she asked Emma.
"Right," Emma affirmed.
Sandra left the room, and a moment later, the front door closed. Emma picked up Moby-Dick and settled on the corner of the sofa. "Can you hear me from here, Mrs. Bracebridge?" she asked.
"Very well, thank you. But before you get settled, I'd like you to get another book. Do you see the glass-fronted secretary in the corner? On the top shelf, far left, you'll find Agatha Christie's Murder in the Links. "
Emma obeyed. She opened the door, found the book, and returned to the sofa. "Got it."
"Good. Now, this is important. When you are through reading, every day, you must remember to replace the book exactly where you found it."
"Oh. All right. I'll do that."
"It's Sandra, you see. She worries about me. She's afraid I'm getting senile. Getting lost in the past. And here's a little secret. I do get lost in the past. As often as possible. I love it there. But Sandra knows I've read Agatha Christie's entire oeuvre several times over. I don't want to cause her any alarm, and she will become alarmed if you tell her you're reading Agatha Christie to me. So this is our secret, all right?"
Emma grinned. "Absolutely. I'm very good at keeping secrets. I--"
Millicent cut her short. "All I care about is that you keep my secret. Now please read."
Emma read.
After thirty minutes, Emma excused herself to fetch iced tea for herself and Millicent. The tea provided a necessary pick-me-up; the warm dim room with all its heavy rugs, sofas draped with afghans, and antiques piled on top of antiques began to seem claustrophobic to Emma. No sounds came in from the street, no children laughing, no birds singing. Only the ticking of the clock in the hall provided any counterpoint to Emma's voice. As she read, she found herself giving a distinctive voice to each character, using a French accent for the Belgian detective, a pompous British one for Hastings, and high fluttering voices for the women. She was rewarded by seeing Millicent smile whenever Poirot spoke. Emma read along, stopping only to refresh her throat with some tea, and soon the clock struck four.
"It's time for me to go, Mrs. Bracebridge," she said.
"Very well, mark the place where you stopped. There's a bookmark over on the secretary. You'll have to remember where you left off on the page. I don't like my books marked with pencil or pen."
"Is there anything I can get you before I leave?" Emma asked after she'd put the book back on its shelf.
"I'll be fine." Mrs. Bracebridge felt around on the table next to her until her hand closed on the remote control. "I'll listen to television until the girl comes to bring me my dinner and help me to bed."
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow. Same time, same station," Emma said.
Mrs. Bracebridge was pleased by that. "Yes. Same time, same station."
Stepping out into the sunlight made Emma squint. The fresh air revived her, brought her back to the present. She stood for a moment, enjoying the sight of a family biking down the street, the children ringing their bells and laughing, a man with curly black hair walking his black standard poodle, the window boxes of houses along the street radiant with color. The blue sky, illuminated by the golden sun, spread like a luminous canopy over the trees and rooftops. Summer. How hard it must be to lose all this, Emma thought.
Sandra Bracebridge had told Emma that if she spotted any signs of senility, Emma was to inform her immediately. Emma smiled. As far as she was concerned, Mrs. Bracebridge's desire to enjoy more of her beloved Agatha Christie was only a sign of good mental health.
It was time for her to drive out to Surfside to pick up four children, drive them out to Annye's health food store to choose whatever they wanted for dinner, and deliver them to their house in Sconset. The Bennett father was still in London on business and the Bennett mother had her hands full with social engagements, so she'd hired Emma as a chauffeur and maid of all jobs for two
"Right," Emma affirmed.
Sandra left the room, and a moment later, the front door closed. Emma picked up Moby-Dick and settled on the corner of the sofa. "Can you hear me from here, Mrs. Bracebridge?" she asked.
"Very well, thank you. But before you get settled, I'd like you to get another book. Do you see the glass-fronted secretary in the corner? On the top shelf, far left, you'll find Agatha Christie's Murder in the Links. "
Emma obeyed. She opened the door, found the book, and returned to the sofa. "Got it."
"Good. Now, this is important. When you are through reading, every day, you must remember to replace the book exactly where you found it."
"Oh. All right. I'll do that."
"It's Sandra, you see. She worries about me. She's afraid I'm getting senile. Getting lost in the past. And here's a little secret. I do get lost in the past. As often as possible. I love it there. But Sandra knows I've read Agatha Christie's entire oeuvre several times over. I don't want to cause her any alarm, and she will become alarmed if you tell her you're reading Agatha Christie to me. So this is our secret, all right?"
Emma grinned. "Absolutely. I'm very good at keeping secrets. I--"
Millicent cut her short. "All I care about is that you keep my secret. Now please read."
Emma read.
After thirty minutes, Emma excused herself to fetch iced tea for herself and Millicent. The tea provided a necessary pick-me-up; the warm dim room with all its heavy rugs, sofas draped with afghans, and antiques piled on top of antiques began to seem claustrophobic to Emma. No sounds came in from the street, no children laughing, no birds singing. Only the ticking of the clock in the hall provided any counterpoint to Emma's voice. As she read, she found herself giving a distinctive voice to each character, using a French accent for the Belgian detective, a pompous British one for Hastings, and high fluttering voices for the women. She was rewarded by seeing Millicent smile whenever Poirot spoke. Emma read along, stopping only to refresh her throat with some tea, and soon the clock struck four.
"It's time for me to go, Mrs. Bracebridge," she said.
"Very well, mark the place where you stopped. There's a bookmark over on the secretary. You'll have to remember where you left off on the page. I don't like my books marked with pencil or pen."
"Is there anything I can get you before I leave?" Emma asked after she'd put the book back on its shelf.
"I'll be fine." Mrs. Bracebridge felt around on the table next to her until her hand closed on the remote control. "I'll listen to television until the girl comes to bring me my dinner and help me to bed."
"Well, then, I'll see you tomorrow. Same time, same station," Emma said.
Mrs. Bracebridge was pleased by that. "Yes. Same time, same station."
Stepping out into the sunlight made Emma squint. The fresh air revived her, brought her back to the present. She stood for a moment, enjoying the sight of a family biking down the street, the children ringing their bells and laughing, a man with curly black hair walking his black standard poodle, the window boxes of houses along the street radiant with color. The blue sky, illuminated by the golden sun, spread like a luminous canopy over the trees and rooftops. Summer. How hard it must be to lose all this, Emma thought.
Sandra Bracebridge had told Emma that if she spotted any signs of senility, Emma was to inform her immediately. Emma smiled. As far as she was concerned, Mrs. Bracebridge's desire to enjoy more of her beloved Agatha Christie was only a sign of good mental health.
It was time for her to drive out to Surfside to pick up four children, drive them out to Annye's health food store to choose whatever they wanted for dinner, and deliver them to their house in Sconset. The Bennett father was still in London on business and the Bennett mother had her hands full with social engagements, so she'd hired Emma as a chauffeur and maid of all jobs for two
Similar Books
