Jennifer Gauthier

The Retreat (gothic horror/women’s fiction) Logline: After losing her job as a tenured professor, a fifty-year-old mother of twins attends a writer’s retreat in rural Georgia, where she must confront her own demons, defy the monster who is stealing her ideas, and manage the ghost of his sister, who wants their family’s shameful secrets exposed. Opening chapters – inciting incident, establish setting, introduce protagonist and antagonist Chapter One “Here we are – Lammermoor.” Bobby’s voice dragged Ginny up from the depths of her car nap. An elaborate wooden sign dangled between two tall posts above a dirt road that wound its way into a thick stand of longleaf pine. A newly mended fence fronted the country road for miles in either direction with pristine boards shining here and there amongst their weathered cousins. Bobby turned into the drive as Ginny looked around taking it all in. Birds darted through high branches searching for respite from the intense sunlight. When they came out of the woods, there it was, looming large, at the end of a long straightaway directly in front of them: Lammermoor. The sun dappled the gravel with dark contours as it filtered through live oaks flanking the road. Their branches curved overhead, forming a thick tunnel that was simultaneously grand and claustrophobic. Ginny marveled at the thick strands of Spanish moss dripping from the trees. She found it beautiful but knew it was a deadly parasite on its host. A cloud passed in front of the sun, just beginning to weaken in the early May evening and the scene was suddenly cast in shadow. But up ahead, the white house gleamed, its imposing presence presiding over the landscape like a queen who refused to be ignored. Built in the antebellum Greek Revival style, it had matching upper and lower front porches, held up by eight square columns and a large staircase leading to the front door. Its large, evenly spaced windows were hung with black shutters and from a distance they resembled dark eyes that contained unfathomable secrets. “Wow. It’s an old plantation. Looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.” Bobby’s comment betrayed an undercurrent of distaste and Ginny wasn’t sure how to respond. She felt bad that the retreat’s caretaker had hired this particular Lyft driver to transport her. It wasn’t her fault, but somehow, she felt responsible. She tried to steer the conversation in a different direction. “These old trees are beautiful. I wonder how long they’ve been here.” “Since before the Civil War, I’d say. Tended to by who knows how many slave gardeners.” Bobby wasn’t wrong, and it made Ginny even more uncomfortable. “From what I read, the Slakes bought the place in the 1980s when the last of the original family members had passed. Got it for a steal I think . . . must have taken a lot of money and time to fix it all up.” “Well, I guess if you have that much you can decide what to do with it. Can think of other things they might have done . . .” Bobby trailed off. “Speaking of time and money, I’d better get back to civilization if I want to pick up anyone else today. Is there someone here to meet you?” Bobby helped Ginny unload her things and bring them up onto the porch. The space glowed blue from the ceiling paint, which Ginny remembered was meant to keep away spirits. Small tables and rocking chairs were scattered along its length. Propped against a sweating pitcher of lemonade on the table closest to the front door was an envelope with Ginny’s name on it. She ripped it open to reveal a short, handwritten note and a set of keys. Dr. Walker: Welcome to Lammermoor! I apologize for not being here to greet you, but please make yourself at home. This is your set of keys for the duration of your stay. Feel free to settle into your bedroom – it’s the blue room – last one on your left down the hall on the second floor. There’s food in the refrigerator and I’ve chilled a bottle of rosé. Help yourself. I hope to be back later this evening. Owen Slake Ginny felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of staying in a gigantic historic house all by herself. It was like being in a movie – she thought of the Sofia Coppola film with Nicole Kidman and Colin Farrell. What was it called? Bobby hovered at the bottom of the steps. Ginny could tell he wanted to get back on the road but also felt a sense of responsibility for her. Clearly, he was unsure about leaving her on her own. “Please, go ahead. I’m fine – the house is all ready for me, and I am so tired. I just want to crash.” “Well, if you’re sure. Here, put my number in your phone, just in case. I’ll call you –what’s