FOUR

 

The music woke me; it was a song I’d heard long ago. Da-Dum Dum, Da-Da Dum Dum. I couldn’t tell where it came from. Low, melodious strains drifted around my head, like somebody above me sprinkling notes on the air. I looked up, but saw only stucco walls and wood moldings. A piano? No, it didn’t sound like piano. It didn’t sound like any instrument. It was more of a voice. A hollow, haunting voice without any words. Eerie as it was, the music didn’t frighten me. The melody was so pleasant, and that warm, protective feeling I’d experienced my first night in this room wrapped around me like a muffler. While I dressed, the song wafted its melody, but not until I stood before the oval mirror brushing my hair did the words come to me.

“Flow gently sweet Afton, Amang thy green braes.” That was all I could remember of the lyrics. Dad used to sing the song as a bedtime lullaby when I was very young. “Flow gently, sweet Afton.” Softly I sang the words, lilting over the Scottish accents as Dad used to do. The old tune made me smile at myself in the mirror. I hadn’t thought of it for years. What had brought it back to me?

“It’s this room!” I startled myself by saying aloud.

I began to think up all sorts of romantic plots. Somebody named Rosabelle had lived here and she’d sung the song to her children as she rocked them in an old oak chair. Or maybe a woebegone young suitor standing below on the lawn had serenaded a teen-aged Rosabelle standing at the French doors. Or, perhaps someone named Rosabelle had died in this room and her loved ones had sung the song at her wake. The last was too morbid, even for my writer’s imagination, and I shivered. Suddenly, I was in a hurry to get out of the room.

Memories never die in a place like Overhome. They just swirl around in the molecules until somebody breathes them in and they live again. The thought pushed into my mind as involuntarily as the music.

Still thinking about the music that drifted down from the sky like snowflakes, I headed for the dining room for breakfast, my mind moving over yesterday’s events. Jeff and I had spent the afternoon swimming and paddle-boating in the lake, and then, since Uncle Hunter had not appeared, my aunt had gone to their club alone. Miss Emma had thoughtfully let Jeff and me barbecue and scarf down our dinner on the flagstone porch instead of subjecting us to that mausoleum of a dining room again. Then we’d played Chinese checkers until we both nodded off over the board. I never did get to the stables to see the horses, but Jeff seemed to be having such a good time, he didn’t notice.

“Well, well,” a modulated voice broke into my thoughts as I entered the dining room. A tall, slim man stood up from his chair, smiling. He looked nautical in a crisp blue polo shirt and khaki chinos.

“Ashby, so nice to meet you, at last.” He reached out his arms and drew me to him in a hug. “I’m your Uncle Hunter. Welcome to Overhome. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to welcome you. First a charity ball, then a boring meeting with my attorney. Boring but necessary. These days man cannot live by horses alone.”

My uncle looked so much like Dad that I felt I already knew him. I’d seen some old photos, but they hadn’t shown such an amazing similarity. Dad’s youngest brother could have been his twin. They both had the same lofty forehead and cheekbones riding high and prominent in the narrow face. Even their dark hair was similar, curling a bit at the temples and the neck. Despite the seven years difference in their ages, they were startlingly alike. Except for the eyes. Uncle Hunter’s eyes were dark blue and deep-set. Overton eyes, yes, but Dad’s eyes crinkled and danced with subtle humor. My uncle’s glittered, hard as diamonds.

“Hi,” I said when I got my voice under control. I tried not to stare. “You and Dad look so much alike.”

My uncle smiled. “People have always said so. How nice it is to have you with us, Ashby.” He reached for the teapot and poured a cup for me and then for himself.

“Ashby. What a lovely name. Lovely and unusual. You were named for Marian’s grandfather, Ashby Noble. I was not sure Ashby was an appropriate name for the little blonde cherub you were, but I must say it fits you perfectly.” He smiled again. That is, his lips smiled, but his eyes did not. “I’m glad Helen was able to talk my stubborn brother into putting his seal of approval on your visit with us for the summer. Just because Madison decided to leave Overhome forever, he shouldn’t pass that sentence on to you.”

“Did you know my birth mother, Uncle Hunter?” I could have kicked myself. It was an awkward way to begin a conversation with an uncle I’d only just met. But he was the one who’d brought up my being named for my maternal grandfather. He didn’t bat an eye.

“Marian. Yes, Marian. Well, to tell you the truth, she and my brother Washington never wanted to bother with a kid brother tagging along. They were high school sweethearts, you know. She was very pretty and Wash was crazy about her. I used to spy on them making out in the parlor. They moved away from Overthome shortly after they were married. We didn’t see much of them. And then—” He stopped, clamping his lips into a line.

