of colored and clear glass that was pretty enough to hang in one of her windows—one of the windows Paul would be unlikely to see if he stopped by the house.
She drove into Manteo and parked across the street from the retirement home, directly in front of a small antique shop. Her eyes were drawn to the sidewalk in front of the little shop, where three antique dolls dressed in satin and lace sat on three splintery old wicker chairs. This must be where Annie had bought her daughter’s birthday gifts. She would have to tell Alec.
She got out of the car and shaded her eyes to look at the retirement home. It was a lovely old house, painted sky-blue with sparkling white trim. A broad porch ran its entire width. From the street, Olivia could see that several of the front windows were filled with stained glass panels, no doubt made and donated by Saint Anne.
She lugged the bags out of the trunk of the Volvo and walked across the street and up the sidewalk to the house. Although she’d been out of her air-conditioned car for only seconds, she was already perspiring. It was the hottest day of the summer so far and there was no breeze at all.
About a dozen sturdy-looking white rocking chairs lined the porch, but only a couple of them were occupied— one by a shriveled old woman who looked too frail to be sitting out side in the heat, the other by a white-haired woman wearing sneakers and holding a newspaper on her lap.
“Hello, there, young lady,” the woman in sneakers said as Olivia started up the steps. “You’re bringing us some magazines?”
Olivia set the bags down on the top step and shaded her eyes again. The woman sat clear-eyed and stick- straight in the rocker, but this close up, Olivia could see she was quite old, her face lined and leathery. Someone had carefully trimmed and shaped her short white hair.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “Is there someone inside I should leave them with?”
“Sandy’s in there.”
“Eh?” The second woman leaned forward, and the woman in sneakers spoke loudly into her ear.
“She’s brought us magazines, Jane, you know, like Annie used to do?”
Jane gave a slight nod before leaning back in her chair again and closing her eyes.
“You knew Annie?” Olivia stepped under the porch roof, out of the sun.
“Indeed I did.” The woman held out one long-boned hand to Olivia. “I’m Mary Poor, keeper of the Kiss River Lighthouse.”
Olivia smiled and shook her hand, struck by the strength in the woman’s slender fingers. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Poor. My name’s Olivia Simon.”
“
“I think you know my husband, Paul Macelli,” Olivia continued. “He interviewed you about the lighthouse.”
Mary Poor narrowed her eyes at Olivia. “He’s got you running around, doing Annie’s old chores?”
Olivia was speechless for a moment, trying to figure out which of them was confused. “No,” she said finally. “I’m taking stained glass lessons from the man Annie used to share her studio with and…”
“Tom, am I right? Tom what’s-his-name. Wears his hair like a girl.”
“Yes, that’s right. Tom Nestor. Do you know him?”
“Oh.” Mary smiled, displaying lovely straight teeth for a woman her age. “I met him once or twice,” she said. “So it’s Tom who’s got you doing Annie’s work.”
Jane started to snore softly from the chair at Mary’s side.
“Well, no,” Olivia said. “I saw the pile of magazines, and Tom told me that Annie used to bring them over here, so since I’m volunteering at the women’s shelter, I figured I could…”
“You’re working at that hell hole?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Oh, no, child, you shouldn’t be there.” Mary patted the arm of the empty rocker next to her. “Sit down,” she said.
Olivia looked at her watch. She was running late, but she was curious about this old woman. She sat down in the rocker.
“You’re a pretty girl,” Mary said.
“Thank you.”
“You remind me of my daughter, Elizabeth. She had your color hair—dark and silky—and eyes like yours, with a little sad look to them.”
Olivia leaned away from her. She did not want sad-looking eyes.
“You don’t look a thing like Annie, though.”
“I know,” Olivia said. “I’ve seen pictures of her.”
“I bet you’re not like her in any way at all.”
Olivia felt insulted, and Mary did not miss her look of dismay. She hurried on.
“And that’s just fine, child,” she continued. “You be you, let Annie be Annie. Would you have done what she did? Jumped in front of a woman about to get her head shot off by her husband?”
Olivia had wondered about that herself. “Well, I like to think I…”
“The hell you would. Instinct takes over and you fight for yourself, for your own hide. And that’s the way it
