Legacy of Silence. Flo Fitzpatrick

waved her hand in the air and shook her head. “Nothing. Go on?”

      “Our tea turned into dinner and that dinner turned into regular visits. I’d come over here sometimes after I’d taught my classes. Or if there was an event I thought I could encourage her to attend, like a concert or play or a showing at a gallery, I’d drive.” A broad smile suddenly brightened his face and Miranda’s pulse quickened. “I practically converted to the Jewish faith since I drove her to quite a few Friday-night services at the temple.”

      Miranda grinned, remembering the day she’d met Cort and told him that Virginia had been able to charm the few people she allowed into her life into doing just about anything she wanted.

      “We got to be friends,” Russ said. “Good friends.”

      Miranda couldn’t stop herself. “But still—why you?”

      “What?”

      She pointed to him and then waved her hand around to indicate the whole house. “Why you?”

      “Oh. You want to know why Virginia wrote the second will replacing you and making me her heir?”

      Miranda grimaced but nodded. “Well, yeah.”

      His eyes suddenly pierced hers. “Perhaps she felt the house should go to someone who was there for her instead of someone who couldn’t be bothered to visit for six years. Someone who didn’t even make it down for the funeral.”

      Russ’s statement held no malice. Just cold facts that hit her the way a frozen drink causes a brain freeze. She swallowed. She started to protest that she hadn’t known about Virginia’s death until after the memorial service. But that excuse sounded feeble even to herself.

      Miranda turned around and headed for Virginia’s kitchen. Russ didn’t follow. She attempted to remove cups and saucers from the cabinets in an effort to keep from crying, but her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid she’d drop the non-shatterproof antiques.

      She stiffened. “Stop it, Miranda. You were working nonstop for six years. You sent letters. You called every chance you could. You were not an evil person.” She wasn’t going to let Russ get into her head, even if his statement had hurt her like a claw hammer ripping off a bandage. She took a few moments to do some deep breathing and then returned to the living room. Forcing a serenity she didn’t feel, she grabbed a box at random and sank to the floor. She almost put it back with the other boxes when she realized it was loaded with notebooks.

      Two of the books turned out to be filled with recipes. Great. Something else to remind her that she often acted like a brat around Farrah and that she’d hurt her father by not attending their wedding the year before, because, naturally, she’d been working. She’d just been cast in Illumination and couldn’t fly down for one night. Pile on that guilt, girl.

      She tried to keep her expression neutral as she methodically printed the dates of the books onto labels. After about ten minutes she glanced up. Russ was staring at her.

      What now? Is he going to tell me Virginia not only changed the will but warned him to make sure all the cats were safe before I entered so I wouldn’t be tempted to turn them into tennis strings?

      “What?” she asked, thankful he couldn’t hear the combined quiver and anger behind the one word.

      He shoved a journal at her. “You might want to read this.”

      She glanced at the first page and blinked back tears. Virginia had carefully noted the names and the date right below a photo that depicted three children.

      November 1, 1994

      Amber Shapiro, age twelve. Jillian Shapiro, age twelve. Miranda Nolan, age seven.

      Last night I met someone who will be a special friend. She is the same age as my precious son the year he was murdered in the camps. She knocked on my door with two other children, all of them dressed in their Halloween costumes. I invited them in for pastries and hot chocolate and to meet other children in the neighborhood. Americans are odd in this way. Children meet in their schools, sometimes in their churches, but often do not know their own neighbors. This night I was amused to see the mix of costumes. There were spacemen and superheroes and witches and blue creatures they called Smurfs. There were goblins and other characters from cartoon shows. But this little girl stood out because she and her ballerina costume were both so pretty.

      She came inside with her older friends but instead of joining the children who were eating cookies she walked up to me with no fear and said, “Want to see me do a pirouette? That’s French for spin. I have to warn you, it’s not very good yet but I can do one without falling down.”

      I told her I would love to see her pirouette. She very carefully set down her bag of Halloween treats and solemnly got into position. When she finished, she curtsied and I applauded and truthfully said she was wonderful!

      “Do you want to be a ballerina when you grow up?” I asked.

      She shook her head. “Nope. First off, I’m going to be too tall. I love ballet but I also love to sing and act. I’m going to be a triple threat.”

      Miranda couldn’t help but smile even as her heart constricted. More than twenty years had passed and she remembered that night with absolute clarity. She positioned herself so her back was comfortably resting against the sofa, then closed her eyes. She could hear Virginia’s gentle voice, a voice that had retained a slight accent even after fifty years in America.

      “Triple threat? My, my! That sounds quite scary but very important. What is your name, young lady?”

      “Miranda Nolan. What’s yours?”

      “People call me Miss Virginia.”

      “That’s pretty. It’s also a state. I learned that in school. Its capital is Richmond but I visited Williamsburg last year with my dad and it was neat. We had the best gingerbread ever and we watched these guys making lutes and violins. I want to go back someday.”

      “What grade are you in, Miranda?” Virginia had asked.

      “Second. We’re learning cursive and I’m terrible. But I’m going to be a Native American princess for our Thanksgiving play at school.” Miranda still recalled how upset she’d been when she told Virginia, “My teacher wants me to do a dance to ‘This Land is Your Land.’”

      “Are you worried you can’t do it?”

      Miranda had been scornful. “Oh, no! I can do it. It’s a really easy dance! It’s just... Well, Native American princesses didn’t do ballet back then and that song wasn’t written until the 1940s. I looked it up. I’m not stupid just because I’m seven.”

      Virginia’s composure had never broken although now, as an adult, Miranda realized the elderly lady had doubtless needed to stifle a laugh or two over Miranda’s serious attempt to resolve her dilemma—the desire to perform versus anachronisms and reality. Virginia had quietly steered the young Miranda into a solution that helped set Miranda’s career in theater in motion.

      “This is a fantasy play, Miranda. It is not historically accurate. After all, I do not think the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag tribe sat down to a turkey dinner with stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry jelly and pumpkin pie with whipped cream.”

      Miranda had giggled. “Bet they would’ve liked that more than eels and gooseberries! My teacher said that’s what they probably ate. Icky!”

      Before she and Virginia could continue the conversation, one of Miranda’s friends had called out, urging Miranda to try a cupcake. Miranda had again curtsied with the grace of a budding ballerina, then thanked Miss Virginia and run to join her friends.

      Miranda opened her eyes and continued to read the journal.

      As they were leaving I asked if I could take a picture. Miranda and the twins all posed for me in their costumes. Amber and Jillian went outside, but Miranda stopped and again carefully