house. A smile spread itself across Elizabeth’s face. Back then she’d come barreling down the mountain just like that, pigtails flapping and arms waving when we rang the bell for lunch. A skinny little monkey of a girl. Our sweet Rosie. So happy with her life here. And so pleased to have found a friend next door. If only…
The memories stung. She grew up overnight, it seemed. All the lovely, carefree silliness and make-believe stopped as if it had never existed. I hope…I hope that digging back into all of it is the right thing….
“Who was that in the truck, Mum?” Rosemary’s cheeks were flushed and her glossy hair had escaped its ponytail to tumble about her face. “I thought I heard him yelling, so I came down.”
“Let’s go in and get some lunch, Rosie. I’ll tell you all about it.” Elizabeth reached out to pull a clump of cockleburs from the tail of her daughter’s old flannel shirt, suddenly feeling the need to touch this lovely creature that she had birthed, raised, loved, and protected till at last it was time to let her go out on her own. Surely, by most standards, Rosemary had a good life: a rewarding career, the respect of her peers.
But one thing had always nagged at Elizabeth, and that was Rosemary’s apparent avoidance of any emotional involvement. Unlike her sister, who gets involved at the drop of a hat, thought Elizabeth as they climbed the stone steps that led from the front yard to the house. And that worries me too. Are mothers ever completely happy with the way their offspring turn out? God knows, I’m luckier than most with my girls. But I just want them to be happy.
The phrase echoed in her mind. How many times had her own mother used that same excuse as she urged Elizabeth to do something entirely alien to her nature: dancing classes, joining a sorority, studying to be a secretary? At least I try to stay out of their lives and keep my worries to myself. And the girls and I get along far better than my mother and I ever did.
As she heated up some Spanish bean soup from the freezer, Elizabeth told Rosemary about Bib Maitland and his evident animosity toward newcomers.
“As long as he’s hanging around next door, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go over there. I know you came home hoping to do just that, but maybe there are some other things you could do.”
Rosemary’s brow wrinkled and she looked down at her bowl of soup. For a moment she was silent, her spoon prodding at the thick spicy mass of garbanzo beans and sausage. She seemed to be working out some complicated problem in her head, but then her face brightened and she smiled at her mother.
“No worries. I think that the best thing I can do this weekend is find out where the Mullins went and try to get in touch with them. Didn’t you say they still own Mullmore? Maybe we can find out from the tax office or something where they are now.”
Elizabeth considered. “It’s Saturday—the tax place will be closed. But I could give Sallie Kate a call. She’s probably at her office and she may know something about Mullmore. I’m pretty sure I remember hearing her say that she had some buyer it would be perfect for but the owners refused to sell.”
They finished their soup and left the bowls on the table while Elizabeth called her longtime friend. Sallie Kate was a successful realtor who delighted in matching the right people to the right places. She took pride in walking the lines of the properties she listed, no matter how steep or wooded, and probably knew as much, if not more, about Marshall County property as any native. Elizabeth punched in the number and was delighted when the phone was answered on the second ring.
“Country Manors. Sallie Kate speaking.”
“Hey, Sallie Kate. This is Elizabeth. I’m looking for some information. It’s a long story I won’t get into ’cause I know you’re busy, but it’s about Mullmore—you know, the big place next to us? Do you have any
The memories stung. She grew up overnight, it seemed. All the lovely, carefree silliness and make-believe stopped as if it had never existed. I hope…I hope that digging back into all of it is the right thing….
“Who was that in the truck, Mum?” Rosemary’s cheeks were flushed and her glossy hair had escaped its ponytail to tumble about her face. “I thought I heard him yelling, so I came down.”
“Let’s go in and get some lunch, Rosie. I’ll tell you all about it.” Elizabeth reached out to pull a clump of cockleburs from the tail of her daughter’s old flannel shirt, suddenly feeling the need to touch this lovely creature that she had birthed, raised, loved, and protected till at last it was time to let her go out on her own. Surely, by most standards, Rosemary had a good life: a rewarding career, the respect of her peers.
But one thing had always nagged at Elizabeth, and that was Rosemary’s apparent avoidance of any emotional involvement. Unlike her sister, who gets involved at the drop of a hat, thought Elizabeth as they climbed the stone steps that led from the front yard to the house. And that worries me too. Are mothers ever completely happy with the way their offspring turn out? God knows, I’m luckier than most with my girls. But I just want them to be happy.
The phrase echoed in her mind. How many times had her own mother used that same excuse as she urged Elizabeth to do something entirely alien to her nature: dancing classes, joining a sorority, studying to be a secretary? At least I try to stay out of their lives and keep my worries to myself. And the girls and I get along far better than my mother and I ever did.
As she heated up some Spanish bean soup from the freezer, Elizabeth told Rosemary about Bib Maitland and his evident animosity toward newcomers.
“As long as he’s hanging around next door, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go over there. I know you came home hoping to do just that, but maybe there are some other things you could do.”
Rosemary’s brow wrinkled and she looked down at her bowl of soup. For a moment she was silent, her spoon prodding at the thick spicy mass of garbanzo beans and sausage. She seemed to be working out some complicated problem in her head, but then her face brightened and she smiled at her mother.
“No worries. I think that the best thing I can do this weekend is find out where the Mullins went and try to get in touch with them. Didn’t you say they still own Mullmore? Maybe we can find out from the tax office or something where they are now.”
Elizabeth considered. “It’s Saturday—the tax place will be closed. But I could give Sallie Kate a call. She’s probably at her office and she may know something about Mullmore. I’m pretty sure I remember hearing her say that she had some buyer it would be perfect for but the owners refused to sell.”
They finished their soup and left the bowls on the table while Elizabeth called her longtime friend. Sallie Kate was a successful realtor who delighted in matching the right people to the right places. She took pride in walking the lines of the properties she listed, no matter how steep or wooded, and probably knew as much, if not more, about Marshall County property as any native. Elizabeth punched in the number and was delighted when the phone was answered on the second ring.
“Country Manors. Sallie Kate speaking.”
“Hey, Sallie Kate. This is Elizabeth. I’m looking for some information. It’s a long story I won’t get into ’cause I know you’re busy, but it’s about Mullmore—you know, the big place next to us? Do you have any
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