Ghosts of Graveyards Past by Laura Briggs

Author:Laura Briggs
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: christian Fiction
ISBN: 9781611164503
Publisher: Pelican Ventures Book Group
Published: 2014-05-26T16:00:00+00:00

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“Sweet tea,” Jenna surmised, taking a sip from the tumbler. “Genuine Southern style, too.”

She pushed aside her notepad and pencil, making room for the craftsman to fill a second glass with the rich brew. Dark liquid splashed over a bed of frozen cubes as he noted, “The syrup can be too much for some people. It took me years to get used to it, but I’m guessing you were raised on it.”

“I was,” she said, fingers cupping the glass fondly. “My grandmother made a raspberry version sometimes. She made sun tea, as well, but that seems kind of risky these days.”

“So do a lot of old-fashioned things,” he told her, pulling out the chair across from hers.

They were seated in the farmhouse’s rustic kitchen, sunlight pouring through the windows to show off a pine floor and white, distressed cabinets. A stone hearth pointed to the original owner’s handiwork, but all the modern conveniences were present, too.

“Do you know which family built this place?” she asked. “You said it belonged to one of the first settlers.” Part of her was thinking of its close proximity to the woods, wondering if the residents were someone she would recognize from her research.

“The history is kind of sketchy,” he answered. “It changed hands a lot of times, but no one had lived in it for about thirty years. Part of the roof had crashed in, a lot of the floor was rotted—a stray herb garden out back was pretty much the only sign of life.”

This made her glance to the window, where bundles of rosemary and basil were strung to air dry. “You decided to rescue it,” she guessed. “To repair the damage like the headstones in your mason shop.”

“Actually,” he said, reaching for his tumbler, “that came later. The first time I saw it…well, I helped break the windows out.”

Jenna almost choked on her tea. “Excuse me?” she asked, eyes widening as she took in the full meaning of his words.

“I kind of…fell in with the wrong crowd in high school,” he explained. “Breaking curfew, a little drinking, some vandalism. We even smashed some of the old headstones in the town cemetery.”

“You’re kidding.” She couldn’t reconcile this image with the craftsman’s serious demeanor. Not when he chiseled stone for a living and handled the ones from the neglected cemetery with such care and precision.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “It was how I became Mr. Sawyer’s apprentice— reparation for my crimes, except I ended up staying of my free will later on.”

She forgot her tea, arms folded on the table as she absorbed more details from his unlikely start. The years of training under Mr. Sawyer’s careful eye; the arguments with his parents about a youthful mistake snowballing into a career.

“They thought I would find something else if I went to college,” he said. “But mostly, I think they were surprised that I ended up staying in Sylvan Spring, while they moved back to Kansas. Ironic, since my dad’s job was the only reason we came here in the first place.

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