“Is someone moving in next door?” I ask.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you. Yes, a really nice woman named Bree. She actually owns that little craft shop that opened a few months ago in the old dress store,” Mom tells me. “Apparently, she’s been renting a place just outside town, but just bought the house next door.”
“Is it just her?” I ask.
“Just her. Never married.”
Isaiah makes a sound something close to pity. His eyebrows draw in close together as he contemplates a world where a woman old enough to buy her own house hasn’t settled down.
“We should have her over for dinner,” my father suggests. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
“We’ll let her settle in a bit first, but that would be nice,” Mom agrees. “Wren, go on and set the table. The cornbread is about to come out of the oven.”
Isaiah picks up a stack of napkins and placemats before following me into the dining room. We never eat in the dining room during the week. Meals are always around the round table in the kitchen alcove. But on Sundays, everything moves to the dining room.
I follow behind Isaiah, arranging the dishes on the placemats he puts into place at each setting. There are five of them, and just as he leans in for a brief kiss after setting the fifth, my uncle bursts into the house. His laugh is bright and real, coming from somewhere deep inside him and filling the room. He pats Isaiah heavily on the back and kisses my cheek, then disappears into the kitchen. It’s just him, too. Always has been. But somehow that doesn’t create the same reaction.
After lunch, Isaiah and I curl up under a quilt on the porch swing. He’s warm and familiar beside me, holding me with one arm and resting his head against mine. We’ll sit like this for a while, watch the afternoon drift by, wondering idly if there’ll be snow. In the spring, we wait for rain; in the summer, a breeze; in the fall, the smell of burning leaves. Before too long, he’ll get his jacket, kiss me goodbye on the front porch, and go home. He’s never here when the sun goes down.
I glance back over my shoulder and watch the woman moving in next door drop a welcome mat on her front porch and wonder about her life.
2
Talon
My father and I didn’t exchange a single word in the car this morning. There was nothing more to his goodbye at the airport than a terse nod and a few muttered platitudes about enjoying the end of the school year.
That isn’t why I’m on this plane, skidding down the runway of a tiny airport as we land. Coming here has nothing to do with enjoying the end of my school year or seeking new opportunities. He threw those words around over the last few weeks, mostly to his girlfriend. Not that I really needed to do any covering for her. She knows as well as I do, the only reason I’m here is he’s tired of dealing with my shit.
He wants to keep me out of trouble until I graduate and leave for college. Getting me out of the city means not as much chance to get in trouble. Not as many girls to work my way through and embarrass him when their daddies turn out to be his business associates. If nothing else, I’m glad to be rid of that drama. They should have known better than to get wrapped up in me.
Not that this was my father’s idea. He’d just as soon leave me to stuff more hours into his work schedule and go on more business trips, so he has to deal with it as little as possible. If it wasn’t for my aunt, I’d still be at my old school, graduating with the same people I’ve always known. If it was anybody but my aunt, I’d have told my father to fuck himself.
She’s waiting for me when I come through the door right past security, holding up a sign with my name on it. I laugh, shaking my head as I walk up to her.
“Think I wouldn’t recognize you after six months?” I ask.
“I figured you’re used to your chauffeurs standing around with signs when you jet around with your father. Just helping you feel at home,” she says with her wide, honest smile.
“Making me feel at home would probably start with not talking about my father,” I point out.
She makes a soft, understanding sound and opens her arms to gather me in a hug. Not for the first time, I wonder if she realizes she’s the only person in my life, I let hug me.
“This is going to be good for you, Tal,” she says to me. “You’re going to like it here.”
She’s also the only person in my life I let still call me ‘Tal’, the name I absolutely refuse to go by ever again.
“Is that the entire spiel you used to convince my father?” I ask.
She laughs and steps away from me. “Come on. Let’s go get your suitcases.”
I stare out of the window as she drives me through town back to her house. She’s only lived here for a few weeks after moving from the city six months ago, but she talks about it like it’s always been home.
“Why did you move out here?” I ask.
She’s in the middle of a sentence, and she stumbles on the ends of words already starting out of her mouth. I look over at her across the center console of her truck. If there is a vehicle that represents everything my life in Atlanta is not, I think it’s this one.
“I like the quiet. There are already enough craft shops in Atlanta.” She chuckles. “There is already enough everything in Atlanta. It’s been my dream for a long time, and it got to the point where there was no more reason not to follow it. Life’s too short not to.”
She glances at me, and the pain-filled tenderness in her eyes hardens my throat. I would rather her smile. When she smiles, she looks like my mother. Bree is her younger sister, and the only connection I have left to her.
“What is there to do around here?” I ask.
So far, the landscape hasn’t looked too promising.
“I’m sure you’ll find plenty. School has already started back up for the semester, so I’m sure you’ll meet some kids who can show you around.”
That doesn’t interest me. I doubt anyone from around here is going to be able to keep my interest for long.
“Any historical points of interest?”
History fascinates me. Something about looking into the past and watching stories unfold when you already know how it’s going to play out intrigues me. My aunt’s eyes, blue like those my mother gave to me, slide over to me.
“A few things. Some old houses. A couple battlefields relatively nearby. You’ll settle in, Talon. I think you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
We pull into the driveway of a house that looks straight out of a small-town still-life painting. Remnants of a recent snow cling to the grass and pile in the corners of the white wood steps leading up onto the porch. A wreath still hangs on the door, the cardinal nestled in its boughs, a droplet of vibrant red against the wash of pale color.
Bree points to a round window near the top of the house. “That’s your room. It takes up most of the upstairs. I figured you could use the privacy. A few boxes arrived for you yesterday, but I think your father said there was going to be more. Want to go inside?”
As we start toward the porch, my backpack slung over my aunt’s back while I carry my two suitcases, a car pulls up in front of the house next door. The driver’s side door opens, and a guy climbs out. He scurries around to the passenger’s side and opens the door. He reaches in and helps a girl out. She barely glances my way, but I pause. They walk quickly to the front porch, and I continue to where my aunt stands at her open front door.