Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5) (34 page)

EPILOGUE

Margot Gavin could remember the day perfectly.

She would never forget it.

She could, in fact, remember everything about the conversation. Down to the last word, the last gesture.

How strange!

It was almost nightfall, late December, and the light in Bay St. Lucy had changed. It was a pure winter illumination now, spread over the whole town.

She could remember walking into Elementals, hoping to see her best friend Nina Bannister at the cash register and, instead, spying her deeper in the store, staring up at a painting.

“Nina! You’re back!”

And Nina was back, of course.

Back from what was certainly the trip of her life, it being practically the only trip of her life.

Margot had half-lived it herself; getting Facebook pictures every day (and even a few post cards, Nina remaining one of the few beings of the twenty-first century who still sent such things).

Pictures, in whatever form they’d arrived, of the great castle on the mountain overlooking Salzburg; of St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna; of the basement of The Franziskaner Church, the dark green leaden coffins—at least fifty of them—holding the remains of Hapsburg emperors; of the Prater, the great amusement park…

…and yet more pictures still, not of Vienna, but of the magical—at least it had seemed so as described in Nina’s letters and cards—city of Graz.

City of another time, another world.

City of slate roofs and suits of armor and marketplaces and coffee shops and smiling people; of heurige, outdoor wine taverns spread across the meadow on hills overlooking the town; of palaces with no electricity, where great dining salons were still illuminated by massive twinkling chandeliers containing a hundred candle holders, each filled by hand with a small candle, each candle carefully lighted, the entire immense construct then hoisted over the main table by ropes and pulleys…

…of the opera Nina had attended…

The Merry Widow
.

“Dann geh ich zu Maxims

Dort bin ich sehr intime

Ich dutze alle Damen

Ruf sie bei cosinamen…

And…

Villa, oh, villa

And the “Merry Widow Waltz”…

Dancing, and marvelous gowns and uniforms, and the beloved emperor Franz Josef.

About all of these things, her friend Nina had written, about the golden last days of the empire when the situation was hopeless but not serious, and a thousand years of history seemed to waver in the golden twilight, about to be erased by machine guns, and the horrible machines of war and the twentieth century, and visions of troops marching over the cobblestone streets.

“Nina! Nina; it’s Margot!”

She could remember her friend turning, smiling the warm smile that always illuminated Elementals better than a thousand lamps could do.

And she could remember Nina pointing up.

At a place on the wall where the best painting in the shop, at the time, usually hung.

She could remember her astonishment.

“That—that’s not a reproduction!”

“No, Margot.”

“But…but…”

“It’s my painting.”

“Nina, it’s a true Monet! It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world. One of the series of flower pictures, from the gardens of Giverney!”

“I know.”

“But how…”

“I don’t know how, exactly. And if I did, no one would believe me. I just finished living a dream. And out of the dream, came this painting.”

“Nina it’s a priceless thing! You can’t hang it here! We have no security!”

And she could remember Nina looking up at her, with a mixture of firmness and complete implacability:

“It’s my painting, Margot. I have the papers to prove it. And we will hang it here; and no one will bother it. No one will bother Elementals while it’s here. Because it’s got a spell on it.”

“But how long…”

“For four months. We’ll hang it here for four months. Then we’ll wrap it up. In plain brown paper, the way it was given to me. And we’ll give it to Penelope and Tom’s daughter, on the evening of the baby shower.”

“Their daughter?”

“Yes. They’re expecting a son, but I know it will be a daughter. And I’ll beg them to name her ‘Carol.’”

She could remember looking at her friend and saying, quietly:

“They admire you more than anybody in the world, Nina. If you suggest Carol, then that’s what it will be.”

“Yes. I know. And they’ll protect the painting for Carol, until she grows up. And when she goes away from home, she will take it with her and prize it, always. Because it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And it’s from us.”

Then she could remember sitting down beside her friend, and simply looking, as the sun sank lower and lower in the winter sky, at the marvelous painting that hung there before them.

Halfway around the world, the same sun that was setting on Bay St. Lucy rose over the Caucasian Mountains.

Over an isolated farmhouse.

Carol Walker, having risen shortly before dawn, sat in the great room of the manor, a cup of coffee before her on a small table.

…where the magic that was the light in the air and the magic that was the wonder and mystery of their minds and the magic that still lived in colors of Monet…

…all gathered simultaneously…

…and the flowers began to dance!

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Pam Britton (T’Gracie) Reese is an Assistant Professor in the Communication Science and Disorders Department at Indiana/Purdue University at Fort Wayne. Previously, she worked as a speech pathologist in schools in private practice. She was also a supervisor in communication disorders at Ohio University. She likes nothing better, professionally, than helping small, silent two-year-old boys start talking. She has also published books about autism with LinguiSystems for the last 15 years.
The Circle of Autism
was previously published online at
ken*again e-magazine.

Joe Reese is a novelist, playwright, storyteller, and college teacher. He has published four novels, several plays, and a number of stories and articles. When he’s not teaching (English and German), he enjoys visiting elementary schools, where he tells stories from his Katie Dee novels and talks to students about writing. He and his wife Pam have three children: Kate, Matthew, and Sam.

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