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“Though the whole estate has changed a lot,” he adds thoughtfully. “So different from that first visit.”
I chuckle. “No one wanted to meet the neighbors back then. But we were begging to move here after that day.”
Ellington smiles, nodding as he gazes out the balcony, lost in nostalgia.
My mind drifts back to that long-ago first visit. I was eight, sullen as our grandparents brought us over to introduce ourselves to their new neighbors . . .
We never could have imagined then how intertwined our families would become, how a chance first meeting would alter the course of our lives.
In many ways, stepping into the St. Clairmont’s house that day was the start of everything—both wonderful and tragic. The memories here are bittersweet, dimmed by everything that happened later. But still vivid enough to take me back . . .
* * *
(Then)
I scuffed my feet on the paved driveway, glaring up at the sprawling estate house surrounded by acres of pristine lawns, trees, and gardens. The house looked almost as massive as our mansion back in LA.
“Can we just go on a plane back home?” my younger brother Sibelius complained.
“We’re staying with our grandparents for a few more days, buddy,” Ellington explained to him.
“Or I can take a nap with Joplin.” Joplin, our baby brother, had stayed behind with the nanny.
“Me too,” I readily agreed, even though I was too old for naps.
But Ellington elbowed me sharply, nodding meaningfully toward Grandmother’s stern expression. With an exaggerated sigh, I pasted on a cheerful smile, not wanting to disappoint her.
As we entered the imposing home, I expected to find some stuffy, properly dressed children like ones on the TV shows Grandmother liked to watch. The kinds of snobby kids who wouldn’t want anything to do with us.
But instead, a girl around my age came barreling down the stairs, chestnut ponytail flying. “New friends,” she cried excitedly. A shy, younger girl trailed behind, her hair was darker and her eyes bright.
I blinked in surprise at their exuberance and warmth. Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as I’d thought. The younger girl smiled tentatively.
“Behave or you won’t get dessert today,” a woman called out, climbing the stairs behind the girls.
Suddenly, a crash echoed through the house, followed by a boy’s voice. “Mom, I think I broke a window with my soccer ball.”
The woman groaned loudly. “One of these days, I’ll ban all the toys and make you just read books and learn.”
The girls glanced back excitedly. “Ooh, are you telling us a story?” asked the oldest one.
“They don’t pay me enough to be their mother.” The woman rolled her eyes with a huff.
“You’re having an interesting day there, Gwen,” my grandmother said.
“Sorry, Amanda, these children are extra rowdy today,” Gwen replied, reaching the bottom of the stairs. She turned to us with an apologetic but warm smile.
“That’s why I think these boys are going to get along with your kids.” Grandma ruffled Bartók’s hair affectionately.
“Gammanda,” the youngest girl cried, running to embrace Grandmother in a hug.
“How are you, my dear Fifi?” Grandmother asked, hugging the girl fondly. “I’ve brought some new friends for you all today. Boys, meet Seraphina and her older sister, Iris.”
She slowly introduced us—Bartók, Ellington, Sibelius, and myself.
The little girl’s eyes lit up as she looked us over. “Hi fwends.” She waved shyly. She had a friendly face, and I felt myself grinning back. Maybe this day wouldn’t be a total bore after all.
“Why don’t you show the boys your playroom while I check on Zane,” Mrs. Gwen suggested.
