PROLOGUE

 

Dear Diary,

Serendipity! Summer at Moore Mountain Lake! Aunt Monica and Uncle Hunter live in historic Overhome, on the lake, and they’ve invited me to be an au pair for my cousin Jefferson. Of course, at first Dad resisted the idea of my traveling alone. You might say he’s a tad overprotective. Then, Mom and Dad won an around-the-world cruise for two this summer. How lucky is that? Since my parents would never think of leaving me at home alone for so long, their cruise ticket was MY ticket to Virginia.

Dad has a lot of bad vibes about the old family estate. He left Overhome after college and never went back. Some kind of family feud or something. So, that happens, even in the best of families. Now I hope to reconnect, to find the answers to a lot of questions there.

I know only the basic facts. Three Overton sons were born on the estate—Madison, Washington and Hunter. Washington and Marian, my birth parents, were killed in a car accident when I was two. Then Madison and Helen adopted me. I really dig the funny, old-fashioned names they use in the South! Madison, Washington, and Hunter, descendants of generations dating back before the Revolutionary War. Now only Hunter is left at Overhome—lord of the manor—so to speak.

They mean well, but Mom and Dad just don’t get it. Never returning to Overhome, never talking about my biological parents. I mean, what’s the big mystery? Why the secretiveness? Okay, they made a safe and loving home for me, but they’ve deliberately kept my entire life completely separate from the reality of my birth.

I don’t remember my natural parents, and being adopted has never been a problem. I’ve always loved Mom and Dad, and they me. But, there’s a primal feeling in every adopted child, I think. A need to know where you came from. I sometimes dream I’m drifting at sea in a little rowboat. Suddenly, I realize I am tied, by a long rope, to a larger ship. This quiets my fear, yet I still feel my little dingy wobbling and bobbing, while I clutch the sides, hoping to sight land. Looking back at my Psych 101 class, I think Freud would say the line represents the umbilical cord, the ship, my adoptive parents. I’m floating in a sea of unanswered questions about my heredity. Certain things just cannot be ignored. Or forgotten. I am shaking with desire to see, to feel, to know, to connect with my mysterious self. Anything less is a form of blindness. Overhome is the perfect place to dig up my roots, learn about my ancestors, find out all I can about the family history.

For the record, Mom thinks the old family conflict has gone on long enough. Mom’s all about trying to promote harmony. She’s stayed in touch with my aunt and uncle at Overhome and kept up with the progress of my cousin Jefferson, who’s going on eight. Mom says I will be an ambassador of goodwill. I admit that worries me some, but I’ll do my best. Hey! Nobody’s perfect.

Anyway, I have an ulterior motive. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. That’s one reason I’m keeping this diary. “Journaling,” my creative writing prof calls it. “Write about your life, your thoughts, feelings, impressions, as often as possible. Think of it as a lifetime assignment. It’s all grist for the mill.”

I admit I am a romantic, fascinated with the South, especially the old South. Mammoth, white-columned houses surrounded by ancient shade trees. Laid-back aristocratic sons and daughters of the Confederacy sipping mint juleps on the verandah. Ahhh! Virginia, I am ready for you, and every nerve in my body says you are prepared to offer up some good old Southern hospitality—not to mention the setting for my first novel. I feel my muse calling me home.

So…Overhome, Moore Mountain Lake, Old Virginny—here I come, ready or not! Who knows what’s in store for Ashby Overton? I sense invisible strands stretching back over the centuries tugging at me, pulling me into a new-old world. Bloodlines, Dad would call them. Lifelines from my point of view. Mine and Freud’s, that is.