yours?” It took a few tries to find a spot where the service was reliable. They ended up trudging up the drive toward the main road to get a signal. After they exchanged numbers, Bobby got back in his car. Ginny stood on the porch and watched the Toyota recede into the distance, kicking up a plume of dust all the way down the drive. The sound of tires crunching over gravel echoed across the silent lawn. She stopped watching when Bobby’s car was obscured by the shadow of the woods and the crunching was replaced by the insistent screams of a crow. Clouds floated languidly overhead, but she noticed that they were slashed with red like they had been stabbed. Chapter Two The sound of a car door slamming startled Ginny awake. Her room was dark. Night had begun to fall while she was resting, and she woke disoriented, wearing the clothes she had travelled in. It took her a few minutes to remember where she was. She caught a faint whiff of jasmine in the air and wondered if she’d left a window open. She heard footsteps crunching in the gravel and went to look outside, noting that both windows were shut tightly. Her room faced the property behind the house. In the fading light she could just make out a close-cropped lawn flanked by several outbuildings. A barn and what she assumed was the old schoolhouse sat in the near distance and beyond that lay vast woods. A tall man in a cowboy hat, jeans, and work boots was making his way toward the barn, his flashlight beam dancing along the path. Ginny kept her room dark so she could follow his movements without being seen. She noticed that he walked with a slight hitch in his step. As she watched, a light came on in the barn. After a short while it went out again and the flashlight beam veered into the woods. Owen Slake, Ginny thought with a twinge of disappointment. She had hoped he’d introduce himself to her when he got back and offer a more formal welcome to the retreat. But then again, I was asleep, she thought. He saw no lights on in the house and probably didn’t want to disturb me. Still, she was curious. She wanted to know who he was. Ginny crept downstairs to the kitchen by the tiny light of her cell phone and found a flashlight in a drawer. She exited into the back yard and carefully followed the path she had seen Owen Slake take into the woods. It was deeply dark outside the circle of her flashlight’s beam and Ginny shivered at the thought of getting lost in the woods. After a few steps, she heard music playing – she recognized Bruce Springsteen’s “Atlantic City” – and up ahead she saw a light in the window of a small cottage. Pausing behind a tree, she watched as Owen opened a beer and sat down at a table. He toasted an imaginary companion, took a long swig from the bottle and then dropped his head into his hands. Reflecting on what little she knew about this man and his family history, Ginny was moved. But it didn’t look like a good time to knock on the door and introduce herself, so she picked her way back to the house and turned in for the night. As she struggled to fall asleep, she imagined what George would say if he knew about the unusual circumstances of her arrival at the retreat. He’d been dubious from the moment she introduced the idea. “So, what’s in it for them? Do they own whatever work you do there?” After twenty years together, George remained mystified by the workings of academia. “No, of course not.” “Then what do they get out of it? You’re not paying them, so . . .” “This guy has a big estate and a house that he can’t possibly use all of, so he’s opened it up to writers and artists to give them space to do their work.” Over the years Ginny had grown weary of trying to explain the protocols for intellectual exchange in her profession. While it had become a joke for George to ask how much she was getting paid for the articles and book chapters she published, it was clear he was still puzzled by the whole thing. Jack and Cooper had begun to parrot their father when they heard about her writing projects, asking: “Does it pay?” “I just don’t see why they would pay you to go there and not get anything in return.” “George, they get the prestige that comes from being associated with the creative process.” Ginny smiled, satisfied with her answer. George looked skeptical. “Who’s going to be there when you go? Is this some kind of wacky artist colony situation?” “I’m not sure. I think there’s just one writer at a time . . . and a caretaker, of course. I’ll pull up the description.” Ginny found the classified ad on the Poets & Writers website. Lammermoor Writer’s Retreat Looking for the time and space you need for sustained creative