Legacy of Silence. Flo Fitzpatrick

      “Nah. It’s cool. Miss Virginia and I were good friends from the moment we met. If she pops out of the woodwork one night I’ll ask her spirit to tea—”

      “She loved giving tea parties! For kids, anyway. I remember she’d invite you over and always send you home with a doggie bag full of fantastic cookies and little cakes. The woman was an amazing baker. I wonder if she was one of those culinary marvels who just sweeps into a kitchen and emerges with delicacies or if she had to dive through cookbooks and recipe files.”

      “Hmm. Now that would be a treasure—finding her recipe book. Tell Farrah if anything like that turns up, I’ll give it to her. Anyway, I honestly don’t mind being here sans companionship, unless creepy critters really do inhabit the woodwork—and I do not mean Virginia’s spirit or any other non-corporeal beings. I’m talkin’ rats or mites. Or maybe I’ll trip over a feline who deserted the old Caddy in search of tuna.”

      After a moment, Miranda’s father coughed and completely changed the subject. He quietly asked “Not to sound like a nosy parent, but how are you feeling about the fiasco with Grant? It’s only been a couple of days since you told me y’all broke up. Are you okay?” He paused. “Are you up to telling me what happened?”

      Miranda pushed a box of books off an armchair and then sank down into the soft cushions. “I’m fine. Really. Surprisingly, I’m more than fine. The basic story is that Grant Spencer chose the occasion of our closing night party for Illumination to announce that he had wonderful news. He’s going to direct Topaz in Delirium.”

      “I remember you saying something about that a few months ago. He was sweet-talking the producer every chance he got, right?”

      “Oh, yeah. But apparently he took it a step further. After I’d congratulated him on getting the gig he rather casually added that he was dating Cyan Marlowe, the college-age daughter of Tyrone Marlowe, who just happens to be the producer of Topaz in Delirium.”

      “Wait. Back that up.”

      Miranda could hear the mirth her dad was trying to hide.

      “Did you say Cyan?”

      “I did.”

      “As in the inkjet color that always runs out first?”

      Miranda laughed. “Precisely. Daddy Marlowe is Mr. Broadway Producer Extraordinaire. It’s going to be interesting to see whose ego wins between Marlowe and Grant. Anyway, it struck me that my boyfriend was a toad—which admittedly wasn’t until after he broke up with me—but it still hit purty durn fast. I decided I’d be better off without a narcissistic, overly ambitious jerk who ruined the closing night party for me.”

      “Sorry, hon. Sounds like Grant brought tackiness to a new level.”

      Miranda sighed. “My only lingering question is ‘what on earth did I ever see in him beyond good looks, charm and smarts and the theater mania we had in common?’”

      Her refined and genteel father produced a distinct snort. “Well, having met the man, I’d add charisma to that list. I thought he was great for you and I’m generally a decent judge of character. I guess we were both deceived.”

      “Well, I’ll just be more careful next time I’m attracted to someone and try to curb my impulsive heart. But I have to admit I’m really ticked Grant’s directing Topaz—there was a great part in it for me. Ah, well. Nothing to be gained by angsting over it all. I’ll hang out here for a while, play Virginia’s lovely piano and have a marvelous time sifting through her things. Maybe get some answers as to why she hid in this place for those seventy years.”

      “Now that would be a great mystery to solve. I remember hearing that she worked at one of the old department stores downtown back when they had their own tailors, but by the time we moved here she was taking in clothing at home and wouldn’t leave the house. You practically lived at Virginia’s 24/7, especially around Halloween.”

      Miranda sat straight up. “Halloween. Yes. Talk about memories.” She closed her eyes, seeing herself as a little girl, dressed in a pink tutu and ballet slippers, ringing the doorbell of this very house and receiving a warm greeting from a tall, elderly woman with exquisitely refined features. Miranda could almost smell the scent of cinnamon-flaked cocoa and the chocolate cupcakes decorated in orange icing that had been sitting on a table in the living room. She could see Miss Virginia, dressed all in black, smiling, as she ushered the ballerina, the superhero and the astronaut inside for what had been Miranda’s first Halloween mini-party.

      “I was seven at the time. I remember you let the Shapiro twins be my escorts. That’s how Miss Virginia and I first met.” Miranda glanced at the corner of the room where Virginia’s tea table still stood. She could almost see the starched doilies under the plates of goodies and Virginia’s steady hand pouring homemade hot chocolate into cups for her Halloween guests. “Dad? Do you remember anything else about her life? Maybe some tidbit a neighbor let slip? I honestly don’t recall her talking about her past—she probably knew I was too young to care and most of the time I was rattling on about my dance recitals or school plays or...” Miranda swallowed hard. “What a selfish little brat I was.”

      “Honey, you were young. No kid wants to hear the life story of anyone over the age of eighteen. Give yourself a break. She understood. Believe me.” He paused for a moment then continued, “I heard that she bought the house in the mid-forties—she might’ve been a war widow. Then again I never heard anyone call her anything but Miss Virginia. And she definitely wasn’t from Birmingham.”

      “That much I knew. She was Czech. I found out the first time she made kolaches for me and I became instantly addicted.” Miranda could almost taste the fruit-filled pastries Virginia had baked on a weekly basis. “She was a great cook but I think she also dabbled in art. Or maybe she told me she’d been an artist’s model? I’m not sure. She said she had a portrait of a child my age who had my ‘impish expression.’ But she never got around to showing it to me. I wonder if I’ll finally get to see it.”

      “She also loved music and theater,” Tim said.

      “She did. I used to perform all my dance routines for her. I have this very clear memory of reciting and acting out the poem The Highwayman when I was in sixth grade. She thought it was a Tony-winning performance.”

      Miranda blinked back tears as the memories flooded in. She had often played piano and sung while Miss Virginia sat in a rocking chair, quietly listening; then the elderly lady and the small child would sit down to formal tea. Miranda inhaled. She needed to end the conversation before the strong emotions finished it for her.

      “Dad, I just noticed the time. I’d better get a few boxes moved before the delivery guys show up with the new bed. If they can’t inch it back into the bedroom past the clutter they might pitch the frame and mattresses into the yard in disgust. Which reminds me—do I pay them today or did you already take care of the bill?”

      “It’s paid in full and you don’t need to reimburse me. I’ll let you go, but remember you’re coming over to the house next week. Farrah’s invited some folks to meet you. And before you say anything, yes, I’m well aware that you’re not up for any matchmaking dinners right now, but Farrah really wants to do this. And I’ve been asked to remind you that the Trussville Fair is in ten days. As far as I know it’s still set up like it was back when we used to go. Lots of artwork and crafts and I think some local bands are playing.”

      Miranda had winced after hearing Farrah and dinner in the same sentence but tried not to let her feelings about the get-together leak into her tone as she thanked her father and said goodbye.

      She quickly began to move boxes away from the piano, muttering “labels” to herself. She needed a system for cataloguing so she wouldn’t end up going over the same box twice as she did inventory for the estate sale. Miranda peeked inside a box that was partially open and found Virginia’s sewing basket. Her smile warring with tears, Miranda reverently lifted it out and opened it, eyeing the ancient thimbles and the twenty-odd spools of thread in various colors. She gently unwrapped