By Barbara Michaels
There are poor secrets and techniques from generations prior buried at Maidenwood. clinical pupil Julie Newcomb has lower back to her family's decaying plantation—the web site of such a lot of painful formative years memories—to are likely to her tyrannical grandmother, felled via 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 percentages sparkles during this hated, haunted position. yet her hope—and her life—are heavily threatened by means of a nightmare reborn . . . and via the bleak discovery at the lonely highway to Maidenwood of the earth-browned skeletons of a mom and baby.
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Extra info for Be Buried in the Rain
Even as the words left my lips I realized that the casual, half-joking comment was literally, grimly accurate. Through the lichen-smeared trunks of the trees whose branches shadowed the narrow road, I could see masses of tangled green vegetation on either side, fecund and overgrown like a tropical rain forest. I could almost feel the dampness, even through the closed car windows. “What a horrible place,” I said involuntarily. ” “No. ” The road leveled out and straightened. We crossed a be buried in the rain / 27 one-lane wooden bridge, and sunlight dispelled the shadows.
There was no chagrin in my voice, only a satisfaction so strong it couldn’t be missed, even by Matt, who had never been sensitive to innuendo. However, he answered as if my comment had been a criticism instead of a crow of triumph. “I can’t keep the place up. Martha doesn’t have a bean, and I’m up to my eyeballs in debt. ” I didn’t ask why he could not get help from his mother. I am named after my Aunt Julia, but the names are all we have in common. A pretty, frivolous creature, who had been spared the tragedy of “the Carr features in a woman,” she had married a struggling young lawyer of good family—that is, poor—and had given birth to Matt before she got bored with genteel poverty.
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. three The evening wasn’t quite that bad. The lights flickered and dimmed periodically but the power did not go off. Thunder rattled the windowpanes and rolled among the trees. I cringed when a particularly violent crash shook the house like a cannonball dropped onto the roof, and I could have sworn Martha’s watching eye brightened.
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