I work on getting Celina’s things unpacked and her room set up while she sleeps. I have no idea what Momma’s downstairs doing other than cooking. Probably pounding shots of vodka. She was never a drinker, but I’d say this would be enough to turn anybody into a lush. At least for a night. I know I sure as hell could use a little alcoholic assistance.

For a second, I actually consider sneaking into my room and raiding my suitcase for the bottle of tequila I brought with me. It’s nearly as old as Celina, but I brought it because…well, Shepherd’s Mill. ’Nough said.

But, alas, I reconsider. It’s not worth waking Celina up for. I go back to unpacking until I hear the regal voice of my mother, calling us for dinner.

“Coming!” I reply as cheerfully as I can manage.

I lever myself up and head around the stairwell to my old room. I open the door quietly and whisper, “Celina, you awake?”

“No, I’m asleep. Why wouldn’t I be asleep? It’s so quiet here.” Her words drip with sarcasm.

“So what you’re saying is I’m noisy. Is that it?”

Celina angles her body toward me and slants a mocking eye in my direction. “A wrecking crew is quieter than you, Mom. Do you drop everything?”

“Drop it like it’s hot, drop it like it’s hot, drop it like it’s hot,” I start rapping, to which my daughter covers her ears and begins to plead with me to stop.

“Why are you even up here? Shouldn’t you have helped cook or something? Something downstairs?”

“I offered. And I was brutally rebuffed for my efforts, thank you very much.”

Celina rolls back on to her side, facing away from me, but I can still hear her plain as day. “I can’t imagine why.”

“So droll. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Momma.” More derision as she sits up and turns to look at me. “You can order takeout like a pro, but actual cooking?”

“My spaghetti sauce—”

“Comes from a jar.”

“My Asian stir fry—”

“Starts out frozen.”

I try again. “My tacos are—”

“From a box labeled ‘Taco Bell’.”

“Dammit!” I deflate visibly. “Just what are you saying?”

“I love you, but you can’t cook. I’m sorry. It’s just not your strong suit.” Celina slides off the bed and makes her way to me, throwing a conciliatory arm around my shoulders. “It’s okay. We survived. Besides, who needs to cook with so much food out there that’s already prepared, just waiting for two lovely ladies like us to order up?” She says the last—order up!—exactly like the fry cook at Waffle House does.

I smile down at her. “That’s my girl. Waste not, want not.”

We make our way down the stairs. My mother is standing at the bottom, casting a disapproving look up at us. Celina and I stop a few feet from her, and Momma scans us from head to toe.

“Is that what you’re wearing?”

I glance down. I’m wearing the same jeans and tee I was when we arrived. Celina, too.

“What? We’re still clean.”

“Clean. Yes.” How can someone make that sound like a bad thing? How does one actually sneer over the word “clean”?

I hike my thumb over my shoulder. “Want us to go put on a couple of prom dresses? Twenty bucks says there’s at least one still hanging in my closet.”

“Don’t be a smarty pants.”

“Better than old lady pants.”

I elbow Celina and she sniggers. It’s all I can do to hold back my own laughter.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Brinkley. Honestly.”

I sigh. “I have, Momma. This is just me being me. Us being us. I’d hoped after all this time that would be enough.”

To that, she says nothing, but simply turns away and heads back to the kitchen. I loop my arm through Celina’s and we follow her, but stop at the dining room.

“Wow! Who else is coming to dinner?” Celina’s eyes are wide as she takes in the grandeur. The table is covered in fine linen and covered silver platters and bowls and a tureen. There are three place settings replete with chargers and sterling napkin rings, fresh cut flowers in a delicate crystal vase in the center, and long, slender candlesticks flickering silently down either side. It really does look like she’s entertaining for royalty. Maybe I’ve forgotten a little bit of what life here was like.

Well, in some ways.

In other ways, I’ve never forgotten. Not one single moment.

“No one that I know of. Just us.”

She turns a disbelieving look toward me. “All this? For us?”

