“The Scarboroughs bought the house, the land, and the mill in the mid-1800s.”
“Is that when our family came over from England?”
“The Scarboroughs”-she said the name clearly, as if to make a distinction between that family and what I called our family-“have been in Maryland since the 1600s. This land was purchased by the seventh generation as a wedding gift for a son.” She led the way back into the hall. “Carry whatever luggage you can,” she told me, resting a thin hand on the curved banister. “Matt will bring up the rest when he gets home from his study session.”
Study session? I thought. Better not mention that my cousin had come close to hitting Ginny’s car when he was supposed to be hitting the books. I carried all of my luggage.
The trim in the upstairs hall was the same blue as the parlor’s, but the walls were softened by faded wallpaper. A mirror, darkened with age, hung on one wall; on another were several photographs, old tintypes. My grandmother grew impatient as I looked at them.
“Megan.” She waited by the door at the top of the stairs, the only one open in the hall.
I entered and set down my bags. The square room had a fireplace in one corner and a four-poster bed in the center.
Though the inside shutters had been pulled back and the windows opened, there was a musty smell, reminding me that a river was near.
“Where’s the water?” I asked, quickly crossing to a window. “On the map it looked close to the house. Oh, my gosh, the trees!” I couldn’t hide my enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen so much green, not in Tucson. Look, their tops are just turning gold.”
My grandmother, not interested in looking, remained in the doorway, “You can see the creek and river when the leaves have fallen. These old homes were not built directly on the water because of the insects. Now they spray.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said. “Your bathroom is through that door. Dinner is at six. If there is anything you need-”
“What am I supposed to call you?”
She hesitated.
“What does my cousin call you?” I asked.
“Grandmother.”
“That’s cool.”
I don’t think she thought so, but she didn’t object. She reached back for the door handle to pull it closed behind her. “Just so we understand each other, Megan. I will respect your privacy and assume you will respect mine.”
I gazed after her as she shut the door. What was that supposed to mean? I had been respecting her privacy for the last sixteen years. If she didn’t want to open the door between us now, why had she bothered to invite me?
I glanced around the bedroom. The rooms in this house were big-formal downstairs, and simple, almost stark, upstairs. To my relief, they were nothing like the cozy room where I often played in my dream. That would have been a little too weird. There were explanations for the outward resemblance of the two houses. Mom might have described her home to me long ago, when I was too young to know I shouldn’t ask about it. Or maybe I’d seen a picture of a colonial house that resembled this one. Now and then Mom subscribed to East Coast magazines that had photos of old homes. There were probably just a few basic styles.
I unpacked my clothes, then lifted out several smallframed pictures and set them on the bureau, smiling at the menagerie of people and critters. Dad’s a veterinarian and Mom volunteers at an animal shelter. Our home is a small zoo, and I’m not just referring to my brothers.
I put on a clean shirt and took out a comb, running it through my hair, then looked around the room for a mirror.
Above a dressing table, where a mirror usually would hang, was a framed piece of embroidery: the Ten Commandments. Well, that’s nice, I thought, a friendly reminder to guests to behave themselves! I used the mirror on the medicine cabinet in the small bath attached to my room.
As I emerged from the bathroom, I heard my cousin’s Jeep circling the house. I quickly finished putting away my things and headed downstairs. At last I had someone my age to hang out with. When I reached the landing with the clock, I could hear his voice.
“She shouldn’t have come. I told you before, Grandmother, it was a bad idea to invite her.”
Surprised, I leaned forward to hear Grandmother’s response, but she spoke too softly.
“It’s just a gut feeling,” my cousin said. “No, it’s more than that. You haven’t been acting like yourself since you first got this crazy idea.”
I walked noiselessly down the steps, straining to hear Grandmother’s answer, but the library door was partially closed and her voice muffled.
“I really don’t care,” Matt insisted loudly. “She’s not my cousin-she’s adopted-and you’ve always been the first to point that out. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me she was coming today. I don’t know what you’re up to.”
This time I was close enough to hear Grandmother.
“Worried?” she asked.
It was tempting to sneak up on them. But two long weeks loomed ahead and embarrassing Matt wouldn’t make things easier. Give him a chance to change his mind, I told myself. I pounded down the last few steps, so they would hear me and have time to switch topics.
Grandmother was sitting at her desk again. Matt’s backpack was on the floor, his back turned to me.
“Hello, Megan,” Grandmother said, then glanced in Matt’s direction.
“Hello,” I replied, and followed her glance. Matt reached for a book high up on a shelf and began to page through it, keeping his back to me. I doubted he was as interested in the book as he pretended.
Well, okay. I could play this game. I sat down with my back to him.
“Grandmother,” I said, “I was hoping you’d have some family pictures hanging up.”
“There are three in the upstairs hall,” she replied.
“The ones from the 1800s? They’re cool. I was hoping you might have some of my grandfather and you. I’d love to see pictures of Mom and Uncle Paul when they were growing up.” I glanced around the room. Despite the space available on the desk, the long fireplace mantel, and walls of shelves, there wasn’t a family photograph in sight.
“I don’t like to display photographs,” she said.
“Oh. Well, do you have some picture albums?”
“No.”
“How come?” I asked.
“I don’t approve of taking pictures of ourselves. It’s vain. It glorifies our own image.”
I frowned. “It also allows us to remember the people we loved.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt turn his head slightly.
“You mentioned my cousin,” I said. “Does he visit Wisteria often?”
Her eyes flicked sideways, watching Matt. “He lives here.”
“Oh, good! Will he be here for dinner?”