“Yes, but don’t dare tell the child. She hates it.”
“How does she even know what the nameplate says?”
Mrs. Bellows shakes her head, smiling. “That child is precocious as anything! When she was two years old, her grandmother called her Josephine, and she said, ‘That’s not my name.’ When asked what her name was, she pointed at a flower in a picture book and said, ‘I am Posey. Just like the flower.’”
“There’s some similarity,” I say. “Josephine, Posey.”
Mrs. Bellows laughs. “Yes. But how is a toddler supposed to know that Posey has been the nickname for Josephine for centuries?”
“Posey is definitely an interesting child.”
“That she is. When she learns to read properly, she’s going to demand a new nameplate above her bedroom door.”
We both laugh easily. An instant bond forms between us. I’m grateful. At least I’ll have one friend in this chilly house.
Mrs. Bellows opens Posey’s door, revealing everything I wanted as a child. Everything I had in Beverly Hills before our family's world collapsed.
A beautiful canopy bed with a pink bedspread takes up most of the room. Then there's the large painted toy chest, and a white French provincial dresser trimmed in gold.
There’s even a little vanity table scaled for a four-year-old, complete with gold brush, gold comb, and a ceramic basin painted with flowers.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, genuinely impressed.
“Mrs. Abernathy had so much fun creating this room. She finished it when Posey outgrew her crib. ‘I’m a big girl now,’ she announced when she was two and a half. Can you imagine a two-and-a-half-year-old talking like that?”
“I have a feeling Posey was born talking like that.”
“You’re not wrong,” Mrs. Bellows chuckles.
She pauses at another door but doesn’t open it. “This,” she says in a hushed whisper, “is Mrs. Bixby’s room.”
I’m curious about the reverent tone but don’t ask.
“Where is Mrs. Bixby now?”
“Taking Posey to the park. It's their usual time.” She checks her watch.
There’s an awkward silence, like Mrs. Bellows wants to say more about the stern nanny but thinks better of it.
“And this is your room,” she says, escorting me down the hall and opening the last door.
I step inside and breathe in the crisp scent of fresh cleaning. The air smells like the special fragrance hotels use that makes everything feel crisp and new.
The bed is small but comfortable-looking, with fresh white linens. There’s nothing fancy about the room. No dressing table like Posey’s, no writing desk like Mrs. Abernathy’s. Just clean, and welcoming.
“It’s very nice,” I say, pleasantly surprised. “So clean, too. Like you cleaned it just for me, but no one knew I was coming.”
“I clean every room every day, ma’am,” Mrs. Bellows says with obvious pride in her voice. “It’s how I’ve always done things.”
She checks her watch. “It’s three o’clock. I must speak with Chef Ernest about dinner.”
“Interesting, having a chef for just two people,” I muse.
“The Abernathys were formal like that. He’s new. Yet he trained under the former chef. Ernest brought some new ideas to the table, that’s for sure.”
“Like what?”
“Creating our own chef’s garden right outside the kitchen window. Fresh corn, tomatoes as big as your fist.” She laughs. “Delicious, too.”
