Peg returned with a tray holding a sandwich and potato chips, a glass of milk, a sugar cookie with a Santa face, and a Spode pitcher and cup and saucer. Keith sat gingerly in his grandmother’s lap. He managed half a sandwich, drank a portion of the milk, drowsily subsided against her.
Gina poked her head in the door. “The room’s ready.” She was subdued, still with a faint frown.
“Thank you, Gina.” Susan lightly brushed back a lock of blond hair. “He’s almost asleep. Peg”—Susan’s face was suddenly worried—“will you stay with him tonight? He’s in a strange place. I don’t want him to wake up and be frightened. If he wakes up…” She paused, struggled for breath.
Peg took two quick steps to the chair. “I’ll stay with him. Do you need oxygen?” As Peg wheeled a portable tank near, I understood why the fireplace held fake electric logs.
Susan shakily reached out for the mask and held it to her face. Slowly her breathing eased. The bluish tinge faded from her face. She put aside the mask, sank back against the chair. “I’m tired now.” Her voice was faint. “Tomorrow I’ll read everything.” Her voice was flagging. Susan gathered up the papers, replaced them in the envelope. “Mitch’s little boy…tomorrow…some toys…I’ll talk to Wade…He’ll take the proper steps, make everything official.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “Mitch’s little boy…” She twisted to look up at Peg. “Take good care of him.”
CHAPTER THREE
Light spilled from a room at the end of the hall as Peg nudged the door wider with her knee. She carried Keith to a twin bed with the sheet turned down. She eased him gently between the sheets, then lifted the cover to untie his sneakers, slip them from his feet. He sighed and turned on one side. Dark lashes fluttered on a pale cheek. He was deep sunk in sleep, the soft and yielding abandonment of a child.
Peg lifted his head, edged a corner of the pillow beneath his cheek. She drew up the sheet and a beige wool blanket and a puffy pale blue comforter. “Good night, sleep tight.” She tiptoed softly from the room, joined Gina in the hallway.
I took a moment to be certain Keith was comfortably asleep, then I moved through the closed door into the hall and joined Gina and Peg at the head of the stairs. The calico cat padded from Susan’s room and moved lightly down the stairway.
Gina looked bereft and forlorn. “Do you really think he’s Mitch’s son?”
Peg was impatient. “What are you suggesting instead? Somebody had an extra kid hanging around and they happened to know enough about Susan and the family to insinuate him here? If he isn’t Mitch’s son, how did someone get Mitch’s medals?”
Gina gripped the newel post. “I suppose there’s some reason he was left by himself on the front porch. But why didn’t the person who dropped him off stay and explain?”
Peg turned her hands over in bewilderment. “I have no idea. I suppose we’ll find out. There are always reasons when things happen.” A sudden smile softened her face. “Susan hasn’t been this happy in years and years. I wish she were stronger and could live long enough to watch him grow up. Anyway, we can be sure everything will be sorted out properly. Susan will want everything to be on a legal basis. You know how she is. She crosses every
“Mitch’s little boy.” Poignant sorrow made Gina look older. She drew in a sharp breath. “Well, it’s time we shared the good news.” Her tone was brittle, her smile brilliant. “I’ll tell you what, cuz. You do the honors. Everyone will hang on each word. It’s going to be a whole new world for Aunt Jake and Tucker and me and Harrison and Charlotte. I guarantee you will upstage Harrison expounding on Lapland.”
At the foot of the stairs, Peg squared her shoulders, moved to the closed door to the living room.
The calico cat looked up, golden eyes gleaming, one paw lifted as if knocking on the door.
Peg reached down, patted the svelte fur. “Ready for a party, Duchess?” Peg reached for the handle.
I went ahead of them. It was nice not to have to wait for doors to be opened, and I always got a thrill out of passing through a wall. I like hovering above things as well. Weightlessness is fun. I will admit that I do like being
In the living room, I was delighted to find the huge room much as I remembered it: dark-stained wainscot and trim, muted rose silk walls, ornate plasterwork on the ceiling and cornices. The French doors held the same copper foil leaded-glass windows that I remembered. The room was pleasantly warm from the wood fire. An intricately carved rosewood chair sat next to the grand piano. The rose of the upper walls matched the dusty rose of the Oriental rug. On a sideboard stretched an array of tantalizing holiday treats: cheese, fruit, crackers, brownies, cookies, and what might be the remnants of a birthday cake.
I was ravenously hungry. Being on the earth, even when not visible, I needed food and sleep. I found that interesting. I zoomed to the sideboard, eyeing the Brie.
“…stayed in a glass igloo. Charlotte and I could see the Northern lights from our bed. It was my most spectacular birthday to date.” The balding speaker was comfortable in corduroy trousers, a cream turtleneck, and a seasonal red vest. His ruddy complexion suggested a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors. He was muscular despite the beginnings of a middle-age paunch. Wrapping paper obviously removed from gifts was neatly folded next to a stack of diverse items: a book by Doris Kearns Goodwin, a bright Christmas tie with green wreaths against a red background, a red-and-black plaid wool hunting cap, a wall calendar for wine lovers, and a Christmas-scene paperweight.
An angular woman with frosty hair and oversize glasses observed him with a dry but fond smile. “Harrison, I doubt anyone is interested in our accommodations.” Her tone was indulgent, not chiding.
Light from the fire reflecting from his bifocals, Harrison grinned. “There speaks a wife who’s heard all of this before. But hey, how many people from Adelaide have spent the night in an igloo and slept on a motored bed, much less dined in an igloo restaurant with ice tables?”
“Motored bed?” A lanky young man with dark curly hair and a stubbled chin—had shaving gone out of fashion? —stretched booted feet lazily toward the fire. He looked exceedingly masculine in a fragile-appearing gilt chair. His Western-style shirt fitted him snugly and his Levi’s were white with age. “Does the bed have spark plugs, Harrison? Maybe fins? A retro motored bed?”
