The Glass Secret (Chain of Secrets) (22 page)

My eyes did a quick up and down, she wore a yellow floor length gown, clinched in at the waist by a brown leather corset, despite her thick waistline. Overall she seemed meticulously put together. Until my eyes dropped to her feet, hidden beneath her ruffled hemline she wore bright orange flip-flops with daisy appliqués on them. I grimaced when I saw her fat dirty toes with blue—
blue
chipped nail polish. God, who was I back then, Joan Rivers in the making?

“Welcome—welcome. I am Lady Tara, your hostess.” She flashed us a little impish grin and her face crinkled like an old leather purse when she spoke.

“Thank you,” my mother replied. “We are the Eden family.”

“Of course you are...you are Brandy,”—she turned to me—“and you must be Brielle, such a pretty young lady. Your father asked me to give you one of my best rooms—fit for a princess.” Her eyes scanned me up and down. “He was right, you do resemble sleeping beauty.” Her voice bubbled over with excitement.

I wish…you could put me to sleep for the next seven days.
I thought inwardly.

“Thank you,” I said reluctantly.

“Let me show you two around.” Lady Tara bustled around behind us, motioning that we go ahead of her.

Mom opened the screen door and glanced over her shoulder toward Dad. He was trying to keep Brett from chasing after a stray dog while struggling to get our luggage from the trunk.

Good luck, Dad.
I thought.

The cute valet boy did not seem to be providing any help to my father. He just stood there staring at me as if I was from another planet; maybe I looked as if I was. After being in the car for two days, I felt scaly and in need of a bath. So far, he was the only real one of interest around here that caught my attention.

“Mitchell, do you need any help from us?” My mother called to him. He glanced up at her and waved us on inside.

“They will be fine.” Lady Tara the innkeeper laughed heartily. “Men have the brawns, and we got the brains, the beauty and everything else to boot. So, I think they can handle the suitcases.”

I thought her comment was kind of feministic, especially since she was supposed to have stepped out of the past. At least that was the character she was dressed like. As for her beauty, in my humble opinion, well let me just say, it was not on the surface. I questioned where it might be. Perhaps it was lying dormant on the inside.

In the reflection of the window, I could see by the grimace on my mother’s face that we shared the same opinion about Tara. She was over the top and bossy. My mother and I thought alike about things such as this. Of course, she would never admit it; she was too nice for that. I, on the other hand, didn’t care what anyone thought about me back then, and as a result I sprung a leak in my filter. It was time to bite my tongue again. As much as I knew I should filter my spoken thoughts, it was nearly impossible to hold back my words.

Hey lady, if my mother wants to help my dad, let her
. I reamed her out inwardly.

Tara scurried us through the parlor area, which looked pleasant enough.

“Would you care for some lemonade and cookies?” Tara asked.

“No thanks,” my mother and I said in tandem.

“They’re homemade; I made them myself...they’re a very special recipe.” Tara beamed as she shoved a cookie into her mouth. “I think you both should have one, or more. You two need to fatten up. After all, men don’t like rail-thin women. You need to have curves, girls.” She wiggled her hips.

“
Curves
...really?” I grabbed a cookie.

“My special cookies will put curves in the right places. Forget surgery,” Tara said convincingly. “Here, you can afford two.” She eyed my bosoms.

Her generosity could have been mistaken as an insult, but I didn’t care. God knows I needed more curves in the right places.

“I hope you’re right,” I replied, biting into the second cookie. My mother’s eyes shifted on Tara then toward me, raising a single brow, donning a skeptical smile. I knew what she was thinking. Nonetheless, I quickly grabbed two more cookies.

Yes, mom, I want big boobs.
”

“Both of you are bone thin.” Tara picked up several more cookies and put them in our hands. “Eat, I promise in several weeks you will see the difference, they’re good, right?”

“Mmm, pretty good,” I mumbled between bites of her magic cookies, hoping I would not live to regret eating them.

If I had been honest, the cookies were the best I had ever tasted. Beyond delicious. I guessed if I changed my attitude Tara might share her curve-producing recipe with my mom. We walked, talked and ate cookies as she led us up a beautiful wooden polished staircase.

My parents set me up in my own private room; it was named,
Queen Ann’s Lace
.

  The second the Innkeeper opened the door to my room, my eyes widened, my heart leapt and a discreet smile traversed across my face, totally betraying my bad mood.

The room was a dream, complete with Victorian ambiance and expressions from another era. The room boasted an attached balcony. It was very romantic. I wanted to hate the accommodations and my determination rose in me.

“It’s not what I expected,” I sarcastically announced. See, no filter.

“You don’t like the room?” Tara asked me, frowning.

I muttered rudely, “It’s okay.”

“Brielle, please.” My mother glared at me. “I am sorry. She’s having a bad day. It was a long ride. Don’t worry, she will love the room after she gets out of these crumpled clothes and has a chance to settle in,”—My mother pressed the back of my shirt down—“once she freshens up, all will be fine.” She smiled, excusing my cross behavior to Tara. “Why don’t we leave Brielle here to look around, and you can show me our room next.”

They backed out of the room and closed the door behind them. I could hear their laughter through the walls.

My parents stayed in a beautiful room called
Memories,
although I didn’t know how they were going to make any memories with my little brother sleeping on a roll out bed in their room. Looking back, I realized that they had sacrificed any chance for romance on this trip just for my sake. They tried their best to make me like the place and to get me to enjoy the vacation.

I was finally alone. I scanned the room, shrugged and then jumped on the bed.

“Yes. Alone finally,” I said out loud. The long drive down really did wear me out.

