waiting for you now.”
“Okay, then,” I said, putting my arm around Amity’s shoulders and trying to smile at her. “It’s time to go.”
Jane had arranged for Carter to bring the car around to the front of the house to take Amity and me to the funeral—she wouldn’t hear of riding with us herself, stickler for protocol that she was—and although the church wasn’t more than a mile away, my stomach tightened as I saw the thundering downpour outside. I wondered if old Carter could keep the car on the road.
Jane opened the door onto the patio, where Mr. Jameson stood in the deluge holding an enormous black umbrella. He ushered Amity and me down to the waiting silver-and-black Bentley, the same car, I thought with a pang in the pit of my stomach, that had brought David Coleville to this house all those years ago. He opened the back door for us and we slid in.
“Miss Grace.” Carter smiled at me from the driver’s seat, the years evident on his impossibly kind face. He looked the picture of a driver—black suit, white shirt, black tie and hat. I had never seen him wear anything else. “So good to have you back at Alban House.”
I smiled back at him and nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before my eyes began stinging. Amity handed me a tissue and I held it to my face, trying to hold back the flood of grief.
He cleared his throat and pulled away, and I watched as the rain distorted Jane, her husband, and the house behind them into an Impressionist painting.
Just a turn here and a turn there down the road and we would soon arrive. But we were crawling at a snail’s pace as the rain beat down onto the windshield and the wipers flew back and forth in a frantic attempt to clear the way.
As we inched along, I thought about how I’d always loved this tree-lined street. Maples and elms arched over the roadway on either side as though they were trying to grasp one another’s hands. It made for a beautiful scene in the fall when their leaves were ablaze, but on this day, with their branches shaking violently in the wind and lightning crackling through the dark sky, it seemed sinister and foreboding, as though we were creeping through a haunted wood.
We were nearly at the church. I turned to smooth a stray curl off Amity’s forehead when I felt the car jerk to a stop, my head hitting the back of my seat with a thud. Carter gasped aloud and I looked out the front window to see a woman standing in the roadway. She was wearing a long black dress and a black hat with an extremely wide brim, and was holding a large black umbrella. Obviously, she was there to attend the funeral. She had been looking down at the car, but then she raised her head and stared right in at us, and a slow smile crept across her face.
“Oh my God,” Amity gasped, her mouth in a grimace. This woman was made up like something out of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane ? Heavy black eyeliner and mascara, bright red lips with the lipstick applied rather … haphazardly. A wrinkled, ghostly white face with violent streaks of blush on her cheeks. She was elderly, but I couldn’t quite tell whether she was my mother’s age or much older.
I was about to ask Carter to offer her a ride to the door—peculiar though she was, it was raining heavily—but before I could get the words out he veered around her and sped the rest of the way so aggressively that I thought he might hit the building’s stone foundation. He jerked to a stop and hurried out of the car, unfurling an umbrella as he did so.
Opening the back door, he leaned in to us and said: “Ladies?” He was smiling but his eyes had a hint of fear behind them, and I noticed beads of perspiration on his brow.
I looked out the rear window at the woman, who had been joined under her umbrella by a young man, who was leading her away. I turned back to Carter. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine, miss. Fine.”
Reverend Parker stood to welcome us at the church door. In the midst of that storm,
“Okay, then,” I said, putting my arm around Amity’s shoulders and trying to smile at her. “It’s time to go.”
Jane had arranged for Carter to bring the car around to the front of the house to take Amity and me to the funeral—she wouldn’t hear of riding with us herself, stickler for protocol that she was—and although the church wasn’t more than a mile away, my stomach tightened as I saw the thundering downpour outside. I wondered if old Carter could keep the car on the road.
Jane opened the door onto the patio, where Mr. Jameson stood in the deluge holding an enormous black umbrella. He ushered Amity and me down to the waiting silver-and-black Bentley, the same car, I thought with a pang in the pit of my stomach, that had brought David Coleville to this house all those years ago. He opened the back door for us and we slid in.
“Miss Grace.” Carter smiled at me from the driver’s seat, the years evident on his impossibly kind face. He looked the picture of a driver—black suit, white shirt, black tie and hat. I had never seen him wear anything else. “So good to have you back at Alban House.”
I smiled back at him and nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before my eyes began stinging. Amity handed me a tissue and I held it to my face, trying to hold back the flood of grief.
He cleared his throat and pulled away, and I watched as the rain distorted Jane, her husband, and the house behind them into an Impressionist painting.
Just a turn here and a turn there down the road and we would soon arrive. But we were crawling at a snail’s pace as the rain beat down onto the windshield and the wipers flew back and forth in a frantic attempt to clear the way.
As we inched along, I thought about how I’d always loved this tree-lined street. Maples and elms arched over the roadway on either side as though they were trying to grasp one another’s hands. It made for a beautiful scene in the fall when their leaves were ablaze, but on this day, with their branches shaking violently in the wind and lightning crackling through the dark sky, it seemed sinister and foreboding, as though we were creeping through a haunted wood.
We were nearly at the church. I turned to smooth a stray curl off Amity’s forehead when I felt the car jerk to a stop, my head hitting the back of my seat with a thud. Carter gasped aloud and I looked out the front window to see a woman standing in the roadway. She was wearing a long black dress and a black hat with an extremely wide brim, and was holding a large black umbrella. Obviously, she was there to attend the funeral. She had been looking down at the car, but then she raised her head and stared right in at us, and a slow smile crept across her face.
“Oh my God,” Amity gasped, her mouth in a grimace. This woman was made up like something out of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane ? Heavy black eyeliner and mascara, bright red lips with the lipstick applied rather … haphazardly. A wrinkled, ghostly white face with violent streaks of blush on her cheeks. She was elderly, but I couldn’t quite tell whether she was my mother’s age or much older.
I was about to ask Carter to offer her a ride to the door—peculiar though she was, it was raining heavily—but before I could get the words out he veered around her and sped the rest of the way so aggressively that I thought he might hit the building’s stone foundation. He jerked to a stop and hurried out of the car, unfurling an umbrella as he did so.
Opening the back door, he leaned in to us and said: “Ladies?” He was smiling but his eyes had a hint of fear behind them, and I noticed beads of perspiration on his brow.
I looked out the rear window at the woman, who had been joined under her umbrella by a young man, who was leading her away. I turned back to Carter. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine, miss. Fine.”
Reverend Parker stood to welcome us at the church door. In the midst of that storm,
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