Willow House Chapter 14

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 Empty Books

      It’s Thursday morning here at Willow House. Tommy and I have been helping Mrs. H. plant flowers right outside the greenhouse entrance. Well . . . I’m helping. Tommy is just playing in the dirt. It mixes with his slobber and makes mud all over his bib and the shirt under it. It’s a good thing Mom always packs him a change of clothes.

     Earlier this morning, Mrs. H. walked us down to the pond. Mostly because I wouldn’t leave her alone about it. She didn’t seem too happy to be taking us there, and kept Tommy snuggly on her hip, even when he started fussing to get down. She acted nervous and wouldn’t even let me put my feet in the water.

    It sure was pretty though. The pond is about the size of a football field. The water was as still as could be, and it reflected all those weeping willows around its banks, like a mirror. I could just make out a barn, through a break in the tree branches on the opposite side. That must be where the horses live - the ones who pull the carriage when they don’t have other things to do. Who the heck takes care of those horses anyway? That nephew?

     “I thought we might have a picnic again today,” Mrs. H. interrupts my thoughts. She’s not acting as nervous as she was earlier.

     “At the pond?!” This really surprises me.

     “No, Dear. Here. At the greenhouse.”

     Seems like a waste not to lay down a blanket and have lunch with a view of that pond, but the greenhouse sounds like a good idea too. I nod my head.

    “Good then. Let’s go and make something to eat. Maybe you’d like to pick out another book and bring it out here?”

     “Yeah, thanks!” I had returned Anne to the study this morning but was afraid it would be rude to ask for another.

      When we get back to the house, Mrs. H. takes Tommy to the kitchen and sends me off to the study. 

     Now that I’ve been here for a few days, I’m less nervous, and I’ve been checking out all the cool things Mrs. H. has in her house. This study, for example, has painted portraits on the walls that I never noticed before. I’m pretty sure one of them is Mrs. Hallovich as a girl, and there’s a portrait of two people who might be her parents when they were first married, and several more of people I don’t recognize, but they look like presidents, and queens. There’s two bright rectangles on the wall, next to the front window, where the wallpaper has faded around them. I wonder if Henry and Gertrude’s portraits used to hang there.

     I turn to the bookshelves and head to the section with the kids’ books, but the ones behind the desk catch my eye. 

     You’ve probably heard the phrase don’t judge a book by its cover. I understand what it means, but does it really apply to books? There are some beautiful books here. Most are in colors that my mom calls jewel tones: emerald, and ruby, and sapphire, and topaz. They have designs on the spines in gold, and silver, and black, and I’m having trouble not touching the prettiest ones. I’m judging them.

     One stands out to me. I reach up and pull it down. It’s midnight blue, with a design of silver stars. There’s no title on the spine or the front cover. I open it up to a blank page. I flip through and find that all the pages are blank. I was expecting the most magical story in the history of all stories. Then, I realize it’s true. You really can’t judge a book by its cover. 

     I reach for one that’s much less pretty; smaller, thinner, a brown leather cover with a few black stripes on the spine. These pages are also empty. None of the books in this area have titles on their spines. I pick them out and put them back randomly, looking for words. Some are small and would fit into my pocket. All of them are blank. 

     Mrs. H. clears her throat from behind me. 

     I turn with a medium-sized black book in my hand, feeling guilty, like I’ve been snooping or something.

     She sets Tommy on the floor and walks closer to me. “Those were my father’s.”

     I don’t know what to say, so I state the obvious. “They’re blank.”

     “Yes. Father loved books, and his dream was to write his own.”

     “Why didn’t he?”

    “He actually did a lot of writing in simple notebooks. I think they’re upstairs in the attic somewhere.”

     “Why didn’t he write in these?” I point to the books behind me.

     “He was afraid to make mistakes, I think. He didn’t want to ruin those beautiful pages with anything less than perfect.”

     “That’s sad,” I say.

     “Yes, it is. Do you write?” she asks.

     Well, first of all I’m going into fourth grade, so of course I write. It’s part of my job. But, I know what she means. She’s asking if I like to write.

     “I don’t write stories,” I say. “But, I do write down secret stuff sometimes, in a diary under my bed.” 

    Mrs. H. takes the black journal from my hand and replaces it. So much for that, I think. Then she says, “choose one.”

     “I think I’m going to go with Treasure Island,” I say.

     “That’s fine, Dear,” she says, “but I mean, choose one of these. Choose a journal.”

     Choose one?

     “You mean I can have one of these?”

