Category: Drama Publisher: CreateSpace
ISBN-10: 1440404238
Type: Fiction
Pages: 443
Copyright: August 20, 2008
ISBN-13: 9781440404238
Drawn into a world of supernatural intrigue and debauchery, Johnny Feelwater faces a struggle with his personal identity.
At odds with his sexuality in college, Johnny Feelwater finds himself involved with the boy in the dorm room across the hall. Everything changes the day he meets Marilee. They fall in love, wed, buy a home and he begins a career in commercial art. Life is normal for nine years, when the day comes the phantoms from the past are once again awakened.
His ancestral heritage catches up with him in the form of Cassandra Mott, his grandmother’s lover, who returns from
the dead to begin a new life in Savannah. Bent on revenge,she blames Johnny for her lover’s premature death. Johnny is drawn into her supernatural world of conniving and debauchery, and soon finds himself reintroduced to his own misguided genes. Among other devices, Cassandra uses her
brother's exotic beauty to systematically dismantle his life.
When he seeks help to free himself from Cassandra’s spell, he travels to Africa where he meets up with a man who further
complicates his life, in a way only another man could.
Set in historic Savannah, Georgia, The Strange Haunting of Johnny Feelwater, is an engaging tale of male emotions and
sexuality, set in a supernatural realm the likes of which may very well secretly exist.
Excerpt
Chapter 2
♣
Johnny stared at the open door, distracted. Then he turned again to Arlene Landrum. The old lady had begun her slow walk home.
“See you soon, Mrs. Landrum,” he called out.
“Johnny Feelwater, you call me Arlene,” she called back, moving carefully along the uneven brick walkway with her cane.
He turned back to the house and stared at it a moment longer before starting toward it. It seemed impossible that he had opened the door without realizing it, having thrown his body weight against it without feeling the slightest budge. Perhaps someone was inside. But why would there be? And if so, how did they get in with the doors and windows locked? Johnny paused at the wrought-iron gate and tilted his head to look past the door—nothing more than mingling shadows and light.
A chill of gooseflesh raced over his forearm. Though there wasn’t a superstitious bone in his body, a vague premonition prevented his next step, like a frightened voice imploring him to stay away from that door. He scoffed. How many haunted house tales had he heard over the years? Savannah was notorious for that sort of thing. This was a big, vacant house. Been around for over a century. An old lady recently died in one of the upstairs bedrooms. No wonder his imagination roared to life. Letting out a small laugh, he sucked in a breath and proceeded through the gate. He took the steps one at a time and approached the door this time with caution.
Johnny pushed the door wide open. He took one step inside and called out: “Anyone here?” Nothing but a faint echo. “Hello ... anyone here?” he called louder, then one more step forward.
Opulent beyond what he had imagined, the front foyer was an architectural masterpiece of nineteenth century craftsmanship: marble floor, elegant wallpaper, elaborate woodwork and trim. The octagonal entry offered arch-ways leading to other parts of the main floor. A stairway, wider at the base, swept upward along the curved wall, narrowing as it reached the upstairs landing. The ceiling went all the way to the roof, circled near the cornice with windows. Johnny had seen this form of natural air conditioning before. The high windows, when opened, would create an updraft and pull fresh air through the windows of the entire house.
Can’t believe I own this place.
He looked through the archways: the anteroom straight ahead, the dining room to the left, a smaller door to the right of the stairs that appeared to be a library. The rooms seemed well appointed, though the foyer was sparsely furnished with a narrow side-table against the wall adjoining the staircase. On it, next to a pewter art deco lamp, rested a silver dish filled with roasted peanuts.
Suffering the pangs of hunger from missing breakfast, Johnny moseyed over and picked up the dish and sniffed them. As fresh as peanuts could smell, they made his mouth water. He tilted his head back and let a fistful slide into his mouth. His stomach growled. The peanuts tasted better than he had expected, roasted, salty, a little spicy. Uncommonly delicious. He in-spected them again as he swallowed the first handful.
Subtle at first, a lightheadedness came over him. He was suddenly dizzy. He wobbled and felt unstable. When it occurred to him to sit down, he stepped around the banister and took a seat on the bottom step. A wave of confusion blurred his mind. Then a chorus of voices flared in his ears. Startled, he nearly dropped the dish.
