Harbinger in the Mist (Arms of Serendipity) (3 page)

“I know that you want answers and it pains me that I can’t share it all with you right now. But it’s an emotional burden I’ve got to learn to deal with first. I was originally going to sell it and go on with life. But I’ve had a couple of compelling dreams about the place … I really think this is the start of something good for us.”

When Lindsey didn’t respond, silence reclaimed the interior of the car. Aimee hummed to herself softly and Lindsey once again shoved her purse between her head and the window. Instead of comfort, though, something hard pushed into her temple. She reached into the bag and pulled out the offending article – the little toy from her Happy Meal. She tore open the little plastic bag and a pearly pink “My Little Pony” fell into her lap. Lindsey chuckled, according to the paper around its neck, her name was Serendipity. Was this a sign that this house would be the lucky location that her mom thought it was? She plucked the little pink comb out of the plastic bag and began to brush the pony’s purple tail. The teeth of the comb hit a knot and the entire tail popped out of the toy’s backside. Her mom hadn’t noticed and, quickly wiping the look of shock off her face, Lindsey forced the hot-glued knob at the end of the synthetic hair strands back into the pony. She then tucked the pony back into her purse and watched the trees rush by her window.

After about a half an hour, the trees began to thin and hints of civilization began to pop up in the form of road signs, traffic, and a little clap-board church. They turned into the dusty drive a few minutes later. Lindsey looked in amazement at the trees lining the path before them. They were not only large – she could stand and hold hands with her mom and they still would not be able to reach around one of the behemoths – but they were wild looking, too. Large branches crawled across the open air like the tentacles of an octopus. If it weren't for the ample green foliage, copious amounts of lichen growing on the bark, and bunches of grayish-green Spanish moss hanging in eerie tendrils from the branches, the trees would have looked like they had been turned upside down and the massive root structures were growing across the cloudless sky. In several places, the limbs dipped down so low that they nearly touched the ground before snaking back up into the air. They crept up and across the entire driveway, casting veiny shadows across the dusty ground.

“Well look at that,” Aimee said in complete amazement, her voice almost a whisper.

They passed under the mossy canopy in an awed silence, billowing clouds of reddish dust rising all around their little car. That silence was broken, however, when they rounded the corner.  It wasn't a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it was more than a mere house. The term “house” didn't seem appropriate for this place. It was right out a history book – classic old South. Lindsey expected to see a Southern Belle in a flowing dress, her face half hidden behind a lacy hand fan, walk out onto the spacious porch as a gentleman, his fist full of freshly picked wildflowers, stumbled up the grandiose steps in an attempt to woo her.

Aimee cut the engine and they both stepped out of the car, mouths agape, onto the manicured lawn. Two short, fat sago palm trees flanked the bottom corners of the steps leading up to the house. Various flowering shrubs grew below the railing of the porch – hydrangeas, rhododendrons, and viburnum. Their clusters of multihued blossoms attracting fat bumblebees, furry honey bees, and a rainbow of butterflies. There was a slight breeze that made the moss sway to-and-fro in the tree limbs overhead and carried an intoxicating mixture of smells – the briny metallic of coastal waters, the sweet nectar of confederate jasmine and aster, and even the earthy scent of fresh hay. In the distance a crow cawed several times and a cicada buzzed.

“Ah! You must be the Fosters!” a pudgy man in a blue polo shirt and khaki pants called as he rose from a rocking chair on the porch; the floor boards creaked as he walked across it. He took the steps slowly, letting the women take in their surroundings.

“Oh, um, yeah. I'm Aimee,” Lindsey's mom said, extending her hand and walking forward to meet the stranger.

“I'm Barry Jones. We spoke on the phone.” They shook hands then Mr. Jones motioned toward the house. “Welcome to the Marla Rae Retreat House!”

They stood and gazed at the house for a moment before Mr. Jones began to speak again. “Marla Rae is a typical Greek Revival Antebellum style home. ‘Antebellum’ means before the war of Northern aggression. Anyway, the Marla Rae is even on the National Record of Historic Places. But she’s only antique on the outside. On the inside she’s a brand-new gal. She’s had some major renovations in the past 25 years or so. And as you can see, the previous owner took great pride in her gardening abilities. She planted those azaleas over yonder before she fell ill. I know that she was a relative of yours and I am sorry for your loss.”

