Anna Meets Her Match. Arlene James
the gravel toward the porch.
“Watch it!” he barked. Even before the warning left his mouth, she skidded and, predictably, tumbled down.
She fell to her knees, howling. Reeves reached her in two long strides and was lifting her to her feet when that yellow door opened, revealing the concerned countenance of Chester Worth. Sturdy, pale and balding, Chester and his wife, Hilda, along with her sister Carol, had served as household staff for the Chatam sisters for more than two decades. Wearing nothing more than a cardigan sweater over a plain white shirt, suspenders and slacks, Chester stepped out into the February cold, his bushy brows drawn together over his half-glasses.
Gilli’s wails shut off abruptly. “H’lo, Chester,” she greeted brightly.
“Miss Gilli, Mister Reeves, good to see y’all. Can I help?”
Reeves tugged Gilli forward, saying to Chester, “Could you get Gilli to the kitchen and ask Hilda to give her some lunch while I bring in the luggage?”
“Luggage, you say?” Chester asked, taking Gilli by the hand.
“We’ve come for a stay,” Reeves replied, adding wearily, “It’s been quite a morning, Chester.”
“We got bees,” Gilli announced, “lots and lots.”
“I’ll explain after I’ve seen the aunties,” Reeves went on. “Where are they?”
“All three are in the front parlor, Mr. Reeves,” Chester answered. “You just leave those bags and go let them know you’re here. I’ll take care of everything soon as Miss Gilli’s settled. The east suite should do nicely. Bees, is it?”
“Lots and lots,” Gilli confirmed.
“Thank you, Chester. I’ll leave the bags inside the door.”
Reeves returned to the rear of the car as the older man coaxed Gilli away. He carried the luggage into the small side entry then removed his overcoat, folding it over one arm. Smoothing his dark brown suit jacket, he headed off down a long narrow hallway, past the kitchen, butler’s pantry and family parlor, toward the center of the house.
The scents of lemony furniture polish and gingerbread sparred with the musty odor of antique upholstery and the mellow perfume of aged rosewood, all familiar, all welcome and calming. Running through this house as a child with his cousins, Reeves had considered it his personal playground and more home than whichever parent’s house he’d currently been living in. It had always been his one true sanctuary.
Feeling lighter than he had for some time, Reeves paused at the intersection of the “back” hall and the so-called “west” hall that flanked the magnificent curving staircase, which anchored the grand foyer at the front of the house. He lifted his eyes toward the high, pale blue ceiling, where faded feathers wafted among faint, billowy clouds framed by ornate crown moldings, and prayed silently.
It’s good to be here, Lord. Maybe that’s why You’ve allowed us to be driven from our own home. You seem to have deemed Chatam House a shelter for me in times of deepest trouble, so this must be Your way of taking care of me and Gilli. The aunties are a good influence on her, and I thank You for them and this big old house. I trust that You’ll have a new nanny prepared for us by the time we go back to our place.
Wincing, he realized that he had just betrayed reluctance to be at his own home alone with his own daughter. Abruptly he felt the millstone of failure about his neck.
Forgive me for my failings, Lord, he prayed, and please, please make me a better father. Amen.
Turning right, Reeves walked past the formal dining room and study on one side and the quaint cloak and “withdrawing rooms” on the other, to the formal front entry, where he left his coat draped over the curved banister at the bottom of the stairs. The “east” hall, which flanked the other side of the staircase, would have taken him past the cloak and restrooms again, as well as the library and ballroom. Both of the latter received a surprising amount of use because of the many charities and clubs in which the aunties were involved. The spacious front parlor, however, was definitely the busiest room in the house. Reeves headed there, unsurprised to find the doors wide open.
He heard the aunties’ voices, Hypatia’s well-modulated drawl, followed by Magnolia’s gruffer reply and Odelia’s twitter. Just the sound of them made him smile. He paid no attention to the words themselves. Pausing to take a look inside, he swept his gaze over groupings of antique furniture, pots of well-tended plants and a wealth of bric-a-brac. Seeing none but the aunties, he relaxed and strode into the room.
Three identical pairs of light, amber-brown eyes turned his way at once. That was pretty much where the similarities ended for the casual observer, although those sweetly rounded faces, from the delicate brows, aristocratic noses, prim mouths and gently cleft chins, were very nearly interchangeable.
Hypatia, as usual, appeared the epitome of Southern gentility in her neat lilac suit with her silver hair curled into a sleek figure-eight chignon at the nape of her neck and pearls at her throat. Magnolia, on the other hand, wore a drab shirtwaist dress decades out of style beneath an oversized cardigan sweater that had undoubtedly belonged to Grandpa Hub, dead these past ten years. Her steel-gray braid hung down her back, and she wore rundown slippers rather than the rubber boots she preferred for puttering around the flowerbeds and hothouse. Lovingly referred to as “Aunt Mags” by her many nieces and nephews, she hid a tender heart beneath a gruff, mannish manner.
Odelia, affectionately but all too aptly known as Auntie Od, was all ruffles and gathers and eye-popping prints, her white hair curling softly about her ears, which currently sported enamel daisies the size of teacups. Auntie Od was known for her outlandish earrings and her sweetness. The latter imbued both her smile and her eyes as her gaze lit on the newcomer.
“Reeves!”
He could not help laughing at her delight, a patent condition for the old dear.
“Hello, Aunt Odelia.” Going at once to kiss her temple, he held out a hand to Mags, who sat beside her sister on the prized Chesterfield settee that Grandma Augusta had brought back from her honeymoon trip to London back in 1932.
“Surprised to see you here this time of day,” Mags stated.
Swiveling, Reeves bussed her forehead, bemused by the strength of her grip on his fingers. “Honeybees,” he offered succinctly.
“What about them, dear?” Hypatia inquired calmly from her seat in the high-backed Victorian armchair facing the door through which he had entered. Its twin sat facing her, with its back to that door.
He leaned across the piecrust table to kiss her cool cheek, Mags still squeezing his hand. “They’ve invaded my attic.”
He quickly gave them the details, how the nanny had phoned in a panic that morning, shrieking that she and Gilli were under attack by “killer bees.” Racing home from his job as vice president of a national shipping company, he had found both of them locked into the nanny’s car in the drive. Inside the house, a dozen or more honeybees had buzzed angrily. Nanny had climbed up on a stool to investigate a stain on the kitchen ceiling. Hearing a strange hum, she’d poked at it. Something sticky had plopped onto the counter, and bees had swarmed through the newly formed hole in the Sheetrock.
Reeves had called an exterminator, who had refused even to come out. Instead, he’d been referred to a local “bee handler,” who had arrived outfitted head-to-toe in strange gear to tell him more than he’d ever wanted to know about the habits of the Texas honeybee. A quick inspection had revealed that thousands, perhaps millions, of the tiny creatures had infested his attic. It was going to take days to remove them all, and then his entire ceiling, which was saturated with honey, all of the insulation and much of the supporting structure of his roof would have to be torn out and replaced.
“Oh, my!” Odelia exclaimed, gasping. “The bees must have frightened Gilli.”
He spared her a smile before turning back to Hypatia, the undisputed authority at Chatam House. “Hardly. She wanted to know if she