by Jayne Denker
“You sure you don’t want some pie?” Trey spoke up, licking the fork. “It’s really good.”
“Gee, thanks for offering me some of my pie!”
Ingrid made a face. “God, you’re so bitchy.”
“My pie!” she shouted to her roommate’s back as Ingrid went back into her bedroom to haul out more stuff.
“George?” Sera’s voice floated up from the phone, which hung loosely in her limp hand. She raised it to her ear again, saying nothing. “You can have your old room back. Just sayin’.”
George knew when she was beat. She knew when the universe conspired to push her out of one place and into another. She’d experienced it last year, when she’d felt an overwhelming compulsion to run screaming from the “perfect” live-in situation that was giving her nightmares (when she slept at all) and a nervous tic. Now she could advertise for another roommate and go through the whole nonsense of trying to find a sane person in a haystack full of nutjobs, or she could stuff her personal items into her car and get out of the city for the summer.
She sat on the floor in her suddenly roomier apartment—the furniture had been Ingrid’s—and tried to convince herself she knew not only which end of a diaper was up so she didn’t destroy little Amelia’s fragile, still-forming psyche, but also how to coexist with her sister after so many years apart. The diaper thing was way easier. By a long shot.
George took another bite of bread (the toaster had been Ingrid’s too) and sighed. There was no way she could do what her sister was asking, familial guilt or not. She’d rather stay here and brave the humid, stifling Boston summer than—
Her phone rang. She answered without looking at it. After all, it was probably Sera renewing her campaign with a dozen fresh points of persuasion she’d come up with overnight.
But no.
“Georgiana.”
Thom again.
“Oh Christ, what now?”
“I’m contacting a lawyer. You shouldn’t be allowed to say that kind of stuff. There’s gotta be a law against it.”
For an engineer who made a really good living, Thom could be massively uninformed most of the time, she thought, not for the first time. “Whatever—knock yourself out. Just quit bugging me, all right?”
She hung up, stuffed the last of the bread into her mouth, brushed her hands off on the seat of her jeans, and headed for her bedroom. Packing shouldn’t take more than an hour, she figured.
Chapter 3
“Oh my Goooooodddd . . .”
George was sure she would have been much farther down the road by now, if only she hadn’t been going half a mile an hour, thanks to a beat-up red pickup in front of her. More rust than paint, with its improvised bumper—a one-by-six wooden plank—fixed at a precarious angle, it puttered along for all it was worth, which obviously wasn’t much. She’d blasted down I-90, out of Boston, through the Berkshires, into New York State, and across the Hudson River without incident, but now here she was, rolling through the weathered hills of the Catskills, close enough to her hometown to incite anxious butterflies in her stomach, and she was kept from actually completing the journey by . . . this guy.
“Yo, Farmer Joe, move your butt!” Unable to bomb forward, she expended her nervous energy by twitching the steering wheel so her car drifted left and right in the lane.
God, George thought, this was already bringing back memories of getting stuck behind Burt Womack, back when she lived in Marsden. He had a red pickup too, come to think of it, and never drove above seventeen miles an hour—not even if his hair was on fire. If Burt had had a one-by-six for a bumper, she’d have sworn it was the same—
The creeping pickup slowed even more, then stopped in the middle of the road. George growled. Then, belatedly, the driver turned on his left-turn indicator and ever so slowly turned into a barely visible dirt track among some dense pines.
“Holy shit,” George whispered. It was Burt. She remembered he lived out here, high up the side of one of the hills, in a trailer as beaten up as the truck he drove.
It was like she not only went back home, but went back fifteen years at the same time. Cue the Twilight Zone music.
Just before the truck eased its way between the trees—at this rate, George could have jumped out of her car and beaten him to his home on foot without breaking a sweat—Burt stuck a gnarled hand out of the driver’s-side window and waved.
Wait. Was he just saying “thanks for your patience” or did he . . . actually remember her car? She hoped it was the former, but she suspected it was the latter.
Free of Burt Womack’s rusted back end blocking her way, George made much better time. Once she’d entered the Catskills, she’d gotten back into the rhythm of driving on mountain roads—something she thought she’d forgotten long ago. Now, accelerating over the rises, coasting on the downslopes, and easing through the curves, she really felt like she was back home. But she wasn’t sure that was a good thing.
As she got closer to Marsden, everything became more and more familiar: the landscape, the homes, the businesses—some still open, some altered, some closed altogether. She passed a bright blue house with a swayback roof. It was where Megan, her closest childhood friend, had lived. Judging by how unchanged the property looked, she was certain Megan’s family was still there, although Megan had moved to Chicago years ago and she and George had lost touch. She swooped by the mini-golf place and noticed they’d added batting cages. She wondered if the ice cream stand was open for the season yet.
Next up: the Church of the Arts. Still there, still—or once again—in need of a bit of landscaping, although the surrounding pines always made a nice backdrop, along with the colorful ten-foot-high metal sculptures gracing the lawn, created by the parishioners.
