sat back with a huff, her plastic bag in her lap. He closed the door and walked around the rear of the car. On the way, he took out his phone and called Chatam House. He was bringing his best friend’s aunties another foundling, and he hoped that she wasn’t going to break all their hearts.
* * *
Homeless. She had gotten used to the idea of having no permanent address, no brick-and-mortar residence, but Eva couldn’t shake the feeling that she had truly hit bottom now that the van was gone. She’d felt strangely connected to home, if not particularly comfortable or safe—whatever that meant now—sleeping in the van. One of the reasons she’d decided to hit the road after her diagnosis was the ease with which she could customize the interior of the old minivan. She’d simply pulled out the rear seats and installed a cot, along with her art supplies and the little clothing that she owned. It didn’t take much wardrobe to work from home transcribing recorded medical notes, and when money was tight, why bother buying clothes no one would see?
For some reason, her homelessness felt particularly acute when she caught sight of Chatam House. The large, Greek Revival–style, white-painted brick house sat atop a slight rise at the apex of a long, looping drive. With a deep front porch, a fancy kind of carport on its western side, rose arbor and one of the tallest magnolia trees that Eva had ever seen, the place presented a kind of elegance and gentility that belonged to a past era. From the instant the sedan turned through the fat brick columns and drove past the ornate wrought iron gate at the bottom of the hill, Eva felt a sense of peace and serenity, something that had been in short supply in her life even before she’d received her diagnosis. She also felt out of place, disconnected.
“About my things. How can I be sure the bank won’t take the van before I can get my clothes and all my other stuff out of there?”
Sighing, Leland brought the car to a halt and pulled out his cell phone to make a phone call. She listened to his end of the conversation with some satisfaction and no little envy.
“Nothing like cl-out,” she quipped, giving the last word two syllables.
“The van will be there when we go to pick up your things tomorrow,” Leland assured her dryly.
“Thank you,” she returned crisply, turning her gaze to the side. “And you’re sure this is a private home? I mean, how many houses have names?”
He chuckled. “It’s a private home, occupied by four older people in their seventies. One of the triplets is married. They have a live-in staff of three as well, but they have quarters out back in the carriage house.”
“Triplets?” Eva echoed, laughing.
“Didn’t I say? The three sisters are triplets.”
“They aren’t identical, are they?”
He grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll have no problem telling them apart.”
The car moved on up the hill and came to a stop in front of a red brick walkway. Leland killed the engine and got out, hurrying around the front of the car. The headlamps had not shut off yet, and Eva was struck again by the strength of the doctor’s physical attraction. Instinctively, she understood that he expected to get the door for her, and suddenly she dared not allow it. Yanking on the door handle, she literally bailed out—and nearly planted her face in his collar.
“Hang on,” he yelped as she slipped and slid in the deep gravel of the drive.
She found herself seized by the upper arms and steadied against the solid wall of his chest. The headlamps shut off abruptly, leaving them frozen, nose-to-nose, in the silent dark.
After a moment, his grip loosened, then he calmly asked, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she muttered. “Stupid shoes.” Nodding, he stepped away. “I have some smart ones in the van,” she quipped lightly.
He just turned toward the house, one hand fastened to her upper arm as if she couldn’t be trusted to find her own way. After escorting her up a trio of steps, he ushered her across the gray-painted floor of the porch to the bright yellow door. A fanlight of bubbly glass over the door offered a cheery glow. Leland knocked, and the door opened only moments later. A balding, roundish, middle-aged fellow wearing black slacks and a white shirt buttoned to the chin smiled in welcome.
“Doctor Brooks.”
“Chester. This is Ms. Russell. I believe the aunties are expecting us.”
“Yes, sir. I just left the tea tray with them in the front parlor. May I take your coat?”
“Thank you.”
“Tea tray?” Eva mused, as Leland divested himself of the overcoat and handed it over.
“Our hostesses enjoy a good cup of tea,” he informed her.
She lifted her eyebrows at that, glancing around the expansive foyer with its golden marble, red mahogany, sweeping staircase and...
“Oh, my. Will you look at that.” The ceiling had been painted in sunny shades of blue and yellow and white, a vision of billowing clouds and wafting feathers. “As if ducks have just collided out of sight.”
“Ducks colliding?” Leland asked, looking up. “That’s what you see?”
“Well, ducks are white,” she pointed out lamely. “Some ducks.” She had a comical picture of two clumsy ducks crashing together just out of sight and feathers fluttering down.
The doctor shook his head.
Chester cleared his throat. “May I take your, um, wraps, miss?”
“Miss. Oooh. I like it. Miss and young lady all in one day.” She folded her shawls tight. “No, thank you. I think I’ll hang on to these. In case I have to make a quick getaway.”
Chester’s eyebrows leaped all the way up to his nonexistent hairline. Sighing, the doctor clamped a hand around her elbow and tugged her toward a wide doorway.
“We’ll show ourselves in, Chester. Give my love to Hilda.”
The balding head nodded. Leland towed her into a large room filled with antiques and flowers. Eva glanced around. “Wow. It’s like a museum in here.”
“I’m afraid that includes the occupants, as well,” said an amused, cultured voice.
Eva turned her smile on the speaker, a silver-haired woman peering around the wing of a high-backed, gold-striped chair. The doctor rushed to make the introductions.
“Ladies and gentleman, allow me to present Eva Belle Russell. Eva, Miss Hypatia Kay Chatam.”
“Silk and pearls,” Eva said, nodding at the dignified lady with the silver chignon and sensible pumps.
“Miss Magnolia Faye Chatam,” Leland went on.
“Cardigans and penny loafers,” Eva announced, grinning at the wiry woman, her steel gray braid hanging over her shoulder.
“And this is their sister, Odelia May, or more properly, Mrs. Kent Monroe.”
Eva laughed aloud,