He turned this way and that, eyes darting, searching for the source of the sound. It had flared like a loud hum and then diminished into a vague chorus of young female voices, as if beckoning for something they could not have. Resonating through the foyer like a song on the wind, beautiful, yet sad and eerie in quality, it seemed to be coming from within the wall along side the stairway.
His eyes moved uneasily along the velvety wall, on up to the landing on the second floor. He stood and his heart quickened as he started up the stair-case. Much like being drawn, one foot lifted after the other, one step at a time until he had half way ascended the stairs. He looked at the wall and then pressed his ear to it. The sound was more distinct. He listened, trying to distinguish what the song might be. Yes, a chorus of young girls, imploring, an indistinguishable melodic chant. A calm came over him as he listened. He suddenly felt very comfortable, almost euphoric, and he sensed it had something to do with being inside this house. The confusion in his head had cleared. As quickly as it had occurred, it had melted away.
No longer nervous or hesitant, he sat the dish of peanuts on the steps and proceeded to the landing, which narrowed into two separate hallways. On the wall near the head of the stairs, trailing down from the ceiling, a wire led to an electric light switch. He turned it before entering the hallway on the right. Opening one door after another, he came upon two bedrooms and what appeared to be a small private study, a linen closet and a room used for storage.
The other hall was much the same with one exception. Another door that would not open. It was at the end of the hallway. He turned the knob and threw his shoulder into it, but it wouldn’t budge. A crow bar, he decided, would damage the woodwork.
Damn! His curiosity mounted as he stared at the door. Might need that locksmith after all.
On the way back to the stairs, he paused and held his hands up to look at them. His fingertips seemed uncommonly sensitive. He rubbed them together and could feel the fine lines of his fingerprints. He noticed a tingling on his forearms; the warm air felt good on his skin, as if his pores had come alive with the fragrances of early spring. Still in a bit of a fog, he looked over at the nineteenth century painting on the plaster and wainscoted wall. The feeling wasn’t in any way unpleasant … just strange. He licked his lips and could still taste the salt from the peanuts, though he had no appetite for more.
The floor creaked behind him, a distinct sound, like someone walking up from behind. The fine hair on the back of his neck bristled. He turned and his eyes were immediately drawn to a slithering movement on the floor at the end of the hall.
My God! A snake!
He shivered at the sight of it. The snake was quite large and moving quickly toward the locked door. His eyes lifted and his mouth fell open. The creaking sound had been the door. Standing rigid, he stared at a door now gaping open some several inches. The snake vanished behind it.
A jammed door opening on its own? It seemed irrational, though Johnny realized he was not as unnerved as it seemed he should be; but en-thralled, and compelled to look inside that room. He stared at the gaping door, trying to make sense of the conflicts in his head. Something was vaguely telling him to get out of this house; on the other hand, far more compelling, his curiosity about the room. He took the first tentative step toward the door.
His eyes darted as he stepped closer to the room. He paused at the threshold and leaned forward to peek in. It was by far the largest upstairs room yet. Nudging the door with his foot, it creaked open another two or three inches. With a harder push, it yawed open and he scanned the floor for the snake before venturing inside.
He stood in awe of the opulence: paneled walls painted in pastel blue, intricately carved crown moldings, a private parlor appointed with elegant furniture, potted plants and paintings. A chandelier hung from the domed ceiling in the center of the room. To the left, a columned archway opened into a sitting room that overlooked Confederate Square. Next to that was a closed door. On the back wall to the right were three doors. A fireplace on the wall adjacent the entryway stood out as the focal point. Inside the fire-place was a grate stacked with fresh logs. Arranged comfortably in front of the fireplace, facing sofas upholstered in silk fabric flanked a coffee table. There were three or four chairs against the wall and a large wardrobe be-tween the doors on the back wall. Johnny noticed a vibrancy in the room, an energy of some kind that he could feel on his skin. Assuming static electric-ity, he looked at his forearm and then heard a noise, muted, mingling with the silence. It seemed to be coming from behind the door next to the sitting room.
Johnny stepped further into the room. Still unable to identify the sound, he approached the door and placed his hand on the knob and leaned his ear against the smooth enameled wood. It sounded like running water, maybe a tub or a shower. He turned the knob and pushed the door open a few inches, dazzled by lavish paneled walls, gilded mirrors, marble counters, golden fixtures and ornate cabinet doors with glass knobs. A bathroom. Fit for a queen.
