Free The Fragrance of Geraniums (A Time of Grace Book 1) by Alicia G. Ruggieri

bitter cup for the witness to
drink. His arm curved around that woman, who stood next to him, her twitching
eyes and willowy hands the only movements in the room.
    All at once, it
seemed, the threesome became aware of Grace’s presence. She trembled as Papa
kept his narrowed eyes intent on Mama and yet addressed Grace. “Grace, this is
your Uncle Jack’s sister, Gertrude. She ain’t got work right now, so she’s
staying with us for the time being.” He let his eyes drop to the blond woman
for a second. “One of my daughters. Grace.”
    The woman seemed
to gain courage from Papa’s introduction. She threw a little contemptuous
glance at Mama and moved a couple of steps from under Papa’s protection. The
thought flitted through Grace’s mind that the strange woman might have been
pretty, in a coarse sort of way, if it had not been for the arrogant politeness
that haunted her eyes and her painted mouth.
    The woman
extended one of her slim, polished hands toward Grace. “So pleased to meet you,
Grace,” she purred, low and throaty. The scent of cheap tobacco stained her
breath. Grace’s own hands remained clasped, trembling, behind her back, as her
eyes darted from Mama’s eviscerated face to the woman’s smile-pasted one.
    Grace would not
shake hands with this snake.
    The kitchen rang
silent. The woman glanced at Papa from under thick-lined eyelids, then back at Grace.
She opened and closed her pouty lips twice before any sounds emerged. “You…
You’re how old, Grace? Chuckie told me, but I’m sorry to say, I can’t remember,”
she tittered with an expression of exaggerated apology plumping out her cheeks
into a lopsided smile.
    Chuckie? With a start, Grace
realized that the woman meant Papa. Chuckie! Nobody called him that.
Mama always called him Charlie, just as Papa’s family and the men at the lunch
counter did. For the first time in her life, Grace raised eyes of contempt to
her father. To let this woman nickname him something different, and to stand
there smugly as if he approved it!
    Papa hadn’t
answered the woman, though, because his eyes still pinned Mama against the
countertop. The scalding water nearly boiled over the pot, the chicken legs
bobbing up and down. Mama had forgotten it; usually the chicken only hung
scalding for a couple of minutes at most. It’ll be ruined .
    As if it
mattered. As if anything at all mattered except the terrible scene taking place
now. And she, Grace, was one of the actors.
    “You’re what, seventeen?”
the voice asked in determination, obviously anxious for Grace to answer, for
this awkwardness to somehow dissipate. As if it ever could with her here.
    “Fifteen. Grace’s
goin’ on fifteen,” Papa said, snapping out of his rigor mortis.
    Grace just
stared at him. Going on fifteen… I’m fifteen now! Did he really not know
her age? The thin blade of her Papa’s self-interest bit a little deeper into
her chest. She couldn’t bear to watch Mama expire before her eyes.
    “I have to go
check on Evelyn,” Grace gasped. Her feet found the stairs – she didn’t know how
– and she fled to the attic, where the spiders could listen unsympathetically
to her sobs.

CHAPTER NINE
     
    O ne more, and
she’d be done. Emmeline closed the hymnbook before settling her fingers upon
the ivory keys again. She didn’t need the music to guide her on this one.
Pressing her fingers gently down, sweeping them along the keyboard, the chords
sang out:
    Be still, my
soul, the Lord is on thy side;
    Bear patiently
the cross of grief or pain.
    Leave to thy God
to order and provide;
    In every change,
He faithful will remain.
    Be still, my
soul, thy best, thy heavenly Friend;
    Through thorny
ways leads to a joyful end.
    As the final
notes lingered in the still room, Emmeline let her hands rest on the piano,
tears dropping from her eyes, running between the keys. The late afternoon
sunlight trickled through the white curtains, fell across the old wood floor,
and puddled at her