Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [92]
Lee smiled. “They put on a pretty good show. But then, so do you.”
She cocked her head to one side. The black curls, uncombed, grazed her shoulder.
“Coffee?”
He stretched his arms out to her.
Chapter Forty
The next day Lee took a long-promised trip to drive to his mother’s house to pick up his niece and bring her back to town with him for a visit. Chuck had insisted he take the weekend off, and he even though he disagreed with his friend, he had no choice but to obey.
Fiona Campbell lived in the same house where Lee and Laura were born, in a tiny village nestled deep in the Delaware valley. She had lived there since the first day of her ill-fated marriage, and she intended—or so she often claimed—“to die there, by God,”—which was more of an oath than an appeal directly to the divine.
When Lee arrived to pick up his niece, Kylie was on the front lawn waiting for him, standing on Turtle Rock, the big round boulder he and Laura used to pretend was a giant tortoise. Sometimes it was a whale, a pirate ship, or even a magic carpet, but most often it was a turtle. The boulder rose from the earth in a single graceful arc, its smooth gray hump of a back perfect for straddling, or standing on, or jumping from. Once, years ago, his mother had contemplated having the boulder removed from her lawn, but Lee and Laura made such a fuss that she’d dropped the idea.
His niece was dressed in a pink and white snow parka, with matching pink sneakers and a pink ribbon tied around her blond hair. Pink was Kylie’s favorite color, followed by purple. Unlike his mother, with her stern Scottish Presbyterian spine, Kylie was all girl, soft and sweet, but with a streak of mischief.
Lee got out of the car. “Hi, there, pastel girl.”
Kylie made a face and balanced on one foot. “Why are you calling me that?”
“Is today a No Teasing Day?” Lee asked, scooping her up off the boulder and putting her on his shoulders. He managed to keep her from seeing his face—at least for now.
“Maybe,” she said, putting her hands over his eyes. Her fingers smelled of lemons.
“Guess who!”
“Uh, let me see. Pastel girl?”
“Ugh!” Kylie gave a grunt of mock frustration. It was a sound Laura used to make when she was faking exasperation.
“Where’s your grandma?” he asked, holding on to her ankles so she wouldn’t fall as he walked toward the house.
The house was built in 1748, the large, irregular river stones held together by white masonry. Most of the wide, hand-hewn floorboards and ceiling beams were original, and the ceilings were low—only about eight feet high—and always made Lee feel a little like stooping.
“Mom?” he called, as he pushed open the heavy oak front door. The front hall smelled of eucalyptus and apples and ancient wooden beams. The walls were painted a creamy off-white, adorned with rather masculine hunting prints.
“Hello, Mom!” he called again.
“Fiona!” Kylie shouted.
“You don’t have to shout—I’m right here,” his mother said, coming around the corner from the dining room. She had perfectly good hearing, but some of her friends had bought hearing aids, and she was sensitive on the subject. Physical weakness would not be tolerated when you were a Campbell.
“Uncle Lee’s here!” Kylie cried, rushing to wrap herself around her grandmother’s legs.
Fiona Campbell gave Kylie’s head a perfunctory pat before extracting herself from her granddaughter’s embrace, like a cat stepping over a wet spot on the floor.
Fiona Campbell had the kind of square, strong-jawed good looks that were not exactly pretty, but her high, firm cheekbones, as she put it, “held age well.” Her skin had a healthy, ruddy glow, and with her clear blue eyes, straight nose, and firm, determined mouth, she was a handsome woman. Lee had once suggested to her that she try modeling for the cover of magazines for seniors, and she had dismissed the idea with a contemptuous wave of her hand. He wasn’t sure whether the contempt was aimed at the idea of modeling or the notion that anyone would think of her as a “senior.” She talked about the “old ladies” at her