He was silent for a long moment. He couldn’t say the words— “Then they came back to visit one night and were killed in a car accident.” We both knew how the sentence should be finished, but my uncle’s lips seemed frozen shut.

“Tell me about yourself, Ashby,” he shifted abruptly. “Are you involved in any sports? What are you studying at college?”

“I want to major in writing. Now that I’ve finished all my gen ed courses at CC, I plan to go on for a B.A. Maybe a Master of Fine Arts degree.” I rattled this off like one of the old electric typewriters in the business lab at school. “Oh, and in high school I was on the track team, and I did gymnastics. Plus, I was editor of the literary magazine.” I was sure he was just being polite. I mean, why would he be interested in the everyday life of a typical suburban girl from New Jersey?

Rapid footsteps approached, and then Jeff poked his head inside the door.

“Jefferson! Come in. So, you’ve met your cousin Ashby, have you? And what do you think? A good pal for the summer?”

I cringed. Nothing like putting the kid on the spot, but Jeff was swaddled in his own thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he exclaimed, “I’m old enough to ride by myself, Dad. And good enough, too. Luke’s teaching me.”

“Whoa. What’s this, son?” His tone had changed. “I’ll be the judge of when you may ride solo. Horseback riding is the best sport in the world, but it does have its dangers.”

Jeff turned his look onto the floor.

“All in good time, son. When you’re ready, you’ll ride to your heart’s content. When and where you like. But for now, unless Luke,” he faced me, “or Ashby, is willing to oversee, you will not ride the horses without my permission.”

“Aww, Dad.” Jeff looked miserable. “Luke’s too busy.” He looked at me. “And she says she don’t like horses.”

“She doesn’t like horses,” he corrected. “My decision stands. You’ll get your chance, Jefferson, I promise.” He sounded jovial again. “Who knows more about horses than anyone else? Who’s the best rider in the state of Virginia?”

Jeff looked resigned. “You, Dad. But…”

“No more now. You’re my only son, and I won’t have you endangering yourself. Now, come along to breakfast and tell me everything that happened while I was gone.”

Talking, Jeff took his seat. “There’s a board broke, I mean broken. In the bridge. Luke thinks it might have been…” He searched for the word.

“Deliberate?” Uncle Hunter supplied.

“The Night Riders again,” Jeff said.

My uncle nodded. “There. You see what I mean about danger. What might happen if you were to ride a horse over that bridge, Jefferson? It could throw you, maim the horse.” He shook his head.

Just then Aunt Monica floated into the room. “Hello, darling,” she said to her husband, her voice breathy as always. “Remember the bridge party at Six Gates this evening. I believe the Taylors are planning to be there.”

Jeff’s face went flat and as the family soap opera played out before me.

“Yes, of course, Monica. But first, I’d like to show Ashby our lake.” He winked at Jeff. “And Jefferson and I must have our canter, of course.”

Jeff’s expression changed yet again, and he looked at me with a barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his lips, then lowered his lashes, all in an instant. The competition for Uncle Hunter’s attention between my aunt and cousin was alive and well. And Jeff was just as adept at the game as his mother. What I couldn’t figure out was where I fit in with all of this. But, for the first time, I knew what I wanted from my cousin Jeff. I wanted him to like me—to like me the same way he seemed to like Luke Murley.

* * * *

 

“Isn’t she a beauty? A bow-rider with an inboard and plenty of horsepower.” My uncle lounged behind the steering wheel, one arm propped on the gleaming teal-and-cream freeboard as he idled the boat out of the cove. Jeff and I settled back against the seats, as soft and plush as whipped cream.

The cove buzzed with watercraft of all kinds, colors, and sizes. The sunny wind brushed my cheeks and blew my hair back from my neck. “Wow! Lots of little water bugs,” I said, noting the darting, jumping, circling one and two-person jets buzzing in every direction.

“Look dead ahead, there, Ashby. That’s Moore Mountain. People say the mountain looks different every day,” Uncle Hunter said. “The shadows, the sun, who knows what makes it change from green to blue to purple. Any way you see it, it’s beautiful.”

I let my gaze follow the height and width of the heavily forested rock fingers that creased the mountain face like a gigantic green fist. I’d been impressed by Moore Mountain when I saw it from the dock on my first early-morning pilgrimage. By water, it was even more imposing, a study in natural contrast. The soft and gently rounded top gradually descended to a stark, rocky base, which plunged, sharp as a knife, into the water. I found my eyes traveling from top to bottom and back again.

