Free Summer in the South by Cathy Holton Page A

no thick white columns, no ornate antebellum splendor. Instead it was a rather simple-looking two-story brick house with a white portico across the front. The windows were bare and shutterless.
    It was one of the most beautiful houses she had ever seen.
    Seeing her expression, Will laughed. “I told you it wasn’t Tara.”
    “It’s beautiful,” she said.
    They got out of the car and stood in the yard. The drive circled in front of the house and ran around the western side to a small graveled parking lot. Beyond the parking lot Ava could see a barn and several scattered log outbuildings, and farther on a grove of trees.
    “Come inside,” Will said.
    A brick sidewalk ran from the parking area to the front of the house. It was very quiet here; no sounds from the modern world broke the stillness of midday. She climbed the stairs and stood beside Will on the porch while he fumbled with the lock, listening to the gentle sighing of the breeze through the trees, the steady chanting of insects in the grass. He turned the key and swung open the front door, stepping aside for her to enter.
    Like Woodburn Hall, the house was bisected by a wide central hallway. A graceful staircase coiled upward from the first floor. The rooms opening off either side of the hall were large, with high ceilings and long windows overlooking the fields, but because they were so sparsely furnished, and the windows were clear of shutters and drapes, the light fell through unimpeded. It was marvelous, really, the quality of light slanting through the house. Whereas Woodburn Hall had a slightly damp, melancholy atmosphere, Longford felt bright and welcoming.
    I could be happy here , Ava thought.
    The walls were painted in various shades of slate blue and cream or covered in faded French wallpaper. Every room contained a fireplace and a marble mantel, and overhead a large brilliant chandelier.
    “I’m especially proud of those,” Will said, flipping a switch so that the chandelier overhead glittered suddenly with light. “They’re original to the house. They were made to hold candles, and I had them taken down and shipped to a place in Memphis that electrified them. It took almost nine months but it was worth it, I think.”
    “Incredible.” She stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly, admiring the way the large gilt-framed mirror over the mantel reflected the light. It seemed to Ava that she could imagine the house as it must have been two hundred years ago, the endless days and the quiet, because that’s the thing modern people with their constant noise and hurrying couldn’t imagine, the quiet stillness of places like this.
    She closed her eyes, struck suddenly by a memory of her mother standing in an empty room. “Do you think that houses soak up the energies of the people who have lived there?”
    He stood watching her with an amused, baffled expression on his face. “What do you mean?”
    “Do you think there’s some kind of residual energy left behind? Voices, emotions, images?”
    He laughed. “Do you mean like ghosts? Remember, I was a chemistry major. We have our feet firmly planted in the soil of scientific skepticism.”
    “You could have just said no,” she said.
    None of the rooms on the first floor were furnished but upstairs in one of the bedrooms overlooking the fields he had arranged a platform bed and several chests and chairs. A small television sat atop a tall dresser in the corner.
    “I pretty much live up here,” he said. “In these three rooms.”
    Despite its collection of furniture, the room still felt large and grand. The bed was very neatly made, and there were no clothes or books or used dishes scattered about. The energy here was slightly different, very left-brained and orderly.
    A door to the left led into a large bathroom. At the opposite end of the room was another closed door.
    “What’s in there?” Ava said, and he hesitated just long enough to make her curious, standing with his hand on the