The Visconti House by Elsbeth Edgar Read Free Book Online Page A

Leon. He too appeared to be weighing how to reply.
    “This is a girl from school, Laura Horton.”
    “Hello, Mrs. Murphy.” Laura smiled awkwardly and turned to go.
    “You live in the Visconti house, don’t you?” said Mrs. Murphy, wiping her hands on the side of her skirt and coming over to the fence.
    Laura turned back in surprise. “The Visconti house?”
    “The big house up on the hill.”
    “Yes,” said Laura.
    “I remember when Mr. Visconti still lived there. He was very old then, and I was just a little girl, a tiny slip of a thing. You wouldn’t think it to see me now, would you?”
    Laura did not know what to say, so she said nothing.
    “Who was Mr. Visconti, Grandma?” asked Leon, sliding his bag off his shoulder.
    “He was an Italian gentleman. Some people said that he had been an ambassador or a consul and that he had traveled all over the world. Others said he was a professor. No one really knew. He lived in the big house on his own.”
    Mrs. Murphy paused, gazing toward the road. Laura sensed that she was seeing something neither Laura nor Leon could see.
    “Every morning he would go for a walk,” continued Mrs. Murphy. “He wore a suit with a waistcoat and a watch chain, and there was always a flower in his buttonhole. He had long white hair and was very frail. He used a walking stick — an elegant one, black, I think, with a silver knob. We children used to laugh at him, I’m ashamed to say. He was such a strange figure with his flowers and his hat — he wore a straw hat in summer, I remember. No one wore hats likethat. He was so straight and so old. We would run after him sometimes, whispering, but he never seemed to mind. I don’t think he even noticed us.”
    “Didn’t he have any family?” asked Laura, drawn into the conversation despite herself.
    “Not that I know of. Strange, isn’t it? Him settling here in this small town with his grand house. All alone. People said there were paintings on the walls of his house. Murals.”
    “There were.” Laura nodded. “Some of them are still there.”
    “Fancy that! I didn’t really believe it.” Mrs. Murphy pushed back her hair again and sighed. “You never know with stories.”
    “What are the murals like?” asked Leon.
    “There aren’t many left now. Just patches. They were scenes, I think. Gardens and columns.”
    “The outside inside,” said Leon, grinning.
    Laura smiled a little smile, too. She liked that idea, the outside inside. “Sometimes the outside is literally inside now,” she volunteered. “The rain comes in through parts of the roof. And there is ivy growing under the door.”
    “Gardens tend to do that if you let them,” agreed Mrs. Murphy. “They creep into everything.”
    Laura looked at Mrs. Murphy’s garden. It had not been allowed to creep; rows of carrots, lettuce, and tomatoes were growing in straight lines. Two rosebushes had been pruned back to a few bare stalks, and a lemon tree was similarly stark. Still, there were green shoots pushing up through the dark earth and grass growing over the borders. Perhaps a little creeping was going on, after all.
    “Would you like some tomatoes to take home?” asked Mrs. Murphy.
    Laura wasn’t sure that she would, but she didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Murphy’s feelings, so she said, “Yes, if you have enough.”
    “Sure. We have more than we can eat. Leon, go and fetch a plastic bag for me from the kitchen.” Mrs. Murphy bent over, groaning a little, and started to gather the ripe fruit. “These are the very last of the season,” she said, “but they should still have some flavor. Don’t they smell good?” She held up one for Laura to smell.
    Laura sniffed and was surprised by the distinctive tang of the freshly picked fruit. She tried to think of a word to describe it but couldn’t.
    When Leon returned, Mrs. Murphy put the tomatoes in the bag and handed it to Laura.
    “It’s been nice meeting you, Laura Horton,” shesaid. “Stop and have a