6

Once the girls leave, the house is deathly quiet.

Fine, okay. I have no friends here, I know no one, and I really should have probably said yes to that party thing. Still, if there’s one thing Mom taught me, it was to be true to myself.

“Pick a path and stick to it,” she’d always say. She hated it when people flaked on things, or when I’d leave something unfinished. She wasn’t brought up that way, she said. Although she’d never talk about exactly how or where she was brought up. Whenever I asked about it, she’d just say, “The past is past.”

Mom. I can’t even imagine her here. Every time I talk to Miss Lee, I just want to say, Seriously? This is your mother?

“Miss Lee?” I call. My voice echoes down the hallway. No answer. “Josie? Helloooo?” I do a lap of the mansion (no small feat) from the top floor to the basement. Safe for now—no one’s home but Jezebel, the cat, one of those super-fluffy Persians that would disappear if it rained on her. She stares at me with disgust.

“What, you’re a snob too?” I ask.

She gives one petulant meow and slinks away.

So the house is empty—meaning that right now is the perfect time for trying to find out more about my grandmother and this hellacious place. Not that I haven’t already searched the entire house. My grandmother, though, must have known that as a curious teenager with bad manners I would do exactly that, because the most incriminating things I could find were some photos of her as a debutante. No pictures of Mom, no family photos. Just a lot of group shots of the original four Magnolias. Oh, and bank statements. Hayes was right. My grandmother doesn’t have to worry about this recession thing. She’s certifiably rich.

There’s one room, though—at the very end of the second-floor hall at the back of the house—that’s always locked. Strangely, there’s a large framed Escher puzzle on the door. The room must have been my mom’s; none of the other bedrooms contain any of her things. I’ve never tried the full-on break-in, because Josie’s always here. But must be grocery shopping at the moment, so now seems as good a time as any.

I tiptoe down the hall to the door in question. I’ve tried the knob at least fifty times, but I do it again anyway. It’s still locked. Why would my grandmother lock it? Okay, she was hurt when Mom left, but is locking away all her things in her room really necessary? This house is a fortress—I have no idea where a key might be. Although I have noticed that one of the room’s windows has its own little decorative iron balcony. It’s about eight feet to the left of the main second-floor porch. That’s too far to jump, of course, but there’s a drainpipe between the two porches that might—if I grow some major cojones—serve as enough of a foothold to enable me to hop from one balcony to the other.

“Miss Lee?” I call again. “You want to ask the Magnolia sisters over for dinner tonight? Maybe I’ll make my famous California wheat gluten veggie balls?”

Nothing. She must really be gone. I flip my legs over the porch railing and, taking a wide step over two stories of free fall, place my foot onto the drainpipe and then hop onto the ledge of the balcony next to the locked room’s window. No one’s on the street below except a curious dog, which stares at me with unmistakable boredom. Okay, I haven’t killed myself—yet.

I peer through the window. Bummer. The view is blocked by thick drapes. I press my nose against the glass, but there’s not even a crack in the curtains to peek through. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the nail file I swiped from my grandmother’s bathroom. Reggie taught all the kids this trick: To break in through a window that’s not bolted, just slip something flat and long in the opening. (He told me he learned that while doing a stint as a cat burglar in Paris.)

“Alexandria, what do you think you are doing?”

I swear, the woman’s voice could freeze boiling tar. My grandmother, looking immaculately groomed, is leaning over the porch railing, peering at me from my left.

Having grown up in an environment where there are about 6,748 ways to get into real trouble daily (the feds discovering the farm’s illegal crop, being attacked by a wildcat or a shark, getting lost in the woods), I’ve long thought it best to just say what I’m doing—legit or not—when asked.

“I’m trying to break into Mom’s room,” I say evenly. “I don’t think it’s fair that you’ve locked up all of her stuff. I am her daughter, after all.”

Awesome line—too bad my voice is trembling. Sometimes it really sucks being a girl. Tears always seem to come at the worst time.

“That’s not her room anymore,” my grandmother says, her voice softening very, very slightly. Have I managed to bring a little radiation to the polar ice caps? Is it possible?

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want. But you’d better come off that balcony. It’s decorative, at least one hundred forty years old, and most certainly not up to code. I know you’re anxious to leave the house, but not in a hearse, I expect.”

“Well, I’m just about in here, so—”

“Sugar, I have a few things of your mother’s for you, but you’re going to have to come off there first.”

“Okay,” I grumble. I raise my leg over the railing.

“Good God! I can’t watch.” She clasps her jeweled hands over her eyes.

“Don’t sweat it. I know I seem hefty to you, but I’m actually not bad at this.” I bound from the balcony to the drainpipe to the porch. “We had a climbing wall at the RC. Okay. You can open your eyes. I’m here now.”

“Mercy.” She takes her hands from her face. “All right, good. Follow me.” She turns around abruptly, her dress swishing behind her, and walks back into the house. I follow her down the cavernous hall into the carpeted sanctuary of her bedroom. Actually, it’s less a bedroom than a luxury suite, complete with a dressing room, an ornate, silk-draped canopy bed, and a sitting room with a pretty little white desk. Almost everything is silver, including the wallpaper, the brocade fabric on the bed, and the chandelier cascading from the ceiling. Of course, there’s also a small, fully stocked silver bar with two silver stools. The bar is lined with crystal decanters. My grandmother pauses before leading me to her closet, opening it grandly, and pulling out a long cream-colored dress.

“Here,” she says. “This was your mother’s.”

I shake my head, not understanding. “Wait, she was married? I thought—”

“No, dear, this was her debutante dress,” my grandmother says patiently. “Magnolia League Ball, 1989.”

“Huh.” It’s hard to believe we’re talking about the same woman. My mother lived in hemp skirts and jeans and tank tops. She’d take one look at this thing and use it for curtains or something. As dresses go, though, it’s pretty rad. The material is silvery white, covered with a sheath of gossamer lace and embroidered with intricate beading.

“Wow. Are those real pearls?”

“Of course. Here. Take it.”

Cautiously, I take the dress in my hands. “Miss Lee, this is really awesome of you. But you do know there’s no way I’m doing this whole ballroom thing.”

“Alexandria, you have not yet been invited to do the ‘ballroom thing.’ ” She smiles coolly. “So perhaps you should rein in your haste to reject an invitation, hmm?”

My grandmother takes a key off her charm bracelet, drifts over to her large walnut jewelry box, and opens it. Even from here, I can tell it’s seriously stacked in there; the jewels wink in the soft light of the lamp. She reaches in and draws out a surprisingly modest bracelet made of dimes.

“This is for you,” she says. “Your mother made it.”

“For art class?”

“Something like that,” she says. “It’s supposed to bring good luck.”

“Too bad she wasn’t wearing it the day she drove off a cliff.”

My grandmother inhales sharply, looking at me in horror.

“I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Miserably, I put the bracelet on my wrist. Weird—it’s way too big.

“It’s an anklet, actually,” Miss Lee grumbles. “Well. That’s all I wanted to show you.” She looks in the gilded mirror, composing herself. It’s so odd—in this light, she could be as young as my mother was when she died. “And please bathe before dinner. It appears to have been a while.”

“Fine.” I turn to go.

“And one more thing, Alexandria…”

“Yeah?” I hesitate by the door.

“This is your home and I want you to be comfortable here, but the rules are to be followed.”

“Meaning?”

“If a door is locked, my dear, you are not welcome there.”