Carolina Mist Read Free Page B

for it.
    Abby sighed and looked around at her apartment. Why had she moved into such an expensive building? It had been so perfect, she had thought at the time, close to her office, known for its security, and, besides, it had lots of space, high ceilings, and lots of windows. It had been an indulgence, and she had known it even as she signed the lease. Well, the lease would be up at the end of next month, and she wouldn’t be renewing. She was too depressed at that moment to think about where she’d be moving to.
    Slumped in the middle of the living-room floor, she stared glumly at the piles of bills on one side, her bank statements on the other. On the table beside her were two notices of attempts to deliver a certified letter. Had one of her debts gone into collection? She wasn’t sure and had no desire to find out. Maybe next week she could deal with it, but not now. She’d just have to keep ducking the mailman.
    Her stomach reminded her that it was almost noon, and she had yet to eat. On bare feet, she padded into the kitchen. No milk. No eggs. She checked her wallet and, after finding a few bills, pulled on her old running shoes and headed for the corner grocery.
    The excursion was brief, Abby grabbing the two items she’d come for and making only the most perfunctory conversation with the old man behind the counter who greeted her so cheerfully. One of the few things that can make you feel even worse when you feel this bad, she grumbled to herself as she headed back up the street, is to be confronted by a truly perky person.
    She was fumbling in her pocket for her key when she bumped into him on the top step. Smiling—“Gotcha!”— the mailman handed her the letter and a pen, pointing to the line on the little green card where she was to sign.
    Could this day get much worse?
    Tossing the unopened letter onto the small kitchen table, she boiled water to make egg salad and poured a glass of milk. A short row of neglected African violets, their velvet leaves dangling over the sides of their pots as if gasping, lined the end of the table nearest the window and seemed to beg for her attention.
    “ I don’t know why I bother,” she sighed, “since not one of you has ever shown me so much as one blossom.”
    She poured a half-glass of water into the dry dirt, oblivious to the fact that she’d created a near tidal wave inside the small plastic pots. The excess poured over the tops of the saucers and slid across the table. She grabbed a paper towel and chased the stream, but not before the letter had been saturated. She spread the envelope out flat on the counter and blotted at the runny ink. For the first time, she noticed the return address:
    Horace D. Tillman, Esquire
    1263 Harper Avenue
    Primrose, N.C.
    It was the name of the town, not that of the sender, that caught her eye. Primrose, North Carolina, was the home of her Great-aunt Leila.
    “Oh, no.” The very softest protest slipped from her lips.
    Had the envelope borne a thick border of black, it would have been no more apparent what news lay wrapped within the soggy folds of paper. She shook the remaining drops of water from the envelope and went into the living room. Deeply saddened, Abby sank into a chair.
    With trembling hands, she carefully opened it. Aunt Leila would be, what, ninety or so? And it’s been so long since I visited, Abby thought, guiltily recalling how many times over the past several years she had opted to forgo vacation time to complete a project at work.
    I always meant to go back. Abby shook her head, already comprehending that it was too late. I always intended to take a few weeks off and spend the time with her. Why didn’t I go last summer? Or the summer before?
    Dear Ms. McKenna:
    It is my sad duty to notify you of the passing of your great-aunt, Leila Abigail Dunham Cassidy, on September 1 of this year. Please accept my deepest condolences on your loss.
    I have enclosed a copy of the late Mrs. Cassidy's will, which, as you