The sound was distinct now, though the partially opened door blocked his view of the back of the room and the source of running water. He pushed the door all the way open and froze, stunned by the unexpected.
His disbelieving gaze locked on a woman.
Her presence instantly escaped his mind as cause for concern—her beauty and nakedness had grabbed a hold of his every available thought. She had not noticed him, standing with her back to him under the shower-head within the marble enclosure, her head tilted downward, her red hair rich with lather that ran in soapy rivulets down her arms and legs. He stood dumbstruck, staring at the most exquisite female he had ever set eyes on. His life’s experiences had never presented anything remotely like this. Such radiance in the soft light, pale skin smooth and glistening over a framework of ribs that narrowed and then flared into creamy white hips, a vision so alluring that those old sensations of a hormone-sated teenager formed between his legs.
A daydream of some kind … must be, he vaguely reasoned. One he did not want to abandon. He had never walked in on a woman before, not in the shower, and certainly not one this beautiful; more accustomed to living with a woman that locked the bathroom door just to brush her teeth. It didn’t occur to him to turn away, or avert his eyes, or do anything other than stand in a motionless stupor and watch the soapy water cascade down her long legs.
Then she turned off the water and stepped onto a towel, taking up another to dry her hair, still unaware of his presence. Wavering gusts flared through his nostrils as he stared and realized his body was starving, wondering what it would be like to take such a woman into his arms, to know the feel of her skin against his and the scent of her hair? What would it be like to lay with her, to feel the side of his face on those breasts, to feel those legs around his hips?
She leaned forward to blot the drops of water from her legs, then threw back her head and saw him.
“Oh my!” A look of surprise washed over her face, then curiosity, then a smile. She looked at him for a moment before starting in his direction. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
Johnny tensed. A sense of panic came over him. His face flushed with embarrassment as his eyes shifted nervously, snatching quick glimpses as she neared. He took an awkward step backward, shamed by the guilt of a voyeur.
She stepped closer. No sign of modesty or alarm. She cast a smile one might construe as good fortune to have a man turn up in her bathroom. Her breasts, swaying under their own weigh, drew his eyes and his imagination, the nipples drawn into tight peaks.
His gaze followed the towel as it moved over her belly and then down between her legs. The thin swirl of red hair did nothing to hide her nether lips. He looked up at her enchanting smile when she extended the towel.
“My, my, an attractive man has found his way to my bathroom,” she said, her voice sweetened with classic southern charm. “Dry my back, would you, darlin’?” she said, turning her back to him.
His hand felt limp as he held the towel and looked at her small shoulders. He lifted it absently and blotted away a few drops.
He was not the composed man of confidence that had entered the house a few minutes earlier—he had become a perspiring mass of disoriented male flesh. Even his most outlandish dreams had never occasioned a scene like this. It didn’t occur to him to inquire why she was there, nor did he wonder how she had gotten into the house that he had just inherited. Nothing so rational entered his mind. His brain had disengaged from everything beyond the moment. Bewitched and muddled with embarrassment, an instant hunger possessed him, sending messages throughout his body, converging in rather conspicuous dimensions behind the strained buttons of his jeans.
When she turned to face him, she reached for the towel and tossed it aside. Standing in his gaze, she looked him over, a quiet, lengthy inspection, which to him was both awkward and undeniably pleasant. Then she turned and stepped in front of the mirror and picked up a brush to stroke her red hair, as if to suggest that his presence was perfectly agreeable and that her nudity was nothing more than happenstance. She watched his spellbound enchantment in the mirror, casually brushing her shoulder length hair like a seductress taunting a teenage boy, smiling inwardly at his statue-like gaze.
With her wet hair tangle free, she turned again to her visitor.
Johnny reflexively backed away as she stepped closer, stopping several feet into the parlor. She reached up to touch the side of his face in a way that seemed blatantly intimate. Without regard for the fact they were strangers, she held out her arms and struck a pose, smiling continuously as if she were delighted by his presence.
“Do you like my body?” she asked, turning so he could see front and back. “I love the way everything comes back to you after so many years.”
He stood in want of something to say, of something to do with his hands, of someplace to settle his eyes. Finally his mind began to form questions. What did she mean: everything comes back to you after so many years? Who was she? Why was she there? His words seemed caught in his throat.