activity? Commune with nature and the Muses at Lammermoor, a historic property 140 miles southeast of Atlanta. On 150 acres of land, with a lake, a garden, goats and an ornery donkey named Igor, Lammermoor is a perfect retreat. You will have the run of the property, plus the use of the antebellum Greek Revival house, including a bedroom, bathroom, and several well-appointed workspaces. The kitchen has been recently updated, with modern conveniences. Artists have access to a studio space in the re-modelled one-room schoolhouse. There is an old Steinway on the property that can be tuned for guests. Lammermoor is an isolated rural property, 18 miles from the nearest town. There is a convenience store/gas station 3 miles away. An old pick-up truck is available for guests’ occasional use. While we have Internet access, it is spotty at best; cell service is available with most providers at specific locations on the property. We welcome applications from artists and writers who are comfortable in a rural setting, highly self-motivated, and eager for quiet. We offer a $1000 stipend. One writer or artist at a time will attend for one of our three-week sessions. Please note your preferred dates in the application form. Transportation from the Atlanta airport can be arranged in advance. Contact Owen Slake with any questions: oslake88@gmail.com. “Who is this Owen Slake guy? Is he the caretaker?” “Actually, I Googled him and I think he is related to someone famous. His parents were in music – they died in a car accident. The Slakes owned the property, Lammermoor, named after the opera, and I guess he inherited it after they died. There’s all sorts of news stories about the crash, but not much about him. I guess he had a sister who died in the accident too. She was some sort of promising dancer. “That’s tragic – but it sounds like he came out okay.” “I guess he fixed up the house and the property and opened this retreat.” “So . . . does he live there too? Who takes care of it?” “I’m not sure.” “So, you’d be at this house out in the middle of nowhere, alone for three weeks, with no contact with the outside world?” “Yeah, I guess.” Ginny tried not to sound eager, but the thought of twenty-one days of peace and quiet with nothing to do but enjoy nature and write made her halfway delirious. “What else have I got going right now? Remember the ‘pink slip’ that came in my last paycheck?” “I’m not sure about this. It doesn’t sound safe.” “George, it’s perfectly safe. This is a real thing, it’s professional.” “Well, it sounds too good to be true, and if it sounds too good to be true . . .” “Look, chances are slim that I’ll even get this thing. Who knows how many hundreds of applications they’ll get, from actual writers. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” George encircled Ginny with his arms and patted her bottom. “You’re an actual writer – after all, you have published poetry and a novel in progress.” His smile seemed sincere, but Ginny found his tone slightly mocking. She still could not believe she’d actually been chosen for the retreat. Even after all the official emails and contracts, George’s doubts persisted and he had been reluctant to let her go. It was only when she’d conjured the image of herself as a depressed former professor, mooning about the house that he’d agreed it might be good for her. “It will give me time to figure out what’s next. Academia is going down the tubes and I am trained as an Art History professor. I have to consider my options.” “There’s so much you could do – don’t sell yourself short. I have no doubt you’ll find something else.” “Well, that makes one of us. But thank you for your confidence.” Ginny pushed her memories of the past six months to the back of her mind. The whole “academic prioritization” process that had resulted in the closure of her department had been ugly and contentious. “Academic prioritization” turned out to be a euphemism for faculty cuts. The Board of Trustees was determined to reduce costs and the future of small liberal arts colleges was bleak. “Enough.” She stopped her brain from going down that dark path. Here she was, in a beautiful home steeped in two hundred years of history, surrounded by a pastoral landscape out of a Joshua Shaw painting. What stories this place could tell. There was even a donkey and goats! Ginny was sure that the Muses would visit her at Lammermoor – how could they not be drawn to such an idyll?

