furled together. “How do you mean?”
Roslyn gestured into the room. “First of all, I never knew my grandmother even had a sister. I’d always thought she was an only child, like my own mother and like me. So I can’t understand why no one ever told me anything about the Petersen family. Then, to have this great-aunt leave me her house…” Roslyn gave up and turned back to the mantel. After a moment she said, “Please show me around the house. And whatever you can tell me about my aunt…well, I’d appreciate it very much.”
Sophie flipped the dish towel toward the hall. “We’ll start with the kitchen,” she said, “’cause that’s where I spent most of my time when I worked for your aunt.”
The smile she flashed was quick and tight, but somehow reassuring. Roslyn followed the housekeeper along the corridor and into the kitchen.
“Got a notepad?” Sophie asked when she reached the kitchen counter.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t career women take notes all the time? Case they miss something important?”
Roslyn realized she was teasing her and smiled.
Sophie pursed her lips together and scanned the room. “All this modern stuff was put in about twenty-five years ago, just after I started working for your aunt. She must have been about sixty-five or so when I started. Henry Jensen got me the job. That’s young Jack’s granddaddy. Henry and Ida Mae were friends for years, and she’d begun to have these dizzy spells. He was afraid she might fall, hit her head on something and lie helpless for days without anyone knowing about her. So he asked would I come work for her—do meals and light cleaning, laundry—just during the days like. Ida Mae was a sound sleeper, not the kind to get up and prowl around. Henry figured she’d be okay on her own at night, and I had my sister’s kids with me at the time, so it worked out better for me, too.” Sophie pulled out a chair and sat down.
Roslyn felt almost as breathless and sat down in a chair opposite her. A notepad would be useless, Roslyn thought. I’d never keep up.
“So that’s how and why I came here,” Sophie began again. “Now, as to this room. The table and chairs are real teak—brought right from Denmark when old Mr. and Mrs. Petersen emigrated to Iowa. I don’t mean Ida Mae’s parents. Her grandparents,” she clarified.
“How long have the Petersens been in Plainsville, then?”
Sophie shrugged. “Ida Mae’s grandfather started up the first bank in town and it stayed in the family until after her father passed away. Probably the family came over from Denmark in the eighteen hundreds. Lots of people in town are from Denmark or Norway—Jack’s family, too. All the names ending with en. That’s one way to tell. Later on, people came from Eastern Europe. Like me.” There was another glimpse of smile.
She pointed to the wall behind the sinks and counter. “See those blue-and-white tiles? Ida Mae told me her parents got them on their honeymoon in Europe.” Sophie shook her head, the smile on her face softening. “Miss Ida loved to tell stories about the things in this house. She was awfully proud. Some folks thought her a snob—and sometimes I thought so, too,” she admitted. “But she was always fierce about family and home.”
Roslyn averted her eyes from Sophie’s and peered down into her lap. Not fierce enough to keep in touch with mine, she thought.
Reading her mind, Sophie lowered her voice to say, “I have to say that you were almost as much of a surprise to me, as Ida Mae to you. First I knew about another branch of the family was in the last year of Miss Ida Mae’s life. Henry was over one night for coffee and dessert. I’d stayed a bit late—don’t recall why. Anyhow, before leaving I popped by the living room—or front parlor as Miss Ida called it—to say good-night. Henry was telling her she ought to let him contact her niece in Chicago. I remember his exact words because he was normally so mild-mannered. He said, in a very stern tone for him, ‘Ida Mae, you’ve got to put the past behind you. A lifetime of hating is enough. Call your niece.’ Then your aunt said in this kind of sad way, ‘It’s too late, Henry. Lucille is already dead.”’
Roslyn felt her breath catch. “My mother,” she whispered. “She died a little more than a year ago.”
Sophie nodded her head. “There you go. She knew about your people in Chicago and they surely knew about her, too. Yet not a one came to her funeral!”
Roslyn flushed. “There was only one left at the time—me. And believe me, I don’t know if we have any relatives in Chicago, much less in Iowa.”
Sophie raised her eyebrow again. “No one’s blaming you, Miss Baines. I just think it’s a shame, is all, that an old lady of ninety has no one at her funeral but a few distant cousins and people like the Jensens, who aren’t even related.”
Roslyn stared at the woman across from her. For a split second she pictured herself at ninety and wondered if she’d be any better off in terms of family or friends.
This time, Sophie dropped eye contact first. “Well, what’s past is past as they say. Best to get on with life. Shall we head into the living room now?”
“If you like,” Roslyn murmured. She suddenly felt exhausted, overwhelmed by the peculiar mix of emotions of the day, starting from the first shock of a man on a ladder at her bedroom window.
“You’re most likely tired from your trip here and all,” Sophie said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and maybe we can go through your aunt’s things. Seems a shame to let all those clothes go to waste when so many people might want them.” Sophie placed her palms flat on the table to help herself out of the chair. “I’ll bring some apple muffins tomorrow and we’ll have another history lesson.”
Roslyn looked up into Sophie’s face and returned the first genuine smile the woman had given her that day. “Thanks, Sophie. Maybe I’ll wander the house myself for a while.”
“You do that. And enjoy your two or three days’ holiday here.” She bustled about the kitchen, retrieving her bags, sweater and purse, then left with a simple goodbye.
Roslyn kept her eyes on the empty doorway a while longer. She couldn’t help but be slightly amused that Sophie assumed she’d be heading back to Chicago permanently, leaving Plainsville, Iowa behind in the past. Right where it belonged.
AN HOUR of browsing through the house convinced Roslyn that, without knowing the background of the various pieces of china, crystal or furniture, she might as well be wandering through a museum. When she succumbed to a series of yawns, she knew it was time to get out for some fresh air and to grab a late lunch in town.
The house itself had been fascinating. Even Roslyn’s inexpert eye could see that no expense had been spared in the structure and interior design. Its remarkable features of rich wood paneling, staircase balustrade and vaulted ceilings edged with swirls of ornate molding reflected not only impeccable taste but meticulous attention to detail. No corner had been overlooked, from floor to ceiling.
It was only on the third floor, arranged in the shape of a T, that Roslyn detected signs of age and neglect. Circular patches of dampness spread across the ceilings in two of the bedrooms and the tiny alcove that made up the third bathroom in the house. Strips of wallpaper hung limply from the walls and, here and there, tendrils of loose paint curled upward. Roslyn guessed this floor had probably once accommodated servants. Out of sight and removed from the rest of the house and its visitors, it had been left to fend for itself over the years.
