“She does have a wonderful aesthetic style,” he agreed.
“I’ll contact her.” I added it to my list. I was going to be busy for the next few days, but I wouldn’t be alone. I planned to call every member of my family and everyone else I knew in Dharma to help me out. With barely one week to pull this together, I would need all the help I could get.
*
Late the next morning, Trudy answered the door seconds after Mom rang the bell. “Becky and Brooklyn. What a nice surprise.”
“I hope you don’t mind us dropping in,” Mom said. “But we were in the neighborhood, and I thought, let’s see if Trudy is home.”
“I love spontaneity. And to tell the truth, I’m happy to see you because you’ve saved me a phone call.” She swung the door wide open, allowing us room to come inside. “Amelia, look who’s here.”
If the horrified expression on the woman’s face was any indication, Amelia didn’t share Trudy’s love of spontaneity.
“I suppose they’ll want tea or something,” Amelia muttered as she stomped off to the kitchen.
“That would be lovely, thank you, Amelia,” Trudy called. She turned and smiled at us. “It’s as if she reads my mind.”
“She must be such a joy to live with,” I said, biting my tongue. It’s not that I enjoyed antagonizing Amelia, but her sour reaction made our impulsive visit even sweeter.
In truth, our visit wasn’t impulsive at all. I wanted to see the matching bookend that Trudy had told us about the other day in the cave. Mom had agreed to be my partner in crime—well, not crime, so much as equivocation—and we had memorized our lines well.
Two hours earlier, Derek and I had accompanied my mother into the caves to watch her perform her sacred cleansing ceremony. My ears were still ringing from her enthusiastic whoops, and I could still smell the white sage smoke in my hair. Mom had outdone herself, invoking the cave goddesses to keep the place safe. I firmly believed that the cave would last another thousand years with or without Mom’s help, but it couldn’t hurt to add some extra insurance. Mom was, after all, the powerful Grand Raven Mistress of the Celtic Goddess Coven of greater Sonoma County. She was not to be messed with.
After the ceremony, Derek drove off in the opposite direction to meet with Monsieur Cloutier to arrange a tour of the caves for any of his community who wanted to participate.
Now Trudy led the way into the living room, and we sat around the coffee table. There was an open storage box on the table filled with photos and letters and memorabilia.
“Did we catch you at a bad time?” Mom asked.
“Oh no,” Trudy said, waving her hand breezily. “I’ve just been going through some of my aunt Marie’s old letters and photos.”
“Oh, your aunt Marie is Robson’s grandmother,” I said, then realized I was stating the obvious. But now I was even more interested in seeing some of those letters.
“That’s right,” Trudy said. “She gave this box to me years ago, mainly because so many of these letters were from my mother.”
“That was thoughtful of her,” Mom said.
“She was a sweet lady,” she said.
“What was your mother’s name?” I asked.
“Camille.” She smiled fondly. “I’ve always loved that name.”
“It’s a charming name,” Mom said.
“Yes.” Trudy sighed. “After touring the caves the other day, I was feeling sentimental about my family, so I pulled these out to read and reminisce.”
“What a good idea.” Mom smiled as she glanced inside the box and lifted a short stack of letters wrapped with a faded blue ribbon. She held it close to her nose and sniffed. “Oh, Brooklyn, look at this wonderful old paper.”
To an outsider, it probably looked odd to be sniffing a bunch of letters, but my mom knew and appreciated that I was addicted to anything having to do with old paper and books—the look of it, the feel of leather and paper in my hands, the smells. I took the stack of letters from my mother, ran my fingers across the surface of the paper, and felt its thickness. Then I took a deep breath, absorbing its scent. “Oh, I love it. So musty and evocative of a time long ago. And this is a beautiful, high-quality paper.”
“Isn’t it?” Trudy said.
“Oh gosh, I’m being presumptuous.” I’d just invaded her home and helped myself to her mother’s precious letters. “I’m sorry, Trudy.”
But Trudy was fascinated. “Not at all. I never thought about it, but of course you would appreciate old paper. Please look at anything that strikes your fancy.”
But I returned the stack of beribboned letters to their place inside the box and sat down again. “People really knew how to write letters back in the day.”
“They did,” Trudy said. “My mother’s letters are pages and pages long. She turned every little trip on the train into an adventure filled with funny events and news and odd tidbits. I can hear her voice as I’m reading.”