like your mother could. No one ever has. I gave up trying along time ago. Some foods are better because of the people who make them. It’s more than a recipe. It’s love.”
Maggie hugged her aunt. She’d barely been four when her parents had been killed. “I wish I could remember her. What was her favorite kind?”
“It was my deep-dish cherry pie. Delia loved cherry pie. That was her favorite. I stopped making it when she died. I couldn’t do it anymore. It was too painful to think about her.”
The two women stood in their tight embrace for a few minutes. There was still so much they didn’t know or understand about each other.
Aunt Clara sniffed and pulled a hankie from the pocket in her spring-green apron. “While we’re waiting, I was thinking about looking upstairs in the attic for some of your mother’s old clothes. I think the two of you were about the same size. It would be better than you borrowing Fred’s old things. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
They went up the long stairs that led from the kitchen into the attic. The peculiar smell of old house and musty clothes permeated the area. Aunt Clara switched on the light as they went up.
Maggie hadn’t been in the attic since she’d left home to go to New York. She’d spent many hours up here dreaming when she was a kid. It seemed like all of her dreams had to do with getting away from this place. She’d always felt there was something better waiting for her, something for her to find.
Now that she’d found it—for better or worse—she wasn’tsure what she was thinking so many years ago. She wished in many ways that she’d never left Durham. She used to make fun of people who stayed home and never longed for anything else. Not anymore.
They spent the next hour looking through chests of clothes, some Aunt Clara’s and Uncle Fred’s, others belonging to her mother. There were plenty of hats too—some outrageous ones that Aunt Clara said had belonged to Maggie’s grandmother. Others were more conservative.
Maggie ended up taking boxes full of her mother’s clothes and some hats down the long stairs from the attic. She wasn’t sure if she’d wear all of them or not, but it would be interesting looking at them.
Most of them were classic and could be worn as easily now as thirty years ago. It was fun thinking about her mother and her wearing the same size. Her mother had only been a few years older than Maggie when she’d died.
“That was an excellent shopping trip, don’t you think?” Aunt Clara asked with a smile. She was the first one down. When she opened the door into the kitchen, she gasped. “Oh dear. Maggie, I think someone was here while we were in the attic.”
Seven
M aggie looked around the kitchen, wondering how anyone could have been in the house without them knowing.
There was no doubt that they had been.
Silverware and other utensils were scattered in the kitchen on the floor and table. Cabinets were emptied. Even the trashcan was on its side, obviously having been ransacked by someone.
In the living room, pillows were tossed and sofa cushions removed. Aunt Clara’s big rolltop desk had drawers left open. Pens and paper were tossed everywhere.
“My laptop,” Maggie mourned. “They took my laptop.”
At least she’d thought to remove the flash drive. It was still in her pocket.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were the same. The beds were torn apart, drawers left open and contents dumped on the floor. The bathroom cabinets had been emptied too. Even the dirty towels and clothes in the hampers were taken out.
Nothing was broken. Furniture wasn’t tipped over. Whoever searched the house—Maggie felt sure that’s what they’d been doing—had been very careful and very quiet. She believed that meant they knew she and Aunt Clara were upstairs in the attic the whole time.
That was even scarier. What if they’d come down sooner?
“They could have killed us.” Maggie filled in the answer to her own
Maggie hugged her aunt. She’d barely been four when her parents had been killed. “I wish I could remember her. What was her favorite kind?”
“It was my deep-dish cherry pie. Delia loved cherry pie. That was her favorite. I stopped making it when she died. I couldn’t do it anymore. It was too painful to think about her.”
The two women stood in their tight embrace for a few minutes. There was still so much they didn’t know or understand about each other.
Aunt Clara sniffed and pulled a hankie from the pocket in her spring-green apron. “While we’re waiting, I was thinking about looking upstairs in the attic for some of your mother’s old clothes. I think the two of you were about the same size. It would be better than you borrowing Fred’s old things. Let’s take a look, shall we?”
They went up the long stairs that led from the kitchen into the attic. The peculiar smell of old house and musty clothes permeated the area. Aunt Clara switched on the light as they went up.
Maggie hadn’t been in the attic since she’d left home to go to New York. She’d spent many hours up here dreaming when she was a kid. It seemed like all of her dreams had to do with getting away from this place. She’d always felt there was something better waiting for her, something for her to find.
Now that she’d found it—for better or worse—she wasn’tsure what she was thinking so many years ago. She wished in many ways that she’d never left Durham. She used to make fun of people who stayed home and never longed for anything else. Not anymore.
They spent the next hour looking through chests of clothes, some Aunt Clara’s and Uncle Fred’s, others belonging to her mother. There were plenty of hats too—some outrageous ones that Aunt Clara said had belonged to Maggie’s grandmother. Others were more conservative.
Maggie ended up taking boxes full of her mother’s clothes and some hats down the long stairs from the attic. She wasn’t sure if she’d wear all of them or not, but it would be interesting looking at them.
Most of them were classic and could be worn as easily now as thirty years ago. It was fun thinking about her mother and her wearing the same size. Her mother had only been a few years older than Maggie when she’d died.
“That was an excellent shopping trip, don’t you think?” Aunt Clara asked with a smile. She was the first one down. When she opened the door into the kitchen, she gasped. “Oh dear. Maggie, I think someone was here while we were in the attic.”
Seven
M aggie looked around the kitchen, wondering how anyone could have been in the house without them knowing.
There was no doubt that they had been.
Silverware and other utensils were scattered in the kitchen on the floor and table. Cabinets were emptied. Even the trashcan was on its side, obviously having been ransacked by someone.
In the living room, pillows were tossed and sofa cushions removed. Aunt Clara’s big rolltop desk had drawers left open. Pens and paper were tossed everywhere.
“My laptop,” Maggie mourned. “They took my laptop.”
At least she’d thought to remove the flash drive. It was still in her pocket.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were the same. The beds were torn apart, drawers left open and contents dumped on the floor. The bathroom cabinets had been emptied too. Even the dirty towels and clothes in the hampers were taken out.
Nothing was broken. Furniture wasn’t tipped over. Whoever searched the house—Maggie felt sure that’s what they’d been doing—had been very careful and very quiet. She believed that meant they knew she and Aunt Clara were upstairs in the attic the whole time.
That was even scarier. What if they’d come down sooner?
“They could have killed us.” Maggie filled in the answer to her own
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