The Travel Writer

Abby Ronin is looking for a way to change up her life. Single and looking for adventure, she answers an ad for a Travel Writer. Simple enough, until she found herself fearing for her life.

The Travel Writer

 

     When I was a very young girl, my dream was to become an airline stewardess.  Then, by age nine, I was fitted for eye glasses.  My mother smiled and said, “well, there goes that dream.  Airline stewardesses have to have perfect vision”.  I believed her and was so let down.  A few years later, I came up with another dream; to be a Legal Secretary and work for the most well-known attorney in town.  Of course, my mother laughed again and said, “then you better study hard and learn all you can in school and when you get old enough, you better get a good job and save your money.  I can’t afford college”.  I guess she only saved enough for my older brother to go.  He dropped out and enlisted in the Airforce.  Anyway, that dream went back and forth with another dream I had, getting married and having children and working with my husband who would own his own business.  HA!  I won’t even comment on my mother’s opinion of that one.  Turns out, she was right.  So, now I’m all grown up, had my fill of my mother’s philosophical sarcasm, failed marriages, and dead end jobs. For the past several years, my ambition has been to write.  It started out as therapy and quickly turned into a great hobby and now, it’s something I have to do every week, almost every day or I’m miserable.

     One day, I was skimming through my emails and one caught my eye.  It was an advertisement for a Travel Writer.  Of course, the ad made it look and sound glamorous and fun, saying that you get to travel the world and see awesome places and all you have to do is write about your trip.  You didn’t need experience in writing,  just write about what you saw, what you heard, what you tasted and how you felt about the place.  What could be so hard about that.  But then the ad went on to say, you didn’t have to travel if you didn’t want to, just write about your hometown or any place you’ve already been to.  Then I remembered something that happened to me a long time ago.  I decided before I would take a chance and spend money on something I wasn’t sure of, I would just write about that, send it in and see what happens. 

     A few weeks later, I received a letter from the editor asking me if it was a true story, that he found it very ‘interesting and intriguing if it was indeed truthful’.  He requested that I fill out the form he had enclosed and send it back in the self-addressed, stamped envelope.  At first, I was excited and delighted to comply, until I started reading the form that turned out to be a hand-written questionnaire.  The questions were unusual, they seem to be of a personal nature and strongly connected with the information I had written about in the Travel story I sent in, such as, was the woman in the photograph wearing a small feather pinned to her collar?  And, was the man standing behind her resting the heel of his boot on the wall behind him?  And, was the horse drinking from the water trough in front of them?  These were just a few of the questions that I could certainly answer but how did he know what to ask?  How did he know about the specifics of the photo at all?  I didn’t mention any of this in my story.  I even pulled my copy up on the computer and re-read it just to make sure.  I had chills run down my spine as I kept reading the questions.  I shook my head and then used my common sense to guide me and came to the conclusion that he must have visited that same restaurant and saw the photo that I mentioned.  But then, there were at least fifty photos on that wall.  How could he have picked the one I had written about?  Again, I was not specific about that photo, I only referenced it as making me feel like I had been there before.  I couldn’t help myself, I had to answer the questions and send it back to Mr. Adahy and see if he responds.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

     “Adam, everyone’s waiting, you ready?”

     “Chase, take a minute to look at this.  Tell me what you think.”

I could only hope that Chase would think what I was thinking, that this woman had experienced the same thing that I had when visiting the small mountain town called Boone.  I gave him the story to read first and then the questionnaire.  He glanced to me a couple of times while reading it, that told me that he was getting my drift.  He began shaking his head as he read over the questionnaire.  He handed it back to me, “let’s get this meeting over with and then we’ll talk”, he said seriously.  I knew he thought I was spinning my wheels at all the other times I thought I had found her, but this time, he seemed to be questioning this response as much as I was.  But business first and then the research on Ms. Abigail Ronin will be my main focus.

     As I walked into the conference room, I had this overwhelming feeling that something was about to happen, something unexpected.  I glanced around the room at all the department heads seated and waiting for the weekly meeting to begin, I saw nothing unusual or out of place.  I took my seat at the head of the table as my brother, who is second in command,  remained standing by my side.  He flipped through a few pages of his note pad as he began the meeting, “Good morning everyone,  today we need to follow-up on last week’s agenda and determine if any progress has been made.  Deadlines are approaching, you know.  David, let’s start with you.”

