Paths We Walk Trilogy

By Cindy Rush

It was supposed to be a week or two in her old hometown; her mother characterized it as a favor for the family. Just go and oversee the last step in closing her great-aunt’s estate. Empty out the house and hire a realtor to sell it; there’d be a nice amount of cash at the end.
Yes, it was in her old hometown, Derry, Tennessee, the place she had left twenty years ago, vowing never to return...but it was time to say a proper goodbye to Seth.
However, life is capricious; even the commonplace can take an unexpected turn. She had never met the electrician or the apprentice. She had barely known, or known about, the criminal; he should have still been in prison, shouldn’t he? All these men were waiting for her in Derry, along with the overpowering memories of her lost high school friend.
And the nightmares.
This mundane trip back would turn her life sideways and cause her to contemplate decisions she never could have imagined just a month before; decisions that put her life in danger. And more importantly, the life of the one who had captured her heart.
She’ll leave Derry completely broken; spiritually, emotionally, and physically. But that is just the beginning of a journey of redemption which will take Roxie through every emotion a person can suffer, or maybe survive.
She’ll have to claw her way up from deep despair for any chance at the joy that was so fleeting. It will mean starting again from scratch and getting through each day just to find her way back home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cindy Rush
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005322380

Cindy Rush

'Paths We Walk', formerly 'Broken Road,' was a thought that took 20 years to grow into a full-length story. My husband has a Master's in Writing and continually told me that my single thought could be expanded into a book. Writing this story ten years ago was such an incredible experience. The book wrote itself; I honestly felt like I was just taking dictation.I never intended to add a book to continue the original story, but the characters were relentless. They consumed my thoughs for days on end, so I finally caved and wrote 'Full Circle.'And now, ten years later, the third book, 'The Path Home,' is now on Smashwords. My husband calls the books a Thrillogy.

Book preview

Paths We Walk Trilogy

Paths We Walk

Full Circle

The Path Home

Paths We Walk

By Cindy Rush

Previously published under the title

Broken Road

Copyright 2011 Cindy Rush

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Psalms 116: 7-9 and Psalms 42:7 are taken from the New International Version © 1984. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House.

Cover art by Megan Desko. Custom art at MeganDeskoArt on Etsy.

Dedication

To my Heavenly Father

Who has given me more good than I deserve

More love than I can understand

More redemption of which I can ever be worthy

To Mike:

You have been my champion for so many years.

Without you, my life would be desolate….

and not one word would be on a single page

To my Seth:

I miss you–

as you were, and who I believe you would have been

To Jon,

For many years of patience, encouragement, compassion,

and the belief writing would be good for my soul

Chapter 1

There, in the dirt of my passenger floor mat, lay Roxie Whitson. I stared for a moment, thinking about how my life had changed so dramatically today.

As if to clear my thoughts, I shook my head, then scooped up my nameplate. After setting it back in the box, which held all the personal odds and ends from my workspace at RayCo, I unlocked the door to my home and went inside. My phone dinged as I set the box on the kitchen counter.

Glancing down, I saw my mother’s name and number. She would have to wait; this day had been unsettling enough.

I had known this day was coming. RayCo had to make cuts, and although I’d been there eight years, I had been up against people who’d been there anywhere from twelve to twenty. Seven others, who worked in different areas of the company, had been laid off as well.

My best work buddy, Larry, had carried my box to the car for me, then sighed, saying, Work’s not going to be the same without you, Roxie. He gave me a side-arm hug, and told me Phyllis, his wife, wanted me to come over for supper Saturday night.

Larry had been such a great workmate. He’d always had my back against Ted, the jerk, who was my immediate supervisor. When I’d first started at RayCo, Ted seemed to think I should be willing to date him. When I told him, very pointedly, that his chest-thumping bravado didn’t do a thing for me, he began making nasty little comments that included the phrase, on the Rox. Larry wanted me to report him to HR, but since ignoring Ted as though he didn’t exist seemed to frustrate the heck out of him, that was my preferred method of punishment. But Larry was always quick to talk about HR if Ted sat too close to us in the breakroom.

Larry and Phyllis had taken me under their wings when I’d landed in Benson to start at RayCo. The first time I’d gone to their house for supper, Larry had seen my ’72 Malibu, and a lasting love affair had begun. He’d had a Malibu in high school and regretted ever selling it. Phyllis told me to join her in the kitchen because Larry had eagerly asked if he could have a look under the hood. From then on, my red Malibu had a dedicated mechanic, and I had excellent cooking lessons from Phyllis.

They had introduced me to Francie Tucker, who was looking for a tenant. She had built a duplex after downsizing from the home she and her husband, Paul, had lived in for years. After Paul died unexpectedly, Francie wanted a smaller place to manage and to be able to choose her closest neighbor. Thankfully, she chose me. I’ve lived next to Francie since the third day I’d arrived in Benson–a little over eight years. Even though she’s nearly twenty years older than I, we’ve been best friends. She has seen the good, the bad, and the ugly of me.

My place was quiet and cozy, and I needed the comforts of home right now. I flopped down on the sofa and thought about my years at RayCo. I’d met Violet and Angela there; they were my old Friday Happy Hour buddies, but they’d both gotten married within a year of each other, and the Happy Hour evenings became fewer and farther between. That was actually a good thing; thirty-five was too old for me to still be going out and having one, or two, too many, even on a Friday night. We still get together for supper every so often, when their husbands can watch their little ones.

I had no little ones and haven’t had a husband for over sixteen years. Greg Parsons had decided he wasn’t ready for a settled life about two months after I’d suffered the miscarriage of our only child. Losing the baby was devastating…but Greg asking for a divorce didn’t upset me nearly as much as I thought it should have.

In years since, I’ve realized I married him because he was a pleasant, nice-looking, hard worker–in a word safe, but when I thought back over the fourteen months of our marriage, there were very few highs and lows; it was more of a flat line. Nothing survives with a flat line.

Greg told me it wasn’t me; it was him.

