again how much he was like Hugh. I felt every one of my muscles tense and all I could do was nod.
“Lighthorse! What are you doing?” The voice came from the other end of the kitchen. I couldn’t see the speaker—Horse was in my way—but since the tone was mature female, I knew it must be Hugh’s mom. Panicking, I pushed myself up, wrenching my knee again as I tried to yank my limb free. Horse let go and turned, giving me an unobstructed view.
There, in the kitchen doorway, with Beth Ann gaping over her shoulder, was the Marie Antoinette teddy bear, only now she was wearing a pink sweatsuit that clashed with her short crop of Miss Clairol Spiced Bronze hair. The fake mole was still in place. Or maybe it wasn’t fake.
All Horse said was, “Where do you keep your aspirin, Ma?”
Ignoring him, she came forward, her face lighting up in a smile as she recognized me—gracious of her, considering I’d laughed at her when last we met. “Well, look who it is.” Gone was the haughty colonial British accent from earlier, and in its place were homey modern Southern inflections. “So, how’d you like Elizabeth?”
“Beg your pardon?” I stood, still in shock enough to think I hadn’t heard right.
“Elizabeth Carson. That’s who you ran into this afternoon. One of my ancestors. She lived in this very house during the Revolution,” she said, as if she thought I’d lose sleep without the knowledge. Then, with the air of someone teaching a less-than-astute tot, she added, “I portray Elizabeth as a living history character, you see.”
“Ah.” I didn’t mean that to come out sounding so relieved. What with her insistence on a theatrical name and her jump into the subject of her latest role, I had an epiphany about the woman. She was an actress greeting fans at the stage door, I thought. Getting on her good side should be easy. “Elizabeth was charming.” Offering my hand, I introduced myself.
Her grip was stronger than expected. “Call me Glad. I’m delighted you liked her, Pat. You’ll see her again before the weekend’s out.” Such a twinkle came into her eye that I wondered if my relief was premature.
I glanced at my companions. Beth Ann wore a half smirk that said I deserved this. Horse didn’t seem at all perturbed by his mother’s behavior, but said, “Ma, the aspirin.”
“In the front bathroom upstairs. You can fetch it while I show you all around the house.” Still clutching my hand, she turned toward the doorway, so I had no choice but to go with her.
Beth Ann followed on my heels and Horse took up the rear, grinning, but looking less than happy.
“This is the original house,” Glad said as we climbed a single uneven step up into a closetlike pantry, its walls lined with shelves stocked with food boxes and cans, “built by Elizabeth’s father-in-law, Josiah Carson, sometime before 1750. The kitchen wing was added in 1796.”
We passed into the dining room, where she let go of my hand to strike a pose by the hearth. “This would have been the original kitchen. One can imagine Elizabeth here during the war years, cooking, spinning, sewing late into the evening by firelight, keeping her household together, and helping the cause any way she could while her husband Thomas was off with the army.”
And so our tour went. We imagined Elizabeth in her parlor, receiving Generals Washington and Rochambeau after the Yorktown campaign. The room now held a worn sofa facing two matching armchairs that flanked either side of the corner fireplace. Framed paintings leaned against the walls where, I presumed, they would eventually be hung.
No Christmas tree, though. The only decorations were single electric candles in the front windows. I told myself that Glad and Evelyn had just moved in and probably hadn’t had a chance to decorate. Of course, a poinsettia or two wouldn’t have taken any time at all. Then again, some people didn’t decorate or even put up their tree until Christmas Eve.
“Lighthorse! What are you doing?” The voice came from the other end of the kitchen. I couldn’t see the speaker—Horse was in my way—but since the tone was mature female, I knew it must be Hugh’s mom. Panicking, I pushed myself up, wrenching my knee again as I tried to yank my limb free. Horse let go and turned, giving me an unobstructed view.
There, in the kitchen doorway, with Beth Ann gaping over her shoulder, was the Marie Antoinette teddy bear, only now she was wearing a pink sweatsuit that clashed with her short crop of Miss Clairol Spiced Bronze hair. The fake mole was still in place. Or maybe it wasn’t fake.
All Horse said was, “Where do you keep your aspirin, Ma?”
Ignoring him, she came forward, her face lighting up in a smile as she recognized me—gracious of her, considering I’d laughed at her when last we met. “Well, look who it is.” Gone was the haughty colonial British accent from earlier, and in its place were homey modern Southern inflections. “So, how’d you like Elizabeth?”
“Beg your pardon?” I stood, still in shock enough to think I hadn’t heard right.
“Elizabeth Carson. That’s who you ran into this afternoon. One of my ancestors. She lived in this very house during the Revolution,” she said, as if she thought I’d lose sleep without the knowledge. Then, with the air of someone teaching a less-than-astute tot, she added, “I portray Elizabeth as a living history character, you see.”
“Ah.” I didn’t mean that to come out sounding so relieved. What with her insistence on a theatrical name and her jump into the subject of her latest role, I had an epiphany about the woman. She was an actress greeting fans at the stage door, I thought. Getting on her good side should be easy. “Elizabeth was charming.” Offering my hand, I introduced myself.
Her grip was stronger than expected. “Call me Glad. I’m delighted you liked her, Pat. You’ll see her again before the weekend’s out.” Such a twinkle came into her eye that I wondered if my relief was premature.
I glanced at my companions. Beth Ann wore a half smirk that said I deserved this. Horse didn’t seem at all perturbed by his mother’s behavior, but said, “Ma, the aspirin.”
“In the front bathroom upstairs. You can fetch it while I show you all around the house.” Still clutching my hand, she turned toward the doorway, so I had no choice but to go with her.
Beth Ann followed on my heels and Horse took up the rear, grinning, but looking less than happy.
“This is the original house,” Glad said as we climbed a single uneven step up into a closetlike pantry, its walls lined with shelves stocked with food boxes and cans, “built by Elizabeth’s father-in-law, Josiah Carson, sometime before 1750. The kitchen wing was added in 1796.”
We passed into the dining room, where she let go of my hand to strike a pose by the hearth. “This would have been the original kitchen. One can imagine Elizabeth here during the war years, cooking, spinning, sewing late into the evening by firelight, keeping her household together, and helping the cause any way she could while her husband Thomas was off with the army.”
And so our tour went. We imagined Elizabeth in her parlor, receiving Generals Washington and Rochambeau after the Yorktown campaign. The room now held a worn sofa facing two matching armchairs that flanked either side of the corner fireplace. Framed paintings leaned against the walls where, I presumed, they would eventually be hung.
No Christmas tree, though. The only decorations were single electric candles in the front windows. I told myself that Glad and Evelyn had just moved in and probably hadn’t had a chance to decorate. Of course, a poinsettia or two wouldn’t have taken any time at all. Then again, some people didn’t decorate or even put up their tree until Christmas Eve.
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