I’m thinking about painting, stretching a canvas, when I look up, and I’m at the corner.
It hits me like a gut punch. The old house takes up the entire block with its curved porches and arched latticework. The yard is pristine as always—crepe myrtles and gardenia bushes. It’s too late for the gardenias, but the bushes are thick with leaves. Other bushes are dotted with cranberry-red clusters of flowers.
My breath is shallow as my eyes rise higher to the cedar shake roof, to her old window hidden behind the tall oak tree. One thick branch extends like a ramp from the ledge to the ground. I involuntarily clutch my stomach as a phantom memory assaults my mind.
I can see Ember swinging over that narrow gap between the roof and the tree. She was quick and nimble. She moved like a dancer, sure and strong…
“Hello! You there?” The strong female voice cuts through my internal distress.
It’s stern and authoritative. It’s so familiar.
“Young man!” she insists. “This is private property!”
Pushing off the painted fence, I turn to see the woman I remember well. From her startled expression and the way her eyebrows shoot up, I can tell she remembers me, too.
“Jack?” It’s just above a whisper. “Jack Lockwood?”
“Hello, Miss Marjorie.” I gesture to her fence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be on your land. I just… I…”
I don’t know what to say to her. She never wanted me here. Anytime I was, I was sneaking around, or I would sit in my car out there at the corner, waiting until I saw Ember dash across the road and into the woods just beyond the settlement.
The wild woods with the path that led all the way to the shore, to our place. The place where we would meet.
“What are you doing here?”
I have to confess, I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me the same question. “It’s my home. I came back to see if anything has changed.” That’s a new reason. Is it true?
“You weren’t supposed to come back.”
She’s never looked this way in my memory—confused, anxious… afraid? I don’t care about this woman standing in front of me. I didn’t care about her as a teen, and that sure as hell hasn’t changed now. Only one question is burning in the top of my mind.
“How is she?” Nostalgia, longing, regret… all the feelings of loss twist together in my chest.
Her mother’s lips tighten, and I see her fear turn to fury. “The same as she ever was.”
“What does that mean?” I don’t intend for my tone to be forceful. Still, it came out as a challenge.
“It means she’s still better off without you.” With that, Marjorie Warren turns on her heel and storms into her enormous home, slamming the door.
I’m left staring at the mansion, knowing the words aren’t right. They can’t be right.
Only… what made Ember start believing them? At some point after I left, something changed. I remember that night, talking to my father, seeing the proof it was over…
I slowly return the way I came. Passing the poboy shop, I decide I’m
not hungry. Talking to Marjorie has left me feeling exhausted and beat down. Everyone keeps asking me the same question—why am I here?
I’d thought it was to clear my head, get some perspective on work, but now I’m thinking I came here for another reason. Something in me needs to put the past to rest. I need to close this door. I need to write the end to this chapter of my life.
Back in the cottage, I pull out my laptop and do something I’ve fought against for years. I open a search engine and type the name Emberly Rose Warren. My finger actually hesitates before I hit Enter and wait.
In a blink, the page fills with entries, but none of them are her. One is a stripper, which almost makes me laugh. Clicking the Images tab turns up nothing. She’s not here.
The answer to my question won’t be found that easily.
Six
Ember