You’re damn right it’s you, you bastard!

But I knew that wasn’t entirely true. I missed the idea of being married, but I didn’t miss him. I took back my maiden name, not wanting anything of his anymore. I have no idea where he went, what he’s doing, or even if he is still alive, and I don’t care. Sometimes, that bit about me is more troubling than anything else about the whole mess.

My mother insisted I come back home to stay for a while with her and Dad. I was still grieving the loss of my baby and didn’t want to live in the apartment I’d shared with Greg, so I went. For a couple of days, Mother waited on me practically hand and foot, but by the third day, she had started any sentence regarding me with Poor Roxanne, and I began gritting my teeth so often, I was afraid I would break one. My younger sister, Kathy, lived close by and was married, and had a toddler, which just reminded me of my loss.

I took off for Louisiana and found work there, then moved every three years or so until I landed the job at RayCo. I’ve lived longer in Benson, Kentucky, than anywhere else in my adult years.

I’m forty-one, and now jobless.

That thought kept flashing through my mind. Benson and the surrounding area were not running over with job opportunities. Fortunately, Ray, the owner of RayCo–go figure–had been very generous in our severance package and had made sure we had all we needed to file for unemployment. I had some breathing room but was a bit nervous about finding a job close enough, so I didn’t have to move.

I really didn’t want to leave Benson.

My phone dinged again, reminding me I had a voicemail. I find the insistence of cell phones annoying. I wasn’t ready to hear the questions I knew my mother would pepper me with regarding how my last day was, the details of the severance package, what my job prospects were, was I going to come visit them, and…and…and.

Mother had been in the town where I grew up to settle my great aunt’s estate; I really didn’t want to hear about any old classmates of mine she might have seen. Derry, Tennessee, was a place I’d left twenty years ago, vowing to never return, even for high school reunions. Just hearing about her planned trip caused a trickle of unease to run through me.

I ditched my bra and changed into comfy clothes, then decided to break out the new sheets I’d found on sale. They were a gorgeous, shiny, chocolate color, and looked like two candy bars just waiting for me to dive into. I realized I could stay up and watch my favorite late-night guy since there was no need to set an alarm for tomorrow morning.

I was gathering laundry when my phone dinged again; it was Violet. I answered and could tell right away she was upset; she doesn’t finish her sentences when she is.

Roxie, how…it is so unfair that…at least you won’t have to deal with Ted…Ray shouldn’t have let you…you could still get Angela’s husband to duct tape a dead possum onto his tailpipe…Ted’s, not Ray’s.

Vi, take a deep breath! You’re more upset than I am. I’m okay.

Well, Angela and I are taking you out; you need a night out.

Aww, that’s sweet, Vi, but I’m gearing down from the day, already in my slouchy clothes. I’ll call you in a day or two and we’ll plan a time when we can tie one on.

"Well, I can’t tie one on anymore–you know how I get."

I laughed. Yeah, I know. I don’t really need to be doing that, either. Thanks for thinking about me.

Just let me know if you need anything, okay. And don’t stay in your place and mope.

I won’t, Vi. You take care, and I’ll call you in a couple of days.

Sometimes, Vi’s speech pattern made me feel battered, and I just wanted some peace and quiet this evening.

I stared at my phone, sighed, and pushed play.

Honey, it’s Mom.

My mother almost always calls me Honey. I was named Melissa Roxanne, with her intention that I would be called Missy, but Dad told everyone my name was Roxanne, which was the name he’d chosen. I started calling myself Roxie in fifth grade and soon, everyone else did too…except for Mother.

I need to talk with you, so call me back as soon as you can.

Mother had really wanted me to meet her in Derry for a walk down memory lane. I told her I couldn’t miss my last three days of work and was so glad for the excuse because I’d have…lost…my…mind!

We’d lived in Derry all through my kindergarten to high school years. I’d stayed on after graduation for three years, working in town at the local newspaper. During those three years, classmates scattered, some becoming people I didn’t know, and some becoming people I didn’t want to know.

When I was twenty-one, a tragedy had happened which created so much anxiety in me, I didn’t care where I went, as long as it was miles away from Derry.

While starting the laundry, I decided on shrimp, steamed broccoli, and French bread for supper. It was a quick and easy meal I enjoyed…and yes, people have told me I’m strange because I love broccoli.

As I emptied the dishwasher, my mind wandered back to Derry. My best friend, throughout junior high and most of senior high, was Seth Stanford. We had been so close, even though we drifted a little as we weaved through different friend groups and high school cliques. But he was always there when I’d needed him, like a beloved Teddy bear that waits on the bed for the time when tears flow, or things go bump in the night.

I met Seth in seventh grade study hall. He was not quite average height for his age, had the most precious face, and a wicked sense of humor. I was tall for my age–gawky, with braces–and most guys wouldn’t give me the time of day. He wrote me sweet love notes; treasured words for an awkward girl who never believed she could be lovable. He told me I was beautiful and that he adored me.

One night, my best girlfriend, Erin, had a party. Seth brought me a rose, and we shared gentle, innocent kisses. I loved him with every bit of my adolescent heart and soul.

I lived in a blissful world of being adored for about six weeks; then, for some reason I can’t recall now, Seth broke up with me. My heart was crushed–not broken–crushed. The agony was such that, even now, I’m surprised I didn’t harm myself. Thirteen is such an unforgiving age. For days, I cried the exhausting tears of rejection.

But a few weeks later, Seth called and said he missed our talks, and I was the only person who understood him. He had his own insecurities; he’d been a preemie, and the doctor hadn’t been optimistic about his survival. And while I never thought of him as weak, there was a fragility to him. He told me many times he wouldn’t live to be twenty-one.

I wasn’t familiar with the concept of self-fulfilling prophecy the first time he had said that. It was only after I’d learned of his suicide that I began hearing his voice say it over and over in my mind.

In the days after his death, my brain seemed fogged over. It was as though my mind refused to accept the news and process what it meant. That’s when the urge to leave Derry became irresistible.