     I was having incredible trouble focusing on this meeting.  I couldn’t stop thinking about that questionnaire.  How could she have known the things she wrote about?  She gave details of things that only I would know.  Could it be true what my cousin said, that I could be experiencing memories from a previous life?  Is that even possible?  Could this Ms. Ronin be experiencing the same thing?  Could we have known each other?  Chase has accused me of being obsessed with this.  He’s right, I am.  I’m obsessed with finding out why I’m having these dreams and middle of the day thoughts that come out of the blue.  They seem so real, so familiar, yet so out of date that it’s impossible for it to be a memory of this lifetime.  My cousin, Chloe, says that these have to be memories of a past life.  I don’t know if I believe in that kind of thing, but I know she does.  She’s always had strange senses.  She’s just like her mother, who was a renowned Psychic.  My Aunt proved herself time and time again, to the point that even the police had her on payroll.  She helped solve a lot of cases.  Chloe was definitely following in her footsteps.  Chase still doesn’t believe she has the power her mother did and laughs at me for soliciting her help.  The more Chloe and I talk, the more I question my own beliefs, especially now.  I have to find out who this woman is.  I have to meet her.

     “Adam?”

     “Hmmm, what?”

     “Do you agree?” my brother asked in his annoyed tone.  I knew I had done it again, phased out of another important meeting and being Editor and Chief and owner of this publishing firm, all final decisions had to come from me.  Here I sat, no clue of what had just transpired, and that look that Chase gets that still screams, ‘why did Dad Will the firm to you and not me?’  Because I was the eldest son, is the only answer that comes to mind.  I’m rarely impulsive, but today, this moment, I made a decision that had no relation or bearing on whatever had just been discussed.  To everyone but Chase, this would be the ‘bad thing to happen’.

     “Chase, everyone, I have an announcement to make.  I’m going to be leaving the firm.  I will be signing the firm over to my brother and he can begin making all the final decisions as of this meeting.  We all know that he can do this job, probably better than our Father thought of me.  I’ve enjoyed working with all of you, you are all great at what you do and in my opinion, this firm cannot survive without each and every one of you.  My father hand picked you, groomed you and praised you for the work you did for him.  I feel the same way and I think I can speak for Chase as well.  I hope you will all be okay with my decision and choose to continue your impeccable work for him.  I’m sure the firm will prosper much greater and faster with my brother at the helm.  He should have been our Father’s first choice but I agreed to give it my best.  It’s been five years and revenues have been a roller coaster.  I have other avenues I would like to pursue and I’m ready to hand the firm over to Chase and go for it.  Chase, I know this was sudden but I also know that you want it and you deserve it.  You’re the backbone that Dad was.  I’m just one rib and right now, it’s bruised and can’t function properly, and I’m sure only you know what I mean by that.  I hope you understand I have to do this.”

I could tell, even through the shocked look on his face, that he understood what I meant, that I had to leave and find out if our cousin was right.  I had to find this woman that could be my soul mate.  He was speechless and just nodded his answer.  We have always been close and could always read each other’s mind.  His was mush right now and mine, for the first time in ten years, was clear and settled on one goal, to find her, to find out who I was and who I am now.

Chapter Three

     I watched for the mailman every morning after checking my emails for any response from Mr. Adahy.  After two weeks of nothing, I gave up.  I figured the whole thing was just a hoax or he had lost interest, that maybe my answers just weren’t what he was looking for.  But I answered each question truthfully and with detail.  It was an event that I would never forget as long as I live.  If it wasn’t what he was expecting, then it’s his loss.  It is a true story, it’s a great story and I will stand by it, never deny it.  It happened.  I don’t care how bizarre it sounds, it really did happen.  If you don’t believe in reincarnation or past lives, then so be it.  I never gave it any thought until that day in that corner restaurant on Main Street in the old section of a little town called Boone, North Carolina. 

