That argument worked. They quickly purchased a couple of pairs of jeans, a few blouses, underwear, a good pair of sneakers, socks, a sweater, and a windbreaker.
When they got home, Jane was impressed by the Tudor house with its leaded-glass windows, gabled roof, and stonework. She fell in love with the guest room in which she was to stay. It had a cove ceiling, a long window seat inset in a bay window, and a wall of mirrored closet doors. It was done in deep blue and pale beige, with Queen Anne furniture of lustrous cherrywood. “It’s really just a guest room?” Jane asked, incredulous. “You don’t use it regularly? Boy, if this were my house, I’d come in here all the time! I’d just sit and read for a little while every day—read and sit there in the window and soak up the atmosphere.”
Carol had always liked the room, but through Jane’s eyes she achieved a new perception and appreciation of it. As she watched the girl inspecting things—sliding open the closet doors, checking the view from each angle of the bay window, testing the firmness of the mattress on the queen-sized bed—Carol realized that one advantage of having children was that their innocent, fresh reactions to everything could keep their parents young and open-minded, too.
That evening, Carol, Paul, and Jane prepared dinner together. The girl fit in comfortably and immediately, in spite of the fact that she was somewhat shy. There was a lot of laughter in the kitchen and at the dinner table.
After dinner, Jane started washing dishes while Carol and Paul cleared the table. When they were separated from the girl for a moment, alone in the dining room, Paul said quietly, “She’s a terrific kid.”
“Didn’t I tell you so?”
“Funny thing, though.”
“What?”
“Ever since I saw her this afternoon, outside the courtroom,” Paul said, “I’ve had the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“Where?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know. But there’s something familiar about her face.”
Throughout Tuesday afternoon, Grace expected the phone to ring again.
She dreaded having to answer it.
She tried to work off her nervous energy by cleaning the house. She scrubbed the kitchen floor, dusted the furniture in every room, and swept all the carpets.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about the call: the paper-dry, echo-distorted voice that had sounded like Leonard; the odd things he had said; the eerie silence when he had finished speaking; the disquieting sense of vast distances, an unimaginable gulf of space and time.
It had to be a hoax. But who could be responsible for it? And why torment her with an imitation of Leonard’s voice, eighteen years after the man had died? What was the point of playing games like this now, after so much time had passed?
She tried to get her mind off the call by baking apple dumplings. Thick, crusty dumplings—served with cinnamon, milk, and just a bit of sugar—were a suppertime favorite of hers, for she had been born and raised in Lancaster, the heart of the Pennsylvania Dutch country, where that dish was considered a meal in itself. But Tuesday evening, she had no appetite, not even for dumplings. She ate a few bites, but she couldn’t even finish half of one dumpling, though she usually ate two whole ones in a single meal.
She was still picking disinterestedly at her food when the telephone rang.
Her head jerked up. She stared at the wall phone that was above the small, built-in desk beside the refrigerator.
It rang again. And again.
Trembling, she got up, went to the phone, and lifted the receiver.
“Gracie…”
The voice was faint but intelligible.
“Gracie… it’s almost too late.”
It was him. Leonard. Or someone who sounded exactly like Leonard had sounded.
She couldn’t respond to him. Her throat clutched tight.
“Gracie…”
Her legs seemed to be melting under her. She pulled out the chair that was tucked into the kneehole of the desk, and she sat down quickly.
“Gracie… stop it from happening again. It mustn’t… go on forever… time after time… the blood… the murder…”
She closed her eyes, forced herself to speak. Her voice was weak, quavery. She didn’t even recognize it as her own. It was the voice of a stranger—a weary, frightened, frail old woman. “Who is this?”