Where Dreams Reside (Book 5)

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Enjoy a sample from Where Dreams Reside

SPOILER WARNING: Do not read this excerpt until you have read Books 1-4 of the series.

I passed the quaint sign that welcomed travelers to my hometown of Camden, Maine. I pressed the gas pedal harder. On the radio, Trisha Yearwood crooned about second chances and I flipped the station.

If I’ve learned one thing from my quarter-century of living, it’s that second chances are the stuff of fairytales. Trish might be raising the hopes of other listeners, but not this girl. I knew better.

If only I could drive fast enough to turn back time, to undo all that was done here eight years ago.

I eased my foot from the gas and pushed the thought away. No good would come from carrying my past around like a child’s well-loved, dirtied blanket. I was here to build a new future. One in which I didn’t distance myself from my family and hide away in shame. One in which I would be an active participant in my new niece’s life. One where I faced the past like an adult.

No matter how grueling that might be.

As I pulled into the familiar drive, doubt curled cold fingers around my spine. Maybe I didn’t have to do this part of facing my past right away. I could at least see my family first, check in with the landlord at the apartment I’d found online, unpack my suitcase . . .

But my Mazda was already pulling up the drive, parking in the spot I’d parked a thousand times during high school. The one to the left of Isabel’s spot, out of the way of the basketball hoop.

The hoop was gone now. The driveway sported new cracks along its surface. The landscaping was neat as always, despite the shrubs that had grown too close to the house.

With trembling hands, I pushed open my car door and shoved my phone and keys into the pockets of my winter coat. Though the last days of March had come and gone, winter didn’t release its stubborn grip from the coast of Maine without a fight.

I strode to the front door, preparing myself for the worst. There would still be hard feelings, of course. Eight years wouldn’t have erased that. But I refused to come back into town without facing Mr. and Mrs. Davis. Words needed to be said—my words. Better to see Isabel’s parents now instead of allowing them to stumble across me in the library or in one of Camden’s many downtown shops. I must do this.

I rang the bell before shoving my hands in my pockets. I glanced at the greenery along the porch so as not to stare into the house. When no one answered, I started back down the steps, relief stirring my insides.

I had tried. There was always tomorrow.

But as I made my way down the walkway, the door behind me creaked open. Slowly, I turned. At the sight of the familiar figure before me, I released a pent-up breath and smiled. While Isabel’s parents scared the living daylights out of me, the sight of Isabel’s grandmother, small and wrinkled and brown as a California raisin, eased a sore spot in my spirit.

“Miss Esther.” I started back up the stairs.

Isabel’s grandmother’s eyes remained blank behind her glasses. My sister mentioned several months ago that Miss Esther suffered from some sort of dementia. Would she not remember me?

“It’s me, Miss Esther. Morgan. Isabel’s . . . friend.”

Quicker than a Fourth of July firecracker, Miss Esther’s eyes lit up. “Morgan! Honey, what are you doing out in the cold? You come in here quick and we’ll get you a cup of tea, darling.”

I stepped into the house, warmth encompassing me. A lot of warmth. Sahara Desert warmth. Isabel’s grandmother had always liked the thermostat on high. I looked around. Were Mr. and Mrs. Davis home?

“Thank you, but I don’t mean to impose . . .” My gaze flicked to the woman’s chocolate eyes. Any minute now, she’d remember everything. Then, what would she do?

But her eyes remained light and sparkly. “Ha! An imposition? No friend of Isabel’s is an imposition, as far as I’m concerned. Now, come sit down. Ruth has the box of tea here somewhere.” She planted her hands on her hips and looked around the kitchen—nothing had changed about it from when I’d last stood here during my senior year of high school. Same gingham curtains. Same white sugar and flour containers. How many times had Isabel and I sat at this very table, finishing off a row of Oreos while talking about boys or stressing about colleges?

My heart squeezed and I reached out to touch Miss Esther’s arm. “It’s okay. Perhaps we could just sit. I—well, I was hoping to speak with Mrs. Davis. Do you know if she’ll be home soon?”

With what appeared to be much effort, Miss Esther tore her gaze away from the kitchen counter where, from all accounts, she still battled her memory for the whereabouts of the tea.