Uncle Hunter rolled the craft smoothly into the main channel. “Let’s take a spin up to the bridge. We’ll dock at Port Plaza.”

I was all eyes trying to take in the vast beauty of Moore Mountain Lake. Peering deep into a secluded cove on a slice of sandy beach, I suddenly spied a tall, blue-gray bird. “Oh, look! That bird! I saw one just like it on the dock.”

“Magnificent creature, eh?” My uncle turned to Jeff. “Do you know what it is, son?”

“A great blue heron,” Jeff answered without hesitation. “We learned that at the nature center at day camp.”

“Bird-watching?” his father asked.

“I’d rather be fish-watching,” Jeff said, so seriously that both my uncle and I had to laugh.

We passed a fascinating house situated all by itself on an island and then the state park, its wide expanse of beach polka-dotted with sun-bathers and swimmers. Skimming along at a fast clip, my uncle suddenly slowed for the NO WAKE markers as we approached the bridge. After docking and securing the boat with lines and protective buoys, we climbed out and ambled along the wooden walkway. I felt like a tourist.

“Let’s feed the carp!” Jeff cried.

The shallow waters lapping against the dock boiled and bubbled with hordes of slippery carp, their greedy, gaping mouths vying for popcorn and other goodies thrown to them by onlookers. “Look at big-mouth there.” I pointed to a carp with jaws large enough to gulp down a good-sized human baby.

“They’re ugly and harmless,” Uncle Hunter said. “And thick enough to walk on.” We moved on.

Jeff’s excitement rose with every step up the multi-tiered plaza. “Can we play miniature golf? And I want to do the rock climb! Oh! Can we stop at the Ice Cream Parlor?”

“No, no, and I guess a single scoop won’t ruin your lunch,” Uncle Hunter replied. “Much as I’d like to show Ashby around, we really do have to get home, Jefferson. We’ll come back when we can spend more time.”

Jeff’s face fell. I felt his pain. Port Plaza reminded me of the boardwalks on the Jersey shore, a smorgasbord of colorful, congregating teens and upbeat music, all mixed with the smells of pizza and popcorn and sun screen. Uncle Hunter looked my way and commented: “Port Plaza is our major source of honky-tonk at the lake.” He’d read my mind.

On the way back, Jeff pointed out a massive bird’s nest atop a channel marker. It looked as if an inner tube made of twigs had washed up onto the buoy. “An osprey nest,” he told me. “They’re huge. See that big bird on guard? That’s his wife’s head poking out of the nest. She’s sitting on the eggs.”

“His wife?” I asked.

“Osprey mate for life,” Jeff said. “I learned that in my bird watching class, too.”

“If we steer too close, he’ll fly out and try to detour us,” Uncle Hunter said. “They’re very protective of the nestlings.”

At that moment, the creature did, indeed, lift his wings and dive at us with a loud “Chee! Chee! Chee!”

“Occasionally you’ll see osprey at our dock,” my uncle said. “And I understand a few bald eagles have been spotted hereabouts.”

As we rounded a point, I recognized the dock at Overhome. “Thanks for the tour,” I told my uncle. “Awesome lake. Incredible mountain. Port Plaza reminded me of home.”

“My pleasure, Ashby. We’ll go again. I promise.” Jeff and I watched while my uncle docked and hoisted the boat. Then we climbed the steps to the house.

 

 

Dear Diary, A quick note from a teary-eyed Yankee chick. A boat ride to civilization today made me homesick for the Jersey shore. Hip-hop music, greasy food and cool dudes with tattoos and earrings strollin’ and chillin’. I was all set to stick around and soak up the atmosphere, hang out and dig the action. Nature and history and ancestry are all good, but fun is fun, and I felt major separation anxiety when we had to leave.

About nature. This is the most naturally phenomenal setting, everywhere you look. But I sometimes feel like I’m in Jurassic Park. Just now, only a few feet away, a bevy of bluebirds is huddled on my balcony. Don’t you love alliteration? I swear they look like they’re plotting something. I can’t help but think of that DuMaurier short story, “The Birds,” and Hitchcock’s spooky movie, same name, about the creepy, foul fowl out to get the humans. One or two of my balcony birds have braved it as close as the French doors to peck at the colored glass. It’s like they want something. Maybe I should feed them, bring back some scraps from lunch. Well, at least the birds have distracted me. My homesickness for the Jersey Shore is gone. My tears have dried!