She was one of three assistant producers. Kind of hesitant, you know, like it's the first time you've gone inside since you were fourteen years old."Ĭynthia glanced over her shoulder at a woman in jeans and sneakers, her ponytail pulled down and through the opening at the back of her ball cap. I had my orders.Ĭynthia stood there, as though waiting for permission to approach. You could walk all day and never get there.īut I stayed where I was, on the other side of the street, looking at her back, at her short red hair. I was guessing, to Cynthia, it must have been like looking through the wrong end of some binoculars. It was only a thirty-foot driveway, but it stretched a quarter century into the past. I wanted to go to her side, walk her to the door. She was rooted to the sidewalk, seemingly unable to take even one step toward the place. She'd never stood on the sidewalk and stared at the place.Īnd it had certainly been a very long time since she'd stepped through that front door. "There it is," she said, and kept on going. She showed me the house once before we got married, a quick drive-by. It wasn't as though she was seeing her childhood home for the first time in nearly twenty-five years. Cynthia stood out front of the two-story house on Hickory.
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