hello, sweetie,” she said.
Corinne looked up at her, blue eyes swimming. “Hello,” she said, her soft face breaking into a wan smile. “Maybe that was it.” She patted Nora’s hand. “Is it very expansive?”
“Very what?”
“Expansive. Staying here. Do we pay a lot of money?”
“Oh, expensive , you mean,” Nora said, then regretted it: Don’t correct her, Dr. Cantor had said, unless you really have to; it’ll disturb her more. But everyone—Nora, Louise Brice, Sara Cassidy, Ralph—frequently forgot, as they had the other day when she’d had that TIA and thought she was still Corinne Parker. Thank goodness Sarah had said Dr. Cantor had come and checked her over, and that he thought it was no more worrisome than the other little ones she’d had.
“No, it’s not expensive,” Nora told her mother. “We don’t have to pay anything.”
But she was worried now, anyway. What now, she thought. Where does she think she is?
“We don’t? How nice of them. The Smithsons . How are they?”
Nora racked her brain, then dimly remembered: the Smithsons had owned the house briefly after the deaths of her father’s eccentric parents, who’d sold it to them. Ralph had bought it back when he and Corinne had married, steadfastly refusing, as he said his own father had, to put in electricity and plumbing. “Got to stay true to history,” her grandfather apparently used to say when Ralph was a boy. “And keep the taxes low.” Ralph still quoted him when anyone dared suggest “improvements.”
The Smithsons had never actually lived in the house, having bought it with the intention of modernizing it when they could afford to. But they’d lost the money they’d invested for that purpose, and were delighted when Ralph had agreed to take it back, or so Ralph had always said.
“The Smithsons are fine,” Nora said, though they’d been dead for at least twenty years, both of them. “And guess what? They’ve let Father buy the house. So now we own it and don’t have to pay anything. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Oh, yes,” Corinne said sleepily, relaxing in Nora’s arms; Nora laid her back against the pillows. “Very nice.” Corinne closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’m hungry,” she said plaintively.
“I’m just starting supper. Lovely eggs and cheese. It’ll be ready soon. I’ll get you up in a few minutes, okay? And then we’ll sit at the table and eat it, and then I’ll read aloud for a while. Would you like that?”
“Yes, dearie.” Corinne seemed contented now. “Very nice. You’re such a good girl, Nora,” she added, suddenly lucid again. “And it’s so hard for you. You do know how grateful we are, Father and I, don’t you?”
Nora bent and kissed her mother’s soft cheek. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”
Book II
Chapter Nine
It was stifling inside the little white clapboard church with the stone front. Mid-June sun burst through the stained glass windows, making hot multicolored splotches on the maroon carpet that ran down the center aisle and between the white, oak-trimmed pews. The day lilies and irises on the altar, a cheerful yellow and blue crazy quilt at the beginning of the service, had by now, as sweaty, shiny-faced ushers passed the collection plates, become a limp and faded blanket.
“Poor Charles Hastings,” Louise Brice whispered to Nora after the service as they made their way with the rest of the congregation to just outside the vestibule, where the minister stood manfully shaking hands and thanking people for liking his sermon. His wife, Marie, who had always reminded Nora of a kindly giraffe, stood off to one side, her straw hat slightly askew, in earnest conversation with the choir director. She was a thin but rawboned woman, with a florid face and knobby features. They were an odd-looking pair, the Hastingses , for Charles was much shorter than Marie, and despite his plump cheeks and thick neck, had a slight but strong-looking build, a
Corinne looked up at her, blue eyes swimming. “Hello,” she said, her soft face breaking into a wan smile. “Maybe that was it.” She patted Nora’s hand. “Is it very expansive?”
“Very what?”
“Expansive. Staying here. Do we pay a lot of money?”
“Oh, expensive , you mean,” Nora said, then regretted it: Don’t correct her, Dr. Cantor had said, unless you really have to; it’ll disturb her more. But everyone—Nora, Louise Brice, Sara Cassidy, Ralph—frequently forgot, as they had the other day when she’d had that TIA and thought she was still Corinne Parker. Thank goodness Sarah had said Dr. Cantor had come and checked her over, and that he thought it was no more worrisome than the other little ones she’d had.
“No, it’s not expensive,” Nora told her mother. “We don’t have to pay anything.”
But she was worried now, anyway. What now, she thought. Where does she think she is?
“We don’t? How nice of them. The Smithsons . How are they?”
Nora racked her brain, then dimly remembered: the Smithsons had owned the house briefly after the deaths of her father’s eccentric parents, who’d sold it to them. Ralph had bought it back when he and Corinne had married, steadfastly refusing, as he said his own father had, to put in electricity and plumbing. “Got to stay true to history,” her grandfather apparently used to say when Ralph was a boy. “And keep the taxes low.” Ralph still quoted him when anyone dared suggest “improvements.”
The Smithsons had never actually lived in the house, having bought it with the intention of modernizing it when they could afford to. But they’d lost the money they’d invested for that purpose, and were delighted when Ralph had agreed to take it back, or so Ralph had always said.
“The Smithsons are fine,” Nora said, though they’d been dead for at least twenty years, both of them. “And guess what? They’ve let Father buy the house. So now we own it and don’t have to pay anything. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Oh, yes,” Corinne said sleepily, relaxing in Nora’s arms; Nora laid her back against the pillows. “Very nice.” Corinne closed her eyes, then opened them. “I’m hungry,” she said plaintively.
“I’m just starting supper. Lovely eggs and cheese. It’ll be ready soon. I’ll get you up in a few minutes, okay? And then we’ll sit at the table and eat it, and then I’ll read aloud for a while. Would you like that?”
“Yes, dearie.” Corinne seemed contented now. “Very nice. You’re such a good girl, Nora,” she added, suddenly lucid again. “And it’s so hard for you. You do know how grateful we are, Father and I, don’t you?”
Nora bent and kissed her mother’s soft cheek. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”
Book II
Chapter Nine
It was stifling inside the little white clapboard church with the stone front. Mid-June sun burst through the stained glass windows, making hot multicolored splotches on the maroon carpet that ran down the center aisle and between the white, oak-trimmed pews. The day lilies and irises on the altar, a cheerful yellow and blue crazy quilt at the beginning of the service, had by now, as sweaty, shiny-faced ushers passed the collection plates, become a limp and faded blanket.
“Poor Charles Hastings,” Louise Brice whispered to Nora after the service as they made their way with the rest of the congregation to just outside the vestibule, where the minister stood manfully shaking hands and thanking people for liking his sermon. His wife, Marie, who had always reminded Nora of a kindly giraffe, stood off to one side, her straw hat slightly askew, in earnest conversation with the choir director. She was a thin but rawboned woman, with a florid face and knobby features. They were an odd-looking pair, the Hastingses , for Charles was much shorter than Marie, and despite his plump cheeks and thick neck, had a slight but strong-looking build, a
Similar Books
