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The drive was slightly less than three hours long. It was nearly six in the evening when she pulled up to her parent’s house, the sky that purplish-blue it got just before true dark. The sight of the yellow clapboard made Sophie feel both anxious and comforted at the same time. The white trim was peeling a little, she saw as she climbed from the car and stretched her legs. There were no other cars in the driveway. Her parents were both out.
Sophie knew her dad would still be at work. In the spring and summer he worked until last light, and then he had to clean up his tools before heading home. Her mother could be at any number of places. Teresa Becker had taken early retirement the year before, but she was unable to just sit around the house. She volunteered with half a dozen local groups. She was almost busier now than when she’d been at the bank, according to Sophie’s father.
She was actually glad no one was home. It gave her a little time to prepare. Sophie had made the decision so hastily, and followed it with such a rapid departure, that she hadn’t really considered what her parents were going to think when she just showed up on their doorstep out of the blue. Not that they wouldn’t be happy to see her. She knew they would be. But there would be questions, and she’d left the city to avoid answering them.
“Home, sweet home,” she murmured, hauling her suitcase from the back seat. Sophie wasn’t surprised to find the front door unlocked.
“What’s the point?” her mother always said, with a shrug. “No one is coming out this far to rob us, and if they did, a twist lock is hardly going to hold them.” And in all the years they’d lived in the house, since Sophie was five, they’d never had a break-in. It had taken some getting used to when she moved to the city and had to remember to lock up everything.
But now she was glad her parents didn’t. She pushed open the front door and trudged up the stairs to the second floor, the big, ugly suitcase bumping against her shins as she climbed the stairs. Her room was farthest from the top of the stairs, under the eaves, and still looked almost exactly as it had the day she’d moved out to go to college. Her posters had come down, and the little knick-knacks, ribbons, jewelry and other scraps of things that indicated a room was inhabited were gone. But the wallpaper, a pale cream decorated with curling green vines and tiny pink roses, was still the same. Her single bed with the rose covered comforter was still under the window.
The dresser top was covered in picture frames. There was one of Sophie at age nine at her birthday party, a pile of brightly wrapped presents on the floor in front of her. She was holding up a pair of ballet slippers and beaming, missing front tooth and all. Another showed her and a girl named Gabrielle, who’d been her best friend in grade school before she’d moved to Oregon, with their arms around each other. It had been taken at the school talent show, Sophie remembered. They wore poodle skirts and saddle shoes and grinned at the camera.
They’d done a medley of dances from the 1960’s, the Twist, the Madison, the Watusi. It had been so much fun, even though they’d come in third. Sophie set her suitcase against the dresser, kicked off her sneakers, and collapsed onto the bed. For several long minutes, she just lay there, breathing in the slightly floral smell of the detergent her mother used to wash the sheets, and the soft scent of dust and old wood. She felt a small ball of warmth in her stomach, easing some of the anxiety coiled there.
Whatever else was going on in the world, here, she belonged. She was safe and loved. Sophie exhaled a long breath. She pushed herself up from the bed and headed back downs
tairs. She’d raid the kitchen and see about starting dinner for her mother and father. Though she still wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to tell them, everything went better with a home cooked meal.
It was the pictures on the stairway wall that caught her up. She should have just kept going, but one drew her eye and then she couldn’t look away. It was a shot of her and Christian, from the first competition they’d won. One of the photographers covering the event had snapped it, and she’d gotten a copy and sent it to her parents, glowing with pride over her first win.
She raised trembling fingers to the frame and traced the graceful curve of her back. The dress was shocking red, all spandex and sequins, clinging to every slim line of her arms and torso and then flaring dramatically out just below her hips. Her dark hair was slicked back in a shining bun, red paste jewels glittering there and on her cheeks. Christian bent low over her, his blond hair gleaming in the spotlight, his sleekly muscled body cradling hers, one arm swept high in a dramatic arc. Their eyes were locked on each other.
They hadn’t been together yet at that point, but the heat had been there already. She could recall the vibrating tension in Christian’s frame every time they’d touched, the way they’d end every dance panting with exertion and speechless. There had been so many times she’d wanted to throw herself onto him. But she hadn’t, because she’d known what Christian Navarro was like. She’d watched him work his way through almost every female in their company before they’d left for competitions.
