eavestroughing bore witness to careful upkeep. It had two chimneys, a large wraparound porch with white Doric columns, a turret room and an attached garage, probably a later addition. One absent pleasure after leaving Toronto was the time travel through its varied neighbourhoods as far back as the Georgian period. Gently she touched the cool stone steps, slightly concave from nearly a century of use. Despite its charms, Cayuga House might be replaced by a blocky, cantilevered monstrosity. She hoped it would put up a stubborn fight against the monster backhoe.
Pulling out a small notebook to jot observations, Belle noticed an array of lilac bushes, skeleton pods of their Victoria Day splendour. The ivory hydrangea masses wore a blush of copper frost. Mature maples and ash offered shade and privacy. Caragana hedges were trimmed to perfection. Anyone with sense would kill for the landscaping.
She twirled the quaint bell chime and heard a muted response inside. “Hello.”
“It’s Belle Palmer.”
“Hello, hello,” replied the voice, oddly modulated, as if affected by a stroke. Did Bea have an older relative living with her? She tried the handle and found it unlocked. Hesitantly, she moved into the foyer, noting the wide plank floors and Aubusson runners.
“Bea? Where are you?” she called.
“Hello, hello,” repeated the voice, sharper now, almost petulant. Belle was reminded of seniors at her father’s nursing home who sometimes used double language. Unwilling to maintain the senseless conversation, she decided to look around.
After passing an empty living room, she came to a closed door. From behind it came a piercing shriek. Despite her misgivings, she opened it and found a parrot swinging from a brass stand, its food bowl empty. Beady coal eyes fixed upon her with a strange wisdom, as if it read her thoughts. “Oreo! Oreo!” it croaked, cocking its head and moving back and forth in rhythm. Pinfeathers floated in the air.
A very large woman in her early forties, with a friendly bulldog face, blunt lips, heavy brows and a streak of flour still in her riotous brown hair, slipped up behind her to deposit sunflower seeds into a metal cup. She carried a long, thin marble pastry roller which reminded Belle of the drill cores left in the field in mining operations. Her handshake was supple and strong. The resemblance to an unnamed comedienne which Miriam had flagged bothered her as well, but she couldn’t pin down the identity.
“Meet Mackenzie King. He’s having a time-out for being a bad boy, spilling his water, aren’t you?” She leaned toward him, and he nuzzled her pouted lips. Belle winced. That beak could crack walnuts.
“What kind is he?” Belle would have been surprised to find more than a parakeet in the North, but since the advent of PetSmart, exotic birds selling for as much as two thousand had entered the local market.
“Amazon blue-fronted, which seems strange with that yellow on top. Would you believe he’s over sixty years old?”
“They live quite long, I hear.”
“A lifetime. Father passed him to me. It’s a real commitment.” She gave a hearty laugh and stroked its head as it danced, picking up each foot. “Last summer he got loose and went up into the flowering crab. To lure him down, Dave, that’s my husband, had to go to Smith’s to find the only papaya in five hundred miles. The whole neighbourhood gathered here for the antics.”
“Your house is marvellous. I can’t wait to see the rest.”
Slipping the roller into a capacious apron, Bea clasped her hands together. “All that mahogany wainscotting and the carved staircase with the pineapple newel posts. Plenty of journeymen eager to please for a few dollars a day.”
“Is society heading backward? The only woodworker I know delivers twenty bush cords for my stove.”
Bea led her into a large living room brightened by towering ficus plants, a large Norfolk pine in a ceramic tub, and on a shaded ledge with stained glass windows, a stunning pink and purple orchid on a leaning stalk. Belle touched the waxy flowers in clear wonderment.
“It is real. Seems to like its home,” Bea said with pride.
“Northerners love their Florida rooms, heating bills aside. My grandfather had a greenhouse business on Runnymede Road in Toronto. I guess Canadians thirst for a sign of life over the winter.” She glanced down at the honeyed oak floors polished to a gleam, so much more character than laminate. Thick Persian carpets offered warm islands amid plum velour sofas and deep espresso-brown leather chairs. A fieldstone fireplace seemed to anchor the house to the Cambrian Shield.
On the rosewood grand piano were silver-framed pictures of the Bustamantes: Michael senior, a small and vigorous man, towered over by Bea, then Micro and his older sister in their school portraits. There was a wedding photo of Dave and Bea, something shadowy and strained about Dave’s face, and a diminutive boy beside them looking at the church steps. In stature, Micro must have taken after his father. In one faded colour snapshot, two men posed on a tropical beach. A young Michael and someone close enough in appearance to be a brother. Belle realized that she was staring, but Bea was straightening a needlepoint on the wall.
Belle admired the tapestry of the Apple Queen. “As once I was, so am I now.” The quote came from William Morris’s Pomona, 1891. A buxom young woman in flowing medieval dress bore apples in her skirts. A complex weave of gold and green entangled trees surrounded her.
“Did you do this? The Pre-Raphaelites are favourites of mine, both their poetry and art. I love the details. And the framing’s a great match.”
Bea blushed at the compliment. “I like to keep my hands busy after work. If I’m not doing needlepoint, I’m knitting. Micro and Dave have enough sweaters and scarves to last a hundred years.”
Jotting notes as they walked, Belle had more second thoughts about the expected demolition when she surveyed the modern kitchen with a Miele range, granite counters, a butcher-block island with copper pans hanging above and legions of German steel knives. She also noted the convenient half bath on the main floor. As they cruised the large dining room with a French Provincial table for ten, Belle stopped to assess a collection of ceramic ladies in a matching china cabinet. If memory served, these were Easter Day, Christmas Morn, and others, all red.
“Royal Doulton,” she said. “My mother left me her collection.”
Bea’s hooded sea-green eyes brightened. “Oh? Which ones?”
“Delphine, Elegance, Vivienne . . . I sold Paisley Shawl.”
“Really? What would you ask for Vivienne? She’s discontinued, and red’s my favourite, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Belle “ka-chinged” a few calculations on her mental cash register. “Two-thirds book value. Three hundred?” Chasing the elusive loonie again. Would her mother haunt her tonight?
Bea pressed Belle in a giant’s embrace, a wisp of lemon, vanilla and cloves in her wake. “It’s a deal. Bring her with the first interested parties. I’ll leave a cheque on the mantel.”
Upstairs were five bedrooms, another full bath and a master suite. One bedroom was a sewing room, another an office for Dave, one appointed with the pink colours, chintz curtains and a flouncy bedspread that young girls would like, yet no toys or personal items. Sadly, Belle recalled the dead child and understood why these poignant vestiges of a short life remained to honour her memory.
The charming
