It was definitely grand, and what I’d imagined an Edwardian flat in London would look like. No dust clung to any surface, and I could probably see the reflection of my tired face and dark circles if I got close enough to the high shine of the brass fittings on the doors and light fixtures. Yet . . . I paused my thoughts, wondering what it was that made me think of those odd days after my mother’s death, when daylight and nighttime melded together in a gray fog that grounded us all.
Yes, there it was. An air of suspended breath, the anticipation like the moment before flipping on a light when you enter a darkened room. The antique furniture and phone all seemed to be waiting for something to happen, to welcome a visitor. To ring. For someone to walk through the front door after a long absence.
A dull pressure formed behind my eyes. It felt strangely like tears—until I remembered how exhausted I was and how my mother used to tell me how when I was small she’d have to lie down with me until I fell asleep; when I was tired, my imagination ran like wild horses.
“Are you all right?” Colin asked, surprising me with what sounded like genuine concern.
“Just jet-lagged. I could really use some caffeine. Or a lie-down, as Arabella suggested.”
“It’s best to stay up and live your day in the new time zone,” Laura said. “Precious is so eager to see you—I’m sure you’ll perk up as soon as we get some caffeine in you.” She pointed to a corner of the foyer. “You can leave your suitcase right there—Colin can put it in your room later—and follow me.”
Laura led us and the dogs into a bright kitchen with tall windows, a black-and-white-tiled floor, and a pretty oak trestle table in the middle of the room. A refrigerator, barely larger than a dorm fridge, sat next to the sink, and two blue dog beds—one large, one small—were tucked neatly into the corner.
“Tea for everyone?” Laura asked, filling a kettle. She must have seen the disappointment in my eyes. “I’ve got iced tea for Miss Dubose if you’d prefer that, Maddie.”
I felt as if I’d just been given a hug. “I would love that. Is it sweet tea?”
“Oh, yes,” Laura said, nodding her head with conviction. “I always add two teaspoons of sugar to Miss Duboses’s glass to make it sweet enough, but I’ll let you add your own.”
“I . . .” I stopped, not wanting to appear rude. But no Southern-born person would ever make sweet tea by dropping a teaspoon or two of sugar into a glass of cold tea. It had to be brewed with the sugar to be authentic. I knew a person’s sense of taste diminished with age, which had to be the only reason why Precious hadn’t revolted and demanded the real thing. Or her Southern roots made her too polite to say anything that might hurt Laura’s feelings. That was the same reason why I smiled and said, “That’s fine—thanks.”
Laura chatted with Arabella and Colin as she added tea leaves to a rose-spotted pot and poured boiled water from the kettle over it. Both Colin and Arabella nodded when she held up a small pitcher, then poured a generous amount of milk into two empty teacups. While waiting for the tea to steep, she pulled out a glass pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. “Lemon?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, wondering how I was going to drink an entire glass of regular tea with undissolved sugar clumps floating in it.
“Shall we?” Laura asked as she placed a plate of McVitie’s Digestives onto the tray along with our various cups and glasses. “It’s good you’re here, Colin. Seeing you always brightens Precious’s day. You work so much that she considers it a treat to see you during the daytime.”
Colin picked up the tray. “Is she in her sitting room?”
“Yes. I’ll get the door.”
Laura gave treats to the dogs and left them in the kitchen. We followed her through a swinging door that led from the foyer to a long hallway with doors on each side. Framed photographs covered the walls. I lingered at one of them that was larger than the others: a black-and-white picture of what looked like a car from the nineteen thirties or forties, with the steering wheel on the right-hand side. An elegant, slender man with slicked-back dark hair and wearing a tuxedo stood beside the back door of the car where a woman in an evening gown appeared in the opening. His head was turned from the photographer, obscuring his face, his attention focused on the woman. His hand was held out toward her; her long, slender arms were bare of jewelry. One delicate foot in a high-heeled stiletto had emerged from the car, only one slim ankle and her white face visible above a heavy fur collar. But what a face. It wasn’t simply the beauty of it that I found so compelling. My stepmother, Suzanne, was a professional photographer. She had taught me that was the easy part of photography—taking pictures of things that most people want to look at, things that didn’t challenge them too much. To the professional, the secret was finding what lay behind the obvious beauty and figuring out whatever it was that made the viewer want to keep looking.
The woman’s bright hair and light eyes shone with vibrancy; the thrust of her shoulders and chest showed a level of confidence I usually didn’t see in women that young. But it was her expression that made me pause,
