livable. A statue
of a little boy graced the middle of an elaborate fountain in the center of a circular drive. Water trickled from a jug held sideways in his hands. The harmony of that moment was shattered when I
saw the solitary figure standing on the front steps.
Cora. She had been watching me, but showed no sign of greet-
ing. We remained perhaps a hundred yards apart, staring at one
another for a minute. A solid woman, her presence was formidable
even from that distance. I got out of the Jeep and walked toward
her. Her simple pale-blue dress was cut full and fell in folds about her heavy knees. The legs beneath were muscled and well formed;
her arms were folded in front of her as if she were protecting a fortress. Her face was square and crisscrossed with lines, the features harsh and sharp. I looked into the smal , deep-set eyes and smiled.
Those eyes belonged to Nick. It wasn’t the shape; Nick’s eyes were large and round. Hers were hidden beneath folds of wrinkled skin
and appeared inscrutable. It was the color that made my heart
jump. The same dark green. A green that could be clear and pleas-
ant one moment and clouded over with anger the next, but was
50
ELLEN J. GREEN
always intense. And there was more. Something behind the eyes
was familiar. It startled me for a second and I felt a quick, sharp intake of air in my lungs.
“Miss Carlisle?” Her voice was deep and raspy.
“Mackenzie,” I answered.
Cora turned and opened the double doors that led into the
house. “Please, come in.”
The doors were thick and heavy; going through them reminded
me of passing through a bank vault. They blocked any light or air that might have entered, and the windows, because of their tal ,
narrow structure, afforded little view of the outside world. The
thick velvet curtains that covered them sealed the rooms in dark-
ness. I stood in the marble foyer, almost afraid to breathe. A large, curved stairway on the right led to the second floor. I spotted a sketch on the wall and moved in to get a better look.
“This way. I’ve set out some tea for us,” Cora said.
“From Degas’s The Morning Bath ?” I couldn’t hide my expression of awe.
“Yes, it is. My husband was an avid art collector. Do you know
anything about art?” She didn’t wait for me to answer but contin-
ued down a hal way.
“A little,” I muttered. I felt so out of place. I glanced down at my navy silk dress and heels. They were a hasty purchase in preparation for this visit, though now I felt like a peasant dragged from the hil s to meet the queen.
Cora opened a door and ushered me into a large sitting room.
An antique Queen Anne table held a sterling tea setting. The wal s were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and I had to resist the urge to go over and inspect the titles, to see what books appealed to her. Instead, I sat on the sofa and tried to cross my ankles delicately. The seat was stiff; I felt as if I were sitting on a board covered in Styrofoam. I shifted my weight slightly to get comfortable. She sat across from me but said nothing.
THE BOOK of JAMES
51
“I’m sorry,” I began. “I know it must have been a shock to learn
about the accident from my note, but I didn’t have a number to
cal .” Cora was studying my face, and I couldn’t help but look away.
“It was,” she said final y. “Nick and I had not seen each other
for years. He left here when his father died and never came back.”
She poured a cup of tea and offered it to me. I hesitated for a
second, afraid that my hands would shake. When I reached for it,
I saw that her fingers holding the cup were red, almost maroon in color. Not just her fingers—the skin all the way up to the sleeves of her dress, as far as I could see, was scarred, red, and scabbed in places. Like it had been burned.
“Did he tell you anything about why he left?” she asked.
I grasped the cup firmly and lowered it to the table. “No. Nick
didn’t
of a little boy graced the middle of an elaborate fountain in the center of a circular drive. Water trickled from a jug held sideways in his hands. The harmony of that moment was shattered when I
saw the solitary figure standing on the front steps.
Cora. She had been watching me, but showed no sign of greet-
ing. We remained perhaps a hundred yards apart, staring at one
another for a minute. A solid woman, her presence was formidable
even from that distance. I got out of the Jeep and walked toward
her. Her simple pale-blue dress was cut full and fell in folds about her heavy knees. The legs beneath were muscled and well formed;
her arms were folded in front of her as if she were protecting a fortress. Her face was square and crisscrossed with lines, the features harsh and sharp. I looked into the smal , deep-set eyes and smiled.
Those eyes belonged to Nick. It wasn’t the shape; Nick’s eyes were large and round. Hers were hidden beneath folds of wrinkled skin
and appeared inscrutable. It was the color that made my heart
jump. The same dark green. A green that could be clear and pleas-
ant one moment and clouded over with anger the next, but was
50
ELLEN J. GREEN
always intense. And there was more. Something behind the eyes
was familiar. It startled me for a second and I felt a quick, sharp intake of air in my lungs.
“Miss Carlisle?” Her voice was deep and raspy.
“Mackenzie,” I answered.
Cora turned and opened the double doors that led into the
house. “Please, come in.”
The doors were thick and heavy; going through them reminded
me of passing through a bank vault. They blocked any light or air that might have entered, and the windows, because of their tal ,
narrow structure, afforded little view of the outside world. The
thick velvet curtains that covered them sealed the rooms in dark-
ness. I stood in the marble foyer, almost afraid to breathe. A large, curved stairway on the right led to the second floor. I spotted a sketch on the wall and moved in to get a better look.
“This way. I’ve set out some tea for us,” Cora said.
“From Degas’s The Morning Bath ?” I couldn’t hide my expression of awe.
“Yes, it is. My husband was an avid art collector. Do you know
anything about art?” She didn’t wait for me to answer but contin-
ued down a hal way.
“A little,” I muttered. I felt so out of place. I glanced down at my navy silk dress and heels. They were a hasty purchase in preparation for this visit, though now I felt like a peasant dragged from the hil s to meet the queen.
Cora opened a door and ushered me into a large sitting room.
An antique Queen Anne table held a sterling tea setting. The wal s were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and I had to resist the urge to go over and inspect the titles, to see what books appealed to her. Instead, I sat on the sofa and tried to cross my ankles delicately. The seat was stiff; I felt as if I were sitting on a board covered in Styrofoam. I shifted my weight slightly to get comfortable. She sat across from me but said nothing.
THE BOOK of JAMES
51
“I’m sorry,” I began. “I know it must have been a shock to learn
about the accident from my note, but I didn’t have a number to
cal .” Cora was studying my face, and I couldn’t help but look away.
“It was,” she said final y. “Nick and I had not seen each other
for years. He left here when his father died and never came back.”
She poured a cup of tea and offered it to me. I hesitated for a
second, afraid that my hands would shake. When I reached for it,
I saw that her fingers holding the cup were red, almost maroon in color. Not just her fingers—the skin all the way up to the sleeves of her dress, as far as I could see, was scarred, red, and scabbed in places. Like it had been burned.
“Did he tell you anything about why he left?” she asked.
I grasped the cup firmly and lowered it to the table. “No. Nick
didn’t
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