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"Why not?" Mommy asked. rising. "When you're at the end of your rope and dangling, you look kindly on any hand reaching out to hold you up. Rose. Any hand," she concluded and returned to the kitchen.

Neither of us had much of an appetite, but we both ate mechanically so the other would. Every once in a while. Mommy would choke back a sob and shake her head while she muttered about Daddy.

"I almost do feel sorrier for that poor dead girl than I do for myself. I can see how she could easily be charmed and persuaded by your father. He enjoyed spreading his illusions and dreams. He was the Pied Piper of Fantasyland, leading us all down the road to popped bubbles."

She thought a moment, and then jumped up from the table and went upstairs. Moments later she returned with that black and white photograph she had found in the closet and put it on the table. We both stared down at the young woman again. Mommy nodding.

"This must be Angelica. I can see the resemblances to Charlotte, can't you?"

I had to admit I could.

"Why did he keep her picture in our house?" she wondered aloud. She shook her head at my blank stare,

"You don't have to say it. I can see it in your fact. Why should I look for logic in a man who never paid attention to logic?" She took a deep breath and gazed at the picture again. "I'm not going to look for ways to deny it, to pretend it didn't happen. Rose."

Just then, as if some great power was listening in on our conversation and arranging for everything to happen, the phone rang. Mammy went to it and I listened.

"Yes," she said. "we will be ready." She nodded as she listened and then she hung up. "The car will be here at ten," she said. "We might as well learn all of it. You'll have to miss a day of school. Rose."

"Okay, Mammy,"

It saddened me, but when I looked down at the photograph, it seemed as if the girl in the picture was smiling more.

When Barry called me later that evening. I was tempted to tell him about it all, but my embarrassment and my fears that it would fan the fires of nasty gossip, especially regarding the cause of Daddy's death, kept me from uttering a word of truth. I told him I would go to the movies with him on Friday, but not to be concerned about my being absent tomorrow. I said I had some important family business that needed to be attended to and left it at that.

"I'll miss you.'' he said. It added the touch of warmth I desperately needed to keep the chill from my cringing heart.

The town car was there promptly at ten the next morning. There was only the driver waiting. He was a tall, dark man with military-style posture. He introduced himself simply as Ames and opened the doors for Mommy and me. We got in and moments later, we were headed toward Atlanta.

"It's really only about thirty minutes from here," he explained. "If you'd like any candy, ma'am, there's some in a dish behind you."

"No, thank you," Mommy said.

He was quiet the remainder of the journey until we were approaching the driveway of the Curtis mansion.

"We're here." he announced.

Two sprawling great oak trees stood like sentinels at the scrolled cast-iron gate, which was fastened to two columns of stone. It opened before us and we drove on to see a truly magnificent two- story house with four Doric pillars, a full height entry porch, and elaborate cornices. Mommy looked at me with amazement in her eyes.

"Is this a house or a museum?" she muttered.

The grounds spread out around the house for what looked like miles. I saw two men trimming bushes and another riding a lawn mower. In the distance a line of trees formed a solid wall of green under the blue horizon. I had seen houses and land like this before, of course, but I had never known anyone who actually lived in such a home.

The driver brought us to the front steps. We at out slowly, both of us so busy filling our eyes with the sights and the immensity of the estate, neither of us saw the front door open.

A short, plump woman wearing a white apron and a blue maid's uniform waited. We started up the stairway. Instinctively I moved closer to Mammy.

"Right this way, please," the maid said, and we entered behind her. "A museum," Mammy whispered again.

Before us was a curved stairway with a shiny, thick mahogany balustrade; on the walls were large oil paintings of beautiful country settings, lakes, and meadows, all done in vibrant colors, many, it seemed, by the same artist. Vases on marble-topped tables and glass cases filled with expensive-looking figurines, crystals, and the like lined the hallway, the floor of which was Italian marble.

"Please wait here," the maid said, showing us into a sitting room with elegant gold-trimmed velvet curtains over the windows, a plush white rug, and oversized pieces of furniture including what looked like a brass statue of an Egyptian queen. The room was so large. I thought we could put most of our present house in it. "Mrs. Curtis will be here in a moment. Would you like anything to drink-- a cold lemonade, juice. soda?"

"Lemonade," Mammy said.

"Yes," I added.

"Very good," the maid said and left us.