Immediate Family by Eileen Goudge Read Free Book Online

trousers, which had once produced a seemingly endless supply of riches for Emerson, and pressed it into Ainsley’s hand: a carved wooden statuette. “It’s the Virgin Mary. If you’re ever in trouble, she will help you.”
    “How would she know?” Ainsley eyed it in fascination, turning it over in the palm of her hand.
    “Ah, chiquita. The Lady, she always knows.” He tapped his chest.
    “So what do you make of the new guy?” Emerson asked when she had his attention, giving an upward jerk of her head to indicate the tenth floor, where the recently hired night-duty nurse, whom she had yet to meet, was no doubt being put to the test by her mother. The only information the agency had given her was that he was Nigerian and a licensed LPN. “Should we place bets on how long he’ll last?”
    Nacario cast her a faintly reproving glance. Whatever his private opinion of Marjorie, he’d always treated her with the utmost respect and insisted that Emerson do the same. His only comment was “Your mother is in good hands, from what I can see.”
    Moments later Emerson and Ainsley were riding the elevator up to her mother’s floor. As they stepped out into the foyer, she took note of the vase of fresh flowers on the reproduction Louis Quinze table against the wall—she would have to remember to once again thank the Townsends, in 10B, who had an arrangement delivered each week and refused to let her share the cost. Letting herself into her mother’s apartment, Emerson drew in a breath against the little stitch in her stomach she got each time—however often she visited, it never seemed to get any easier—and, holding tightly to Ainsley’s hand, made her way inside.
    It was like stepping into a sauna, it was so hot—Marjorie was always cold these days and insisted on keeping every window shut. In the late afternoon sunlight, slanting in through the bank of tall casement windows overlooking Park Avenue, the gracious living room where Emerson had once tiptoed as a child, fearful of toppling some priceless artifact, looked strangely barren. The antiques and fine art had all been sold off, one by one, replaced by factory-made furnishings and castoffs. All that was left from Emerson’s childhood was the rather severe-looking portrait of her father that hung over the marble fireplace, and which looked nothing like him. Her memory was of a gentle, soft-spoken man, with white hair like snow melting from the pink dome of his balding crown, who’d taken frequent naps and was always going to the doctor—he’d been quite a bit older than Marjorie, old enough to be Emerson’s grandfather, and suffered from a bad heart.
    “Hello.” A low, musical voice caused her to spin around. A man stepped from the darkened hallway into the light. Tall, around her age, with skin the color of the walnut wainscoting against which he stood. He wore pressed khakis and a short-sleeved shirt that showed off the well-defined muscles in his arms. He smiled, his teeth very white against his dark skin. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He held out his hand. “Reggie Okanta. We spoke on the phone?”
    “Yes, of course. Emerson,” she said, introducing herself. His handshake was firm but not too firm, his large hand seeming to engulf her none too delicate one. She took in his high, slanting cheekbones and full lips, his eyes the green-gold of stones glinting at the bottom of a creek bed. She felt vaguely flustered for some reason, and it was a moment before she recovered her manners, gesturing toward Ainsley. “And this is my daughter, Ainsley.”
    “Very pleased to meet you.” Reggie bent down to shake Ainsley’s hand with the same formality he had Emerson’s. “What’s that you have there?” He eyed the drawing she clutched in one hand.
    Ainsley held it out for him to see. “I made it for Grandma.”
    Reggie unrolled it carefully and took his time examining it, as if he were a museum curator pondering the work of an