The Land Rover rumbles over cobblestone streets along the waterfront as I near my destination.The red brick building strikes a familiar chord, though I can’t make out the whole melody.Dad would bring us downtown for visits to the children’s museum, the natural history museum—my favorite—and, for historic tours—Henry’s favorite.
Maneuvering into a parking space, I huff.I’m not usually like this.Being home has instigated a resurgence of memories I’ve tried to leave behind—Henry is all around me.I almostfeelhim.
Distracting myself with manual labor is just what I need.
I exit the Land Rover, weave around parked cars, and cross the street.A cargo van sits outside the entrance, advertisingDot’s Home Improvement.I smirk at the words below the logo:Woman-Owned & Woman-Run.Ask About Our No Creeps Promise.
I reach the sidewalk and approach the glass front door, currently propped open by a paint can.I knock anyway and call out, “Hello?”
Inside the small foyer, a wooden blue jay sits on the counter, and again, an eerie feeling washes over me.I recall two men laughing.Have I been here before?
“Hello?”I call again.
Three voices answer.
“Yo!”
“Coming!”
“Oh, sorry.Be right there.”
A light commotion ensues, and a dark-haired woman wearing a tool belt appears, presumably Dot.Then, a smiling redhead carrying a Trapper Keeper.
“Can we help you?”she asks enthusiastically.
“Painter, plumber, or delivery?”asks Dot.
“Gardener,” I say simply, and the redhead’s face shifts from chipper to horrified in a blink.
“I’ll take care of the door,” a voice says, coming up behind them.
I know that voice.
As his name whispers through my thoughts, he appears.Tall, handsome, and utterly destroyed at the sight of me.
Henry.
CHAPTER9
Henry
I can’t breathe.Can’t think.Can’t move.
It’sher.
Radiant, artsy, messy,her.
Overalls and boots,her.
Mom’s old scarf tied in her hair,her.
My grandmother’s mood ring—always black—still on her finger,her.
Infuriating,her.
Heartbreaking,her.
Her.
