by Girard, Dara
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Very well then, I guess we aren’t as good friends as I thought.”
He mumbled something.
“What?”
He lifted a gaze filled with rage and tears. “I said I’ll miss you.” He turned away.
“I’ll miss you, too.”
“Will you miss me?” Sophia asked.
Isabella kissed her forehead. “Very much.”
Alex looked down at his shoes. “They’ll all be sorry one day.”
Isabella frowned. “Who are they?”
Before he could reply, Velma said, “Bye, Izzy.”
Isabella hugged her. “Please keep in touch. Even if it’s just a holiday card. We’d love to know what you’re up to.”
Velma promised she would, then Isabella watched them pile into their Volkswagen and drive away.
Isabella pushed herself from the door, trying to escape the memory. She’d missed them more than she’d expected. They’d been a big part of her life and she hadn’t wanted to lose them. She’d waited months for a letter to arrive to tell her they’d settled and what they were up to, but it never came. She never expected to see them again. Why had they come back? Had he come back to make them sorry? Based on the information the Realtor had told them, the new owner was very rich and influential. With his newfound power and wealth, which usually came with a higher social standing, he could make a lot of people very unhappy. Isabella shook her head. She was reading too much into an awkward moment. Just because he didn’t remember her well didn’t mean he was there to cause trouble.
Isabella walked into the kitchen expecting to hear the raised voices of surprise and reunion, but instead, she heard the quiet murmur of pleasant strangers. Curious, she peeked around the corner and saw Mrs. Carlton and Sophia sitting primly at the table. Alex and his friend Tony stood by the door, while Mariella profusely apologized for not recognizing him with all the pathos of a staged drama. “Again Mr. Carlton, I’m so sorry for the confusion. I hope you can forgive me.”
The look she sent him offered him no choice, and he graciously responded with a nod of acceptance. Isabella watched his face. Now that she had peeled away the film of memory, she saw the reality of the man who now owned their home. He had a handsome face, which was unnervingly void of any true emotion: It looked as though a painter had created a magnificent portrait without putting any feeling in each brush stroke. Much like Mariella, he knew the power of his looks and used them to his advantage. She could imagine him putting people at ease with a smile that should’ve put them on guard.
Isabella shifted her gaze to Mrs. Carlton, who she recalled with fondness. She was now dressed in an expensive tailored suit and Isabella decided that she would approach the older woman with caution. She smiled in loving remembrance when she looked at her daughter, little Sophia, who in the past was always getting scolded for getting dirty. Now she sat elegantly in a peach cashmere blouse and dark wool trousers, her hair artfully arranged in curls falling around a slender face with a pert nose and wide hazel eyes. She had her brother’s good looks, but more warmth, and provided an obvious contrast to their shabby kitchen.
The tables had turned and Isabella knew the Carltons may not look on the Duvalls with kindness. Although Isabella had loved her mother, Caroline Duvall had been known for her grace and elegance, not for her kindness. Mrs. Carlton would see a faded image of the daughters she’d once dressed for fine high-society parties and events; daughters of a woman who had been stingy with pay but generous with work. They were not grand ladies now, and they were at their mercy. They had six months before they would be out of their lives again.
No wonder Alex had looked at her with distant pity. Like others, he must have been surprised to have to admit she had not developed any of the Duvall beauty. Isabella nodded. Now that she had assessed the situation, she was ready to proceed. For some unknown reason, she feared that Alex might not make her sisters aware of their former acquaintance. She would.
Isabella pushed opened the kitchen door and walked up to Mrs. Carlton with her hand outstretched. “Mrs. Carlton, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” The older woman only stared at her stunned, leaving Isabella’s hand hanging in the air with nothing to grasp. She patted her shoulder instead. “You haven’t changed.” She turned to Sophia. “And little Sophia. You’re beautiful. Of course, good looks run in the family.”
Mariella stared at her sister, appalled. “Isabella, what is wrong with you? What are you talking about?”