“He got to you eventually though, didn’t he?” she asked her younger self softly. He’d worn down her resistance and she’d finally given in. She’d let him into her heart and he’d strode over it like a stepping stone and moved on. The worst part was, she couldn’t even really be surprised.
It’s not as if that had been the first time Christian had ignored her needs for his own. He had often been dismissive of her feelings, or even downright cruel. Any time she gained even a pound, he was quick to point it out and take her to task. She’d always brushed it off as him caring about their career as dancers, but the comments were cutting.
He’d stayed with her longer, but in the end he’d left her just like he left all the women before her... weeping and broken-hearted. Sophie squeezed her eyes closed, blocking out the glossy images of her and Christian on the dance floor, her and Christian at a banquet. Christian had abandoned her. And what had she done?
She’d run home. Wounded in both body and heart, she’d slunk here to lick her wounds in private. This was getting to be a pattern. Meet a man who swept her off her feet on the dance floor, let herself be vulnerable to him, have her heart trampled, flee home. A mirthless chuckle trickled out of Sophie’s throat. Fresh tears stung her eyes.
Sophie quickly palmed her eyes, swiping at the tears before they could fall, as the front door swung open. Her father strode in, wide grin splitting his beard in half. It was more salt than pepper these days, but the ever present facial scruff had been part of her father since she was a little girl. The sight made her trembling heart ease a little.
“There’s my girl!” he cried, eyes crinkling at the corners as he spotted her on the stairs. They were grey, just like hers. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw the Toyota out there. What you doing up here, sweet pea?”
She flew into her father’s arms, pressing her slender frame against his bulky body. For a moment she just reveled in the warmth and familiarity of him. He smelled the way he always did. Like sawdust and paint thinner and a light sweat. “Hi, daddy,” she murmured against his shoulder. “I uh...” Damn it, she’d forgotten to come up with a cover story! “We had a gas leak! At the studio. It’s okay, they’re fixing it. But we had to close down for a couple days. So... I figured I’d come visit my favorite parents.” She forced her lips to curve upward as she pulled back from his tight embrace.
“A gas leak? You make sure they check--”
“Dad,” she drawled, chuckling. “I’ve got it under control.” She hardly needed to send him into an occupational rant. He’d probably end up talking himself into going down to the City to check it out himself if she wasn’t careful. Still, just being in her father’s presence eased some of the tension coiling within her.
He pressed a kiss to her head. “Sure you do, pumpkin. Sorry. Force of habit.” He patted her shoulder. “Why don’t you let your old man get washed up and then we’ll see about getting dinner started. Your mom’s at the library tonight until seven thirty.”
“Sounds good, dad. Sounds real good.” She gave him another brief squeeze before stepping out of his way. He climbed the stairs halfway before pausing. Sophie bit her lip as she realized she’d knocked the picture of her and Christian slightly askew. Her dad set it right.
“Geez, remember that, sweet pea? You were what? Eighteen? Your mom and I were so proud of you.”
Sophie pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in the sob that bubbled up in her throat. Luckily, her dad didn’t seem to require a response. He tromped up the stairs to get his shower, leaving her to squeeze her eyes shut against the dagger of pain in her chest. Tears leaked out from beneath her lids, despite her best attempts to keep them back. She spun on her heel and strode into the kitchen, desperate to get away from the reminders of her past.
But they were here too, arranged on a little wooden shelf above the counter. Shot glasses. She’d gotten one at every airport she’d flown into or out of. Any one that had a gift shop, anyway. Keepsakes for her parents, more permanent that postcards. And something of a joke, since neither of her parents drank so much as beer.
“Get yourself together, Becker. They’re just shot glasses.” The muttered admonishment didn’t do much to calm her, but the clank of the pipes as her dad turned off the shower did. She wiped her face free of tears again and pulled open the freezer. Her parents could usually be counted on to have a Ziploc bag of frozen homemade spaghetti sauce in there.
Sure enough, crammed between a carton of Breyer’s vanilla bean and a bag of peas, she found the frozen sauce. She had it in a pan on the stove and was chopping an onion when her dad came downstairs. Now, at least, she had an excuse for the tears.
“Mom had some meat defrosted,” she said without glancing up. “Figured we could do spaghetti and meatballs.”
