'Did you grow up there?'
'No, no. My father would never live in this part of town. She bought the house after he died about fifteen years ago. I grew up at Beaulieu on the Vernon River.'
Mrs. Bartlett drove like she walked. Fast. Fortunately, the short streets didn't provide enough space between stop signs to give her the chance to do more than stomp the gas pedal then slam on the brakes. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to ride with her on the interstate. After several quick turns she came to a stop alongside the curb.
'Here we are. Built in 1860, just in time for the original owner to ride off to the war and get killed at Cold Harbor.'
It was a square two-story brick structure with tall narrow windows on the first level and broad front steps. On the side of the house was an attached screened porch. Two large live oaks were planted between the house and the sidewalk. An iron railing extended from the steps down the street on either side, then turned toward the rear of the house.
'It's beautiful,' I said.
'She wanted it and got it,' Mrs. Bartlett responded crisply. 'I thought it was a mistake at the time, but it's worth four times what she paid for it. Mother knows how to manage her money. Her father made a mint in real estate, and it rubbed off on her.'
We walked up ten steps to the front door. I could see there was a basement with windows partly below street level. Mrs. Bartlett rang the door chime.
'I have a key, but she hates it when I walk in unannounced. It will make her happy to pretend we're here for a formal visit.'
After a long wait, a white-haired woman shorter than Mrs. Bartlett but with a similar figure opened the door. She had bright blue eyes that narrowed slightly when she looked at me and made me feel like she was sizing me up in a split second. Mrs. Fairmont was wearing a carefully tailored yellow dress and white shoes with low heels. A string of pearls encircled her neck. Mrs. Bartlett kissed both her mother's cheeks.
'This is Miss Tami Taylor,' Mrs. Bartlett said, 'the young woman I told you about who is going to work for Samuel Braddock's firm this summer.' She turned to me. 'Samuel and Eloise Braddock have been here for cocktails many times before going to the opera.'
Mrs. Fairmont took my hand in hers. She was wearing a large diamond ring accented with emeralds on her right hand.
'Good morning, child,' she said in a slightly raspy voice steeped in a coastal accent.
'Pleased to meet you,' I answered.
Mrs. Bartlett patted her mother on the shoulder and entered the house. Mrs. Fairmont still held on to my hand.
'The house has double parlors,' Mrs. Bartlett called back from the interior. 'It's not an uncommon design. Mother, was Gracie here yesterday? Everything looks so nice. I like the way she arranged these flowers. Where did she get them?'
Mrs. Fairmont stayed by the door, holding my hand. Her skin was wrinkled with age, and her knuckles revealed a touch of arthritis. She put her other hand on top of mine.
'You have nice hands,' she said.
'Thank you.'
'Enjoy them while you can.'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Don't block the door, Mother,' Mrs. Bartlett called out. 'Where do you want us to sit?'
Mrs. Fairmont looked up at me. 'Do you prefer green or blue?'
'Blue is my favorite.'
The house had two parlors separated by a foyer that faced the main stairway to the second floor. On the right was a pale green room; to the left one painted an ephemeral blue.
'That is the green room,' Mrs. Fairmont said, gesturing with her bejeweled hand. 'And this is the blue room.'
Both rooms contained beautiful furniture, original paintings, and mirrors in gilt frames. I wondered how grandchildren and greatgrandchildren fared in the house. A wrestling match between Kyle and Bobby could have caused thousands of dollars of damage. Mrs. Fairmont went into the blue room and sat in a side chair. Mrs. Bartlett motioned for me to join her on a cream sofa.
'You have a beautiful home,' I said. 'Mrs. Bartlett told me a little of its history.'
'The couple who sold it to me did most of the restoration,' Mrs. Fairmont said. 'Before that, it was a rooming house. Can you believe it? Workmen and laborers renting rooms by the week.' She leaned forward. 'If I could understand the creaks in the night, I'm sure there are many stories to tell. Did you know our voices will echo in the universe until the end of time?'
'That's a silly notion,' Mrs. Bartlett cut in. 'A sound doesn't really exist if it can't be heard, like a tree falling in the forest when no one is around.'
'What do you think?' Mrs. Fairmont turned her blue eyes toward me.
'Well, the Bible says God keeps a record of every word that's spoken and will judge us by what we've said.'
Mrs. Fairmont nodded in satisfaction toward her daughter. 'See, Christine, it's the same thing, only I didn't know God agreed with me.'
'Let's not get into anything controversial,' Mrs. Bartlett said. 'I'd like to know more about Miss Taylor's background.'
Controversial could be a synonym for my background, but I knew how to exercise discretion. As I talked, I emphasized my commitment to God and family without going into detail about the rules that guided my conduct. Mama said a question was an open doorway to proclamation of the truth, but I didn't want to come on too strong. Mrs. Fairmont seemed especially interested in our life in the country and asked questions about the garden and the chickens. Mrs. Bartlett interrupted when I described my homeschool experience.
'Your mother taught you Shakespeare?'
'Yes ma'am. I memorized long passages from several plays and quite a few sonnets.'
Mrs. Bartlett shook her head. 'Of course, I've heard about the homeschool movement, but I thought it an inferior model. Mother and I both attended private schools.'
'It can be the best and the worst,' I said. 'The fact that I did well in high school, college, and now law school is proof it can provide the foundation for a successful academic career.'
'Do you embroider?' Mrs. Fairmont asked, her eyes getting brighter.
'Please, Mother, Miss Taylor is obviously a traditional girl, but it's not fair to expect her to embroider.'
'No ma'am. I can cross-stitch with a pattern, but I've never tried to create my own designs. I'd love to see some of your embroidery.'
'It's in the bedrooms and upstairs along the hall,' Mrs. Bartlett replied. 'Mother doesn't allow anything in these rooms that isn't museum quality.'
Mama proudly displayed my crude cross-stitch in the front room.
'I can't embroider anymore,' Mrs. Fairmont sighed.
I saw a tear run down the older woman's cheek. I glanced at Mrs. Bartlett, who had picked up a ceramic figurine.
'Are you all right?' I asked the older woman.
Mrs. Fairmont wiped away the tear with a lace handkerchief she pulled from the side pocket of her dress.
'Please excuse me. It's not about the needlepoint. I've been crying for no apparent reason recently. It's one of the symptoms of a condition I have called multi-infarct dementia.'
I couldn't hide my surprise.
'You're still smarter than I am,' Mrs. Bartlett added with a nervous laugh. 'And I'm not sure it's a good idea to study too much about medical things. That's why we have doctors. Talking about health problems can make anyone depressed. Did you tell me where Gracie bought the flowers?'
Mrs. Fairmont looked directly at me and spoke. 'What do you think? Should I educate myself during lucid moments or try to ignore the fact that the blood vessels in my brain are slowing dying?'