Soaring (Magdalene #2)(60)

I stared because I realized we were having a relatively normal conversation and she’d called me Amelia, something she never called me.

Then she shivered, even though it was a sunny, summer day, and looked to the heavens.

She then turned, smartly snapped open an umbrella that had come loose from two of its prongs, put it over her head and started walking away.

I kept staring then I jolted because Mrs. McMurphy had somehow slipped through the admittedly dreadful security keeping the old folks inside and safe, and she was ambling away in a cold thunderstorm that was not happening.

“Wait!” I exclaimed, starting after her.

She turned and brandished her umbrella at me. “Don’t get near me, you Nazi!” She swung the umbrella wide and shouted, “Death to Hitler!”

I managed not to laugh as I also managed to corral a cantankerous Nazi-hating old lady back into her nice, but still slightly shabby, home for the elderly.

Chapter Ten

They Spoke to Me

The Friday my children were to return to me, when I heard the garage door go up, I did not rush to the door leading to the garage, open it and stand in it, waiting.

I continued doing what I was doing in the kitchen.

So when my kids came through the door, I was there, waiting for them, glad they were home, but not showing them I was waiting for them.

But I did show them I was glad they were home.

I did this looking to the side, smiling wide, and calling, “Hey, honeys.”

Auden looked to me.

Olympia shuffled behind him to get out of the way of the closing door.

“Come here, would you?” I asked, rolling dough in my hands that was going to be sugar cookies with M&Ms, another of their favorites.

They moved my way but stopped well beyond the end of the counter that started the kitchen.

I let that happen and continued doing what I was doing, shifting my attention between them and the cookies and doing it speaking.

“I hope you did as I asked and didn’t make plans, because tonight we’re having dinner and then we’re watching a movie together. A Few Good Men. As you can see, I got a couch so we can all sit close to the TV. And there are tables.”

I tipped my head toward the opposite landing to call their attention to the couch.

I also took in all I’d wrought.

The couch was an unusual online buy, but it was perfect. Low backed but very deep seated, with sweeping arms at the sides and chunky, squat wooden legs at the bottom. It was in a camel twill and it had a plethora of fabulous, scrunchy toss pillows on it, matching ones on the chair. And the couch was so long, it would easily seat both my babies even if they stretched out (and shared some space).

Further, there was a low, wide, rectangular wooden chest in front of it that I was using as a coffee table. I found it in an antique shop by the cove. And Josie’s interior designer had one of her cabinetmakers custom-make a very long, low media center. It sat under the hanging TV and had shelves for all the components, some cabinets to store stuff, and more shelves to put CDs and DVDs.

And the walls had been painted a warm, but neutral oyster. There was now another end table around the sectional that was also a chest, taller and square, and a square coffee table in the middle that wasn’t the same wood as the chest, but it was in the same hue, battered and beautiful.

There were wire glass candle pots and squat round pewter candle holders of varying heights with fat candles in them dotted around, mingling with the knickknacks I didn’t sell because they meant something from our home in La Jolla, and framed photos, with a fabulous conglomeration of the last scattering the top of the low media center under the TV.

I needed prints for the walls and afghans to snuggle under when it started to get cold. I also still needed a new dining room table, an acquisition that was foiling me.

But it was coming together.

The effect was warm. It was rich in a way that had nothing to do with money (but still did). It was inviting. It was pleasing to the eye. It was comfortable. And even with the magnificence of the structure all around, the stylish, state-of-the-art kitchen with its cement countertops, stainless steel appliances and fabulous hanging pendant lights, the massive wall of windows, the glorious view, it was not imposing, overwhelming or in-your-face.

It said you’re welcome to be there, take a seat, relax and enjoy.

It was me.

I kept rolling cookies, putting them on the baking sheet and blathering to my children.

“Tomorrow, I’m taking you out shopping.” I shook my head and a doughy hand at them and went on, “Don’t lose it on me, but I don’t want you to have to lug bags here and back to your dad’s. We’re talking shampoo. Curling irons. Pajamas. Some clothes if you want. Things like that. I just want you to do what you can in the short time we have to make this feel like your home. So that’s what we’re doing.”

I wanted that. I thought it was a good thing to do. Both of my kids liked shopping, even Auden. And I wanted them to feel when they came to me they were coming home.

I also wanted to take them to Dove House.

However, as sad as it was to admit, I didn’t know if they’d be as charming and respectful of the old folks as Aisling and Cillian were.

I did know that they would not be affectionate and respectful to me and I didn’t want the residents seeing that. I also didn’t want it to confuse them, considering Aisling and Cillian weren’t my kids and they had been both.