there,’’ Amy confirmed, jerking a thumb toward the butler’s pantry. Her eyes were alive with speculation as she watched Olivia cross the room. Olivia guessed she would be the subject of a great deal of gossip in town the following day, and shrank a little inside. Where once she wouldn’t have worried a jot about what anyone said of her, and indeed had enjoyed shocking everyone from her family to the local townsfolk, time and circumstances had changed her. Pride had well and truly presaged her fall, and she was stung by the knowledge that she would be the subject of probably unflattering gossip on the morrow.
‘‘Amy, it’s the middle of the night. What are you and Laura still doin’ here?’’ Martha sounded scandalized as she came through the swinging door with far more assurance than Olivia had shown. Of course, Martha the housekeeper belonged now in a way that Olivia the not-quite-family-member did not. Martha looked as wide awake as ever, while she herself had passed beyond the point of exhaustion long since, and was sure it showed.
‘‘We’re just finishing up now,’’ Amy said, gathering both sponges and tossing them into the top rack of the dishwasher. ‘‘We didn’t want to leave the kitchen a mess.’’ With a flourish she shut the door and turned on the machine.
‘‘I hope Mr. Archer is okay.’’ Laura was softer in manner than her sister. As she spoke, she picked up her purse, an inexpensive-looking tan vinyl bag, from the counter, and slung it over her shoulder.
‘‘So do I.’’ Martha sighed. ‘‘I don’t guess there’s been any word?’’
‘‘Nobody’s told us anything,’’ Amy said.
‘‘I was just going to start calling the hospitals in Baton Rouge.’’ Olivia stuck her head out of the butler’s pantry. The telephone receiver was already in her hand.
‘‘Oh, Miss Olivia, are you up, too?’’ Martha’s gaze found her, and she shook her head. ‘‘The day you’ve had, you should be sleepin’ like the dead.’’
‘‘I couldn’t go to sleep without finding out how Big John is.’’ Olivia’s fingers tightened around the receiver. Once no one would have questioned her concern, or her right to it. It hurt to be treated like a guest, she discovered. Nine years away had changed nothing as far as her own feelings were concerned: To her, LaAngelle Plantation was still home, and the Archers family.
‘‘No, prob’ly not,’’ Martha conceded. ‘‘You go on and call, then. I’d try St. Elizabeth’s first, if it was me. That’s where Miss Belinda had her gallbladder out last year. Amy, did you two get your check?’’
As Amy answered, Olivia ducked back into the butler’s pantry and dialed Baton Rouge information.
At the same moment as the operator answered, the sound of one of the French doors opening caused Olivia to glance around.
‘‘What number, please?’’ came the tinny inquiry over the wire.
‘‘There’s nothing we can do.’’ Seth’s voice, sounding the faintest bit testy, was clearly audible through the open door, although Olivia could not yet see him. Callie walked into the kitchen accompanied by a wave of humid air scented with honeysuckle, her face as pale as skim milk. She looked really old, far older than she had outside in the torch-lit darkness, and Olivia once again chided herself for staying away too long. She should have at least visited once or twice over the years—but then, how could she have done so without revealing how far down in the world she had fallen? If the family had learned what a struggle her daily life had become, she would have been humiliated beyond bearing.
On her last night at home, when she had screamed at Seth that she was going to marry Newall Morrison whether he liked it or not, he had warned her that if she did, the family would wash its collective hands of her. She would be on her own.
She hadn’t listened, of course, to his threats or his warnings. She’d been so sure she knew
‘‘Amy, it’s the middle of the night. What are you and Laura still doin’ here?’’ Martha sounded scandalized as she came through the swinging door with far more assurance than Olivia had shown. Of course, Martha the housekeeper belonged now in a way that Olivia the not-quite-family-member did not. Martha looked as wide awake as ever, while she herself had passed beyond the point of exhaustion long since, and was sure it showed.
‘‘We’re just finishing up now,’’ Amy said, gathering both sponges and tossing them into the top rack of the dishwasher. ‘‘We didn’t want to leave the kitchen a mess.’’ With a flourish she shut the door and turned on the machine.
‘‘I hope Mr. Archer is okay.’’ Laura was softer in manner than her sister. As she spoke, she picked up her purse, an inexpensive-looking tan vinyl bag, from the counter, and slung it over her shoulder.
‘‘So do I.’’ Martha sighed. ‘‘I don’t guess there’s been any word?’’
‘‘Nobody’s told us anything,’’ Amy said.
‘‘I was just going to start calling the hospitals in Baton Rouge.’’ Olivia stuck her head out of the butler’s pantry. The telephone receiver was already in her hand.
‘‘Oh, Miss Olivia, are you up, too?’’ Martha’s gaze found her, and she shook her head. ‘‘The day you’ve had, you should be sleepin’ like the dead.’’
‘‘I couldn’t go to sleep without finding out how Big John is.’’ Olivia’s fingers tightened around the receiver. Once no one would have questioned her concern, or her right to it. It hurt to be treated like a guest, she discovered. Nine years away had changed nothing as far as her own feelings were concerned: To her, LaAngelle Plantation was still home, and the Archers family.
‘‘No, prob’ly not,’’ Martha conceded. ‘‘You go on and call, then. I’d try St. Elizabeth’s first, if it was me. That’s where Miss Belinda had her gallbladder out last year. Amy, did you two get your check?’’
As Amy answered, Olivia ducked back into the butler’s pantry and dialed Baton Rouge information.
At the same moment as the operator answered, the sound of one of the French doors opening caused Olivia to glance around.
‘‘What number, please?’’ came the tinny inquiry over the wire.
‘‘There’s nothing we can do.’’ Seth’s voice, sounding the faintest bit testy, was clearly audible through the open door, although Olivia could not yet see him. Callie walked into the kitchen accompanied by a wave of humid air scented with honeysuckle, her face as pale as skim milk. She looked really old, far older than she had outside in the torch-lit darkness, and Olivia once again chided herself for staying away too long. She should have at least visited once or twice over the years—but then, how could she have done so without revealing how far down in the world she had fallen? If the family had learned what a struggle her daily life had become, she would have been humiliated beyond bearing.
On her last night at home, when she had screamed at Seth that she was going to marry Newall Morrison whether he liked it or not, he had warned her that if she did, the family would wash its collective hands of her. She would be on her own.
She hadn’t listened, of course, to his threats or his warnings. She’d been so sure she knew
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