Lindsey liked his dialect, as it sounded like something from a movie. He seemed to leave the ‘g’ off his -ing words, and anything ending in ‘r’ was pronounced as if it ended in an ‘a.’ From the look on her face, though, Aimee was not so amused; she obviously didn’t want to go into details about her family or the reason they were standing in front of this house, so she just smiled thinly. 

“Ah, well, shall we take a look?” he continued, picking up on her discomfort. “Normally, we just hand over keys and paperwork when a house is passed along. But you said that you wanted some information about the property and were thinking about selling it, so I thought it’d be prudent to give you a formal tour and such. Help you make up your mind, you know. If you decide to sell, I already have papers drawn up so we can get it listed immediately.”

“That would be nice,” Aimee said, following Mr. Jones up the nine steps of the wide stairway to a porch that spanned the entire front of the house.

“I only have a small amount of time, though. The wife and I have plans.”

Lindsey lagged behind and watched as a small, green anole shot across the bannister; it stopped once it was on the other side of one of the massive columns and peeked around to see if it was being followed. Lindsey’s gaze left the little green lizard and followed the column up to the overhead awning two stories above. Three of these structures sat on each side of the porch. She wondered what stories they could tell.

She followed her mom and the lawyer through the heavy wood front door. In the foyer, a magnificent polished, dark wood staircase looked back at them before twisting up and out of sight. To the left was an opened door. To the right was a large, open living space. An even larger space was visible behind the stair case.

“The Marla Rae was built by the Walker family in 1851 and was meant to be used as a summer home, a place they could come out to a few months each year to get away from their rice plantation and the pests that swarmed it, you see. Hence the nickname ‘Retreat House.’ This whole town was founded for that sole purpose as a matter of fact. Anyway, the first bedroom is in here,” he rambled on as he pointed to the room on his left.

The bedroom had plenty of room for a large bed and dresser. It also had two double windows – one looked out to the trees beside the house, the other had a view of the front porch. It also had its own entryway to the one full-bathroom downstairs. Lindsey was sure that this would be the guestroom that her mom had always wanted to have. It didn’t matter that no one had ever really spent the night at their house. What mattered is that if someone
did
visit, they’d have a proper room in which to sleep. Then again, it could be the room that she talked about renting out if they needed to.

“The shower and tub are new,” he pointed as they followed him through the bathroom and back out into the hall. The lawyer didn’t slow down as they crossed the foyer and into the empty space at the front of the house. “This could be a very nice formal sitting room. Can’t you just see a baby grand piano sittin’ there in the corner? Or perhaps this could be a formal dining room if you’re into entertaining. And back here,” he kept talking as he moved, not stopping to let them just stand in the house, to enjoy its silence.

“Back here is the Great Room and kitchen. During the massive renovation back in the ‘70’s, several walls were knocked down, combining the original family room, the house servant's sleeping area, and the kitchen into one large room. Mr. Grayson had to get permission to do the work, but since he paid for it with his own funds, the board approved the renovations. I think it makes the area a more family-friendly space, don’t you agree?”

The room was indeed breath-taking. A large river-rock fireplace dominated the back wall. The light fixtures were all pewter and the appliances in the joint kitchen were stainless steel. The countertops were very light grey granite flecked with browns and whites.

Upstairs, a door slammed causing all three of them to jump and look up at the ceiling.

“That, uh, must be the cleaning lady,” the lawyer shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention to a stray sting on the cuff of his shirt, with which he fumbled nervously.

“The house comes with a cleaning lady?” Lindsey smiled. No more dishes for her!

“Oh, um, no. I asked Catherine to come by and open the house up this morning. You know, air it out and such. Anyway, if you notice, the floors are black walnut. The entire house is hardwood. I hope that you have a few nice rugs to toss about if you opt not to sell.”

“Are these the original floors?” Amie wondered aloud.

