weeks ago. At the moment, Robin was stirring something in a tall stockpot on the stove. From the smell, Lisa guessed a significant ingredient was chicken.
"That for me?" he countered, glancing significantly at the pot as he carried the flowers over to the counter beside the sink. Robin made a face at him.
"Who'd want your ugly mug at their supper table? Not me, that's for sure," Robin retorted, then smiled at Lisa. "Miss Martha's in the TV room. Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Painter are with her."
They were two of her mother's legion of friends. Lisa nodded and headed upstairs to change clothes without interrupting. Martha had so few diversions now that visits from friends were highly prized. Lisa was only glad that they hadn't forgotten her mother.
By the time she had discarded her suit in favor of conservative, mid-thigh-length khaki shorts, a white tee, and slip-on Keds--now that she was home again, she eschewed anything too short, too tight, or too trendy out of deference to her mother's sensibilities--most of the day's tension had left her. This beloved house where she had grown up always had a calming effect on her, and even the muffled hammering that accompanied the ongoing repairs--and the worry of paying for them later--couldn't change that. Everything about the house, from the rich wood paneling in the reception rooms on the first floor, to the beautiful stained-glass windows that shed prisms of colored light into the most unexpected places, to the hand-carved, winding main staircase that curved up from the center hall, to the leaded glass dome that was a central feature of the roof, was a reminder of a bygone age. She felt almost as though she were a part of the house, as if living there was something that had been bred in her bones, which she supposed, since it had been in her mother's family for generations, it had been. Her own large bedroom was located at the back of the newer (having been constructed in 1894) north wing, not far from her mother's. Or at least not far from her mother's old room. Since her illness had progressed to the point that she had to be carried up the stairs, Martha had had the library, which was on the ground floor of the main wing, converted into a bedroom for her use, both for ease of access and because the halls in that section of the house were consistently wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair. That meant Lisa was all alone in the north wing. Not that she minded. To tell the truth, she relished the privacy, which had been in short supply since she moved back home. Plus, she loved her bedroom. The walls were real plaster, painted a creamy yellow, and a cheerful and ruinously expensive floral chintz in yellow and pink and green that she had chosen herself at age sixteen had been custom-made into draperies and a matching bedspread. A Tabriz carpet in faded shades of rose and blue covered the floor. The room had twelve-foot ceilings, a rarely used fireplace with an elegant Adam mantle, and tall windows overlooking the swimming pool and the Baby's Garden, which was a brick-walled explosion of roses in gorgeous peaches and pinks and reds surrounding a small bronze fountain in the shape of a winged baby-boy cherub, from which the garden took its name. Her furniture was antique except for the bed, a queen-size four-poster, and the soft-green easy chair and ottoman in one corner. An en suite bathroom and a room-size closet had been fashioned out of the bedroom next door at about the same time she had chosen the chintz. The bathroom stood between the bedroom and the closet, with a door opening into each. Walking into the bathroom, Lisa washed her hands and face and touched up her makeup. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair back into a ponytail in a concession to the heat, she realized she'd left the door to her closet open. She was able to see, through the mirror, both the rack where she had hung her discarded suit among her other clothes and the collection of dolls
"That for me?" he countered, glancing significantly at the pot as he carried the flowers over to the counter beside the sink. Robin made a face at him.
"Who'd want your ugly mug at their supper table? Not me, that's for sure," Robin retorted, then smiled at Lisa. "Miss Martha's in the TV room. Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. Painter are with her."
They were two of her mother's legion of friends. Lisa nodded and headed upstairs to change clothes without interrupting. Martha had so few diversions now that visits from friends were highly prized. Lisa was only glad that they hadn't forgotten her mother.
By the time she had discarded her suit in favor of conservative, mid-thigh-length khaki shorts, a white tee, and slip-on Keds--now that she was home again, she eschewed anything too short, too tight, or too trendy out of deference to her mother's sensibilities--most of the day's tension had left her. This beloved house where she had grown up always had a calming effect on her, and even the muffled hammering that accompanied the ongoing repairs--and the worry of paying for them later--couldn't change that. Everything about the house, from the rich wood paneling in the reception rooms on the first floor, to the beautiful stained-glass windows that shed prisms of colored light into the most unexpected places, to the hand-carved, winding main staircase that curved up from the center hall, to the leaded glass dome that was a central feature of the roof, was a reminder of a bygone age. She felt almost as though she were a part of the house, as if living there was something that had been bred in her bones, which she supposed, since it had been in her mother's family for generations, it had been. Her own large bedroom was located at the back of the newer (having been constructed in 1894) north wing, not far from her mother's. Or at least not far from her mother's old room. Since her illness had progressed to the point that she had to be carried up the stairs, Martha had had the library, which was on the ground floor of the main wing, converted into a bedroom for her use, both for ease of access and because the halls in that section of the house were consistently wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair. That meant Lisa was all alone in the north wing. Not that she minded. To tell the truth, she relished the privacy, which had been in short supply since she moved back home. Plus, she loved her bedroom. The walls were real plaster, painted a creamy yellow, and a cheerful and ruinously expensive floral chintz in yellow and pink and green that she had chosen herself at age sixteen had been custom-made into draperies and a matching bedspread. A Tabriz carpet in faded shades of rose and blue covered the floor. The room had twelve-foot ceilings, a rarely used fireplace with an elegant Adam mantle, and tall windows overlooking the swimming pool and the Baby's Garden, which was a brick-walled explosion of roses in gorgeous peaches and pinks and reds surrounding a small bronze fountain in the shape of a winged baby-boy cherub, from which the garden took its name. Her furniture was antique except for the bed, a queen-size four-poster, and the soft-green easy chair and ottoman in one corner. An en suite bathroom and a room-size closet had been fashioned out of the bedroom next door at about the same time she had chosen the chintz. The bathroom stood between the bedroom and the closet, with a door opening into each. Walking into the bathroom, Lisa washed her hands and face and touched up her makeup. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror brushing her hair back into a ponytail in a concession to the heat, she realized she'd left the door to her closet open. She was able to see, through the mirror, both the rack where she had hung her discarded suit among her other clothes and the collection of dolls
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