Zebulon

By Leigh Barbour

How can a history professor fall in love with a ghost? She never thought that would happen. She didn't believe in ghosts. She believed in facts, things that could be proven, but Zeb was so different than the other men she'd known. Too bad he was a Confederate ghost.
BEST SELLER from the Wild Rose Press.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387716647

Book preview

Zebulon

Zebulon

By Leigh Barbour

ISBN: 978-1-387-71664-7

Chapter One

The headaches, the backaches, the mood swings, at least I hadn’t had a hot flash yet. The doctor had confirmed it. In fact, she looked at me like she was welcoming me into an exclusive club. Believe me. It wasn’t a club I wanted to join. She’d given me some hormone medication to ease the symptoms. I felt a little better, but the pills had done nothing to quell the strange dreams I was having. Of course, who would want to avoid seeing him? Many of the visions were fuzzy, but I saw him very clearly. Dark hair and sparkling blue eyes that contrasted with his olive complexion. His high cheekbones descended into a pointy chin.

In each dream, he strutted around in knee-high boots and a long suede jacket. His attire was worn and his skin ruddy, as if he and his clothes had seen better days. Curiously, his belt buckle looked like those worn by Civil War soldiers with the large C.S.A., for Confederate States of America. Typical my first fantasy man would dress in period regalia.

Being a historian by trade, I’ve become successful and have authored a growing number of novels on the lifestyles of colonial Virginia and the periods before and after the Civil War. For the last few years, I’ve given graduate level courses in history at Virginia Commonwealth University, only a few blocks from my house in Richmond’s charming Fan District.

The phone rang. I knew exactly who it would be. Camille, my younger sister, and this would be a doozy of a conversation.

Abigail, she said into the phone as if I were a five-year-old that had just broken the family’s best crystal. I just got off the phone with Jewell Sylvan’s agent.

Jewell, another historian, had experienced modest success in publishing. Even though we’d been good friends for years, she was insanely jealous of me.

I’m sure it was an interesting conversation. I was slightly embarrassed and rather confused as to what happened while having lunch with Jewell.

She said you were hallucinating.

You make me sound like it’s the sixties and I’m an LSD dropping hippie.

You were pointing at some boys you said had flowers.

Yeah, they had flowers and were dressed in old clothes.

They weren’t there!

I certainly saw them. I don’t know why Jewell couldn’t see them. Maybe she’s the one hallucinating or developing some sort of selective blindness.

Gail, she pleaded. Don’t you remember Grandma and Aunt Emma?

Of course, I remembered them, Grandma always talking about her Indian. We used to joke every time we saw a feather on the ground that it was from Grandma’s boyfriend’s headdress. And then there was Aunt Emma, whom I hadn’t seen in years, who was perfectly normal until she turned forty, divorced her husband, began to talk to imaginary people. To this day she still lives alone with her lover no one else can see.

Don’t worry, I’m not going crazy. I saw those boys. It was strange that they were barefooted and wearing such tattered clothing, but they were chasing after some of the girls as they were walking to class.

Jewell didn’t see them, Camille said in a clipped tone. She always made a big deal out of everything, but she was a dynamite agent and had sold my books to some very prestigious publishing houses. Her endeavors had made us both a lot of money.

Unfortunately, a down side to my job was to check out the facts contained in historical novels and this meant many writers were in the poorhouse because of my conclusions. Why couldn’t they see that historical accuracy was necessary? It’s the truth that’s important when writing about the past.

I don’t know what Jewell’s problem is, but she’s terribly jealous of you and she’d do anything to discredit you.

Meaning what? I always check my facts thoroughly so there’s nothing to worry about.

You are becoming a well-renowned author and historian now, which means your reputation is very important.

I really think you’re totally over-reacting to this whole situation. I made my fame on getting it right, doing the research, and defending my points with facts to back them up. Camille never really understood that. She was always fixated on the title of my books, the cover photos, and how I looked when I went on interviews.

A-bi-gai—l, she drawled out in her Richmond accent. I just can’t get you to see the importance of public relations. Your image is as important as those facts you dig up in those dusty old books.

I guess that’s why I have you. I’d always loved her. She was born five years after me and I can remember Momma bringing her home and putting her in the crib. You always make sure things work out just fine.