My supper was ready, and I shook off the sadness that had begun to crawl all over me by listening to music while I ate, determined to keep old ghosts at bay.

At bedtime, I set the timer on my TV, then crawled into those luscious sheets and sighed, enjoying the silky fabric. My late-night friend didn’t disappoint me; he made me laugh several times before I dozed off in the middle of his monologue.

Chapter 2

I hadn’t set the alarm, but woke up twenty minutes after it normally rings, lingering in bed for a bit, hoping I’d fall asleep again. That wasn’t in the cards, so I did my morning stagger into the bathroom.

While brushing my teeth, my face stared back at me from the mirror–the face I’d always thought of as easily forgotten–not ugly, not pretty, and not interesting. My eyes are my best feature–sea green–but they still don’t qualify me as a looker. The rest of me isn’t special either, although I’ve got decent legs. I’m five-feet seven-inches tall–not skinny, not overweight, just average.

I was rinsing out my cereal bowl when I heard Francie’s two quick raps on the door.

Hang on, Francie. I’ll be right there.

Francie was dressed for her morning at the hospital in nice pants with her volunteer shirt. Her grey-streaked, chestnut hair was simply styled, but it was always so attractive.

I just wondered how you were today. Do you have any plans to keep yourself busy?

I shook my head. "It still seems a little strange; not sure what I’ll do today."

You didn’t punch Ted in the face on your last day, did you? Her eyes danced at the thought that maybe, just once, Ted had gotten what was coming to him.

I laughed. No; wish I had, but thought it would probably cost me my severance package.

Well, at least Ray did right by you on that; you’ll have some breathing room to think about your next move. We’re going to find you something close.

I was so thankful Francie was a friend. She was a bit of a mover and shaker in this little town, and if anyone could find me a good job nearby, it would be her.

Thanks, Francie–

I was interrupted by the dinging of my phone. There was only one person who would call me this early; I let it go to voicemail.

After the second set of dings, Francie said, Roxie, don’t mind me; go ahead and answer if you need to.

"No, no. I’ll just let her leave a message; it’s bound to be Mother, and it’s too early in the morning."

Francie laughed and nodded, knowing all about my less-than-perfect relationship with my mother. She turned and opened the door, saying, Should be a gorgeous afternoon; get out and soak up some sun.

As she walked to her car, I said, Have a great morning, Francie.

She was right; it had the makings of a fine day–a clear sky with a gentle breeze.

I’d have to talk to Mother sooner or later; she wouldn’t stop calling until she’d told me about her trip to Derry.

My great aunt Delia had died about six weeks ago. Delia had been the last living family member in Derry–a woman who had never married, and had always criticized the smallest detail of the lives around her. Kathy and I had manufactured a man who had broken her heart when she was young as the cause of her bitterness.

I wondered if she had mellowed at all. Some folks do as they get older, but a lot of folks just get nastier and harder to deal with.

Mother had been relieved to hear from Delia’s lawyer she didn’t want a funeral service. Her emphatic wishes were that she be cremated as soon as possible after her death. However, as Delia’s next-of-kin, Mother was eager to find out what price Delia’s old, two-story house would fetch.

I set my phone down and decided to take a walk around the neighborhood before giving in to the inevitable call to Mother.

The peonies and tulips were sharing their blooms, and four houses down, a beautiful hedge of lilac bushes grew.

I wondered about my neighbors’ lives. Did most of them have it all together, or were there some like me, who felt a bit like a misfit?

My sister and I had been as different as night and day, even as children. She had always been the golden child, and had delighted Mother by marrying Allan, a well-established insurance agent, in a grand wedding. They’d produced two darling grandchildren, Trey and Ella. For years now, whenever I was around all of them, I felt like a piece which just didn’t fit right in the family puzzle.

I headed back home, thinking about a grocery list. Too often, I hurry in and grab whatever I’ve run out of, only to get home and realize there were one or two more items I should have picked up.

As I pushed open my door, I could hear my phone ding. It was another voicemail from Mother. I took a deep breath and listened to the message.

Honey, I’ve spoken with Aunt Delia’s lawyer today.

Wait; is she still in Derry?

"The will is finally through probate. The problem is.…"

Anytime I hear the problem is or here’s the thing from my mother, alarm bells clang in my head. My body sighed into my rocking chair as I heard out her message.

"…going through her things, clearing them out, then selling her house. It’s been sitting empty for nearly two months. Kathy and Allan are having a party on Sunday for Trey’s birthday–he’ll be sixteen, you know. They’d just be heartbroken if we weren’t there. And then there’s the upcoming garden show which my ladies’ club sponsors, and I’m the co-chair this year, so I absolutely cannot go there until after that is over, and it’s just got to be done before then. So, since you’ve got some free time now…."

She hadn’t even gone to Derry. I knew what was coming–knew, and still couldn’t believe it.

"…and you could go this week, meet with her lawyer, and go through her stuff and get rid of most of it. I can tell you the pieces of furniture I want, and you can have any of the rest of it. If you go, get the house cleared out and ready to sell, I’ll give you ten percent of the selling price. Please let me know as soon as you can, okay? We love you; talk with you later."

I just stared at my phone, and leaned my head back against the wooden rocker, my anger rising. Mother had needed me for things she couldn’t do ever since I’d started college, right through my failed marriage, into my struggle with finding work and a place to settle. I took what felt like my first breath since the message had begun.

I hadn’t been back in Derry since I’d moved away at twenty-one. The older I had gotten, the more the thought of going back caused Seth’s death to loom large in my mind and shut out any consideration for returning.

Mother hated having her supper interrupted so if I called around six, I could easily rattle off my reasons for not going, and say goodbye without a long monologue from her about how busy their lives were, and was I seeing anybody, and had I given any thought about moving to Waco. I organized my small pantry, creating a grocery list as I went, and rehearsed my speech for the phone call. I was determined to stand my ground.

