The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,113

the events and influences that had brought them to this moment and my doorstep.

And so I fought back the urge to step between them, to wrap my arms around young Becca, shepherd her into my house, and lock the door.

“Of course,” I said, stepping ahead and leading the way. “Let’s start with the nursery.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Felicia clucked her tongue and filled my glass.

“How do you know that? You don’t know that,” she said, and clucked again. “You told us yourself that she hardly said a thing.”

“She barely spoke.” I shoved another benne wafer into my mouth and washed it down with a swig of iced tea that I wished was wine. “The only comment she made was that the nursery seemed small—”

“Nonsense!” Felicia said, and plunked another plate of cookies onto the table to replace the one I’d nearly emptied. “There’s room for a crib, dresser, changing table, and rocking chair with plenty of room for toys besides. How much space does one baby need? And it’s right next to your bedroom, so you’ll be able to hear her if she cries during the night.”

“That’s what I told her.”

“And what did she say?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Felicia’s eyes went wide behind her red glasses. “That’s all? Just hmm?”

I sighed. “Hmm seems to be very big with Mrs. Cavanaugh. However, she also took the trouble to point out that the windows in the bedrooms were all different sizes and styles and that my hair smelled like paint thinner.”

Polly sucked air in through her teeth. It was the kind of sound you make when somebody falls down right in front of you and you just know it’s going to end up leaving a bruise. “Sorry. I thought that cologne I sprayed on you would cover up the smell.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. “And it’s not like my hair was the thing that pushed me over the edge. Becca’s mom just flat out did not like me, not from the first minute.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous,” Felicia said, flapping her hand.

“I know,” I said. “Usually people take ten or fifteen minutes to decide they hate my guts.” I stuffed another cookie in my mouth, then got up from the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator. There wasn’t any wine inside. Felicia, perhaps reading the disappointed droop of my shoulders, took a bottle of bourbon out of a cupboard and glugged a little into my iced tea. I sat down and covered my face with my hands. “All that work. For nothing.”

Pris placed a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t say that. You don’t know what’s going to happen. What about Mr. Cavanaugh? And Becca? How did they seem?”

“He was quiet. She was quiet.” I shrugged. “Everybody was quiet except Anne. She asked a lot of questions about the house, so I played up the history, the fact that the Fairchilds have lived in Charleston forever, possibly intimating that I have greater social connections than is actually the case. Then she asked about my nonexistent book. I told her it was coming along just fine.”

“Well. It’s not a total lie,” Pris reasoned. “You’re always writing in your journal.”

I shot her a look and took a sip of the now-fortified tea. It didn’t seem necessary to explain the difference between writing a book and scribbling in a journal. Even if it had been necessary, the mere mention of all those letters to an unborn child I would now never get to meet, let alone mother, would open the floodgates to a deluge of tears.

“So the girl didn’t say anything at all?” Polly said, looking a little pained.

“No, she talked a little. She’s just kind of quiet. I showed her the blanket I’m knitting for Peaches and she liked that a lot. She was also very intrigued with the hidden yarn cave story.”

“It is a good story,” Polly said. “Did you tell her about Teddy and finding the pictures hidden in the floor? Calpurnia, and the hoarding, and how you’ve killed yourself to sort through the generations of junk and restore this place?”

I shook my head. “Too much information, especially with her parents standing there. They didn’t seem like people who would appreciate the whole crazy hoarding aunt sending messages from beyond the grave angle.”

“Yankees,” Polly muttered.

I’ve never been a fan of cataloging people into geography-based personality types, but Polly had a point. Anyone with a drop of southern blood would have eaten that story up with a knife and fork. Down here, we take pride in our crazy relatives. But Mr.