was tied with a simple cord at the nape, and then plunged to her waist.
Lou was heartened to see that she wore not a dress, but instead baggy denim trousers faded to near white and an indigo shirt patched in various places. Old brogans covered her feet. She was statue-like in her majesty, yet the woman had a remarkable pair of hazel eyes that clearly missed nothing in their range.
Lou boldly stepped forward while Oz did his best to melt into his sister’s back. “I’m Louisa Mae Cardinal. This is my brother, Oscar.” There was a tremble to Lou’s voice. She stood her ground, though, only inches from her namesake, and this proximity revealed a remarkable fact: Their profiles were almost identical. They seemed twins separated by a mere three generations.
Louisa said nothing, her gaze trailing the ambulance.
Lou noted this and said, “Wasn’t she supposed to stay and help look after our mother? She has a lot of needs, and we have to make sure that she’s comfortable.”
Her great-grandmother shifted her focus to the Hudson.
“Eugene,” Louisa Mae said in a voice possessed of negligible twang, yet which seemed undeniably southern still, “bring the bags in, honey.” Only then did she look at Lou, and though the stare was rigid, there was something prowling behind the eyes that gave Lou a reason to feel welcome. “We take good care of your mother.”
Louisa Mae turned and went back in the house. Eugene followed with their bags. Oz was fully concentrating on his bear and his thumb. His wide, blue eyes were blinking rapidly, a sure indication that his nerves were racing at a feverish pitch. Indeed, he looked like he wanted to run all the way back to New York City right that minute. And Oz very well might have, if only he had known in which direction it happened to be.
CHAPTER NINE
The bedroom given to Lou was spartan and also the only room on the second floor, accessed by a rear staircase. It had one large window that looked out over the farmyard. The angled walls and low ceiling were covered with old newspaper and magazine pages pasted there like wallpaper. Most were yellowed, and some hung down where the paste had worn away. There was a simple rope bed of hickory and a pine wardrobe scarred in places. And there was a small desk of rough-hewn wood by the window, where the morning light fell upon it. The desk was unremarkable in design, yet it drew Lou’s attention as though cast from gold and trimmed by diamonds.
Her father’s initials were still so vivid: “JJC.” John Jacob Cardinal. This had to be the desk at which he had first started writing. She imagined her father as a little boy, lips set firm, hands working precisely, as he scored his initials into the wood, and then set out upon his career as a storyteller. As she touched the cut letters, it was as though she had just put her hand on top of her father’s. For some reason Lou sensed that her great-grandmother had deliberately given her this room.
Her father had been reserved about his life here. However, whenever Lou had asked him about her namesake, Jack Cardinal had been effusive in his answer. “A finer woman never walked the earth.” And then he would tell about some of his life on the mountain, but only some. Apparently, he left the intimate details for his books, all but one of which Lou would have to wait until adulthood to read, her father had told her. Thus she was left with many unanswered questions.
She reached in her suitcase and pulled out a small, wood-framed photograph. Her mother’s smile was wide, and though the photograph was black and white, Lou knew the swell of her mother’s amber eyes was near hypnotic. Lou had always loved that color, even sometimes hoping that the blue in hers would disappear one morning and be replaced with this collision of brown and gold. The photo had been taken on her mother’s birthday. Toddler Lou was standing in front of Amanda, and mother had both arms around her child. In the photo
Lou was heartened to see that she wore not a dress, but instead baggy denim trousers faded to near white and an indigo shirt patched in various places. Old brogans covered her feet. She was statue-like in her majesty, yet the woman had a remarkable pair of hazel eyes that clearly missed nothing in their range.
Lou boldly stepped forward while Oz did his best to melt into his sister’s back. “I’m Louisa Mae Cardinal. This is my brother, Oscar.” There was a tremble to Lou’s voice. She stood her ground, though, only inches from her namesake, and this proximity revealed a remarkable fact: Their profiles were almost identical. They seemed twins separated by a mere three generations.
Louisa said nothing, her gaze trailing the ambulance.
Lou noted this and said, “Wasn’t she supposed to stay and help look after our mother? She has a lot of needs, and we have to make sure that she’s comfortable.”
Her great-grandmother shifted her focus to the Hudson.
“Eugene,” Louisa Mae said in a voice possessed of negligible twang, yet which seemed undeniably southern still, “bring the bags in, honey.” Only then did she look at Lou, and though the stare was rigid, there was something prowling behind the eyes that gave Lou a reason to feel welcome. “We take good care of your mother.”
Louisa Mae turned and went back in the house. Eugene followed with their bags. Oz was fully concentrating on his bear and his thumb. His wide, blue eyes were blinking rapidly, a sure indication that his nerves were racing at a feverish pitch. Indeed, he looked like he wanted to run all the way back to New York City right that minute. And Oz very well might have, if only he had known in which direction it happened to be.
CHAPTER NINE
The bedroom given to Lou was spartan and also the only room on the second floor, accessed by a rear staircase. It had one large window that looked out over the farmyard. The angled walls and low ceiling were covered with old newspaper and magazine pages pasted there like wallpaper. Most were yellowed, and some hung down where the paste had worn away. There was a simple rope bed of hickory and a pine wardrobe scarred in places. And there was a small desk of rough-hewn wood by the window, where the morning light fell upon it. The desk was unremarkable in design, yet it drew Lou’s attention as though cast from gold and trimmed by diamonds.
Her father’s initials were still so vivid: “JJC.” John Jacob Cardinal. This had to be the desk at which he had first started writing. She imagined her father as a little boy, lips set firm, hands working precisely, as he scored his initials into the wood, and then set out upon his career as a storyteller. As she touched the cut letters, it was as though she had just put her hand on top of her father’s. For some reason Lou sensed that her great-grandmother had deliberately given her this room.
Her father had been reserved about his life here. However, whenever Lou had asked him about her namesake, Jack Cardinal had been effusive in his answer. “A finer woman never walked the earth.” And then he would tell about some of his life on the mountain, but only some. Apparently, he left the intimate details for his books, all but one of which Lou would have to wait until adulthood to read, her father had told her. Thus she was left with many unanswered questions.
She reached in her suitcase and pulled out a small, wood-framed photograph. Her mother’s smile was wide, and though the photograph was black and white, Lou knew the swell of her mother’s amber eyes was near hypnotic. Lou had always loved that color, even sometimes hoping that the blue in hers would disappear one morning and be replaced with this collision of brown and gold. The photo had been taken on her mother’s birthday. Toddler Lou was standing in front of Amanda, and mother had both arms around her child. In the photo
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