     She nods.

     I almost don’t know what to do. “Any one?” I ask.

     She nods.

     I point to the midnight blue one with the silver stars. She nods her head and takes it down from the shelf.

     “You must promise me one thing, though,” she says.

     Uh-oh. I was afraid there would be a catch.

     “You must promise that you will write in it.”

     I’m relieved for a moment. That’s not much of a catch. I’ll write the best story ever, I promise myself. It will be perfect. It will fill up the pages, and everyone will be amazed, and they will turn it into a movie. Yes! Of course I will write in it!

     “And,” Mrs. Hallovich continues, “don’t wait for a perfect time. There is no perfect time. Everyone has a story to tell, and you must begin yours immediately.”

        I nod my head. I can see how important this is to her.

     “Because if you don’t make this book your own right away,” she points to the shelves, “you will collect a bunch of beautiful blank journals, just the way my father did.”

     I was starting to feel sorry for her dad. I could understand how difficult it might have been to write in those pages. But, then I thought about how Mrs. H. said his stories were in notebooks upstairs, and I think, if only he had found the courage to use his beautiful journals, I would be able to sit right here and read them, instead of them just wasting away in an attic. 

     Mrs. Hallovich runs her fingers down the spine of a book. Tommy tugs at her shirt and pulls her out of the daydreaming she has started to do. She bends to pick him up and into a hug. 

     “Now then. Time for lunch!” 

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Willow House Chapter 13

To start Willow House at chapter one click here

 Strange Music

      My family history is kind of a long story, but . . . we have time.

     “My parents wanted to come here after Great-Grandpa Frank died,” I begin.

     Mrs. H. takes a deep breath. “Frank you say?”

     “Yes. I always forget his full name. It was kind of long. But, that’s what we called him.”

     “That must be why your middle name is Frances.”

     “How’d you know that?”

     “Your father told me during one of our conversations.”

     This is the first time she’s mentioned knowing my dad, but she doesn’t act like she’s been keeping it a secret.

     “Yeah, you get Frank from the name Francis with an ‘i’. Mine is spelled with an “e” ‘cause I’m a girl.” (She probably already knows this).

     She nods. “Was his last name Owens?”

     “No. My last name is Owens because Great Grandpa Frank’s daughter, my Grandma Winnie, married my Grandpa Owens.”

     “Winnie you say?”

     “Yeah. Her real name is something longer too, but we just always call her Grandma Winnie.”    

     “I see.” Mrs. H. has a big smile on her face. “And is Grandma Winnie still with us?”

     “No,” I reply.

     That big smile falls right off Mrs. Hallovich’s face.

     “She stayed behind in Clifton Falls,” I add.

     The smile returns. “Oh goodness! I thought . . .well, never mind what I thought. Do you get to see her often?”

     “Sure. Clifton Falls isn’t that far away.”

     “Lovely. Maybe someday I can be introduced to your grandmother.”

     I nod my head. I think they would get along great. Mrs. H. sure is nice to take such an interest. That’s one of the reasons I really like talking to her. She listens. She makes me feel like I’m important.

     The croquet game ends with Mrs. Hallovich being the winner. I’m okay with it, since it was my first time and all. She won’t stand a chance next time. 

     We walk back to the little iron table and chairs. Once we’re seated, she continues. “Did you spend a lot to time with your great-grandpa Frank?”

     “Yes. We used to see him all the time. He taught Dad everything he knows about the landscaping business.”

     “I understand that your father is very successful with that.”

     “He sure is.”

     “I invited him here several weeks ago. Such a nice boy.”

     I’ve never thought of my dad as a boy, but I certainly agree with the ‘nice’ part.

     “So, why did your parents choose to move to Saint Clair?”

     “I guess Grandpa Frank used to talk about it to my dad. It’s where he grew up.”

     “Did he now? And what did he say about it?”

     I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t think he talked much about his childhood, only that he really liked it here. My dad could probably tell you more.”

     “I just may have to ask him. Thank you.”

     We’re both quiet for a minute. I’m looking out through the willow branches, into the backyard, and noticing how much neater everything looks since the first day I was here. She must work really hard in the evenings after Tommy and I leave. Or . . . she’s hired someone besides my dad. I’m trying to figure out how to politely ask who’s doing her landscaping when she says, “do you like it here, Ella?”

     “Sure,” I say. In loyalty to my dad I add, “it’s pretty, but my dad would have planted more flowers.”

     Mrs. H. laughs. “I’m sure he would do an excellent job, but I meant Saint Clair. Do you like it here in Saint Clair?”