“Indeed they are, for the most part. They had to replace some boards where walls were removed, but that’s all. All of the floors have been sanded and painstakingly refinished,” Mr. Jones answered. “The wood-burning fireplace and the staircase are also original pieces. Good thing, too, because they really are just too pretty to ever replace.”

“Yes, they are beautiful,” Aimee walked over to the hearth and touched the stones that had been worn smooth by both water from which they’d been harvested and over a hundred years of being touched.

“And notice the nice, high ceilings. Ceilings today are only about eight feet. These are 12-feet so they make the rooms look even bigger, airier. It makes a big difference during the dog days of summer, I tell ya.”

Lindsey looked up again when the shuffling feet overhead echoed on the upstairs landing.  She turned and looked toward the stairs anticipating Catherine’s appearance.

“And out here,” Mr. Jones turned and exited the room through a set of French doors. Lindsey and Aimee followed him out onto a large, covered back porch. “This is where all the action used to take place.”

This porch, while massive, was nowhere near as elegant as the one in front. It was rustic, utilitarian.

“Animals were prepared for cooking out here and plenty a green bean has been cut out here, too.” The lawyer then pointed to two small houses, each just a little bit smaller than their current little house back in Bremen, which sat almost completely obscured from view beneath the branches of another large live oak. “And over there are the homes that were built for the servants that were lucky enough to be chosen to escort the family out here, away from the boggy rice paddies. They have been used mainly for storage and such, but I reckon they could be fixed up and made into guest houses or even rented out.”

“Wait. Servants? Do you mean … slaves?” Lindsey asked, suddenly horrified.

“Well, yes ma’am. Slavery is a rather unfortunate piece of our history down here. But we thought, as did the state, that it would be better to keep the historically significant buildings intact instead of knocking them down, no matter what happened in them so long ago.

Lindsey didn’t try to hide the disgust on her face.

“Look at it this way, it’s a way to remember the past, lest we should repeat it.”

“I understand that. Even the crematories and stuff are still around at Auschwitz, but I can’t imagine living with them in my backyard,” she retorted.

“Wow. What’s that? A river?” Lindsey’s mom asked, trying to change the topic of conversation.

Mr. Jones was eager to follow her lead. “Yes, ma’am. That’s part of the ACE Basin. It’s one of the largest undeveloped estuaries on the East Coast. ACE stands for Ashepoo, Combahee and Edisto, the three rivers that flow through here. If you’re a fisherwoman, Ms. Foster, get your nets and poles ready. There’s a whole lot of largemouth bass, striped bass, crappie, redbreast and bluegill sunfish. Oh, and the catfish! My daddy once pulled in a 50-pounder from there. Sometimes you can even find a crawdad or two.  Be watchful that you don’t leave any lines or nets about though, because there’s also a lot of endangered or threatened species in the Basin – wood storks and even bald eagles call the area home. There are also plenty of otters and beavers to keep you entertained. Keep in mind that gators are plentiful down here. I wouldn’t go swimming in there or let any small pets run around unattended.”

Despite the little houses on the edge of the property, Lindsey could imagine herself sitting out there in the tall grass, doing homework, reading, or just communing with nature. She imagined the wildlife she would see in and along the sandy banks of the estuary bed. She made a mental note to pick up a book on birds and a pair of binoculars.

The sound of horses neighing caught Lindsey’s attention as they stood watching the waters ripple gently. She turned to see two girls, just about her age, astride horses in the trees on the other side of the slave houses.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“That’s Madison and Michelle Robbins. They live about quarter mile down the road. They ride along the Basin as often as the weather allows. I can’t remember which is which but one of ‘em will be starting over at USC-Salkehatchie this fall and the other will be heading up to Clemson. Their daddy and I have the same barber, you see.”

The girls glanced their way and waved. Mr. Jones held a hand in response. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Aimee, clapped his hands together, and said, “Well, shall we go back inside? There are four more rooms upstairs.”

Lindsey had to admit that the main house was calling to her, so she turned and walked toward the porch. She heard her mom and the lawyer following after her. None of them went to look at either of the little slave houses. Mr. Jones took the lead at the steps and led them up to the back porch and inside the house.