Marsden was what George always thought of as “half and half”: half farm community, half artists’ enclave. The town had been founded as an artists’ colony in the 1800s, and over the decades, and then centuries, artists kept coming. They said there was a certain “vibe” to the valley that added a spiritual touch of inspiration to their art, whether it was painting, sculpture, writing, music, or a type of craft. Like glassblowing (there had been at least three studios when George had last been in Marsden), papermaking, or—as in Sera’s case—pottery. And some of the resident artists liked to thank their muses by worshiping at the hand-carved altar in the Church of the Arts.
Once past the church, George rounded the bend that marked the last of the outskirts; in a minute or two, she’d reach the crest of the hill and catch sight of the town laid out below her in all its glory. Instinctively she looked for the “Welcome to Marsden” sign that had surreptitiously been changed one moonless night long ago to “Welcome to Mars.” Wow, what a crisis that had been, especially because—despite a rabid, region-wide manhunt for the vandal—the person had never been caught.
George allowed herself a small smile as she fondly remembered the scandal, and the delicious secret she’d kept: She was one of the few people who knew who did it. Of course, she’d found out by eavesdropping on one of Sera’s phone conversations but, you know, whatever it took. She was proud she’d never told anyone who the culprit was, even though the Righteous Indignation Posse had been on the warpath for quite some time, ready to hang, draw, and quarter the criminal. Folks took their signage seriously around here.
George was a little disappointed to see the old sign, which for years afterward had sported three new letters that didn’t match the rest, had been replaced by a brand-new one. Well, of course it would have been, after all these years. Ugh. Was she getting nostalgic?
Now that she was within the town limits, the houses grew closer together and the speed limit switched to 30 miles per hour, but George kept going hell for leather. She came to a screeching halt only to keep from mowing down a stiff-backed woman in a frumpy skirt and voluminous turquoise windbreaker who was strutting across the street as though she were the queen out walking among her people.
Oh yeah—and there was a stop
sign too.
The woman stopped in the middle of the crosswalk and glared. George found herself shrinking behind her steering wheel. She knew this longtime Marsden resident—and was very familiar with her imperious glower in her dark, lined, leathery face. George could only pray the woman didn’t recognize her. No such luck. The woman peered sharply at her car, then ambled closer. When her face came within an inch of the driver’s-side window, George knew it was just bad manners not to roll the window down.
“Hey . . . Mrs. Rousseau . . . ,” she said weakly.
The woman squinted at her, her arthritis-twisted fingers curling over the edge of the frame, her pocketbook, which dangled from the crook of her arm, banging into the door panel. “Georgiana Down, is that you?”
“Sure is.” George tried for a smile but was sure she only managed a grimace that probably made her look like someone was tweaking her toes, hard.
Mrs. Rousseau’s bulbous eyes widened. “Well, bless my soul.”
George wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she went with, “Yep.”
“You finally come to see that beautiful niece of yours?”
“I sure have.”
“Well, it’s about time,” the woman snapped. “You’ve been gone too long, missy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs. Rousseau was one of those women everyone—even non-Southern, non-military people—felt compelled to call “ma’am.”
“Don’t know what you were thinking, moving all the way to the big city all those years ago, rolling the road right up behind you and pretending you forgot the way home—”
“Yes, ma’am,” George said again, glancing at her rearview mirror, hoping another car had come up behind her so she’d have to move to avoid blocking the intersection. Nope—the street was empty.
“Can’t find your way back here, not even once,” she kept on, shaking her head. “We not good enough for you?”
“Of course not! I mean—”
“You’re just lucky nothing’s happened to your parents, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
George had no idea how to respond to this, so she just said, “Yes, ma’am,” a third time, then tried to communicate she had to actually get to that family she hadn’t seen in years. “Better get going, right? Make up for lost time? Can I . . . give you a lift someplace?”
Mrs. Rousseau finally pulled her head back and straightened up. “Absolutely not, young lady. You drive like a madwoman.”
George raised the window and watched her cross the street and scuff over to the sidewalk, pocketbook swinging. What was the old lady talking about? She was a fine driver. Hadn’t had an accident in years. Well, nothing big, anyway.
Just to show that she was very responsible behind the wheel, she accelerated slowly, waving as she went past. But the older woman wasn’t watching her; instead, she had her head down, looking at something in her hands.
Wait—was Mrs. Rousseau . . . texting?
Well, some things certainly had changed.
Once the woman was no longer in her rearview mirror, George hit the gas again, barreling down the steeply sloped road, gaining even more speed as she headed toward Main Street.
Mrs. Rousseau may have discovered the wonders of wireless communication, but that seemed to be the only thing different in Marsden. George found herself sinking further into her time warp as she took in the sights in the center of town, which looked exactly the same as it had when she’d last seen it. D’Annunzio’s Deli—check. Artisans Bank—check. Marsden Mercantile, which was more mini-supermarket than the general store it had been a couple of centuries ago—check. Pizza Now—check. The various antiques stores were still in place, as were the galleries and diners and bistros and bookstores and quaint little shops. Wind-chimes store, bead shop, toy store (handmade items only), bakery, music store (mostly vinyl, of course), chocolatier—all check. And not a Starbucks or McDonald’s for miles, as decreed by the town government decades ago and, apparently, still enforced. To preserve Marsden’s “ambience,” all chain stores and fast-food establishments were forever banished to outside the town limits. Ambience preserved, George thought. Everything about the place screamed “twee,” just the way the residents—and the tourists—liked it.
