Read Online A Sound Among the Trees by Susan Meissner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan Meissner
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Adelaide had said.
“Well, where do you think her ghost would feel most comfortable? Where do you think her ghost would want to be?” Pearl replied. “Wouldn’t she want to be in her own bedroom?”
Adelaide reached for her teacup. “To do what? Sleep? I wasn’t aware that ghosts needed sleep.”
Pearl loudly clucked her tongue. “That is my point exactly! Carson and Marielle are sleeping in a room occupied by a ghost who doesn’t sleep!” Pearl turned to Marielle. “You really should consider moving into a different bedroom.”
“That’s enough, Pearl.” Adelaide had taken a sip of her tea and replaced the cup. Pearl clamped her mouth shut. And Marielle offered to refresh all their teacups.
After Pearl left, Marielle hadn’t asked Adelaide for any more information about Susannah or the room she was sleeping in except to say thatPearl was nothing if not insistent. And Adelaide had reassured her that Pearl’s imagination had always been hanging on one hinge and to pay her no mind. But Marielle’s mood seemed thoughtful the rest of the day, brooding almost. Pearl’s persistence that Susannah was an unhappy ghost traipsing about Holly Oak had obviously unnerved her. Adelaide had wondered if Marielle told Carson about Pearl’s visit and warnings. But since Carson hadn’t said anything, not even a gentle request that Adelaide tell Pearl to mind her own business, she assumed she had not.
Adelaide felt a kink in her back from bending over the table, and she stood and stretched carefully. Another cup of tea would be nice. She opened the door of the parlor and took a step toward the kitchen but stopped when she saw Marielle standing statue-still, looking at the family photographs that lined the lower half of the staircase. She stood on the third step, her arms crossed loosely in front of her, unaware that Adelaide had opened the parlor door and now watched her. Adelaide took a step back, wanting to silently close the door and pretend she never had the thought to get another cup of tea. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Marielle as the young woman’s gaze traveled the wall, resting first on the sepia-toned portrait of Susannah Page seated with her young daughter, Annabel, standing next to her, then Annabel’s wedding portrait, and then Adelaide in her mother’s arms with her christening dress flowing over her mother’s skirt, then her father wearing his army uniform. Then Adelaide’s engagement photo, Caroline as a child on a tricycle, Caroline’s senior portrait, Sara in a prom dress, and then Sara in front of her studio with baby Brette in her arms and Hudson embracing her from behind.
Marielle studied the wall from the bend in the stairs at the landing where the first portrait hung to the bottom stair where the gallery ended with Sara and the children. Then she lifted her head to start at the top again, her neck slowly guiding her gaze down the wall of photographs.
Adelaide pushed the door closed without a sound, the hankering for another cup of tea dismissed.
arielle sat on the floor of Brette’s room, an eruption of Barbie dresses blooming in her lap. Brette sat next to her, tugging at a tiny pink warmup suit on a flaxen-haired doll. The roar of the air conditioner pushing cooled air into the room muted the other sounds in the house; Marielle would not hear Carson come home from work unless she opened the bedroom door or the A/C switched off, which was highly improbable.
She had been warned about Virginia heat in June. Two college friends back in Phoenix—East Coast transplants, both of them—had warned her at her bridal shower with knowing looks and clublike solidarity that she hadn’t felt heat until she lived through a humid Southeast summer.
Marielle had reminded them that it’s usually 115 degrees in Phoenix on any day in the summer, and the two friends had just laughed.
“You don’t know what you’re in for, hon,” one of them had said. And the other had nodded
“Well, where do you think her ghost would feel most comfortable? Where do you think her ghost would want to be?” Pearl replied. “Wouldn’t she want to be in her own bedroom?”
Adelaide reached for her teacup. “To do what? Sleep? I wasn’t aware that ghosts needed sleep.”
Pearl loudly clucked her tongue. “That is my point exactly! Carson and Marielle are sleeping in a room occupied by a ghost who doesn’t sleep!” Pearl turned to Marielle. “You really should consider moving into a different bedroom.”
“That’s enough, Pearl.” Adelaide had taken a sip of her tea and replaced the cup. Pearl clamped her mouth shut. And Marielle offered to refresh all their teacups.
After Pearl left, Marielle hadn’t asked Adelaide for any more information about Susannah or the room she was sleeping in except to say thatPearl was nothing if not insistent. And Adelaide had reassured her that Pearl’s imagination had always been hanging on one hinge and to pay her no mind. But Marielle’s mood seemed thoughtful the rest of the day, brooding almost. Pearl’s persistence that Susannah was an unhappy ghost traipsing about Holly Oak had obviously unnerved her. Adelaide had wondered if Marielle told Carson about Pearl’s visit and warnings. But since Carson hadn’t said anything, not even a gentle request that Adelaide tell Pearl to mind her own business, she assumed she had not.
Adelaide felt a kink in her back from bending over the table, and she stood and stretched carefully. Another cup of tea would be nice. She opened the door of the parlor and took a step toward the kitchen but stopped when she saw Marielle standing statue-still, looking at the family photographs that lined the lower half of the staircase. She stood on the third step, her arms crossed loosely in front of her, unaware that Adelaide had opened the parlor door and now watched her. Adelaide took a step back, wanting to silently close the door and pretend she never had the thought to get another cup of tea. But she couldn’t take her eyes off Marielle as the young woman’s gaze traveled the wall, resting first on the sepia-toned portrait of Susannah Page seated with her young daughter, Annabel, standing next to her, then Annabel’s wedding portrait, and then Adelaide in her mother’s arms with her christening dress flowing over her mother’s skirt, then her father wearing his army uniform. Then Adelaide’s engagement photo, Caroline as a child on a tricycle, Caroline’s senior portrait, Sara in a prom dress, and then Sara in front of her studio with baby Brette in her arms and Hudson embracing her from behind.
Marielle studied the wall from the bend in the stairs at the landing where the first portrait hung to the bottom stair where the gallery ended with Sara and the children. Then she lifted her head to start at the top again, her neck slowly guiding her gaze down the wall of photographs.
Adelaide pushed the door closed without a sound, the hankering for another cup of tea dismissed.
arielle sat on the floor of Brette’s room, an eruption of Barbie dresses blooming in her lap. Brette sat next to her, tugging at a tiny pink warmup suit on a flaxen-haired doll. The roar of the air conditioner pushing cooled air into the room muted the other sounds in the house; Marielle would not hear Carson come home from work unless she opened the bedroom door or the A/C switched off, which was highly improbable.
She had been warned about Virginia heat in June. Two college friends back in Phoenix—East Coast transplants, both of them—had warned her at her bridal shower with knowing looks and clublike solidarity that she hadn’t felt heat until she lived through a humid Southeast summer.
Marielle had reminded them that it’s usually 115 degrees in Phoenix on any day in the summer, and the two friends had just laughed.
“You don’t know what you’re in for, hon,” one of them had said. And the other had nodded
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