Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels by Susan Gabriel Page A

the newspaper?” Violet asks Queenie. Her aunt has been acting strange the last several days. She practically races Violet to be the first one to grab the newspaper off the porch. Then the rest of the day she mumbles about who must be behind telling the secrets.
    “You mean someone is still releasing secrets from that old book?” Rose asks.
    “One a day,” Queenie says. “At this rate, whoever it is will be at it for years.” Queenie’s eyes widen.
    “Mother must have had a fit when this first started,” Rose says.
    “Actually, she had a stroke,” Queenie says, with a grimace.
    Violet retrieves the newspaper from the counter and reads Rose the today’s entry:
     
    Temple Secret:
    Downtown Jewelry Shop Does Money Laundering for Millionaires.
    Contact Reeves Bartow.
     
    “Do the Bartow’s still live here?” Rose asks. “I was in school with the son.”
    “He’s probably calling his attorney as we speak,” Queenie says. “All of Savannah is standing in line to file lawsuits. And nobody can figure out who is doing it.”
    “God, I hope I don’t have any secrets in there,” Rose says, her brow creased.
    “Me, too,” Violet says, although her only secret is how much she hates working for Miss Temple and she doubts that is newsworthy. “Would you believe I found a designer poop bag at the front door this morning filled with doggie you-know-what?” Violet says, wondering why she’s using you-know-what for its true contents.
    “Who would do something like that?” Rose asks.
    “No telling,” Violet says. “But I just thought you should know in case someone approaches you.”
    “It’s probably good Mother’s in a coma,” Rose says. “She couldn’t bear to see the Temple family name tarnished.”
    “She brought it on herself,” Queenie says. “That Book of Secrets was how she kept everybody in line. Including me.”
    “This morning I pulled a couple of posters off the fence,” Violet says, “with not very flattering pictures of Miss Temple.”
    “That’s the least of it,” Queenie says. “You should have heard some of the phone calls.”
    Aware of how tired Rose looks, Violet interrupts: “Let’s get your things,” she says, taking Rose’s arm. “Unfortunately, our resident ghosts don’t carry luggage from the car. But I can do that. Then you can settle in a bit before your mother arrives.”
    “I can get my own luggage,” Rose says, but Violet insists.
    Violet retrieves Rose’s suitcase and then ascends the spiral staircase toward Rose’s old bedroom. Violet has trudged up and down these stairs thousands of times. At least it keeps her legs in shape. She’s also memorized every detail of the maroon carpet runners on the wooden steps, the polished banisters, as well as the Temple portraits lining the walls. As girls, whenever the Temples weren’t around, Violet and Rose slid down the banisters as the Temple ancestors watched in framed silence. They watch her now. Do they remember Rose?
    Violet meets Rose at the doorway to Rose’s room as Rose places her suitcase on the bed. Violet seems to always be standing at doorways these days, as if tempting herself to exit from the Temple lives for good. Rose’s bedroom is frozen in time from before Rose left for college. The dark antique furniture, too heavy for a child’s room, makes Violet feel claustrophobic whenever she cleans in here. The furniture and heavy draperies over the windows do their best to suck the oxygen from the room.
    “I’m surprised she kept my room intact,” Rose says. “I noticed my portrait was gone from downstairs.”
    Violet doesn’t tell Rose that when Violet started working here Miss Temple forbid her to ever speak Rose’s name. But she did keep the room as it was. Over the years Violet has discovered that Miss Temple is as complicated as her meal choices.
    “I forgot how dark this room is,” Rose says. “I could never paint in here.”
    “So you still paint?” Violet asks. Rose was quite good