would surely have done it. Besides,” she added, a touch defensively I thought, “he’s been a good friend to me. J.K. was the only one who did anything to help me. Buffy had simply walked away, and I knew Brad’s and Jack’s offers of help were just lip-service.” She shrugged, excusing them. “After all, the business had gone under and they had lost their jobs and probably their own fortunes too.
“And anyhow,” she concluded in a small voice, looking wistfully at us with those large gray eyes, “here I am.”
Mammie had always said it was impossible to shut me up, but Shannon’s story had silenced me, and for once I had listened almost without a word. It was a wild story all right, of murder and millions and ghostly dreams. Then I thought of my other guest, away at the moment in Galway, and I smiled. Maybe there was more to dreams than I thought. And out of compassion as well as interest, I invited her to stay.
“A RDNAVARNA IS ALWAYS GOOD for people who are troubled,” I told her, “and I can see you are that. There’s nothing here to disturb your peace. Except maybe …” She stared expectantly at me, but I only smiled. I was keeping my coincidence, my secret, my
surprise,
for later. “Well now, we shall have to see what room you might like,” I saidbriskly. “My goodness, is it six-thirty already? Supper’s at eight, m’dear. And of course, we always dress.”
I showed Shannon her room, the one that used to be Mammie’s over the front porch and she seemed delighted with it, especially the big bathroom with the immense claw-footed bathtub set dead center and the Victorian brass shower fittings. I know the towels are thin with age and maybe there’s a couple of holes, but no matter, they smell deliciously of the fresh salt wind and the lavender kept in the linen press. I warned her the bathwater may be brownish, but it’s always that way after the rain, and it’s only from the peat, and then I left her to soak in the tub.
I walked back along the first floor hallway to my own room on the southeast corner of the house. It’s always been my room since I was twelve, and when Mammie went I somehow never had the heart to change it for her bigger one.
Now,
my
room is certainly not poky, though it is a bit too squarish in shape. There’s an ornate Victorian brass four-poster with a mattress handmade by Heals forty years ago and still as firm as the day it was bought. The sheets are Irish linen; worn, of course, as everything is in this house, but there’s nothing like linen next to the skin in bed. The rug is the same one that has always been there, Chinese, with faded bluish and greenish scrolls and a lotus blossom border. There’s a wonderful big square dressing table with my usual clutter of silver and crystal whatnots: ring holders and pin trays and bud-vases and candlesticks, photos and old letters, brushes and mirrors. And on the carved pine chimneypiece there is a collection of spotted china dogs given to me over the years by family and friends who know of my devotion to the dalmatian breed.
There is a comfortable flowered cretonne easy chair in front of the fireplace with a little tapestry footstool worked by my grandmother, Lady Nora, who obviously spent endless hours on such things, filling our rooms with cushions and chair seats and bellpulls. My goodness, her hands were certainly never idle. The big window looks out over theback of the house toward the hills and that delicious glimpse of the sea, which is the first thing I gaze at each morning when I open my eyes. And the curtains are a bluish-pink flowery chintz to match the chair, and they are as old as the mattress, but not as old as me.
A pair of the famous wardrobes stand against one wall and there are more in the adjoining dressing room, all stuffed to overflowing with my lifetime of treasures. Oh, I do love clothes, even now that I’m in my dotage.
And I love this room. I remember when I was a child, I would look forward to
“And anyhow,” she concluded in a small voice, looking wistfully at us with those large gray eyes, “here I am.”
Mammie had always said it was impossible to shut me up, but Shannon’s story had silenced me, and for once I had listened almost without a word. It was a wild story all right, of murder and millions and ghostly dreams. Then I thought of my other guest, away at the moment in Galway, and I smiled. Maybe there was more to dreams than I thought. And out of compassion as well as interest, I invited her to stay.
“A RDNAVARNA IS ALWAYS GOOD for people who are troubled,” I told her, “and I can see you are that. There’s nothing here to disturb your peace. Except maybe …” She stared expectantly at me, but I only smiled. I was keeping my coincidence, my secret, my
surprise,
for later. “Well now, we shall have to see what room you might like,” I saidbriskly. “My goodness, is it six-thirty already? Supper’s at eight, m’dear. And of course, we always dress.”
I showed Shannon her room, the one that used to be Mammie’s over the front porch and she seemed delighted with it, especially the big bathroom with the immense claw-footed bathtub set dead center and the Victorian brass shower fittings. I know the towels are thin with age and maybe there’s a couple of holes, but no matter, they smell deliciously of the fresh salt wind and the lavender kept in the linen press. I warned her the bathwater may be brownish, but it’s always that way after the rain, and it’s only from the peat, and then I left her to soak in the tub.
I walked back along the first floor hallway to my own room on the southeast corner of the house. It’s always been my room since I was twelve, and when Mammie went I somehow never had the heart to change it for her bigger one.
Now,
my
room is certainly not poky, though it is a bit too squarish in shape. There’s an ornate Victorian brass four-poster with a mattress handmade by Heals forty years ago and still as firm as the day it was bought. The sheets are Irish linen; worn, of course, as everything is in this house, but there’s nothing like linen next to the skin in bed. The rug is the same one that has always been there, Chinese, with faded bluish and greenish scrolls and a lotus blossom border. There’s a wonderful big square dressing table with my usual clutter of silver and crystal whatnots: ring holders and pin trays and bud-vases and candlesticks, photos and old letters, brushes and mirrors. And on the carved pine chimneypiece there is a collection of spotted china dogs given to me over the years by family and friends who know of my devotion to the dalmatian breed.
There is a comfortable flowered cretonne easy chair in front of the fireplace with a little tapestry footstool worked by my grandmother, Lady Nora, who obviously spent endless hours on such things, filling our rooms with cushions and chair seats and bellpulls. My goodness, her hands were certainly never idle. The big window looks out over theback of the house toward the hills and that delicious glimpse of the sea, which is the first thing I gaze at each morning when I open my eyes. And the curtains are a bluish-pink flowery chintz to match the chair, and they are as old as the mattress, but not as old as me.
A pair of the famous wardrobes stand against one wall and there are more in the adjoining dressing room, all stuffed to overflowing with my lifetime of treasures. Oh, I do love clothes, even now that I’m in my dotage.
And I love this room. I remember when I was a child, I would look forward to
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