More time had passed than I’d realized when I heard Francie’s car pull into her drive. Opening the door, I waved and asked how her morning had been. She walked over–a questioning look on her face. She’d known me too long not to know something was wrong.

My morning was uneventful; how about yours? What’s up?

Well, my mother called again, I said, and motioned Francie inside. She sat on the sofa, and I sat down in the rocker.

Oh dear. From the look on your face, it must have been bad news.

"Only for me. My aunt’s will is through probate, but it took longer than anticipated. I shook my head. Aunt Delia–I should feel something for her, but she was never in a good mood; I can’t recall ever hearing her laugh."

What a sad life she must have led. But that’s not what has upset you, is it?

I smirked. "No. My mother didn’t end up going to Derry and now she wants me to go so I can clear out Delia’s things and get the house ready for sale. She’s bribed me with ten percent of the sales price, and any furniture she doesn’t want. She and Dad are ‘too busy.’ She always assumes I can just drop everything and do whatever she needs me to do.

Francie studied me for a moment. "Well…you do have the time, and the money would be great. Why don’t you at least consider going?"

Francie, I don’t like encouraging the notion she can dump her responsibilities on me when something’s not convenient for her.

Francie leaned back against the cushion.

"I understand how you feel but think about how this might benefit you. There might be some nice furniture, and the money from the sale of the house will probably be a good bit. Don’t turn it down just so you can teach your mother not to take you for granted; that probably wouldn’t stop her anyway…. And it’s been twenty years, Roxie. It’s possible the anxiety about going is actually greater than how you would feel just being there."

I rocked for a minute, then said, I’ll think about it.

"Okay, Sweetie. Consider how this benefits you, not how it helps anyone else." She stood and gave me a quick hug before she left.

The front door shut softly, and silence descended on me. Francie was right–the money would be great, and there were a few pieces of furniture I remembered as being quite beautiful. I wouldn’t mind a few days away, although Derry was definitely not my first choice of destination…. But maybe it was time I faced my ghosts. I was too old to be overwhelmed by what had happened there so many years ago.

As I ate a sandwich and an apple, I thought about the logistics of making the trip. I’d call Larry to see if my car needed any attention beforehand. That’s when it hit me I’d made the decision to go–but for me and me alone.

Taking a steadying breath, I dialed my parents’ number. Mother answered and was so glad I could help them out. I let her know what a huge sacrifice it was for me…yeah, I know, but I deserved to make a little noise about it.

She would overnight a letter of explanation with a power-of-attorney to the lawyer handling Delia’s estate so I could sell the place, if he agreed I was getting a fair-market price. I could stay at the house; there’d be a key in Delia’s mailbox. She even offered to pay for a professional cleaning if the house was filthy.

Deciding not to put it off, I called Violet, and Angela, then Larry and Phyllis. Vi and Angela were disappointed I was leaving before our night out, but I promised to call them first thing when I got back so we could get together.

Phyllis was still angry with Ray Jr. about me losing my job, but she was also positive something would turn up for me.

When I asked Larry about my car, he reassured me. Roxie, the way you and I care for that car, she’s easily got another fifty thousand in her. I’m so sure of that, if she breaks down, I’ll come and get you.

I laughed and said thanks and goodbye, tearing up a bit thinking about how good these folks treated me.

Then I let Francie know my decision. She said she would call the hospital and tell them she would be late in the morning; she wanted to help me get away okay. I knew better than to argue.

There was no point in going to the grocery store now. I spent the rest of the day doing laundry, then packing my suitcase and bathroom bag. Supper was another sandwich and the rest of the milk. Finally, I crawled into bed with a British detective and read until I fell asleep.

He was smiling at me, his expressions coaxing laughter out of me. When he was this playful, being around him was sheer bliss. He was imitating the football coach who monitored our study hall, and I was beside myself, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. He stretched out his hand, and I reached for him, desperate to grab him, but he kept drifting away. He was still talking, his smile radiant, like dazzling sunshine breaking through a cloud. His hand was so close, but I never could reach him.

Seth?

My eyes fluttered open, searching the darkness for him. For a moment, my confusion let me believe he was there, but disappointment settled on me swiftly. It was just a dream, and sadness mixed with a small piece of joy at seeing him so young and so happy again.

Chapter 3

I have never looked forward to long hours in the car, and I certainly wasn’t excited about my destination, especially after realizing the anniversary of Seth’s death had been a week ago. After he’d died, I just wanted out of Derry. But I was up early and heading for Lexington on highway 64.

The first leg of the trip was accompanied by rock and roll classics. The music helped me relax, and I’d needed these old friends at the beginning of what would be a tedious and, at times, nerve-wracking drive.

About two hours in, I stopped at one of those huge gas station, food-mart, lotto-ticket-buying monstrosities because of the call of nature, then insured it would call again by getting a large, iced tea–I needed the caffeine.

I’d driven about two miles when it became obvious my underwear was going to make me miserable. The road was deserted for the moment, so I tried to tussle it into submission. It took longer than I thought; the whoop of a siren startled me, and my rearview mirror showed flashing blue lights.

Suhnuhvuh, I muttered and pulled over, then rummaged through my purse for my driver’s license.

Good morning, Ma’am. Did you realize you were swerving a bit back there?

The officer looked too young to be a state trooper toting a .357. I almost asked him if his mother knew he played with guns but thought better of it.

Yes, I’m sorry, Officer. There was a spider on the seat; I’ll be more careful.

I held up my license like a good citizen.

He smiled and looked at my oversized cup, then glanced in the back seat and, I guess, decided my story was plausible, and I wasn’t drinking booze this early in the day.

Be more careful; too easy to have an accident.

Thanks…you have a great day.

No way was he gonna hear I’d been having a war with my undies. After he pulled away, I settled the score with my Hanes and resumed my trip in greater comfort, if not with more excitement.

I stopped for lunch on the other side of Nashville. The fast-food joint sat next to a superstore, where I picked up cereal, bottled water, and crackers, then hit the road again for the long haul of the afternoon-into-evening drive. I’d pick up some milk tomorrow when I knew if Delia’s fridge was working.