“Have something you’d like to tell me?” she asked with feigned interest, though her smile suggested a preference for the more provocative game of exercising preeminence over a man’s composure and inferior moral defenses.
“Uh ...” He heard the sound leave his mouth, nothing more than an utterance that exposed his skewed sensibilities. He couldn’t just stand there, but what could he say? His mind had gone blank. He finally managed a half-dazed reflection. “I saw a snake ... in the hall. It … it came in here. Did you see it?”
“Good lord! A snake? Here in the house? My goodness no! Otherwise I’d be having a perfect fit. Surely you’re not serious.”
How could he not look at her when his entire lifetime prior to this mo-ment had been reduced to insignificance? Though she seemed delighted by his errant gaze, which made looking at her harder to resist, in some vague corner of his mind he was beginning to feel pangs of guilt, like he was doing something that he would have to keep from his wife. But her smile, disarming and confident, seemed to reach right into the essence of his manhood. How comfortable she appeared to be with her nudity, which multiplied her affect on him in a number of confusing ways. If only he could think of some-thing to say, start a conversation, something that might distract him from the tension building inside his chest.
“You’re shy, aren’t you, darlin’?” she said, stepping closer. “Except for teasing me about a snake.”
He felt foolish. A snake, for crying out loud! Must have been his imagination.
“Maybe ... uh, maybe my eyes were …”
“How did you happen to come here, darlin’?”
Her question registered, though no answer occurred to him. Her presence, her beauty, her nudity—all too unsettling. He could smell her freshly washed hair. He could feel changes inside his body. He couldn’t stop glancing at her breasts, swaying and full, dropping slightly. Not easy to separate one’s eyes from something like that.
She spoke again before he could respond.
“Are you a slave?” Her eyes widened. “Good lord! Are you? Seeking refuge from some awful foreman?” She reached out to stroke his face again. Her hand was soft and sensuous and spread electrical sensations across his cheek. “You’ve come to the right place, you know.”
Johnny was mystified. A slave? What the hell ... Her words bewildered him. And now that he was regaining his composure, more questions began to incubate. This wasn’t a dream. He had felt her hand on the side of his face. He had dried her back. He could see her and hear her voice, though it seemed like something had gotten between his mind and reality. This entire scenario had invaded his consciousness like an unsettling dream.
Something distracted her. Her attention shifted to the middle of the room. Johnny turned and followed her gaze and his knees weakened. He stumbled backward toward the wall, caught thoroughly off-guard. A man was there with her, youthful, dressed in elegant summer clothes made of white linen, sitting on one of the sofas, legs crossed, hands clasped and resting on his lap. He was looking at the nude enchantress with intense blue eyes, his sandy blond hair long and wavy and combed back, touching his collar.
Johnny glanced between them, even more bewildered. Though no words were spoken, it seemed she was listening to him. No sound came from him at all. Confused, Johnny watched them nervously, as if he sensed both the presence of something foreboding and something very exciting. When she turned to him, he felt certain some kind of communication had taken place.
“Silly me,” she said. “Of course you aren’t a slave. How absentminded I get sometimes when one era so quickly runs into another. Oh well, here you are and that’s what matters, now isn’t it, darlin’?”
The last thing Johnny expected in coming here was to feel like an intruder. He thought maybe he should leave, followed by second thoughts. Didn’t he own this house? Besides, he was feeling more at ease. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to find out why she was here; and now he was curious about the young man. They were intriguing, this beautiful pair. He wanted to understand what was going on in this room and inside his own head.
When he turned, the young man was gone. Johnny closed his eyes. What had become of his grasp on reality? He took a deep breath, wondering if he had actually seen the handsome young man, or if he had really seen that snake. On one hand it all seemed surreal; on the other hand the woman was too radiant, too sensual to be his imagination; though he realized something was affecting him. Nevertheless, in spite of the strange goings-on, he wanted to stay. Her trespassing didn’t bother him, nor did her strange behavior, now that his heart had quit racing. Beyond his natural attraction to beautiful women, he recognized an especially intimate and personal contentment in looking at her, mainly because his lingering gaze seemed welcome.
