Coming Home Read Free Page B

sparse anymore.
    According to her late father, only two kinds of people had lived here: artists and antigovernment militants. Even as a child, she suspected her father of having a tendency to reduce life to stark shades of black and white. According to Mrs. Robinette, the village locals were a furiously loyal bunch who relished their private haven, living in the shadow of western bluffs, facing Elephant Rock toward the east. The magnificent rock formation—the final culmination of an east/west-running mountain ridge—overlooked the lake from the east side. The surrounding hills seemed to cradle the small community.
    She drove past the Welcome to Historic Palmer Lake sign—the second sign—past the ballpark and the gas station, then slowed in front of the Rock House Ice Cream Shoppe.
    She stared at the place … almost stunned. It really exists, she thought. But the more she stared, the less she felt—not even bittersweet nostalgia, as if somewhere down the line she’d placed an unconscious filter across her brain, blocking every emotion, good or bad.
    Was Mrs. Robinette there? she wondered.
    She continued on her way, another half block, until she reached Finders Keepers and pulled into the tiny gravel parking lot. Sitting there, it suddenly struck her: she’d done it. She’d arrived and was, for all practical purposes, scratch free. She stared at the shop and again felt nothing. Only a fuzzy mental Novocain feeling. A pervading numbness.
    Why was I so worried?
    The gift shop was perched on the edge of a sagging sidewalk. Painted in unimaginative shades of brown topped with splintered cedar shingles, it resembled an oversized storage shed with bay windows.
    The gray weathered park bench beneath the display windows held an elderly man who seemed as worn out as the seat he occupied. Jessica’s eyes flitted across his somewhat familiar face several times, but she couldn’t place him. Nor did she see any hint of recognition in his return glances. Relieved, she looked away to the ubiquitous candles and holders artfully arranged in the window. She sat there for the longest time staring at the Open sign, nervously tapping the steering wheel. The shop would close in thirty minutes—rather early for a summer day. She pushed a strand of tawny hair behind her ear and kept staring, tapping. Considering. Reconsidering.
    Moments later, a thirty-something woman with a blond ponytail peered out from behind the display, then smiled curiously at Jessica through the glass.
    This is getting ridiculous, she thought.
    Taking a deep breath, she twisted the rearview mirror one more time to examine her face, mentally comparing eyes, nose, chin to that childhood image of herself. Sighing, she reached into her purse for the oval amber-tinted sunglasses. She could almost hear Darlene’s voice: “Face it, honey. You’re a drama queen.”
    She put on the glasses but felt silly. No one could possibly remember her anyway. Stepping out of the car, she glanced once more at the old man, who appeared to be asleep. She closed the car door quietly so as not to awaken him and took a step toward the gift shop. A flash of color at her feet caught her eye, and she was startled to see a gossamer-winged butterfly fluttering in panicked desperation against the cement.
    Jessie paused for a moment—another wave of indecision. Another tug, as if something were pulling at her from the inside.
    The buzzing sound of the dying butterfly filled her ears, and then the entire community seemed to come alive with the wispy chatter of aspen leaves, the drone of a distant mower, the almost undetectable sound of laughing children, and the annoying persistence of a barking dog. The sounds threatened to break through, but she resisted, maintaining her composure. The old man had opened his eyes and seemed to be watching her out of the corner of his eye, his expression one of amusement. You ain’t from around here, are ya?
    At last she knelt, watching the butterfly beat