     “I love it here!” And that’s the truth. Saint Clair is beautiful.

     Mrs. Hallovich seems satisfied with my answers. She reaches out to pat me on the hand and at that exact moment we hear the sound of someone hitting piano keys. We both tip our heads to the side, my hat slides off and Mrs. H.’s eyes open wide. She reaches for the baby monitor at her waist.

     “Tommy must be awake!” she says.

     We rise and head to the back door, not running exactly, but faster than a walk. The closer we get, the clearer the notes become. It sounds like someone is having a piano lesson. Several clear notes, that begin to form a song, are followed by a few notes that definitely don’t.

     By the time we make it to the parlor, the clear notes have stopped, and it’s just Tommy plunking his fat, little fingers down onto random keys.

     Tommy turns to us. “Today,” he says.

     “I see you’ve found the piano, young man. However did you get the cover open?”

     Mrs. H. turns to me and we share a look. We both know what we heard and it sure sounded like Tommy hadn’t been alone. I’m kind of ashamed because I haven’t been keeping a close eye on him like I promised myself. At least he doesn’t seem scared.

     “Stay with him for a moment, Ella Dear.”

     Mrs. Hallovich hurries out of the room, her big hat flopping around on her head.  I see her stop to check the front door. It’s locked as it should be. She makes a sweep of the downstairs and returns in seconds.

     “Why don’t we go back out to the yard and play for a bit until your mother arrives.”

     That’s fine by me. I’m a little creeped out, and the afternoon shadows in here are long and dark and seem to be hiding things. Mrs. H. takes Tommy’s hand and we follow her back out into the sunshine.    

     I try to text Daleni when I get home, but I don’t get a message back. After a while I just call her house phone. Her mom tells me she’s shopping with her dad. They’re getting food for the party on Friday.

     I’m kind of glad she’s not there. I’d like to tell her about my day, but I’m still trying to figure it out myself. There’s been a lot of wonderful moments mixed in with the weird ones, and I can’t decide anymore which ones to talk about.

     I finished reading Anne of Green Gables. It was good but Anne sure was a chatterbox and got on my nerves a little. I’m getting hungry and can smell food. I go downstairs to see if Mom can use some help.

     

     “I stopped by Willow House today after work,” Dad says later, during dinner. “She told me she has a nephew helping her fix the place up. Have you seen him there?”

     “No,” I say. I’m a little insulted that Mrs. H. didn’t share anything about her family with me. “He must come over after we leave.”

     I haven’t given it too much thought, with everything else taking up so much of my brain space, but now that I think of it, I have been noticing how much different the house and yard are starting to look. How can a nephew get so much done so fast? Then . . . wait.

     “Mrs. Hallovich told me she was an only child. She can’t have a nephew.”

     “He can be from her husband’s side,” my mom says.

     “Oh yeah. I forgot about him.”

     “The place looks entirely different from the first day I was there,” Dad continues. “Just from the foyer I can see the new wallpaper, and the floor has been leveled, sanded, and varnished. I don’t know what they used, but there’s no chemical smell. It smells like . . . “

     “Lemons!” I finish for him.

     “Exactly!” He nods in my direction and winks at me. “Like everything is done with the magic of lemon furniture polish.”

     I hadn’t noticed everything that my dad has noticed, but he’s right. The house has changed a lot since Monday. Too much? One more mystery.

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Willow House Chapter 12

 

To begin at chapter one click here

The Royal Treatment, and Croquet

     The first two days at Willow House have been an explosion of new things. I know I’ve let my guard down way more than I should have, but here’s the deal: there are definitely some weird things going on, but none of it seems to be coming from Mrs. Hallovich. I think she really likes us, and not as a side dish for dinner.

    Right now, Tommy and I are swaying side to side in a hammock she strung up for us between a couple of trees. We’re just relaxing and looking up through the branches. Mrs. H. has spent the morning getting things ready for a special lunch outside, and she seemed happy when I asked if Tommy and I could go out to the yard for a while.

     The first thing I did was take Tommy by the hand (because I knew he’d be nervous), and lead him up the stairs of the carriage house to the guest’s quarters. There wasn’t much to see, just a room with a bed, a table and chairs, and a dresser. The weird thing was that everything was clean and tidy. No dust anywhere. The bedcover smelled like fresh laundry and there was even a small bouquet of real daisies in the center of the table. Someone has definitely been spending time up there. Why would Mrs. Hallovich lie? Did she even know?

