The sheets and blankets were lying in puddles around the bed and all four windows were wide open, long vermilion drapes fluttering like moths inside the room. Gathering the little dog to my chest, I struggled to close the windows, then returned to the bed for another twenty minutes, this time with covers, until we were both thawed enough to venture out again. I wasn’t afraid. Not of these ghosts, anyway. I’d known them since childhood and realized they were simply making their presence known to me. I’d even surprised myself by falling asleep quickly the night before, not caring to dwell on the measure of comfort I’d felt at the proximity of the connecting door to my mother’s room. I’d attempted to read—a university press publication about the origins of the Historic Charleston Foundation loaned to me by Sophie to give me a deeper appreciation for historical homes and the efforts to restore them for our collective posterity—but I’d fallen asleep after the first page. It wasn’t that the book was poorly written or the subject all that uninteresting; it was only that I lived historical home restoration every day and had the nubby fingernails to prove it.
What do You think about The Girl On Legare Street?