Derry sits pretty far up in the northwest corner of Tennessee. The only thing that keeps it from falling into Missouri is the Mississippi River. It's not too far south of the New Madrid fault, and if that ever goes off again like it did in the early 1800s, Derry will fall into the river, and maybe go north to Canada, if the Mighty Mississippi flows backwards again.

I rolled in a little after six, worn out after being in the car for hours; the trip had taken longer than I’d expected. The weather was as sultry as I remembered when May was wandering into June. Derry had, of course, changed some since I’d been here last. Several fast-food joints had moved in on the main drag into town, and a new supermarket stood where the lumber mill had been. I stopped and got a quick bite at the Derry Dream. Despite the changes around it, the DD, as we’d called it when I was a teenager, hadn’t changed a bit.

Finding the house took a while. I hadn’t thought I’d need directions after visiting this old place so often as a kid, but the streets didn’t look the same. When I turned onto Delia’s street, I could see the top of her house over the high hedge which surrounded most of it. The key was in the mailbox, and I sighed with relief at finally being at the end of the journey.

Inside was exactly as I’d remembered; her furniture was unchanged and unmoved, with trinkets and knickknacks everywhere. I wandered the first floor, from living room into dining room into kitchen into back porch, or the laundry porch, as Delia used to call it. I climbed the stairs and discovered the room where Delia had slept was the only one with a fully assembled bed.

I found some clean sheets in the linen cupboard. I might be sleeping in a dead woman’s house, but no way was it going to be on sheets which were suspect. I wished I’d brought my new sheets; that might have made this a little easier. Thank heaven I’d had the presence of mind to bring my own pillow.

I unpacked my meager supplies and brushed my teeth in front of the mirror in poor, dead Delia’s bathroom. I stared at myself; aware something was bothering me about being in the house. I didn’t miss Delia, but as I rinsed my brush, sad frustration washed over me.

Not long after opening the front door, a feeling had attacked me. Now, as I made up Delia’s bed, it was all over me, and I wished I could go next door and talk with Francie about it.

And then it hit me. When I was a teenager, my relationship with my parents did not run as smoothly as theirs with Kathy. She was so compliant; a hand-patter with my mother, whereas I was an eye-roller. Consequently, their bond deepened, and I kept my teenage angst to myself. Why couldn’t Delia have been my Francie back then? Someone who would hear out my griping about what idiots my parents were–someone I could have shared my intense grief with when Seth died. But for her own reasons, Delia had been the family bitch years before I even knew the word existed. She had been bitter and uninviting for as long as I could remember.

I called Francie, knowing she would help me sort through my feelings, as she had so many times before. She heard me out, then asked about the trip and the house. By the time we said our goodbyes, I was drowsy and way too tired for wrestling Delia’s nineteen-inch television up the stairs; I wasn’t even sure it worked. The late-night guy would go on without me. I could have used the laughter, but exhaustion won the battle.

Chapter 4

The only pressing matter this morning was meeting with Delia’s attorney. I should have arrived there sooner, but my emotions before bed, on top of a long day in the car, had sapped me. I got coma-like sleep in Delia’s old bed and must have hit the snooze a few times because I didn’t make it to the law office until five minutes before eleven.

The receptionist who greeted me was probably near fifty but attempting to look a decade younger…and it wasn’t working. Her genuine, perpetual smile helped, but the one-button-too-many unbuttoned on her shirt, and over-styled hair belied her desperation. She politely indicated a chair as she said the attorney was on the phone and would be with me in a moment.

I gazed around and remembered how this room once looked. It was inside an old house which had been converted into a dentist’s office when I was in high school. Years later, my mother told me the dentist had died, and the building had been sold. I hadn’t known it was an attorney’s office, and I’d never heard of Preston Wilby, the lawyer whose name was on the door. He’d done a nice renovation on the place; the old hardwood floors had been refinished and the reception area had an understated elegance.

Mr. Blakely will see you now.

The receptionist’s voice brought me back into the present day with a snap.

Who’s Mr. Blakely? The name on the door says ‘Wilby,’ I said, sounding more defensive than I’d meant.

Mr. Wilby owns the firm, that’s right, but he works in Memphis and has turned most of his clients here over to Mr. Blakely; he’s the attorney who is responsible for administering your aunt’s estate.

I stared back at her for too many seconds; she became obviously uncomfortable.

"That isn’t Steven Blakely, is it?"

That’s right, she said, her face brightening. He’s the one.

Oh shit, I thought–I mean I said–but hadn’t meant to.

Pardon me? the receptionist asked, in a way I knew meant she truly hadn’t understood me.

Oh, nothing, I said.

Alright; I’ll take you back now.

Steven Blakely was a year older than my sister, two years younger than me. He had dated Kathy for a little while in high school, but he and I had not hit it off. Their relationship had been brief and, not long after Seth’s death, he dated my friend, Susan.

I was moving away to start college, hoping distance from Derry would make the loss of Seth easier to bear. Susan and a couple of my other girlfriends from high school had thrown a little going away party for me at a restaurant in Cullburgh, a town about twelve miles from Derry. Then we’d gone back to my apartment for cake and a movie.

About an hour into the movie, somebody started banging on my door. When I opened it, Blakely was swaying there, like a wheat stalk in the breeze, and he smelled like he’d bathed in bourbon. Susan had recently broken up with him, and he wanted a word with her. I made him wait at the door while I asked her if she wanted a word with him. She sighed, walked to the door, and told him to go away–it was definitely over.

Blakely wouldn’t let it go.

I had paused the movie, and the rest of us listened as he pleaded with her, and then accused her of some awful things. Having heard enough, I bounded toward the door. I was a few steps from it when he looked over Susan’s shoulder and said four-and-a-half words.

The first four were, What do you want, and the last one started with a B. My friend turned and looked at me just before Steven got to the itch. I cocked my fist and drove it into his left cheekbone without slowing my forward motion.

