Chapter 20
Rosehill is smaller than it was forty years ago.
The wide streets I once ran down barefoot, full of childhood wonder, narrowed by time and age. The corner store where we bought candy is gone, replaced by a dollar store. The diner where I had my first date has long since been knocked down, a bank standing in its place.
This town used to feel endless. Something waiting to happen at every turn. The old gazebo that used to be my stage. The boutique I used to shop at, the lake I reluctantly went skinny dipping, that one summer.
The garden.
Getting out was supposed to make things better, but the same feeling from so long ago threatens to push on my heart when I see that strip mall they built over our garden.
I roll down the window, letting the fresh summer air wash over me. It still smells the same. Different than Atlanta.
More like home.
There’s a cluster of kids on bicycles, laughing the same way we used to, riding across the street. A bell clangs from the church I attended as a child, a sound that should comfort me, but instead makes my chest ache.
I met Scott at that very same church.
The town has moved on without me, wiping my memories away, building by building until there’s nothing left. But even so, there’s a familiarity here that I could never feel anywhere else.
I turn down Maple Street, where I used to chase after my brothers, wanting to be included but being much too young. Where Clara would chase after me and…
Don’t think about her.
The charming homes closer to town, with their peeling paint and flower beds, slowly give way to larger, more polished mansions. Perfectly manicured lawns, expensive vehicles, an extravagance unlike the rest of Rosehill. I don’t let my gaze linger on her old house.
My parents’ estate hasn’t changed much. It still towers over the street with its ivy-clad walls and wide arched entry. Even from the road, I have to admit, the grounds are beautiful.
Clara has done well, taking care of our childhood home. It only made sense that after mom and dad died, she got to keep the house.
She was here.
My sister waves to me from the porch, her face lighting up the same way it does when we get to see each other. She’s aged like we all have, in her fifties now, but she hasn’t lost that bright energy. Part of me can’t help but look at her and see the little girl she used to be.
Her husband Tommy is beside her, a handsome man, with that calm, steady smile that would make anyone feel safe. A wonderful match for my sister, thankfully, she was able to see reason when they grew up.
There’s no better person to love than your best friend.
“Diana!” Clara exclaims, running down the porch stairs. I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. Seeing her is comforting, exactly what I needed.
Tommy stays on the porch, waving. Even after all these years, they’re effortless together. They laugh easily, they have a partnership, leaning on each other in a way that makes me ache in a way I can’t think too hard about.
That simple, steady love is something I’ve never had.
“It’s so good to see you both,” I say, hauling myself out of the car, my joints aching after the six-hour drive.
Clara pulls me into a hug. “Welcome home, Di. I can’t believe you’re finally back.”
And just like that, some of the tension I’ve been carrying since Scott died, since even before, when I decided to leave forty years ago, starts to melt away.
I’m right where I should be.
When I finish unpacking the last of my suitcases, the sun has set, and a sliver of moon has taken its place. The house smells faintly of Clara’s cooking, the recipe is a familiar one.
Mom’s chicken.
I almost forget I’ve aged, that I haven’t been home in so long. I’m still sixteen, in my bedroom, waiting for Scott to call.
I find Clara and Tommy in the living room, standing close together. Tommy’s hands rest on her waist as they talk in soft voices about something that makes them both laugh.
When I step off the stairs, they look up, and Tommy grins.
“There she is,” he says, letting go of Clara to give me a brief, warm hug. “You all settled?”
“As much as I can be.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll let you girls catch up. But don’t stay up too late. You know she’ll talk your ear off.”
“Go to bed, Tommy,” Clara says, swatting his arm. He kisses her cheek before heading down the hall, leaving us with the soft hum of the television and the clink as Clara reaches for a couple of wine glasses from the small bar.
“Red or white?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I say, easing down onto the couch.
She pours two glasses, handing one to me as she sits down, curling her feet under herself. “So, how does it feel to be home?”
I swirl the wine, watching the way it catches the light from the glass chandelier overhead. “Strange,” I admit. “In some ways, everything is different, but in others… I don’t know. It still feels like home.”
