from the doorway. “How wonderful to see you!” She set the box she was holding on the couch and turned to greet her daughter. “Are you all right? Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?”
“Hello, Mother.”
Amanda glanced at the objects she’d brought down from the second floor. “Mementos, sweetheart. Look here at what I found. It’s that copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry I gave you when you were six — the very same book your grandfather gave to me when I was a little girl. How I loved it. I still remember many of the verses by heart. It’s funny. I found it on the nightstand in my oId bedroom, just like someone had recently been looking at it.”
“I was reading it,” said Chelsea. “Childhood is a crock. Your friend Claire sent me a signed copy of
her
new book and I mailed it back. It’s all a lie. There’s no garden. No beauty.” She stood and walked to the window, keeping her back to both of them. “I’m putting the house on the market next week.”
“What about the furniture?” asked Amanda. “And all your grandfather’s personal possessions?”
“Take what you want The rest will be sold.”
“Chelsea, I …”
“I didn’t expect to see you. I have some work l need to do in the office. Perhaps you and Sophie should leave. You can come back another time.”
“But …”
“Please.”
“All right, if that’s what you want.” Amanda’s voice was full of defeat. She glanced at Sophie for support. “I just thought maybe we could talk for a bit. I wanted to invite you out to the house. Both your dad and I miss you.”
“Later, okay?”
“I suppose. But will you promise to call me? Soon?”
“I promise.”
Amanda picked up the box and crossed to the door. “Right now this family needs to stick together. We’re all we’ve got.”
“If that’s true, Mother, God have pity on us.”
11
Shortly before sunset, Sophie found herself walking Jenny Tremlet back to the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage where she and Ryan Woodthorpe had lived for the past few months. Together, they strode briskly down the wide front lawn and headed toward the darkening lake.
Before they reached the pine woods, Sophie glanced back at the massive brownstone. The soft evening light made it look as if it had been carved out of solid cocoa. The three-story structure was a simple rectangular design, no gingerbread or ornate moldings. Except for the mullioned windows and the stained glass above the entrance, the house was unadorned. Perhaps Amanda felt the need for some kind of exterior decoration to soften the unyielding severity of solid stone. The perennial garden that circled the house did alter the appearance somewhat, but for some reason it seemed artificial, much like affixing a bunch of pink bows to a slab of concrete.
Sophie waved at Luther who was sitting in one of the redwood chairs on the front deck. He held up his bottled beer in a kind of salute. She was glad they’d had a chance to spend some time together earlier in the afternoon. They’d talked for hours, just sitting by the lake, tossing chunks of stale bread to the gulls.
The fact that one of Luther’s guns had been used for the murder of Herman Grendel had really thrown him. But, in his usual ironic style, Luther had made light of the intense police interrogation he’d been subjected to yesterday afternoon. Sophie could see him lean back and look up at the sky. It was good that she could be here now, when both her friends needed her so much.
Jenny pointed to the quickest path, which would take them into the woods, past a thick patch of wild raspberries. As they walked along, Sophie glanced now and again at her companion. Jenny was a quiet young woman with a slow, deliberate manner and a rather pudgy, childlike face. Most of her clothing looked as if it belonged to an older, much larger, sibling. Unfortunately, Jenny didn’t look
“Hello, Mother.”
Amanda glanced at the objects she’d brought down from the second floor. “Mementos, sweetheart. Look here at what I found. It’s that copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry I gave you when you were six — the very same book your grandfather gave to me when I was a little girl. How I loved it. I still remember many of the verses by heart. It’s funny. I found it on the nightstand in my oId bedroom, just like someone had recently been looking at it.”
“I was reading it,” said Chelsea. “Childhood is a crock. Your friend Claire sent me a signed copy of
her
new book and I mailed it back. It’s all a lie. There’s no garden. No beauty.” She stood and walked to the window, keeping her back to both of them. “I’m putting the house on the market next week.”
“What about the furniture?” asked Amanda. “And all your grandfather’s personal possessions?”
“Take what you want The rest will be sold.”
“Chelsea, I …”
“I didn’t expect to see you. I have some work l need to do in the office. Perhaps you and Sophie should leave. You can come back another time.”
“But …”
“Please.”
“All right, if that’s what you want.” Amanda’s voice was full of defeat. She glanced at Sophie for support. “I just thought maybe we could talk for a bit. I wanted to invite you out to the house. Both your dad and I miss you.”
“Later, okay?”
“I suppose. But will you promise to call me? Soon?”
“I promise.”
Amanda picked up the box and crossed to the door. “Right now this family needs to stick together. We’re all we’ve got.”
“If that’s true, Mother, God have pity on us.”
11
Shortly before sunset, Sophie found herself walking Jenny Tremlet back to the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage where she and Ryan Woodthorpe had lived for the past few months. Together, they strode briskly down the wide front lawn and headed toward the darkening lake.
Before they reached the pine woods, Sophie glanced back at the massive brownstone. The soft evening light made it look as if it had been carved out of solid cocoa. The three-story structure was a simple rectangular design, no gingerbread or ornate moldings. Except for the mullioned windows and the stained glass above the entrance, the house was unadorned. Perhaps Amanda felt the need for some kind of exterior decoration to soften the unyielding severity of solid stone. The perennial garden that circled the house did alter the appearance somewhat, but for some reason it seemed artificial, much like affixing a bunch of pink bows to a slab of concrete.
Sophie waved at Luther who was sitting in one of the redwood chairs on the front deck. He held up his bottled beer in a kind of salute. She was glad they’d had a chance to spend some time together earlier in the afternoon. They’d talked for hours, just sitting by the lake, tossing chunks of stale bread to the gulls.
The fact that one of Luther’s guns had been used for the murder of Herman Grendel had really thrown him. But, in his usual ironic style, Luther had made light of the intense police interrogation he’d been subjected to yesterday afternoon. Sophie could see him lean back and look up at the sky. It was good that she could be here now, when both her friends needed her so much.
Jenny pointed to the quickest path, which would take them into the woods, past a thick patch of wild raspberries. As they walked along, Sophie glanced now and again at her companion. Jenny was a quiet young woman with a slow, deliberate manner and a rather pudgy, childlike face. Most of her clothing looked as if it belonged to an older, much larger, sibling. Unfortunately, Jenny didn’t look
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