Between Sisters - Kristin Hannah [39]
Once, he'd been welcomed everywhere in town.
Now . . . who knew?
He let out a long sigh, trying to understand how he felt at this moment. He'd dreaded and longed for this return for three years, but now that he'd actually come home, he felt curiously numb. Maybe it was the flu. Or the hunger. Certainly a homecoming ought to be sharper. Returning after so long an absence, after all that he had done.
He made a valiant effort to feel.
But nothing seized hold of him, and so he began to walk again, past the four-way stop sign that introduced the start of town, past the Loose Screw Hardware Shop and the family-owned bakery.
He felt people looking at him; it beat him down, those looks that turned into frowns of recognition. Whispers followed him, nipped at his heels.
Jesus, is that Joe Wyatt?
Did you see that, Myrtle? It was Joe Wyatt.
He's got some nerve—
How long has it been?
Every one made him hunch a little farther. He tucked his chin close to his chest, rammed his hands in his pockets, and kept moving.
On Azalea Street, he veered left, then, on Cascade he turned right.
Finally, he could breathe again. Here, only a few blocks from Main Street, the world was quiet again. Quaint wood-framed houses sat on impeccably trimmed lawns, one after another for a few blocks, and then the signs of inhabitation grew sparse.
By the time he reached Rhododendron Lane, the street was almost completely deserted. He walked past Craven Farms, quiet this time of year before the fall harvest, and then turned into the driveway. Now the mailbox said Trainor. For years and years, it had read: Wyatt.
The house was a sprawling log-built A-frame that was set amid a perfectly landscaped yard. A mossy split-rail fence outlined the property. Flowers bloomed everywhere, bright and vibrant, and glossy green boxwoods had been shaped into a rounded hedge that paralleled the fencing. His father had built this house by hand, log by log. One of the last things Dad had said to them, as he lay in his hospital bed dying of a broken heart, was: Take care of the house. Your mother loved it so . . .
Joe felt a sudden tightening in his throat, a sadness almost too sweet to bear. His sister had done as she'd been asked. She'd kept the house looking exactly as it always had. Mom and Dad would be pleased.
Something caught his eye. He looked up, caught a fluttering, incorporeal glimpse of a young woman on the porch, dressed in flowing white as she giggled and ran away. The image was shadowy and indistinct and heartbreaking.
Diana.
It was a memory; only that.
Halloween. Nineteen ninety-seven. They'd come here to take his niece trick-or-treating for the first time. In her Galadriel costume, Diana had looked about twenty-five years old.
Someday soon, she'd whispered that night, clinging to his hand, we'll take our own child trick-or-treating. Only a few months later, they found out why they'd been unable to conceive. . . .
He stumbled, came to a stop at the bottom of the porch steps, and glanced back down the road, thinking, Maybe I should turn around.
The memories here would ruin what little peace he'd been able to find. . . .
No.
He'd found no peace out there.
He climbed the steps, hearing the familiar creaking of the boards underfoot. After a long pause in which he found himself listening to the rapid hammering of his heart, he knocked on the door.
For a moment, there was no sound within; then the clattering of heavy-soled shoes and the called-out “Coming!”
The door swung open. Gina stood there, dressed in baggy black sweats and green rubber clogs, breathing hard. Her cheeks were bright pink, her chestnut brown hair a bird's nest of disarray. She took one look at him, mouthed Oh, then burst into tears. “Joey—”
She pulled him into her arms. For a moment, he was dazed, too confused to respond.