Free The Girl On Legare Street by Karen White Page A

Aubusson rug. It was a room in which I’d felt loved and cared for—instead of the object of constant friction I was when I was with my parents.
    Most of all, I loved the huge window that had been installed in the late 1800s. It was an odd window, not really in keeping with the style of the house or the style of the Victorian period. If anything, it appeared almost contemporary, the two female figures not clearly discernible unless you knew where to look—and how to look at the glass. Wisteria vines ran through the window, intersecting at will like a huge road map leading to nowhere. Although its inspiration and meaning had doubtless been known at one time, both had long since been lost to the past.
    I walked over to Sophie so that I stood in the shaft of sunlight that the window transfixed into a buttery yellow. Turning my face up to the warmth, I felt my grandmother’s presence as if the sun were her hand on my skin.
    Sophie clucked her tongue. “It’s a good thing that whoever installed this didn’t have to face the Board of Architectural Review or he’d never have gotten it approved.” She smiled at me. “And for the first time in my life, I can actually say that was a good thing.”
    My mother’s voice interrupted my reverie. “And it’s also a good thing that the current owners didn’t see the need to change the window to suit their tastes.” She pointedly glanced around at the orange shag carpet, wild daisy wallpaper, and mirrored-plate chandelier.
    Sophie ran her hand over the hideous wallpaper. “They’ve covered up all of the beautiful cypress wood paneling that this house is famous for. What were they thinking?” She shook her head, her braids mimicking the movement as if in agreement. “Luckily, they don’t seem to have made any structural changes. Just really horrid cosmetic ones. Whipping it back into shape and returning it to its former glory shouldn’t be a problem.”
    “That’s good to know,” my mother said, and I felt her eyes on me.
    Remembering my job and what I was supposed to be doing, I turned to the large doorway surround. “Please note the widened door openings from the hall and the door surrounds that echo the neoclassical shapes of the portico. They were added at the same time as the portico and date back to the 1820s.”
    “And this mantel,” said my mother—who had moved to the end of the room to stand in front of the fireplace—“is molded from a composition using a mold design by Ramage and Ferguson of Scotland. Only the best for our ancestral Prioleaus.” She smiled at me.
    Furrowing my brows, I said, “I still don’t understand why you needed me here. It’s not like you’ve forgotten anything about the house.Wouldn’t it have saved us both a lot of time and energy if you’d just made an offer and signed the papers?”
    “I suppose it might have been easier,” she said, slowly walking around the room and taking in the architectural beauty that had been forced to share company with the garish colors and metallic fabrics that were as out of place in this house as a whore in church. “But then I wouldn’t have the chance of seeing how it felt to be in it with you after all these years.”
    I watched as Sophie casually walked out of the room, her ruffled denim skirt skimming the wood floor behind her. I frowned after her, willing her to return, but I was pretty sure that her exit hadn’t been unintentional.
    Turning back to my mother, I said, “Well, now that you know, why don’t we leave and go back to my office so I can prepare an offer?”
    “We haven’t finished looking, Mellie. I want to see the kitchen.”
    I paused, remembering that the back of the house had a completely different feel from the front. As a child, I had resisted venturing past the front rooms alone, noticing how the whispering grew louder there, the brushes against my skin bolder. But there was one presence I remembered vaguely—a warm presence in whose company I felt safe. He