It was late September, 1996, when my new and second husband and I parked in front of the old two-story building that housed a quaint little restaurant on the ground floor.  We were on our honeymoon and had just stopped for the night on our way to Maggie Valley.  Peyton was hungry as usual and he liked trying unknown restaurants he called ‘greasy spoons’ and this one stood out like a sore thumb.  But shortly after arriving, I felt like there was something else that might have guided us there and it wasn’t just the appearance that drew us in.  The front of the building was styled like an old saloon from the 1800s, complete with the swinging doors, the narrow wooden stoop and swinging sign hanging from the porch roof.  The windows were a single pane of glass with the restaurant’s name painted in old Goudy style letters, Boone Nights saloon on one window and boone days family restaurant on the other.  Red and white checkered curtains hung mid-way the window with a matching valance.  Even stepping up onto the wooden slatted stoop to the door felt like a blast to the past.  Little did I know what was in store for me inside.  Peyton held the swinging doors back for me to enter.  Once past the swinging doors, came the glass door entrance.  The Hostess quickly pulled the door open for us, giving us a big welcoming smile.  She was so cute, dressed in her old style western outfit.  The skirt was a little short of course and the white shirt was a little snug across the chest, but, got to keep those male patrons coming back, and she wore a cowgirl hat that tied under the chin, cheesy if you ask me, but she looked cute in it.  As she led us to our table, I looked to my right and saw the Saloon bar.  It was scuffed, scratched and chipped, had a few holes here and there, just as you would imagine something that old to be.  There were no seats at the bar.  Imagine that, you really had to just stand at the bar to drink.  There was a large wooden beam that stretched the length of the bar at the base of it, obviously, a foot rest.  I couldn’t help but chuckle.  Behind the bar was, you guessed it, a long mirror behind shelves of liquor bottles, wine glasses and beer mugs and above that, bull horns.  Classic.  The walls were dotted with pictures of old-timey Boone, back when the town was fairly new, some dated back as far as 1860.  A plaque with the history of Boone etched upon it hung in the center of the wall of photos, stating that the area in which Boone rests, was first settled in 1752 and that the town of Boone was incorporated in 1849, named after the Pioneer Daniel Boone. 

Peyton and I sat in a small booth made for two near the back of the room.  It was a cozy little spot with a lit hurricane lamp hanging low on the wall and more pictures hanging above it.  The table between us was made of heavy varnished wood, a little scratched and worn but adorably so.  I couldn’t help but wonder how old the place was and what it had witnessed in its day.  The Hostess left us with menus and a promise that our waitress would be over soon.  I gave Peyton my order and excused myself to make a quick trip to the ladies room.  I followed the signs that took me down a long narrow hallway with closed doors on each side.  The restroom sign was lit up at the end of the hall.  I went inside, pulled a paper towel from the holder and wet it just enough to pat my face, reviving myself from a long sleepy drive.  I washed my hands and then, this time, strolled down the hallway slower so I could look at all the photos hanging on each side.  They were amazing.  I came upon one that stopped me in my tracks.  I swear my heart seized up for a moment.  I couldn’t breathe.  My eyes watered and I had no idea why, but I just wanted to bawl.  I suddenly felt such sorrow and pain in my heart, not only my heart, but clear to my soul.  I suddenly realized that subconsciously, I was touching the photo, outlining the figure with my finger.  I had no clue why I was being affected by this photo.  I looked at the small brass plate attached to the frame for information.  The date was 1880 and the description read, ‘Cherokee Indian jailed for impersonation’.  Impersonation?  Of who or what?  Yet, in the back of my mind I heard the words, ‘it’s not his fault’.  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  The lighting in the hallway was so dim, it was hard to see the photo clearly.  I saw the light switch at the end of the hall and practically ran to it.  It was a dimmer switch and I turned it all the way up.  I took the picture off the wall to get the glare off the glass.  I could finally see it more clearly.  His face was so handsome.  His features were sharply defined.  His hair was to his shoulders and parted in the middle.  Even though it was a black and white photo and not very clear, you could still see his eyes, the expression.  He wasn’t afraid, even though his hands had been bound behind his back and another rope had been tied around his neck and held by a large man wearing a vest with a pointed star, obviously a sheriff’s badge.  This man had a smirk on his face as he stood just in front and to the side of his prisoner.  The expression in the bound man’s eyes was more sadness that anything, not for himself but for those he loved and loved him.  Now, how would I know that?  He was wearing a dirty shirt and pants.  He was barefooted because another man in the photo was holding a pair of boots.  It was obvious the prisoner had been roughed up, beaten in my opinion.  The information plate said Cherokee Indian.  He didn’t look Indian, except for the hair, it was clearly black, even for a black and white photo, it was very dark colored.  His skin looked nearly as white as the other two men but his features, his nose was narrow and straight, his cheekbones were defined and highlighted his jawline to a somewhat pointed chin.  The browline was perfect, hovering over the most intense eyes I’ve ever seen.  But I could see both a hard and soft expression there.  It was amazing.  The hard look was anger that he was being treated like an animal and the soft look was hurt, sadness that this would hurt someone else very dear to him.  I found myself thinking, ‘but he was bound and outnumbered, what could he do?  Nothing.  He could do nothing.  But I can’.  What?  Why would I think that?  That’s crazy.  I’m getting carried away over an 1880 photograph.  I found myself laughing and yet, I felt ashamed that I was.  Then, I heard Peyton call me, telling me the food had arrived.  I returned to my seat, looking around the restaurant as I sat down.  Peyton was already devouring his hamburger and I could tell he had taken a few bites of my grilled chicken salad as well.  I sipped my tea, still seeing those eyes, that expression.  I closed my eyes, clinching them.  When I opened them, Peyton was staring at me.

