Being the firstborn apparently means I am destined to a lifetime of being first on the scene. As I pull up to Grandmother’s house, I experience a frisson of sheer panic—what if my sisters have conspired together and don’t plan on showing up? No cars sit in front of the fenced yard; no signs of life stir at the window. The FOR SALE sign leans aslant on the front lawn, and someone needs to clear out the kudzu suffocating the oak trees along the property line. The trinkets and dusty treasures of a lifetime wait inside the house, and someone has to sift through it all.
Though I’m used to taking charge, there’s no way I can handle this job alone.
I get out of the car and feel years slip away as I cross the graveled lane and walk through the small picket gate. How many summers did my sisters and I spend here? At least fifteen. I didn’t stop coming until the year I graduated from college. By that time Lillian had married Walter, the sweet old man we all grew to love. He and Grandmother remained in the cottage until he died in 1998. That’s when I convinced Penny and Rose that our grandmother would be better off living in a retirement home … and that’s the last time I visited this house.
Standing on the sidewalk, I tilt my head and examine the cottage with the appraising eye of a cautious buyer. I gave the real estate agent permission to do whatever she thought necessary to spruce up the building, so several months ago Barbara hired a painter and a professional cleaning service. The paint job is holding up well, and the tabby trim on the chimney looks as though it’s been pressure-washed. The front porch is still solid and the stairs unbowed, but that has to be a new swing at the far end of the porch. The dangling chains are shiny and silver, though I remember sitting in that swing and coming away with rust stains on the palms of my hands.
Grandmother spent more time maintaining her face than her house.
I climb the painted steps and run my hand along the railing, now smooth and well sanded, though covered with a patina of dirt. A gray heron on the lawn cocks his head and stops picking his way through the long grass, as if surprised by my arrival. I glance at the sprawling live oak at the front corner of the lot, but the bird feeder Penny and Rose painted and hung from a lower branch is gone.
Why am I surprised? The birdhouse probably fell apart years ago. I walk to the entrance and pull a cardboard door hanger from the knob—some pizza delivery service has made the rounds—and punch the Realtor’s code into a lockbox, revealing the frontdoor key.
After I unlock it, the door swings open in welcome. A tidal wave of sunlight pours in from the tall windows, streaming over the wooden floor and splashing the faded furnishings. I step into the overheated space, feeling a bit like Gulliver in Lilliput. Though the bright room before me is uncluttered and airy, the walls seem closer together and the furnishings seem to have shrunk. Grandmother’s sofa seems shorter than I remember, and the overstuffed chair has assumed conventional proportions. The pine dining table that Grandmother, the three of us, and most of the ladies from the church choir used to crowd around now has room for only six chairs. But the piano—the Steinway square piano that captured my fancy in childhood—seems every bit as grand in actuality as it does in my memory. It stands against the far wall, bench tucked beneath the keyboard.
Choking on the acrid atmosphere, I drop the house key and my purse onto the table and move to the thermostat near the staircase. Grandmother had central air installed about the time we stopped spending our summers here, though I suspect she rarely used it. As a child of the Depression, Lillian liked to squeeze a nickel until it squealed. “Make do,” she used to tell us when we complained that we’d run out of whatever we needed for a craft or art project. “Exercise your imagination, not my wallet.”
Standing in the center of the house, I take shallow breaths until the air handler kicks on and the air begins to circulate. Trusting that the room will soon be comfortable, I move toward the dusty piano and run my fingers over the yellowed keys. I play a slow arpeggio, beginning at middle C, and wince as the keys produce progressively off-pitch sounds. But that’s okay. Pianos are like marriages—they can be retuned, and the music can be restored.
I open the top of the cabinet and peer at the strings. Many of them are rusted, so Michael was right; the instrument will need a complete overhaul. But this piano is what led me to fall in love with music, so I’ll find the money even if I have to take it from my soon-coming inheritance.
After closing the lid, I move to the bar that divides the kitchen from the dining room and serves as an informal breakfast area with two stools. The Realtor has left a stack of information on the Formica countertop, brochures that describe the house and provide information about the neighborhood. Several visitors have scattered business cards on the blue counter, and someone has left a copy of the St. Simons yellow pages by the wall-mounted phone. A cookie sheet rests upside down in the dish drainer; an empty juice glass squats in the sink.
Against the wall, near the push-button phone, I glimpse the spiral spine of an old address book. I slide the book toward me and lift the stiff cover, then smile at the spidery handwriting inside—Grandmother’s handwriting. I can’t believe this book is still here. I run my thumbnail down the tabbed pages until I reach the Bs, then flip to see my own name, Ginger Bishop, above an address and phone number we haven’t used in twenty years.
Overcome by the feeling that I’ve stepped back in time, I search for other familiar names and find a letter tucked between the pages. The yellowed envelope is unsealed, and it’s addressed to Ginger, Penny, or Rose.
Curious, I pull out the enclosed page and unfold it. In June 1998, Grandmother Lillian wrote us a letter.