     I had pulled Tommy with me toward the dresser. I admit, I was going to open a drawer to see if there were any clothes in there, but as I was getting near, something crunched under my right foot. I looked down to find a miniature birdcage. It had to be the one from the dollhouse, but how had it gotten here? I had smushed it.

     Now, as I swing back and forth with Tommy in the hammock, I reach into the pocket of my shorts and pull it out to have a better look. It’s smushed alright, but the wires seem to bend pretty easily. I’m no professional-miniature-birdcage-repair-person but I might be able to fix it and bring it back tomorrow. The trick will be getting it back where it belongs. Where does it belong? Should I return it to where I stepped on it?

     I look over to the little, iron table and chairs under the willow tree. They have a new coat of white paint. Mrs. H. has placed colorful cushions on the seats. The weeds are gone, and the table is prepared like she’s expecting royalty to show up. She has set out flowery china plates, two crystal glasses with raspberry lemonade, one silver goblet of milk, cloth napkins, and platters full of dainty, little things to eat. One of the platters is stacked with small sandwiches cut into triangles, one holds apple slices, grapes and baby carrots, and the third holds oatmeal cookies so thin and lacy that, if you hold them up to your face, you can see through the little holes. Plus, she’s added a bag of potato chips, because we’re kids.

     Mrs. H. has gone back in the house for a moment. She said she forgot something.

     I close my eyes and listen to the wind rustling through the leaves of the trees. I hear birds, and I’m starting to wonder about the trickling sound of water, when I hear the back door slap shut as Mrs. H. returns.

     “Look what I have here,” she says.

     She’s wearing a wide-brimmed, straw hat tied with pink ribbons, and she’s holding up a similar hat decorated with straw flowers for me. An old fashioned top-hat dangles from her left hand. 

     We scramble out of the hammock and join her beneath the willow. She sets the top hat on Tommy's head, and I am amazed that it doesn’t slide down to cover his face. 

     She gives me a nod. “I stuffed it with tissue paper.”

     I put my hat on, and she slips me a pair of little white gloves.

     “Ladies and gentlemen should be properly attired when lunching under this magnificent tree,” she says. 

     We take our seats. The weeping branches surround us like the walls of a room. Mrs. H. instructs us to hold hands, and then gives a small prayer of thanks for the beautiful day, the bounty of which we are about to partake, and the company of dear friends. 

     That was really nice.

     I can’t say I dig in to the food. One doesn’t “dig in” when one is wearing white gloves and a fancy hat. I fill my small china plate with all it can hold, and nibble daintily at a sandwich, with my pinky extended.

     Mrs. H. seems to appreciate my effort. 

     Several sandwiches, grapes, and cookies later, I give my pinky a rest, and begin to notice the world around me again. 

    “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a box attached to the trunk of the willow.

     “That’s a bat box.”

     “A what?!”

     “A bat box. A place for bats to sleep.” 

     You’ve got to be kidding.

     “Is there a bat in there now?” I whisper.

     “Maybe. Go have a peek,” she whispers back.

     As if.

     “Bat’s are very good for keeping the mosquitoes at bay,” she informs us. She sees my I’m-not-wanting-any-part-of-this face and continues. “Bats can eat up to 1000 mosquitoes in an hour.” Then, when my face muscles don’t change a bit, she adds “Google it.”

     “But they’re creepy,” I say.

     “They are mammals, just like us. But unlike us, they were given the gift of flight. Isn’t that wonderful?” 

     I can tell I’m still wearing my disgusted face, so she adds, “and as far as they’re concerned, you’re creepy too.”

     “You keepy too!” Tommy points at me and laughs. 

     I can still hear the sound of trickling water. I ask her about it. 

     “Just on the other side of the willow, past the shrubs, is an embankment that leads down to a small stream.” 

     “Can we see it?” I ask. 

     “You saw a part of it Monday. This is the same stream that passes through the greenhouse and feeds the pond.” 

     “Cool,” I say.

     

      When we’re done eating, Mrs. H. tosses the leftover crumbs and bits of fruits and veggies out onto the lawn. 

     “Lunch!” she calls out. I give her a funny look. “For the animals, Dear,” she adds.

     She takes off her white gloves and lays them on the table. “Time for your croquet lesson,” she says. “Follow me.”