Velma blinked, wringing her hands in her lap. “You remember us?”
“Yes,” Isabella said, wondering why she felt on the verge of tears. “I’ve never forgotten you. I can see why you were too busy to write.”
Velma jumped up from her seat and pulled Isabella into her arms. “Oh my darling girl. How I’ve missed you.”
Isabella met Velma’s fierce hug with the same emotion, blinking back tears as her fears ebbed. Mrs. Carlton hadn’t changed. She was still the kind, generous spirit she’d loved years ago. The one who had soothed her ego when her mother’s harsh words had hurt her, the one who had added a “special touch” — whether it be a layer of silk, or an embroidered hem — to any dress she made for her. “I can’t believe it’s you.” Isabella turned to Sophia. “You probably don’t remember me, but give me a hug anyway.”
Sophia shyly hugged her, then said, “I do remember you a little bit.”
“You used to follow your brother around everywhere.” Isabella glanced up at Alex, his intense dark eyes sent a cold chill through her. It was clear that he was not in the mood for memories. She swallowed and stepped away. “Well…” she said lamely.
Mariella rested her hands on her hips. “What is going on?”
Isabella maintained a light tone to combat her sister’s sharp one. “Mariella. You remember Mrs. Carlton, right?”
She sent the older woman a cursory glance. “Am I supposed to?”
Her tone wavered. “Yes. Mrs. Carlton used to work for Mom as a seamstress, remember?” She nodded at Alex not wanting to meet his eyes again. “And Alex used to run errands and sometimes Sophia would stay with Daniella.” She turned to her youngest sister. “You two would play together. Of course you were too young to remember.” In an attempt to fill the sudden silence, Isabella said, “And this is Alex’s friend, Tony.”
Tony smiled. The sisters nodded then dismissed him.
“I don’t believe it,” Gabby said. “It is them.” She pointed a finger at Alex. “You stole my bicycle.”
Alex rested against the wall looking bored. “I borrowed it.”
“You’re supposed to return things you borrow.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “I could buy you a new one.”
“Good.”
Mariella looked at them stunned. “But it can’t be. They were poor.”
Isabella hit her sister’s arm hard.
She coughed and smiled. “It’s a delight to see you again. Once more, I apologize about the back door. I thought you were the movers.”
“We didn’t want too many things in the house just yet,” Velma said. “Not until…” Her voice faded away.
“Yes,” Isabella said, smoothing over the awkward silence. “Thank you. That was very considerate.” When Mariella sniffed, Isabella pinched her. “Don’t worry, we’ll be out of your way soon enough.”
“No need to rush,” Alex said. He said the words, but Isabella didn’t believe him. She turned and looked directly into his eyes.
“Where will you be staying?” she asked.
“I’m renting a room in town. I’ll be busy over the next couple of weeks.”
“Doing what?” Daniella asked.
“In two weeks I’m holding a fundraiser for the local nursing home. It will be an upscale event.” His gaze fell on each of them then stopped at Isabella. “I hope to see you all there.”
“What do you mean we can’t go?”
Mariella asked the next day as the three sisters looked over the invitation. “He gave us four tickets.”
“Will you please be sensible?” Isabella said with a tired sigh.
“I haven’t attended a party like this in years. It’s over two hundred dollars a plate and being held at the Montpelier Mansion. It’s my chance to be discovered.”
“And I’d like to go,” Gabby added. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve gone to something like this. Oh, imagine all the food they’ll have.”
Mariella winked. “And the men.”
Daniella nodded. “It will be so much fun.”
Mariella lifted the invitation. “There is no reason why we shouldn’t go. We have the tickets.”
Isabella shook her head. “But we don’t have dresses.”
“We could charge them.”
“We have enough debt as it is.”
“You could think of something,” Gabby said. “You always think of something.”
