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The radio had nothing new to say about the torso found near the Cotton Exchange, but it did tell me our warm streak was going to continue. We were in for another hot one. I should have settled on one of Peter’s T-shirts and elastic-waisted shorts as I was bound to spend the day as Iris’s sous-chef, or scullery maid, depending on her mood and how well preparations for tomorrow were coming along. Yes, my good sense told me to dress casually, but for some reason I felt more of a need to feel pretty than I had for a while. Thumbing my nose at good sense, I chose another of Ellen’s purchases, a pretty blue floral V-neck cotton dress with a fitted empire line. I sat before my mirror and made a bit more of an effort this morning than I had of late with my hair. “There, you look nice,” I said to my plump-faced reflection. I nodded at myself to confirm the compliment. I was debating if I was really going to go all out and put on makeup when the doorbell rang.
I figured Iris would grab it, as she would probably be up and around early, especially since Sam hadn’t slept over last night. I found my favorite training shoes and laced them up. They didn’t really add to the outfit, but I had to balance pretty with practical. The bell sounded again. And again.
“I’ll get it,” I said to myself and hoisted myself from my chair, not an easy feat of late. I shuffled down the hall, and made my way cautiously down the stairs. The bell rang again. I’m coming. The pregnant lady is moving as fast as she can. I opened the door, and the sight of two well-dressed strangers led me to think I was about to be offered a copy of The Watchtower.
“Mercy.” The voice was familiar, but I was completely taken aback by the sight of Martell Burke, Jilo’s great-grandson.
Martell’s typical teenage swagger and dress had been replaced, at least for the moment, by a neat black suit and tie and a sense of duty. I think I surprised him when I pulled him over the threshold and into a tight embrace. “You clean up pretty nice, there. I didn’t even recognize you at first.” He flashed me a smile, the first I’d ever seen on his normally too-cool-to-care face. I took a step back to take him in. The light in his eyes as he smiled reminded me of Jilo, and I reached out again to squeeze his hand.
“Who is it?” Iris asked, and I turned to see her approaching, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Martell,” Iris squealed in obvious delight. “Look at how handsome you are.” Martell smiled as Iris fawned over him. Iris planted a kiss on his cheek.
Someone cleared their throat, and only then did I remember Martell’s companion. The smile slid from Martell’s lips. “This is my cousin, Jessamine,” he said and stepped aside. She waited just beyond the threshold. The tilt of her head, the illumination of the morning sun, and the way the doorway framed her colluded to make me think of an Andrew Wyeth painting. She was exquisite, breathtaking, a beauty so great it could only inspire devotion or the darkest of envy. Café au lait skin and cerulean eyes, auburn hair a shade nearly as vibrant as my own. She stood before me, her stance regal, her elegant neck bent so that her head rested at an inquisitive angle.
“Please come in,” Iris said. “Please.”
Jessamine entered our home like she was stepping into a carnival haunted house. She looked side to side, surveying the entry, the sitting room on its left, and the library that lay to its right as if she were expecting someone to jump out at her from the shadows at any moment.
She said nothing, and the situation grew awkward. “Pleased to meet you.” I held out my hand. She did not take it.
She remained silent, merely standing before me and looking me over. Finally she felt moved to speak. “So you’re the one Auntie Jilo was so mad for?” She watched me coolly for my reaction.
“The feeling was more than mutual. I was pretty crazy about her too.” I smiled, hoping to see a bit of warmth creep into her lovely eyes. Nothing. “I loved her, actually.”
“Make yourself comfortable,” Iris said and motioned toward the sitting room we really only used when we had guests. Guests Iris was not sure she wanted to welcome any farther into the house, that is. I wasn’t even sure Iris herself was aware she used the sitting room as a buffer. Jessamine took no notice of Iris’s directions, turning instead to the right and heading into the library. Martell shrugged and went to the sitting room, leaving my aunt and me to follow Jessamine.
We found her standing before my grandmother’s portrait that hung over the mantel. She examined it minutely, reaching up and holding her fingers a mere hair from the canvas.
“Adeline Taylor, my mother,” Iris said proudly.
Jessamine pulled her hand back quickly as if she’d touched a flame. “She was a beauty.” She glanced back over her shoulder at Iris. “You resemble her.”
“Thank you,” Iris said and smiled. “I’d like to think so, but she had a certain grace I fear I lack.”
Jessamine turned fully toward us. “Your father must have loved her very much.” She cast a look back at the portrait. “That face could cause a man to lose himself.”
Something in her words riled me, but Iris’s eyes crinkled in pleasure. “Well, I don’t think Daddy lost himself, but he did lose his heart.”
“Perhaps we should join Martell?” I found Jessamine’s overt fascination with my grandmother’s portrait a bit disconcerting.
“This was your father’s desk?” Jessamine disregarded me and swept her index finger over the desktop, as if she were checking for dust.
“Yes, and his father’s before that. It has very little value as an antique, but it holds a lot of sentimental value for his children.”
“His children,” Jessamine echoed.
It wasn’t quite a question, but Iris felt compelled to respond anyway. “Yes, of course. Ellen and myself. And our brother, Oliver, of course.” She hadn’t
included my mother. I understood.
“Were you close to your grandparents?” she asked, addressing me.
“Close?” I considered her question. I didn’t like her demeanor, and she was getting a little too personal, a little too quickly. Still, she benefited in my sight from being related to Jilo, so I answered. “They seem so blurry to me. I do remember one time when I was playing outside on the porch, watching Grandma work in the flowerbeds, then turning and pressing my nose up against the window. Grandpa was smoking his pipe and reading a paper.” I could see my grandfather’s kind face looking out at me and smell the faint scent of cherry pipe tobacco.
“Darling, what are you talking about?” Iris looked at me like I was a natural born fool. “Your grandparents passed before you were even thought of.”
A wave of confusion washed over me. “Of course they did.” I knew that. I did. So how could I have been imprinted with such a clear memory?
“You must have heard our stories about them and imagined one as your own recollection.” That, or maybe as a child I’d somehow managed to shake loose memories of them that had been imprinted on our surroundings. But no, that type of experience felt more like watching a movie, a three-dimensional movie, but a movie all the same. My “memory” of my grandparents felt as real to me as anything else from my childhood.