     “What?”

     “Are you okay?” he asked with a mouth full.

     “Yeah, fine.”

     “What were you looking at so hard back there?”

     “Just pictures.  Some were fascinating.  Old and historical.  You should take a look if you use the bathroom before we leave.”

He nodded and kept eating.  I felt an odd feeling, like someone was staring at me.  I looked up and around until I saw a woman behind the bar.  She quickly looked away as she dried glasses and slid them on the shelves.  I looked back down at my salad and back up quickly and she was looking at me again.  This time, she smiled and then looked away.  It felt really weird and a little unnerving.  Peyton turned and looked toward the bar and then back to me, “what is it, honey, you look upset about something.”

     “Not upset, nervous.”

     “Upset, nervous, what’s the difference?”

Did I really need to explain that to him?  Surely, he wasn’t serious.  He kept shoving fries in his mouth, the burger was gone and I hadn’t even taken my first bite yet.

     “That woman over there keeps staring at me, making me nervous.”

He turned and looked again, but she had her back to us then, putting glasses away.  He turned back to me, “well, she’s not now.  Maybe you look like someone she knows.  You haven’t ever been here before, have you?”

     “No, I told you that the first time you asked me on the way up.  I’ve never seen the mountains.  We always went to the beach for vacations.  I’ve never been to the mountains.”

     “Okay, I get it, you don’t have to take my head off, jeez.  Are you going to eat that?  I thought you said you were hungry.”

     “No, you said you were hungry.  I said I wasn’t that hungry but I would try and eat a salad just so you wouldn’t feel bad eating alone.”

     “Oh, yeah, I remember that now.  Well, if you don’t want it. . . “

I pushed it toward him and he began devouring it just as fast as he did the burger and fries.  I opened my purse and was looking for my phone when a female voice startled me.

     “Can I get you another tea, honey?” she asked sweetly.

I looked up, somehow knowing that she was going to be the woman from the bar, and sure enough.  She was older, maybe late fifties, early sixties, sweet smile and disposition, harmless looking up close.

     “No thanks, I’m good, thank you.”

     “I’ll have another glass” Peyton said, again with his mouth full.  She smiled at him and poured him another glass but I could feel her glancing at me as she did so.  It was kind of annoying.  Did she think she knew me or something?  I looked up at her and she quickly smiled.

     “I’m sorry, I know I keep staring, but I can’t help it.  You look so much like her, it’s uncanny” she said seriously.

     “Like who?” I asked.

     “Hold on and I’ll bring you a picture of Celeste.  I swear, honey, you have to be related to her.  I’ll be right back.”

She left in a hurry like she was so excited to show me this picture.  I didn’t know anyone named Celeste.  She came hurrying back and placed a framed old photograph of a young woman holding what looked like a new born baby wrapped in a blanket.  She didn’t look very happy.  She looked very sad and weary.  Her hair was a mess, like she had been in the wind.  It was wavy and light colored, maybe blonde, very blonde.  She had dark circles under her eyes.  She was wearing a white dress that looked almost like a nightgown.  It was loose fitting and buttoned up the front to a high collar.  Another woman sat close by, well-dressed, well-groomed.  She was smiling and holding a folded paper in her lap.  I looked both women over and I couldn’t see any resemblance of myself in them.  I looked up at the woman and handed the picture back to her.

     “I’m sorry, I don’t see what you seem to be seeing and I don’t know of anyone named Celeste in my family tree.”

She took the picture as her whole expression changed.  She looked at the picture and then at me again.  Peyton reached for the frame, “can I see it?” he asked and she handed it to him, pointing to the woman holding the baby.

