"I very much doubt that, miss."
"Call me Samantha." She took the arm away from her face to study Miss Brigham's wrinkle-free face. "You don't have aspirin, but you have plastic surgery? Come on, how old are you really? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?"
"Three hundred sixty-three as of last week."
"I guess that explains the outfit."
"You don't believe me."
"Sure I do. And I'm sure where you came from there was a jolly old fat man and a bunch of elves making toys."
Miss Brigham couldn't keep from crying this time. She sank onto the bed, her shoulders heaving with sobs. "I didn't think anyone would believe me. He told me they wouldn't. When I said I'd tell he laughed in my face and told me they would lock me away with the crazy people. I suppose that's what you're going to do now. It's what I deserve."
Samantha rolled across the bed to sit next to Miss Brigham. "I'm sorry to make fun of you. I've had a rough couple of days. I didn't mean to take it out on you," she said.
Miss Brigham dabbed at her tears with a sleeve. Her sobs eased into dry hiccups. "I'm the one who should be sorry to lose control like this." She looked over at Samantha with red-rimmed eyes. "I don't know what to do anymore. Not long ago everything seemed so wonderful and now it's all a terrible mess."
"I'll do what I can to help you. I promise." She tousled Miss Brigham's curly hair. "Come on, let's get some lunch. I'm starved. Then you can tell me all about it."
Miss Brigham nodded. She plodded behind Samantha like a child as they went down the hall to the dining room. Samantha's head still beat like a drum and now with the smell of food her stomach threatened revolt again. The sooner she listened to this crazy woman's story and sent her packing, the sooner she could go back to sleep.
The old woman met them in the dining room. "Good afternoon, ladies. I don't recall seeing you for breakfast this morning. I trust you're feeling well?"
"I have a little headache, but otherwise I'm fine," Samantha said. Samantha wondered if the old lady ever slept.
"For lunch today we're serving baked chicken with a blueberry glaze and a chef's salad. We have water, lemonade, coffee, or tea to drink."
"Coffee. Black," Samantha said.
"Lemonade sounds delightful," Miss Brigham said.
"I'll have someone bring it posthaste. Have a seat ladies and enjoy your meal."
Samantha chose a table in the corner, farthest away from the old woman's prying eyes. All around them sat men in business suits and women in summer dresses while she still wore the same grungy denim jacket, jeans, and T-shirt from Savannah that could probably stand on their own by now and Miss Brigham looked as if she'd come from a funeral. "Miss Pestona sure can pick them," Samantha said to herself.