Smiling, she turned down the street and the house was at the end, just as it had been before, and the house was still as perfect as it had been the first time she’d seen it. She told herself that she was being ridiculous, but her heart was pounding as she knocked on the door.
A small, gray-haired lady answered her knock. She was pleasant-looking, but she wasn’t Madame Zoya.
“You must be wanting to see the house,” the woman said. “We get so many tourists here, and many of them are kind enough to want to tell me how much they admire my house.”
“No, actually,” Ellie said, “I was hoping to see Madame Zoya.”
“Oh, my,” the woman said. “That’s a new one on me. Madame what?”
“Zoya,” Ellie said.
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of her.”
“Have you lived in this house long?”
The woman smiled. “My father built this house as a wedding present for my mother. I’ve lived in it all my life.”
“Oh,” Ellie said, feeling deflated. But what had she expected? If a woman who could
do what Madame Zoya did were easy to find, she’d be on the evening news.
“Thank you,” Ellie said as she turned to go down the steps.
“Wait,” the woman said. “You look like you could use a cup of tea, and I could certainly use the company. Won’t you come in?”
Ellie thought that she should drive back to Bangor, but instead, she turned and went into the house behind the woman.
“By the way, my name is Primrose,” she said; then when Ellie smiled, she waved her hand. “I know. It’s such an old-fashioned name, but my parents were old fashioned people. And you are?”
“Ellie Woodward,” she said as she looked about the house. It was exactly the same inside as it had been when she and Leslie and Madison had visited. “You don’t have a sister or know someone who dyes her hair orange, do you?”
Primrose’s blue eyes twinkled. “No, and I do think I’d remember her. In fact, I think that everyone in town might remember her. Now, do sit down. I had just put the kettle on when you knocked, so it should be ready.”
Ellie sat down on a sofa, and when she was alone in the room, she had to resist the temptation to snoop, but Primrose was back within seconds, so there was no time anyway.
After she had seated herself and served them both tea and had made Ellie fill her plate with tiny cakes, Primrose said, “I’m sure I’m just being a nosy old lady, but we’re quite isolated here, so maybe you could tell me what you wanted to tell this Madame . . . What was her name again?”
Ellie looked over her teacup at the woman. She’s lying, she thought, and whatever I tell her will get back to Madame Zoya. “I really just wanted to tell her, ‘Thank you.’”
“That’s all?” Primrose asked, sounding disappointed.
“And I wanted to tell her about my friends, and about me, but if she’s not here—” Ellie put down her teacup.
“How lovely,” Primrose said. “And how are your friends?”
Part of Ellie wanted to force the woman to tell what she did know, but then Ellie owed Madame Zoya so much that she wanted to get information to her anyway she could.
“They’re very happy,” Ellie said. “Leslie Headrick is painting full-time, and her husband is very proud of her. Leslie says that she’s never been happier. Both her children are in college now, and Leslie says it’s like a second honeymoon between her and her husband.”
“How nice to hear good in this world. And your other friend?”
Ellie wasn’t going to bother to pretend that this woman didn’t know who was who and what her story was. “Madison still runs her clinic in Montana, and she’s had another baby. She says she’d like to have a dozen if she could.
“The three of us have kept in close contact since . . . well, since we were last here, and I think that all of us are happy now.”
Primrose daintily ate a tiny pink cake with an icing rosebud on top of it. “Does that include you? Are you happy too?”
“Yes,” Ellie said softly. “Very. I have a wonderful husband and son, and my editor says that the last book I wrote is my best yet.”