She smiles softly, resting her hand over mine. “That’s Rosehill for you.”
We sit in a silence heavy with everything we haven’t said. What happened before I left, the distance time put between us.
We used to be so close.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” she finally says, taking a sip from her glass.
“I never planned on coming back.” I exhale, long and slow. “But after Scott died, the house was so empty. The kids have their own lives. They visit, but…”
Clara nods, a strand of blonde hair falling loose. “It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not.”
I swallow the rest of my wine down in a gulp. “I don’t even know what to do with myself anymore. Scott’s gone, the kids don’t need me anymore. All I’ve ever done is be a wife and a mother and now…. I feel like I don’t have a purpose.”
Her eyes soften as she scoots closer, wrapping me in a hug. “You’ve spent enough time taking care of everyone else, Diana. It’s time to live for yourself. Figure out what makes you happy.”
I glance sideways at her, uncertain.
“I mean it.” She encourages. “Look at this as a fresh start, you can do anything you want. As long as you’re doing it for you.”
I think about it, but the truth is, it doesn’t take long for it to come to me. “I’ve… always wanted to try gardening.”
Clara smiles, and I can’t help but match hers with my own. “Perfect! Tomorrow, we’ll go to the farmers’ market. Pick up some seeds, have Tommy dig up some patches for you. What are you thinking, fruit? Veggies? flowers?”
I laugh softly, something I don’t do much these days. “I’ll probably start with something simple. I don’t know if I’ll be any good after all these years.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Clara says with a wave. “This is your new beginning.”
I push open the door to my old bedroom, expecting the pink walls I once knew. But it’s not my room anymore, it hasn’t been for a long time.
It’s been painted a neutral cream, decorated with generic art, and the bedspread is crisp and white.
A guest room.
I run a hand over the fabric, remembering how it felt to curl up here as a teenager in my plush pink comforter. The texture is all wrong. It’s simple, tasteful. None of the chaos and warmth that made the room mine.
I sit on the edge of the bed, letting the emptiness sink in.
I knew things would change, but does everything I loved here have to be gone? My childhood has been painted over, repackaged for a new world that doesn’t fit anymore. A sigh escapes me as I feel the weight of the years pressing down.
I suppose I’m not the same person I was back then, either.
The morning sun is bright and warm as we stroll through the town square.
The smell of fresh-baked cookies drifts through the air, mingling with the scent of cut grass.
With new people moving to Rosehill, the farmers’ market has grown into something like a festival.
Booths fill the square, each one a little island of color and passion.
Clara nudges me toward a row of starter plants. “Anything catch your eye?”
I bend over to look at the potted strawberries, but my gaze catches on little envelopes with drawings of sunflowers, zinnias, roses.
You name it, they probably have it.
“I want color. Lots of it.”
She smiles. “That’s the spirit! Let’s start with these.”
We continue walking, stopping now and then when Clara sees someone she recognizes or a booth she wants to look at.
I’m distracted by the gazebo in the center of town, surrounded by families of all shapes and sizes.
Couples laughing, children chasing each other between the booths.
All of the faces blend together for me, time taking away any recognition.
But when we round a corner past a stall filled with jars of different flavors of honey, someone catches my eye across the grass.
Someone that no amount of time could ever make me forget.
She’s at a booth decorated with a hand-painted sign and twinkle lights, arranging colorful pottery on a shelf. Long gray-streaked ginger hair braided back, faded overalls, a hint of a sunburn on her pale arms.
When a young girl holding a painted cup approaches her, she smiles, chatting as she wraps it carefully for her.
My chest tightens.
The curve of her shoulders, the way they shake when she laughs, the calm confidence in her movements…
It pulls at something in me that I haven’t let myself touch in a long time.
I stand there, frozen, watching her every move, for who knows how long. I can’t tear my eyes away, in fear that she won’t be real. That she’ll disappear again.
Clara stops beside me, holding a jar of strawberry honey. She follows my gaze across the grass, going as still as I am when she sees who I’m watching.
“You know,” she says softly, knowing firsthand how much it means.
“She never left.”