blow over and we'll get back to the way things were."
"When are you ever going to get fed up enough to do something about this life of yours?"
Josey snapped her fingers in an aha! moment. "I know, I'll start with kicking you out."
There was a knock at the door, which made Josey jump. She hurriedly wrapped her sandwich and wiped her mouth. "Scoot over," Josey whispered, trying to push the box into the closet.
"No way. You are not putting that in here."
"Della Lee . . ."
Another knock.
"Just a minute," Josey called, turning to push the box under her bed, then stuffing the rest of the egg sandwich into the bag. She threw it under the bed too. She quickly closed the closet door on Della Lee, then stood and said, "Come in."
The door opened. It was Helena. She was wearing a long robe and her hair was in paper rollers, covered with the silk scarf Josey had given her for her birthday in the summer. She stood in the doorway and looked around Josey's bedroom leerily. "Oldsey," she said, bringing a small peanut butter jar out of her deep robe pocket, "I bring this."
Josey walked over to Helena in the doorway. "Peanut butter?"
Helena unscrewed the lid and showed her. "Dirt."
"Oh," Josey said, nodding though she had no idea what Helena was talking about. "Right. Dirt."
"Look. Look what I do." Josey watched as Helena sprinkled dirt in a thin line on the floor at the threshold. Then she handed the jar to Josey. "You do at that door." She pointed to the closet across the room.
"You want me to sprinkle dirt at my closet door?"
"Yes. Dirt from my home. My sister send." Helena indicated the jar. "It keep bad thing away. No more downstairs."
"Oh, I see." Helena knew something was going on, and she knew it had something to do with Josey's closet. Great.
Josey went to the closet and sprinkled dirt at the door to make Helena feel better. Every so often Josey would find that Helena had sewn small crosses into the hems of Josey's dresses for luck, and she always knocked on door casings three times before entering a room that had been empty for more than a couple of hours, to chase ghosts away. Helena didn't speak often of where she came from, but she held fast to beliefs that were obviously deeply rooted.
She brought the jar back to Helena, who was nodding now. "There. Oldsey sleep. No bad thing."
"Thank you, Helena."
"Oldsey a good girl," Helena said, and walked away.
Josey closed the door, then went directly to her bed.
"You live in a crazy house," Della Lee called from the closet.
"You can always leave," Josey said, going to her knees and crawling under the bed to get her sandwich bag.
"And miss all this fun? I don't think so."
6
Sour Patch
Saturday afternoon Margaret changed her shoes three times, her purse twice, and snapped at Josey for no other reason than because she was standing there, waiting patiently to take Margaret to tea.
Margaret hated having tea with Livia Lynley-White. She second-guessed everything she wore and actually practiced answers to possible questions Livia might ask. Margaret knew she should be past the point of feeling intimidated by this woman. Livia was ninety-one years old now. No one that old should still have so much power.
But she did have power. She was the only person in town, besides Marco, who knew about Margaret's affair. It had happened over forty years ago, but Livia would not let it go. Every month, like a queen, Livia commanded Margaret to join her for tea, and every month Margaret had no choice but to go. They met in a private, sectioned-off area of the tearoom in what used to be Livia's old family home, the oldest home in Bald Slope. Thirty years ago, at Marco's encouraging, Livia had donated the house to the preservation society and it was turned into a museum with a tearoom. Livia thought Marco could do no wrong. She'd even consulted him on the perfect place to build her new home on the mountain. She lived there now with her nurse, her maid and a cowed granddaughter.
"When are you ever going to get fed up enough to do something about this life of yours?"
Josey snapped her fingers in an aha! moment. "I know, I'll start with kicking you out."
There was a knock at the door, which made Josey jump. She hurriedly wrapped her sandwich and wiped her mouth. "Scoot over," Josey whispered, trying to push the box into the closet.
"No way. You are not putting that in here."
"Della Lee . . ."
Another knock.
"Just a minute," Josey called, turning to push the box under her bed, then stuffing the rest of the egg sandwich into the bag. She threw it under the bed too. She quickly closed the closet door on Della Lee, then stood and said, "Come in."
The door opened. It was Helena. She was wearing a long robe and her hair was in paper rollers, covered with the silk scarf Josey had given her for her birthday in the summer. She stood in the doorway and looked around Josey's bedroom leerily. "Oldsey," she said, bringing a small peanut butter jar out of her deep robe pocket, "I bring this."
Josey walked over to Helena in the doorway. "Peanut butter?"
Helena unscrewed the lid and showed her. "Dirt."
"Oh," Josey said, nodding though she had no idea what Helena was talking about. "Right. Dirt."
"Look. Look what I do." Josey watched as Helena sprinkled dirt in a thin line on the floor at the threshold. Then she handed the jar to Josey. "You do at that door." She pointed to the closet across the room.
"You want me to sprinkle dirt at my closet door?"
"Yes. Dirt from my home. My sister send." Helena indicated the jar. "It keep bad thing away. No more downstairs."
"Oh, I see." Helena knew something was going on, and she knew it had something to do with Josey's closet. Great.
Josey went to the closet and sprinkled dirt at the door to make Helena feel better. Every so often Josey would find that Helena had sewn small crosses into the hems of Josey's dresses for luck, and she always knocked on door casings three times before entering a room that had been empty for more than a couple of hours, to chase ghosts away. Helena didn't speak often of where she came from, but she held fast to beliefs that were obviously deeply rooted.
She brought the jar back to Helena, who was nodding now. "There. Oldsey sleep. No bad thing."
"Thank you, Helena."
"Oldsey a good girl," Helena said, and walked away.
Josey closed the door, then went directly to her bed.
"You live in a crazy house," Della Lee called from the closet.
"You can always leave," Josey said, going to her knees and crawling under the bed to get her sandwich bag.
"And miss all this fun? I don't think so."
6
Sour Patch
Saturday afternoon Margaret changed her shoes three times, her purse twice, and snapped at Josey for no other reason than because she was standing there, waiting patiently to take Margaret to tea.
Margaret hated having tea with Livia Lynley-White. She second-guessed everything she wore and actually practiced answers to possible questions Livia might ask. Margaret knew she should be past the point of feeling intimidated by this woman. Livia was ninety-one years old now. No one that old should still have so much power.
But she did have power. She was the only person in town, besides Marco, who knew about Margaret's affair. It had happened over forty years ago, but Livia would not let it go. Every month, like a queen, Livia commanded Margaret to join her for tea, and every month Margaret had no choice but to go. They met in a private, sectioned-off area of the tearoom in what used to be Livia's old family home, the oldest home in Bald Slope. Thirty years ago, at Marco's encouraging, Livia had donated the house to the preservation society and it was turned into a museum with a tearoom. Livia thought Marco could do no wrong. She'd even consulted him on the perfect place to build her new home on the mountain. She lived there now with her nurse, her maid and a cowed granddaughter.
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