Free Writ on Water by Melanie Jackson

like a desert rose, born to blush and bloom unseen. Why, even Roland hasn’t been beyond the gate! No one but family is allowed in here. Used to be that we’d let in the priest, but Father Martin passed on thirteen years back, and my Nancy was the last devout one. Now we’ll just cremate and have a Mass later at the church in town. The church still doesn’t like cremation but . . .” MacGregor shrugged impatiently.
    The church’s views on cremation had obviously been considered and then dismissed.
    â€œThen I’m honored to be here,” Chloe said seriously. “And I promise to do a good job.”
    â€œI’m sure you will.” All of a sudden, MacGregor’s expression turned crafty. “Anyway, we may not be breaking tradition all that much by letting you in.”
    â€œNo?” Chloe began a mental review of her ancestors, trying to recall if they had included any Patricks.
    â€œWell, Rory’s got to marry someday. It may be that you are the lucky girl. I’ve seen him watching you. There’s some chemistry there. I think you would be a fine daughter-in-law.”
    The notion of distant cousinship vanished in a blink. She and Rory had chemistry? Only the kind that happened in gas chambers. She wondered if her own father was as clueless about her likes and dislikes.
    â€œWell . . . thank you, but that’s highly unlikely to happen.” Chloe, who had passed beyond the ability to be verbally shocked by her host, said firmly: “Your son doesn’t like me. And I don’t think I like him.”
    â€œThat doesn’t mean anything! Rory doesn’t like anyone.”
    â€œWell, it means something to me.” She looked at her watch and changed the subject. “It’s after ten. What do you say to rounding up the boys and taking a look at the slave cemetery?”
    â€œIf you like, but there won’t be much to see until the boys have hacked a path through the brambles. The Patricks quit keeping slaves in the late 1700s and things have gotten a mite overgrown in the last couple of centuries. I’ve seen parts, of course, but it’s just a jumble of crosses and stones. Pathetic sort of place—sad, too. Not like here. Maybe I should plant some roses out there, try to cheer it up a bit.”
    Chloe hadn’t given the matter any thought, but MacGregor was correct about the family cemetery not being a sad place. It was a weird place, certainly, but not melancholic. Perhaps it was the company as much as the sculptures, astounding and absurd as they were, but Chloe felt both peaceful and safe. She wouldn’t mind picnicking here, or even napping, which was not a feeling she had ever experienced in a cemetery before.
    â€œ
Cruel as the grave
,” the saying went. The thought of being dead certainly wasn’t appealing, but when you had to go, it might bring a measure of comfort to know that your mortal remains would be among friends in this little slice-out-of-time Paradise.
    MacGregor led the way back through the cedars. The world got lighter once there were only the ancient oaks overhead.
    â€œTisiphone!” Chloe exclaimed, pointing at a stone. “You’ve got to be kidding. Poor kid, to be saddled with a name like that.”
    â€œAt least it wasn’t Alecto or Megaera,” MacGregor answered without stopping to look.
    â€œOr Medusa.”
    â€œ
Chloe
isn’t exactly plain homespun either. It would fit right in here,” MacGregor pointed out, in what was probably meant as a compliment. “Besides, I think Tisiphone is kind of pretty.”
    He halted in front of a last mausoleum. The facade was a bookcase filled with hundreds of volumes of fictional work. The stone spines sported names like Dickens, Austen and Jules Verne. There was a bench placed to one side. The tomb belonged to Nancy Black Patrick. The recent date was suggestive.
    â€œMy wife,” MacGregor confirmed, as though