Authors: Renee' Irvin
East of Orleans
| East of Orleans |
| Renee' Irvin |
| (2012) |
Their worlds were different, but their desires were the same . . .
Isabella McCoy, from the banks of the Chattahoochee River in Georgia, was as naïve as she was beautiful.
Jacqueline Rousseau, the exotic New Orleans prostitute, was known for cruelly breaking men’s hearts while she emptied their pockets.
Both with dark secrets of their own, running away from their pasts, to an uncertain future.
Fate brought them together, and into the arms of the notorious cotton broker Jules McGinnis, who became both a husband and lover to them.
Jealousy. Passion. Love.
Murder.
Now both women must overcome the truth of their tormented pasts and their unknown futures, as they face one of the most scandalous murder trials Georgia had ever seen.
East of Orleans, is a 358 page novel.
Not quite one year old, busy playing amongst the pots & pans in the kitchen, Renee' Stargel Irvin's mother asked her what she was doing. "Using my imagination, Mommy!" she replied. And she has been ever since. "East of Orleans," her first published novel, was created through a mélange of memories brought to life, characters born out of imagination, and Renee's desire to write herself to another place, at another time. There was no better place than where her grandmother grew up as a child, and her stories unfolded. That wonderful place was on the banks of the Chattahoochee River, in a little community known as Shakerag, Georgia. Like Renee's life itself--deep, rich, adventuresome, and sometimes dark, her debut novel "East of Orleans" is a "real" southern story, the kind that Renee' feels is best told by one of their own, a bona fide Southerner. Renee' holds a degree in Legal Studies, and studied English & Communications at Oglethorpe University. She also studied at the "Harriett Austin Creative Writing Conference," offered by the University of Georgia, and taught under the skilled eye of Dr. Charles Conner. Renee' currently lives not far from Shakerag with her college-age twins, son Ryan, and her charismatic much-loved 12 year-old Pekingese, Pookie. She is currently hard at work on her next novel, and one thing is a certainty: It will evolve around layered characters, mystery, romance, and life and death centered on the only stage Renee' knows as home, the deep South.
Reneé Irvin
East of
Orleans
Copyright © 2012 by Reneé Irvin
Kindle Edition
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Many times in our lives, we have people who guide us, encourage us and just listen when we need a friend. One of those people is my beloved Grandmother Clara, who taught me the art of storytelling.
For helping me find my way to creative writing, Dr. Charles Connor: University of Georgia/Harriette Austin Creative Writing, my Teacher,
Mentor
,and Friend.
To Ann Kempner Fisher, my relentless editor, mentor and friend, who believed in me enough to make this book come to life, I owe her a great deal of gratitude.
Thanks to Suzannah Safi for her creative Video Production/Book Trailer Design
I am grateful to my true friend, Phyllis who listened as I read each revision, over and over again.
Thank you to Frankie Sutton, editor and friend, who in the end made this book shine.
Finally, my very special thanks to my mother, Elora. She always encouraged me to write, even in my darkest hours. Thank you, Mom.
,
Georgia
1882
Isabella McCoy
The rain
had just begun to fall as the fifteen-year-old girl opened her eyes for the first time that morning. She heard a thump and looked across the planked wooden floor to see her cat Freckles in a fight with the curtains. There was an urge to jump up and take off through the woods to use the outhouse, but Isabella lay with bent knees tight against her chest and listened to the rain dropping from the tin overhang. The urge to go the outhouse lessened as she thought about the hanging that had taken place a few days earlier. The dead man’s name was Sam Johnson and she knew where he had been hung; it was not too far from the outhouse, which was down through the woods behind the barn. The dirt trail was littered with briar bushes, sumac, and this time of year, maybe a rattler or a copperhead. She did not know which one she was more afraid of: ghosts or snakes. One was about as bad as the other, Isabella thought, but you could
see
the snake, most of the time anyway. From what she knew about ghosts, they could present themselves right in front of you or they could make themselves invisible.
Isabella’s granny had told her the story of how the hung man came about his fate. Sam Johnson was a Negro who had raped a white woman over near
Forsyth
County
. There had been whispers that it was not a rape, but rather a friendship that had developed between the two and turned into something more. Of course, this was not talked about much until Sam had been brought to justice. Isabella thought that the entire situation did not make a lick of sense, but both Sam and the woman were thought to have “bad minds.”
The raped woman’s pa caught her leaving with a pouch of gold. It was not his gold, so he figured the nigger stole it; even more reason for the nigger to hang. The woman was Sadie Lee and rumor was, this was not the first time one of her pa’s field hands had visited with Sadie Lee longer than considered respectable. It did not matter now. Sam was hung and Sadie Lee had been sent off to some place for women with unsound minds.
Isabella pictured Sam Johnson swinging from an oak tree with his eyes bulging out of his head. It stopped her from heading to the outhouse. She wondered if Sam kicked and wiggled like a worm on a hook or if his neck snapped as soon as the noose was let go. She covered her head with a pillow, then rose from the bed and walked over to the washbowl and water pitcher. After washing her face, she removed her white cotton gown. Isabella stood there naked, a mass of cinnamon colored hair draped over one shoulder and a stream of pee between her legs. She put the lid on the chamber pot, thankful she had it and sat it in front of the door. After she washed her legs off with a rag, she stepped into pantaloons, a camisole and an indigo cotton dress.
