“What an interesting profession,” Nancy said.
Devon shrugged. “Not really. My dad’s an architect, my grandfather was an architect, so I’m going to be an architect. Either that, or I’m going to pay my own way through college.”
“I’m going to be an architect,” Amber said. “Devon’s going to be an actor.”
Devon smiled. “Maybe. I hope.”
“Did Devon tell you he got a part in the fall play at Westmoor?” A tall brunette entered the hallway, guided by a black Labrador retriever wearing a leather harness. “He’s going to play Iago in Othello,” the woman said. She found Devon’s hand and gave it a light squeeze. “We’re very proud of him. Right, Amber?”
Amber nodded. “Yes, we are.” She turned to Nancy and George. “This is my brother’s girlfriend, Marisa Henares. Marisa, this is Nancy and George.”
Marisa smiled in Nancy and George’s direction. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you from Bess.”
“We’ve heard a lot about you,” George said.
“Yes. We were so sorry to hear about your grandmother’s death,” Nancy said.
“Thank you.” Marisa’s dark eyes filled with tears. Sensing that she was upset, the dog began to whine and lick her hand.
Marisa cleared her throat. “Nancy and George, meet Misty. She’s a black Lab, and she’s the best guide dog in the world.”
Amber gave Misty a hug. “See, Bess? You’re going to love raising a puppy.” She sighed. “I wish I could have one.”
“You will—in a few more years,” Devon said.
“I know, I know.” Amber folded her arms across her chest. “Dad says that when I’m more mature and responsible, I can have a puppy. I bet I’ll be a hundred years old before Dad thinks I’m mature and responsible. You’re so lucky, Marisa.”
“Before I lost my sight, I never liked dogs. Now I can’t imagine living without one.” Marisa patted Misty’s head. “Did Devon give you the tour yet?”
“Not yet,” Bess said.
“I was waiting for you,” Devon told Marisa. “You’re our resident expert on the history of the inn.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” Marisa said. “Follow us.”
Marisa and Misty led the way through an arched entrance into the living room. Though the upholstery was slightly faded and worn, the large pieces of furniture were made of mahogany and looked to Nancy to be of high quality.
The room smelled musty, as if the windows had not been opened in years. Dark storm clouds had gathered outside, and the only light came from a dusty chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
“Candlelight Inn was built in 1853 by my great-great-great-grandfather, Edward Allen Taper.” Marisa ran her hand over the intricately carved wood above one of the fireplaces. “He hired the finest craftsmen in Illinois to do the construction. For more than a hundred years, the inn was the most popular place to stay in River Heights.”
“Didn’t I read in the newspaper that Abraham Lincoln stayed here once?” Nancy asked.
Marisa smiled. “Yes.”
“Wow,” Amber said. “Wait till I tell my teacher. Maybe my class can come here on a field trip.”
“I’m not sure the Guiding Eyes would appreciate that,” Marisa said.
Amber frowned. “Oh. I forgot.”
“They’ll be doing construction here for the next year or so, to convert the building into the guide dog school. The dogs will eventually be trained here, and their new owners will stay at the school for several weeks while they get acquainted with their guide dogs,” Marisa explained. “When my grandmother decided to close the inn about thirty years ago, she had it remodeled to turn it into a private residence. The Guiding Eyes will have to undo a lot of the changes she made at that time.”
The group made its way down the long hallway to a spacious study lined with sagging bookshelves. “This was my grandmother’s favorite room,” Marisa said.
“Are all these books in Braille?” Bess asked.
“Braille or large print,” Marisa said. “My grandmother did have some sight until a few years ago.”
“Your grandmother was blind, too?” Amber asked.
Marisa nodded. “We both had a hereditary disease called retinitis pigmentosa. I lost my sight completely when I was sixteen, but a lot of people with RP have some vision until they’re much older. My mother died when she was forty-four, and she never had any vision loss. The disease skips generations sometimes.”
“There sure are a lot of books here,” Amber said. “I guess your grandmother liked to read.”
“You’re right.” Marisa patted Misty’s head. “How do you think she got so smart?”
“Did she really make a million dollars in the stock market?” Amber asked.
“You bet she did,” Marisa said. “And she was in her seventies at the time.”
“Incredible,” George said.
“I’m executor of her estate, and I’ve been going through her paperwork. Good thing I’m taking classes in securities and taxes in law school—otherwise, I’d be very confused,” Marisa said.
Amber walked over to a painting of a woman that hung over the fireplace. She read the engraved plaque on the frame. “ ‘Emmaline Whitby.’ Who’s that in the painting, Marisa?”
“That was my grandmother,” Marisa said. “My mother painted that portrait many years ago. I’m told it’s very good.”