Algonkian Pre-Event assignments Jennifer Gauthier ACT OF STORY STATEMENT After losing her job as a college professor, fifty-year-old mother of twins, Ginny Walker wants to reinvent herself as a writer. To succeed, she must survive an unexpectedly dangerous writing retreat, defy the retreat’s caretaker, Owen Slake, who wants to steal her work, confront her own demons, and placate the ghost of Owen’s dead sister, who is hell-bent on revenge. THE ANTAGONIST PLOTS THE POINT Owen Slake wants to be great. His desire for greatness was instilled at a young age by his famous parents and talented sister. But his early promise and dreams of becoming a successful writer are crushed when he suffers the trauma of a car accident in which his family is killed, and he is the only survivor. No longer put his thoughts into words, he remains determined to live up to the family name. Owen convinces himself that by surrounding himself with creativity, his own talent will return, so he befriends writers, older women writers, specifically. Charming and adept at flattery, Owen basks in their glory, all the while pretending to be working on his own novel. Eventually he opens an artist’s retreat at his family’s estate in rural Georgia, where he installs a surveillance system to make sure that the invited artists are using their time wisely. His first guest is Ginny Walker, who is reinventing herself as a writer after losing her job as a college professor. Owen beguiles Ginny as he closely follows her writing progress. When Owen discovers that long-buried Slake family secrets have found their way into Ginny’s writing, the retreat takes a dangerous turn. CONJURING YOUR BREAKOUT TITLE The Retreat Be Careful What You Wish For DECIDING YOUR GENRE AND APPROACHING COMPARABLES Gothic horror/suspense/women’s fiction Think Starling House (Alix E. Harrow, 2023) meets The Plot (Jean Haff Korelitz, 2021) bathed in the atmospheric tone of Sofia Coppola’s The Beguiled (2017). Driven by ambition and haunted by dark secrets from the past, two aspiring writers will do anything it takes to make a name for themselves. Ginny Walker has come to an artist’s retreat in rural Georgia to escape the demands of her family and work on her first novel. When the retreat’s charming caretaker, Owen Slake, a writer himself, takes an interest in her, she doesn’t suspect his sinister motives. In this Southern Gothic horror tale, secrets and seduction intertwine, leading Ginny down a dangerous path. When monstrous acts come to light, we are forced to consider, who is the monster? CORE WOUND AND THE PRIMARY CONFLICT CORE WOUND: Ginny’s doubt that she is unique. She has faked her way through life, done nothing special or distinctive. Her fear of mediocrity. CORE WOUND: Owen’s failure to live up to his family’s greatness. PRIMARY CONFLICT Ginny vs. Owen: At the retreat, Owen is secretly stealing her work, while also seducing her. SECONDARY CONFLICTS Ginny vs. her family/patriarchy/societal norms: Ginny chafes against her role as mother and head of household, which she has to balance with her full-time job. The expectations placed upon her by society’s gender norms are crushing her. She feels unfulfilled. Ginny vs. Lucy: The ghost of Owen’s dead sister, Lucy, visits Ginny at the retreat and tells Ginny secrets that the Slake family buried for years. Lucy wants the truth revealed. Ginny vs. her past: Ginny is haunted by a decision she made in graduate school. She took the idea for her Master’s Thesis, and subsequently her Dissertation, from an undergraduate student when she was a teaching assistant for an introductory art history course at Yale. Owen vs. Ginny: Owen wants Ginny’s work, but when he discovers she is writing about his family’s secrets, he is compelled to silence her. Owen vs. his past: The pressure from his parents to live up to the family name persisted beyond their death. His memories of his childhood are fuzzy, but tinged with guilt and shame. Lucy vs. her past: Like Owen, Lucy suffered from their parents’ high expectations, but her wounds are more extreme. She endured both physical and emotional abuse at the hands of her family and wants the dark secrets to be revealed. LOGLINE: A fifty-year-old mother of twins must confront past transgressions and overcome self-doubt to prevent a charming stranger from stealing her ideas and crushing her dream of becoming a writer. In the wake of a traumatic childhood, a man tries to fulfill his hunger for greatness by feeding off the creative ideas of others. The Retreat (Gothic horror/suspense/women’s fiction) After losing her job as a tenured professor, a fifty-year-old mother of twins attends a writer’s retreat in rural Georgia, where she must confront her own demons, defy the monster who is stealing her ideas, and manage the ghost of his sister, who wants their family’s shameful secrets exposed. INNER