Free The Girl On Legare Street by Karen White

always on my CD player. I’ve practically worn through it I’ve listened to it so much.”
    My mother actually blushed, her gaze taking in Sophie’s braids. “Thank you. I’m flattered, especially coming from you. I’ve been studying up on some of the recent restorations in the city and I’m very familiar with your work. Very impressive. You have such an eye for detail and beauty.” She glanced over at me. “I’m assuming that’s why Mellie has brought you here for the showing?”
    Feeling almost nauseous at the fanfest between my mother and Sophie, I stepped between them. “Actually, Sophie’s a good friend of mine. I wanted her with me in case I needed a witness.”
    My mother smiled but didn’t say anything. I pointedly glanced at my watch. “It’s four minutes after nine and I’ve got another showing after this one so let’s get this over with.” The two of them followed as I walked quickly to the marble steps flanked by wrought iron railings.
    “I figured you wouldn’t want to wait more than five minutes, so I hurried through breakfast to get here.” My mother’s voice wasn’t completely clear of sarcasm.
    My cheeks flushed with her accurate assumption and I fumbled for the key in the lockbox. “Some people take their responsibilities seriously. Mine include not being late. If one morning appointment is late, then it makes me late for all of my appointments for the rest of the day. It’s not a good way to run a business. Or a life,” I added as I took the key from the box and turned the lock to open the front door.
    We crowded into the wide center hall that ran the length of the house, the large formal entertaining rooms scattered on either side of the impressive entry. I had resisted setting foot inside the house until I had to, relegating my research solely to what I could find from the Internet and the listing agent. This meant, of course, that I was as surprised as Sophie and my mother.
    “Oh,” said Sophie, seemingly at a loss for a better word.
    I waited for the rush of grief and loss to roll over me like an oncoming tide. Instead, I stared at the room before me, looking for remnants of my grandmother and my life with her. But I saw only a faint likeness—like the ghost image left on your eyelids after the flash from a camera.
    We stood gaping at the marble-tiled floor with the faux-zebra shag area rug galloping down the middle of the hall. The elegant egg-and-dart carved cornices had been painted black to offset the fuchsia hue of the walls. Lime green beanbag chairs with legs offered seating to anybody with enough taste to make their knees go weak upon viewing the psychedelic colors of the hallway.
    “She did all of her own decorating,” I reminded them.
    My mother spun around, taking in the Italian gilt-wood chandelier that had managed to escape the paint gun and the framed portraits on the walls that looked like they could have been done by the owner’s grandchildren. Or monkeys.
    Sophie moved over to a pink lacquer hall table and pulled on the drawer knob, which responded by falling off in her hand. She delicately put the knob back on the shiny surface and backed away as if whatever the table had was contagious.
    “What—style would you say this is?” I asked Sophie.
    “Early Garage Sale Revival, I believe,” my mother responded with a straight face. I turned away so she wouldn’t see my smile or know that she’d said exactly what I was thinking.
    “Wow,” said Sophie, who had wandered into one of the formal rooms that flanked the hall. “I’ve seen this window from the outside, but it’s even more amazing from the inside.”
    I hesitated briefly before joining her in the room. This room had been my favorite—the room I spent the most time in with my grandmother playing cards or reading with my feet tucked up on one of her priceless antique sofas. If the weather was bad, we’d have our tea in here and Grandmother Prioleau would allow me to pour, regardless of her