Holly strode toward us, taller now than both her mother and I. Her shoulder-length hair was almost black, a glorious, shimmering color that contrasted sharply with her blue eyes.
She had the beautiful eyes and brows of an actress, the kind that caught your attention with their drama and careful shaping.
“You look great!” I said.
She hugged me. “You, too. Welcome back, Lauren. I was so excited when Mom said you were coming. Is there something I can carry?”
I opened the trunk of my car, took out a full-size suitcase, and handed her an overnight bag.
Aunt Jule hovered close by and touched the smaller bag’s soft leather. “How nice!” she said. “You should get one of these, Holly.”
“Right, Mom. Shall we put it on our credit card? Come inside, Lauren. You must be thirsty,” Holly said, starting up the path.
“Oh, Lord!” Aunt Jule’s hand flew up to her forehead. “I forgot to check what we have to drink. There could be—”
“Iced tea or lemonade,” Holly told me, smiling. “I made a pitcher of each. Which would you like?”
“Iced tea, please.”
My godmother and I followed Holly into the house, entering the back of a wide hall that ran from the garden side to the river side of the house. We set my bags at the foot of the stairs and turned right, into the dining room.
It looked exactly as I remembered — a collection of dark wood chairs scattered around a long table that was buried beneath mail, magazines, and baskets of Aunt Jule’s craft stuff. The mahogany table might have been a valuable antique, but it was badly scarred by years of water rings and the grind of game pieces into its surface. One reason I had loved to come here was that, unlike my parents’ elegant town house, it was almost impossible to “ruin” something.
In the kitchen Holly set four glasses on a tray and began to pour the tea.
“Where’s Nora?” I asked.
“She’ll come around sooner or later,” Aunt Jule replied casually.
Holly glanced sharply at her mother. “I assume you told Lauren about Nora.”
“Not yet. Lauren has just arrived.”
“You should have told her before.”
“I saw no point in saying anything until she came,” Aunt Jule replied coolly, then smiled at me. “Garden room or river room?”
“Garden.”
Holly picked up the tray. “Don’t forget to turn out the light, Mom.”
“Forget? How can 1, with you always reminding me?”
“I don’t know, but somehow you do.”
As we left the kitchen I peeked at Holly, wondering what I was supposed to be told about Nora. She had not been the most normal of kids.
We passed through the hall again and entered the garden room. Aunt Jule’s house was built in the early 1900s on the foundation of a much older one that had burned down.
Intended as a summer home, it was designed for airiness.
The dining room and kitchen lay on one side of the stairs and, together with the steps and hall, occupied a third of the space downstairs. On the other side of the hall were two long rectangular rooms, each with two sets of double porch doors, those in one room facing the garden, those in the other facing the river. Two wide doorways connected these rooms, allowing the breeze to blow through the house.
At Aunt Jule’s you never felt far from the Sycamore River.
Each time I took a breath I noticed the mustiness that shore homes seem to have in their bones. And I knew I still wasn’t ready to face the dock where my mother had struck her head, or the water below it, where she had drowned.
We had just settled down in the garden room with its two lumpy sofas and assortment of stuffed chairs when Nora entered from the porch. I was startled at what I saw.
“Nora, dear, Lauren has arrived,” Aunt Jule said.
Nora stood silently and stared at me. Her thin, black hair was pulled straight back in an old plastic headband and hung in short, oily pieces. Her dark eyes were troubled. The slight frown she wore as a child had deepened into a single, vertical crease between her eyebrows, a line of anger or worry that couldn’t be erased.
“Please say hello, Nora,” Aunt Jule coaxed softly.
Nora acted as if she hadn’t heard. She crossed the room to a table on which sat a vase of roses. She began to rearrange the flowers, her mouth set in a grim line.
“Hi, Nora. It’s good to see you,” I said.
She pricked her finger on a thorn and pulled her hand away quickly.
“It’s good to see you again,” I told her.
This time she met my eyes. Locking her gaze on mine, she reached for the rose stem and pricked her finger deliberately, repeatedly.
Her strange behavior did not seem to faze anyone else.
Holly leaned forward in her chair, blocking my view of Nora.
“So, did my mother think to tell you I’m graduating?”
“Uh, yes,” I replied, turning my attention to her. “It’s this coming Thursday, right? She said this was Senior Week for you. Are kids getting all weepy about saying goodbye?”
Holly grimaced. “Not me. I’m editor in chief of our yearbook. And the prom’s tomorrow, my swim party Tuesday night. I’m too busy to get sentimental.”
“I can help you get ready for the party,” I offered.
“Cleaning, fixing food, whatever. It’ll be fun.”
“I wish you hadn’t come,” Nora said.
I sat back in my seat, surprised, and turned to look at her.
She said nothing more, continuing to arrange the flowers with intense concentration.
“Ignore her,” said Holly.