     I take off my own gloves and reach for Tommy’s hand. We follow her from the shady hideaway beneath the willow, out into the bright sunshine, and back into the darkness of the carriage house. I think my eyes are having trouble adjusting because the carriage looks like it’s been washed and waxed since we saw it two days ago. I don’t have time to look closer or ask questions before I hear Mrs. Hallovich say, “Ella Dear, can you grab those?” She points to the tall, wire basket with six wooden balls. “And can you carry this for me, Tommy?” She hands him a blue mallet that’s nearly as tall as he is. “I’ll carry the rest,” she says.

     We take all the croquet pieces out into the yard. The colors of the balls and the matching mallets certainly seem a lot more colorful than they did before. But then, what do I know? My eyes are fried. 

     Mrs. Hallovich sets the mallets down and leads Tommy a little further out.

     “Now, young man, you’re going to help me set these up.” She holds a wire wicket upright on the grass and tells Tommy, “push!” The wicket sinks easily into the ground, making a little arch for the balls to pass under. Before long a nice little croquet field is all set up.

     “We’ll start with some practice shots,” she says.

     She shows me how to hold the mallet, and a couple of ways to shoot the ball. I select the yellow ball to match the mallet I’m holding, and begin to practice hitting it through the wickets. She turns to help Tommy hit a few balls with his own mallet. That lasts about three minutes. He’s getting grumpy. The only time that Tommy gets grumpy is when he’s sleepy. 

     “Why don’t you continue to practice while I lay Tommy down for his nap. When I come back, we’ll have ourselves a real game.”

     I hit the ball around for a few minutes, until Mrs. H. returns with something that looks like a cellphone. I realize I haven’t seen any technology at all in her house - not even a television.

     “Is that your phone?”

     “Ha!” She snickers. “Not a phone. Baby monitor. See?”

     She holds it out to me, and there’s my baby brother on video, snoozing away.

     “I never saw anyone in my life who can fall asleep as fast as your brother does.”

     “It’s a gift,” I say.

     She laughs. She hooks the monitor to her waistband, and proceeds to teach me the rules of croquet; how to hit your ball around the field, pass through the wickets, and collect points. She smiles as she knocks into my ball with her own. 

     “When you hit someone else’s ball you have two options,” she tells me. “You can take two shots toward the next wicket, or you can do this.” She gives me an evil grin from beneath the brim of her fancy hat, places her orange ball gently against my yellow one, steps lightly onto her own, and then whacks her ball hard enough with her mallet to send my ball flying way off course across the lawn.

     My jaw drops. I can’t believe she just did that.

     “Now I still have one more shot,” she says. She hits her ball gently through the next arch, which gives her another turn, and then hits again, leaving herself lined up nicely toward the next wicket.

      I’m still standing in the middle of the field with my mouth open.

      “You can do that to me as well.” She pauses then adds, “if you ever get the chance.” She winks at me. 

      I turn, and head off to where my ball lies in the next county. Game on.

     

     After all that wonderful instruction, we begin our cutthroat game of croquet in our big beautiful hats. She checks the baby monitor frequently, and reports that Tommy has turned twice in his sleep. It’s a perfect summer afternoon. There’s a lot of shade back here in her yard, so it’s not too hot, and my hat is keeping all the extra sun dapples off of my face. Several birds have flown down and perched around the fountain like they’re expecting it to start spewing water again any moment.

     “Tell me more about Daleni,” Mrs. Hallovich says, as I line myself up for a shot.

     “She’s been my best friend since I moved here last year.”

     “And what do you and Daleni like to do?”

     “When we’re at Daleni’s house we like to dance.” Then I remember the most important thing, “Oh! And eat!”

     “Both of those are great things to do.”

     “Daleni’s mom makes great Cuban food, and sometimes both of her parents dance with us.”

     “Salsa?”

     “Yes! She makes it with a lot of cilantro. It’s fantastic!”

     Mrs. H. laughs. “I mean the dance. Do you all salsa dance?”

     “Oh! Haha! Yeah! I’m not great at it, but Daleni’s parents look like professionals.”

     “Wonderful! My husband and I used to travel. I’ve been to Cuba, and believe it or not, I’ve done the salsa!”

     “Really?!” Somehow, I’m able to imagine her doing it. “Daleni says I need to loosen my hips more. I think Spanish people are born with looser hips.”

     “That may very well be true. I admit my hips weren’t terribly loose either, but we sure had fun!” Mrs. H. is really enjoying our conversation. 

     So am I. “Maybe you can dance with me and Daleni. She can bring her music over here!” The second it’s out of my mouth, I wish I could stuff it back in. I don’t even know how I’m going to get her over here for a simple visit, let alone a salsa party.

