Chapter 7: Pine Street

Pine Street was a quiet block of old porches and maple trees.

Lena's grandmother had lived at number nineteen for fifty years, and Lena had learned to skate in the pond behind it.

A white locksmith's van stood in the driveway.

On the porch, Stanton was holding a brand-new key and grinning.

"Babe," he said, when she came up the walk. "You didn't need to come all this way."

"Get off my porch."

"Our porch."

"My grandmother's porch."

"Half of it's mine," Stanton said. He did not look sorry anymore. "You signed the papers, Lena. Year three. You were so happy to help."

A woman across the street had come out to water a plant that did not need watering.

Two men from the next house stood at their fence.

"Open the door," Lena said.

"No."

"Open it, or I go around back."

"You don't have a key."

She did.

She walked around the side of the house, past the rosebushes, to the garden where Grandma's ceramic frog still sat by the hose.

She lifted the frog.

The spare key was where it had been for twenty years.

The locksmith had only finished the front door, and the old key still fit the back one.

Stanton came after her. "Lena, don't."

She unlocked the back door and walked into the kitchen.

It still smelled like her grandmother's dish soap.

On the table lay a woman's silk scarf.

On the counter stood a bottle of expensive pink wine, and in the sink two glasses.

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