Until Dark - Mariah Stewart [106]
Kendra stood at the counter, confused. How could she complete such a mundane task?
“Now, you cook, and we’ll chat, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he promised. “We have a lot to catch up on. Of course, I’ve kept up with you. Big-time sketch artist, eh? I remember when you used to draw people. Remember you drew Mrs. Lentini, that mean-tempered lady who lived across the street, and you made her look so mean? Mom tried to pretend she was horrified but she laughed anyway.”
She searched the cupboards for the ingredients for pancakes, her head filled with a loud humming born of nerves and the sheer effort to maintain a composure she was close to losing.
Who was this man?
He seated himself at the kitchen table, facing her where she stood between the sink and the stove.
“You’re still skeptical, aren’t you. Hmmmm, shall I talk about the old house? The house we grew up in, in Princeton?” Without waiting for her response, his words tumbled out quickly. “It was brick. It had a small front porch with white pillars. Red patterned rugs in the front hallway and big, wide steps that went up to the second floor in a curve. There was a basket on the table near the front door for the mail. There were always flowers on that table, and a lamp with blue swirls on it.” He looked up and asked, “Isn’t that how you remember it?”
“That house was photographed several times for magazine articles. Anyone could have access to that information. You’ve proven nothing.” She was barely aware that her hands had begun to sweat.
“On to the sunroom, then,” he smiled. “Heavy wicker furniture. There was a big round table with a glass top, there were always books stacked on it. She—Mom—always read more than one book at a time. She carried them with her in a canvas bag that had an orchid painted on it. Dad had bought it for her. There was a round pottery ashtray. She smoked cigarettes but prided herself on the fact that she never smoked more than five a day.”
He paused, then asked, as if it mattered to him, “Did that change, once she became a senator? I mean, smoking’s become so politically incorrect, hasn’t it?”
He took a pack from his own pocket, lit one, then tossed the match toward the sink. He missed the mark and she bent down to pick it up. Her hands were trembling.
“You can give me something to use as an ashtray, or I can use the floor,” he told her without expression. “It’s all the same to me.”
She opened the cupboard and took out a saucer, handed it to him.
“Thanks. Now, back to the sunroom.” He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out slowly as if suddenly deep in thought.
“We gave her one of those rock tumblers for Christmas one year. She picked up stones everywhere she went, then, when she had a bunch, she’d put them in the tumbler. It was a very slow process, it would take hours. She put them, those pretty polished stones, all over the house. There was a flat basket filled with them on the table next to her bed.”
Kendra’s head began to pound.
“The furniture was covered in blue-and-white-and-yellow swirly fabric. There were lots of pillows. The walls were blue, like your shirt.”
She closed her eyes and saw the sunny paisley seat cushions her mother had made for the old wicker furniture she’d bought from the estate of an elderly neighbor.
“These are antiques, Kendra,” her mother had said. “They don’t make them like this anymore. See how sturdy?”
“The dog, Elvis, he was a mix of dachshund and Cairn terrier, the result of an unfortunate coupling of the dogs who lived in the houses on either side of ours—chewed the legs of one of those wicker chairs and she, Mom, was just beside herself.” He continued smoothly, his voice a steady and unrelenting stream. “There was a gardener. His name was Mr. Jackson. Mom gave him some of Dad’s clothes after he died. He had a brown leather jacket of Dad’s that he wore for years. Elvis chewed that, too.”
He paused and looked up at her. “Not enough?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Mom almost didn’t let me go out west that summer, because I’d been in trouble