A light spring breeze lifts the side-swept bangs off my forehead. The air smells clean with a hint of freshly dug earth. It makes a heavenly change from the smog of LA. I breathe it deeply into my lungs. Through the lenses of my dark glasses, I watch the priest say the last rites. His voice is gravelly and solemn.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

There should be sadness in my heart. Instead there is nothing.  I think of her as she was. Beautiful and cold. No, cold is the wrong word. I guess she was bitter. She always viewed me as the competition, but when Dad died and left the house to me with the provision that she could live her life out in it, I became the enemy. How she hated me, silently, coldly, viciously.

While I lived with her I hated her back with an equal intensity, but after I left with a broken heart, I understood her bitterness. My father shouldn’t have left the house to me. It was a betrayal. He should have left it to her. She was his wife. I sent her money every month even though she neither acknowledged it, or thanked me.

I look down at my black Louboutins. I should have known better than to wear them. The heels are too high, and if don’t hold them with the spikes hovering slightly above the ground, they sink into the soft earth.

The priest stops speaking and turns his head to look at me.

I drop the red rose in my hand on the white casket and I turn around to leave. People I have not seen or heard for ten years mill around me. They wear concerned expressions, well-meaning faces filled with genuine kindness and regret. They are good people. I grew up with them. Almost family. But I can’t let them unravel me.

Smiling vaguely at no one in particular I quickly start walking towards my car. Marco, my driver rushes to open the door of the hired car. I slip in smoothly. He closes the door and I exhale. I’ve done my duty. I’ve given her a good burial.

Marco gets in and winds the partition down. “Hotel?”

“Yes,” I confirm quietly.

“Right,” He nods and actives the remote partition upwards.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “No. Not the hotel. Take me to my mother’s house first.”

“Got it,” he says smartly.

The car goes through the streets. It is like being in a time warp.

Nothing has changed, Dairy Queen, Tucker’s Diner, the plastic dog outside the hardware shop. There’s old Jenkins sitting outside his tattoo shop sunning himself with a beer can in his hand. His face is pure leather, but he is still alive and well. We used to pop firecrackers into his mailbox and he would run out of his house his face purple with rage, screaming blue murder.

Marco drives up to the house.

The shutters are drawn. There is a sad air of stillness and neglect around it.

“You can go back to the hotel, Marco. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“You’re sure?”

I nod and get out of the car. It is strange not be mobbed by paparazzi and fans. Actually, it’s rather wonderful not to have to run like a criminal from the car to the door all the time. For years, I believed I wanted fame. I wanted to be recognized everywhere I went. I wanted to be a big star, but now I know I don’t.

Marco drives away and I go up the wooden steps to the wide porch. I glance at the rocking chair at one corner and feel an odd twinge. A feeling. How strange. I haven’t felt anything for years. My cell rings, the sound muted, but oddly jarring. As if my other busy life has already come to intrude. I take it out of my purse and look at the screen. It’s Nick, my manager. I walk to the rocking chair. Sitting in it I click accept.

“Where are you now?” he asks.

“At the house.”

“You mean the funeral is already over?”

“Yeah,” I reply distantly. I don’t want to talk to him. The sound of the chair creaking against the wood is soothing. My mother used to sit here a lot with me in her lap after she fell ill. I close my eyes. Memories swarm back. Memories of Mom, memories of Dad, memories of Cole. My stomach clenches into a painful knot. I push the images away and open my eyes.

“Are you all right?” Nick sounds concerned, whether for me or my career is hard to tell, but he is definitely genuinely concerned.

“Yes.” My voice is clipped and hard.

“You sure you don’t want me to come?”

“Absolutely. I’m not hanging around long, anyway. I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s good. There’s nothing left for you in that godforsaken town.”

“No,” I agree, but an ache deep inside me starts to throb. I left something here, Nick. I left my heart.

“All right, then. Call me if you need anything, or if you just want to talk, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you,” he says.

“Call you later.”

I end the call, close my eyes and try to think of Nick’s warm brown eyes. He cares about me. I have a good life in LA.

My eyes are drawn to the magnolia tree. The swing is gone, but the treehouse is still there. I bite my lip. Maybe later I will go and explore it. I slip my shoes off, take the key from under the flower pot, and open the front door. Inside it is dim and full of still shadows.

I close the door and lean against it. I breathe in the stale and musty. Underneath it there is a strong chemical odor of medicine. My step-mother lived here alone for the last six years.

For a moment, I have an overwhelming desire to walk out of the house, and call Marco to come back and take me to the hotel, then I decide that I don’t want to see anyone at the hotel. I’m tired and I just want to sleep. 

The doorbell rings and the sound startles me. I look through the peephole and see Mrs. Tucker from next door standing outside. She is in her Sunday best. Suppressing a sigh, I open the door.

“Hello Taylor. I’ve brought you some casserole. I thought maybe we could have lunch together.”

I hang on to the doorknob and plaster a smile on my face. “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker. That is so kind of you, but honestly, I’m just not in the mood to eat anything right now.”

Her face fall which kinda makes me feel guilty, but I just can’t face having to make small talk with anyone right now. She holds the container out to me. “Well then, honey, you eat it when you feel like it. I’ll be at home if you need me.”

Reluctantly, I take the casserole that I know I will never eat. “Thank you.”

She turns to go then spins back. “I’ve followed your career, you know. You’ve done our little town proud, my girl. Both Mr. Tucker and I are very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Tucker.”

“Well, I just though you should know.”

“It’s very kind of you to say that. Thank you.” I smile again.

“Well, all right. I’ll be going, then.”

“Good bye, Mrs. Tucker.”

I put the casserole on the kitchen table and the doorbell goes again. With a frown, I go to answer it. It’ll probably be another neighbor bearing more food I can’t eat. I don’t even bother to look through the peephole this time. I open the door and smile at Betty Crankshaw. She is wearing a blue hat and carrying a cake tin.

“I’ve brought some muffins for you, love. I know you love blueberry muffins.”