Unspoken Read Free

breath to no one in particular, she climbed out of the car, ignored the fact that her blouse was sticking to her back and marched up the brick walk to the front of the house. She didn’t bother raising the brass knocker that was engraved proudly with the Cole name as she remembered the sickening spoof of a nursery rhyme she’d heard in grade school.
    Old Judge Cole
Was a nasty old soul
And a nasty old soul was he.
He called for his noose
And he called for his gun
And he called for his henchmen three.
     
    The front door opened easily and the smells of furniture polish, potpourri and cinnamon greeted her. Italian marble, visible beneath the edges of expensive throw rugs, gleamed as sunlight streamed through tall, spotless windows.
    “Hola! Is someone there?” an old familiar voice asked in a thick Spanish accent. From the kitchen, soft footsteps sounded, and as Shelby rounded the corner to the kitchen she nearly ran smack-dab into Lydia, her father’s housekeeper.
    Dark eyes widened in recognition. A smile of pure delight cracked across her jaw. “Senonta Shelby!” Lydia, whose once-black hair, neatly braided and wound into a bun at the base of her neck, was now shot with streaks of silver, smiled widely. Wiry strands that had escaped their bonds framed the face that Shelby remembered from her youth. Lydia’s waist had thickened over the years but her face was unlined, her coppery akin with its Mexican tones and Native American cheekbones as smooth as ever.
    “Dios!” Lydia threw her arms around the woman she’d helped raise. “Why did you not tell anyone you were coming home?”
    “It was kind of a quick decision.” Unwanted tears burned the back of Shelby’s eyes as she hugged Lydia. Black dress, white collar, white apron and sensible sandals-Lydia’s attire hadn’t changed in all the years Shelby had been away. And she still smelled of vanilla, talc and cigarette smoke. “It’s ... good to see you.”
    “And you, niña. ” She clucked her tongue. “If I would know you are coming, I would have cooked all your favorites—ham and sweet potatoes and for dessert pecan pie. I’ll make it this day! It is still your favorite?”
    Shelby laughed. “Yeah, but please, Lydia, don’t go to any trouble—I don’t know how long I’ll be staying.”
    “Hush. We will not talk of your leaving when you just walked through the door. Ahh, niña! ” Tears brightened the older woman’s eyes. Blinking rapidly, she said, “You are like a fantasma, the ghost of your mother.” Sighing, Lydia held Shelby at arm’s length and looked her up and down. “But you are too skinny— Dios! Do they not know how to cook up north?”
    “Nope. No one does,” Shelby teased. “Everyone’s skin and bones in Seattle. They just drink coffee and huddle against the rain and climb mountains. That sort of thing.”
    Lydia chuckled. “This, we will fix.”
    “Later. Right now I want to see the Judge,” Shelby said, refusing to be deterred by the housekeeper’s kindness or any ridiculous sense of nostalgia. She had a mission. “Is he at home?” She extracted herself from Lydia’s embrace.
    “Sí. On the verandah, but he is with clients. I will tell him you are—”
    But it was too late. Shelby had already started for the French doors leading to the backyard. “I’ll do it myself. Thanks, Lydia.”
    She walked past the shining mahogany table that, with its twelve carved chairs, occupied the dining room. A floral arrangement of birds of paradise, her mother’s favorite flowers, graced the lustrous table, just as a new arrangement had every week since Jasmine Cole’s death over twenty years earlier. Crystal and china, sparkling and ready for a sit-down party, were visible through the glass panes of a massive china closet.
    Nothing seemed to change in Bad Luck, Shelby decided as she opened the French doors and stepped onto the tile verandah that overlooked the pool. Fans mounted in the ceiling of the porch swirled the air