Later that week, Ernest came over to the house one morning to deliver a telegram. It was from Ada, a cousin of the Gordons’, with news that her husband had passed away suddenly and she needed Martha to come to Phoenix immediately. Miss Gordon promptly packed up, Robert took her to meet the afternoon train in Tucson, and instantly, the house’s spirits lifted.
For the first time, I was allowed to use the kitchen without asking permission. I cooked my first meal for William and Robert. It was a complete disaster. The meat tasted like cardboard. William spit it out and jumped up to make himself a peanut butter, banana, and potato chip sandwich. Robert was gallant enough to try to eat it, chewed the meat-turned-leather for a few minutes, and finally gave up.
”I’m sorry,” I said. “I really don’t know how to cook. I never learned. Father and I ate out or took sack lunches because he worked in the evenings.” I felt more than a little guilty. Meat was rationed; it felt like a crime to waste it.
Robert only laughed. “Finally! Something you don’t excel in.” He got up and looked in the cupboard. He pulled out a blue box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. It was a fairly new product that made a big hit as a substitute for meat and dairy products. And best of all, two boxes required only one rationing coupon.
Typically, Miss Gordon jumped up as the last bite was eaten and started cleaning up the dishes. In her absence, we lingered at the table. After dinner, Robert played the guitar, and I played the piano. I showed William how to feel the vibration of the strings when I hit a piano key.
I tucked William into bed, turned to say good night, and noticed a framed picture of his mother had been placed on his bureau. Nice touch, Robert, I thought to myself. William pointed to the picture and said, “Girl.” It sounded like “grrrr.”
“Girl! Yes, William! Girl,” I repeated the word very clearly. Then I pointed to him. “Boy,” I said, and he repeated a sleepy attempt for “boy.” I smiled and kissed him on the forehead.
I turned on the radio while I washed up the dinner dishes. Robert helped me dry and put them away. I was eager for the evening news. The war reports were quite encouraging of late. Tonight, the national news broadcast reported that Hitler’s armies were starting to get backed into Germany. The reporter announced that Hitler, knowing he was losing the war, had recently created a new militia, requiring all men aged sixteen to sixty to serve.
Robert took the dish towel out of my hands to hang it on the rack to dry. “Can you imagine, asking a sixty-year-old man to be a soldier? There must not be any men left in Germany,” Robert said.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“No! I pray every day that Germany will lose this war! And soon. Hitler must be stopped!” I said it with such severity that Robert looked taken aback. I turned back to the sink, embarrassed, my face flushed.
He turned off the radio. “Enough news for tonight.” He filled up Dog’s water bowl and put it by the door before leaving to go to his office. “The end of the war will come, Louisa. Try to be patient.”
In the middle of the night, I woke myself up, gasping for air, crying out, trembling in fear.
Robert stood at my door, looking stricken. “Louisa, what is it? What’s wrong?”
I was so frightened from my nightmare that I couldn’t talk.
He turned on the light next to my bed. “Would it help to tell me about the dream?”
I shook my head.
“Try.”
“Der Alptraum. Ebendasselbe!”
“Wait, slow down. English, Louisa. You’re speaking in German.”
“It’s the same nightmare I’ve had before.” My heart raced. I tried to speak between sobs. “I’m in Dachau. In Germany. It’s a terrible place. It’s a relocation camp for Jews and Gypsies and anyone else the Nazis want to get rid of. It has high fences and barbed wire. And gas chambers. And tall chimney stacks for the crematorium. And the evil there, it’s palpable.”
I paused to take deep gulps of breaths. “Standing at the fence is my father, my mother, my aunt, and my little cousin, Elisabeth, and Deidre, and Mrs. Steinhart, my other friends, and all of the Bonhoeffers. Everyone I knew and loved in Germany. They’re all in the camp, faces pressed against the wire fence, barbed wire above us, and they’re reaching their hands out for me. Through the fence, their hands try to grab on to me. Begging me to help them. Asking me for food and water.” I gasped for air. “And I just keep walking past.”
“It’s just a nightmare. It isn’t real.”
“But it is real! Dachau is real! All of those camps are real!”
“But you’re not there. You’re here in Copper Springs, Louisa, not in Dachau. You’re safe. It was just a bad dream.”
“You don’t understand. I should be there. It isn’t right I’m here and they’re there.”
“No, sweetheart, it isn’t right that they are there.”