I think he was out before he hit the ground…which he did with an oomph.

I stepped out under the porch light, looked at my handiwork, and was surprised by the speed at which his eye was swelling closed. When I turned to go inside, my friends were gaping at me. I shooed them back into the living room after I closed the door on our drunken, uninvited, unconscious, and totally reprehensible guest.

That was the last time I saw him, and I had no idea what had happened next–if he woke up and crawled home, or if wolves dragged him into their den–and I hadn’t cared. Susan and I didn’t discuss him that night, but she did tell me later he never bothered her again.

As I stepped into his office, Blakely was pulling a file from his desk drawer.

Your eye looks like it healed up just fine, I said.

Roxie! He nearly gasped, looking into my face. "Hey, I…well, I thought your mother was coming. I had no idea it would be…you haven’t changed a bit since you left Derry."

Irritation welled up inside me. Didn’t Mother call you? She was supposed to have sent a power-of-attorney for me so I could sign all the paperwork.

Steven gave me a pained smile as he pulled out a sheet of paper. Here it is. Beth Ann must have put it in the file yesterday afternoon.

Right; it’s me, not my mother. Any old history gonna be in our way?

You mean…are you talking about the last time we–

Yeah, I’m asking you if there’s anything between us that would keep us from conducting our business.

Blakely offered me a seat and then told me what I’d done had been good for him. It had snapped him out of an unnatural obsession with my friend, and he’d been thinking about joining the Army; getting knocked out cold by a girl had settled it. After several years’ military service, he had realized he wanted a career in law.

Roxie let’s go down to Sophie’s Place, and I’ll buy you an early lunch. It’s always a little crowded on Friday, but it’s better than meeting here in this stuffy place. I hesitated, and he smiled. "At least let me buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of pie."

I won’t take you up on the coffee, but I am hungry…thanks.

Lunch with Steven might be a nice re-introduction to the town I’d left so many years ago, swearing to never return. I felt surprisingly comfortable with him now; I guess once you knock a guy out, a good amount of reserve disappears. Steven told Beth Ann we were going to lunch.

As we walked toward downtown, I noted this part of Derry hadn’t changed its basic structure in probably eighty years. Some stores were the same ones that had been here during my high school days. However, Sophie’s Place, which was situated on one corner in the center of downtown, had not been; she’d moved here after I’d left.

Hey Sophie, come meet an old friend, Steven said, as he waved at the oldest server. She had steel gray hair and a quick smile.

I was a little embarrassed because the poor woman was working her way between tables, a tea pitcher in one hand, coffee carafe in the other, and her order pad in her mouth. Somehow, she made it over.

Sophie, this is Roxanne Whitson. Her family lived here when she was in high school, but they’ve all moved away. She’s wrapping up some family business with me.

Sophie set down the pitcher, the carafe, and took the order pad from her mouth and stuck it in the pocket of her apron.

Hey, pleased to meet you; glad y’all came in. Sit where you’d like.

A strange comment, I thought, seeing that there were only two places available–a booth in the back with one of the benches broken and half down on the floor, and a table up front by the windows.

Sophie followed my gaze and chuckled. Looks like it’ll have to be the table, Roxanne.

The table’s fine, and you can call me Roxie, I said.

Oh, sure, sure–table’s fine with me, Steven said, enthusiastically agreeable.

He hadn’t been kidding about this place being crowded on Friday. At times, the din was nearly painful. Sophie’s Place obviously held an appeal for a broad range of people. Without turning my head, I spotted some men in bib overalls, some in business suits, and the women’s fashions ran the gamut.

Sophie took our order–mine, a grilled chicken salad, and Steven’s, a grilled cheese sandwich. Steven asked for a recap of my life, my sister’s too, so I skipped a rock over the last twenty years, dropping sporadically on selected scenes and memories.

Our meals were served, and, in between mouthfuls, we talked about Delia’s estate. Steven said he would go through the paperwork with me on Monday. Once I’d signed the papers, I could put the house up for sale. Technically, I couldn’t do anything with or to the place until documents were signed, except sort through her clothes and grocery-type items.

I wonder why she didn’t want a service or a burial, I mused.

She said she didn’t want a fuss; just wanted to be cremated as quickly as possible.

That doesn’t sound like her. She didn’t mind causing a to-do when I was a kid. A thought occurred to me. What’s happened with her ashes?

They’re in the safe at the Memphis office. The funeral home here doesn’t do cremations, so they have a bigger one this side of Memphis do it for them. More people are going that route these days, said Steven, shrugging a bit.

"Wow, when I was a kid, if the family didn’t have an open casket, everybody thought they were hiding something. I always hated funerals."

Well, I have to go to Memphis on Tuesday, so you can pick them up next week…or I can scatter them for you.

Steven’s expression showed his reluctance for carrying out the second suggestion.

I just smiled. Nah, it’s okay. I think I’ve grown up enough for that. Is it okay if I scatter them around my grandparents’ graves? There’s not some rule prohibiting that?

No, that’s perfectly okay.

I nodded, then asked, What do y’all do for fun around here?

Steven smiled. There’s a new mall over in Cullburgh; actually, just this side of Cullburgh. It’s got a six-screen theater and a couple of decent stores. A surprisingly good Mexican restaurant, too.

Cullburgh hadn’t been any larger than Derry when I was growing up; it had been less cool than Derry, too.

You’re kidding me. Cullburgh has enough folks for a mall?

Steven nodded. The population has grown there, more than Derry’s. The developer figured if Derry folks could get there straight off the road, he’d get a good bit of business from here; turns out he was right. There’re some people here who can’t live without the designer coffee one store sells.

I guess it’s worth checking out, if I have any free time.

Maybe this weekend. You can’t miss it; you can see it from a mile away.

Okay. By the way, how is real estate moving here these days?

Steven made a so-so motion with his hand.

