“Come
along children.” A woman in her early
thirties led a boy and a girl, ages eight and twelve, up the three front steps
of a small brick home. She rang
the bell. A few seconds later, the door
opened as far as a chain would allow.
“Ms.
Harper?” The woman asked. “Louella
Harper? Is it you? Oh, I just can’t believe it.”
“Yes,
what do you want?” asked the woman in the sliver of doorway. She was about fifty years old with a face full of lines and gray streaks rapidly replacing the black in her hair.
“Oh,
Ms. Harper. My children just love your
book.”
Louella
eyed the picturesque family standing in front of her. The vacant eyes of the children
declared their boredom. Most likely, they’d
been dragged here after church, while their father, no doubt, raced ahead to watch a football game on television. The
mother was a blonde former debutante who spoke in a voice made of unsweetened ice tea mixed with lemonade. She cradled a copy of Louella’s novel under her
arm.
“I
don’t sign autographs,” Louella said.
