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Emilie
The tiny ballerina figurine hanging from the rearview mirror danced and twirled as Emilie Carter turned right onto Prospect Street. She inhaled sharply. Though the street looked the same, the sight of the Victorian homes and willow trees that towered over the road took her breath away.
And not in a good way.
As she passed each neighbor’s house, she focused on the things she loved seeing—Miss Walker’s red tulips, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson’s old Chihuahua barking from behind the fence, and Mr. Raven’s porch chair where he kept watch over the neighborhood.
Emilie’s phone rang, startling her from thoughts of her hometown. She pulled over and answered the third call from her roommate.
“You called twenty minutes ago. Girl, I’m fine.”
“Are you in Danvers yet?” Bridgett asked. “It’s not too late to turn around and come back to Boston. Your bed’s still empty, and I have a fridge full of food.”
As far as Emilie was concerned, it was too late. “Already here, and I am not turning around.”
Bridgett sighed heavily into the phone. “Promise me you’ll come back before our next tour starts in six months.”
A stab of disappointment plunged into Emilie’s stomach. It was the first time in three years she wouldn’t be dancing with Elite, Boston’s top-rated contemporary dance company. No more costumes and rehearsals and performances. Freeing up her schedule should’ve given her relief, yet here she was, a complete and utter wreck.
She gripped the steering wheel and closed her eyes for a few seconds to think. There was so much to do that it made her head spin. Sell the house, get the old dance studio up and running, improve her technique, and most importantly, stop hiding from the past. “We’ve already talked about this. Chances are it’ll take longer than six months, but I’ll try.”
“At least you’ll be dancing. You’re too talented to let those skills go to waste.”
If she could dance again. Emilie’s confidence was as shaky as her legs after a ten-hour rehearsal. Her focus for dancing had crumbled in the past year, and she knew getting closure to her past was the key.
“I’d better go. The sooner I begin this process, the faster I can return to Boston.”
Bridgett gave another pathetic sigh. “I’ll be waiting on pins and needles.”
Emilie gathered her strength and mustered some enthusiasm. “Have fun tonight with the team. I’m sure they’re celebrating, now that they’re on break.” Her throat constricted as she said goodbye and turned off the phone.
Emilie counted to ten to calm herself. Everything was fine. She’d clean up her past and then go back a better, more stable person.
Mind made up, she put her jeep into drive and eased down the secluded street. Her spirits lifted when she passed Miss Gail’s house. Other neighbors she’d keep at a safe distance, but Gail had been a surrogate mom to her since middle school when her own mother fell ill. Emilie couldn’t wait to visit the charming woman after settling in and unpacking. Since she couldn’t slow the heavily loaded car any more without completely stopping in the street, she turned into the driveway of her childhood home.
The house looked exactly the same, like time had stood still. She’d hired Dean Wright, her one and only friend from high school, to put the place back into shape. It was only a year since they’d reconnected, but his phone calls and texts had given her the strength to move home and face her demons. He was the only part of coming home she was actually anticipating. Dang, he’d done an amazing job! Even the grass was trimmed and the bushes pruned.
But a fresh coat of paint and new shutters didn’t replace the uneasiness growing in the pit of her stomach as she stared at her old home. Whoever bought the house would create new memories, hopefully far happier than hers.
Her gaze swept up to one of the two large windows on the second floor. Her stomach roiled with nausea. The dark windows stared back at her, making her skin crawl. She focused on the key waiting in the ignition. After another second, she turned off the jeep and got out.
She checked her reflection in the car window and grimaced. Everything about Emilie was long. Her too plain brown hair tied back in a ponytail, her strong, graceful legs, even her face. She shook away her mournful thoughts and glanced up at the sky. The warm sunshine washed over her skin, giving her enough reason to stall.
After a good stretch, her legs relaxed, and she forced her feet to move closer to the house. The keys shook in her hand as she stretched to unlock the side door. The lock clicked, and Emilie turned the knob while keeping her free hand firmly on the edge of the door frame. She peered through the darkness, wishing the air could magically erase any bad memories.
“Emilie? Is that you?”
She turned to see Miss Walker jogging down the street. New fear rippled through Emilie. Not ready to face anyone, she forced a smile and waved before shutting herself inside. The door slammed into place with only a slight touch. She flipped on the kitchen light and spun around, breathing hard.
The room smelled of cinnamon, nothing like the potent rose perfume her mom used whenever she burned a meal. The kitchen walls remained a happy yellow, and the furniture in the sitting room was in place. Everything was still and perfectly fine. At least that’s what Emilie told herself over and over as she stared at her childhood home.
Not all the memories of this place were bad. The home had been filled with laughter and happiness for many years. Only the last few months had been heart-wrenching as her mom’s mental illness wreaked havoc in Emilie’s life.
Thoughts of those years fell to the back of her mind as she took in the aroma of the room again. The cinnamon was a nice touch and gave her the courage she needed.
She dropped the keys on a tiny corner table and glanced around the tidy house. Nostalgia settled in, and suddenly she wanted to see everything. Taking a small tour, she peeked into the sitting room to see the velvet couches and pictures of roses on the walls. Beyond the sitting room was the dining room, where her mom’s antique red dishes sat in the china hutch.