I sighed heavily. Alone, no friends and stuck here for seven days with my bratty brother and my boring parents. I wondered where Storm had drifted off to. I had no idea. He was probably on a long sabbatical the minute he heard we were going to St Augustine. Who could blame him? Just like me, I am sure he didn’t want to be trapped in St. Augustine. More than likely, he was probably at the beach soaking up the sun in someone’s warm head.
Thanks, Voice
.

My eyes fell to the French doors that lead outside. For one long minute, I contemplated throwing myself over the balcony but, luckily, I thought twice about it. It was
not
a long way down, and with my luck I would break my neck and end up paralyzed, becoming even more of a burden to my parents. Either way, it wasn’t worth the pain or the risk.

Reluctantly, I decided to surrender to the fairytale setting with its opulent “fit for a princess” queen lace canopy bed that was fit for sweet dreams. I even had a huge soaking tub in my own private bathroom. As much as I hated to admit it, maybe the room wasn’t so bad. At the very least, it was far better than the pull out in my parent’s room.

There was a knock on the door.
Who could it be,
I thought. Of course, it was my dad and Brett with my luggage. Who else?

“Here’s your share of the load. Change for lunch and meet us down stairs in the parlor”—he flashed at his watch—“in one hour.”

“Dad, my plan was to order pizza and watch direct TV for seven days straight,” I pouted. He warned me, not so much with his words but more with his look, if that was my plan then Brett would have to sleep in my room for the duration of our stay.

I glared down at Brett, his little hands were greasy, and he had Tara’s chocolate chip cookies smeared all over his face. I took a few deep breaths while I considered my options. Smell alert.
What stinks?
Clear the building. The stench of wet dog filled my nostrils. It was radiating off of my brother, Brett.
No thanks.
One whiff of Brett, and I nipped my bad attitude in the bud. But, it didn’t go far as I was saving my bad attitude up for a raining day. I made sure that I wasn’t one-minute late meeting my family down in the parlor.

-23-

Touched!

Perusing through dark musty old museums was not my idea of a
chillin’
spring break.
Believe it or not!
Between my parents, Brett, and the smell of horse’s shit burning two more holes in my nose, I wanted to scream. My parents insisted on traveling via horse and buggy for our cultural experience. They claimed they wanted to experience what it was like to travel back in those days. This kind of thing thrilled them, but to me it was another boring, timeless tourist attraction that took forever to get from place to place. I was feeling suffocated by the whole experience. Literally! I needed room to breathe. While my family was busy buying trinkets in a gift shop, I left them to their own vices. Certainly they would not notice I was gone.

I exited the gift shop and wandered across the street into what was deemed to be the oldest schoolhouse in the United States. Even though there wasn’t a tour guide on duty, I took the liberty of going inside. After all, the door was wide open.

I was there alone. I found myself observing the antique furnishings and marveling at how much smaller the delicate pieces were in comparison to modern furniture.

It’s well documented that people from this time period were also much shorter than people are presently. This made me consider that evolution was probable. Ponce de Leon, the man who searched for the fountain of youth, was barely five foot two, and at fifteen years old I was already five-six. Perhaps there was something to the notion.

While I wandered around, I was drawn to the nostalgic relics from long ago. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would have been like to attend the little schoolhouse. No computers, calculators, or hot lunches—that seemed almost wrong.

Suddenly, I felt a light touch, it felt as if someone’s fingers traced down the side of my bare arm from directly behind me. I pivoted in a circle, quickly scanning the small room. A spine tingling energy, the kind that makes the hairs stand straight up on the back of your neck like porcupine quills, raced across my skin. Cold-chills ran the length of me, even in the cracks of my body. I was acutely aware of an otherworldly presence, which had to have been a ghost. Who else touched me?

My heart rate accelerated, and in one swift movement, I bolted through the little room, burst through the screened door and leaped off the porch. I stumbled over my two left feet and hit into what I thought was a brick wall, but turned out to be the chest of a male tour guide.

He was handsome and, perhaps, five to seven years older than me. He had dark hair hanging down into his contrasting light green eyes. What a dreamy combination, I thought.

I could not think straight nor could I stand straight either. I was simply flabbergasted and tongue-tied. He grasped his long fingers over the top of my shoulders and saved me from falling over. My legs felt like rubber bands, but I was pretty sure it was not the near fall that caused me to feel weak in the knees.

“You are as white as a sheet. You look like you just saw a ghost.” His words teased me. “Never fear, I am here.”

“I...oh yeah...it touch...me...here.” I reached to the back of my arm. Talk about an embarrassing moment; I felt my face turn fifty shades of red. My entire body felt electrified, and I spoke broken English—mouth gaping open and panting as I twisted out of his secure grip and quickly ran to find my parents.

“Come back for the tour later,” he called out to me, half-laughing.

-24-

Hey Jude!

Saved by a cute guy named Jude (I noticed his name tag) and touched by a ghost—these events certainly added some excitement to the trip. Needless to say, my ghost encounter became the biggest topic of conversation for the rest of our vacation. Of course, my mother wasn’t comfortable with all of the ghost stories, but I was. I enjoyed being center stage for a change.

As always, my brother Brett had to try and top my genuine ghost story. When we visited the oldest house, the tour guide announced to the crowd that the house was known to have been haunted. The tour guide was an older man and very cheesy; the tour would have been much more entertaining if Jude had been there instead.

Nonetheless, right in front of the entire crowd, Brett said he had seen a ghost. He crossed his heart and hoped to die that he was telling the truth. For a second it freaked me out, until I noticed a wryly smile on his face. He went as far as saying that the ghost was a man with black hair and scary piercing eyes. Apparently, at least according to Brett’s opinion, the ghost hovered over me. What a laugh that was. My parent’s knew Brett was fibbing and was just trying to steal my limelight. However, the crowd wooed him on. They probably thought he was part of the “tacky tour.”