the doorway, carrying two tall slender glasses. “I can probably find lemonade in the freezer if you prefer.”
“Sweet tea is perfect,” She took the drink and watched him head for the chair and felt hopeful for the first time. Perhaps she and Justin could be casual friends again. Forget the kisses of their youth. Forget their mistakes. They could start again as friends.

Justin sank into a wingback chair across from her, its tall back rising behind him. He leaned his head against the cushion for a moment before rousing himself to take a sip of the drink. He studied her over the glass rim. When he lowered it, his expression changed. “You look good, Susan. It’s been a long time.”
“About seventeen years.” Her gaze held captive, she tasted her drink. “I’ve been thinking about those days.”
Discomfort flickered across his face. “About Libby?”
“Libby and Rose Arbor.”
“She loved this house.” He settled back, looking more at ease.
“We did, too.”
He gave a faint nod.
“Remember when Libby took us to New Orleans for the day? I’ll never forget how far we walked in that horrible humidity.”
He chuckled. “The hottest day in the summer...to visit the above ground cemeteries. Libby’s strange idea of fun.”
“But it was interesting, and later we went to Jackson Park. I loved the music and the carriages.”
“You loved the beignets. We couldn’t get you to leave Café Du Monde.”
The image of powdered sugar drenching the chairs, tables and floors shot into her thoughts. “I remember Libby trying to teach me how to eat beignets without getting the sugar all over me.”
“You’re a slow learner.” A faint grin touched his lips.
Susan opened her mouth to offer a jibe, but his expression halted her. His grin faded as if he’d suddenly remembered Libby was gone. He lowered his head.
“Justin, how is your mother handling Libby’s death. It must be hard on—”
“Mother and Aunt Libby were never close.” A ragged breath rumbled from his chest. “My father, if he were alive, would have shown more emotion, I’m guessing. He showed his feelings so much more than my mother.”
“Was your dad a storyteller, like Libby?”
Justin grinned. “Oh yes, he did when I was young. I think he gave up when my mother told him so often that no one cared about his stories.”
“I’m sorry, Justin. I wish I’d known your dad. I would have liked him.”
“Yes, you would have. My dad knew how to entertain his company.” His grin faded. “Libby’s stories were something we both enjoyed.”
“We did.” The pressure of the journal against her leg made her uneasy. She tried to ignore it as she sipped the tea, wanting to say something comforting, but his quietness reminded her too much of their past together. Justin had a way of laughing one moment and turning sullen the next. She’d often wondered if that was the attraction. He seemed a mystery to her. An intriguing, tempting enigma.
Finally, he lifted his head. “You don’t live in Devereaux?”
“I’ve been in Baton Rouge for a number of years, but I’ve—”
“Baton Rouge?” He leaned forward, resting his free hand on his knee. “My partner and I own a business there. My condo overlooks the Mississippi River not too far from the university.”
Her chest tightened realizing how near he’d been. “I worked at the Museum of Art. We were probably neighbors—”
“The Museum of Art.” His eyes widened. “What did you do there?”
“I began as a technician. I worked with the curators doing research on objects in the museum collections. Finally, I was promoted to a specialist and worked with exhibit designs. I liked working with textiles.”
“I’m impressed. I admire your getting away from Devereaux. So many people stay here. I see them around, and wonder why they have no impetus to leave.”
Her expression twisted to concern. “I came back, Justin.”
His brow furrowed as he leaned forward. “Why?”
She pressed her spine against the cushion. “I have my reasons. It seems good being here.”
“Then I’m glad you came back.” He eased back and studied her. “You’ve always impressed me, Susan. You’ve always been able to make good out of bad. You find a bright spot in even the darkest night.” He seemed to sail away in thought, but soon his gaze returned to hers. “Although I’m impressed, for some reason, I can’t picture you working in a museum. I always thought you’d be teaching school or—”
Admiration glinted in his eyes, and a moment passed before she managed to speak. “I’m a people person, you mean.”