Isabella bit her lip then slowly said, “I could make you —”
“That’s it,” Mariella cut in. “Whatever you say, I think it’s a perfect idea. You could make our dresses. You’re an excellent seamstress. I don’t know where or how you learned to sew, but you’re good at it. Simple-chic will work. It will be like getting our dresses made in the old days.”
“But I didn’t say —”
“Oh, Izzy, you’re the best.”
They all kissed her on the cheek, then left planning for the big event.
Isabella sat at the kitchen table, burying her head in her hands. Outside the leafless trees clapped their branches together in an unheard breeze. She listened to the creak of footsteps above her. It was in quiet moments such as these that the house seemed to speak. In the tranquil hours as sunlight melted into the inky black shadows of night, or when the fingers of dawn brushed the shadows away, the house groaned and moaned as if it were an old woman with a story to share.
Isabella didn’t care to listen. She knew all the stories and didn’t like any of them. The walls in the solarium reminded her of the night her father told them he had leukemia. The floorboards would gossip about his last days as he stared out the window, half the weight he used to be. The living room would recall her mother’s diagnosis given over the phone, while the master bedroom remembered her last words, spoken clearly and firmly as death slowly stole her breath away.
She could still hear the echo of her own footsteps as she paced back and forth in the corridor. She remembered Daniella calling out in the night with a bad dream, and Gabby sneaking up the stairs with food she’d stashed in her pockets because dinner wasn’t enough.
Isabella glanced around the kitchen’s peeling wallpaper and old stove. She couldn’t wait to be rid of the burden of the house. Alex could gladly take it from them. She touched the invitation and stared at it pensively. Her sisters deserved a little fun. But how could she manage to come up with three dresses in two weeks? And not just any dresses. Gowns. She slowly raised her head and looked out into the evening. They deserved to go. There had to be a way. She thought for a moment then tapped the table. She had the perfect idea.
The next day she drove two hours to a designer consignment shop she’d visited several years earlier. Her plan was to find three dresses or gowns to alter. Although it was quite a distance, Isabella knew that she couldn’t risk buying something in town that others could recognize.
The Duvall reputation was at stake. She searched through the rack of dresses with the personalities of her sisters in mind. Mariella would want something that would draw attention to her, Gabby would like something more traditional and Daniella would like something nice and pretty. After a three-hour search, Isabella had all the dresses she knew would be perfect.
Back at home, she went into the old sewing room. Because it had been several years since anyone had used it, dust and cobwebs had taken hold. With only two weeks left to alter and remake the dresses, she got to work right away. Isabella spent the night dusting, cleaning and organizing the sewing machine and three wire dress forms hidden in the closet determined to make her sisters’ dreams come true.
Mrs. Lyons lived alone in a grand house that had belonged to her dead husband no one had ever seen — and most doubted had ever existed. She had a Siberian mix cat, named Nicodemus, and a companion, Ms. Timmons. She was a formidable woman of seventy-three years who liked to complain of imaginary ailments, but became a martyr when the pain was real.
Although her hair was completely white, she continued to dye it the black it had been when she was younger. The contrasting color only made her pale white skin look almost ghostly, while sharp green eyes were deeply set in a thin, narrow face. She didn’t mind growing older or the solitude of her life and welcomed her quiet existence most days, but she enjoyed bossing people around and grew restless when she didn’t have the opportunity to do so.
After a weekend of having only Ms. Timmons and her cook to harass, Mrs. Lyons looked eagerly out her window and caught sight of Isabella. She watched with growing anticipation, as Isabella gingerly maneuvered the piles of snow on the side of the road, and patches of treacherous black ice covering the sidewalk.
Mrs. Lyons frowned. Such a dull, ordinary girl, she thought staring at the large overcoat, limp brown scarf and gloves Isabella wore. But she hadn’t expected Caroline to loan out any of her other treasures. Isabella suited her needs, she was efficient and punctual. But for a woman who enjoyed finding fault in others and provoking them, Isabella’s patient nature became vexing at times.
