a chance to decorate it yet.”
“Um, er, not exactly,” stammered my mother. “The previous owners left it this way.”
“Wow. You got lucky. You don’t have to change a thing, huh?”
My mother and I traded glances again and I was sure her horrified expression matched my own. Swallowing heavily, I said, “We’re thrilled you like it.”
Walking to the far side of the room, my mother pushed open a door. “And you have your own private bathroom.”
Nola stuck her head inside the newly remodeled space, taking in the tasteful neutrals, the black-and-white marble, the delicate faux paint pattern on the wall. “Too bad they didn’t fix the bathroom, too.”
I stood in the middle of the room near the large tester bed that my mother had covered in a simple white chenille bedspread she’d found in the attic. I stared at the expanse of white like a person stares at the stationary horizon to quell carsickness. The room held only the bed, a dressing table, a dresser, and a low chest of drawers that my mother planned to convert into a TV table for the small flat-screen that would be arriving later. The furniture had been culled from the attic, my house, and Trenholm’s Antiques, and I was just realizing that we should have crammed more furniture into the room. As we’d left it, there was plenty of room for one large dollhouse in any of the four corners.
“I love how airy you’ve made the room, Mother. Lots of good, empty space. I wouldn’t add a thing.” I smiled hopefully at Nola as she emerged from her bathroom.
“Except for the dollhouse,” she said as she stomped across the room in her military-style boots, something I wouldn’t necessarily call a fashion accessory or wear in public with striped leggings and a short, ruffled skirt. “I think it would be perfect here,” she said, indicating the corner to the left of the headboard. “Don’t you think so, Mellie?”
I was too busy scrounging around for reasons why the dollhouse shouldn’t go anywhere in a thirty-foot radius of her to correct her use of that dreaded nickname.
“Actually, Nola,” my mother said, “we were thinking that the empty room down the hall would be the perfect spot for it. That way you can put it in the middle of the room and see it from all angles instead of against a wall. I could even find a large table to put it on so everything’s more or less eye level. What do you think?”
Nola’s lower jaw stuck out just enough to remind me of her father when he made up his mind. And if blood were indeed thicker than water, I knew that we had as much hope of persuading her to change her mind as we had of convincing the Architectural Board of Review to allow me to paint my Tradd Street house purple.
“I think it would be perfect in that corner.” She moved to the bed and stepped up on the little stool beside it to plop down on the bedspread. “Maybe we can find another bedspread that goes with the room, something with a little more color. I mean, if it’s not too expensive.”
I tried to think of a tactful way to tell her that if she wanted to find something that matched the room’s decor, she’d have to be prepared to Dumpster-dive behind Goodwill, where I’m sure they discarded those items that would never sell. As if reading my mind, my mother sent me a look of warning, so I kept my mouth shut.
The doorbell rang. Turning to Nola, my mother said, “That must be your grandmother. We’ll leave you here to freshen up and get ready for lunch. We have to be at Alluette’s Café at noon, so we’ll need to leave in about half an hour.”
A crease formed between Nola’s eyebrows. “Why are we going again?”
“We wanted you to meet Alston Ravenel and her mother, Cecily. They’re cousins of yours—third cousins, once removed on your grandmother’s side.” She began listing Nola’s family tree, as all Charlestonians are wont to do, until Nola’s eyes began to glaze over.
My mother noticed and stopped with the
“Um, er, not exactly,” stammered my mother. “The previous owners left it this way.”
“Wow. You got lucky. You don’t have to change a thing, huh?”
My mother and I traded glances again and I was sure her horrified expression matched my own. Swallowing heavily, I said, “We’re thrilled you like it.”
Walking to the far side of the room, my mother pushed open a door. “And you have your own private bathroom.”
Nola stuck her head inside the newly remodeled space, taking in the tasteful neutrals, the black-and-white marble, the delicate faux paint pattern on the wall. “Too bad they didn’t fix the bathroom, too.”
I stood in the middle of the room near the large tester bed that my mother had covered in a simple white chenille bedspread she’d found in the attic. I stared at the expanse of white like a person stares at the stationary horizon to quell carsickness. The room held only the bed, a dressing table, a dresser, and a low chest of drawers that my mother planned to convert into a TV table for the small flat-screen that would be arriving later. The furniture had been culled from the attic, my house, and Trenholm’s Antiques, and I was just realizing that we should have crammed more furniture into the room. As we’d left it, there was plenty of room for one large dollhouse in any of the four corners.
“I love how airy you’ve made the room, Mother. Lots of good, empty space. I wouldn’t add a thing.” I smiled hopefully at Nola as she emerged from her bathroom.
“Except for the dollhouse,” she said as she stomped across the room in her military-style boots, something I wouldn’t necessarily call a fashion accessory or wear in public with striped leggings and a short, ruffled skirt. “I think it would be perfect here,” she said, indicating the corner to the left of the headboard. “Don’t you think so, Mellie?”
I was too busy scrounging around for reasons why the dollhouse shouldn’t go anywhere in a thirty-foot radius of her to correct her use of that dreaded nickname.
“Actually, Nola,” my mother said, “we were thinking that the empty room down the hall would be the perfect spot for it. That way you can put it in the middle of the room and see it from all angles instead of against a wall. I could even find a large table to put it on so everything’s more or less eye level. What do you think?”
Nola’s lower jaw stuck out just enough to remind me of her father when he made up his mind. And if blood were indeed thicker than water, I knew that we had as much hope of persuading her to change her mind as we had of convincing the Architectural Board of Review to allow me to paint my Tradd Street house purple.
“I think it would be perfect in that corner.” She moved to the bed and stepped up on the little stool beside it to plop down on the bedspread. “Maybe we can find another bedspread that goes with the room, something with a little more color. I mean, if it’s not too expensive.”
I tried to think of a tactful way to tell her that if she wanted to find something that matched the room’s decor, she’d have to be prepared to Dumpster-dive behind Goodwill, where I’m sure they discarded those items that would never sell. As if reading my mind, my mother sent me a look of warning, so I kept my mouth shut.
The doorbell rang. Turning to Nola, my mother said, “That must be your grandmother. We’ll leave you here to freshen up and get ready for lunch. We have to be at Alluette’s Café at noon, so we’ll need to leave in about half an hour.”
A crease formed between Nola’s eyebrows. “Why are we going again?”
“We wanted you to meet Alston Ravenel and her mother, Cecily. They’re cousins of yours—third cousins, once removed on your grandmother’s side.” She began listing Nola’s family tree, as all Charlestonians are wont to do, until Nola’s eyes began to glaze over.
My mother noticed and stopped with the
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