Oh wait—there had been a change. Café Olé had a new awning. And the world hadn’t imploded. Imagine that.
George pulled up at a red light—one of three in town, all on Main Street. Why she had to sit there for two full minutes, she had no idea. There was no cross traffic. As she stared up at the signal, waiting for it to turn green, she felt eyes on her. She kept her face turned up to the light, but stole a glance or two out of the corner of her eye. People on the sidewalk were looking at her. People she probably knew and would remember with just a little time and effort to coax their names out of the dark recesses of her brain. But in the meantime, it was a little disconcerting, these people she thought of as strangers (for the moment) openly staring. And talking to one another while they stared, which meant they were talking about her. But they couldn’t know it was her . . . could they? Sure, her pink car was sort of distinctive, but she hadn’t driven into town in ages (and the color was way more muted than it had been when she’d first gotten it back in the late nineties). And then she saw more than one resident looking at their smartphones before peering over at her. What the—had Mrs. Rousseau texted she was in town? She couldn’t have . . . but then one guy even pointed straight at her! The old bat had sent out the alarm.
George was tempted to flip off the pointing guy, but at the last minute she realized the gesture was more acceptable—and expected—in anonymous Boston traffic than here in Marsden, where the person you flipped off could rat you out so fast your parents would be standing in the driveway, ready to read you the riot act, by the time you got home. So instead she opted for a royal wave as the light turned green and she moved on—only to come to a screeching halt at the next red light, two blocks down.
George groaned, pulling up short behind a minivan. She didn’t remember the traffic pattern being so annoying the last time she was here. She stared at the wide back of the van, impatiently tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Now that she was here, she really just wanted to get to Sera and Jaz’s, get something to eat, and maybe take a nap. But that wasn’t going to happen if she was stuck here, blocked by the fat-ass Grand Caravan squatting there like an oversized toad even with the light gone green two whole seconds ago.
God, what was wrong with these people? Was everybody asleep today? She laid on the horn, apparently scaring the bejesus out of the driver, who lurched the behemoth forward.
“Thank you,” she muttered, wishing she could pass the van.
Instead she opted for a shortcut at the last minute; at the next block, she swung around the corner onto a side street, neatly scattering a few Marsden folks who thought it was safe to cross the road.
“Sorry!” she called, even though they couldn’t hear her. Single-minded about getting to her sister’s house, she blasted past them without a second glance and zipped up the shady lane.
“Still got all your toes, El?”
“Screw the toes—I’m checking to see if I’ve still got both kidneys.”
“Who was that? Darn near sent me to join my wife.”
“God rest her soul, Nate,” Elliot murmured.
“Amen.”
Casey Bowen propped his hands on his hips, tucking a couple of fingertips into the waistband of his jeans, and watched the faded pink car fly up the street and careen around another corner. He knew that car, back when it was so brightly colored it was identifiable a mile up the road. “That,” he said quietly, “was Georgiana Down.”
Nate Carroll gawped as he hitched up his khakis and retucked his dark green polo shirt sporting the name of his prefab house business, Marsden Homes, over his heart. “Phil and Barb’s little girl? You don’t say. You sure, Case?”
“No doubt,” he said, still squinting up the street, even though George was long gone. As though he was ho
ping she’d come back that way.
Elliot Nichol’s phone pinged, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “He’s right. Text from the wife—Beth says Mrs. Rousseau saw her drive into town. You called it, Case.”
Of course he called it. Casey knew that Neon as well as he knew his own name. Back in the day, he’d have sworn he could sense it coming down the street even without looking. He hadn’t felt that leap in his chest in years, but now he felt like a kid all over again.
Georgiana Down was back.
“George?” Elliot grumbled, a note of incredulity in his voice. “Doesn’t make sense. She never drove that stupid.”
Casey continued staring at the empty road. George had been driving too fast to notice him—maybe didn’t even notice there were people stepping across the street at all—but he couldn’t help wondering whether, if she’d known he was there, she’d have stopped the car and jumped out to give him a hug. Or done a U-turn and made a concerted effort to run him down.
“’Course,” Elliot continued, “it’s been a while since George was here last. Could be completely different now. What’s it been, ten? a dozen . . . ?”
“Thirteen years,” Casey corrected quietly, tearing his eyes away from the direction George had gone. “Almost fourteen.” Not that he’d been counting or anything.
“Right,” Nate said, squinting up at nothing as he rifled through his mental filing cabinet containing all the details—formal and informal—of the town’s history. “Took off after she graduated from college. Well, after Phil got the all-clear from his heart scare. Never did come back to visit, did she?”
“Not even once.” Casey turned to Elliot. “What else did Beth say, El? Why’s George back now?”
Elliot’s thumbs bounced around the cell screen for a few seconds. His wife’s reply was almost instantaneous. “To see the baby, Mrs. Rousseau said.”
