Carolina Mist by Mariah Stewart Read Free Book Online Page A

Leila’s journals. Wrote down everything she did out here for almost seventy years. Sketched every plant she put in and dated every one of the sketches,” Belle told her with a mild drawl. “You can read, can’t you? Tea’s ready, if you’d like some.” Belle disappeared into the kitchen, and the whistle of the kettle ceased abruptly.
    Abby tapped one foot quietly on the step, measuring out her patience.
    “Gentle spirit,” my ass.
    “How about if I make breakfast for us?” Abby suggested as she followed Belle into the house. “We could maybe eat in the morning room and get reacquainted.”
    And maybe I can find out where your family is, and what their plans are for you now that… well, now that Leila’s gone, and soon the house will be passing into other hands, so to speak.
    “That would be nice.” Belle nodded agreeably. “I’ll set the little table in there.”
    “What would you like for breakfast?” Abby asked.
    “I’d like soft-boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits with blackberry jam,” Belle told her as she passed into the pantry for some dishes.
    “Sounds easy enough.” Abby smiled and opened the refrigerator door. The relatively new appliance was virtually empty, except for half a stick of butter in a pink Depression glass dish, a jar of grape jelly with only the faintest remnants of purple streaks up one side, and five slices of bread in their plastic wrapping.
    “Belle,” she called into the next room, “there are no eggs.”
    “And no sausage and no biscuits.” Belle appeared momentarily in the doorway. “You asked me what I wanted. That’s what I want. But we’ll both have tea and toast, because that’s all we have.”
    Abby put two pieces of toast in the ancient toaster, removed the butter from the refrigerator, and took it into the room Aunt Leila had called her morning room. She stood in the doorway and watched as Belle placed the teapot and cups on the small round table that stood between two straight-backed white wicker chairs. How many times had she watched Aunt Leila do these exact tasks in preparation for their morning meal?
    The sun was beginning to beam through the back windows, casting aside some of the gloom that seemed to encase the entire house. As the light spread across the worn carpet, the shabbiness of the room became more apparent. In Abby’s memory, the chintz on the settee was always fresh and new, the window ledges lined with lushly flowering plants, the lace curtains sparkling white. Now, all seemed faded and dusty, the paint on the window ledges peeling and the curtains almost gray. A few of the windows sat at slightly odd angles, the panes no longer solidly affixed to their frames.
    As if reading her mind, Belle told her, “We just couldn’t keep up with it, Abby. It was all too much. Before Leila died, we did manage to keep most of the down stairs open, but since she… it’s all I can do to keep the dishes washed and the floors clean and the bed linens changed.”
    “You’ve had no help at all?” Abby whispered.
    “Naomi, across the street—she and her husband bought my house—has been my salvation. She does my laundry, picks up some groceries for me when my social security check comes every month, brings me soup and homemade bread once a week or so.” Belle’s voice wavered slightly, and she gazed out the window to avert her eyes. It was a hard admission from a woman who had once presided over a handsome home of her own, who had been admired and sought after for her lofty social position as much as for her wit and charm.
    “Belle, where’s your family?” Abby set the plate of butter on the table.
    “Abigail, the toaster …” Belle pointed toward the kitchen, from which the aroma of charcoal drifted.
    “Good grief.” Abby flew back into the kitchen and unplugged the toaster. She dumped the charred remains of bread into the sink.
    “Well, there goes breakfast,” Belle announced with a wry smile.
    “I’ll make two more.” Abby shook