William’s head poked around my door. The light in my room must have woken him. Seeing his innocent face helped me shake off that feeling of dread from my nightmare. I motioned to have him climb up on the bed. He scrambled up, wiggling under the covers. Calmer now, I asked Robert, “do you mind if he stays?”
“Sure. Will you to be able to sleep?”
I nodded.
Robert turned off the light. “Night,” He said before closing the door. I snuggled William close to me. Just as I was drifting back to sleep, my eyes flew open: Robert had called me sweetheart.
* * * *
My holiday from Miss Gordon only lasted a week. Robert received a telegram from her, telling him she would be returning on Saturday. Miss Gordon wouldn’t use the telephone; she didn’t trust it. She thought everyone in the county would listen in to her conversation.
Having her away for the week had been such a nice change of routine. William and I galloped our way through correspondence lesson number ten. Robert didn’t go out in the evenings as he customarily did. I played the piano whenever I had a whim, which was often. I wondered, a little wistfully, if this was what it would be like to have a family of my own.
Winter, even in a desert, meant the nights grew cold and long as days grew shorter. My garden was winding down. I was outside gathering the last of the broccoli, onions, and carrots into a basket as Rosita and Esmeralda strolled past, Ramon pushing the wheels of his wheelchair beside them.
I had a great admiration for Ramon. I never saw a shred of self-pity. He was proud to have served his country, even if that sacrifice cost him his legs.
“Your Victory Garden looks good, Louisa.”
“Thank you!” I replied. “Here, Rosita, take some of my vegetables. I have too many.” I put some large onions in her hands and handed Ramon some carrots and broccoli to hold on his lap.
“Louisa, I been thinking. How about you teach my Esmeralda to play on that piano?” Rosita asked.
“Hmmm. I hadn’t even considered giving piano lessons. I’ll have to ask Miss Gordon when she returns home. She says that a piano sets her teeth on edge.”
Rosita laughed. “You think about it and let me know. I think Esmeralda has much talent. I pay you, too.”
“No, Rosita, I would teach her as a thank you to you for being such a nice friend to me.”
“No deal. Either all business or no deal.” Rosita headed back up the street.
Ramon said, “Don’t waste your time arguing with Rosita, Louisa. She is like a burro.”
I walked over to the church office and asked Robert what he thought about the idea of giving piano lessons. “What do you think your aunt would say?”
He shrugged.
“Then I could help pay for my expenses,” I offered.
“Louisa, I didn’t give you the piano so you would feel the need to earn an income. If you want to teach lessons and Aunt Martha agrees to it, then the decision is yours. But you keep your money. You more than earn your keep. I just wanted you to be able to play.”
“Maybe I could teach on Wednesday nights when she goes to choir practice. I could save the money I earn for my return ticket to Germany after the war is over. It should be over soon, don’t you think?”
Robert looked at me with a surprised look on his face. “Well, not in the immediate future. It’s going to take patience, Louisa.” Then, uncharacteristically abrupt, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish reading this report from the Presbytery.” He went back to studying his paper.
* * * *
Anticipating Miss Gordon’s critical eye for detail, William and I spent all of Saturday morning cleaning and scrubbing the house while Robert went to the train station in Tucson. When she arrived back home, she looked around and sniffed, “Well, I can see nothing has been done while I’ve been gone. Someone get me my broom.”
After she had re-cleaned the house, I asked her what she thought if I were to give Esmeralda a piano lesson once a week.
Not too surprisingly, she would have none of it. “I need that like a submarine needs a screen door. Besides, a parsonage is not a place for commercial enterprise,” she said, effectively closing the subject.
* * * *
My first Christmas in America came quietly on a clear, cold day. Robert was busy with the Christmas Eve service, so we opened gifts on Christmas morning. The hit of the morning was a slightly used red bicycle for William from his father, boldly waiting under the tree. Like so many manufactured products, bicycles weren’t being made during these war years, so Robert had to hunt to find one. Symbolic, it seemed, of Robert’s change in perceiving William as a normal child who was hard-of-hearing rather than as a handicapped child.
I had made a bargain with Miss Bentley for used books from the library’s book sale. In exchange, I was the guest reader for the Children’s Story Hour for the next three Wednesdays. I’d been eager to get started on teaching William to read, so I was thrilled when I stumbled on a well-loved set of the McGuffy Readers.
