those days were long past. Concentrated efforts begun ten years ago to revitalize the downtown area, however, had met with some success. The shopping district was coming back to life, the new shops having been joined by a variety of cultural attractions and fine restaurants; a music hall built at the turn of the century today served as a popular venue for plays as well as concerts. Over the years the university had grown on the north side of the city, bringing with it a well-endowed library and a highly regarded museum of natural history.
Driving through this, the oldest part of town, India rechecked the locks to reassure herself that all the doors were secured. It was dark and it was late, and this was not the best place in the city for a young woman to be driving alone. Old City had stubbornly refused gentrification and had seemed to decline as rapidly as other parts of the city had improved. There were pockets of Paloma that resembled a war zone, where crime was so common it was rarely reported. India always felt relieved when she reached her street, which was several blocks beyond Old City and on the fringes of a section of Paloma known as the Crest, a totally renovated area that had caught the fancy of upscale buyers ten years ago and was now the fashionable place to live.
India’s townhouse was narrow and three rooms deep, three stories high. She had seen similar homes in Philadelphia some years before, but there they were called “Trinities.” Here in Paloma they were known as “treys.” Everest Place lay as still as a sleeping child as she pulled up to the curb, grateful to find her usual parking space in front of her house empty and waiting for her return. The slamming of her car door echoed through the neighborhood, a rude interruption in the night silence. She unloaded everything at once, piling suitcases amid work files on her front steps so that, once inside, she would not have to venture back out onto the deserted street. Unlocking the front door, which swung without a sound into the small foyer, she tried to step over the mail, which had been propelled through the mail slot for the past week and now littered the entire floor of the entryway. Some pieces had made it all the way into the living room, she noted wryly.
Dumping the suitcase onto the floor at the foot of the steps that led to the second floor, she returned to the front door and retrieved the rest of her belongings, kicking envelopes, catalogs and other assorted mail out of the way. She turned on the light nearest the sofa, scooped up the mail and dropped it on the table in the entry. It could all wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was too tired to read another word.
The light on her answering machine blinked incessantly. Too many messages to listen to now. The morning would be soon enough, she decided with a shrug as she turned the key in the deadbolt lock on the front door. Dragging the suitcase up the steps, she sought the peace of her bedroom, where she had created a little getaway of sorts for herself. She turned on the overhead light and sighed. It was good to be home. Tonight she was exhausted, the emotions of the past week having taken their toll on her mind and her body. Every inch of her craving sleep, she all but crashed face first onto her bed. Tomorrow she would read her mail and listen to her messages and call Aunt August. Tonight she would, for a while, put aside her work and all it entailed, all the dirty, ugly things that people do for reasons no sane person could ever comprehend, and she would lose herself to sleep.
The rude buzzing of the alarm awakened a reluctant India at six. Through barely opened eyes, she took in her surroundings and was surprised to find herself, not in Devlin’s Light, as she had been in her dreams, but in Paloma. Instead of the faded yellow daisy wallpaper of her old room on Darien Road, this room was painted white, as was the furniture. The carpet was softest plush blue, the curtains a blue and
Driving through this, the oldest part of town, India rechecked the locks to reassure herself that all the doors were secured. It was dark and it was late, and this was not the best place in the city for a young woman to be driving alone. Old City had stubbornly refused gentrification and had seemed to decline as rapidly as other parts of the city had improved. There were pockets of Paloma that resembled a war zone, where crime was so common it was rarely reported. India always felt relieved when she reached her street, which was several blocks beyond Old City and on the fringes of a section of Paloma known as the Crest, a totally renovated area that had caught the fancy of upscale buyers ten years ago and was now the fashionable place to live.
India’s townhouse was narrow and three rooms deep, three stories high. She had seen similar homes in Philadelphia some years before, but there they were called “Trinities.” Here in Paloma they were known as “treys.” Everest Place lay as still as a sleeping child as she pulled up to the curb, grateful to find her usual parking space in front of her house empty and waiting for her return. The slamming of her car door echoed through the neighborhood, a rude interruption in the night silence. She unloaded everything at once, piling suitcases amid work files on her front steps so that, once inside, she would not have to venture back out onto the deserted street. Unlocking the front door, which swung without a sound into the small foyer, she tried to step over the mail, which had been propelled through the mail slot for the past week and now littered the entire floor of the entryway. Some pieces had made it all the way into the living room, she noted wryly.
Dumping the suitcase onto the floor at the foot of the steps that led to the second floor, she returned to the front door and retrieved the rest of her belongings, kicking envelopes, catalogs and other assorted mail out of the way. She turned on the light nearest the sofa, scooped up the mail and dropped it on the table in the entry. It could all wait until tomorrow. Tonight she was too tired to read another word.
The light on her answering machine blinked incessantly. Too many messages to listen to now. The morning would be soon enough, she decided with a shrug as she turned the key in the deadbolt lock on the front door. Dragging the suitcase up the steps, she sought the peace of her bedroom, where she had created a little getaway of sorts for herself. She turned on the overhead light and sighed. It was good to be home. Tonight she was exhausted, the emotions of the past week having taken their toll on her mind and her body. Every inch of her craving sleep, she all but crashed face first onto her bed. Tomorrow she would read her mail and listen to her messages and call Aunt August. Tonight she would, for a while, put aside her work and all it entailed, all the dirty, ugly things that people do for reasons no sane person could ever comprehend, and she would lose herself to sleep.
The rude buzzing of the alarm awakened a reluctant India at six. Through barely opened eyes, she took in her surroundings and was surprised to find herself, not in Devlin’s Light, as she had been in her dreams, but in Paloma. Instead of the faded yellow daisy wallpaper of her old room on Darien Road, this room was painted white, as was the furniture. The carpet was softest plush blue, the curtains a blue and
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