By Barbara Michaels
There are poor secrets and techniques from generations earlier buried at Maidenwood. scientific scholar Julie Newcomb has back to her family's decaying plantation—the website of such a lot of painful early life memories—to are inclined to her tyrannical grandmother, felled through a stroke. the hearth of malevolence nonetheless burns within the merciless, despotic matriarch's eyes—yet, for Julie, a faint spark of redemption and moment probabilities sparkles during this hated, haunted position. yet her hope—and her life—are heavily threatened by way of a nightmare reborn . . . and via the bleak discovery at the lonely street to Maidenwood of the earth-browned skeletons of a mom and baby.
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Additional info for Be Buried in the Rain
I put the groceries on the table and tiptoed to the door. Shirley was there. Or someone was there…I could see a crouched darkness beyond the porch steps; it was still, but not silent. She was talking, apparently to herself, in a low crooning voice. I could not make out the words. I crossed the porch and opened the screen door. Shirley got to her feet. I heard the rustle of leaves as something fled into the bushes. Shirley’s body had concealed the object on the path—a bowl, filled with an all-too-familiar mess, the remains of last night’s casserole.
To the west the piled cumulus clouds had changed from white to dirty gray. We were going to have a thunderstorm—probably one of the humdingers common to the area. The basement would flood, be buried in the rain / 37 the power would go out. A horrific picture flashed into my mind, a preview of the evening ahead: reading Dickens by candlelight, with the sweat running down the back of my neck and Martha’s single eye fixed on me in silent mockery. It was all I could do not to wrench open the car door and jump in.
He had shifted gears and taken his foot off the brake before I woke up. I made a desperate grab at the car door and yelled, “Wait. Wait a minute. Can you give me a ride to town? I need to get a few groceries. ” His scowl deepened. “It ain’t that. ” “Well, then—” “I don’t have the time. Services tonight. ” “I’ll hitch a ride. ” He shook his head. Mrs. Danner squeaked, “There’s Will Smith, Mr. Danner. He obliges for some of the ladies—” “Be quiet, woman. Will’s a drunk and a fornicator. ” I had my head in the window, intent on winning the absurd argument.