I nod. “She’ll be four in a couple of months. How did you know her age?”
She looks thoughtful. “I don’t know. I must have heard it somewhere.”
I don’t like that Rainie and Jackson and I have been the topic of so much conversation. “Will you be staying in Round Hill?” I ask, changing the subject.
She sighs and pours hot water into the teapot. “I can’t leave Buddy and my mother,” she says. “I’ve thought of taking them back to San Francisco with me, but I live in a little cottage and all their doctors are here and I’m not sure either of them would survive the trip. So I think I’ll be here until…” She gives a little shrug.
“I understand,” I say. “It’s got to be hard to be uprooted and not know when you can go home.”
Ellie leans back against the counter, her arms folded across her chest. “The hard part is that I have a yoga studio and one of my friends is taking over my classes, but I’ve left things a little topsy-turvy, you could say.”
“You teach yoga?” I can’t keep the surprise from my voice, and she smiles.
“For thirty-five years.”
“No wonder you’re in such amazing shape.”
She laughs. “Thank you.”
“There’s a really good studio on Main Street,” I say. “Have you been?”
“I’ve heard about it, but haven’t found the time to stop in yet. I’ve just been using a room upstairs. Do you practice yoga?” She pours our tea, catching the tea leaves with a small strainer.
“I used to, off and on, though I wasn’t very good at sticking with it.” An understatement. “I did it in my early twenties and then pregnancy yoga when I was expecting Rainie and then a little before I went back to school. And then the accident happened and—” I shrug my shoulders and Ellie nods.
“Life intervened,” she says, setting the two cups on the table and sitting down across from me.
“Right. And now I’m back at work. I took off a few months after the accident, so yoga is not the first thing on my mind.” I taste the tea. It’s far too hot to drink, but the flavor is woodsy, as if I’m drinking my backyard.
“What sort of work do you do?” she asks.
“I’m an architect. My husband and I both were. We designed the house.” I nod toward the end of the street. “We both worked for the same design firm in Greenville.”
She frowns. “Has to be hard, going back to work without him there,” she says, and I nod.
“Extremely,” I say.
“Who’s watching your little girl while you’re working?”
“She’s in preschool in the morning and then my father takes care of her in the afternoon.” I look at the time on my phone again. “Which reminds me that I’d better go pick her up soon.” I nod at the cup of tea in my hand. “This is … interesting.” I smile.
“It’ll grow on you,” she says.
I take another sip. She’s right. It’s not bad. “What are you making in that slow cooker?” I ask. “It smells delicious.”
“Doesn’t it?” she said. “It’s a Middle Eastern stew. I eat mostly vegetarian and a bit of seafood, so I cook a little chicken separately and toss it into my mother’s and Buddy’s bowls. But I have to say I’m frustrated with the stores in Round Hill.”
“How come?”
“No za’atar in any of them. No Middle Eastern or kosher groceries in Round Hill. I’m spoiled by living in California. Have you ever had it?”
“I think so,” I say. “Kind of a combination of herbs and spices?” There’s a great Middle Eastern restaurant in Greenville and I’m pretty sure I know what she’s talking about.
“I’m going to have to send away for it. For a man raised on chicken and dumplings, Buddy loves my Middle Eastern cooking.”
“How did you end up in San Francisco?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s a long story.” She waves away the question. “But it suits me there. I have lots of good friends whom I miss dearly.”
“I know what that’s like,” I say. I lost friends by becoming a widow. They rallied around me in the beginning, but every one of my close friends is part of a couple and sometimes I wonder if they think widowhood is catching.
I glance at the clock on Ellie’s range. “I’d better go.” I drink the rest of the tea and get to my feet.
“I’ll walk out with you,” she says.
Outside, we walk down her driveway past Buddy Hockley’s truck and her car. When we reach the street, I look straight down Shadow Ridge Lane and see my house, surrounded by trees. I turn to face her. “It was so nice meeting you, Miss Ellie,” I say sincerely.
“Oh, none of that ‘Miss Ellie’ stuff.” She laughs. “I’ve been away from the South for so long, I won’t answer to that anymore. Just ‘Ellie,’ please.”
I smile. “Okay, Ellie. I’m happy we’re neighbors, even if we’re at opposite ends of the street.” I look toward my house again. Hesitate for a second before I speak. “Last night”—I nod toward her old white house—“I looked out my front window and the neighborhood was pitch black except for a light in this house. Your house. It made me feel…” I’m suddenly embarrassed, baring my soul to this near stranger.
“Less alone?” Ellie offers.
“Exactly,” I said.
“I’m glad,” she said. “You let me know if you ever want to practice some yoga. No charge, of course. It’s always nice to have a partner.”
“I will,” I say, wondering if I could fit that in.
“I hope I haven’t made you late picking up your daughter.”
“Oh no. My father just lives over on Painter Lane.”
Her smile grows uncertain. “What’s his name?” she asks. “Your father?”
I suddenly remember Daddy saying something about hanging out with the Hockley kids in a tree house. “I think you knew him,” I say. “Reed Miller.”
She hesitates a moment. I can’t read her expression. It’s flat, but there’s something brewing behind it. “Ah,” she says finally. Then she turns away from me, abruptly. Over her shoulder she calls, “Have a nice afternoon, now.”
I stare after her, confused by such an awkward ending to a comfortable visit. One thing I know for sure, though: she knew my father.
Chapter 14
ELLIE
1965
I’d been dozing on the van’s long middle seat for a couple of hours when Chip called out, “We’re here, you guys! Wake up.”
I sat up as we bounced along a potholed driveway onto the campus of Morris Brown College in Atlanta, where our orientation would be held. The buildings looked old and weather-beaten, some of them brick, some wood. We checked in in one of the main buildings, where a woman handed each of us a folder, a black and white SCOPE button, and our dorm room assignment. Peggy was ahead of me in line and I could tell that she was not at all happy to discover that, of the hundreds of students at the orientation, I’d been assigned as her roommate. I heard her actually groan at the news. I didn’t like her any more than she liked me. My attempts at conversation with her and David in the van were often left hanging in the air. Chip, while not exactly warm, had at least made some small talk with me, but I had a bad feeling. If four white students couldn’t connect any better than this, how could we expect white and Negro to get along?