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Authors: Julie Lessman
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pink Mary Jane pumps off her feet with one hand while she clutched Katie’s bouquet with the other. The shoes dropped against the claw foot of her Victorian desk with a thump, and Emma felt a niggle of guilt. They splayed haphazardly across the polished mahogany floor, the only sign of disarray in her otherwise meticulous apartment.
Too tired to care, she breathed in the calming scent of Katie’s roses and flipped the switch on her electric fan before perching on the edge of her curved mahogany sofa to shed her silk stockings. Blessed relief feathered her face as she put her feet up and sank into the plush velvet upholstery, its rich color the exact shade of claret. She tucked a pretty paisley pillow behind her head and burrowed in to stretch her aching limbs, soaking in the vibrancy of her colorful parlor. Awash in sunlight that only deepened its vivid hues, it almost seemed alive with energy, helping to chase her fatigue away.
Contentment seeped into her bones as she scanned the room for her kitties. A backward peek confirmed their favorite nooks in the tall, cherrywood bookcase were empty, leaving a conspicuous hole among shelves brimming with rich, leather-bound books. Her gaze roamed past twin striped wingback chairs that flanked two towering windows, each affording a pretty view of Mrs. Peep’s front yard. White sheers fluttered against a massive fern atop a walnut piecrust table, providing the perfect jungle cover for a nine-year-old tabby who fancied himself a tiger stalking moths on the screen. But empty marble sills framed by burgundy swag curtains meant that Lancelot and Guinevere were most likely still napping on Emma’s bed, as tired as she.
Her gaze lighted on a messy clump of blue yarn as it trailed out of her wicker sewing basket to squiggle its way across her floral-patterned rug. She shook her head and lay back while her lips tipped in a smile, quite certain that Lancelot was the culprit. The tail of it lay bunched beneath an oak easel with a half-finished canvas of a fat bluebird squinting down at her as if he’d had a bad day, his squat neck hunched into his stout chest of brilliant azure feathers. Her smile broadened at the memory of the plump, little bird who’d lighted on her window weeks past, making her giggle with his almost sour demeanor. She had promptly christened him “Grumpy Bluebird,” capturing him with her beloved oil paints to hang on the wall. She stared back at him now with a grin, noting the stark contrast between the vibrant blues, greens, and yellows of the painting and Mr. Grump’s gray mood. She tilted her head and grinned. “Cheer up, little fluff,” she whispered. “I’ll be painting ‘Happy Bluebird’ soon to keep you company.”
With a smile still warm on her lips, she closed her eyes and buried her nose in Katie’s bouquet once again, drinking in the heady scent along with the memory of a wonderful day. Outside her window, she could hear the laughter of children as it floated in on the summer breeze, merging with the muted sound of jazz from Mr. Harvey’s radio one story above. Her thoughts flitted to the O’Connors, and another gentle smile curved on her mouth. “Thank you for this family, Lord,” she whispered. And not for the first time.
From the moment she and Charity had first lighted from that ship in Boston Harbor eleven years ago, the O’Connors had welcomed her into their family as if their very blood traveled her veins. Never in all of her fifteen years with her own estranged family had she felt such a bond, such acceptance . . . such love. Her mood turned bittersweet at the thought of Da and Mum, turning her out in the streets for the sin of marrying a Protestant. She had betrayed them for a “worthless sot,” a sacrilege in a family where Catholic clergy ran strong. And so she’d been sacrificed on the altar of piety, a sinner destined to “burn in hell.”
A shiver traveled her body that had nothing to do with the gust of the fan.
Too tired to care, she breathed in the calming scent of Katie’s roses and flipped the switch on her electric fan before perching on the edge of her curved mahogany sofa to shed her silk stockings. Blessed relief feathered her face as she put her feet up and sank into the plush velvet upholstery, its rich color the exact shade of claret. She tucked a pretty paisley pillow behind her head and burrowed in to stretch her aching limbs, soaking in the vibrancy of her colorful parlor. Awash in sunlight that only deepened its vivid hues, it almost seemed alive with energy, helping to chase her fatigue away.
Contentment seeped into her bones as she scanned the room for her kitties. A backward peek confirmed their favorite nooks in the tall, cherrywood bookcase were empty, leaving a conspicuous hole among shelves brimming with rich, leather-bound books. Her gaze roamed past twin striped wingback chairs that flanked two towering windows, each affording a pretty view of Mrs. Peep’s front yard. White sheers fluttered against a massive fern atop a walnut piecrust table, providing the perfect jungle cover for a nine-year-old tabby who fancied himself a tiger stalking moths on the screen. But empty marble sills framed by burgundy swag curtains meant that Lancelot and Guinevere were most likely still napping on Emma’s bed, as tired as she.
Her gaze lighted on a messy clump of blue yarn as it trailed out of her wicker sewing basket to squiggle its way across her floral-patterned rug. She shook her head and lay back while her lips tipped in a smile, quite certain that Lancelot was the culprit. The tail of it lay bunched beneath an oak easel with a half-finished canvas of a fat bluebird squinting down at her as if he’d had a bad day, his squat neck hunched into his stout chest of brilliant azure feathers. Her smile broadened at the memory of the plump, little bird who’d lighted on her window weeks past, making her giggle with his almost sour demeanor. She had promptly christened him “Grumpy Bluebird,” capturing him with her beloved oil paints to hang on the wall. She stared back at him now with a grin, noting the stark contrast between the vibrant blues, greens, and yellows of the painting and Mr. Grump’s gray mood. She tilted her head and grinned. “Cheer up, little fluff,” she whispered. “I’ll be painting ‘Happy Bluebird’ soon to keep you company.”
With a smile still warm on her lips, she closed her eyes and buried her nose in Katie’s bouquet once again, drinking in the heady scent along with the memory of a wonderful day. Outside her window, she could hear the laughter of children as it floated in on the summer breeze, merging with the muted sound of jazz from Mr. Harvey’s radio one story above. Her thoughts flitted to the O’Connors, and another gentle smile curved on her mouth. “Thank you for this family, Lord,” she whispered. And not for the first time.
From the moment she and Charity had first lighted from that ship in Boston Harbor eleven years ago, the O’Connors had welcomed her into their family as if their very blood traveled her veins. Never in all of her fifteen years with her own estranged family had she felt such a bond, such acceptance . . . such love. Her mood turned bittersweet at the thought of Da and Mum, turning her out in the streets for the sin of marrying a Protestant. She had betrayed them for a “worthless sot,” a sacrilege in a family where Catholic clergy ran strong. And so she’d been sacrificed on the altar of piety, a sinner destined to “burn in hell.”
A shiver traveled her body that had nothing to do with the gust of the fan.
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