You just never know. There are plenty of houses that have been on the market for almost a year, and then there are some you think would take forever and they’ve gone quick. I think Miss Paulson’s might not take long, but I would recommend you have an inspection before you try and sell it. I’m not sure it’s had much maintenance done in the past years.

I was getting the feeling this might not be a short visit. I sighed and rubbed my forehead.

Anything wrong, Roxanne?

"I’m okay, just a little tired…and you really must call me Roxie."

Steven flagged down our server and asked for the check. I excused myself and zig-zagged between tables on the way to the ladies’ room. When I came out, Steven and Sophie were talking as they stood at the register.

She smiled and waved at customers who were leaving, most of whom called, See you later, Sophie. She was obviously well-liked, a kind soul who really enjoyed her job, but she also seemed like a woman who could smell a load of bull from a mile away and wouldn’t put up with it.

It was nice meeting you, Sophie said, when I joined them. Steven said you were back in town for business, but that y’all were in high school together. Any old flames here in town you plan on looking up?

The look on my face, before I caught myself, must have spoken volumes.

No. I’m just back to sell my great aunt Delia’s house.

Sophie gave me a wry smile. Sorry, just curious.

We shared a soft laugh together, and I told her it was nice to meet her, too.

Steven and I stepped out onto the sidewalk into the direct sunlight. It was quite a bit warmer than in had been before lunch, and Steven didn’t put his suit coat back on as we made our way toward his office.

We’d walked about a block when Steven greeted a man, who looked to be around our age, coming toward us.

Hey, Reverend, Steven said, a bit impishly. Let me introduce my friend here.

He was one of the best-looking Reverends I’d ever seen. I realized my mouth was slightly open and quickly closed it, as the Reverend gave Steven a part-grimace, part-smile.

Reverend, this is Roxanne, er, Roxie Whitson. Roxie, this is the most Reverend Andrew Solomon, the Methodist minister.

It’s Andrew, Roxie. I’m about as Reverend as Steven is Esquire. He extended his hand and I obliged.

Solomon? I said, my hand still in his. So…uhh…you a wise guy or sumptin’? I asked, doing my best impersonation of a television mobster.

Where the hell did that come from?

That’s very funny, Andrew said. I’ve never actually heard that before, he added, the look on his face saying he’d probably heard it every other day since seminary, but there was a twinkle in his eye.

I felt my face redden; I don’t usually embarrass myself in front of people I’ve just met, especially men.

Roxie’s in town for some family business, Steven said.

Andrew’s eyes met mine. You’re certainly welcome at church on Sunday.

Oh, I don’t know, I stammered, my face flushing for the second time in sixty seconds. I’ll be pretty busy with the…well, I’ve got some–

I understand, he said, without a judgmental tone, which was refreshing. So…welcome to Derry.

"Welcome back, Steven said. Roxie’s from here originally."

Then welcome back. It’s nice to meet you.

Thanks; it’s nice to meet you, I said.

After Andrew walked into Sophie’s, I asked Steven how long he’d been the minister at the Methodist church.

He and his wife came here about nine years ago. His wife, Annette, has such a quiet strength. Their daughter, Stacy, has been diagnosed with autism. It’s been kinda rough for them the past couple of years.

My family had been regular attenders at the Methodist church. But when I’d left Derry, I’d left church, too–for sanity’s sake. Too many of the religious people I’d known had faulty moral compasses, which allowed them to indulge their own sins, yet eagerly point out everyone else’s. Even my parents had always saved a little room in their hearts for nuggets of condemnation.

But in recent years, my bitter feelings about religious people have softened a bit. I totally blame Francie for this. She always sees the best in people, my parents included. During our first few months of being neighbors, this often ticked me off. But Francie’s God was much more compassionate than the God I’d heard about while growing up.

But sometimes, I still hear the old God’s gonna get ya messages in my brain, which means I’m still cautious with Him, not entirely trusting in complete forgiveness for the awful stuff in me. But if Francie can love and accept me without judgment, which I’m convinced she does, then maybe God can too; I’m just not all the way there yet. All that to say, I wouldn’t be joining the wise man on Sunday.

After leaving Steven at his office, I took a long route to get back to the house, driving past old friends’ homes, just to see how much had changed. A couple of homes were easily recognizable, one had been torn down, and others looked nothing like I remembered them.

I stopped by Derry’s Value Grocery and bought food for a week, and nabbed some empty boxes, too, so I could start going through Delia’s clothes.

I fixed spaghetti for my supper–enough for more than one, actually–and watched the local news and weather while I ate. After washing up, I opened all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, curious about what was there. The cabinets weren’t too bad, but the drawers were packed with mostly junk.

Sighing, I closed everything up and called it a day. Fatigue had set in, so I climbed the stairs, planning to read my current novel before I went to sleep.

When I flipped the switch in the bedroom, the lights blinked twice and then went off. It was a little unnerving, so I sat still on the bed for a moment. It was probably a blown fuse, but I listened for any sounds that might signal danger, suddenly a little frightened in this unfamiliar place. When I got my courage up, I left the bed and checked the bathroom lights–they didn’t work either. I stepped into the hall and could see down the staircase, where the little table lamp in the living room was still on.

I went in search of the breaker box, having no idea where it was. I finally found it on the wall of the laundry porch. I don’t know a lot about electricity, especially breaker boxes, but as best I could tell, this house had two mains. One of them was blown and wouldn’t reset; it must have been for upstairs.

I felt better about knowing the reason the lights went out and was even more relieved it wasn’t downstairs where the refrigerator was cooling the groceries I’d just bought. I’d call Steven tomorrow and ask for the name of an electrician.

Once I finally made it to bed, I thought about my first day back in Derry. Reconnecting with Steven had gone well, and I’d met a couple of nice folks. I’d encountered my first problem in Delia’s house, but I’d been sleeping in the dark for a long time. So, I nestled into a dead woman’s bed and let go of the day.

