Finding Home by Georgia Beers Page B

She’d always loved to go bike riding when she was younger because it was a great way for her to clear her head. She’d purchased this bike expressly for that reason and had hardly ridden it. That’s about to change , she thought with determination as she swabbed the last vestiges of storage off the metal and chrome. The deep green color of it sparkled, and she had the weird sensation that the bike was happy to see her. It could probably use a good tune-up and Sarah made a mental note to drop it the following week at the local bike shop where she’d purchased it.
    Rather than allowing it to collect insect fossils like the bike, Sarah stored her matching green helmet in the hall closet. She retrieved it and strapped it on, tucking her hair in as best she could and avoiding mirrors at all costs. She knew wearing it was a necessity, especially when riding in trafÞ c. She also knew that if she caught a glimpse of her own reß ection, she’d feel like she had a salad bowl buckled to her head and take it off immediately.
    After locking the front door and the back, she pocketed the key and set off for a nice, relaxing ride around town.
    The location of Sarah’s townhouse complex was ideal.
    Technically “in the city,” it felt more like the suburbs, with lots of trees and quiet cross streets, but she was, quite literally, ten minutes from everything. The art gallery, the George Eastman
    • 58 •
    FINDING HOME
    House, the Rochester Museum and Science Center, the Little Theater, Park Avenue, the planetarium, Cobbs Hill Park—
    everything was within a quick walk or drive, and Sarah wouldn’t have it any other way. Rochester wasn’t a big city, but it had a lot to offer and access was a cinch. She’d decided to zigzag up and down some of the neighborhood streets of the Park Avenue/
    Monroe Avenue area before stopping off to grab some lunch or something when the mood hit.
    The houses there were old and huge and gorgeous. If she were the handywoman type, the type who could build things and Þ x things and design things, she wouldn’t think twice about Þ nding a house in the area to remodel and live in. They were so large that most were either broken into apartments or split in two so the owner could live on the second and third ß oors and rent out the Þ rst ß oor to a tenant. There were issues, of course. Most were poorly insulated and had old windows and doors, so heating and cooling could get expensive. They were old structures, so oftentimes the repairs needed to keep the houses safe could be outrageously expensive. Those that boasted garages had ones that were in serious disrepair. But these houses also had beauty and character and loads of charm, and as Sarah coasted easily up one street and down another, taking in the leaded glass windows, original chimneys, and carved wooden porch railings, she thought this was the most magniÞ cent area around, glorious and elegant.
    They just don’t build homes like this anymore.
    After more than an hour, when she started to feel slightly fatigued, it occurred to her that she should be sure not to overdo it. It had been a long time since she’d taxed her leg muscles, even gently, and she didn’t want to end up so sore tomorrow that she could barely move. Making a right turn onto Monroe, she decided to grab a snack and sit at an outside table to enjoy the sunshine. She locked her bike to the steel rack next to a telephone pole and headed into Valenti’s.
    Cinnamon seemed to coat her like an invisible snow, Þ lling
    • 59 •
    GEORGIA BEERS
    her nostrils with the warm, homey scent that took her immediately back to her childhood. Her mother used to make her cinnamon toast when she was a kid, and the smell of it would always remind her of those carefree days. She inhaled deeply, a sudden relaxation falling over her as she strode toward the counter.
    “Hi, there.” The cute girl at the counter did a double take and then looked genuinely pleased to see her, which made Sarah