all night studying the carpenter’s estimate, then had gone room to room, checking off those things she could do herself. Scrape peeled paint, strip old wallpaper, repaint the walls and the wood trim—how difficult could those things be?
The list was the size of a small manuscript by the time she finished, exhausting her by its overwhelming proportions. She tapped her fingers on the desktop in agitation.
What had she done back at White-Edwards when she had a massive project assigned to her?
She’d broken it down into manageable sections, focusing her energy on each section until the whole had been completed.
So I ’ ll go one room at a time, she told herself resolutely. I’ll finish one room, then go on to the next. If I take it little by little, maybe it won't seem so bad.
It ’ ll take months. She sighed, tossing her pen onto the writing surface. But then again, it doesn’ t look as if I’m going anywhere in the near future. And maybe by the spring, the job market will have opened up and I ’ll find something. The house will look better by then, and maybe I’ll be able to find a buyer. I’ll sell the emeralds and use the money to have the heavy work done, the things I can’t do for myself.
Cheered at having a game plan, at having found a use for her old management skills as well as for her overabundance of spare time, she snapped off the hall light and climbed the steps.
She paused at the top of the stairs, where a sudden whiff of lavender seemed to welcome her. With a sigh, she followed the hall to the right and carefully, almost reverently pushed open the door to Leila's suite of rooms.
Here, the scent of lavender was strongest, Leila having tucked sprigs in her dresser drawers, hung bunches from the drapery tie-backs, and filled porcelain bowls with potpourri, all of which combined to give a sweet yet spicy heaviness to the still air. Abby stood in the doorway for a long moment, trying to recall where the light switch was. She located the old wall switch, which clicked loudly as she flicked on.
Aunt Leila’s old carved oak tester bed stood along the near wall. The spread of palest yellow silk, embroidered with silken threads of dark green and purple to create a striped pattern of chain stitches, ran the length of the bed and spilled onto the floor. Lacy shams stood across the front of the headboard, which was nine feet in height. A heart- shaped needlepoint pillow spelled out “Peace—Be Still” in dark burgundy letters through which wound some white flowers on shaded green vines.
The room remained exactly as it had been in Abby’s memory, with the porcelain dock and matching vases on the mantel and the heavy drapes of dark gold velvet blocking the light from the windows. There were paintings on one wall, a doorway leading to Leila’s bath on another. Yet another doorway to the right led to Leila’s sitting room, the second floor of the tower, and it was in this room that Abby had often sat with Leila on rainy nights or stormy mornings. Abby followed the worn carpet to the door and pushed it open.
The old Belter parlor set of the deepest crimson velvet and carved rosewood—Leila’s pride and joy—still graced the alcove formed by the curve of the tower.
She could almost close her eyes and see Aunt Leila perched on the velvet upholstery of the chair, like a princess in her tower, her reading glasses set upon her long fine nose, her legs crossed at the ankle. In her hands, she would hold what she laughingly called her family Bible—th e silver- covered book she had brought from her mountain home in which she had preserved the precious photos of the family she left behind when she ventured east to marry Thomas Cassidy.
Leila would point to her siblings and name them, pausing over each to tell some story or other, so that by the time Abby was six years old, she knew their names and faces and the anecdotes that over time became family legend. There were Leila’s parents, the beautifully
The list was the size of a small manuscript by the time she finished, exhausting her by its overwhelming proportions. She tapped her fingers on the desktop in agitation.
What had she done back at White-Edwards when she had a massive project assigned to her?
She’d broken it down into manageable sections, focusing her energy on each section until the whole had been completed.
So I ’ ll go one room at a time, she told herself resolutely. I’ll finish one room, then go on to the next. If I take it little by little, maybe it won't seem so bad.
It ’ ll take months. She sighed, tossing her pen onto the writing surface. But then again, it doesn’ t look as if I’m going anywhere in the near future. And maybe by the spring, the job market will have opened up and I ’ll find something. The house will look better by then, and maybe I’ll be able to find a buyer. I’ll sell the emeralds and use the money to have the heavy work done, the things I can’t do for myself.
Cheered at having a game plan, at having found a use for her old management skills as well as for her overabundance of spare time, she snapped off the hall light and climbed the steps.
She paused at the top of the stairs, where a sudden whiff of lavender seemed to welcome her. With a sigh, she followed the hall to the right and carefully, almost reverently pushed open the door to Leila's suite of rooms.
Here, the scent of lavender was strongest, Leila having tucked sprigs in her dresser drawers, hung bunches from the drapery tie-backs, and filled porcelain bowls with potpourri, all of which combined to give a sweet yet spicy heaviness to the still air. Abby stood in the doorway for a long moment, trying to recall where the light switch was. She located the old wall switch, which clicked loudly as she flicked on.
Aunt Leila’s old carved oak tester bed stood along the near wall. The spread of palest yellow silk, embroidered with silken threads of dark green and purple to create a striped pattern of chain stitches, ran the length of the bed and spilled onto the floor. Lacy shams stood across the front of the headboard, which was nine feet in height. A heart- shaped needlepoint pillow spelled out “Peace—Be Still” in dark burgundy letters through which wound some white flowers on shaded green vines.
The room remained exactly as it had been in Abby’s memory, with the porcelain dock and matching vases on the mantel and the heavy drapes of dark gold velvet blocking the light from the windows. There were paintings on one wall, a doorway leading to Leila’s bath on another. Yet another doorway to the right led to Leila’s sitting room, the second floor of the tower, and it was in this room that Abby had often sat with Leila on rainy nights or stormy mornings. Abby followed the worn carpet to the door and pushed it open.
The old Belter parlor set of the deepest crimson velvet and carved rosewood—Leila’s pride and joy—still graced the alcove formed by the curve of the tower.
She could almost close her eyes and see Aunt Leila perched on the velvet upholstery of the chair, like a princess in her tower, her reading glasses set upon her long fine nose, her legs crossed at the ankle. In her hands, she would hold what she laughingly called her family Bible—th e silver- covered book she had brought from her mountain home in which she had preserved the precious photos of the family she left behind when she ventured east to marry Thomas Cassidy.
Leila would point to her siblings and name them, pausing over each to tell some story or other, so that by the time Abby was six years old, she knew their names and faces and the anecdotes that over time became family legend. There were Leila’s parents, the beautifully
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