Tied to the Tracks by Rosina Lippi Page B

sunshine, opening one eye to appraise the young women and then snuffling himself back to sleep.
     
    At least Rivera’s mind was on business. She stood at the gate with one hand pressed to her mouth and the other to her heart, a pose that meant she was seeing camera angles. This was about work, after all. Angie repeated that to herself as they went up on the little porch. There was a brass plaque on the wall that read MAGNOLIA HOUSE 1880. Below that, a small typewritten card had been tacked into place.
     
    By order of her physician, Miss Bragg may no longer entertain unannounced visitors seeking autographs. Do not ring the bell. Dr. Calvin Bragg.
     
    In neat, slightly wavering handwriting the word please had been inserted before the last, rather abrupt directive.
     
    “Oh, this is going to be good,” Rivera said.
     
     
 
Miss Maddie set an old-fashioned breakfast table, one covered with a flowered tablecloth and crowded with heavy, thick plates and platters. Delighted, Rivera helped herself to flapjacks and eggs and bacon and ham and drizzled syrup over the whole.
     
    “I do like to see a girl with an appetite,” said Miss Maddie. “Won’t you have one of these muffins Caroline made for us? She’s the best cook in Ogilvie, is our Caroline.”
     
    “You are the sweetest thing,” Caroline said, blushing. “But far too kind.”
     
    Angie found herself next to Miss Zula, who seemed content to watch and listen as Rivera and Miss Maddie and Caroline carried on a disjointed but energetic conversation about ham.
     
    With her silver-blond hair and long pale neck, Caroline worked like crystal wine goblet among jelly-jar glasses, but she was clearly at home here and very much at ease. She moved around the kitchen as if she had spent many hours there—to refill the coffeepot, to fetch Miss Maddie her handkerchief—and kept up with her part of the conversation.
     
    She was saying, “Mama’s planning on going up to the lake tomorrow.”
     
    “Are you planning on going up, Caroline? Or are you too busy with wedding plans?” Miss Maddie was small and plump, with perfectly rounded cheeks, but she had a rich voice and a way of speaking that would be welcome in any National Public Radio broadcast booth, not in spite of, but precisely for, her accent.
     
    There was a small silence while Caroline wiped her mouth with her napkin, which was odd, because as far as Angie could tell from her plate, she hadn’t eaten anything at all.
     
    “Maybe for a little while,” she said. “If Mama needs me.”
     
    Rivera, who considered the only real sacrifice she was making this summer her regular trips down the Jersey shore, wanted to know more about the lake, how far it was, who went there. Miss Maddie and Caroline let themselves be drawn into that discussion while Angie turned back to Miss Zula.
     
    “How long have you known Miss Junie?” Angie asked.
     
    The small, round face stilled in a way that meant nothing, yet, to Angie, but it did make her curious.
     
    “Junie Maddox and I matriculated at Ogilvie together and graduated on the same day. We taught high school English, both of us, starting in the fall of 1952. Not at the same school, not in those days, but we often worked on our lesson plans together. And then she married Bob Lee Rose and gave up teaching.”
     
    And that, Angie realized, was the smallest part of the story, and all Miss Zula was willing to tell just now. Along her spine she got a flutter of nerves, the sign that she had stumbled, unexpectedly, onto something important. She was just about to say that straight out when the door opened and Harriet came in.
     
    “Well, now. Finally,” said Miss Zula. “Harriet Rose Darling, you are late again.”
     
    “I lost track,” Harriet said, leaning over to kiss the old woman on the cheek.
     
    “We’ll see to it they put as much on your gravestone,” said Miss Zula as she patted Harriet’s cheek. “ ‘Here lies Harriet. She had no idea it was so