I nod and pat her arm in sympathy. “It’s part of the show. You’ll get used to it.”

“Not likely,” she says under her breath. “Where should I sit?”

“Let’s see where Grandma sits. You take one side; I’ll take the other. Like castling the queen.” I wink and Celina nods. We’ve both loved chess since she was old enough to play, so she gets my reference.

As if on cue, Momma comes bustling out of the kitchen, smoothing an imaginary hair back into place (as if one would have the nerve to step out of line!) and takes her place at the head of the table. I assumed she would, but I know better than to base an action on an assumption.

“I just made things I had on hand. I…I wasn’t prepared. I haven’t been cooking much since Alton passed, so…”

“It’s perfect, Momma, and it smells delicious.”

My mother nods and we all sit. Immediately, she picks up the meat platter and hands it to me. I take a slice of pork tenderloin for my plate and pass the rest on to Celina. Next she sends me mashed potatoes, then peas, then stewed carrots, then a basket of rolls, then a dish of butter, all of which I add to my plate before passing along to my daughter. With each item that comes her way, Celina’s eyes get bigger.

“Grandma’s a pretty impressive cook, right?”

“This is amazing.”

I see Momma’s lips curve. “I bet your mother never cooks like this for you, does she?”

Celina shrugs. “We always have a big Thanksgiving dinner. And Christmas.”

“She’s just used to having at least one burnt dish in the mix. Two if the Macy’s Day Parade runs long.”

I wink at my daughter and she grins.

“This is nothing to poke fun at, Brinkley.”

“I would never poke something I wasn’t intimately familiar with, Momma.”

She ignores that and continues with her lecturing. “You should make it a priority to provide good nutrition for your family.”

“I do. It just usually comes from someone else’s kitchen.”

She shakes her head. “What am I to do with you, Brinkley?”

“Look at it this way, Momma. Celina will eat better while we’re here than she has in her entire life. Well, with the exception of when she was breast-fed. Now that’s some nutrition.”

“Brinkley!”

“Mom, gross!”

I smile at my mother and child as I cut a piece of pork and stab it with my fork. “It’s good to be home.”

After dinner, I volunteer to clean up the mess. Celina helps me clear the table. In the kitchen, she whispers as she deposits dirty dishes into the sink, “So, she’s a little uptight, huh?” She keeps her voice low and glances over her shoulder as though she’s expecting my mother to pop around the corner at any moment, like a ninja queen.

“I think we could manufacture diamonds if we could find some coal to stick up her butt. We could be rich, hon. Filthy, stinkin’ rich. Emphasis on the stinkin’.” I wink at her and she wrinkles her nose.

“You’re so gross.”

I shrug and she shakes her head, but I can see the corners of her mouth curl. My mother would die if she could hear this conversation. She’d swear I’m not actually a grown-up, but I wouldn’t expect otherwise. She’d never understand my relationship with my daughter. She’d never understand what it’s like to laugh with your child or have fun with your child. She’d never understand what it’s like to be a friend when she needs to talk or a shoulder when she needs to cry. I’m still Celina’s mother, and I’m still the disciplinarian, but I vowed long ago to have a better relationship with my little girl than the one Momma and I shared. It’s the only vow I’ve never broken. The other two were made when I was young. I swore I’d never let Dane James go, and I promised I’d never come back to Shepherd’s Mill when I left.

I guess two out of three ain’t bad.

* * *

My sleep is even more fitful than I would’ve expected, and I expected it to be bad. Being back in my old room is hard. The ghosts are more alive than I ever would’ve dreamed possible after all these years. I mean, it’s been fifteen years. That’s almost half my life ago. So much has happened since I left here, so much has changed. How could it be so fresh, so…poignant now?

I stare up at the ceiling, the familiar pattern of white swirls like curls of smoke from my past, etched in paint. It has to be this room. This room, this house, this town. And the fields that spread out in each direction, visible from every window in the house.

