Free The Jewel and the Key by Louise Spiegler Page B

But
you’re
Mrs. Powell, aren’t you?”
    â€œWell, yes,” the woman said guardedly. “In fact, I am. But I’m not blind.”
    Reg regarded Addie with a puzzled smile. “What an extraordinary thing to say! Meg Turner must be playing a joke on you. The only things my mother is blind to, Miss McNeal, are my faults.”

6. Angel

    Mrs. Powell regarded Add ie quizzically for a moment then turned to open the French doors at the end of the room. “Let’s go out on the back porch,” she said quietly. “We can keep an eye on the girl until the doctor comes but not wake her up.” She picked up three clean glasses from the coffee table and said to Addie, “Bring out that cake—and the knife, if you can manage. I think we all could do with a little sustenance.”
    Shaken, Addie got the cake and followed her out. Mrs. Powell put the glasses down on a wrought-iron table. Gently, she shut the glass doors and sat, gesturing for Addie to do the same.
    Addie put down the cake and hesitated. Through the glass, she could see the girl turning restlessly on the couch. She felt torn: she wanted to go back home—surely Dad and Zack would be there by now—but she couldn’t leave quite yet. Not without figuring out what was going on.
    â€œI just don’t understand it,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
    â€œIt’s one of Meg’s jokes. That’s what I think,” Mrs. Powell said.
    Meg?
Reg had called her that, too. But most people called Mrs. T. Margie.
    â€œShe plays them on everyone. Don’t take it to heart.”
    â€œBut she
looked
serious. And why joke about you being blind? Its not funny.”
    Reg opened the French doors and stepped out onto the porch carrying the pitcher of water. “Don’t be confused. Meg’s jokes aren’t always meant to be funny. You know these artistic types. Meg Turner’s one of the worst. A symbolist! A devotee of that crazy Isadora Duncan, no less.”
    â€œWho is a great artist,” his mother contradicted. “And not crazy! Excuse Reg for being such a Philistine, Miss McNeal.” She got up and closed the doors as Reg poured water into the glasses.
    Addie frowned. Mrs. Turner was a photographer, if that’s what Reg meant by artistic. But a symbolist? What was that? “Who is Isadora—” Then she recalled a photo she’d seen somewhere. “You mean that dancer?” Now she remembered. A dark-haired woman, twirling barefoot onstage, eyes closed as if in a trance. But there was something about her, Addie thought. Something sad. Oh! “She died when her scarf caught in the wheel of a car or something, didn’t she?”
    â€œGod forbid!” Mrs. Powell eyes widened. She balled her hand into a fist and reached out to knock against the cherry tree behind them. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
    â€œMaybe,” Addie said doubtfully. Uneasiness whispered through her again.
    â€œWhat I’m saying, Mother, is that Meg probably meant you were blind as in
blind to the dreadful state of things.”
Reg slipped into an impassioned falsetto. “There’s a terrible state of things in the world, Miss McNeal. A conspiracy of the rich. Of big fat men with cigars! That’s why we’re at war.”
    Addie felt disloyal, laughing at Reg’s impression of Mrs. T. “Maybe she does sound like that sometimes. But she’s right. Not about the conspiracy, I mean. But everyone knows we wouldn’t be fighting if it weren’t for the oil companies.”
    Reg tipped his head, considering. “I guess they’ll make a mint out of it, just like the banks and the munitions factories. But you can’t really think that’s why we’re fighting.” Addie frowned. She’d heard enough from Dad and Mrs. T. to disagree with him on this, but it wasn’t polite to argue. Reg turned back to his