The Life & Death of Jorja Graham Read online

  The Life & Death of Jorja Graham

  by

  Brynn Myers

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  To my husband and my daughter–-I’m so blessed to have you both. Your love and support are the most important things in this world and you give them to me in spades. Love you!

  To Tish––I’m so thankful you are always open to me bending your ear with all the ideas rattling around in my head. I’m not sure where I’d be without you as my sounding board.

  To Sharon at Amber Leaf Publishing––Since the day I met you, I’ve been so blessed to have you as a mentor and confidant. Thank you for your confidence in me!

  Thank you so much, Nancy Glascow, for editing my manuscript. I’m lucky to have you as a part of the “village” it takes to put out a book.

  To my beta readers; Karon, Veronica, Candy, Laura, and Renee––Thank you all so much for taking the time out of your busy schedules to help me make this story even better. Without you critiquing my manuscript, it would never be ready to make its big debut.

  To Emma Michaels––I cannot thank you enough for creating the STUNNING cover for The Life & Death of Jorja Graham. Every time I look at it I smile. It’s exactly what I hoped it would be and more!

  The boundaries which divide life from

  death are at best shadowy and vague.

  Who shall say where the one ends,

  and the other begins?

  ~Edgar Allan Poe

  "The Premature Burial"

  Prologue

  One Year Ago

  Doors crashed on the first floor and in a rush she left me. I could hear muffled voices and wondered who she could be talking to. When the chatter gave way to screaming, my breath hitched. She was a centuries old demon, capable of taking care of herself, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to help her. In my current condition, however, I knew I’d only hinder her.

  I clasped the ruby locket around my neck and made my way to the secret passage we’d created long ago. It was my refuge in case this moment ever came to pass. We’d carefully planned everything and now it was time to act.

  I slid through the opening just as I heard them coming down the hall. Her words rang in my ear, “Protect the locket at all cost, Rhetta, even if that means my death.” As I lumbered my way up to the attic opening, the voices still bellowed from below. I removed one of the chimney bricks and hid the locket within the wall, making sure to replace the brick so it appeared untouched. This home had been in my family for centuries and I’d had plenty of time to construct secret spaces and hideaways.

  Just past the wooden slats in the wall was another doorway leading to a spiral staircase, an escape to the back woods. I gripped the cold iron, taking each step one at a time. My legs trembled as I finally made it to the bottom stair, my nightgown ripping on the last rung. I began to ease open the door but stopped when I heard a voice, defiant but pleading. I knew no one could see me here; I was in the space between the walls, concealed from anyone’s view. I held my breath and waited for them to go.

  The silence became deafening, a sharp contrast to the blood curdling scream I’d heard just moments ago. I silently mourned her loss but knew I needed to carry on. I didn’t move from my spot until I heard the booted footsteps grow more distant, until there was nothing but the sounds of the frogs croaking in the marsh behind the house. It was then that I crept out into the cool night air, taking great care with each step so as not to falter. I made it about three quarters of the way before they found me.

  Blood red eyes shone brightly in the pitch black night. I didn’t have time to react, to protect myself before they were on me. I was ripped to shreds, their claws digging so deep into my skin, a hint of grey bone gleamed in the moonlight. They’d ripped off my nightgown looking for the locket and I used my dying breath to snicker, because no matter how hard they tried, they’d never find it. The blood locket would remain forever safe within the walls of my home, safe from the demons hell-bent on finding it. We won; our queen was safe.

  c h a p t e r

  ONE

  Present Day

  The alarm clock buzzed for a few seconds before I flopped my arm in its direction. I wasn’t ready to wake up and face the day just yet. These past few months had been a living hell and the last thing I wanted to see was the sun calling out to me with all its southern happiness. My preference would be to shut out the world, even if it was only for another hour. That was how I’d been surviving lately––one hour at a time. But as the fan overhead churned, a beam of light peeked through the curtains, allowing the sun to beckon me. I groaned as I flipped back the covers and stared up at the ceiling.

  Today was officially three weeks since my Mother’s passing and while I was no longer her full-time caregiver, I had become a full-time paper pusher with all the final bills to pay, accounts to close, and this home to sell. The lawyers handling Mother’s estate had given me no more than two weeks to settle all pending legal documents. Needless to say, I’d had so many other things to handle that I kept putting off the giant stack of papers, but last night was D-day. Before I knew it, the clock read two a.m. and I could barely keep my eyes open, but I was done. I’d reviewed each document––twice, and knew I’d dotted every I and crossed every T. I was grateful they’d placed those colorful sticky arrows pointing to exactly where I needed to place my signature. I was an art history major, not a lawyer, and the legal terms had threatened to drown me as I flipped through the pages.

