The Sea Glass Sisters Page 9

  The best thing I could do for Iola Anne Poole, and for myself, was to go into the house, find out what had happened, and see if there was anything I could do to keep it quiet.

  The door was ajar just enough for me to slip through. I slid past, not touching anything, and left it open behind me. If I had to run out of the place in a hurry, I didn’t want any obstacles between me and the front porch.

  Something shifted in the corner of my eye as I moved deeper into the entry hall. I jumped, then realized I was passing by an arrangement of fading photographs, my reflection melting ghostlike over the cloudy glass. In sepia tones, the images stared back at me—a soldier in uniform with the inscription Avery 1917 engraved on a brass plate. A little girl with pipe curls on a white pony. A group of people posed under an oak tree, the women wearing big sun hats like the one Kate Winslet donned in Titanic. A wedding photo from the thirties or forties, the happy couple in the center, surrounded by several dozen adults and two rows of cross-legged children. Was Iola the bride in the picture? Had a big family lived in this house at one time? What had happened to them? As far as I could tell, Iola Poole didn’t have any family now, at least none who visited.

  “Hello . . . hello? Anyone up there?” I peered toward the graceful curve of the long stairway. Shadows melted rich and thick over the dark wood, giving the stairs a foreboding look that made me turn to the right instead and cross through a wide archway into a large, open room. It would have been sunny but for the heavy brocade curtains. The grand piano and a grouping of antique chairs and settees looked like they’d been plucked from a tourist brochure or a history book. Above the fireplace, an oil portrait of a young woman in a peach-colored satin gown hung in an ornate oval frame. She was sitting at the piano, posed in a position that looked uncomfortable. Perhaps this was the girl on the pony from the hallway photo, but I wasn’t sure.

  The shadows seemed to follow me as I hurried out of the room. The deeper I traveled into the house, the less the place resembled the open area by the stairway. The inner sections were cluttered with what seemed to be several lifetimes of belongings, most looking as if they’d been piled in the same place for years, as if someone had started spring-cleaning multiple times, then abruptly stopped. In the kitchen, dishes had been washed and stacked neatly in a draining rack, but the edges of the room were piled with stored food, much of it contained in big plastic bins. I stood in awe, taking in a multicolored waterfall of canned vegetables that tumbled haphazardly from an open pantry door.

  Bristle tips of apprehension tickled my arms as I checked the rest of the lower floor. Maybe Iola wasn’t here, after all. The downstairs bedroom with the window air unit was empty, the single bed fully made. Maybe she’d gone away somewhere days ago or been checked into a nursing home, and right now I was actually breaking into a vacant house. Alice Faye Tucker had mentioned that Iola was ninety-one years old. She probably couldn’t even climb the stairs to the second story.

  I didn’t want to go up there, but I moved toward the upper floor one reluctant step at a time, stopping on the landing to call her name once, twice, again. The old balusters and treads creaked and groaned, making enough noise to wake the dead, but no one stirred.

  Upstairs, the hallway smelled of drying wallpaper, mold, old fabric, water damage, and the kind of stillness that said the rooms hadn’t been lived in for years. The tables and lamps in the wood-paneled hallway were gray with dust, as was the furniture in five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a sewing room with a quilt frame in the middle, and a nursery with white furniture and an iron baby cradle. Odd-shaped water stains dotted the ceilings, the damage recent enough that the plaster had bowed and cracked but only begun to fall through. An assortment of buckets sat here and there on the nursery floor, the remnants of dirty water and plaster slowly drying to a paste inside. No doubt shingles had been ripped from the roof during last fall’s hurricane. It was a shame to let a beautiful old house go to rot like this. My grandfather would have hated it. When he inspected old houses for the insurance company, he was always bent on saving them.

  A thin watermark traced a line down the hallway ceiling to a small sitting area surrounded by bookshelves. The door on the opposite side, the last one at the end of the hall, was closed, a small stream of light reflecting off the wooden floor beneath it. Someone had passed through recently, clearing a trail in the silty layer of dust on the floor. . . .

  ***

  Praise for The Prayer Box

  “I am in awe of Lisa Wingate’s talent. She strikes the heart and turns my gaze toward heaven’s door. The Prayer Box is a masterpiece of story and skill.”

  DEBBIE MACOMBER, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “The Prayer Box is Lisa Wingate’s best work so far! It’s a charming book that transcends simple hope and healing while capturing the heart of the reader. Tandi’s story is an enchanting take on family ties, redemption, and allowing oneself to be swept up into a river of grace regardless of one’s past. And in the end, perhaps it’s also a testament to the fact that maybe, sometimes, you really can go home again.”

  KAREN WHITE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE TIME BETWEEN

  “Lisa Wingate writes with grace, beauty, and so much heart.”

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  “Tenderly woven. Skillfully threaded. A grab-your-heart story about faith, the healing power of love, and how both are often found in unlikely places.”

  CHARLES MARTIN, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF UNWRITTEN

  “Lisa Wingate is a remarkably gifted storyteller. Her novels both captivate and cradle you, and The Prayer Box is Lisa at her finest. Tandi’s extraordinary journey of healing and hope on Hatteras Island is a mesmerizing thrill and a joy you’ll want to savor. However, beware—you will not be able to put this story down!”

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  “Secrets from the past unfold in surprising and transformative ways. The Prayer Box is a beautifully written story that will be remembered and cherished long after the last page is turned.”

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  “Lisa Wingate has a gift with words—her vivid prose brings each page to life.”

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  “The Prayer Box is a beautiful, lyrical story of two women looking for peace, wholeness, and purpose. Wingate weaves hope and truth amid their brokenness and pain. The story is a reminder we are not alone and God is always with us.”

  RACHEL HAUCK, AUTHOR OF ONCE UPON A PRINCE AND THE WEDDING DRESS

  “The Prayer Box is classic Lisa Wingate fiction—on steroids! Old prayers live again and a flawed main character steals into our hearts and makes us care.”

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  “The Prayer Box had me caught up from beginning to the final page. Readers will be transported into the story through Lisa’s visceral storytelling talents. I couldn’t put it down but hated for it to end.”

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  “Lisa Wingate knows how to hold our interest and uplift our hearts with words. This novel will inspire you to pray with pen in hand.”

  RACHEL OLSEN, AUTHOR OF IT’S NO SECRET, COAUTHOR OF MY ONE WORD: CHANGE YOUR LIFE WITH JUST ONE WORD

 

 

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