17

“She’s here,” Ted whispered to Lillian when she walked in the back door. A glimmer of conspiracy shone from his eyes.

“What’s she like?” Lillian cast him a secretive smile as she walked toward the sink. Water overflowed her glass as they glanced down the hall.

“This is called a lady’s staircase.” Trina’s voice carried to the kitchen. “When the house was built, women wore hoop skirts, and by having the stairs in the back of the house, male guests were prevented from seeing up the ladies dresses.”

Bill, a large leather suitcase in each hand, followed his daughter and the newest guest up the stairs.

The new guest had become a familiar experience to Lillian. The twinges of jealousy that used to accompany the arrival of each new person had eased. Initially, expecting to be relegated to the dining room when other guests were present, she had been pleased when Trina made it known she was welcome, perhaps even expected, to eat with them. And now she had her own role in welcoming new guests. With each new arrival, the routine remained the same.

Trina acted the hostess and Bill carried the luggage.

Ted hugged the background with Lillian, acting as covert spies, until Lillian had to assume her role as “satisfied client.”

“She seems nice. I guess I should be used to ladies traveling alone by now.” Ted pursed his lips. “It’s just that, she seems like the kind of lady who should have a husband at her side.”

“How so?”

“She’s short and plump, like an Italian mama. But she’s dressed like a million bucks with the tailored slacks and shirt. Gray and silver.” He chuckled. “Wonder how Trina knew to put her in the gray room?”

Lillian playfully punched him in the arm. “You sound chauvinistic to me. Can’t wait to meet her. How did I end up with this entertain-the-new-guest assignment?”

Ted punched her back. “You’re just good at it. Want to help me get the refreshments ready?”

They had just set the tray with iced tea and cookies in the fancy parlor when Trina escorted the guest into the room. “Oh, Lillian, I’m glad you’re home. I want you to meet Mrs. Blackwell. Mrs. Blackwell, this is Lillian Hunter, one of our guests, who is more like family now. She’s been with us since the middle of October.”

Mrs. Blackwell extended a hand that displayed manicured nails and a large diamond ring. “Please, call me Nadine.”

The woman’s skin felt like fluff beneath Lillian’s fingers. Nothing like Sandra’s grip. She must never do any work.

Trina motioned them to sit and proceeded to serve refreshments as Lillian scanned the familiar room: tall windows, thick moldings, and fireplace already crackling with life. What would a worldly woman like Mrs. Blackwell think of the feminine environment?

“What brings you to this part of the country, Lillian?” Nadine asked before Lillian could begin her job of putting the new guest at ease.

“I accepted a teaching position at Francis Marion University. FMU’s the four-year college for this part of the state.”

“And what do you teach, may I ask?” She took a small sip of tea.

“Political science. I worked as an attorney in Cleveland before I moved here.”

Trina hovered around the small table. “Would you like a cookie, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Please, call me Nadine. I insist. And no thank you, dear, but the cookies do look delicious.”

“Oatmeal raisin, Trina’s specialty.” She choked back a giggle and hoped Ted was listening from the hall.

Bill strode into the parlor and handed Nadine her car keys. “Anything else I can do for you before I leave?”

“You will find I have very few needs.” She smoothed the folds of her tailored gray slacks. “When I travel, I usually stay at hotels, but I heard of your place from a mutual friend, and decided to stay here instead. I believe I made the right decision.”

Bill’s cell phone rang and he looked at the caller ID. “It’s Sandra. The exterminator must be there. I’m headed over to her place, but Trina, if you need anything, give me a call.” His footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Bugs?” Mrs. Blackwell moved her snakeskin expensive-shod feet under the chair.

“Sandra’s a good family friend, and she has ants in a tree at her place,” Trina explained. “Nothing to worry about.”

Mrs. Blackwell seemed right at home as the center of attention.

Lillian stared at the woman, feeling she had seen her before but where? The woman wore a scent that seemed familiar also, and then she remembered. Granny used to wear the same fragrance. She couldn’t remember the name of it, but it had clung to her grandma like a second skin, no matter the time of day, as though imbedded in her pores.

The memory sent a bubble of pleasure into her throat. Granny had been her father’s mother, and, in spite of her father’s insistence that she be called Grandmother, the moniker of Granny had stuck. Granny liked it; her eyes had always sparkled with mischief whenever her son corrected the girls. Granny had died of a heart attack when Lillian was ten, and she still missed her tremendously.

Nadine Blackwell had to be someone special if she still used that same old perfume loved by Granny, so why the unexpected tension that seemed to have draped across her neck since coming into the parlor?

“Nadine,” Lillian asked. “Where in Pennsylvania are you from? I’m having a hard time placing your accent.”

The wrinkles on Nadine’s neck jiggled as she chuckled, just like Granny’s had. “You know how it is in Pennsylvania. We are the melting pot of the melting pot.” She fluttered her hand over her head, and the light caught her diamonds, creating rainbows across the wall. “You have the Midwestern folk, and the mountain folk, and the easterners, and then those who commute to D.C. I’m sure,” she said with a wink, “we even have some Clevelanders living somewhere in the state. Over time all these dialects blended together until you get what I call the Pennsylvanian smoothie.” Her smile felt warm and friendly, grandmotherly.

Lillian rotated her neck against the tightness.

“As I told you on the phone,” Nadine said, turning to Trina, “I won’t be around much. I have meetings to attend during the day, and then business dinners in the evenings.” She turned to Lillian. “I’m a buyer for a large department store. They’re starting a new line, highlighting products from different regions of the country. I’m here interviewing various local artists and businesses. Right now, much of what I do is hush-hush, you understand, so I won’t share much of my work. And now if you will excuse me,” she rose from her chair and handed Trina her glass, “I have my first meeting this evening and need to prepare.”

Lillian carried the tray to the kitchen.

Ted stood by the sink pretending he had been there all along. “So, what’s the official report?” he asked.

“Well,” Lillian said. “She’s different. Grandmotherly, but not like Sandra.”

Ted made a snorting sound. “No doubt she can pay her bill.”

“No doubt.” The woman was just another in a long line of guests since Lillian had arrived. Nothing different from all the others. So why did she feel one moment as if the woman was her grandmother in another body, and then in the next breath a storm was just over the horizon? Maybe it had nothing to do with Nadine Blackwell at all, just the coincidence of timing. Again she sought a memory of why the woman looked familiar but nothing surfaced. She shook her head as she helped Ted wash the glasses.