What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(12)

Laurel tried to smile.

Lolly moved on past Grampa Dabney and Gramma Lorena’s portrait, barely glanced at the picture of Grampa and his brother as children, then stopped at a pair of large oils. “Who are these people?”

“The stern-looking woman with the four little girls is my great-grandfather’s first wife, Adeline Quisenberry, and the stern-looking woman in the painting one jump up from them, the one with the two boys clinging to her skirts, is his second wife, my great-grandmother, Ida Mae Benton.”

Lolly stifled a yawn, nodded, and moved up several steps to study a large, dramatic painting of four dark-haired women in low-cut gowns.

Pendleton Swaim had been interested in that picture too, Laurel remembered. He’d even made a quick sketch of it three years ago during the garden club’s historic homes tour. No telling how he’d use the information.

Lolly gestured toward the painting. “Who are they? They’re so pretty.”

“They’re the little girls all grown up. Gramma said they were wild and that the oldest, Great-Aunt Barbara, ran off to Italy with the architect who designed the house, but I don’t know about the others.”

Lolly squinted at the picture as if trying to bring it into better focus. “They’re all wearing necklaces with animal things hanging from them.”

Laurel nodded. “Their father gave them the necklaces when he was in what Gramma called his ‘Chinese phase.’ The animals represent the year each girl was born in.”

“Cool. I’m a rabbit.”

They’d almost reached second-floor landing, but there was one more portrait to go. Laurel made a grand gesture of introduction. “Lolly, I present to you my great-grandfather, Erasmus Galileo Kinkaid.” She nodded her head in his direction, and he twinkled back, the cheeky devil.

Lolly’s eyes lit up with renewed interest. “Hey, he’s sexy!” Her brow clouded over. “He didn’t own slaves, though, did he?”

Laurel shook her head. “Not Erasmus. He didn’t arrive in Texas till sometime in the late 1860s, but his wives’ families had cotton plantations before the Civil War.”

Truth to tell, she’d always been a little uneasy around the black kids in school whose last names were Benton or Quisenberry. Emancipated slaves often took the surnames of their former masters, and the fact that the Bentons were so light that some of them had “passed” made her want to ask her mother questions she was pretty sure Mama didn’t want to answer.

Lolly turned to her with a frown. “But why isn’t your portrait here?

Laurel raised her hands in mock despair. “There wasn’t room for me in the stairway, so I was exiled to the dining room. You can see me before you leave.”

She took the final step onto the landing, opened the first door on the left, and switched on the light. If Lolly liked old-fashioned, this was the mother lode: a gilt mirror over the dressing table, antique furniture, and pink-flowered dimity curtains looping over gilded Cupid hooks, then hanging down on either side of the window.

Lolly came in behind her, stood in the center of the room, and pivoted slowly to take everything in.

“It’s all so beautiful—I love the Aubusson and all the pastel colors. And that pale green bed and chest and vanity table are supercool. Are they, like, French Provincial?”

“Well, yes. Not the kind you get in stores, though. My great-grandfather bought it all in France way back when.”

“Awesome. And I bet this is a feather bed.” Lolly dropped her purse and backpack to the floor, then carefully sat down on the edge of the mattress, bouncing a little to test it. “I always wondered how it would feel to sleep on a feather bed.”

Laurel laughed. “Sorry. That bed has had several mattresses through the years. The feathers have flown the coop.”

Lolly’s face fell. “No feathers?”

“They tend to hatch lice. I think you’ll like the inner springs better.”

Lolly yawned again, nodded a reluctant acceptance, and looked over at the half-open pocket door beside the bed. “Is that an en suite?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cool.”

Laurel slid the door open and stepped inside the bathroom for a quick inspection to make sure no spiders had expired in the tub recently, as they had the distressing habit of doing. Score one for modern insecticides.

“There’s a clean nightgown hanging on the hook behind the door, and you can use all the towels you want,” she said, returning to the bedroom. “As you’ll see, we’ve got plenty.” Although she would have sold every one of them if there’d been any sort of market for old linens.

Lolly yawned and sat down on the bed, her head drooping toward her shoulder, and smoothed the sheet with her hand.

“Thank you.”

Laurel moved to the door. “You’re welcome, honey.”

She turned on the window unit, and Lolly jerked around as the machine wheezed into action. Laurel smiled. Let Jase be the one to explain Stone Age technology to his daughter.

“Sweet dreams. I’ll leave the bathroom light on in case you wake up during the night.”

Lolly nodded, yawned again, and kicked off her flip-flops. “Good night.”

“Good night, honey.”

Laurel closed the door and crossed the hall to her bedroom, a nest of warmth settling between her breasts.