the weathermen had promised, the lack of leaves served to open up the vistas even more, providing stunning glimpses of dark, high-stacked anvil cloud formations.
Finally she circled through the state park, passing the 1950’s era dam that towered over the Loyalhanna River to form the lake to the south. The house she’d grown up in, the only home she’d known before leaving for college, was up in the mountains beyond the river, surrounded by forest. The nearest house was almost three miles away. There were two state owned cabins a mile or so down a logging road, but, old, isolated, and in disrepair, they were rarely rented out anymore. Folks preferred the convenience of being near the lake with its recreation area and full service campgrounds including Wi-Fi and cell reception.
When she pulled off the two lane road that switchbacked up the mountain and onto the drive that led to her family home, a wave of nostalgia hit her, more like a tsunami crashing down on her, memories of all the hundreds of time she’d driven this way.
Her and Dad returning home with the perfect Christmas tree strapped to the truck; her mom and her coming home from the grocery store, their bags laden with ingredients to create the best Thanksgiving feast imaginable; the rustle of crinolines and smell of fresh flowers from her mother’s corsage after Lucy made her first communion; the fear in her mother’s eyes when they came home from the hospital that first time her father collapsed and the doctor had told them he had cancer; Megan in her car seat, not even two months old, that first trip up to visit her mom…so many memories of coming home and for each and every one Lucy’s mom was there to greet her.
Until today. Suddenly the pain in her leg was nothing compared to the knot of grief that tightened her chest. The gusting wind, driven by the approaching storm, swirled dead leaves across the drive in front of her as if stirring dire dregs in a fortune teller’s tea cup. Omens and portents. Or merely the weight of grief. She couldn’t tell.
Finally, the house appeared. It was a simple ranch design, nothing fancy about it except the gingerbread her father had hung along the porch eaves and a river rock chimney at one end. Her dad had died when Lucy was twelve, but before the cancer, that’s what he did: built houses. Not just houses, he’d say proudly, homes. But now the red bricks, forest green shutters, and cream siding all looked dull and faded compared to Lucy’s memory.
She pulled the MiniCooper to a stop in front of the garage and sat there. Seth climbed out of the back, his joints cracking from being folded into the small confines for so long, and helped June out. Still Lucy sat, staring at the front door. Family never used the front door; they went in through the always-open garage, directly into the laundry room and kitchen.
But today the garage was closed. Today no one was waiting, anticipating their arrival with a fresh pot of coffee and homemade pizelles still warm, the kitchen smelling of anise and cinnamon.
Seth guided June up the walk to the front door, supporting her with an arm around her waist. She stopped and looked back at Lucy, said something to Seth and he left her, reluctantly, Lucy could see from where she sat in the car, and returned to open Lucy’s door for her.
“Is it your leg?” he asked kindly. “I could tell it was hurting—those bumpy roads didn’t help, I’m sure.” As he spoke, he reached into the back seat and retrieved her cane and bag. He handed her the cane and took her elbow and before she knew it, he had her out of the car and standing once more. Funny to see a man whose opponents nicknamed him the Hawk capable of such gentle compassion.
Watching him with June, it shouldn’t have surprised her, but somehow it still did. As if there was an undercurrent of the aggressive prosecutor hiding beneath his domesticated demeanor.
“Thanks,” she said, handing him her keys. “The silver one
Finally she circled through the state park, passing the 1950’s era dam that towered over the Loyalhanna River to form the lake to the south. The house she’d grown up in, the only home she’d known before leaving for college, was up in the mountains beyond the river, surrounded by forest. The nearest house was almost three miles away. There were two state owned cabins a mile or so down a logging road, but, old, isolated, and in disrepair, they were rarely rented out anymore. Folks preferred the convenience of being near the lake with its recreation area and full service campgrounds including Wi-Fi and cell reception.
When she pulled off the two lane road that switchbacked up the mountain and onto the drive that led to her family home, a wave of nostalgia hit her, more like a tsunami crashing down on her, memories of all the hundreds of time she’d driven this way.
Her and Dad returning home with the perfect Christmas tree strapped to the truck; her mom and her coming home from the grocery store, their bags laden with ingredients to create the best Thanksgiving feast imaginable; the rustle of crinolines and smell of fresh flowers from her mother’s corsage after Lucy made her first communion; the fear in her mother’s eyes when they came home from the hospital that first time her father collapsed and the doctor had told them he had cancer; Megan in her car seat, not even two months old, that first trip up to visit her mom…so many memories of coming home and for each and every one Lucy’s mom was there to greet her.
Until today. Suddenly the pain in her leg was nothing compared to the knot of grief that tightened her chest. The gusting wind, driven by the approaching storm, swirled dead leaves across the drive in front of her as if stirring dire dregs in a fortune teller’s tea cup. Omens and portents. Or merely the weight of grief. She couldn’t tell.
Finally, the house appeared. It was a simple ranch design, nothing fancy about it except the gingerbread her father had hung along the porch eaves and a river rock chimney at one end. Her dad had died when Lucy was twelve, but before the cancer, that’s what he did: built houses. Not just houses, he’d say proudly, homes. But now the red bricks, forest green shutters, and cream siding all looked dull and faded compared to Lucy’s memory.
She pulled the MiniCooper to a stop in front of the garage and sat there. Seth climbed out of the back, his joints cracking from being folded into the small confines for so long, and helped June out. Still Lucy sat, staring at the front door. Family never used the front door; they went in through the always-open garage, directly into the laundry room and kitchen.
But today the garage was closed. Today no one was waiting, anticipating their arrival with a fresh pot of coffee and homemade pizelles still warm, the kitchen smelling of anise and cinnamon.
Seth guided June up the walk to the front door, supporting her with an arm around her waist. She stopped and looked back at Lucy, said something to Seth and he left her, reluctantly, Lucy could see from where she sat in the car, and returned to open Lucy’s door for her.
“Is it your leg?” he asked kindly. “I could tell it was hurting—those bumpy roads didn’t help, I’m sure.” As he spoke, he reached into the back seat and retrieved her cane and bag. He handed her the cane and took her elbow and before she knew it, he had her out of the car and standing once more. Funny to see a man whose opponents nicknamed him the Hawk capable of such gentle compassion.
Watching him with June, it shouldn’t have surprised her, but somehow it still did. As if there was an undercurrent of the aggressive prosecutor hiding beneath his domesticated demeanor.
“Thanks,” she said, handing him her keys. “The silver one
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