“You always were.” His gaze softened. “You listened to people with intensity. You came to life with Libby’s stories. I can still hear your laughter.”
“I do like to work with people, but the museum didn’t give me that chance. I was behind the scenes. I’ve decided to rethink my career. That’s why I moved home for a while.”
“Home.”
The single word sounded like a eulogy. Yet, he seemed to come around as a questioning look settled on his face.
“How will being in Devereaux help? Work’s not as plentiful here as in Baton Rouge.”
“It’s not just the employment. I have a number of reasons for returning.” Her shoulders tensed while she struggled with how to explain without revealing too much. “I’ve had some issues with my parents for a number of years. When my dad died a few years ago, we hadn’t resolved the problems. I vowed to do something about it.”
A curious look filled his face, and she sensed he wanted to ask her more. Instead, he only tilted his head and waited.
“My mother’s dealing with some health problems, and I would never forgive myself if we don’t settle our differences.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thanks. She seems to be doing better now.” She hesitated, uncomfortable talking about her relationship with her mother. “I have other reasons, too. I want time to think about my career. Maybe try something new. I don’t know... I want to make my life more meaningful. I’m ready to step out in faith.”
“Faith. That’s always been important to you.”
Her heart skipped. Justin had a minimal grasp of faith and received only a glimmer of the Lord from Libby’s occasional comments. “Faith. You can call it taking a risk.”

“We all need to do that sometimes.” He ran his finger around the lip of his glass, his expression distant. Finally, he lowered his hand. “You vanished from Devereaux. I always wondered why, and I feared it was because...”
His gaze caught hers, and she held her breath.
“When I came home for Christmas vacation my first year in college, Aunt Libby told me you’d decided to live with relatives and finish school there.”
She wanted to leave his statement unanswered and prayed he wouldn’t press her. She’d never told anyone the reason she left, not even Libby. Susan studied his face, wondering if she could ever tell Justin the whole truth. “It was my parents’ decision.”
His gaze clung to hers for a moment before it glided to her ring finger.
When he looked up, she read the question in his eyes. “I’ve never been married.”
A frown shadowed his face again.
Motivated by her own curiosity, she sidled a look at his left hand and found it free of jewelry. Only a wristwatch peeked from beneath his sleeve.
“I’m single, too” he said, answering her question. “Never thought marriage had much to offer. I always pictured Aunt Libby—free, content and happier than most people. Being single seemed safer and less trouble than marriage.”
Safer? Less trouble than marriage? The words twisted in her mind, recalling his teenage depression. She’d always questioned why.
Contrition settled on his face. “This conversation is boring you.”
“You’ve never bored me.”
His expression drew Susan back to the young Justin with the same brooding eyes and petulant turn of his mouth—his lips, the kisses that had changed everything. Now time had supplied a matured look that added character. “You’ve aged well, Justin.”
“Hard work. Can’t get into much trouble that way.”
She weighed his comment and let it pass. “How long will you be here?”

“A few days.”
The mundane conversation had become strained, and she became more aware of the journal against her leg. She lifted her glass and took another drink, then placed it on the oval coffee table in front of her, thinking she should leave, then wondering how he would react when she mentioned the journal.
Before she moved, a strange sensation settled in her chest—a deep longing to tell him everything, to renew their friendship despite the impossibility. No matter what the past had held, she felt a connection to Justin. They’d shared so much. Too much. She wanted to learn more about the matured man who still sent her pulse rising.
“Justin, what about you? What happens now to the plantation?” Seeing his expression, she knew she’d asked the wrong question and wished she could retract it. “I’m sorry for asking. I’m sure it’s difficult to even think of selling the manor. It’s been in your family for years. I shouldn’t have said a thing.”
Justin lifted his shoulders as if he’d caught a second wind, and he aimed a direct look at her. “Selling the manor isn’t the problem.”
“What do you mean it’s not the problem?”
“Aunt Libby left the manor to me.”
Her pulse skittered. “But that’s wonderful, Justin.” As if her hand had been pulled by a magnet, she raised it and fondled her locket. “Think of all the happy times—”
“You didn’t let me finish.” He lowered his eyes. “She left it to me...with stipulations.”
“Stipulations?” Her mind reeled. Libby never posed conditions on anything. She had always been so open and spirited. She studied Justin’s dark eyes. “What kind of stipulations?”
Air drained from his lungs before he spoke. “Rose Arbor can never be sold. I either live here or give it to the historical society.”
Images swarmed her mind. Justin walking in the garden and sitting on the gallery. Justin home at Rose Arbor. Her thoughts twisted. “But what’s wrong with—”

“Susan, my business is in Baton Rouge. I’ll have to donate the property to the historical society. I could never live in Devereaux.”

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