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Category:
Romance
Publisher: Solstice Publishing
Type: Fiction
Pages: 275
Copyright: 2010
Unaware of her family legacy, Sarah Griffith inherited a family estate in Savannah, Georgia. From the moment she arrived at Magnolia Estate, Sarah felt a connection to the historic family home. Bearing a strong resemblance to the painting of Elizabeth Griffith, the former mistress of Magnolia Estate, she knew, for the first time in her life, she belonged.
But strange ghostly occurrences and threats on her life force Sarah to realize that the home harbors darker secrets. She embarks on a mission to solve the mysteries and learn the meaning behind the rose. Only when her faith is shattered can she learn the truth.
Excerpt
“Here we are. Forty-eight Magnolia Place. The old Griffith house.”
Sarah Griffith threw open the cab door, swung her legs out, and rushed toward the massive wrought iron gate. She pressed her face between gaps in the cold iron, shielded her eyes with her hands, and gazed through. The majestic Southern mansion stood a quarter mile from the road. Fully bloomed magnolia trees bordered the drive on either side, their sheer size indicative of their deep-rooted age. Regal oaks dripping with Spanish moss graced the open yard. Well-manicured green grass carpeted the grounds from the road to the front porch, and multi-colored pansies edged the entranceway to the enormous manor. She wrung her hands together and pondered her sudden unsettledness.
“I'm home,” she mumbled, and stared straight ahead. “I can't believe I'm here.”
“Ma'am?” the driver muttered.
Sparkling windows expanded the entire length of the first and second floor. Dark green shutters framed them against the stark white backdrop. A huge porch supported round columns stretching the height of the home, the width of each as wide as the trunks of the oak trees adorning the open yard. Double doors standing twelve feet high marked the entrance. The estate house was as grand as any Southern mansion portrayed in glossy magazines.
“I can't believe this,” Sarah whispered. “This place is unbelievable.”
With slim fingers, she punched the code provided by the probate attorney into the entrance keypad, and the gates swung inward. The driver proceeded through the gate. As they drove the short distance to the house, Sarah was pleased gardeners were retained after her great uncle's death, and wondered what other arrangements were made for the upkeep. She looked forward to meeting the probate attorney to learn as much as possible about the new life she was destined to begin.
“I don't think anyone's been here since the death of old man Griffith a few months ago,” the taxi driver said. “Did you know him?”
“Well, not really. He was a relative, but we never met. He left this place to me. It's my home.”
“That's cool. I'd swear I'd died and gone to heaven if I lived in a place like this. What's it like on the inside?”
A shiver of excitement trailed down her spine, and the corner of her lips turned upward, escalating into an enormous grim. “I don't know. First time here.”
The taxi pulled to the front and stopped. They got out, and the driver moseyed around to the trunk, removed the luggage, and tossed the suitcases on the front porch beside the large double doors. The painted wooden slats creaked underneath Sarah's feet. She fumbled in her purse for the key, and slipped the driver forty dollars.
“Keep the change. I appreciate the ride.”
“I'll take your bags inside if you'd like.” He smiled.
“No, thank you anyway.” She had fantasized about opening the door to Magnolia Estate, stepping inside and standing in the spot generations of her family graced before her. No, she could not let him go in with her, she had to enter alone.
The taxi pulled away from the house, and the iron gate clamped closed behind it. The key turned the lock easily. When she opened the door, she gasped, and stepped into the grand foyer with marble floors. Flipping the light switch, crystals glistened overhead, and beads of light danced across the walls. She sniffed the sweet magnolias in the vase on the drum table in the center of the entryway.
She turned to an impressive life-size painting of an elegant lady dressed in Victorian style clothing. A flowing white lace dress trimmed in pale blue covered her statuesque frame. Soft brown ringlets spilled down the subject's face. The frozen look on her face was proper but sensuous, and the slight curve of her lips indicated a faint smile. Piercing green eyes seemed to share a whispered secret with the artist who captured her beauty forever.
After a quick study of the painting, she recognized the familiarity with her own facial features. The woman was older than Sarah's twenty-eight years, but the resemblance was uncanny. She ran her fingers through her hair, and again scanned the canvas, starting at the bottom and moving upward to the face. When her gaze reached the lady's eyes, she staggered, caught herself, and massaged her temples.
A cool breeze whipped through the foyer. The sides of her hair blew, and she gasped. She wrapped her arms around her ice-cold skin, and her heart pounded as if she had just participated in a marathon. With still unstable legs, she struggled to remain upright. Her purse slipped through her fingers, making a thud as it hit the cool marble. A scream caught in her closed, dry throat, but could not escape her lips. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and she stared at her likeness, transfixed, as chills crept through her icy body.
“This is silly,” she mumbled. She did not believe in anything extraordinary. Oh, no, quite the opposite. There was an answer for everything, a legitimate answer. It had to be her imagination playing cruel tricks. There was no other explanation. She grabbed her purse and scooped up the spilled contents, confident it was a fluke.