CONFLICT Ginny vs. her past. Ginny is haunted by a decision she made in graduate school. She took the idea for her Master’s Thesis, and subsequently her Dissertation, from an undergraduate student when she was a teaching assistant for an introductory art history course at Yale. She is also struggling with the societal expectations of women, chafing against the demands of being a wife and mother. SKETCH #1 In an odd way, Owen’s theft of her work was validating to Ginny. It indicated that her writing showed promise – that she excelled at something. He thought her work was worth stealing and he wanted to claim it as his. But she also felt violated in a way that she hadn’t before, even by the men (and boys) who’d used her body without her permission. Her ideas were more precious to her, more sacred, even than her body. Her body was the armor she wore to face the world – the public-facing shell that protected what was inside: her thoughts and feelings, her hopes and dreams. That part of her was real, private, whereas her body was just something she wore like a costume to make her way through the world. She thought of her own masquerade through life as a confident, self-possessed rule-follower, when she often felt possessed by someone else – someone who was determined to see her fail, to grind her into the dirt and then dance on it or crush her into dust and blow like a puff dandelion gone to seed. Ginny had been fighting this battle for years, trying to overcome her self-doubt and be proud of all she had accomplished. But what had she accomplished, really, and how much of it was truly hers? Standing in Owen’s cabin, contemplating his actions, Ginny couldn’t help but think about Isabelle. Ginny had paid for graduate school by cobbling together her meager savings, taking loans and working as a teaching assistant for an Art History survey class. She loved the work – it brought her back to her undergraduate days when she had first discovered her love of art. She graded exams and helped organize lectures for Dr. Archibald Mortimer, who was a big deal in the field of High Renaissance painting. One semester he asked her to grade his final papers because he had no interest in reading them. He was close to retirement, and probably close to death too – one of those venerable old institutions, much like Yale itself. “Virginia, I trust your judgment.” He had told her, when she demurred on the grounds that he had a much better sense of what grades the students should be given. “Frankly, the thought of slogging through all those banal observations about Mona Lisa’s smile or Pollock’s paint splatters makes we want to throw myself off the Harkness Tower.” Ginny ended up reading all the papers and assigning grades to the 30 students in Mortimer’s section. At the time, she had been struggling to come up with an idea for her Master’s Thesis. She knew she wanted to write about a contemporary woman artist but was at loss for who to focus on. Most of the women artists she encountered had been over-researched – Georgia O’Keefe, Frida Kahlo, Dorothea Lange. She wanted to discover someone new and introduce this unknown to the rest of the world. Her professors at the time were of little help. Yale’s art history program was still run by old white men, except for the lone woman in the department, Carol Bergstrom. Dr. Bergstrom was an expert in Dutch and Flemish Medieval art, so not exactly in Ginny’s proposed field, but Ginny sought her out as a mentor. She was as supportive as she could be, giving Ginny several research opportunities, but in general Yale’s was an old-fashioned approach to the discipline and Ginny longed to be on the cutting edge. It was the longing that pushed her to do it, probably. And a feeling of desperation. Her thesis proposal was due at the end of the school year, and Ginny hadn’t written a word. It was partly because Mortimer was keeping her so busy with his class: he’d frequently call her up the night before lecture and ask her to fill in for him. He joked that his chronic gout made it difficult for him to get to the 9:00 am survey class. Ginny knew it was more likely due to a massive hangover. Although he was usually generous enough to share his notes and slide list, Ginny often tweaked his prepared lecture to include more women artists and consideration of broader social issues like gender, race, and class. The entitled Yale undergrads needed to be pushed to think about these issues, and if she had the opportunity to lecture them, she was going to seize it. The students weren’t all bad: a handful were eager to learn and seemed passionate about art history. Isabelle Tholas, an exchange