My pleas are falling on very deaf ears. She waited to see if I’d respond. I didn’t. Oh Gail, if you’d only listen to me. I’ll talk to you later. She hung up the phone and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Camille just got too wound up about things. I definitely got uptight when it came to research, but she was always going on about such inconsequential issues.

****

I didn’t have any classes that afternoon and the deadline for my next novel was months away so I thought I’d enjoy myself on such a beautiful spring day.

The upstairs rooms needed doorknobs. They had to be crystal set in solid brass. And I didn’t like replicas; I wanted the authentic doorknobs used before 1900, like the ones I’d gotten for downstairs. The way they caught the light and prismed rainbows all over the drawing rooms was so beautiful.

Camille got our family house in the suburbs, but Daddy left me this house. In fact, I hadn’t even known he’d owned it, but he’d bought it as an investment back in the 1970’s when much of inner city Richmond was run-down. He’d rented it out, which helped him in retirement. And now I owned it. I’d always considered it a very thoughtful gift since he knew my fascination with anything and everything old.

The Victorian house’s high ceilings, niches, and Corinthian columns made it a joy to restore to its original splendor. I’d scraped down to the house’s original colors and found out it had been painted a bright turquoise in the 1890’s. So I set about finding the exact shade to paint the walls, then I made the ornate trim a stark white.

I needed more doorknobs and who knew what else I’d find while combing antique stores. Finding dealers of old items wasn’t difficult in this part of Richmond. In fact, yard sales could be a great source of antiques. Today was a perfect day to browse the shops in search of something special.

The sun trickled through the oaks whose roots pushed upward on the sidewalks making them look like they’d been through massive earthquakes. Walking on them was difficult and skating on them an impossibility. One thing I loved about the older neighborhoods in Richmond was how different the architecture was for every house. Some had curved fronts with balconies held up by large white columns and others homes had pointy-roofed turrets made of rounded bricks.

In recent years, coffee houses had sprung up, each with its own special flair. There was one that had the most delicious chai, not too sweet, not too strong. I headed down the block and rounded the corner to see the quaint café with its French-styled tables arranged on the sidewalk. Soon I was sipping the warm milky chai tea, laced with cinnamon, and sugar.

Instead of sitting down, I decided to walk to an antique shop just two blocks away. I’d been there a million times, but on each visit I found something new, even though sometimes I literally had to dig through layers of not so interesting items. Would they have a crystal doorknob? They were rare, but every now and then somebody tore down one of the old houses or plantations. A few were very old, those that were lucky enough to be spared by the 1865 fire. Maybe someone had recently unearthed some interesting object and I’d find it.

I rounded another corner and walked down a block with so many trees there was a canopy over the street. Up ahead of me was a group of people. There was something familiar about one of them. I sipped on my chai, careful not to trip over the undulated sidewalk beneath me. That brown coat, that dark hair, it was him. Or it looked like the man in my dream. There had to be a logical explanation. I must have dreamed about him because I’d seen him before, possibly in a grocery store, or walking by the house. I wrote my books sitting in an upstairs bedroom and gazed down at the passersby when I was at a loss for words.

He appeared to be arguing with a young woman whose skin was smooth and vanilla-like in complexion and her hair was as dark and strong as Cleopatra’s. A boy followed behind them dressed in baggy pants and an oversized coat that wasn’t necessary with the warm sun overhead. As he followed behind the man and the girl the boy raised his hands in menacing gestures over the girl’s head. Clearly used to the boy’s behavior, she merely turned her head every now and then. It was a comical sight, as she walked, the boy hurried behind her having to stop to pull up his way too loose pants every few steps.

I trailed behind them; curious to know who this man was that had visited me in my dreams. What could the man be saying to the girl as he walked beside her? Could she even hear him? The boy’s shouts would certainly have drowned out whatever he was trying to say to her. After a while, he slowed down and let the girl and boy proceed without him.

He stood by the trunk of a large oak whose gnarly roots were protruding in its four by four space of ground between the chunks of concrete. I slowed down not knowing what I’d say to him, but I was going to speak to him. He was much more handsome than Brit, my boyfriend of the last few years. Judging by the dignified way he carried himself, something also told me he’d be much more interesting.

Before I could think of what I’d say, he smiled and removed his hat. Good afternoon, Ma’am. He bowed slightly making his long coat sway around his knees.

Good afternoon, I repeated and smiled at his ceremonious gestures.

He took a step back looking like he’d faint when I responded. I reached out afraid he’d fall to the ground.

