Maggie Shayne: Weddings from Hell

And then Ian took her arm, held her a little closer to his side, and a warmth suffused her, and gave her the strength and courage to walk with him up to the door.

The woman who greeted her at the door was fat and pink. Those were the two things most noticeable about her, those and her friendly smile. She'd let her hair go silvery, but still wore it in long curls that tumbled unfettered to her shoulders.

She was dressed in a pewter-colored, quilted house coat, and a pair of what looked like ballet slippers.

She gripped Kira's hands in both of hers, beaming at her. "Lassie! Oh, I'm so glad to see you at long last. Welcome home!"

And then before she could reply, Kira found herself wrapped in soft, squishy arms, and pulled into a bosom that could have housed several small children.

"I'm your aunt Rose," the woman told her. "Your grandmother's youngest sister."

When she could pull her head back enough to allow her to speak clearly, Kira said, "It's wonderful to meet you too. And thanks for the warm welcome."

"Oh, come with me, child. You, too, Ian! You know we can't get along without you."

Glancing back at her handsome driver, Kira lifted her brows, not quite sure how he fit in to the scheme of things here.

And there was no time to find out, as she was led through a massive entry hall and into some kind of great room that had been filled with modern furniture in the most classic Queen Anne style, everything feminine, delicate, even lacy. The sofas and chairs had curved clawed arms and legs and floral prints. There was a fainting couch, or at least she thought that's what it was. The decor seemed to Kira to be in direct contrast with the architecture, which was big and dark and masculine.

In one of the most elegant of the chairs, a woman sat. She was bone-thin, and her hair was jet black, except for the stark white at the very front. It hung long and straight. Again, unbound.

It seemed strange that women of their age would wear their hair long and loose, rather than cutting it or perming it or pinning it up. Maybe it was a cultural thing.

She rose, the thin one. She wasn't smiling as she extended a boney hand. "Hello Kira. I'm your great aunt Esmeralda."

Kira took her hand and gasped at how cool it was, how frail it seemed, despite the vibrance in the woman's dark blue eyes.

"You don't seem quite as glad to see me as Aunt Rose is," Kira said.

Esmeralda's finely arched brows rose. "You're as frank as your mother always was."

"I don't see much point in being any other way," Kira said. "Would you have preferred I not come?"

"You have every right to be here."

"Is it the money, then?"

The woman just stared at her, as if waiting.

"Well, Ian told me if I didn't show up for the reading of the will, my share would be divided among the other heirs. And it's a lot of money, after all."

"I already have more money than I'll ever be able to spend," Esmeralda said. "We all do."

"Well if it's not the money, then—"

Slow, rhythmic footsteps—high heels crossing the marble floor interrupted her, and she turned to see a third woman. This one was utterly stunning. Her hair was like shiny copper and her figure, hugged in a skin-tight black halter dress, was to die for. Her skin was nearly flawless. Try as she might, Kira couldn't see a wrinkle or a line.

"Hello, Kira," she said. And even her voice was sultry and beautiful. "I'm your aunt Emma. Your mother was my sister."

"You look like her," Kira said, extended a hand.

The beautiful one smiled but it was shaky. "So do you."

"You don't have an accent."

"I've taken lessons to get rid of it."

"I can't imagine why anyone would want to," Kira said. "I love the lilt of the brogue."

"To each her own," Emma said. Then she looked around. "This is all of us, dear. The entire family, or what remains of it."

"Oh." No children. And no men.

"I'll show you to your chambers," Rose chirped. "Ian, be a dear and bring the bags along." She gripped Kira's arm, and tugged her through the massive place. "We could talk with you all the night through, child, but you'll be wanting to rest after such a journey. And there's time a plenty before dinner."

She smiled a good-bye to her great aunt Esmeralda and her aunt Emma, then followed Aunt Rose up a curving stone stairway and into a vaulted and echoing hall above. All the way, Ian was right behind her, bags in his hands. He was oddly quiet now that they'd arrived. Rose threw open a set of double doors, stepping through them as she did. "And here you are, lass. A bedroom fit for a princess."

She stepped in and looked around. There was a huge canopy bed with silky fabric draped all around it. It was so tall she thought she'd have to get a running start to get into it. The comforters looked like satin, and were the color of French cream. They matched the curtains in the tall narrow windows that lined one entire wall, like a row of soldiers. One of them was open, admitting a breeze that smelled of the rain, and made the curtains dance and sway.

The wardrobe and dresser and nightstands were all made of rich, dark wood. Walnut, she thought. The floor sported the same kinds of boards, but they only showed around the borders of the gigantic area rug, which was pale green in color with cream celtic knot-work patterns all over it.

On the walls, there were portraits. Family portraits, she realized as she stepped closer to one of them.

"That was your grandmother, my dear sister Violet, dead these past forty years."

Kira studied the woman's face, an older version of her mother's. And her own. "She must have died young."

"Aye. Far too young. Thirty and five, she was. Left her two dear girls, Mary and Emma, to Esmeralda, Iris, and I to raise."

"Really? Why not their father? My grandfather, I mean. Shouldn't he have been the one to—"

"Now the bath is straight through the door there," Rose interrupted. "That other is a closet, big enough to be a room all its own, I vow."

"Thank you. The room is breathtaking, Aunt Rose, it truly is." She looked back toward the doorway, but Ian had vanished. Only her bags remained.

"I'll send up a tea, lassie. You need a good tea to bolster you after such a journey as you've made." She turned to leave.

"Aunt Rose?"

"Aye, child?"

"I really do want to know about…the family history. And…and the curse."

Rose pressed a palm to her ample chest and sucked in a breath at the same time. "Then our Mary told you of it, did she?"

"No. She only mentioned it with her dying breath, Aunt Rose. I thought it was the trauma, that she was delirious. But…but Aunt Iris mentioned it in a letter she sent to my mother long ago. I only just read it last week. So I know it's real."

Aunt Rose nodded. "Your tea. And then you'll rest. 'Tis na the conversation a lass needs to be havin' without bein' strong, rested, and well nourished. And so it'll come. It'll all come in due time. An' you've nowhere to go just now, have you?"

"No, I suppose not."

"Patience, then, lass. Patience."

Kira took a nap to help with the jet lag, then an invigorating shower to help her toughen up for the dinner ahead. She fully intended to confront her aunt and great aunts and insist they tell her about this alleged curse of theirs. Not that she believed in curses. Not for a minute, but still, it was her family history. And she had a right to know about it.

She dressed as she always did, in a pair of snug-fitting jeans and a tank top, then pulled a NY Giants sweatshirt over it in deference to the damp chill of this place, which seemed to seep into her very bones.

She avoided looking at the haunting portrait of her grandmother, Violet, that hung on her bedroom wall like a gargoyle. She wasn't ugly—far from it, in fact. She had been a beautiful woman with raven hair and deep blue eyes. But there was something menacing in them, some vague message of doom that seemed to hit her every time she met those eyes.