He halts, looking at me over his shoulder.
“I don’t want to read them alone.”
He pauses before tipping his head toward the Big House. “Want to come inside?”
A warm breeze waltzes through the treetops. “I don’t know. I heard a witch lives there.”
He strides back toward me, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “She’s not a witch,” he says. “She’s my grandmother. There’s no eye of newt. Or toe of frog. There’s no black cat anymore, either.”
“Hmm.” I peer at the Big House behind him. “I’m not sure. Itlookslike a witch could live there.”
George’s voice is as soft as the flutter of leaves in the branches above. “You’ll have to trust me.”
His gaze sweeps across my face, and then he lifts his hand, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. A shiver rolls down my spine.
“Come inside, Frankie.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Mimi is at the door, waiting for us. She’s dressed in a housecoat and her red wig, smoking a skinny, her free arm crossed over her stomach.
“Francesca, darling.” She nods at the chest I’ve tucked under my arm. “I’ve been telling him to give those to you for years. He kept saying he was waiting for the perfect time, and I kept telling him there is no such thing.”
I nod. “But I don’t know if I would have been ready for them before. I’m ready now.”
I feel the weight of George’s gaze on my face as Mimi considers what I’ve said. She waves her hand, dismissing the notion.
“Rubbish,” she says. “You’re just sticking up for him, like usual.”
I tilt my head. “Just like you’ve kept his secrets.”
“With great reluctance.” Mimi takes a drag of her cigarette, smiling. “But the cat’s out of the bag now.Et qu’est-ce que tu vas faire, ma chère?”
“Laisse-la,” George says, his voice stern.
I look to him to translate, but he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Mimi clears her throat. “I asked what you were going to do about it.”
I don’t realize that I’ve slowly been inching toward George, leaning against his side, until he sets a hand on my back.
“We’ll let you know,” I tell her, kissing her good night. I move toward the library, George at my side. “But don’t wait up.”
George closes the door behind us, muffling Mimi’s laughter, and I look around. This room used to seem so big, so imposing. The leaded glass windows are hung with heavy brocade drapes, tasseled ropes cinched around their middles. Persian carpets cover almost every inch of the wood floors. There’s an enormous stone fireplace, two overstuffed wing chairs, and a tufted leather sofa. And of course, the books. The walls are covered with shelves full of novels and biographies, and the room smells of their worn pages.
When we were very young, George and I made grand plans for how we’d improve the Big House if we were its owners. We’d run a waterslide from his bedroom window down to the pool and plant a cedar hedge labyrinth and a pumpkin patch. At Halloween, we’d host a haunted house so fabulous and frightening that parents would drive their kids all the way from Peterborough to see it. I’d dress as a witch and George, a warlock.
Now everything looks a little faded and dusty, and I feel the call to take care of it. Fresh paint and elbow grease. Air the cigarette smoke out of the drapes.
I set down the box, squeeze behind the bookshelf, and pushopen the door to the cupboard. When I pull the chain on the light bulb, I’m shocked by how tiny it seems. We’re far too big.
“We won’t fit in there anymore,” I say, looking at George over my shoulder.
“We grew up.”
I stare at the bare bulb dangling over the four feet of floor that served as the headquarters to our friendship, where we hatched plans and wrote vows and argued about an imaginary labyrinth. I don’t remember how old we were the final time we wedged our bodies into the cupboard’s embrace. I wonder if we knew that we were outgrowing its confines. Did our limbs get tangled? Were we at an age when being pressed together felt awkward?
We’ll never be those kids again, whispering schemes and telling tales.
