Coming Home by David Lewis Page A

much comfort as she could into the small gesture. “Does that feel like a ghost?”
    Laura met Jessie’s eyes, and her own eyes glistened for a moment. She shook her head. “No …”
    Jessie heard the sound of Andy’s screen door, and then a woman’s voice. Even Molly flinched.
    “Laura, get over here—now!”
    Jessie removed her hand, and Laura looked terrified. She studied Jessie and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mom doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”
    She pulled at Molly’s collar, and the dog scrambled reluctantly to her feet. When Laura got to her concrete steps, she turned and waved. Jessie stood to her feet and smiled reassuringly, but Laura’s mother only glared back.
    “Molly got out,” Laura explained, climbing the steps.
    Her mother swatted her backside. “You didn’t finish the kitchen. Get in there, young lady. How many times have I—”
    “Aw, Mom—”
    “—told you, Laura—”
    The screen door slammed behind them, but suddenly Laura popped out again.
    “Laura!” her mother yelled from within the house.
    Laura squinted as if Jessie might have suddenly disappeared. Then she brightened and waved again. Jessie waved back, trying to appear very solid. The little girl’s smile increased and then an arm, like a hook in a melodramatic vaudeville stage show, yanked her back into the house.
    Jessie sighed and returned to her car. She stared back at the house, the home of her childhood, apparently just as solid but uninhabited. It made no sense. But she was happy with her renewed sense of perspective, and meeting Laura had snapped her out of her self-pity.
    She started the ignition, the car keys swinging. A strange notion occurred to her. She reached down and grasped the keys. No way, she thought, then smiled. She turned off the ignition and pondered the possibility.
    Twelve years ago she’d placed the only key she owned on the key ring Andy had given her for her birthday. It was impossible to imagine, but she flipped through the keys anyway, one by one—her apartment key, car key, trunk key, storage key … and another key she hadn’t used for years.
    She stared at it, unbelieving. What else could it be? Yeah, but it’s a little freaky, she thought. Even for you. She looked back at the vacant house. It had acquired an almost sinister appearance.
    What’s the point? Jessie decided.
    Checking her watch, she saw that the time had slipped away. Four o’clock. Too late to get back on the road. If she drove north now, she wouldn’t make it as far as Cheyenne, and she didn’t like the idea of staying in small-town hotels. Denver was her best choice, which gave her time for a quick visit with her old friend. Just now, the idea didn’t seem nearly as daunting as it had an hour ago.

Chapter Seven
    THE ROCK HOUSE Ice Cream Shoppe had been constructed from red cement and small boulders—like giant peanuts in raspberry ice cream. Attached to the back of the shop was a small addition, displaying antiques and knickknacks. According to the signs, customers could feast on two scoops of delicious ice cream in the shop up front, then peruse an assortment of antique plates, bottles, glasses, and silverware in back. They might even purchase a rustic turn-of-the-century ice-cream maker.
    Entering the busy shop, Jessie automatically placed her open hand behind her back, catching the screen door. Instead of banging against the frame, it twapped against her hand. Old habits never die.
    The aroma of vanilla and cinnamon filled her senses. The blackand-white floor tile, yellowed and scuffed with age, felt hard beneath her white sandals. Directly in front of her, beyond the line of parents and children, a glass-enclosed display offered an assortment of ice-cream flavors. Several high school girls were taking customer orders and ringing up their totals. Behind them was the menu board, advertising chili dogs and hamburgers, apple pie and cinnamon buns, and beyond that the food kitchen. Little had