Tires rubbed on fresh asphalt as the scenery out the window blurred. The little girl in soft braids tucked her pale pink dress tighter around her skinny thighs. Her body lurched forward as the driver straightened out the sled of a town car, easing them down a hill.
She was oddly comforted to see that the house sat along the side of a hill. It made sense, since the address of her destination was Apple Hill Lane. This, she confirmed with a careful stare at the crisscross street sign they passed on the corner. Apple Hill Lane. Heaven forbid the driver get lost, or worse.
But no. No such adventure. They’d arrived where they were meant to. On Apple Hill Lane.
Grandad and Nana’s street. And on the left, at 696, their house.
She’d never been.
Most children her age visited their grandparents’ house every weekend. Or at least for Christmas.
She had never been once in her life.
Until now.
Despite the hill, however, Apple Hill Lane was still partly misnamed, it would appear. Though, she couldn’t be certain.
Peering out the bottom slit of the rear window in that strange town car, well, it didn’t give her enough of a view to confirm. Still, as far as she could tell, there were no apple trees lining the street. And though it did start at the top of a hill, most of the houses on the street were at the bottom of that hill.
Only one stood at the top. Only one house on the hill. Grandad and Nana’s.
The town car drove down the cul-de-sac and rounded back, parking in front of the house with the numbers 696 running down the side of it.
She scrambled across the seat to the curbside door, stared out the window, and gasped. A full gasp to the point of choking on the smoky air in the hot back seat of the town car with its maroon, velvet fabric.
Never in her life had she seen a house so beautiful. It towered there, at the crest of Apple Hill Lane, stately and royal. She’d seen photographs of palaces in far-off lands, and this house had to be the closest she’d ever come.
The car lunged forward and back as the driver stepped out, strode around, and popped open her door. Having leaned her whole form against it, she spilled into him. He huffed, helped her straighten, then straightened himself. “Here we are.” He gestured his hand up the walk.
Fresh cut grass gave way against the cobblestone clear up to the broad front porch. Like something off of a movie set, the porch held four rocking chairs—all wood and gleaming, polished. One rocked errantly. She was certain, even from that long ways off, that someone had only just pushed out of the chair and left. Was it her grandmother? Nana? Grandfather? Grandad? What would she call them? What would they call her?
Then, it occurred to her, she wasn’t entirely sure whether they had ever made one another’s acquaintance before. Maybe they had!
She glanced back at the driver, who was removing her single piece of luggage from the trunk of the car. Swallowing, she accepted it, thanked him, and took off toward the front door.
What seemed like an hour later, she arrived at it, and her hand made its way up to the knocker. It froze there, in the air, twitching as if filled with buzzing flies.
The driver’s voice carried across the yard. “I’ll be off, then.”
She wanted to scream back “Wait!” and “What if they don’t answer!” and “Don’t leave me!”
But it was too late. By the time the words formed on her tongue, the car was rolling up and out of the neighborhood and away from the little girl who was sent to live there, with grandparents she’d maybe never met. On a hill without apples, on Apple Hill Lane.