call me next week when they’ve reached a decision. I’ll let you know immediately, and we’ll come here together to hear it.”
He nodded, his face slightly less haughty. “You did a good job. Other than that.”
I didn’t know whether to take that swing with the trial bag or thank him, so I only nodded an acknowledgment.
“I mean that,” he said. “You’re obviously an excellent lawyer.” He looked slightly embarrassed, and, for the first time since I met him, he seemed human. It was probably more than he could bear, because he turned and left without a word of goodbye.
Don’t think about it, I told myself now, and I turned up the car radio so that it blared an Allman Brothers song. I dug my hand in the bag of pretzels and popped a few in my mouth, washing them down with a swig of water. I found that it wasn’t hard to shift my thoughts as I made my way down the Skyway, a multilane raised road that hugged the lake and formed a bridge from Chicago into northern Indiana. Through the line of smokestacks and steel mills, I began to catch glimpses of the lake, a flat, watery carpet of deep blue, the lake that was my playground until my mom died.
Once across the Indiana border and into southern Michigan, I exited and got on a small highway that would take me even closer to the lake. The highway here was more scenic, lined with a couple of rural towns and then long patches of oak trees with nothing to interrupt them. It was odd how familiar it all seemed, how recent the memory. Finally, I reached a stop sign, so faded by the sun it was almost pink. Below it was another sign, black and rectangular with white lettering that read, Welcome To Woodland Dunes.
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped on the gas and crossed the threshold. I was back.
3
I passed Franklin Park, a wide plot of green land filled with benches and swing sets and a white gazebo. On the other side of the park lay the softly lapping waves of Lake Michigan. After the park, there were small cottages on either side of the street. Soon, the houses became larger and grander, the old section of Woodland Dunes. I pulled over and checked the slip of paper where I’d written Della’s address. I’d never been to her house before.
The street that Della lived on turned east, away from the lake, and coursed through the woods. This was where people built homes when they couldn’t afford to live near the water, and as a result, the homes became smaller and closer together again.
Della’s house was a trim ranch with brown aluminum siding and a small, unfinished wood porch with a lone rocker. An old blue station wagon was parked in the driveway. I pulled in behind it.
I climbed out of the car, not even pausing to check my face in the mirror or grab my purse. I hadn’t seen Della, the woman who’d been housekeeper and nanny to my family, in more than twenty years, but suddenly I couldn’t wait.
There was no bell, so I rapped on the screen door, which rattled back and forth in its casing.
An older Hispanic man dressed in jeans and a golf shirt opened it.
“Is Della home?” I said.
He gave me a kind smile. “Are you Hailey?”
I nodded.
“Well, hello. I’m Martin, Della’s husband. I met you years and years ago, but you probably don’t remember.”
“I’m sorry, I…”
“Don’t be silly, you were a little girl. Della will be so happy to see you. She went out to the store. Wasn’t sure when you’d be here. Would you like to come in?”
I tried not to show my disappointment. Now that I was there, I was impatient to talk to Della, to find out everything she knew and remembered, but I couldn’t bear the thought of making small talk in the interim.
“Actually,” I said, “I haven’t been to Woodland Dunes in a long time. Maybe I’ll just drive around, go by our old house. Do you know who lives there now?”
Martin looked a little surprised. “Oh, no one lives there. Not for a while. They call it the Marker Mansion, after the family that originally built the house at the turn of the century. It’s been converted into a cultural center for the town.”
“So I could go inside?”
“Sure. They’ll even give you a tour.”
I thanked him, promised to return in an hour, and headed for my car.
After a five-minute drive, I turned the corner and came face-to-face with the house, the image of my early childhood—its gables, its sloping black roofs, its wide dormered windows on the second floor and the tall oaks and pines that surround the house like a cape. I parked in a large concrete lot that used to be part of the front lawn.
Turning off the ignition, I stared at the house, taking in the Victorian shape and the broad porch with its white wood railing. The house was dove-gray instead of the creamy yellow that my parents always painted it, and there were tall bushes where my mother used to plant flowers. Otherwise, the outside looked much the same. It had resided in my memory for so long, a memory I didn’t often visit, that it was strange to see it in person.
I got out of the car, and as I approached the front steps, I saw a small iron sign that read:
Woodland Dunes Cultural Center.
Formerly The Marker Mansion. Built 1905.
Tours Daily 10:00, 11:30, 1:00.
I glanced at my watch. I was just in time for the second tour.
When I stepped onto the porch, I had a sudden vision of a swing that used to hang in the corner. I could almost see my sister, Caroline, sitting there, her feet on the swing, her arms wrapped around her knees, her sandy, straight hair falling around her shoulders. She was always so quiet, so still, and in the summers, she spent much of her time on that swing. She never read or even hummed to herself. She just sat. I remembered myself, years younger than my newly teenage sister, coming out of the house to peek at her, wondering what tragedies she was mulling over. Although no one had given me that impression, I always imagined Caroline as a complicated and tragic figure.
“May I help you?” A voice startled me away from the memory. I turned to see a young woman in the doorway with dark hair twisted up in a loose knot.
“Hi. I’m here for the tour.”
“Great. C’mon in.” The woman stepped inside and held open the door. “We don’t get too many visitors until the summer really starts, so I’m glad to have you.”
My first thought when I stepped into the front hall, a wide foyer with molded plaster ceilings, was that the house was much darker now. Maybe I was mistaken or simply remembering poorly, but I always thought the house had been sun-filled and airy, even in the winter. Now the house had a shuttered, impersonal feel, a museum feel, which I supposed wasn’t surprising, since it was a museum of sorts now.
“I’m Jan,” the guide said, extending her hand. She was probably no older than twenty-one. She wore little makeup and a simple outfit of khaki pants and a blue
