The Swan House by Elizabeth Musser Read Free Book Online Page A

has happened—” She cleared her throat. “In view of what has happened, you certainly won’t be expected to take part in the general upkeep of the place. Take your time. All the time you need.” I believe that she blinked back tears.
    â€œThank you,” I managed to mumble.
    Rachel draped her arm around my shoulder and walked me down her driveway. “They canceled all the exams at Welly. I guess you heard, huh?”
    I nodded.
    â€œMemorial service at school is Thursday. I’ll come and pick you up for it, Swan, okay?”
    I nodded again.
    Then I forced one foot in front of the other as I walked back down that wide, winding street. Seeing the cars lined up again in front of my house, I found my way through the woods on the left, taking a well-worn path that led away from my house.
    A few minutes later, I emerged from the woods and gazed longingly in front of me to where hundreds of yards of grass and trees and flowering plants led to the Swan House, an Italian-style villa that was well-known in Atlanta and had long ago captured my heart. It was called the Swan House because its owner, Mrs. Inman, used the swan motif throughout the residence. The first swan that greeted a visitor was above the porte cochere of the house. That swan, made of lead and surrounded by glass, was depicted amidst a spray of cattails, and the crescent shape that framed the swan emphasized the delicate beauty of the swan’s curving neck.
    Mama loved that house so much that it was part of the reason she named me Mary Swan. The other was the fact that Swan was the last name of some distant relatives of Daddy’s. And since Mama and Daddy were friends of the Inmans, I’d been inside the house on several occasions. On my first visit as a young child, while the grown-ups played bridge and sipped brandy in the library, I spent several hours searching for all the swans in the house. At first Daddy and Mama had disapproved of my wandering in and out of every room, but Mrs. Inman just chuckled gaily and said, “Leave her alone. It’s fine. Mary Swan is just looking for herself in my house.” I had never forgotten those words.
    Mama used to say that the Swan House was the place she escaped to when she got tired of painting portraits. I had many memories of playing around her legs as she stood in front of her easel at the bottom of the long yard and painted the house. What she never knew was that when I was older, I, too, often escaped through the woods all alone to contemplate this architectural masterpiece. Its beauty, its name, and its treasures inspired and encouraged me that someday maybe I would be graceful and poised and breathtaking. Someday I would find myself there.
    And now, with my life unraveling around me, the simple sight of the elegant mansion, unchanged from my last visit, reassured me. If I had had pencil and paper with me, I would have sketched the house, as I had done so often before. But being empty-handed, I contented myself by sitting at the bottom of the long rolling yard and listening for sounds of birds and insects, hoping to hear echoes of Rampal’s flute amidst the tranquil panorama. There, in one of my favorite settings, I could cry in peace.
    I don’t know how long I sat there. Later I plodded back through the woods to my house, which was like all the homes in our part of town, big and beautiful with immaculate green lawns that were carefully landscaped with the brightest flowers blooming at the appropriate season. Our house was white brick, three stories high, with a chimney on each side and a gable on the roof. It sat far back from the street on a gently sloping hill, and a little creek wiggled its way through the yard near the street, continuing on toward the Swan House. When we were younger, Jimmy and I built branch bridges over the creek and watched the frogs sunning themselves on the rocky little bank.
    The trees that lined the front yard were hickory and oak and