Are you okay? His coat felt so soft to the touch I thought it might disintegrate in my hands.

I am quite all right. His hue changed from ghostly pale to ruddy again.

Have I seen you around here before? I asked brazenly. Maybe I’d met him and didn’t remember it? I hardly thought it possible I’d forget anyone like him.

I don’t know, but I can assure you that I’ve never been introduced to you.

He stood erect and I saw the belt buckle. It certainly looked authentic. I looked down and I noticed that his boots didn’t quite match as factory-made boots do. His appeared to be hand-stitched where they met the sole.

Your outfit is very authentic, I said, wondering how he’d react. Was he a nutcase wanting attention or…I though I remembered a play being shown down at The Mosque, a Civil War play. He had to be one of the actors. Of course, I must have seen your picture on one of the flyers. You’re in the play, aren’t you?

The play? He took a step toward me. Yes, certainly, the theatre.

I looked down when I saw that he limped.

Chancellorsville.

I laughed so hard I nearly doubled over. You’re really in to your part, aren’t you?

I am Zebulon Perry. He stretched out his hand. I loved the way he was staying in character.

My hand left my side as if propelled by a magnet. His fingers grasped mine pulling my hand to his lips. A feeling ran through me, like when you find that perfect dress, the one with the right fit, but a thousand times stronger. This was silly, an actor, and I didn’t even know where he was from, but his accent did sound like he lived in the Richmond area.

It is an honor, he said. I could still feel the moistness from his lips as he let my hand gently drop. You are the great writer, Abigail Willis.

You know my books? I smoothed my hair wondering if I looked as good as those photographs on the covers Camille made me have taken. It always cost me an entire day at the beauty parlor. You’ve read my books?

Of course. I’ve hung on every word.

If it was a line, it was working on me. I wondered how Brit would react to my flirtation with this Zebulon character. Zebulon sounded so nineteenth century, I wondered what his real name was.

May I invite you out for a walk? Perhaps tomorrow?

Tomorrow, no, I have so many appointments. I can give you my card and you can phone me? I reached into my purse, fished out a card, and held it out toward him.

He stared at it curiously then finally took it and put it in his pocket. I prefer to come a’calling.

You really do get into your part, Zebulon. The name sounded so strange on my lips. Can I call you Zeb?

His lips blushed with color and his eyes twinkled. You may call me anything you wish. When he smiled dimples formed in his cheeks.

Well, I am home… I started.

I’ll know when you’re home.

I laughed self-consciously wondering why he was being so mysterious, but I was dying to know more about him. The fact that he’d read my books made me even more interested in him.

As Camille was always telling me, you could never have too many fans.

Chapter Two

My boyfriend of two years, Brit, called me saying he really wanted to see me. I wrongly assumed he’d wanted to talk about us since we’d, on occasion, discussed moving in together or getting married. As soon as he arrived, however, I realized he was only here to bemoan his daughters.

She just won’t get a job, he said.

He was talking about Courtney, his oldest, who’d graduated last year from Longwood University. Instead of putting together a resume and looking for a job, she preferred lying on the couch eating potato chips.

Her mother doesn’t see the problem, he went on.

I knew his ex, Emily, would see the problem if the girl were lying around on her couch, but as long as she was at her father’s making life hell for him, it was okay with her.

Have you told her highness she has to pay rent?

Ignoring my comment he changed to the other daughter who was studying at James Madison University. Heather and Emily had a falling out and Heather doesn’t return her phone calls. Then Emily calls me and complains as if it’s my fault.

Emily just wanted an excuse to talk to Brit. Clearly she still had feelings for him. I’d been very content with Brit. He wasn’t so bad when he was off of the subject of his daughters and his ex. Lately, however, with Courtney camped out in his living room, he rarely talked to me about anything else.

He must have noticed how bored I was because he sidled across my horsehair sofa to get closer to me. I know I’m boring you. His hand covered mine. What have you been up to lately?

I just advised a publisher to reject an entire series of books that were set in Colonial Virginia.

Brit’s eyebrows arched up. I’d met him at VCU where he taught English Literature. Because he was also a writer, he was very insecure that many of his submissions have been rejected. What was the matter with them?

The author’s entire point was how an entire Virginia town rallied behind the Continental Army and George Washington, but that isn’t a correct portrayal of what was happening at that time.

"Well, maybe in that