     “Look at her eyes.  Try not to see the darkness under them and then look at her eyes.  Can you see it?  Look her hair. You can’t really tell it in this photo, but her hair was platinum blonde, very light.  Look at her mouth, the shape, the shape of the nose and even her chin, they have the same chin.  Can you see what I see?”  She seemed so desperate for Peyton to agree.

Peyton looked back and forth from the photo to me.  He squinted his eyes as he looked at the worn photo.

     “You know?  Honey, you do look a little like her around the eyes and the hair, but I see your mother’s mouth and nose.  You have your Dad’s.”

The woman sighed with relief, “there is another picture of her, a much better one, but it’s upstairs in storage.  The owner of the restaurant doesn’t want anything to happen to it.  He says it’s special to him but won’t say how.  We all think that maybe the child this woman is holding was his grandfather or some other relative.  In any case, we feel there’s a connection between them.  I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you with this, but when I saw you come in, I took a double-take at you because you just looked so familiar.  That’s why I was staring, I was trying to remember where I had seen you before.  This is it, except, I think it’s the picture upstairs that I compare you to the most.  I’ll try and dig it out if you’re going to be around for a while, that’s assuming you’re just passing through and don’t live here.”

     “Yes, we’re just passing through. We’re only staying the night and leaving at dawn” I quickly said before Peyton could commit us to coming back, but as usual, nothing I say will change his plans.

     “I’d like to see it.  This kind of thing fascinates me.  I love history and mystery.  That’s the reason they rhyme, you know, history, mystery, one goes with the other.”

I felt my eyes rolling.  Here we go again, the history, mystery speech.  I guess that explains why he’s a History teacher.

     “But, my wife’s right, we plan on heading out at first light.  I have an appointment in Maggie Valley and I don’t want to be late.  But, we’ll be coming back this way in five or six days.  The foods great.  I think we can stop for a meal on the way home, right honey?”

     “Sure.”

     “Well that’s great!  That’ll give me time to find it and I’m sure it’s going to surprise you, just how much you look like poor Celeste.”

Peyton looked up at her, “poor Celeste?  What happened to her?”

I could tell Peyton had just taken the bait.  She wanted nothing more than to gossip, to tell a sad story that would ensure our return.  But I have to admit, I was getting a little intrigued by it myself.  But what I really wanted to know about, was the photo in the hallway of that unbelievably good looking man they were calling Indian and what happened to him.  I was guessing if anyone knew, it would be her.