I think the fields make it harder. Seeing them again, seeing the ocean of wheat waving in the wind, is like turning the clock back to when I was a teenager. All I can see when I look at them is the rock hidden from view and the boy who met me on top of it.

Of all the good, what little there was, and all that bad that happened while I lived here, ninety percent of it disappears from my mind when I think of Dane.

I’m left with just Dane.

The memories. The questions. The regrets.

I throw back the covers and leap from the bed like something bit me. Still in my pajamas, I head downstairs for a cup of the coffee I smell brewing. I have no doubt my mother still makes a great cup of the best gourmet beans that money can buy. The food and drink are a couple of the advantages of staying here for a while.

I make my way to the kitchen, dawn’s early light dusting every surface with gold. The room is empty, but there’s coffee on, so I make myself a cup and head to the front porch to enjoy the rising of the sun.

I take a seat on the cushioned rocker and settle in to watch the thick fog lift. It’s especially dense this morning, obscuring the wheat halfway down the stalks. I don’t need to see the tips to remember exactly what they look like, though. If I close my eyes, I can picture with crystalline clarity how the slender stems erupt into woolly heads, how they bend and sway with the slightest of winds. And I know precisely how they feel against my skin.

As it always did when I looked out at the fields, my mind wanders to Dane. I stare out in the direction of the barn where he and his father used to live. I wonder if it’s empty or if the new foreman lives there. I happened to see another obituary from Shepherd’s Mill several years ago, and Zane James’ name was in it. Dane’s father died of a heart attack. There was just a short paragraph about how he was survived by one son and how the memorial was closed to the public, and that was pretty much it.

That was my one and only thread of contact with my old life. I would order a newspaper from here a couple of times a year. I would scour it for names I recognized. I saw a few wedding announcements over the years, one or two deaths, a couple of births, and, of course, the full page tribute to the life and times of Alton Peterson when he died. Otherwise, it never contained anything I really cared about. I never admitted it to myself, but what I really wanted was a tie to Dane James, a window into his life, but he was one of the many, many people I never read a word about. He never made the papers, not that I should’ve expected him to. Except when his father died. He was a single sentence in an obituary. That’s all he ever meant to the people in Shepherd’s Mill.

I see movement in the field across from where I sit. A lone figure drifting through the fog like a wraith. It looks to be a man, appearing and disappearing in the haze. He’s tall, well-built, and something about the way he moves sends a familiar ache zinging down into my stomach. I sit up a little straighter, my heart tapping wildly against my ribs.

But then a breeze blows and the fog parts a little, and I see the back of his head a little better—short, dark hair—and the feeling dies. Number one, I feel sure Dane James doesn’t live here anymore, not since his father died. Not in this town and certainly not in this field. And number two, he would never have cut his hair. Dane loved his long hair, said it showed everyone in town that he didn’t care what they thought and that he’d never conform. I loved that about him—that rebellious streak. I envied it and admired it, probably more so because I knew I could never be that carefree. However, I think it made me love him a little bit more that he could.

I watch as the man walks farther and farther from me, and just before he dips completely out of sight, he turns. He’s too far away and too deeply hidden for me to see him clearly, but my stomach drops as though he’s standing right in front of me, looking into my soul with fall-colored eyes.

Surely it can’t be Dane James.

Surely not.

I jump when the door behind me opens. I turn to find my mother standing behind my right shoulder, holding the coffeepot. I press one hand to my racing heart and use the other to raise my cup to her. I sneak a peek up at her face. I’m not surprised at all to see that she’s glowering down at me. I don’t know what set her off this morning. Probably just my presence here.

Some things never change.

She wilts me with her eyes for a few more seconds as she refills my cup, then, without a single word, pivots on her heel and goes back inside. I guess I should be glad she isn’t majorly depressed since Alton died. She’s still got plenty of fire, and all of it is directed toward me.

With a sigh, I wrap my fingers around the warm mug and turn back to the fields. They’re empty but for the heavy, hazy blanket making its way slowly away from the wheat tops.

The man is gone now. And so is the feeling that I knew him.