Chapter 5

I’m in the bathroom, scrubbing something off my hands. The stuff is dark, the color of eggplant, and it’s slimy. I turn the hot water on full blast and plunge my hands into it. The ick leaves my hands, turning the color of blood when it hits the sink.

A scream forms deep within me, but I’m terrified of making any noise. That’s when I hear it the first time–a raspy whisper. There’s splashing, too. I walk haltingly down the dark-as-pitch hallway, feeling my way along the walls, following the sound of my name.

Roxanne. Roxaaannne.

My feet hurt. I stop and lift one into my hand; the bottom of my bare foot is cut, and blood splatters as it drips from the end of my toes. The pain slows my steps even more.

Roxaaane!

The voice is so intense, yet still a whisper, but I’m close. My hand finds a door in the darkness. When I turn the handle, the door falls away from the frame as bright light nearly blinds me.

The splashing comes from a darkened bathroom on the right. There’s a figure in a bed; I can’t see it’s a young man…I just know it.

He bends at the waist, sitting up, unexpectedly. He has light brown hair and is smiling.

It’s Seth.

There’s a hole in his jaw and I can tell some of his back teeth are missing. As he turns toward the bathroom, I see that so is most of the back of his head.

My breath comes in gasps.

Seth says, I thought you’d never make it.

The bathroom door is ajar; I slowly push it open, although my mind says not to. Something is in the bathtub, under the roiling water, but it’s a blur.

Suddenly, it becomes clear.

BLAM!

I can see the gun, but the shot comes from somewhere else.

Where is it?

Now, someone is screaming.

OH GOD! HELP ME!

I awakened and began screaming, not recognizing the room. My legs began thrashing, and my fist hit the headboard, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I froze and lay there, gasping for air. Terrified, I see a body bound up in a twisted sheet, and nearly scream again, then realize it was my reflection in the dresser mirror.

I am soaked in sweat.

This was one of the worst. I’d been having nightmares about Seth since I’d learned of his death. Their frequency, as well as their intensity, had waned, now only coming two or three times a year. But he had appeared twice in the last three nights, although the first dream had not left me in wide-eyed terror.

I stayed still, trying to breathe deeply and slowly. As my heartbeat calmed, I carefully began to untangle myself from the sheet. Finally, I sat up, then started to stand, but my knees shook so hard, I dropped back on the bed and looked at myself in Delia’s mirror for a second time. The face that stared back questioned my judgment of having come here. The money had been the deciding factor, but now I wondered what it might cost me emotionally.

I finally made my way to the bathroom. A shower a followed by a bowl of cereal made me feel somewhat better. But I desperately wanted the lights back on upstairs.

Steven had written his home number on his business card, and I hoped he wouldn’t mind me calling him on Saturday. I finally found my cell phone in the bathroom where I’d left it after my shower. Sheesh, the life of cell phone users–when folks weren’t talking on the phone, they were looking for the damn thing.

A cheerful female voice answered, and I explained the reason for my call. She told me her name was Juliet, and it was no problem for me to call on a Saturday. I heard her say, It’s Roxie Whitson.

Thanks Babe, Steven said, and then, Hi, Roxie. How are you this morning?

Steven, you didn’t tell me yesterday you had a roommate, I teased.

He laughed and said, I was a bit preoccupied. Juliet and I have been married almost twelve years.

That’s wonderful! Hey, forgive me for calling on a Saturday, but I need the name of a good electrician.

Now, Roxie, you can’t really do any work like that in the house until you’ve signed the papers Monday.

Oh, I remember you telling me that. I’m not making any changes; it’s just that there’s no electricity in the upstairs of the house. I think it’s a blown circuit, but what do I know?

Oh, okay…the best electrician in town is a good friend–Caleb Bridges. I’ll call him and let him know what’s going on. Any particular time?

The sooner the better. Thanks, Steven; see you Monday.

I started cleaning out the closet in the second bedroom. Hoping to see some sunshine, I pulled back the filthy curtains, but the windows weren’t any better. The closet wasn’t full, just an old coat and several church dresses hung there. I pulled them out and folded them into a box and saw a couple of winter bathrobes as well. One was caught on a garment bag that was shoved way off to the side.

I hauled it out of the closet with the robes and fought the zipper until it opened. Inside was an incredible evening gown, which looked like something from a Forties’ movie. A dark, midnight-blue skirt, made from what I guessed was taffeta, flowed from a cap-sleeve top, moderately low-cut, but the taffeta bodice was overlaid with lace in the same shade of blue. It was a gorgeous dress, still in incredible condition.

My mind boggled at the notion Aunt Delia would have ever worn something so frivolous and impractical. It looked like a dress for a special date, and it completely rewired my assumptions about my great aunt. I held it up against me; it looked like it would fit. This dress was going home with me!

A plain ivory bedspread was folded over the footboard. I put it into the box of donations and considered the curtains, but they were dirty beyond washing and made me sneeze as I took them down to throw in the trash. Besides the bed frame, the only furniture in the room was a night table and small dresser.

I went back into Delia’s bedroom, where I found a packed closet and wondered how long it had been since it had been cleaned. I wasn’t about to start pulling things out of there without a long-sleeve shirt and gloves.

After checking the time, I went downstairs to have a quick bite, then looked around for cleaning items, including the vacuum. I heard a vehicle in the drive, and assumed it was the electrician.

I had expected an older guy with a big gut, low-riding pants, and maybe a little buttcrack showing.

Caleb Bridges blew apart my expectations. Probably only a few years older than I, he was tan, but not in a way that looked like he worked at it.

When I opened the door, he said, Hi, Miss Whitson, I’m Caleb Bridges, the electrician. Is now a good time?

He smiled, and suddenly level-headed me…wasn’t.

Oh–right, yes…it is. Come on in.

I led him to the laundry porch and pointed out the circuit box. He stepped over to it, and I watched him from the door, that vantage point offering a different perspective. He was several inches taller than me, and his sandy brown hair fell a little over his ears. When he had walked past me, there was no heavy aftershave or cologne, just a fresh, subdued