Promises to Keep - Ann Tatlock [89]
Miss Charlotte herself answered Tillie’s knock on the door. She was a tiny wisp of a woman, clothed in a dark dress, thick stockings, and black tie-up shoes. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head, and her steel gray eyes peered at us sharply from behind tiny oval-shaped lenses. When she recognized Tillie, she smiled. “Why, Tillie Monroe,” she said amiably, opening the door wider so we could step into the foyer. “I’ve been expecting you to come by, now that your boy Lyle is here.”
“I hope he’s not giving you any trouble, Charlotte,” Tillie said. She sounded stern, but I could tell she was trying to suppress a smile.
“Oh my, no!” Miss Charlotte exclaimed, hands thrown up in the air. “He’s a good boy, that Lyle. Always has been. I imagine you’re glad to have him back home again.”
“You’ve got that right, Charlotte. Not that I was unhappy about him doing the Lord’s work in Bolivia, of course – ”
“Of course not, dear – ”
“But I missed him – ”
“I’m sure you did – ”
“And I’m just as glad to have him back home.”
Miss Charlotte nodded knowingly. “People belong at home, I always say. No use traipsing all over the globe. You’ll never find any place as good as home.”
With that, Tillie and Miss Charlotte both sighed happily. They spent the next several minutes talking pleasantries while I peered into the rooms on either side of the hall. On one side was a large formal parlor, where a middle-aged woman sat knitting in a wing chair beside an empty fireplace. Knitting needles clacking, she chattered away to a man who was hidden from view behind a fully opened newspaper. On the other side of the hall was a room of equal size, slightly less formal, in which four people sat at a folding table playing cards. The smoke from their cigarettes curled upward from the table and settled in a wispy haze over much of the room. Their occasional laughter, sudden and piercing, cut a swath through the otherwise quiet night.
My attention was snapped back to the hallway when Tillie, apparently remembering I was there, introduced me to Miss Charlotte. “This is Roz Anthony,” she said. She pointed toward me with an elbow, since both hands were occupied with the linens and Lyle’s clothes. “She and her family live with me now.”
Miss Charlotte looked pleased. “How lovely!” she exclaimed. “I’ve hated to think of you all alone in that big old house since . . . well, since Ross left us, God rest his soul.”
“Yes, Ross would be happy to know there’s a family in the house again,” Tillie remarked.
“That he would,” Miss Charlotte agreed. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you . . . I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“Roz,” I said. “Short for Rosalind.”
“I see. Pretty name. And what’s that you’ve got there? A pie, is it?”
“Lemon meringue,” Tillie interjected. “Lyle’s favorite. He hasn’t had a taste of lemon pie since his last furlough two years ago. I baked it up special for him today.”
“Lovely! Well, you’ll want to go deposit that in the refrigerator right away, then, little lady,” Miss Charlotte said.
“Where is it?” I asked timidly.
She raised an arm and pointed toward the back of the house. “Right down this hall, straight back. You may need to move a few things around in the refrigerator to make room.”
“When you’re finished with that, Roz,” Tillie said, “meet me upstairs in Lyle’s room.”
“Which one is that?” I asked, suddenly feeling lost and overwhelmed in this big old house filled with strangers.
Miss Charlotte swung her arm around to the stairs. “Straight up, turn left, and it’s the first room on the right.”
Tillie nodded at me, my signal to go on to the kitchen. I almost asked her to come with me but decided against it. I moved uneasily from her side and down the hall. The slightly sloping hardwood floor squeaked beneath my feet. Off to the left two women sipped tea at a table in the dining room, a smattering of dirty dishes scattered nearby. On the right a door hung open to a dark walk-in pantry beneath the staircase; I scurried past, afraid of what might jump out at me.
Finally I stepped