March 13, 1993
The old woman sat at her dressing table and peered into the mirror, working with one shaky hand to tuck a stray wisp of hair into the upswept bun. All her long life, that lock of hair had given her trouble, never staying in place, always tumbling out to sweep down and tangle in a necklace chain or get caught in an earring.
Just like me, she thought with a smile. Never doing what other people expect or want me to do.
She peered into the dim glass and wondered, as she had done countless times over the past forty years, whether she should go to the expense of getting the mirror re-silvered. But even ages ago, when she could have afforded a few extras, she had resisted. There was something appropriate about the yellowing, spotted glass. It fit with the ancient house, and with her.
She applied a bit of lipstick and sat back to survey the results. “You’ve got a few spots and wrinkles yourself, old girl,” she murmured to her reflection. “But you’ve still got a good head of hair and all your own teeth. Not too bad for ninety-three.”
Ninety-three. Was it possible? Could Miss Amethyst Noble truly be ninety-three?
She chuckled at the thought. Even though she had outlived two husbands and the vast majority of her friends, Southern tradition dictated that people still call her “Miss” and refer to her by her maiden name. As if she were still a debutante, a sweet Southern belle being courted by some handsome beau.
But Amethyst was far beyond those days—so far that any recollection of being a young girl had faded to a vague, hazy memory. She had weathered fourscore and thirteen years, survived two world wars, and come into the last decade of the twentieth century with all her marbles intact.
Or so it seemed. For here she was, still living in the ancestral home built by her grandfather in 1853, preparing herself for a birthday party.
Amethyst went to the big cedar wardrobe and selected a dress—her favorite, a soft lavender heather with a high neck and little pearl buttons down the front. She probably should have bought a new one for the occasion, but at her age the current fashions looked ridiculous. This would do just fine. Besides, her great-granddaughter and namesake, Little Am, had always loved it. As a tiny girl Little Am had climbed into her great-grandmother’s lap, snuggled against the soft fabric, and stroked it with a gentle hand. The memory of that tender moment always brought tears to Amethyst’s eyes. The child had been her joy and delight—and her single desperate hope for the future.
Amethyst sighed. The girl would be here today, no doubt, but she was no longer a child; and, sad to say, she was no longer anyone’s delight. Puberty had transformed the gentle, sweet-natured little girl into a teenage mutant ghoul who dressed all in black, muttered in monosyllables, and wore four earrings in each earlobe. Not what Amethyst had hoped for the child. Not at all what she had prayed for.
Well, you can’t change the times, she thought with a shrug. You just have to keep on living and pray your life will have some kind of positive effect on the people around you.
She slipped the lavender dress over her head and opened her jewelry box. It was cluttered with things she rarely wore: earrings and necklaces and rings—gifts, mostly, from family members who never knew what to buy for an eccentric old woman. Only one piece held any real significance for her, and she picked it up and fingered its surface lovingly.
It was a brooch, a single heart-shaped amethyst a little larger than a quarter, with small pearls set around the perimeter. Simple, elegant, and nearly perfect—except for the one missing pearl, lost years ago.
She turned it over and read the familiar inscription engraved on the back: Sincerity, Purity, Nobility. The motto of the Noble family for over a century, as far back as anyone could remember, and beyond. Generations of women before her had worn this heart of amethyst. But who after her would treasure it as she did?
With arthritic fingers she struggled to pin the brooch at her throat, then glanced at the clock on the mantel. Her family would be here in an hour, and she still had to set the table and arrange flowers for a centerpiece.
She got up from the dressing table and moved slowly into the parlor that adjoined her bedroom, pausing to stroke the keys of the hundred-year-old piano and basking in the comfort of the familiar. Across the foyer from the parlor was the log cabin room, the oldest portion of the house. Here the original log beams and massive stone fireplace had been preserved, and when she stepped down into the room, she felt it surround her with the welcome embrace of an old friend.
This house was her life. Its walls sent back the echoes of her dreams, her laughter, her tears. It had sustained her when times were bad and rejoiced with her in the happy years. Its corridors held cherished memories of her own nine decades and the legacy of generations before her. Here she had been born, grown up, learned to love, married, given birth, and mourned—and here she would die, when her time came.
But not quite yet.
Amethyst scrutinized her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace. She looked as good as anyone had a right to look at ninety-three—and a lot better than most, considering that most people her age were withering away their final years in some nursing home.
Against all odds, she was still alive—truly alive, not just existing in that nebulous place between this world and the next. And she meant to stay that way until they carried her out of Noble House in a pine box.