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Authors: Emilie Richards
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benches and a bedroom large enough for an antique cherry sleigh bed. She had bargained ruthlessly for the bed with a Lorain Avenue antique dealer, and she had repaired and refinished it herself, adding a cherry dresser and mirrored vanity as she came across them in similar shops.
The apartment was decorated in flea market and garage sale treasures. A collection of novelty teapots lined a shelf in the kitchen. In the bedroom, a Fiestaware pitcher on the vanity sported fresh flowers, even in the winter. The sleigh bed sported a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt made of 962 hexagons cut from colorful feed sacks produced during the era when her apartment had been built.
Late one night she had counted the hexagons, and halfway through it occurred to her that other women her age had better things to do.
Megan loved the apartment, but she loved the solitude more. As a child and teenager, she had never had a room of her own. Privacy had meant five full minutes alone in the bathroom. She had shared a bed with Casey or Peggy—occasionally both, during thunderstorms. Even now, although she relished being alone, on most nights the bed felt empty, particularly when it rained.
On Thursday morning she awoke to a drizzle that sounded as if it might turn to sleet between one drop and the next. She lay in bed, arms folded under her head, and stared at the ceiling.
She had prepared Rosaleen’s Irish stew last night, leaving it to simmer in an electric roaster. At noon, as her first act as the saloon’s newest employee, Casey—with Peggy’s help—would serve the stew and other menu items to workers from local factories who darted in for lunch and a pint of Guinness or the city’s own Crooked River Ale. Somewhere in the great beyond, their great-great-grandmother would preen with ghostly pride.
Megan wished she could be there to help instead of setting off to see Niccolo Andreani. She had tossed and turned much of the night, and the drizzle hadn’t been the only thing disturbing her. She had thought about her sisters. Casey, who had unexpectedly come home to stay. Peggy, who had come home, too. Then she had pictured Niccolo exploring Whiskey Island, where once upon a time their great-great-grandmother had searched for wild onions, picked asparagus stalks along the railroad tracks, lamented the lack of fish in the foul, gasoline-slicked Cuyahoga River that flowed in front of her shanty on Tyler Street.
But it wasn’t Rosaleen Donaghue’s ghost that Megan feared.
Since wishing had never accomplished anything, she forced herself to get up. An hour later she was cruising the Ohio City streets.
It didn’t take long to find Niccolo’s house, although she examined his neighborhood first. As a girl she had made a game of transforming old houses in her mind, imagining them with fresh coats of paint and colorful gardens. She had envisioned herself on a wide front porch, pouring tea or lemonade at a table draped in billowing floral prints. She had clipped magazine photos of gingerbread encrusted balconies and overflowing window boxes and used them to paper a corner of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. Whenever she could, she had stared at the photos and escaped briefly from a less gracious reality.
She hadn’t thought about that game for years. Now she saw evidence that others played it, too. The homes she passed were in various stages of renovation, but clearly some of them were in the hands of artists.
She parked the old Chevy in front of Niccolo’s house, but she didn’t get out right away. Since Barry had take Niccolo home from the emergency room, he’d given Megan directions. But he hadn’t given her any information about the house. She stared at it now, at two wide stories and a porch large enough for a flock of children.
A family home.
She hadn’t thought of Niccolo as married before. He’d been shot, but he hadn’t called home afterward. He had accepted Barry’s ride to and from the emergency room, as if
The apartment was decorated in flea market and garage sale treasures. A collection of novelty teapots lined a shelf in the kitchen. In the bedroom, a Fiestaware pitcher on the vanity sported fresh flowers, even in the winter. The sleigh bed sported a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt made of 962 hexagons cut from colorful feed sacks produced during the era when her apartment had been built.
Late one night she had counted the hexagons, and halfway through it occurred to her that other women her age had better things to do.
Megan loved the apartment, but she loved the solitude more. As a child and teenager, she had never had a room of her own. Privacy had meant five full minutes alone in the bathroom. She had shared a bed with Casey or Peggy—occasionally both, during thunderstorms. Even now, although she relished being alone, on most nights the bed felt empty, particularly when it rained.
On Thursday morning she awoke to a drizzle that sounded as if it might turn to sleet between one drop and the next. She lay in bed, arms folded under her head, and stared at the ceiling.
She had prepared Rosaleen’s Irish stew last night, leaving it to simmer in an electric roaster. At noon, as her first act as the saloon’s newest employee, Casey—with Peggy’s help—would serve the stew and other menu items to workers from local factories who darted in for lunch and a pint of Guinness or the city’s own Crooked River Ale. Somewhere in the great beyond, their great-great-grandmother would preen with ghostly pride.
Megan wished she could be there to help instead of setting off to see Niccolo Andreani. She had tossed and turned much of the night, and the drizzle hadn’t been the only thing disturbing her. She had thought about her sisters. Casey, who had unexpectedly come home to stay. Peggy, who had come home, too. Then she had pictured Niccolo exploring Whiskey Island, where once upon a time their great-great-grandmother had searched for wild onions, picked asparagus stalks along the railroad tracks, lamented the lack of fish in the foul, gasoline-slicked Cuyahoga River that flowed in front of her shanty on Tyler Street.
But it wasn’t Rosaleen Donaghue’s ghost that Megan feared.
Since wishing had never accomplished anything, she forced herself to get up. An hour later she was cruising the Ohio City streets.
It didn’t take long to find Niccolo’s house, although she examined his neighborhood first. As a girl she had made a game of transforming old houses in her mind, imagining them with fresh coats of paint and colorful gardens. She had envisioned herself on a wide front porch, pouring tea or lemonade at a table draped in billowing floral prints. She had clipped magazine photos of gingerbread encrusted balconies and overflowing window boxes and used them to paper a corner of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. Whenever she could, she had stared at the photos and escaped briefly from a less gracious reality.
She hadn’t thought about that game for years. Now she saw evidence that others played it, too. The homes she passed were in various stages of renovation, but clearly some of them were in the hands of artists.
She parked the old Chevy in front of Niccolo’s house, but she didn’t get out right away. Since Barry had take Niccolo home from the emergency room, he’d given Megan directions. But he hadn’t given her any information about the house. She stared at it now, at two wide stories and a porch large enough for a flock of children.
A family home.
She hadn’t thought of Niccolo as married before. He’d been shot, but he hadn’t called home afterward. He had accepted Barry’s ride to and from the emergency room, as if
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