The Memory House. Линда Гуднайт

Julia, do you have any of your wonderful peach tea made?”

      “Just finished. If you’d like to sit in the parlor, I’ll bring in a tray.”

      “You are such a darling girl. I was telling Willa Dean this morning. Wasn’t I, sister?”

      “Indeed, you were.” Hoisting an oversize straw bag, Willa Dean said, “I wouldn’t mind some coffee cake if you have it.”

      “Peach muffins?” Julia offered. “Made fresh this morning.”

      “Lovely. Thank you, dear.”

      “Coming right up.”

      With a smile, Julia left the twins in the pretty old parlor, a polished-wood space with a fireplace, the original chandelier and a toast-colored, camel-backed sofa. Across a persistent dark spot near the fireplace, she’d placed a colorful area rug. She’d heard rumors about the spots but didn’t want to think about bloodstains.

      She returned with the tray and after serving the twins, joined them. Valery owed her a little break. There was always work to do—wood to polish, fans to dust or flowers to weed, even when business was slow. This was in addition to the restoration and eventual expansion that would probably never end.

      The Sweat sisters, pinkies lifted from the condensing tea glass, regaled her with news of the townsfolk, including a new baby for the Perkinses and the news that poor Brother Ramsey had fallen while repairing the church roof and had broken his leg. Julia made a mental note to send the pastor a card, though she hadn’t darkened the church door in quite a while.

      A clatter sounded overhead. All three women looked up.

      “Guests,” Julia said. “Or Valery cleaning.”

      The twins exchanged a glance. “Willa Dean and I have been wondering. Haven’t we, sister?”

      “Indeed. Wondering. You know what they say about this house, don’t you, Julia dear?”

      She’d been raised in Honey Ridge. Of course, she knew, but she’d always had an affinity for the old place even as a kid when the house peeled and sagged in exhausted disrepair and weeds choked the front veranda. She’d been a child when the last owners moved to Georgia and left the house to further deteriorate, a sad state of affairs that had fired ghost stories and led to keep-out signs and a locked gate across the entrance.

      “They say that about all old houses that have sat empty for a while.”

      “Have you experienced anything unusual since you moved in?”

      “Unusual?” Like finding antique marbles in odd places or hearing children giggle?

      “Granddaddy told stories. Wasn’t he a fine storyteller, Vida Jean?”

      “His daddy fought in the war, you know. Chester Lorenzo Sweat, a corporal with the 1st Confederate Cavalry. Sister and I remember the stories, don’t we, Willa Dean?”

      Julia didn’t have to ask which war. In Honey Ridge, the Civil War was remembered, revered and reenacted. Stories abounded, embellished by time and Southern pride.

      “We haven’t encountered any ghostly apparitions if that’s what you’re asking.”

      “Oh.”

      “Well.” Vida Jean’s mole quivered.

      Straight and prim, the twins crossed their hands atop their straw handbags at exactly the same time in exactly the same manner, both of them clearly disappointed by her statement.

      “Would you care for more tea?” Julia asked.

      “None for me, dear. The bladder, you know.” Willa Dean reached for another muffin. “These are delicious.”

      “Thank you.”

      “From your orchard?”

      “The peaches are from the freezer, but yes, they were grown here.”

      “Lovely.”

      While Willa Dean fawned over the muffins, Vida Jean added another tidbit of local gossip. Or news, as the Sweat twins would call it. “Did you hear about the new family that bought the Akins farm? They have six boys. Six. Can you imagine six little boys running through the house?”

      A cloud passed over Julia’s heart. She managed a feeble smile. “How nice for them.”

      “Oh, dear, I’ve brought up a difficult subject. Forgive me. But that’s why we came, isn’t it, sister?”

      Willa Dean drew an envelope from her purse. “Indeed. That’s why we’re here. You didn’t think we’d forget Michael’s birthday, did you?”

      Julia was touched. Her own family wouldn’t say a word, but the twins remembered. She took the card. “Thank you. This means a lot.”

      “Well.” Vida Jean wiped her hands on a napkin, fussing a bit as if she didn’t know what else to say, a rarity for either of the twins. “I suppose we should run. We have other calls to make, don’t we, sister?”

      “Yes, calls to make.” Willa Dean leaned forward to pat Julia on the hand. “We don’t like to push, but you call us if you want to reminisce. We have photos of Mikey we cherish.”

      A lump formed in Julia’s throat. “You ladies are wonderful.”

      “Oh, go on now.” Willa Dean took the remaining two muffins, wrapped them in a napkin and slid them into her purse. “For Binky.”

      Binky was their parrot.

      Then with a flutter, a pair of hugs and two air kisses, the twins were off, leaving Julia standing on the whitewashed veranda wondering who was crazier, she or the twins, as she pressed Mikey’s birthday card against her heart.

      * * *

      “What were the Sweat twins doing here this morning?” Valery asked. She had finally dragged herself up to the Blueberry Room, looking better than Julia had expected, though her eyes were bloodshot and glassy.

      “They brought a card for Mikey’s birthday.”

      Valery paused in sanitizing the telephone. Her already pale face blanched whiter and took on a pinched look. “Oh.”

      Julia replaced the last blueberry-patterned pillowcase and artfully arranged the pillows on the bed. A guest favorite, the Blueberry Room was painted in the original blue with white accents and a four-poster bed covered with a blue print counterpane. The fireplace, flanked by darker blue armchairs, was original to the house, and a lace-curtained window looked out on the circle driveway with a view of the peach orchard. There was something special about the Blueberry Room that people enjoyed. Except for now when Valery’s reaction to Mikey’s name irked her.

      “Did you even remember?”

      “Of course I did,” Valery snapped. She tossed her cleaning cloth aside, grabbed the vacuum cleaner and flipped the switch, filling the room with noise.

      That’s the way it always was with her family. Silence. Don’t talk about the fact that Michael was alive, that he still had birthdays, that the anniversary of his abduction came around with painful regularity. If they didn’t discuss him, fragile Julia wouldn’t fly to pieces. She wouldn’t fall into another depression and forget to eat or dress or pay her bills.

      Julia grabbed the Windex and headed into the bathroom, where she scrubbed the already clean mirror with a vengeance.

      Valery stopped the noisy vacuum and came into the bathroom. “I saw Gary Plummer at Pico de Gallo last night.”

      A change of topic. Naturally. “Okay.”

      “He asked about you. I think he’s interested.”

      “What? In me? No. Gary and I are friends from grade school. Don’t be dumb.”

      “Dumb? Just because I want my sister to open up to the world and be happy again.”