For Miss Gordon, I chose a slightly used Good Housekeeping 1943 cookbook that included a special section for rationed foods. And I found Robert a thick and exhaustive book on the history of copper mining. That book looked new; I doubted it had ever been checked out. A slim audience, I reasoned. Robert was delighted with it.
Then Robert and his aunt surprised me with a radio for my bedroom. “I can’t stand listening to any more of those depressing news reports you’re so hooked on,” she chided.
“But they’re not depressing if you hear news reports of Allied victories!” I defended.
Rosita had given me a coupon she had hand-made to be used for a free haircut at her salon. I frowned when I saw it; I knew she was eager to update my hairstyle. I stood up to gather some of the wrappings for Miss Gordon’s recycling bin. She was in the kitchen, basting the Christmas turkey, and William was spinning the wheels on his bicycle. The house smelled heavenly.
I sat down again, transfixed, closing my eyes to savor the morning, wanting to cement every detail in my mind. My thoughts drifted back to one year ago today. I was alone on an impersonal cargo ship, tossing about on the freezing winter cold of the Atlantic Ocean, knowing I couldn’t go back and unsure of what lay ahead of me. And who knew where I would be this time next year?
Robert interrupted my musings by handing me a brown paper package, wrapped with a piece of twine. I looked up at him, puzzled.
“Open it,” he said with a shy grin.
It was a book of compositions by Felix Mendelssohn. I turned over each page, hearing the scores dance in my head. He had remembered Mendelssohn was my favorite composer. I had told him nearly a year ago on that first drive back from Mrs. Drummond’s house. I had to blink back tears as I thanked him.
Miss Gordon outdid herself on a delicious Christmas feast and then wouldn’t let anyone help her clean the kitchen. “Everyone out! You’re all as slow as molasses on a January morning,” she said, shooing us out. So I sat by the parlor window, warmed by the afternoon sun, looking more carefully through the book of Mendolssohn compositions, but I kept getting distracted by the sight out the window.
Out on the empty street, Robert patiently taught William how to ride the new red bicycle. Over and over they started. Robert held on to the back of the bicycle seat. As William gained speed, Robert would let go. William would pedal madly until he realized that his father wasn’t holding on. Then he would start to weave, his bicycle would lean precariously over, and Robert would catch the back of the bicycle seat to help him regain his balance. And his confidence.
Progress was slow, but the joy on William’s face was immeasurable.
Miss Gordon came to see what I was watching. We both watched the hard-at-work pair. Then she remarked, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them like that.”
“Like what?” I asked, eyes fixed on them.
“Happy.” With sudden and inexplicable affection, she kissed me on the top of my head and went back into the kitchen.
Not long into the New Year of 1944, Miss Gordon’s cousin, Ada, wrote to say she was planning to come for a visit to help her recover from the loss of her husband, Teddy. I relinquished my bedroom and prepared to bunk in William’s room on one of the twin beds.
I was expecting a woman much like Miss Gordon, so I cleaned my room inside and out and tried to think up more places for William and me to go, to get out of the house as much as possible. Not for the first time, I grumbled to myself that Copper Springs sorely needed a bus system. Not that I had any place in mind to go, but a bus would have been particularly useful during times of visits from any Gordon relatives.
Robert went to the train station to meet Ada. A few hours later, she burst through the front door without even a knock, as Robert lugged suitcases the size of coffins behind her. “Yoo hoo! Marty Girl! Where are you?!”
Marty Girl? Could she possibly be referring to Miss Gordon?
Miss Gordon hurried to the door to greet her. William and I were in the kitchen. I motioned to him to come, and we both went quickly to the parlor to discover the source of this exuberance.
“There’s my Marty Girl!” exclaimed our high-spirited guest.
I’d never seen anyone dare to hug Miss Gordon, yet here was a short, generously proportioned woman, head covered with bleached blond curls, pink cheeks, polished crimson fingernails, giving her a bone-crushing hug. Ada’s perfume filled the room, a strong rose aroma that latched on and lingered to our clothing.
“And there’s my quiet little Billy boy!” Ada smothered William with hugs and kisses, which he wiped off dramatically. “Oh Bobby, he’s grown a foot or two since you came to Phoenix last spring to see that doctor. He is adorable. Just adorable!”
Then she spotted me. “And you are Louisa. May I call you Lulu? And please call me Ada. No need to stand on formalities with cousin Ada!” She grabbed me so tightly that she lifted me off of my feet, leaving me breathless. And off she went to explore the house, oohing and aahing over every little detail.