  Mother and Daddy were gone and I was now all alone. I should feel something, right? Emptiness, sadness, regret at the loss of my last living parent? But instead I felt nothing. Not sorrow, not anger––simply nothing. I was officially devoid of emotion and didn’t have a clue when it might return. My job had been to manage––manage my father’s drinking, manage my Mother’s mood swings, manage things at work. I was born to oversee other people it seemed. I had a knack for it and now that they were gone, the only thing I had left to “manage” was me, and at the moment, I needed to get my butt in gear.

  I sat up and planted my feet on the floor. What I wouldn’t do for more sleep, but with only a few hours to get ready, drop off the paperwork, and start packing, sleeping more was simply not an option. I’d scheduled an appointment with Mrs. Jepson, a realtor I’d found in the yellow pages, for nine o’clock this morning. It was the last thing I needed to do before I could officially pack up to leave Charleston. I looked around my bedroom and was thankful it was relatively spotless. The kitchen however would require a bit of cleaning since I’d set my dishes in the sink after supper last night. I hadn't felt like making everything perfect before going to bed. I just didn’t have it in me.

  Looking after Mother all these months had also meant taking great care to make sure her house remained immaculate. Mother had a certain expectation when it came to cleanliness and even a speck of dust would send her into a ran
t. I dusted and mopped daily just to keep things as perfect as possible. Which is why I had no doubt that Mrs. Jepson would be tripping all over herself to list this place. I knew it would sell quickly too, especially since I planned to offer it fully furnished and for a cut-rate price. I couldn’t contain the smile on my face as I thought of Mother looking up from her new residence, screaming, “Jorja Raelyn Graham I have spent the better part of my life acquiring those exquisite antiques and you are just going to give them away?”

  My reply was meant to stay in my head, but instead it came out in more of a shout. “Yes, Mother. I am giving all your precious antiques away because quite honestly I don’t want to see anything of yours ever again.”

  I wanted to get this over with. I’d been here in Charleston for the past six months and it was taking its toll on me. I missed my aunts, my work, and I missed my townhouse in Savannah. It was small but I didn’t mind. It was mine, paid for by me with my own money, so small or not, it was guilt free. I flopped back onto the bed and watched as the dust particles danced in the sliver of light shining in. I thought about how things would be different now––easier and without arguments but until this day was over I was still a slave to Eudora’s needs. Even in death, Mother was still making life more difficult than it needed to be.

  When she first became ill, I tried to convince her to give me power of attorney so I could handle the bills and legal documents. But in true Eudora form, she’d been too afraid I was going to gain access to her money and drain all her accounts, leaving her destitute. So instead, Mother would call her lawyers at least once a week to confirm that I’d not Baker Acted her so I could steal all her assets. The sad thing was it didn’t matter how many times I’d tried to convince her I was only here to help, she’d only thought the worst of me, but that too was nothing new.

  My mind wandered back to the day I left for college. I was determined to earn my own money, to make my own way in this world, even if for no other reason than to spite her. Mother was exceedingly controlling. If she wasn’t the one ruling everyone’s lives, she made sure they were miserable instead. The last straw for me came a few days after Daddy died. I was sent papers from the lawyer, stating that my trust account had been changed from payable upon death to all payments shall not be dispersed until my thirtieth birthday. I couldn’t help the sigh that escaped my lips. Mother hated that Daddy adored me and since the world was only supposed to revolve around her, that was a huge issue and one she considered unforgivable.

  She said I didn’t need the money; that my college tuition and my apartment were all paid for and that the funds in my bank account would cover me until I graduated from college. In her mind, Daddy’s money was hers; especially after all she’d had to “endure” with him over the years. My parents had a marriage on paper only. When I was in high school, Daddy had an affair and Mother was so afraid someone in town might find out, she forced him to find a place in Charleston and move us before anyone could learn the truth and gossip about it.

  So we moved. Packed up everything and started over in a new town, with a new understanding as she liked to call it. Daddy wasn’t allowed to divorce her because of the shame she would have to bear, and he would no longer be allowed access to her either. This was a win-win in her book. She told him since he’d chosen to soil his body with a whore, he would need to repent until the Lord saw fit to redeem him because she never would. They slept in separate rooms for years before Daddy finally moved back to Savannah for “work.” This allowed Mother to keep up the appearances she so desperately needed and gave Daddy a chance to live some semblance of a life without her constant nagging and ridicule.

  One problem with Daddy’s plan however, was that it left me home alone with her. I had become her verbal whipping post. Nothing I said or did was ever good enough. Perfect grades, pageant queen, leader of the local woman’s charity…nothing. I had to be perfect at all times. Dressed in the proper “southern lady” attire, hair perfectly coiffed, nails painted the perfect shade of whatever was in season, and impeccable manners. Mother never let me forget that I may not be her blood, but by damn she’d make sure I was brought up in the same manner she had been––proper.

