The Healing by Frances Pergamo Page A

voice, stroll down Terry Lane toward the property with the impressive wrought-iron gate. The thought occurred to her that the timing of Grace Mitchell’s appearance was too coincidental to be real. Yet her neighborly manner and apparent sincerity made the encounter more real than anything Karen had experienced in years. Grace had happened upon someone in obvious distress and had reacted with simple kindness. For Karen, it was like tripping into a storm cellar in the midst of a cyclone.
    She took a deep, restorative breath and found that her lungs were burning. The meltdown had been a long time coming, and it was a cathartic experience. She had never cried like that in her whole life. Not when her grandmother died, not even when her parents died. Feeling physically drained, she glanced at her watch and was glad to see she had some time to spare before heading back home.
    It wasn’t going to be an easy hurdle, but maybe a cup of tea would indeed help her pull herself together.

    It was only late morning, yet Karen felt as if she had spent the entire day in an altered state. Passing through the black gate at the end of Terry Lane and walking up the driveway to the house she always dreamed about made it all the more surreal. She made her way past the overgrown formal garden and the stately trees that were centuries old, trying to envision how it all looked when it was well tended. At closer range, Karen could see the house needed a lot of cosmetic work, mostly a paint job and repointing of the chimneys, but the windows were clean and were adorned with curtains and drapes. A few of the floorboards on the front porch needed to be replaced and the stair treads were slightly warped, but Karen spotted a rocking chair and concluded she would have been quite content to read a book there.
    The side entrance was an anteroom that was actually a large bay off the kitchen, and Karen scaled the three steps in a sort of daze, trying to take in as much of its architectural character as she could. Before knocking, Karen took note of the old door, which was half oak and half glass. She couldn’t see inside because a short lace panel covered the panes of glass on the inside.
    Rapping her knuckles on the wood, Karen didn’t realize she was holding her breath.
    Grace didn’t just call, “Come in.” She opened the door herself and gave her visitor one of her enigmatic little smiles. “I hope you’re feeling a little better,” she said.
    â€œI am, thank you,” Karen replied. “It’s amazing what a good cry can do.”
    â€œCome in,” Grace offered, stepping aside. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even get your name before inviting you over.”
    â€œKaren. Karen Donnelly. I live near the main road.”
    The smell of home-cooked food, clean linen, and old furniture hung heavily in the air despite the open windows. It was a comforting smell, one that made Karen feel at home. She looked her new acquaintance in the eye and smiled warmly, even though she knew she looked like hell.
    The long-standing image of Grace Mitchell as the mysterious woman in black was dispelled in an instant when Karen stepped into her kitchen and spoke with her face-to-face. Without the barrier of sunglasses, Karen saw a wise but gentle soul. There was a timeless beauty about the older woman that transcended age, although there was no indication she exerted any effort on outward appearances. Her straight, graying hair was pulled back in a clip, which suited her even hairline and emphasized the chiseled symmetry of her jaw. She wore no jewelry, with the exception of a plain gold crucifix around her neck. She was much taller than Karen and carried herself with the kind of poise and posture acquired at charm schools.
    â€œI’ve brewed some Earl Grey,” Grace said while leading Karen into the large kitchen. “I find the aroma of bergamot is good for clearing the mind on a bad day. Is that to your