     “That would be wonderful, Dear! I can prepare a nice lunch, and we can teach her to play croquet!”

     I nod and turn my attention back to the game.

     “Any other friends?” Mrs. H. asks.

     “There’s the M & M’s,” I say.

     “The M & M’s?”

     “Mandy and Melanie. Mandy’s great but Melanie . . . not so much.”

     “And just what is it about Melanie that you don’t like?”

     “She’s always competing with me,” I say, as I swing and hit Mrs. H.’s orange ball with my own. I give her my own evil grin from under the brim of my hat. I plop my ball gently down next to hers, step lightly on my own, swing my mallet and give it a firm smack that sends the orange ball sailing away across the grass.

     “Yes. I can see how a competitive friend would be difficult.” One of her eyebrows is up while the other is in its regular place.

     “But she’s competitive all the time,” I say.

     “Maybe you’re recognizing, in her, a part of yourself that you find disagreeable.” 

     “What?! I’m nothing like her!”

     “We’ll change the subject for now,” she says. “So tell me, Miss Eleanora Owens, what made your family decide to move here to Saint Clair?”

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Willow House Chapter 11

To start at chapter one click here

 Do White Lies Count?

 

    

      Tonight, I don’t need to exaggerate when I tell Daleni about my day and the scary events in the playroom. I leave off the part, though, about how happy I was to see Mrs. Hallovich when she came upstairs.

     “Ella, are you sure you’re going to make it three more days?”

     “I’m not going back in the playroom. That’s for sure.”

     “Have you told your parents?”

     That is a sticky question, because I really don’t want my parents to stop sending us to Willow House. “No,” I say.

     “Why not?!”

     “There’s too much going on there! Mysteries I need to solve! I haven’t even been up to the second floor of the carriage house!  Or the attic!” (I’m not really sure I want to go into the attic. I’m just listing uncharted territory.)

     If I’m being honest, I’m not ready to say how much I’m starting to like Mrs.Hallovich. The facts I’m giving Daleni are starting to bug me. Why does it feel like I’m lying?

     “You know,” I start. “Mrs. Hallovich isn’t so bad. I think she just lives in a house that’s bad.”

     “You told me yesterday that you thought she put a sleeping curse on you. Maybe she’s used some kind of spell so that you start to like her!”

     “Maybe,” I say, but I’m pretty sure she’s just kind of likable.

     “I’m scared for you, Ella”

     “Don’t be,” I say with confidence. “I’ll avoid the playroom and I’ll keep a close eye on Tommy. We’ll be fine. We’ll spend more time outside. It’s not supposed to rain again this week, and we only have three more days to go.”

     “Okay. You better live until after my party.”

     “I promise.” 

     I’m about to tell her I have to go, when I think of something. “Hey, you haven’t been telling Mandy and Melanie about any of this, have you?”

      “Oh! I’m sorry! You never said not to.”

     That’s true. Yesterday I wanted everyone to know how brave I was to spend time in Witch House. 

     “It’s okay. No worries. I’ve got to go though. Mom’s calling me that dinner’s ready.” (This isn’t exactly true but small white lies don’t count.)

     “Talk to you tomorrow?”

     “Yeah. I’ll call you when I get home.”

     Just as I disconnect, my mom calls, “dinner’s ready!” 

     What-do-ya-know? It was barely even a small white lie.

     Dad’s already sitting at the table when I get downstairs.

     “There’s my girl!” he says.

     I walk around the table and give him a hug.

     “How was Mrs. Hallovich today?”

     “Today!” Tommy shouts from across the table.

     My dad laughs. “Apparently he had a good time . . . today.”

     “It was okay,” I say. I’m not really sure how much information to give. “The house has a really cool playroom . . . and a big dollhouse.”

     Mom enters the room with a steaming, casserole dish. “You must have been in heaven!”

     Mom knows how much I’ve always wanted a dollhouse.

     “It was okay,” I repeat.

     Mom gives me a confused frown. “It must not be a very fancy one.” 

     “Oh, it’s fancy alright! There’s food in the kitchen, and clothes in the dressers, and . . .” I forget myself for a couple of minutes and continue on and on about how awesome it really was.

     Mom and Dad look at each other and I realize I’ve gotten a little carried away. I stop rambling.

     “Yeah, that sounds kind of okay. Sort of.” Dad teases me.

     I shrug my shoulders.

     “Are you going to be able to hang in there for a few more days?”

     I nod. The problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to figure this all out in only three days.

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