I looked at Robert in genuine astonishment. “And she’s really, truly a Gordon?” I whispered.
“Yes, of course,” he answered, as if anyone could ever doubt the family resemblance. “Well, less so after she married her third husband, a Greek fellow. Teodor Stephanopolos. Teddy, she called him. He was her favorite husband.”
Just then, Ada called down to Robert from the top of the stairs. “Bobby, would you be a lamb and bring up my suitcases to this charming little boudoir?”
Robert picked up the suitcases and looked back at me. “Cousin Ada can really kiss the Blarney Stone.” He stopped himself. “Sorry. I meant that she can be very persuasive. Just…just be careful,” he warned with a smile.
No sooner had he finished that sentence than Dog came charging into the parlor, barking and sniffing, let in the kitchen door by William. He skidded to a halt in front of one of Ada’s pieces of baggage: a small crate with a little wire window on one end. From the crate erupted a terrible hissing and clawing sound.
Things were definitely getting interesting in the Gordon household.
Ada talked endlessly about everything and had more enthusiasm for life than anyone I’d ever known. She and her Teddy had traveled the world, in between world wars, and she could wax ecstatic over any country.
“Oh! Africa! The wildlife! The scenery!” Then she would launch into a riveting story about being on safari. “Oh! Egypt! The pyramids! The Sphinx!” And she would regale us with fascinating stories about the pharaohs buried with their riches, still waiting for their heavenly reward.
At least, I thought her tales were fascinating. Miss Gordon, I noticed, seemed less enamored.
When Robert informed Ada that I had studied classical piano, I thought she would nearly faint. She couldn’t get enough of my playing. “Oh, Marty Girl, you don’t realize what kind of treasure you have, living here with you in Copper Springs.” Ada was an enthusiastic patron of the arts. A board member, she often reminded us, of the illustrious Phoenix Symphony.
I don’t think Marty Girl had ever given much thought to my piano playing before Ada’s visit, other than how the sound annoyed her. Yet, unwittingly influenced by cousin Ada’s zeal for music, I even caught Miss Gordon humming a selection I had played. I played more of the piano in that week than I had since Robert had purchased it from Betty Drummond.
“Darling Lulu,” Ada would exclaim. “Let’s have another concert tonight!” I played as many pieces as I could play from memory: Handel, Haydn, Brahms, Schumann, and Schubert, including all of the compositions from my new Mendolssohn book.
“Any Wagner, dearest?”
“No! Not Wagner,” I said. “I refuse to play Richard Wagner’s works. Hitler idolized him for his relationship with Nietzsche and for his anti-Semitic beliefs. I won’t play Wagner.”
“Of course. My apologies,” quelled Ada. “Well, could you play any Tchaikovsky? I just love Russian composers. Oh, the angst of the Russians!”
“No.”
“Italians? Rossini’s ‘William Tell Overture?’ Vivaldi? Scaflatti? Oh, the passion of the Italians!”
I shook my head.
“Any French? Claude Debussy? Chopin?” Her voice trailed off.
“No. Definitely not Chopin. He was Polish. Poland was one of the first countries Hitler took over. Hitler only allowed the study of German composers in University. Well, except for Mozart. He was Austrian, but Hitler quickly adopted Mozart after he invaded Austria in the Anschluss.”
“How barbaric! Well my love, we simply must do something about that.”
I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that until she started making comments such as: “You know, darling Lulu, Phoenix would be a far more stimulating place for you. Culturally speaking, I mean.” Or “Really, Bobby, talent such as Lulu’s mustn’t be wasted here in Copper Springs. Not that there’s anything wrong with such an adorable little village. But I have so many connections in Phoenix!” Or “think of how we could develop her, my sweet Marty Girl!”
The truth was that I had the talent but not the ambition for the concert stage. Not after the war began. The war had changed everything for me.
Ada asked me outright one day if I’d like to come live in Phoenix with her.
“Thank you so much,” I declined, “but I am planning to return to Germany quite soon.” And I was. I was feeling encouraged about assured Allied victory after Italy’s surrender and Mussollini’s arrest just a short while ago.
It was apparent Ada was starting to grate on Miss Gordon. I heard her complain to Robert in the morning before Ada woke up, but I had lost my usual eavesdropping capability because Ada had taken over my room and, in it, my radiator pipe.
As I came downstairs one morning, I overheard Miss Gordon grumbling, “and in her book, there’s nothing right about Copper Springs. It’s Phoenix this or Phoenix that.” Then she must have heard my footsteps coming down the stairs, and the subject was promptly dropped.