  Mother was unable to have children of her own, something that according to her marked her as a pariah. And so one day she convinced Daddy to find a young girl in need of rescue and pay her a handsome sum to hand a baby over with no questions asked. Of course he did as he was told, because there would be hell to pay if he didn’t. So as I grew up she began to resent me, hated that I had natural curly blonde locks while hers were ashy brown. Hated that I had pale blue eyes and hers were more of an icy grey. She hated everything about me, but of course I didn’t know any of this until I turned nine. On my ninth birthday, Mother announced as a “present,” that since I was born of white trash and had already been given more than I could have ever expected, I didn’t need any gifts, as I’d already been given them.

  The sad part, though, was that I loved her in spite of how she hated me. I wanted so much to please her, wanted to hear her say she loved me, that she was proud of me, but kind words or apologies were just something Mother never spoke. Criticism was her means of communication and even if she managed to say something nice it usually came in the form of a backhanded compliment. One that stung more than praised. I honestly think karma had had enough of my mother’s evil ways because just a few years after Daddy’s death, Mother was diagnosed with cancer and became bed ridden within months. She blamed me for that too; said I must have somehow given her colon cancer with my cooking.

  Tears rolled down my face as I continued to replay the memories of my childhood. I was an enigma Daddy always used to say, something Eudora couldn’t understand and when I’d ask him what that meant, he’d always reply, “Sweet girl, for as bad as she treats you, you still smile and tell her you love her and she hates that.” Then he’d kiss me on the forehead and tell me how much he loved me. That was enough for me––it had to be, because it was all I had.

  c h a p t e r

  TWO

  I sat up on the edge of the bed again as the second round of warnings from the alarm clock droned. As if on cue, the phone rang just as I silenced the sound. Who’d be calling at this hour? It’s not even seven a.m.

  “Hello.”

  The sound of my aunts squawking through the phone was more than anyone should have to bear pre-coffee. I was always happy to hear from them so I decided to overlook the time of day in exchange for what I knew would brighten my mood. I loved my Daddy’s sisters. They were the mothers I’d never had, my support system. They’d watched out for me, especially after Daddy died.

  “Okay, you two are going to have to let just one person talk because two southern drawls hollerin’ in unison is just not audible,” I said with a laugh.

  They both chuckled, but it was my aunt Heddie who took the lead. Vivian however continued to blurt out snippets of details as Heddie tried to share the “great news.” I had to laugh because no matter how hard they tried they just couldn’t avoid talking over one another. They’d spent the next few minutes telling me all about the new “job” I’d have to take care of the moment I arrived home. My dream assignment had finally come to fruition and I needed to pack faster. Apparently, a very posh businessman from Louisiana would be arriving next week, expecting that I plan and organize anything and everything regarding Rhetta Rhyland’s estate.

  “Rhetta Rhyland? The house is finally out of probate? The state finally released it?” I questioned.

  “Yes!” Vivian squealed.

  “It seems Paxton’s investigator was finally able to track down one of her relatives and that he, a Mr. Holbrook, wants to make sure the estate remains untouched until he arrives.”

  I scrunched my brows, wondering why it would matter if anyone went inside. It had been almost a year since Rhetta passed and the frenzy to claim a piece of history had died down nearly six months ago. Now, folks were just watching as one of the most coveted plots of land left in Sava
nnah began to fall into ruin. In fact, the only activity that house had seen, came in the form of the occasional band of high schoolers looking to fill their horror quota. They’d drive down the long path towards the house, beers in hand, daring one another to enter the home of the town’s most infamous woman. And for all intents and purposes, Rhetta was certainly infamous. People believed she was a witch who openly practiced hoodoo in hopes of maintaining her youth. Rhetta was well into her nineties and yet she barely looked a day over sixty. Southern women were known for their ability to maintain their youthful glow, but Rhetta’s beauty seemed unnatural, thus leading to the rumors of how she was able to look so young.

  “Jorja, are you even listening to us?” Heddie scolded.

  “Yes ma’am, I’m sorry. I was just wondering why this Mr. Holbrook would request that no one enter the home. Does he not know the place is going to hell in a handcart and needs immediate TLC? Also, how did this Mr. Holbrook come to find out about us? It really doesn’t matter, I guess, but I am curious.”

  “Paxton told him. He said that he’d recommended our little store to Mr. Holbrook the moment he spoke with him. He said that since he was the one handling the probate paperwork, it only seemed right to make sure the antiques were doled out to the finest ladies in the south.” Vivian chuckled as she spoke.

  Mr. Paxton Heywood was not only our town’s most sought after lawyer; he was also the man who was incredibly smitten with my Aunt Vivian. He’d been trying to win her hand––his words not mine––for the past five years. My aunt always enjoyed Paxton’s playful flirtations, but she just couldn’t reconcile her heart after my uncle’s death ten years ago. We tried to tell her it was okay to allow herself the chance to be happy with another man, that she didn’t have to live out her days alone, but she’d always dismissed the remarks saying she wasn’t alone, she had us.