She was staring out the window, silent. I didn't want to interrupt whatever flow of memories was washing over her right now, but at the same time I kept wanting to ask her, "Is this it? Where did you live? Is that your road there? Did you play in the playground over there back when it was nicer looking? What's that big thing up on top of the mountain? Do any of your friends still live here? What about your family? Is this the road you lived on? What about this one?"

So many questions without answers, because she was still silent. The nostalgia must have been overwhelming her. I tried to imagine how it would feel for me, rolling up in Barcombe after many years away. I'd probably be speechless as well. She was probably running through her catalog of memories right now, checking to see what it was that had changed, what she still remembered, what was still the same. That's what I would do. And to do that, I'd need a closer look.

With that thought in mind, I pulled slowly into one of the angled parking spots on Main Street, and put the truck in park.

I took a deep breath, looking around me. No, it wasn't what I'd pictured. Not by a longshot, not from her descriptions of the place, that was for sure. It was far more tired, far more ragged around the edges. There was none of the beauty that she'd rhapsodized about and for a second I wondered if she'd been having me on. If she'd been telling me stories that had no bearing in the truth.

But no matter. Claybrook was where she'd came from, and it was important that I see it. "Want to get out?" I asked her finally.

"Okay," she said in a small voice that didn't sound like hers at all. I wondered if maybe she was overwhelmed.

Then suddenly I felt like the biggest prat in the world. Of course she wasn't getting out, she was waiting for me to open the door for her. I rushed over to grab it, certain that I'd solved the mystery.

But when I opened the door, I saw that she was white-faced, her lips bloodless. "You okay, Angel?" I asked her, suddenly concerned.

Her eyes flashed that tough little spark. "Fine," she said shortly, and the steel in her voice made me feel marginally better, like maybe this hadn't all been one huge mistake.

She stepped out of the cab of the pickup, and looked around slowly, almost warily. She still didn't say a word about the place.

I couldn't take it any longer. "I want you to tell me about it," I told her finally.

When she didn't say anything, I gestured to the restaurant across the street. "Start small, darling. I'm not asking for a tour here. Just tell me about it. Which store did you shop at?" I craned my neck down the street. "Oh, is it maybe closed now?"

"Yeah." She looked around, and then up at me with a tight smile. For a second, I wondered what she was going to say. The expression on her face told me it wasn't going to be pleasant.

But then she seemed to decide something. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I used to go to the music shop a lot downtown," she said slowly. She gestured over to where a pawnshop stood now. "It was right over there."

Her music store had closed. Okay. No matter then. "That's great, darling," I encouraged her. "What else? Did you eat at that restaurant over there?"

I saw her swallow. "We didn't really have enough money to eat out."

I closed my eyes, inwardly cursing myself. "Right. I'm a prat."

She smiled. "But I did work there," she added. "Was my first job, actually." She grinned wider. "I was an absolutely terrible waitress."

I chuckled. "Having to be nice to people all day and not allowed to swear? I can imagine."

She laughed. "I quit by dumping a bowl of soup on my boss's neck," she confessed.

I nodded gravely. "I can imagine that too."

She laughed a little harder, socking me in the arm with a well-placed blow, and I rubbed it, grimacing theatrically, playing her for laughs to make her loosen up, to make her to see what this meant to me. How much I needed to know her. She gazed up at me, and something crossed her face and I thought maybe she might be starting to realize it, when suddenly her gaze locked on something over my shoulder, and she froze.

I turned to look in the direction she was staring. The door to a local pub had just opened. She shrank behind me, as if trying to hide between me and the truck. "Darling?" I asked.

She looked down and shook her head really fast. "Let's go," she said.

I narrowed my eyes. "Why, who is that man?" For indeed, it was a man that had come out, shambling, staggering to the side even though it was not even one in the afternoon. He looked drunker than anything, and his frayed jeans hung off his body like he hadn't had a solid meal in a very long time.

"I want to leave," Reese said, a little more firmly.

I nodded. "Of course, of course we will. Yes." I craned my neck. "But who is he?"

"Niall, don't," she said through clenched teeth.

"Teresa?"

The man's voice was creaky, slurring her name so that it came out in a jumbled mish-mash that I almost didn't recognize as her name.

But she did. With a great, heaving sigh, she slid her reproachful gaze over me, and towards the man on the street.

"Hi Dad," she said.