She squeezed my hand and smiled, her warmth bringing a smile to my own face. There was something familiar about the way she spoke that reminded me of home.
“Are you ready for the grand tour?” Cynthia asked, her blue eyes sparkling. “Deborah here is ashamed to admit that we ladies over at the Heritage Society have been dying to get into this house for years, but it’s the truth. It was built by the same architect who built the John Mark Verdier house, you know. Quite famous back in the day.” She clasped her hands together. “Just look at that cypress paneling and the cast-plaster mantel,” she said, indicating the fireplace in the front parlor. “And the melodeon,” she added with excitement, brushing her hand against a small pianolike instrument between two windows in the front parlor. “Not many of them exist anymore, you know. I have the name of a lovely man who specializes in melodeons if you need any repairs to it.” She pursed her lips and in a hushed whisper added, “He’s been institutionalized, but I’m sure as soon as he’s released he can come look at your melodeon.”
She walked around the front rooms, touching various pieces of furniture. “I just knew this house would be full of treasures! I’m hoping you’ll allow us to include it on the fall home and garden tour. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger, I promise. We do everything. . . .”
I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned in time to see Loralee sway before catching herself on the edge of the hall table. Her skin appeared bleached under her makeup, and I was pretty sure that if the table hadn’t been there, she’d have slid to the floor. I remembered the pill bottles, and her explanation of ulcers and other “pesky problems,” and had the uncharitable thought that if she spent less time spending my father’s money and more taking better care of herself, she wouldn’t currently be looking as if she were trying to blend into the white wall.
I’m fine, she mouthed.
I didn’t completely believe her, but I stepped between her and the two women, wanting to keep their prying eyes from Loralee. Despite our differences, I knew too well as a motherless child what it was like to be stared at. “I’m so sorry, but now isn’t a good time for a house tour. I completely forgot, but Loralee and I have an appointment. Can you come back another time? And then we’ll have the attic open, too.”
Both women looked disappointed as I herded them to the door. “Just call ahead so I can make sure I’m home.”
They looked back toward Loralee, who managed a smile and a wave before I escorted them out onto the front porch, where Steve Weber joined us. Before closing the door I glanced back to see Loralee reclining on the upholstered settee in the foyer, her color still pale but better than it had been. She gave me a thumbs-up, and I found it oddly reassuring.
The locksmith’s face was a mottled red, and his hair and khaki uniform looked as if he’d been tossed into a pool. “The attic door’s open, Mrs. Heyward, but I don’t recommend heading up there just yet. It’s hotter than a pepper patch in July, and you should probably get an HVAC guy out here to install an attic fan and probably another window unit or two upstairs before you go anywhere near that attic. I like to have burned my eyebrows off halfway up the steps before I gave up.”
I nodded, relieved that I could postpone my trip to the attic, even if just for a few days.
“I’ll add today’s service and parts to the bill after we make the key, if that’s all right with you.” His voice sounded hopeful.
I got the impression that he couldn’t wait to get into his truck and blast the air-conditioning, and I didn’t want to keep him from it. “That’s fine. I’ll send you an e-mail later.”
He tipped his hat and headed for his truck.
“Can I come back to see Owen?”
I looked down to see Maris, noticing again her sparkly blue shoes. When I’d been her age, and even past that—at least until my mother had died—I’d had an affinity for bright shoes, and sparkly headbands, and beautiful fabrics that could be made to do magical things with the right stitches from a sewing machine. The memory made me smile, and Maris smiled back, her freckles dark against her skin.
“I’m sure he’d love it. He doesn’t know anybody here yet, so maybe you can introduce him to more children your age.”
She looked relieved, and I recalled Owen running up the stairs and shutting his door, and felt a twinge of remorse.