At the sound of the doorbell, Mrs. Lyons sat back in her chair. She listened to the hushed voices down the hall, then closed her eyes as she heard Isabella’s footsteps approaching.
“How are you doing today?” Isabella asked in a bright cheery voice.
“I’m old and I’m sick. How do you expect me to be doing?”
“You’re not sick.”
Mrs. Lyons opened her eyes, sending a bright green gaze at the young woman. “You’re supposed to say I’m not old.”
“But then you would accuse me of lying.”
“Did you pick up the book?”
Isabella handed her an old volume of poems she’d loaned to Douglas Merchant, a widower trying to win the affections of the local beautician. She’d loaned him the book only a month ago and although she didn’t need it back, she liked having Isabella run errands for her. It made her feel important. She set the volume aside next to the cold cup of tea that had been sitting there for the past half hour.
“What should we read today?” Isabella went to the drawn curtains and pulled them aside, welcoming sunlight into the room. The sun’s rays spread across the gleaming Steinway piano, an oak bookcase lined with hardback books and little tea cups Mrs. Lyons liked to collect. She saw a dash of white and orange dart under the couch. “Hello Nicodemus,” she said.
Mrs. Lyons shielded her eyes from the brightness. “I don’t care what you read. Leave the curtains alone. The sun hurts my tired old eyes.”
“Your eyes are fine.”
Mrs. Lyons grumbled.
“You complain every time, but within five minutes you are always in a happier mood.”
“You’ve scared poor Nico.”
“He’ll come out eventually. He likes when I play the piano.” Isabella walked over to the bookshelf and ran a finger along the spine of the books. “Now let’s see…”
“I don’t feel like reading,” Mrs. Lyons said in a petulant tone.
“Perhaps I can play something for you.” Isabella sat at the piano and noticed a new little figurine: a bust modeled after Michelangelo’s David. “This is a beautiful sculpture. It must be from the early 20th century. I bet it costs a lot.”
She shrugged. “It wouldn’t fetch any more than fifteen hundred.”
Isabella stared at it impressed. “Oh.”
Mrs. Lyons watched her, a glint entering her green gaze. “If it were real.”
Isabella turned to her. “It’s a fak
e?”
“Of course it’s a fake. You must learn to develop your eye. A fine terracotta bust would gather some interest. But that,” she made a dismissive gesture, “is just a pretty thing of little merit. By now I thought your years with me would have helped you notice the difference.”
“I am trying to understand how to recognize antiques, Mrs. Lyons. I really love them.”
“Good. One should respect their elders. By the way, I’m planning my annual trip. This time I’ll spend two weeks in Italy along with my regular route. I missed it last year.”
“Italy?” Isabella said wistfully.
“Have you ever been?” Mrs. Lyons asked, knowing she had not.
Isabella ran her fingers lightly over the keys then began to play. Nicodemus came from under the couch, jumped up on the bench and began to purr. “No, I’ve never traveled outside the U.S.” She looked at her. “But I would love to.”
Mrs. Lyons saw the bright eagerness in the younger woman’s gaze and smiled slightly. She’d been hinting at traveling with her for years, perhaps this year she would take her along. “Yes, it would probably do you good. Now play me something festive.”
Hours later, Isabella prepared to leave. “The Saturday after next I must leave early.”
“Why?” Mrs. Lyons asked annoyed that there would be any change to her schedule.
“I’m attending a party at the Montpelier Mansion.”
“But I only get a few Saturdays out of you. Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and some Saturdays, that’s all I ask.”
“I’ll make it up to you. There are plenty of Saturdays left.”
“I’m sure you’re eager to go, I suppose it’s to be expected. I forgot to ask you about the new owner of your home. Have you met him yet?”
“Yes.”
“Is it true it is one of the Carltons that used to live here?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Lyons raised her brows intrigued. “Interesting. David Carlton’s son has returned,” she said in quiet wonder then, “and how does it feel to lose your home to him?”
Isabella grabbed her coat. “I have a feeling you expect a certain answer to that.”