Another time, I was even more astounded as I listened, furtively, to her rant and rave to Robert. “And so poor Dog has been stuck outside all week just so that vicious little cat can have the run of the place and ruin the furniture!”
Since when had Miss Gordon felt any concern for Dog’s feelings?
I was starting to see a new side of Miss Gordon, one that gave me the slightest trace of tenderness toward her. I could see how she had grown up in the shadow of Ada, always being outdone by her flamboyance, her social status, her matrimonial state.
Ada was larger than life. And now, for the first time, I think Martha Gordon had something or someone in her life that cousin Ada envied. And wanted. Me.
I spent the rest of Ada’s visit basking in my new status as favorite houseguest. Thanks to Ada, I had been elevated from a mere annoyance to an annoyance with some potential. I was sorry to see the week come to an end. Until, that is, the very last night. After that, I was more than ready to say goodbye to Ada. In fact, I would’ve carried her all the way to Phoenix myself, given the opportunity.
Miss Gordon had gone to bed, as had William, and Robert had left for a meeting with the church elders. I was getting ready to go upstairs myself when Ada called to me from the kitchen, “Lulu, darling, come join me for a little entertainment. Let’s have a little card game before I leave town tomorrow.”
I sat down at the table with her. Next to her was a tall bottle of clear liquid and two small jelly glasses. “I’ve never played cards before, Ada.”
“Never played cards?! Oh Lulu, darling, we have some catching up to do. Don’t you worry. I’ve always wanted a protégé. I’m going to teach you an easy little game called Blackjack.”
We played a few hands as I caught on to the concept.
“Sharp as a tack, that’s my Lulu girl!” she enthused. “Let’s make it a little more fun. My Teddy loved this game.” She poured the glasses with an inch of the clear liquid from the bottle. “So whenever we reach twenty-one, we drink!”
As soon as her cards added up to twenty-one, she yelled, “down the hatch!” and swallowed her drink in one gulp.
I followed her example. As the clear liquid reached the back of my throat, the stinging began. It felt as if I had bees in my throat. “What is this?” I asked, coughing violently.
“Ouzo! It’s Greek. One of the last bottles of Teddy’s special collection before he died.” She brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye. “He would’ve been crazy for you, Lulu. You’re the daughter we’ve always wanted. And you would’ve loved my Teddy, too. The Greeks know how to enjoy life like no one else.”
I didn’t want to be rude but this Ouzo tasted like petrol. She didn’t seem to notice my grimacing face as she refilled the glasses. Just one more hand of cards, I warned myself. I didn’t want to hurt Ada’s feelings, especially as she was so fond of me, but I had no intention to drink petrol all night. Another hand of cards went quickly, and Ada bellowed “Bottoms up!” and gulped down her Ouzo.
Again, I followed her example to be polite and looked for an opportunity to excuse myself and go to bed. Ada had other ideas. No sooner was my glass back on the table, but it was re-filled. I was starting to get warm. Hot, actually.
“Lulu, sweetness, I would love it if you would come to Phoenix this summer and play the piano for my bridge parties.”
What did she just say? My thoughts felt fuzzy. Did she say something about bridges?
“So what would you say if we put a little wager on the next game? If I win, you come and play for my bridge parties this summer. If you lose, you come and play for my bridge parties.”
“Pardon, Ada? Would you mind repeating that?”
“If I win, you come and play for my bridge parties this summer. If you lose, then you come and play for my bridge parties,” she patiently repeated. I nodded, not really concentrating, distracted by the queasy pit in my stomach from the Ouzo.
I wasn’t sure how much time passed before Robert came in through the kitchen door. For an eternity, he just stared at us, eyes wide open, jaw dropped in horror. “Oh, cousin Ada! No! You didn’t! You couldn’t have! Louisa, how much have you had?” He picked up at the half-empty bottle of Ouzo and glowered at Ada.
I stood up. The room started spinning. “It’s not her fault, Robert,” I tried to say, but suddenly I had to run upstairs to the bathroom. Fast.
The next morning, I woke up after hearing a persistent knocking at the door. Robert came in, holding a glass that looked like tomato juice in it. “William came downstairs and told me you’re dead.” He handed me the drink. “I said I would come up to check and see if you’re a goner.”
“Close,” I said feebly, “but not quite.”