student from Strasbourg, was probably Mortimer’s best student, but he wouldn’t have known it. She kept quiet in discussion, lacking confidence in her English pronunciation. Ginny observed the lectures from the back of the room, taking note of who was engaged and who wasn’t. Although seated in the last row, Isabelle listened intently and took copious notes. Grading Isabelle’s exams and papers, Ginny noted that Isabelle’s composition wasn’t perfect, but her ideas were brilliant. With each essay Ginny was shocked anew at Isabelle’s creativity and wholly original insights. But it was her final research on Franco-Moroccan photographer, Leila Nejjar, that really stood out. An intricate fusion of ideas from philosophy, sociology, and feminist theory, Isabelle’s essay brought the work of this as-yet-undiscovered artist to life for Ginny. Deft in her use of logic and visual evidence, mixing in just the right amount of mystical insight, Isabelle wove these elements together to create a perfectly nuanced argument. Reading the paper, Ginny learned that Isabelle had been introduced to Nejjar’s work at a small gallery back home and had been following her work for a few years. She was obviously fascinated by the photographer’s radical take on cultural hybridity and the clash of Nejjar’s Moroccan and French identities. When Ginny read Isabelle’s essay, she felt its brilliance in her heart, and in the pit of her stomach too. It was a dark, hollowed-out feeling – like her insides had been scooped out, leaving the round emptiness, like where the green flesh of an avocado once was. And Ginny’s feeling was green; it was a powerful pulsing envy that pierced her self-confident veneer. When Ginny raided her memory of that time, she found it lacking in detail. The contours were fuzzy; she wasn’t sure what parts had actually happened and what parts she imagined, or only feared had happened. And when does something like that happen exactly – in the moment when you decide to do it, or the moment you go through with it? Or in a later moment when you are recognized for someone else’s ideas – lauded, feted, and praised? Or when you advance based on those ideas? When you achieve your dream and look around to find your whole career rests on a foundation that is as sturdy as a castle built on quicksand? Even if the exact moment was cloudy, Ginny could recall the feeling, and then the consequences, which seemed negligible at the time. Once she set the thing in motion it gathered its own momentum and became self-propelled. She had given Isabelle an A on the paper – there was no question that it was an A paper. Ginny had no reason to lie about that. When the semester ended, Isabelle returned to Strasbourg, and Ginny proposed her Master’s Thesis topic: “Feminism and Cultural Hybridity in the Photography of Leila Nejjar.” Ginny had never told anyone about Isabelle, not even George. She rarely thought about the incident, but when she did, she felt the ground loosen beneath her, a gaping maw open up and begin to suck her down into its dark cavity. In that moment of imagined consequence, she was the castle and its inhabitant all at once. Like a deposed Queen imprisoned within a crumbling fortress, she was devoured by the pit of guilt and shame. But nothing bad happened. She expanded upon the research for her dissertation and now she was a long way from that desperate, hollowed-out pretender she had been. Her subsequent work, though rooted in Isabelle’s idea, was her own. It earned her accolades and the respect of her colleagues in the field. It was as if what she had needed was simply a jump start to ignite her own creativity as a scholar. As she stood in Owen’s cabin it all flooded back into her mind. Were her actions any different from Owen’s? SKETCH #2 Ginny loved few things more than reading in bed on a weekend morning: the languid feeling of lying prone, propped up on pillows with sunlight streaming into her bedroom through the slats of the blinds, a book beckoning her to enter its world and become someone else. So, it was with no slight annoyance that she detected a faint burning smell in the air on a Saturday morning. Her instincts kicked in and she leapt out of bed, leaving George snoring peacefully in the space beside her. She grabbed her robe and dashed down the cold steps barefoot. “Boys?” “We made our own breakfast!” the twins crowed as Ginny appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Yes, you sure did.” The countertops were littered with bowls and spoons. Pancake mix coated everything as if the box had exploded. “Want some?” Jack held a spatula aloft piled with three slightly singed and misshapen