The house is cool, but not at all quiet. Voices ramble down the long, wide hallway ahead. I follow Goody toward it, taking in the house as we go. It’s huge, and it’s got Mom’s fingerprints all over it. I recognize the twelve-foot ceilings from the house she built in Dallas. The iron light fixtures, exposed stone walls, and enormous windows too. Even the furnishings look like items she would’ve picked out: antique chairs, neutral upholstery, lots of pillows. I frown. Everything is in pristine shape. No way Mom picked it all out twenty-plus years ago? Goody must read my mind, because she says,
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