Beyond the foyer, a grand oak staircase curved upward to the second floor. Wooden flowers and cherubs were hand-carved in the railing, and finished in a rich stain that matched the flight of stairs. At the top of the staircase was a long, wide hall, with doors to many rooms. Splendid Victorian-style electrical fixtures with crystal prisms ran the length of the hall, reminiscent of candle sconces from eras past.
Long, dark shadows covered the floor, and Sarah's watch indicated seven-thirty. She pulled her suitcases inside the foyer and closed the door. Her immediate need for a comfortable bedroom superseded her desire to explore the balance of the house.
Leaving the suitcases in the foyer, she climbed the stairs, rubbing her hand along the top of the smooth railing as she thrust upward. At the top, centered in the long hallway, she opened the double doors to a large bedroom with a king-size canopy bed. A quick bounce on the crisp white linens tested the firmness.
She surveyed the room, and noted the bedside tables topped with Tiffany-style lamps in rich greens matching the carpet. An ornate gilded mirror covered the length of an antique dresser against one wall. A smaller bureau was in one corner with a river landscape painting hanging above it. A bathroom with a shower and roman tub adjoined a small hallway that doubled as a powder room. Luscious clean white towels and toiletries were scattered tastefully about the counter.
The room suited her needs, so she retrieved the suitcases from the foyer, unpacked, grabbed her robe, and headed to the bathroom. After a relaxing soak, she searched for the kitchen.
Downstairs, past the foyer and several large rooms filled with furniture covered in sheets, she located a modern kitchen. The pantry and refrigerator were stocked full of meats, vegetables, and canned goods. The cabinets housed dishes of every imaginable kind. She found a glass, rinsed, and filled it with ice and coke.
Ring…ring.
With the pealing of the telephone, she juggled her glass, steadying it before the soda spilled, and giggled. “Silly me.
"It's the phone. I'm such a scaredy-cat. I don't know what's wrong with me.”
The phone rang again.
Following the sound, she stepped into the hall and spotted a telephone on a small walnut table. “There it is.” Lifting the phone, she held the receiver to her ear.
“Hello.”
“Sarah… Sarah Griffith?”
“Speaking.”
“Well, hello young lady. I'm glad to see you arrived safely. This is Bryan Furman, your Great-Uncle Frank's estate attorney.”
“Hello, Mr. Furman. How nice of you to call. I arrived, thank you.”
“I hope you found everything to your liking.”
“It's wonderful. You did an excellent job. I have everything to make me feel right at home. This is one of the most beautiful houses I've ever seen. It's much different than my modest apartment in Manhattan.”
“Different it is, my dear, yes indeed. However, you did arrive when the house was the most picturesque with all the wonderful blooms. Savannah is gorgeous this time of the year.”
“The drive through town was nice. It seemed quaint. I can't wait to look around.”
“You'll have plenty of time. First, we need to attend to business. I have paperwork that requires your signature so we can initiate the property transfer to your name. Perhaps I could stop by tomorrow. Let's say midday, around eleven-thirty or twelve.”
Sarah giggled and twirled the ends of her hair in her fingers. “It's not as if I have anything else to do. I guess eleven-thirty or twelve sounds fine.”
“Get a good night's sleep and I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for calling. Goodbye.” She replaced the receiver in the cradle and started up the stairs to the bedroom. She paused at the painting.
***
“So, I guess she made it.” Josephine Furman fumed. “You said she'd never come.”
Bryan relaxed in his overstuffed chair and sighed. Resting his elbows on the leather-covered arms, his body felt as though it carried a heavy weight.
He looked at his stylish wife, so elegant in the wingback chair, yet so temperamental. Even though they were both well into their sixties, he still loved her as much as the day they met. He would do anything for her. The difference from her youth was hair grayed with time, and wrinkles that creased a once-perfect face.
“You didn't have to slam your drink on the table, and you don't have to be so sarcastic. I know what I said. I was wrong.” She stomped to the window, her backside facing him. The stiffness of her body indicated that she was livid. He was as familiar with her body language as he was his own.
“This'll ruin everything, you know.”
He approached her, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She brushed them off and turned away. Shrugging his shoulders, he shook his head. “Come on, Honey. Everything's fine. This won't ruin anything. Things are great the way they are. We have a fabulous life. I know we found her, but we still have each other. That's what matters.”
“I can't believe you found her,” Josephine sneered, and turned around. “I thought you told me she wouldn't be located.”
“It was a quirk and you know it. At first, I thought she didn't exist. I had no other choice. The old man‟s instructions were specific.”
“After you found her, you told me she wouldn't come.”
“I was wrong and I'm sorry. Now come on, Honey. There's no use using a belligerent tone with me, and please wipe that insufferable smirk off your face.”
“Come on nothing.” She gritted her teeth. “Right now I'd prefer if you didn't refer to me as Honey.”
“I never seem to know the right thing to say or do.” Bryan flung his arms in the air, and then planted his hands on his hips.
“Of course you don't. It's obvious you never know what to do or say. Besides, I don't care what you have to say. I want to know what you're going to do.”
Bryan rubbed his hand across the bottom of his chin and felt the stubble of a late-day beard. Deep in concentration, he stared at her, stared through her. A smile embraced his lips. “There is one thing.”
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