Dear Girls:
I’ve left the house furnished in case y’all ever want to use it. You’ll find clean towels in the hall closet and fresh linens too. I left a few canned goods in the pantry, but you’ll want to swing by the grocery store for milk and produce.
Do be sweethearts and clean the place for your sisters if they want to visit, okay? I don’t think I’m going to be coming back here, but I want y’all to think of the place as yours.
We had some good times in this cottage, didn’t we?
Lots of love,
Grandma Lil
I smile as understanding dawns. I’ve always wondered why Grandmother didn’t sell the house after she settled in the retirement home—she could have used the money to pay for a better place, maybe one of those condolike assisted-living facilities. I’m not sure why she believed we’d want to revisit this place. The cottage is comfortable enough, but I associate it with hot summers away from my friends, my books, and my dad.
On the other hand … the house does hold memories I’ve pushed aside through the years.
I drop the letter onto the counter and approach the staircase, ignoring the long hallway that leads to a bathroom and Grandmother’s bedroom. I climb the steps, breathing in stale air that smells of dust, mildew, and old memories. The scents fill my head with ancient whispers—“Shh! You’ll wake Grandma!”—and the sound of girlish giggling. I turn at the top of the stairs and walk to the farthest bedroom, the one overlooking the front lawn. Two twin beds still hug the walls, their sun-bleached coverlets a pallid pink. This was my room when we stayed here … and the smudges on the wall beside the bed came from my younger hand.
The sound of an approaching vehicle jerks me out of my reverie. I hurry down the stairs and stride to the front door, then step onto the porch as a dark blue SUV parks next to my car. A moment later Rose steps out, her face wreathed in a smile. “Hey there,” she calls, her voice brassy and bright. “I can’t believe you beat me!”
I grin back at her. “Only because I didn’t have to feed a dozen animals before leaving the house.”
I step to the porch railing as she dives back into the car, but after a minute or two she appears again. This time, however, she focuses her attention on the ground, so my intuition sits up and takes notice. I don’t know what Rose has brought with her, but whatever it is can’t be a good idea. I hear Rose murmuring above a coughing sound, then a tattered-looking dog shuffles in front of the car and follows Rose toward the house. He walks—if walks is the right word—slowly, rocking from side to side as if his joints have been fused. I double-check my memory to be sure—I know this dog. The poor wheezing creature has to be older than Moses.
Alarm bells clang in my brain. “Rosemary Dodson, I can’t believe you still have that animal.”
Rose flaps a hand at me. “He’s okay. Surely you remember Justus.”
“Sure I do, but what’s he doing here?” She shouldn’t have brought the dog without first checking with me. Even housebroken dogs smell, carry fleas, and scratch doors and furniture. I don’t care if this animal comes with a gold-plated halo, I don’t want him in the house we’ll be trying to clean.
“I don’t think having him in the house is such a good idea—” I begin, but Rose cuts me off.
“I know you don’t like dogs in the house, but Justus isn’t doing very well.” She opens the gate for the dog, then latches it firmly behind him. “I couldn’t leave him at home, especially since Wort is going on a charity ride this weekend. His HOGs are raising money for abused women and children.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but before I can ask if HOGs have anything to do with bacon, she runs up the porch steps and wraps me in a hug. Rose smells warm and faintly doggy, but her cheeks are pink and her eyes bright. She looks so determined—and so different from the last time I saw her—that I can’t complain about her canine sidekick.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, pulling away. “This get-together was a great idea, you know.”
I shrug. “It was practical. We need to empty the house while we still own it.”
“This might even be fun. How long has it been since we were together? Just the three of us, I mean.”
Though I search my memory, I can’t remember the last time I did anything with only my sisters. Penny and I both visited Rose after she got out of the hospital a couple of years ago, but Wort hovered over her, and Penny and I had our husbands with us. That weekend felt more like a social necessity than a genuine visit.
“I can’t remember. Seems like lately we’ve always had our husbands along.”
Rose hops onto the swing and drops her quilted purse at her side. “That’s really too bad.”
I wait until I catch her rhythm before I drop onto the moving seat.
She grins. “Like hopping into double Dutch jump rope, isn’t it?”
“Haven’t done that since I was a kid.” We rock in near silence, accompanied only by the rhythmic clink-clank of the dangling chains. Truth is, I don’t know what to say to my baby sister. We haven’t had a heart-to-heart in years, and we never had much in common. I like music, she likes animals; I’ve got a husband and two sons, Rose has had three husbands and cares for a menagerie.
Finally I find myself uttering the words women always say to one another: “You look good. Is that a new haircut?”
Rose blows a hank of hair out of her eyes. “It’s drip-dry hair. Nothing special.”
“Must be a new outfit, then.”
“Sorry to disappoint. These shorts are older than my dog.”
“Still”—I bite back my rising irritation—“you look nice.”
She shakes her head. “Thanks, but I’ll never be as put together as you are, Ginger, so I don’t even try. But the house looks great. Better than I thought it would.”
I sigh and abandon my attempt to give the girl a compliment. “I gave the Realtor permission to fix it up. It’d been empty so long, I knew it would need some cosmetic work. I figured we’d recover the cleanup costs in a higher sales price.”