He heard a whooshing, crackling noise. His eyes opened. The fireplace had come to a sudden blaze. The enchantress was standing in front of the fire, leaning close to the flames, letting her hair fall forward as she ran her fingers through the long strands to dry them. Johnny’s throat tightened. In nine years of marriage he had never seen his own wife bend over that way. A sense of urgency rose in his loins and warmed the flesh between his legs and a spot of wetness expanded in his underwear. Nothing in his lifetime, no visual or female flirt had ever brought him this close to the brink. No woman he ever met had so thoroughly controlled what might happen next.
Then the young man emerged from the center door at the back of the room, apparently a closet, carrying a black satin dress. He approached and held the dress up so the woman could easily slip it over her head. It shimmered down and enveloped her body, clinging here and there, painting her sensuous form with a satiny sheen. When she turned to him, Johnny’s gaze settled on a pair of nipples pushing provocatively at the sheer fabric. “Shall we have a glass of wine?” she said, which prompted the young man to go to a side table near the wall and pour three glasses. Intrigued by his quiet demeanor, Johnny watched him, aware of something about him that evoked mystery, something undefined, something beyond his beauty and self-confident grace.
“Let’s have a seat on the sofa, Mr. ... oh, you haven’t mentioned your name yet, have you?”
“My name?” said Johnny absently, watching the man place the wine on the low table between the sofas. He felt captured by those blue eyes, bathed by them, naked.
“Why yes, darlin’. You haven’t introduced yourself.” She had moved between the sofas and stood looking at him.
Perspiration dampened Johnny’s forehead. His clothes felt damp and seemed to cling. He thought for a moment before his name jumped to the forefront of his dazed thoughts. “Johnny Feelwater,” he said, his throat dry and scratchy. He looked at the door. It occurred to him again that he should leave. Whatever was going on here, it wasn’t good for a married man. All he had to do was start in that direction and go back down the stairs and out the front door. He could find a place to sit down, or walk over to the river, think this through and sort it all out. Instead, he looked the woman, standing in her satiny black gown, smiling. Then his gaze shifted to the man on the sofa.
He wanted to stay. Despite the fog in his head, despite circumstances all very strange, he wanted to know more about them. The sense of well-being that had settled over him was stronger than his shapeless suspicions. His misgivings had evolved into a rather pleasant mystification. That furtive voice that warned him to leave, to get far and fast away from this house, had foundered under the weight of overwhelming intrigue. He felt strangely comfortable in their presence and he wanted to stay, just for a while, just to learn more about this exquisite woman, just to look at her, to hear her voice, to feel her hand aside his face once more. It was unlike any calm he had ever known.
He walked over and took a seat on the sofa opposite the young man. The woman sat next to him and reached for her glass of wine. The man leaned forward and pushed a crystal dish filled with peanuts across the coffee table toward her. She took a few and pushed the dish closer to Johnny. He picked up his wine, took a sip and then reached for the nuts.
“Who are you?” he asked, letting a handful of peanuts slide into his mouth.
“Me?” She seemed surprised he didn’t already know. “My goodness. You enter a lady’s parlor not knowing who she is? How interesting.”
“I thought this was my ...”
He paused, overcome by the same dizziness he had experienced in the foyer. He leaned back against the sofa. His head fell back. It was a weightlessness. His mind spun with sparkling flashes of red and blue and the most pleasant sensations melted through his arms and chest, like he had become a million particles floating in space where nothing was familiar and nothing mattered. He was aware of a growing enchantment with the two strangers who were behaving as if this house were theirs.
He lifted his head. The spinning passed like a summer rain and his mind began to clear. A moment later he looked at the woman and smiled.
“Are you all right, darlin’?” she asked. Her singsong voice, dripping with southern charm, danced about his ears like the chords of a harp. But he had detected more than that in her tone. Though lyrical, her words lacked authentic sincerity, as if spoken by someone with singular motives.
“So who are you?”
“Why, darlin’, I’m Cassandra Mott. And you, Johnny Feelwater, are a guest in my house.”
His eyes drifted to the coffee table. How could that be? Had he not been told that Cassandra Mott was a ninety-two year old woman that recently died? Had he not inherited this house? He looked at her, at the rose colored hues of her cheeks, the delicate features of her face, the feminine white shoulders set in contrast to the black silken gown, slightly less at ease with this odd course of events and his expanding bewilderment.
Johnny’s eyes shifted to man. “Who is he?” he asked, staring at a man that appeared to be in his late twenties, uncommonly handsome, mysterious, elegant, a man that had yet to say the first word. Johnny stared at him. Handsome, yes, but better described as beautiful or radiant.
