I stopped the car and absorbed the beauty. All the houses were situated so the rear of the house faced the street. Birdie’s house was white with shutters of pale blue set against the siding like ponds of water against tumbled white clouds. Covered porches surrounded the lower level of the house—swings, rocking chairs, and plants so abundant that they flowed outward and upward throughout the entire area. A hand-painted and crooked sign was propped in the dirt next to the walkway: SUMMER HOUSE.

We parked and Sadie exited her car, waving to an identical but much smaller home to the left. “There’s your guesthouse.” Then she pointed to the Summer House sign. “And I made that when I was twelve years old. Mom found it in the attic last year and put it out.”

“Oh,” I said, beauty stunning me into silence. “I barely remember this place.”

“I know, because you only came once, and that was with your dad. It always broke Mom’s heart that this home wasn’t part of her lifelong friendship with your mother.”

“I don’t get it,” I said, just as Birdie came out to the porch, welcoming us with her warm smile, a cold sweet tea, and a long hug.

“You’ve finally come here, Ellie. Oh, finally. Your mother is looking down on us, smiling, I’m sure. Welcome to my summer home.” Birdie’s accent was so thick, it was as if it were drenched in both butter and cream.

“Well, you’re sure living one long summer.” I kissed her cheek.

After dinner and one too many glasses of cold Chardonnay, Sadie and I sat on the back porch of the guesthouse, quiet.

Sadie reached over, touching my knee. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m going over to Mom’s so you can have this place to yourself. Are you sure you’re …”

“Okay alone? Are you going to ask if I’m okay alone?”

“No, I know that you are.”

And she was gone into the night, and I was alone.

Not lonely, just alone.

I entered the guesthouse and allowed it to surround me as wrapped arms holding me. I walked back to the single bedroom, where my suitcase was open on the hardwood floor but still packed. I dug around for my PJs and toiletries, entered the white-tiled bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth—all the functions one does before bed no matter where you’re located or where you’ve run. For the first time in months, years maybe, I fell onto a bed without anxiety.

There was a gentle rapping on the door, and I believed it was a branch or a foraging animal, but then I heard the voice through an open window.

“Ellie.”