I turn onto Shadow Ridge Lane to the familiar sight of white construction vans. Straight ahead, at the end of the road, I see our perfect house in its cave of green trees, but what catches my eye is that white sedan in the driveway of the Hockley house. A woman with short gray hair is lifting fabric grocery bags out of the trunk. I remember the welcome light in that house from the night before. On a whim, I pull in behind her car. She looks up, the bags weighing her down. I get out of my SUV and wave.
“Looks like you can use some help!” I call, walking toward her.
She smiles. “I can’t argue with that!”
I slip one of the bags from her arm and pick up the remaining two from her trunk, then follow her up the driveway, past Buddy Hockley’s blue truck and through the side door of the house.
I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. We’re in a kitchen, the wallpaper covered with faded images of rolling pins and sacks of flour. There’s a small white four-burner stove and an out-of-place stainless-steel refrigerator. The porcelain sink is huge. White cabinetry covers two walls and looks as though it’s been repainted a dozen times over the years. On the wall next to the door is a key rack that was probably made in a long-ago shop class. Three key chains dangle from it, the wallpaper worn away where the keys hit the wall. The kitchen is the antithesis of my shiny modern kitchen and it feels comforting to me. Something smells amazing in this room. There’s a slow cooker on the counter and whatever is in it makes my mouth water.
“You can set the bags right there.” The woman nods toward the table, which is covered in a blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.
I lower the bags to the table. “Can I help you unload the groceries?” I ask.
“No, but you can sit and have a cup of tea with me,” she says, as she begins pulling produce from one of the bags. “You must be the new neighbor. You bought that gorgeous house at the end of the street, right?” I can’t place her accent. Not Southern, but not Northern, either.
“That’s right,” I say, sitting down at the table. “And you must be Mr. Hockley’s … aide, or…?”
She laughs. “I’m his sister, Ellie. Do you know my brother?”
“No. I mean, I’ve seen him around, so I know who he is. Everyone sort of knows everyone around here.”
“Oh, don’t I know it,” she says.
I wonder how old she is. Her hair is very short and is not exactly gray, as I’d first thought. More of a blond-gray. She’s an inch or two shorter than me, around five four. She’s slender and appears to be in great shape in her jeans and green T-shirt. Even her arms look toned. Her eyes are a clear pale blue behind silver wire-rimmed glasses and she wears dangly silver earrings. There are very few lines in her fair skin. I think she’s probably in her late fifties.
“I heard Mr. Buddy is ill,” I say. “I was sorry to hear that.”
She nods. “That’s why I’m here. He and my mother both need someone to look after them and I was able to make the time.”
“That’s great you could come. My name’s Kayla, by the way.”
She looks up from her task to smile at me. “Happy to meet you, Kayla.” She pulls a can of loose tea from the shopping bag, opens it, raises it to her nose, and takes a deep breath. “Ahh, beautiful,” she says. “Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?” She turns the can to show me the label. ROOIBOS.
“I’ve never had that. How do you pronounce it?”
“Roy-boss,” she says. “Full of antioxidants. It’s delicious and good for you.”
“I’d love a cup,” I say. I’m a coffee drinker, but I’m so ridiculously excited to meet a neighbor that I’ll drink anything she offers. She seems equally pleased to have company as well.
“Are your brother and mother home?” I’m being nosy. I’m certain her brother is home; the truck is here. I’m just curious to know what’s wrong with him.
“Yes. They’re both sleeping right now, which is what they do most of the time these days. My mother’s eighty-eight and she doesn’t walk well and she’s just worn out. She’s been in an assisted-living place for the last three years, but she despises it—even though it’s supposed to be one of the best—so I figured I’d bring her home as long as I’m here. I’ve set up the downstairs bedroom for her. My brother has congestive heart failure.” She fills the kettle and sets it on the stove. “There just isn’t anything they can do for him now. He still has some good days and usually comes downstairs and has dinner with Mama and me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is he your older brother?”
“Older and only.”
“You grew up in this house?”
She shuts her eyes and I swear I see pain in her face. But it’s as though she quickly catches herself. Doesn’t want me to see it. “Until I was twenty,” she says. “I moved away then. Moved to California. And although Buddy used to come out to visit me every few years, I haven’t been back here since I left. Forty-five years.”
“Wow,” I say. I realize she must be sixty-five. “It must have been a shock to see Shadow Ridge Lane with all the houses going up.”
She groans. “I can’t get used to that big sign at the entrance. ‘Shadow Ridge Estates.’ Estates!” She laughs. “Shadow Ridge this and Shadow Ridge that. This street will always be Hockley Street to me. I mean, can you tell me where the ridge is that makes your new neighborhood Shadow Ridge?”
I laugh myself. Jackson and I had joked about that. “There’s no ridge that I know of,” I say. “Just like there’s no hill in Round Hill.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Do you know what’s happening with these houses?” She gestures toward the street. “Are they sold or what?”
“Our house was completed first,” I say. I don’t want to get into an explanation of why our house was finished so far ahead of the others. “Some of the others are sold. Maybe half of them. But I think it’ll be a while before anyone else moves in. I’m your only neighbor for now.”
She’d opened one of the cabinets and had been reaching for the cups, but she stops. Lowers her arm. Her expression is serious as she looks directly into my eyes with her clear blue ones. “I heard there was an accident,” she says softly. “I heard that the husband—your husband—died. I’m very sorry. That’s a tragedy.”
“Thank you.” I feel touched. I think of the red-haired woman. She could have simply heard about Jackson through the grapevine, too, and that gives me a few seconds of comfort until I remember that the red-haired woman was in Greenville, thirty miles from Round Hill, too far away for the rumor mill to reach her. I don’t want to think about her and I focus on Ellie again. “So it’s just my daughter and me now.” I glance at my watch. I have plenty of time before I need to pick Rainie up from my father’s, and I’m in no rush to leave. I like Ellie—her energy and friendliness. I like knowing I have a neighbor.
Ellie takes down the cups and sets them on the counter. “Your daughter’s only three, right?” She scoops the loose tea into a teapot. “That’s got to be so hard on her. And you.”