The parlor looked much the same as Concordia remembered, except for the new drapes and rug. It was a decidedly formal space for visitors. The stiff armchairs with their ornately-turned legs, the regimental arrangement of portraits along the far wall, and the matching, evenly spaced candlesticks on the mantel spoke of her mother’s love of order.
The one disruption to the primness of the atmosphere, however, was a large glass bowl on top of the piano, generously filled with orange chrysanthemums that seemed to glow in the light. Mrs. Houston’s doing, Concordia guessed.
Mrs. Wells stood beside the parlor fire.
“Mother, how have you been? It’s good to see you.” Concordia could tell she was angry. She hadn’t approached Concordia or even clasped her hand in greeting. This did not bode well