     “Celeste was a beautiful young woman.  She was rare.  She was petite with, like I said, very light platinum hair, unheard of for someone as young as she.  It was almost white and had a shine that just made a halo.  She had dark brown eyes and creamy ivory skin.  She came to town with her mother to live with her maternal Grandfather.  Her father had passed away and they had no way to support themselves.  Her mother’s father owned the mercantile in town.  He was very wealthy and well-liked and welcomed his daughter and granddaughter home.  Well, Mr. Hardin, that was her Grandfather’s name, he had hired this young man to help around the store.  Mr. Hardin said that he had found the young man in his barn the morning after a bad storm came through.  He was sick with a high fever and so he had his servants bring him into the house and put him to bed.  He called the doctor in to tend to him.  When the young man was better, he offered to work to pay for the kindness they had given him.  Mr. Hardin took a liking to him and put him to work in his store and let him live at his home where he also worked as the grounds keeper.  Mr. Hardin had a large house on a large parcel of land.  In addition to the store, he raised horses and cattle.  He supplied the local restaurant and saloon with meat.  Well, when Celeste and her mother arrived, the young man, who said his name was Aiden, was instructed to bring their luggage into the house.  He knocked on the door and when Celeste opened the door, it was instant attraction for both.  At first, Mr. Hardin and his daughter didn’t think anything about Celeste and Aiden talking and hanging out.  They just seemed to be two kids being friendly.  But eight months later, Aiden approached Mr. Hardin and his daughter and asked for Celeste’s hand in marriage.  Well, both practically threw him out of the house.  Celeste begged them to reconsider, after all, she was nineteen and far beyond the age to make her own decisions without their permission and she reminded them of that.  They stood their ground and then told her that if she disobeyed their wishes, then she would be disowned and they would be on their own and would have to leave town because they were not going to be the butt of the jokes and remarks that the townspeople would start.  So, she and Aiden decided to leave town.  Before they could, Aiden was attacked by several men at his makeshift camp in the woods.  Mr. Hardin didn’t want him anywhere on his property so he made his camp in the woods on what he thought was unclaimed land and if the truth was known, it was unclaimed.  However, these men claimed it belonged to Mr. Hardin.  They beat him up pretty badly and left him for dead.  Celeste overheard her Grandfather talking to one of the men and she went looking for Aiden.  She found him and she packed up what he had, went back to the house, packed up her things and secretly stole away with one of her Grandfather’s fine carriages.  She drove back to Aiden’s camp.  She loaded up his things and managed to get him inside the carriage and they left this place.  Mr. Hardin was furious at Celeste.  Her mother could do nothing but cry, day and night. Mr. Hardin offered a reward to the first person who could find them and report back their whereabouts.  The men who beat him up, of course, were the ones to locate them.  They had tracked them to another small town not so far away.  They didn’t get far because Celeste was pregnant.  She and Aiden married in that town and she worked in a dress shop while Aiden mended of his wounds and then he got a job working in the General Mercantile.  Mr. Hardin’s men reported back to him and he, his daughter and several of his men went there to bring Celeste home.  The men did not report that Celeste was pregnant.  She was too far along to travel and so her mother stayed with her until the baby was born. Now, all this time, they were against Celeste and Aiden being together simply because they didn’t think he was financially good enough for her.  When the baby was born, and he resembled an Indian baby, with the reddish skin, black hair, black eyes, and high cheekbones, well, this raised a whole other line of questions.  Celeste already knew the truth, Aiden had kept no secrets from her.  Aiden was part Cherokee. His Grandmother was white and married a Cherokee man and gave birth to a son.  That son, Aiden’s father married a white woman.  Aiden could pass for white or Indian.  Dress him like a white man, cut his hair shorter and no one would know he had Indian heritage.  Dress him in bear skins and grow his hair long and he couldn’t dispute his Indian heritage.  But he loved Celeste and she loved him.  It wasn’t the color of their skin or bloodline that made them different, because they were the same.  Their heritage was all that others considered to be wrong with that relationship.  But now there was a baby to consider.  A beautiful little boy.  Mr. Hardin just could not accept him but Celeste’s mother took one look and held him and she fell in love with him.  He was an innocent and needed love and care and she would not let anything happen to him or her daughter.  She gave her father an ultimatum, accept him, love him, make him your heir, or I, my daughter and this baby will leave town and you forever.  To her surprise, Mr. Hardin bid her goodbye.  She stayed with Celeste, Aiden and the baby and cared for him while his parents worked.  Aiden didn’t come home one night.  Mr. Hardin’s men had been seen in town earlier and Celeste knew they had done something to him again.  She went searching.  A few young men in town who had become friends with Aiden volunteered to help her.  They tracked the men back to Boone where they learned that Aiden had been arrested and jailed on charges of impersonating a white man.  He was scheduled to hang in three days.  All they needed was the signature of the circuit Judge who was scheduled to pass through on that third day.  Celeste pleaded with her Grandfather but he wouldn’t change his mind.  He said that Aiden had costs him everything dear to him and that he should have let Aiden die when he found him in his barn.  On the third day, Celeste stood up in the makeshift court held in this very Saloon and begged for her husband’s life, explaining his bloodline and that they had a newborn child at home.  The Judge was sympathetic and ordered Aiden’s release.  On their way home, they were ambushed by Hardin’s men.  They shot and killed Aiden.  Celeste drove the carriage home with Aiden’s body leaning against her.  They buried him and Celeste never smiled again, never laughed, never loved another.  She died just before her son’s third birthday.  Her mother said she died of a broken heart.  Celeste’s mother raised the boy alone.  Aiden’s killers were never brought to justice.  It is said that Celeste made a vow to avenge his death.  Not long after that, each of Hardin’s men met with tragic accidents or were killed during gun duels in the street.  One died of alcohol poisoning, thinking he was the last survivor.  He thought she would come for him next because it was he who said that all his friends had told him that they had seen Celeste and the next day they were dead.  He literally drank himself to death.  It’s even on record that Mr. Hardin, the day he died some years later, kept calling and reaching out to Celeste, as if she were right by his bed, begging her to forgive him that he was wrong in how he treated her.  The doctor said she obviously did not forgive him for he died with a look of horror in his eyes.”