pancakes. He grinned and tilted his head sideways, raising one eyebrow – Ginny knew this as his triumphant, self-satisfied look. Cooper sidled up behind him with a mouthful, “They’re great!” he managed to spit out, along with more than a few sticky crumbs. “Well, boys, it looks like I am officially obsolete.” Ginny feigned disappointment and popped a pancake into her mouth. “Yes, indeed they are delicious.” It was only a little lie – the pancake was tough, and it left a distinct carbon flavor on the palate. “Aw Mom, you know we still need you. Who’s going to clean up this mess?” “Not I. I’m making myself some scrambled eggs. Is there a clean frying pan?” Ginny grabbed the pan closest to her on the counter, not realizing that it held several inches of greasy water. The twins had attempted to soak the pan – she had to give them credit. But the force she used to lift it hurled the mess into the air, sloshing it across the counter, the floors, and the front of her robe. She tossed the pan into the sink and several loud expletives into the kitchen. “Mom –” “What the – ” The twins came running, syrup-faced and wide-eyed. Ginny didn’t often swear (not aloud anyway) and it shocked all three of them. “Can we do anything to help?” “Out.” Ginny could feel a rage pounding in her head. Now she’d have to mop the floor in addition to cooking herself breakfast, or instead of, more likely. She felt arms around her waist – George had been awakened by the kitchen commotion and snuck up behind her. “What’s all this?” Ginny wasn’t sure how much of the excitement he had witnessed, but her anger gripped her tightly and she didn’t care. Nor did she answer him. Instead, she shrugged out of his embrace and stomped to the closet to get the vacuum cleaner – she had to vacuum up the crumbs and pancake mix before she could mop. When she returned to the kitchen, George was making himself a bowl of cereal and congratulating the boys on their culinary triumph. Jack and Cooper were both on their knees swabbing the floor with paper towels – doing a great job spreading all that greasy water around, Ginny thought. She stood in the center of it all with the vacuum by her side like a silent partner. “Guys?” They all looked at her dumbly. “Everyone out. And don’t plan to come back into the kitchen for at least twenty minutes.” George hustled the twins into the den, where he proceeded to plop himself on the couch and watch ski racing, flanked on either side by a junior chef. Ginny fumed as she vacuumed – the one-sided conversation in her head more like a rant, the one she returned to often: if she didn’t do something, it wouldn’t get done; she didn’t eat if she didn’t cook; she was expected to do everything. Ginny imagined it was exactly what would have been going through Cinderella’s mind if the girl hadn’t been such an insipid dolt. Her relaxing Saturday morning forgotten, she mopped the floor to the sound of the boys cheering on the American skiers at Val d’Isere. SETTING Lammermoor – former plantation, so there are ghosts of the past, even before the Slakes lived there. Gothic – crackling with secrets, the history of the estate, Owen has fixed up the main house and the schoolhouse, but the barn and the caretaker’s cottage are still a bit rundown. Benign neglect, paint fading, maybe the cottage is partly fixed up – the front? Like a Hollywood set – the backlot is rundown, creepy. The woods surrounding the house – long leaf pines are tall like soldiers in an advancing army. Sentinels – watching over, guarding something. The lake – color of iced tea, lily pads, peepers, not clear – muddy. Develop the creepy factor – sounds of cicadas, owl, coyotes howling. Possums’ eyes glow in flashlight beam. Foxes, coyotes, weasels, big brown bats. Spanish moss dripping from Live Oaks Sub-Settings: Caretaker’s cottage – where Owen lives, it has not been completely fixed up, still bears signs of neglect. Old schoolhouse – fixed up, new wood, polished bell atop the roof. The barn – also not fixed up – it is a workspace, not a space for the retreat guests. Ginny notices the difference between the barn and the schoolhouse when she goes inside the barn to spy on Owen. Donkey (Igor) and goats. Some horses board there – not Owen’s. Farmer’s Market in Rebecca – World’s Largest Peanut. Turner County, Alapaha River, Flat, rural, just being revitalized, but still bears the marks of a neglected farming town, not even a town, but it is at a crossroads, so well-placed for a market. Hipsters from Macon love to drive down (1 ½ hours) because it feels “authentic.” GINNY’S ARRIVAL AT THE RETREAT “Here it is – Lammermoor.” Bobby’s cheery voice dragged