She tips her head back and studies the bead-board ceiling. “I appreciate you handling everything. But if you’d asked, I’d have been happy to help.”
“It wasn’t a problem.”
We continue rocking, the swing groaning in accompaniment to the chains, until Rose murmurs something about the dog. She leaps from the swing and skips down the steps. I gape in surprise when she returns with her decrepit dog in her arms.
“Jussy can’t manage the stairs these days.” She sets the dog on the floor and slides her hands into her jeans pockets. “He’s gotten old and stiff … but you probably noticed that.”
I give the dog a brief, distracted glance and attempt to smile. “Remind me—what kind of dog is he?”
“A Jack Russell. A whole lot of dog in a little bitty body.”
“Oh.” I smile, pretending her description makes sense. “Besides the dog, how’s everything else at your house?”
Rose dips her head in an abrupt nod. “I’m happy and Wort’s fine. We have five quarter horses now, and leads on a couple of others that are set to be sold at auction. My assistant’s pretty sure she can get the owners to surrender them to us.”
“‘Us’?”
“I run a foundation now. A racehorse rescue program. I have sponsors and everything.”
“I’m impressed.” My reply is automatic, but I really am impressed. I’ve never known Rose to take much interest in anything beyond her own property line. “Why would you take animals from auctions? Aren’t auctions a good place for people to buy horses?”
She looks at me as though I’ve just declared my intention to commit first-degree murder. “Sometimes, but older horses bought at auction can end up being transported to Mexico, where it’s not illegal to slaughter them for meat. Those animals have worked hard; they deserve a peaceful retirement.”
I retreat from the topic of horse meat, not wanting to jab at one of my sister’s hot buttons. “And how is Wort these days? Does he still … you know, look like something that blew in with the Hells Angels?”
She rolls her eyes. “He looks like he did the last time you saw him.”
“Okay.” The first time I met Wort Dodson, I thought Rose had managed to marry a balding grizzly bear. “And how long have you two been married now?”
“It’ll be eleven years come June. We’re not exactly newlyweds anymore.”
I force a smile, not wanting to offend again. If Rose wants to hang out on the back of a Harley and kiss a man with a shrub on his chin, that’s her business.
And while I’d never admit this to Rose, I’m privately relieved that they haven’t managed to reproduce. I can’t imagine Rose chasing a bunch of little Worts around on that palmetto- and snake-infested property she calls a ranch.
The arthritic terrier sniffs the floor until he bumps into my sneakers; then he sits and regards me with the cloudiest eyes I’ve ever seen in a living face.
“Jussy’s blind, of course.” Rose’s voice dissolves into a broken whisper, and for an instant I’m afraid she’s going to burst into tears. “I just couldn’t leave him at home. He won’t live much longer.”
I eye the dog with wary curiosity. “How can you tell? Don’t old dogs always look pitiful?”
“Age has nothing to do with it. He’s just done, that’s all.” She reaches for the swing, but she doesn’t hop aboard. This time, she stops the rocking motion and lowers herself onto the seat. While I wait, she glances at the dog again. “When he’s ready to go, I’ll know it.”
She utters these last words in a hoarse rasp, as though they are too awful to speak in a normal voice. But Rose has always had a flair for melodrama, especially when it comes to her animals.
“Listen, about his going—are you sure he’ll be okay in the house? I don’t want the house to smell like an incontinent dog when we hand it over.”
“I’ll look after him. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
“I’m holding you to that, Rose.”
“Of course you are.” Her smile flattens as she bends to scratch the dog’s ears. “What about your family? How’s Michael? And what are Ross and Ryan up to these days?”
Obviously, she wants to change the subject—okay by me. “Michael’s fine, just fine. The boys are focused on school, mostly, but Ross has a girlfriend he’s crazy about. We don’t hear much from either of the boys unless they’re broke, but they seem to be doing okay. Ross made the dean’s list last semester.”
“Has he decided on a major?”
“He’s thinking about business—he’ll probably stay in school and earn an MBA. I think his girlfriend is hoping they’ll get married after he graduates, but we’ve promised to cover his master’s degree if he continues his education. He’s practical enough that I think he’ll see the light.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Rose’s mouth. “He’s a lot like you, huh?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s practical. Maybe a little bit driven and ambitious.”
I fold my arms. “My son is logical, intelligent, and loaded with common sense. Aren’t those good things?”
“If you say so.”
I’m not sure what Rose is getting at, but I’ve a feeling her meaning is far from complimentary. I would have asked for further explanation, but I have to let the matter slide because the snap and pop of gravel tells me that another car is coming down the lane.
Penny.
“Hey”—I elbow Rose—“what color do you think her hair will be today?”
Rose presses her lips together. “It was red last time, right?”
“I thought it was strawberry blond.”
“Then I vote for brunette.”
“And which Penny will we see—heavy, normal, or stick thin?”
“She’s been married for a while now … so I’m thinking normal-to-heavy. She’s been relaxed enough to eat.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Rose and I lean forward, eager to learn the answers to our questions.