     When she had finished this incredibly sad story, I felt like I had been gut punched.  There were parts that I seemed to remember, like the ambush, the vow and the look in an old man’s eyes as he took his last breath.  They all seemed like dreams I had in my younger years and had just stored them away.  I looked at Peyton and he had a look of astonishment.  He scratched his head and stretched.  He had been so engrossed in this woman’s legendary story that he hadn’t moved a muscle from beginning to end. 

     “So, the picture in the hallway of the man with shoulder length hair and his hands bound behind his back, that was Aiden?”  I had to know for sure.

     “Yes.  You saw that, did you?  He was a very handsome man, wasn’t he?  Did he look Indian to you in that picture?”

     “No.  He looked like someone battered and worn-out, sad.”

     “Yes, you’re right.  I’ve stopped and looked at that picture a many a time and wondered what it was like to live back then, to love and hope that the one you loved would be accepted by your family and the consequences if they weren’t.  The story I just told you is their legend.  Every word, as far as I know, as far back as documentations prove, is true.  Celeste was buried next to him somewhere in the town of, what is now, Blowing Rock.  I’ve often thought of driving there on my day off and see if I can find their graves.  I’d like to know what happened to their son, where did he go, did he marry, did he have children?  I feel sure he kept his father’s line going and maybe you’re part of it.  You sure look like I remember Celeste looking in the picture upstairs.  Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time.  Thank you so much for listening to an old woman ramble on.  I hope you have a good night and good luck with your appointment tomorrow.”

She picked up the photograph and slid the borrowed chair back to its table and winked at me as she meandered off.  Peyton yawned and stretched again, “wow, she’s a great storyteller.  I could sleep really good right now.  Are you ready to go on to the hotel?”

That’s the man I married, a sloppy eater, ill-mannered and insensitive. . .  History teacher.  I grabbed my purse and started to scoot out of the booth.  He started to get up.  I put my hand out, “just stay put, I’m not ready to go just yet.  I need to use the bathroom, then we’ll go.”  I saw him pick up the dessert menu as I walked off.  No doubt he’ll be binging on a banana-split or a hot fudge Sunday when I get back.  And this is our honeymoon?  Whatever.  I stopped by the photo on the wall again.  This time, taking a more in depth look, not just at Aiden but the surroundings, the buildings, the people, the signs.  I just wanted to slap that smug look off that Sheriff’s face and yank that rope out of his hands and wrap it around his neck and pull it so tight his eyeballs would bulge out.  Look what they had done to that poor innocent man.  I didn’t notice the bruises on his face before or the stains on his shirt that had to be blood; how he was slightly bent forward, probably from aching ribs, pain from the beating.  I wondered just how far they had made him walk barefooted while they pulled him along by the neck as they rode comfortably on horseback.  My mind was just going crazy with thoughts.  I had to stop thinking about this.  I’m not related, I’m sure of that.  I’ve done a search of my family tree and there was no mention of an Aiden or Celeste.  She didn’t mention Aiden’s last name.  Did he even have one?  Most Cherokee Indians back then went by only one name.  But if he and Celeste married, he had to have given a last name and there should be some record of it.  What am I saying!  I’m not related!  This is just an old woman’s imagination getting carried away.  I can’t let her story or her feelings get to me.  Peyton and I are on our honeymoon and he is supposed to be my main interest and I am supposed to be his. . . aside from his interview appointment.  He timed that just perfectly, didn’t he?  ‘Let’s get married on Saturday, the 21^st and go to the mountains for our honeymoon’.  Should’ve known he had another reason for picking that particular date so suddenly, especially since he waited until we were on our way here to tell me that he had gotten a reply on his resume he sent to the high school in Maggie Valley.  He just assumed that I would be thrilled to move to the mountains because he would be.  I had never been to the mountains, how would I know if I wanted to move here?  So, I agreed to come here for our honeymoon.  We kind of argued over the fact that he waited to let me in on his plans for us.  Should’ve listened to my best friend, she was right, he’s the controlling type.  Well, he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks he does.  I glanced one last time at the photo of Aiden and said out loud, “I bet you weren’t controlling, were you?  I’m so sorry, if what she said, really happen.”

Reviews

[lizzie]

Hello! I’ve been reading your work and found the emotional rhythm incredibly natural. Some scenes felt almost designed for visual storytelling.
I’m a professional comic/webtoon artist working on commission, and I’d love to connect if you’re curious about a visual take.
Instagram: lizziedoesitall