Ginny up from the depths of her car nap. A newly-mended fence fronted the country road for miles in either direction, pristine boards shone here and there amongst their weathered cousins. An elaborate wooden sign dangled between two tall posts above a dirt road that wound its way into a thick stand of longleaf pine. Bobby turned into the drive as Ginny looked around taking it all in. The pines stood like tall sentinels on watch. Birds darted through high branches that offered a respite from the intense sunlight. The road was two parallel tracks with grasses growing up in between; they brushed the undercarriage of Bobby’s Toyota as he drove along, making a sound like whispers. When they came out of the woods, there it was, down a long straightaway, directly in front of them: Lammermoor. The pines had opened up and the road was flanked on either side by Live Oaks, ancient branches curving over the road to make a tunnel gave the entryway an aristocratic feel. Filtered through the branches, the sun dappled the gravel with dark contours. The trees dripped with Spanish moss, which Ginny always found beautiful but knew to be a deadly parasite on its host. A cloud passed in front of the sun, which had just begun to weaken in the early May evening. The scene was suddenly cast in shadow, but up ahead, the white house gleamed, its imposing presence presiding over the scene like a queen. Built in the antebellum Greek Revival style, it had matching upper and lower front porches, held up by eight square columns and a large staircase leading to the front door. Its large, evenly spaced windows were hung with black shutters. “Wow. It’s an old plantation. Looks like something out of Gone with the Wind.” Bobby’s comment betrayed an undercurrent of distaste. Ginny wasn’t sure how to respond. “These old trees are beautiful. I wonder how long they’ve been here.” “Since before the Civil War, I’d say. Tended to by who knows how many slave gardeners.” Bobby wasn’t wrong, and it made Ginny slightly uncomfortable. “From what I read, the Slakes bought the place in the 1980s when the last of the original family members had passed. Got it for a steal I think . . . must have taken a lot of money and time to fix it all up.” “Well, I guess if you have that much you can decide what you do with it. Can think of other things they might have done . . .” Bobby trailed off. “Speaking of time and money, I’d better get back to civilization if I want to pick up anyone else today. Is there someone here to meet you?” Bobby helped Ginny unload her things and bring them up onto the porch. The space glowed blue from the ceiling paint, which Ginny knew was meant to keep away spirits. Small tables and rocking chairs were scattered along its length. Propped against a sweating pitcher of lemonade on the table closest to the front door was an envelope with Ginny’s name on it. She ripped it open to reveal a short, handwritten note and a set of keys. Dr. Walker: Welcome to Lammermoor! I apologize for not being here to greet you, but please make yourself at home. This is your set of keys for the duration of your stay. Feel free to settle into your bedroom – it’s the blue room – last one on your left at the top of the stairs. There’s food in the refrigerator and I’ve chilled a bottle of rosé. Help yourself. I hope to be back later this evening. Owen Slake Ginny felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of being in this gigantic historic house all by herself. It was like being in a movie – she thought of that Sofia Coppola film with Nicole Kidman and Colin Farrell. What was it called? Bobby was hovering at the top of the steps. Ginny could tell he wanted to get back on the road but also felt a sense of responsibility for her. Clearly, he was unsure about leaving her on her own. “Please, go ahead. I’m fine – the house is all ready for me, and I am so tired. I just want to crash.” “Well, if you’re sure. Here, put my number in your phone, just in case. I’ll call you – what’s yours?” It took a few tries to find a spot where the service was reliable. They ended up trudging up the drive toward the main road to get a signal. After they exchanged numbers, Bobby got back in his car. Ginny stood on the porch and watched the Toyota recede into the distance, kicking up a plume of dust all the way down the drive. The sound of tires crunching over gravel echoed across the silent lawn. She stopped watching when Bobby’s car was obscured by the shadow of the woods and the crunching was replaced by the insistent screams of a crow. Clouds floated languidly overhead, but she noticed that they were slashed with red like they had been stabbed.