Here With Me by Beverly Long

a
great-niece. That’s what we need to be focused on.”
    The purple-red crept another two inches
higher. “Of course. Congratulations, Melody, George.” She turned,
giving them her back. “Bessie said lunch is ready.”
    He didn’t think she’d probably come late to
too many meals. He looked toward Melody, but her attention was
focused on a man coming from the wine shed. He favored his right
leg when he walked and his hair was gray. George pegged him at
about sixty, give or take a couple years.
    Melody met him halfway and she threw her arms
around the man. George looked at Pearl. “Uncle Louis?”
    She snorted. Took him a bit by surprise, her
being such a lady. “That’s Bernard. He’s our winemaker. He’s been
here for almost thirty years. We owe much of our success to his
efforts. Melody adores him and it’s mutual.”
    She hooked her arm through his. “They’ll want
to catch up and it’s been a good long time since a handsome young
man walked me to my door. Come along. They’ll follow soon
enough.”
    He did as instructed, being careful to keep
his stride short and his pace slow. The woman felt frail on his
arm, as if a good, strong wind could blow her away.
    When they got to the house, she opened the
door of her home with a flourish. If he’d been surprised at the
outside, the inside damn near stunned him. It was huge, with fancy
wood flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows. There were hanging
chandeliers and all kinds of pictures on the walls. She led him
through the foyer into another room. The furniture was big and
soft- looking and it seemed as if ten people could be in the room
and not be crowded. A big black piano sat in front of the bay
window and to the left of it were double doors, which led outside
onto another porch.
    “Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll check on
lunch.”
    He was glad he’d put on the new, clean
clothes. He’d have been afraid to sit if he’d had his old trousers
on. He lowered himself down onto the edge of the sofa.
    He’d been there less than a minute when an
old woman, stick-thin with dark brown hair cut so short she could
have been a man, entered the room. She wore a blue dress that
dragged on the floor and she carried a black cat in her arms. “So
you’re the husband?” she asked, her voice husky with age.
    He stood up, feeling off-kilter. Her lips
were painted bright orange, her eyes rimmed with black, and she had
two yellow feathers stuck behind one ear. “I am.”
    “My great-niece is a special woman,” she
said. “I expect you know that.”
    He nodded.
    “Don’t disappoint her,” she said, her voice
suddenly hard. “If you do, you’ll have me to answer to.” She bent
down and placed the cat on the floor. It walked toward him, its
tail high in the air. Two feet away, it stopped and let out a sharp
hiss.
    “Oh for goodness sakes, Genevieve. Call off
your cat.” Pearl stood in the doorway. “The poor man needs a chance
to catch his breath. He’s had a journey.” She turned toward him.
“George, this is my sister, Genevieve. Melody’s great-aunt.”
    Sort of odd . That’s how Melody had described her. It was nice to know that his
new wife wasn’t prone to exaggeration. He extended his hand. “It’s
a pleasure, ma’am.”
    She stared at his hand long enough to make
him uncomfortable. Then she extended her own thin arm. Her hand was
bony and spotted from the sun. It reminded him of. . .
    He jerked his hand back. Christ, he’d seen a
similar hand not so long ago. It had wrapped around his arm and
pulled. She smiled at him and he felt the chill run up his spine.
He swiveled toward Pearl. She had her own hand in the air, waving
it toward the hallway. Her hand was thin like the rest of her, and
it looked very much like her sister’s.
    “This way,” Pearl said. “Lunch is ready.”
    His stomach growled. Lunch would be the first
food he’d had in a very long time.
    Aunt Genevieve walked over to stand next to
her sister. “Well, George?” she