Paisley said. “First line of defense,” she added, as if daring me to make a crack about the room fronting the house.
“First line of defense?” I asked.
She traced a butterfly on a bureau scarf. “That’s what he always said.”
The round-edged, blonde furniture made of diagonally opposing veneer strips with inlaid bands were forties pieces. Blue tufts dotted the light green chenille bed, and on the wall, a crucifix under a curved glass cover on a cloudy blue background sat in a gold frame.
It made me think of a stage. Every room. And yet Paisley had lived here.
“Where did your Mam sleep?”
“Upstairs, across from me, but she moved down here after Pap died. Upstairs, that’s the sewing room now.”
We left the front bedroom via the hall, passed the front door at the stairs, to get to the living room, opposite. This, too, like the kitchen and the big bedroom, had a fireplace. But this room also had a piano.
“Who played the piano?” I asked.
“Mam and Pap,” Paisley said, which seemed normal to her and odd to me.
Central chimney, three main rooms, upstairs and down, not to mention the borning room and its upstairs counterpart. Add a basement, attic, summer kitchen, two bathrooms, and a well house. If not isolated, and surrounded by an electric fence, this would have been a great place for a child to grow up…with her real parents. In the real world.
“Here, at the top of the stairs,” Paisley said, “is the padlocked closet I broke into.”
I followed her up with trepidation. Panic rose in me and I didn’t know why. If I’d been her, carrying a big old pair of metal cutters to open a forbidden room, after just burying my supposed mother, I might have wet myself.
Nick kicked the cut lock on the polished wood floor aside and opened the darkened closet. Empty. The downer left my heart palpitating, though it picked up speed when Nick stepped inside.
He pushed on the back wall with both hands.
Thump, thump, thump went my heart into overdrive.
The wall didn’t budge.
Nick turned to face us, reached to push on both side walls at the same time, and nearly fell into the well of darkness at the left.
He caught his balance as the wall flipped and a figure hovered over us.
Paisley screamed.
Seventeen
A woman should be less concerned about Paris and more concerned about whether the dress she’s about to buy relates to the way she lives.
—GEOFFREY BEENE
“It’s not alive,” I snapped, trying to stop Paisley’s scream.
Nick aimed the small flashlight on the back end of his stylus at the figure to clear our misconceptions.
“See,” I said. “It’s people sized but I think it’s a garment bag of a sort.”
On the top center of the wall—the opposite side from the one we’d first seen—a vintage leather garment bag hung on a brass hook. “I don’t think a moth could get in here if it tried,” I said to no one in particular. But why the side zippers?
Paisley unzipped the bag center-front—she had a right, though her move shot me with terror—the sheer sizeand composition of the Bakelite hanger gave away its age. Bakelite items were popular from about nineteen ten to the forties.
But screw the forerunner of plastics, I nearly lost my breath when Paisley removed the dress from its supple leather skin of timeless protection, a leather garment bag showing the patina of age without showing the signs. Ageless.
But the dress: “What an outstanding piece from the golden age of textiles. Like a social-event in chiffon, it’s a cross between a Jacobean and Persian burst of warm, slightly muted earth tones—from creams to reds—on a cool mixed field, featuring turquoise to royal blue forget-me-nots. Most important, it looks like an Oleg Cassini.”
Nick checked the label. “You got that right.”
“Cassini, and only Oleg Cassini, dressed Jackie Kennedy, as First Lady. OMG, we’re in the presence of greatness. That dress survived the test of time. It’s flawless, and look at
“First line of defense?” I asked.
She traced a butterfly on a bureau scarf. “That’s what he always said.”
The round-edged, blonde furniture made of diagonally opposing veneer strips with inlaid bands were forties pieces. Blue tufts dotted the light green chenille bed, and on the wall, a crucifix under a curved glass cover on a cloudy blue background sat in a gold frame.
It made me think of a stage. Every room. And yet Paisley had lived here.
“Where did your Mam sleep?”
“Upstairs, across from me, but she moved down here after Pap died. Upstairs, that’s the sewing room now.”
We left the front bedroom via the hall, passed the front door at the stairs, to get to the living room, opposite. This, too, like the kitchen and the big bedroom, had a fireplace. But this room also had a piano.
“Who played the piano?” I asked.
“Mam and Pap,” Paisley said, which seemed normal to her and odd to me.
Central chimney, three main rooms, upstairs and down, not to mention the borning room and its upstairs counterpart. Add a basement, attic, summer kitchen, two bathrooms, and a well house. If not isolated, and surrounded by an electric fence, this would have been a great place for a child to grow up…with her real parents. In the real world.
“Here, at the top of the stairs,” Paisley said, “is the padlocked closet I broke into.”
I followed her up with trepidation. Panic rose in me and I didn’t know why. If I’d been her, carrying a big old pair of metal cutters to open a forbidden room, after just burying my supposed mother, I might have wet myself.
Nick kicked the cut lock on the polished wood floor aside and opened the darkened closet. Empty. The downer left my heart palpitating, though it picked up speed when Nick stepped inside.
He pushed on the back wall with both hands.
Thump, thump, thump went my heart into overdrive.
The wall didn’t budge.
Nick turned to face us, reached to push on both side walls at the same time, and nearly fell into the well of darkness at the left.
He caught his balance as the wall flipped and a figure hovered over us.
Paisley screamed.
Seventeen
A woman should be less concerned about Paris and more concerned about whether the dress she’s about to buy relates to the way she lives.
—GEOFFREY BEENE
“It’s not alive,” I snapped, trying to stop Paisley’s scream.
Nick aimed the small flashlight on the back end of his stylus at the figure to clear our misconceptions.
“See,” I said. “It’s people sized but I think it’s a garment bag of a sort.”
On the top center of the wall—the opposite side from the one we’d first seen—a vintage leather garment bag hung on a brass hook. “I don’t think a moth could get in here if it tried,” I said to no one in particular. But why the side zippers?
Paisley unzipped the bag center-front—she had a right, though her move shot me with terror—the sheer sizeand composition of the Bakelite hanger gave away its age. Bakelite items were popular from about nineteen ten to the forties.
But screw the forerunner of plastics, I nearly lost my breath when Paisley removed the dress from its supple leather skin of timeless protection, a leather garment bag showing the patina of age without showing the signs. Ageless.
But the dress: “What an outstanding piece from the golden age of textiles. Like a social-event in chiffon, it’s a cross between a Jacobean and Persian burst of warm, slightly muted earth tones—from creams to reds—on a cool mixed field, featuring turquoise to royal blue forget-me-nots. Most important, it looks like an Oleg Cassini.”
Nick checked the label. “You got that right.”
“Cassini, and only Oleg Cassini, dressed Jackie Kennedy, as First Lady. OMG, we’re in the presence of greatness. That dress survived the test of time. It’s flawless, and look at
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