Free Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy by JENNIFER ALLISON

they were actually solid glass spheres. All around, they hung from trees or rested against potted geraniums and ferns.
    â€œCome in, Gilda!” Mary Louise opened the door, and Gilda entered a comfortable, eclectic interior filled with the aroma of homemade cookies—a welcome contrast to the musty, spicy smell of old wood and datil peppers that pervaded Eugene’s home.
    â€œI was just searching for our umbrellas,” said Mary Louise, taking Gilda’s umbrella and poncho, “although the rain will most likely stop by the time we leave.”
    â€œIn Florida, just wait ten minutes and the weather will change!” Gilda joked. It was a comment she had heard Eugene make several times already.
    â€œYou’ve got that right, honey.”
    Gilda followed Mary Louise into the living room. “Those glass spheres you have in your yard are interesting.” She hoped that Mary Louise would explain their significance.
    â€œI started collecting those years ago when I was much younger,” Mary Louise said as she sat down on the living-room couch and poured tall glasses of iced tea from a pitcher. “At one point I was thinking of turning part of our house into a bed-and-breakfast, and I thought they would add a nice touch for the guests. It’s funny,” she reflected, “even after I lost interest in those crystal balls, people just kept giving them to me for some reason!”
    â€œYou were hoping to see ghosts in them, right, Mama?” said a voice from the staircase.
    Gilda looked up to see Darla, who had suddenly appeared in the living room. She froze, hoping Darla would say more about seeing ghosts.
    â€œWell, yes,” said Mary Louise. “Someone did tell me that I might see a ghost or two in the crystal balls.” Mary Louise’s response surprised Gilda; she had expected Darla’s mother to say something far more dismissive or critical about the idea of seeing ghosts anywhere. Something like, “Don’t be silly!” or, “Sounds like somebody’s imagination is ready for Halloween!” Maybe the moms in St. Augustine are different from the moms in Michigan, Gilda thought.
    â€œBut we didn’t see any ghosts in them,” Mary Louise added. “Did we, Darla?”
    â€œNo,” said Darla. “We didn’t.”
    Gilda sensed something simmering beneath the surface of this exchange between mother and daughter—some emotionally volatile story—but she couldn’t imagine what it might be. She longed to blurt out a series of prying questions about ghosts in St. Augustine and Eugene’s background, but she knew she had to be careful. Gilda stirred her sweet tea very quickly with her spoon. Remember, she told herself, you’re in the South. Mind your manners, and people will trust you more.
    â€œWant some sweet tea and cookies, Darla?” said Mary Louise.
    â€œSure.” Darla walked across the living room and flopped onto a love seat across from Gilda.
    â€œSit up, darlin’,” said Mary Louise.
    â€œSpeaking of ghosts,” said Gilda, who felt too impatient to avoid the topic completely, “we actually just had a little unexplained encounter over at Eug—I mean, Mr. Pook’s house this afternoon.”
    â€œOh, did you now?” Mary Louise’s eyes flashed brightly. “Tell us about it.”
    Gilda explained how she had heard the voice calling for help from somewhere in the house. She decided to leave out the part about her mother seeming to go into a trance, though; she found the experience troubling in a way that was just too hard to explain.
    â€œOh, I don’t doubt that it was a ghost,” said Mary Louise. “So much life and death went on in each one of these old houses. Some of them might have been used as makeshift hospitals during the Civil War.”
    This was interesting. Had she heard the voice of someone who had lived during the Civil War? Maybe the