“He’s my brother, Julian Mott,” said Cassandra adoringly.
“He doesn’t talk?”
“Of course he does, if he has something to say.”
“You must be a ghost. Him too,” said Johnny, not totally serious but amused by the possibility. It was as if his awareness had slipped past the defenses of his rational mind. If this is what it’s like to be in the presence of ghosts, it was most agreeable.
“My word, you are such a delightful man.” She reached out and took up his left hand and placed it aside her face. “Does that feel like the face of a ghost?”
He felt her smooth warm skin on the back of his fingers, her cheek soft and supple. A yearning came into his hands as the image of her washing her hair formed in his mind. A ghost? Hardly, though the feel of her skin set two minds at play: one insisting it was perfectly harmless to be in this lady’s parlor, to be captivated by her, to be sitting so close that he could smell the fragrance of her skin; the other telling him it was dreadfully wrong to be sated with these thoughts while his wife was off contributing her time to the church. Yet, if she offered a taste of her lips, he would not be able to resist.
She smiled, a mischievous curling of the corners of her mouth that hinted she had read his thoughts. Her eyes shifted to his wedding band. “So you’re a married man, Mr. Feelwater.”
He withdrew his hand and as the smile in her eyes reflected a sensuous understanding of a man’s libido, he fidgeted with his wedding band.
“I don’t mind if you call me Johnny.”
“Are you married, Johnny?”
“Uh, yes, married.”
“Does your wife allow you to have personal adventures?”
“Adventures?” A shiver ran down his spine. He felt his shoulder blades gather closer to his neck.
She glanced at her brother, and then said: “Perhaps I’m too forward with my silly inquiries.”
“No,” Johnny said quickly. He felt anxious, his curiosity elevated. “I ... I just didn’t ...” His gaze shifted to the bouncing motion of the leg she had crossed over the other. Distracted, his eyes followed the contour of her thigh. He pictured her stepping out of the shower, that swirl of red pubic hair etched on his brain. He had never put his hands on white skin before, never thought he would; but that brief touch, coupled with her beauty, had captured his imagination. “Not sure I know what you mean,” he stammered, almost a plea.
“Debauchery, Mr. Feelwater. I’m sorry … I mean Johnny. We’re so informal these days. How I miss the forgotten formalities. That damn war ruined everything!” She sighed and turned to look at Julian. “Such a charming era … don’t you agree?”
Mesmerized by her feminine aura, though confounded by nearly every-thing she said, Johnny wondered what she was talking about. She had spo-ken of adventures and debauchery and another era. Her statements seemed both nonsensical and erotic. How was he to know what all of this meant, or what she might be getting at?
“What era?” he asked haplessly.
“Those wonderful summers before Sherman and those awful Yankees came to Georgia and ruined everything!”
He looked at her for a moment. Had she forgotten that she was talking to a black man, that he would take no pleasure in harking back to the days before the Civil War? Why was she talking about that era, anyway? It was as if she remembered it. Still, how could her naiveté offend him, enchanted as he was by her beauty and charm? If anything, her eccentricity served only to enhance her most alluring character.
“How silly I am today. Just ramblin’ on without allowing you hardly a word.”
His brown eyes raked over her before their eyes met again.
“We were talking about debauchery, weren’t we?” she said, lifting his hand again to look at the wedding band.
“Uh ... debauchery?” Johnny reached up to scratch the side of his jaw. Debauchery. The word seeped into his skin like a tingling ointment, not un-pleasantly so, though her reason for using the word eluded him. He looked at his hand in hers, unable to keep his legs from coming together as she ran her fingertip over his knuckles. “I don’t know what you ...”
“The pleasures of the nine gates, Mr. Feelwater.” She smiled and looked into his eyes. “Are you familiar with those, Johnny? I’m thinking of the ninth gate in particular.”
Rovella is a beautiful woman with a cold heart whom blames herself for an unfortunate old family secret that is literally ruining her life. This secret impedes a gorgeous woman from having happiness in her childhood, and throughout her life. Dark sec
Rovella is a beautiful woman with a cold heart whom blames herself for an unfortunate old family secret that is literally ruining her life. This secret impedes a gorgeous woman from having happiness in her childhood, and throughout her life. Dark sec
