plenty, like little licks of fire all over, but after what happened with Mamma, Rosa had a different idea about what was worth crying about.
Mrs. Carmichael got a comb and tugged it through Rosa’s long, thick, curly hair. Rosa endured it in silence, biting her lip to keep from crying out. “This is a mass of tangles,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Honestly, doesn’t your father—”
“I do it myself,” Rosa said, forcing bright pride into her tone. “Pop doesn’t know how to do hair.”
“I see.”
Rosa pressed her lips together hard and stared at the painted planks on the porch floor. “Mamma taught me how to make a braid. When she was sick, she used to let me get in bed with her, and she’d do my hair.” Rosa didn’t tell Mrs. Carmichael that by the end, Mamma was too weak to do anything; she couldn’t even hold a brush. She didn’t tell her that the sickness that had taken Mamma took some of Rosa, too, the part that was easy laughter and feeling safe in the dark at night, the security of living in a house that smelled of baking bread and simmering sauce.
“Dear? Are you all right?”
Rosa tucked the memories away. “Mamma said every girl should know how to make a braid. But it’s hard to do on your own head.”
Mrs. Carmichael surprised her by holding her close, stroking her damp head. “I guess it is hard, kiddo.”
“I’ll keep practicing.”
“You do that.” Like all grown-up women, Mrs. Carmichael was a champ at braiding hair. She made a fat, perfect braid down Rosa’s back. “I’ll put these things in the dryer. Wait here, and try to stay out of mischief.”
Six
The housekeeper disappeared again and Rosa tried to be patient. Waiting was the pits. It was totally boring, and you never knew when it would end. She fiddled with the long tie that cinched in the waist of the thick terry robe. It was way too big for her, the sleeves and hem practically dragging.
Somewhere far away, the phone rang three times. Mrs. Carmichael’s voice drifted through the house. Rosa couldn’t hear the conversation, but Mrs. Carmichael laughed and talked on and on. She probably forgot all about Rosa.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. Rosa pushed it with her foot and, almost all by itself, it swung open. She gasped softly at what she saw. Everything was white and steel, polished until it shone. There were miles of countertops, and Rosa figured the Montgomerys owned every tool and utensil that had ever been invented—strainers and oddly shaped spoons, gleaming pots hanging from a rack, a huge collection of knives, baking pans in several shapes, timers and stacks of snow-white tea towels.
Boy, thought Rosa, Mamma would love this. She was the world’s best cook. Every night, she used to sing “Funiculi” while she fixed supper—puttanesca sauce, homemade bread, pasta she made every Wednesday. Rosa had loved nothing better than working side by side with her in the bright scrubbed kitchen in the house on Prospect Street, turning out fresh pasta, baking a calzone on a winter afternoon, adding a pinch of basil or fennel to the sauce. Most of all, Rosa could picture, like an indelible snapshot in her mind, Mamma standing at the sink and looking out the window, a soft, slightly mysterious smile on her face. Her “Mona Lisa smile,” Pop used to call it. Rosa didn’t know about that. She had seen a postcard of the Mona Lisa and thought Mamma was way prettier.
Rosa walked through the strange high-ceilinged kitchen, running her finger along the edge of the counter. She stood on tiptoe to peer out the window over the sink. It framed a view of the sea. Her mother would’ve gone nuts for this kitchen.
But it didn’t smell like anything, just faintly of cleanser. Mamma’s kitchen always smelled like roasting chicken or baking pizza or freshly squeezed lemons.
Rosa finished her Popsicle and put the stick in a shiny, bullet-shaped trash can. She tried to keep still, she really did, but curiosity poked at her. She knew it was wrong, but she was going to snoop. She had always wondered about these great big houses. She’d seen them from the outside, painted giants with white scrollwork trim, shiny cars in the circular drives and yards where people in summer hats and starched white shirts held garden parties.
She walked down a hallway, her bare feet soundless on the polished wood floor, the hem of the robe dragging. Her hand stole inside the bathrobe to clutch at the shiny new key Pop had given her. She was old enough to have a house key now, and he told her never to lose it.
She could hear snatches of Mrs. Carmichael’s phone conversation, and when she realized it was about her, she froze right under a big painting of a sailboat in a rustic frame.
“…know what to do with that poor little girl all summer. Pete wasn’t gone five minutes and she got in trouble.”
Pete was Pop. It seemed like every woman who knew him was waiting for him to mess up now that he didn’t have a wife anymore.
“Oh…no idea,” Mrs. Carmichael was saying. “The kindest thing he can do for that child is remarry. She needs a mother.”
No, thank you. Rosa buried her face in the overly long sleeves of the bathrobe to stifle a snort. She absolutely did not need a mother. She had the best mother in the world, and just because she wasn’t around anymore didn’t mean she was gone. She belonged to Rosa in a special way. That’s what Father Dominic said, and everyone knew priests didn’t lie.
I still talk to you, don’t I, Mamma? She thought the words as hard as she could.
“At least Pete’s got his work,” Mrs. Carmichael went on. “He’s happy when he works. He’s like a different person.” She gave a gentle laugh. “Hmm. I know. And with those looks of his…”
Rosa got bored with eavesdropping. Everyone was always saying how Pop was still young and good-looking, and that he ought to find another wife. Why did people think you could replace someone, like she was a lost schoolbook and all you had to do was bring a check to the office and they’d give you another?
She continued her silent exploration of the house, feeling as though she had stepped into an enchanted castle. The front room was all white and lemony-yellow, with white furniture and a seashell collection in a jar. Photographs in silver frames pictured people in white clothes without wrinkles, just like in a magazine ad. There was a huge bouquet of cut flowers, probably from the garden Pop took care of. The glass-topped coffee table displayed an important-looking scrimshaw collection. The mantel had a crystal candelabrum with long white tapers that had never been lit.
This wasn’t like going over to Linda’s house to play. Everything was so big and so incredibly quiet. The flowers made it smell like the funeral home where they took Rosa’s mother.
She backed out of the room and tiptoed down the hall. Tall double doors with glass panes framed a room that had more books than the Redwood Library in Newport.
Rosa loved books. When Mamma got too sick to do anything else, and couldn’t even braid hair anymore, Rosa used to get in bed with her and read and read and read—The Indian in the Cupboard, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Charlotte’s Web and poems from A Light in the Attic. And of course, Goodnight Moon, which Mamma used to read to Rosa every night when she was tiny.
She stepped into the room and inhaled the musty sunshine smell of books. She walked over to the lace-paneled windows and discovered a view of the garden and pond. Rosa caught her breath. The ghostly boy had stood