“Drink this,” he said. “And take these.” He handed me two aspirin.
“Oh no, Robert, I can’t possibly drink that. Or anything else. Ever again.”
“Trust me. It will make you feel better.”
I took a sip, nearly gagging. My tongue felt thick.
“Keep drinking.”
I took a few more sips and grimaced. “What is this?”
“You don’t want to know. But I promise you’ll feel better if you can drink the entire thing.”
“I recall your cousin telling me the same thing last night.” I dropped my head back on the pillow.
He laughed. “How much did she take you for?”
I opened one eye. “What do you mean?”
“Blackjack. What did she make you bet?”
I cringed. “Robert, please stop shouting at me.” I tried to sit up in bed, hands holding my throbbing head. “She said something about playing the piano on bridges.” I tried to get up, but if I moved, my head pounded like someone was beating it with a drum.
“Louisa, you’ve been had by a card shark.”
“What does that mean?”
“Ada cornered you into playing the piano at her bridge parties. It’s a card game for the socialite set.”
“You could have warned me. She seemed like such a nice lady.”
“I did! The day she first arrived I said to be careful of her.”
“But you didn’t say what to be careful of. You never said anything about Blackjack and Ouzo. I’m not blaming you. Good heavens, I’m a grown woman. I’m a Resistance Worker. I have no one to blame but myself.” I was thoroughly disgusted with myself.
“She’s pretty smooth. I’ve been a victim of her charms myself.” He went over to open the curtain, letting the merciless sunshine in, piercing my eyes with pain.
Wincing, I asked, “What did she get out of you?”
“Preaching. Two sermons a day for a week at her church’s revival meeting. Under a tent. In Phoenix. In August. No air conditioning.” He shuddered at the memory. “Drink up. She’s almost ready to leave so you’ll need to come downstairs as soon as you can.”
I scowled at him which only got him laughing. His face was annoyingly bright with good humor. “Hurry up, she’s waiting for you,” he said. He stopped when he got to the door and turned toward me with a wicked grin. “Such a pity. Who would’ve thought? A Resistance Worker, succumbing to the oldest trick in the book. You’re losing your edge, Lulu.”
My sentiments precisely.
I took a shower, dressing slowly so that my head wouldn’t explode, and then went downstairs. Robert’s concoction, whatever it was, did help settle my stomach. A little, anyway. As I stepped into the kitchen, Ada rushed over to me with open arms. “There’s my darling Lulu!” She was apparently unfazed by the Ouzo.
Miss Gordon’s eyes swept over me. “What’s wrong with you? You look like death warmed over.”
“She’s got a touch of the flu,” Robert offered quickly.
Miss Gordon eyed him carefully then whipped around to look over at the kitchen sink. There lay a broken egg shell, a can of tomato juice, vegetable oil, and some hot pepper sauce. She spun on her heels to Ada. “A touch of the flu, my foot! Ada! What did you do to that girl?”
“Nothing, Marty Girl. Nothing at all!” Ada smiled the sweetest smile, gave everyone enormous hugs that left us reeking of heavy rose perfume, and swept out to the Hudson. Dragging her heavy suitcases, Robert followed behind to take her back to the train station in Tucson.
Miss Gordon watched Robert load up the car with Ada’s behemoth suitcases. There wasn’t even room for William to tag along. “I’d like to give that woman a dressing down,” she muttered under her breath. Then she turned to me, with ever so slight a hint of sympathy in her voice. “Louisa, I blame myself. I should’ve warned you. That woman can’t be trusted. Given a bottle of Ouzo, she could charm the spots off a leopard.”
That remark got me wondering if, like Robert, she had once been the unfortunate victim of Ada’s gambling savvy, but I doubted I would ever be privy to that story. I looked out the kitchen window as I saw the Hudson pull out of the driveway, Ada chattering away to her captive chauffeur. Dog followed the car down the street, barking angrily, grievously insulted, anxious to get the last word in at Ada’s visiting feline.
“Louisa, I’ve been thinking. Since you’ve got your heart set on it, I suppose you could teach piano an afternoon or two here at the house.”
I turned around and looked back at her, astonished.
“Well, Mrs. Wondolowski has been badgering me to have you teach her son, Arthur. I suppose it wouldn’t really hurt the church’s image to have the parsonage be used for a commercial enterprise,” she grudgingly conceded.
I smiled, feeling cheered, and went over and gave her a big hug, not caring if she liked it or not.