Sheâd grown accustomed to her isolated ways, the comfortable if unexciting rhythm of her routine. Solitude had become an old and trusted friend, one to be welcomed with open arms rather than shoved away.
Admittedly, she still thought wistfully of her old life in Flagstaff. But two years ago, Danny had remarried, and she knew it was time to let go. He wasnât her brother-Âin-Âlaw anymore, not really, and the last thing he needed was his dead wifeâs baby sister intruding on his newly wedded bliss.
But Santa Fe was growing on her, and this in large part because of her lovely adobe bungalow on her lovely tree-Âlined street. Despite its name, Calle De La Cereza was lined not with cherry trees but with radiant crabapple. The stunning pink flowers of spring had recently given way to clusters of bright red miniature apples the neighborhood children simply could not resist. Never mind that the flavor turned their happy little faces into sour pusses every time. With exhaustion rolling off her body in waves, she let up on the accelerator, scouring the landscape for said neighborhood children, who always seemed to be looming around every curve in the road.
Home at last, she pulled into her carport and killed the engine, stepped out of her car, and lifted her hand in customary greeting to the little boy hunkered down on the sidewalk a few yards away. The boy, however, didnât return her wave or her smile. A frisson of disappointment rippled through her. Little Tommy Bledsoe was part of her quiet routine. Every evening when she returned home, she waved and smiled to him, and he waved and smiled back. She and Tommy were friends. Not the kind of friends who hung out together, but the kind of friends who had an unspoken agreement they could count on each other for a cheery wave and an Iâve-Âgot-Âyour-Âback smile. At least thatâs how Faith viewed it.
Tommy and his mother, a hardworking woman who looked to be about thirty going on fifty, lived in the two-Âbedroom bungalow next door to Faith. Sheâd learned from her single visit to the Bledsoe home that the floor plan was identical to hers, only reversed. Both homes had identical adobe exteriors painted a brilliant terra-Âcotta red that screamed: Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment.
Viga tails extended beneath the flat roofs, and square windows were framed with heavy wood and shuttered in bright blue. High arches loomed over the front doors, making the tiny homes appear midsize. The only differences a casual observer might note between the two houses were the ten-Âspeed bicycle leaning against the side of the Bledsoe residence and the small garden filled with cutting flowers in Faithâs front yard.
Flowers were her weakness, and she loved to fill the house with the most fragrant kinds cut fresh from the yard. She had another overflowing garden in the fenced-Âin backyard and a water bill that wouldâve gotten her booted out of the Sierra Club if her membership hadnât already been canceled for nonpayment.
Faith was just about to head inside for that bath when the image of her young friendâs slumped posture and downcast eyes came back to her. She turned and headed over to say hello. Tommy was ten, possibly eleven, and he was that kid. Every neighborhood has one, a child who never seems to be included in the after-Âschool games of Frisbee or street hockey and rarely gets invited to birthday parties. This particular block was filled with school-Âage kids, and the parents liked to put out Child-Âat-ÂPlay signsâÂyellow plastic figures sporting jaunty red caps and waving warning flags that said SLOW .
Tommyâs mother had little to worry about since Tommy usually hung on the sidelines, only wishing he could be in the street mixing it up with the other children. So finding him sitting alone on the sidewalk was nothing new. But today, Faith could sense something wasnât right. Although
Admittedly, she still thought wistfully of her old life in Flagstaff. But two years ago, Danny had remarried, and she knew it was time to let go. He wasnât her brother-Âin-Âlaw anymore, not really, and the last thing he needed was his dead wifeâs baby sister intruding on his newly wedded bliss.
But Santa Fe was growing on her, and this in large part because of her lovely adobe bungalow on her lovely tree-Âlined street. Despite its name, Calle De La Cereza was lined not with cherry trees but with radiant crabapple. The stunning pink flowers of spring had recently given way to clusters of bright red miniature apples the neighborhood children simply could not resist. Never mind that the flavor turned their happy little faces into sour pusses every time. With exhaustion rolling off her body in waves, she let up on the accelerator, scouring the landscape for said neighborhood children, who always seemed to be looming around every curve in the road.
Home at last, she pulled into her carport and killed the engine, stepped out of her car, and lifted her hand in customary greeting to the little boy hunkered down on the sidewalk a few yards away. The boy, however, didnât return her wave or her smile. A frisson of disappointment rippled through her. Little Tommy Bledsoe was part of her quiet routine. Every evening when she returned home, she waved and smiled to him, and he waved and smiled back. She and Tommy were friends. Not the kind of friends who hung out together, but the kind of friends who had an unspoken agreement they could count on each other for a cheery wave and an Iâve-Âgot-Âyour-Âback smile. At least thatâs how Faith viewed it.
Tommy and his mother, a hardworking woman who looked to be about thirty going on fifty, lived in the two-Âbedroom bungalow next door to Faith. Sheâd learned from her single visit to the Bledsoe home that the floor plan was identical to hers, only reversed. Both homes had identical adobe exteriors painted a brilliant terra-Âcotta red that screamed: Welcome to New Mexico, Land of Enchantment.
Viga tails extended beneath the flat roofs, and square windows were framed with heavy wood and shuttered in bright blue. High arches loomed over the front doors, making the tiny homes appear midsize. The only differences a casual observer might note between the two houses were the ten-Âspeed bicycle leaning against the side of the Bledsoe residence and the small garden filled with cutting flowers in Faithâs front yard.
Flowers were her weakness, and she loved to fill the house with the most fragrant kinds cut fresh from the yard. She had another overflowing garden in the fenced-Âin backyard and a water bill that wouldâve gotten her booted out of the Sierra Club if her membership hadnât already been canceled for nonpayment.
Faith was just about to head inside for that bath when the image of her young friendâs slumped posture and downcast eyes came back to her. She turned and headed over to say hello. Tommy was ten, possibly eleven, and he was that kid. Every neighborhood has one, a child who never seems to be included in the after-Âschool games of Frisbee or street hockey and rarely gets invited to birthday parties. This particular block was filled with school-Âage kids, and the parents liked to put out Child-Âat-ÂPlay signsâÂyellow plastic figures sporting jaunty red caps and waving warning flags that said SLOW .
Tommyâs mother had little to worry about since Tommy usually hung on the sidelines, only wishing he could be in the street mixing it up with the other children. So finding him sitting alone on the sidewalk was nothing new. But today, Faith could sense something wasnât right. Although
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