“Mrs. Davis . . . my daughter . . . Ruth!” She said Isabel’s mother’s name as if it were a hard-sought victory, as if it were a precious jewel she’d found buried in the depths of the couch cushions.

“Yes, Ruth.”

Miss Esther pressed her lips together and looked down at the table. “Ruth . . . where did she go?”

“It’s okay, Miss Esther. We can sit and chat if you’d like.”

“Oh! I know! She went to pick up Isabel from basketball practice.” She grinned at me, revealing a space between her two front teeth. My insides deflated. If only Mrs. Davis were picking up Isabel from basketball practice.

“Okay, I’ll wait until she gets home.” I read once that it was best not to disrupt the delusions of dementia patients. So instead, I pulled out the chair closest to Miss Esther. “Would you like to sit?”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly looking uncertain. My heart went out to her as she lowered herself to her chair.

“How is the Camden Quilting Club? What have you ladies been working on lately?” Surely this line of conversation would put her at ease.

Again, her eyes lit up. “Priscilla opened a bed and breakfast!”

Priscilla Martin, Miss Esther’s longtime friend. “I heard about that. The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast, isn’t it?” I asked, although I knew very well, having researched as much as I could regarding my new landlords.

Miss Esther beamed. “Yes.”

Out of the corner of my eye, a tall shadow peered around the door of the kitchen. It couldn’t be . . .

“Marcus?”

Isabel’s brother grinned before diving back across the threshold, hiding his dark, curly hair. I stood. The last time I’d seen Marcus, he’d been a small second-grader . . . now . . . was he in high school already? I wondered if he were on track to graduate. I wondered what his plans post high school would be. His autism had slowed his progress, but his winsome personality had always made up for his lack in formal education. “Marcus, you’ve grown so much! Do you remember me?”

He peered around the doorway again with wide brown eyes, gave me a lopsided grin, and nodded. “Ehmmmm . . .” He drew out the letter M long and proud. Tears pricked the insides of my eyelids. Isabel called me M. No one had called me that in years.

I swallowed. “Yes, it’s M. It’s so good to see you, Marcus.”

The sound of the back door reached my ears and my blood froze.

“Mom? Sorry I took so long. The line was—” Mrs. Davis looked up, blinking behind the serious frames of her glasses and nearly dropping the bag of groceries she held.

My mouth turned dry and I backed away involuntarily. “Mrs. Davis. Hi.”

Hi?

Mrs. Davis placed the groceries on the counter but didn’t release them. Instead, she leaned against the counter, the bag still in her arms, a storm of emotion clouding her face.

“I—I hope it’s okay I stopped in. I—I wanted to see you.”

Isabel’s mother released the bag of groceries, her jaw firm, her eyes shooting daggers. “You have no right to be here. Get out.”

Heat rushed to my face. A thin sheen of sweat broke out over my entire body. I gasped for breath, but the warmth of the house combined with Mrs. Davis’s words choked me.

“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I should have called. I—I’m sorry.” I backed away toward the front door I’d come in.

“Morgan!” Miss Esther said. “We were going to have tea!”

Marcus began shouting Isabel’s nickname for me. “Ehmmm!”

“Maybe another time, Miss Esther? It was good to see you, Marcus.” I stumbled into the living room and bumped against an end table, knocking over a couple of chess pieces. I scrambled to pick them up, placed them flat on the board without minding their proper place.

“That was rude, Ruth,” Miss Esther scolded her daughter. Behind her, Marcus cried, still calling out my nickname.

I took the last two steps out of the house, gulping in cold air. I practically ran to my car. I tried not to see Isabel’s ghost shooting a layup or challenging me to a game of HORSE. But it was no use.

How stupid could I have been? A passing of eight years did not mean Isabel’s parents would welcome me into their home any more than they’d had when I left. Miss Esther and Marcus were different, of course—they wouldn’t hold a grudge against a fly. But then again, Marcus may not have fully understood what happened to his sister. And Miss Esther still thought Isabel was alive.

Miss Esther hadn’t remembered that I, Isabel’s very best friend in the whole wide world, had killed her.