After two days of rest stops, fuel stops, and fast food, Tish’s headlights shone on the sign that marked Noble’s city limits. She’d gained an hour driving into central time, but a rainstorm had blurred the day into an early dark by the time she’d arrived at the closing. The rain had let up now, though, and stoplights and neon signs lent dashes of color to the gray.

Slowing for a red light, Tish rolled her stiff shoulders. After seven hundred miles, some of it through hair-raising weather, she had only a few easy blocks to go. Within minutes, she’d unlock her very own front door with her very own keys. Poor Mr. Nelson. At the closing, he’d given her such a resentful look that she’d nearly apologized for buying his house.

A slender young woman in a baggy black jacket and pale orange leggings walked briskly down the sidewalk, a yellow bedroll on her back. Approaching a tiny barbecue joint, she turned toward its window but kept moving. A stoop-shouldered, white-haired woman approached from the opposite direction, but they ignored each other.

The eatery was called the Bag-a-’Cue, and cartoonish pigs in chefs’ hats adorned its doors. Lowering her window, Tish inhaled a sweet, smoky aroma that overpowered the smell of wet pavement. She picked up her phone, and saved their phone number under the B’s. She wouldn’t be cooking for at least a day or two.

The red light winked out. The green winked on, a cheerful beacon of welcome in the gray. Tish hit the gas, the tires slipping a little on the wet road. She tightened her grip on the wheel.

The town’s pocket-size park came into view, its gazebo stripped of Christmas lights and greenery. Then she was in the residential part of town, and her heart beat faster. South Jackson was the next right.

Turning the corner, she smiled as she caught sight of the house, as quaint and quirky as ever. She parked in the driveway, killed the engine, and enjoyed the silence. No more engine, no more wipers, no more road noise. Nothing but a wet windshield stood between her and her piece of Alabama. This time, the seller wasn’t breathing down her neck. She could walk through the house alone, slowly, savoring a dream come true. Thirty-five years old, she’d finally bought her first home.

“This is for you too, Dad,” she whispered.

Crossing the yard, she relished her solitude. The pansies were still blooming, but the camellias were finished—at least in the front yard. She’d read up on camellias and learned that different varieties bloomed at different times. It was possible that she’d have fresh flowers for months at a time.

She climbed the broad steps to the porch and looked over her shoulder. The grass still hadn’t been cut. Apparently Mr. Nelson couldn’t be bothered to mow the lawn again once he’d collected her earnest money.

In the small green house across the street, a curtain fluttered in a window. Maybe the pansy-planting neighbors would come out to say hello.

She put the key in the lock and gave the door a gentle push, allowing it to swing open. The hinges screeched like a door on a haunted house. She stepped across the threshold, running her hand over the wall for a light switch. There it was.

Bright lights flooded the empty rooms. If the house were an old woman, she would have begged for the softer, kinder glow of kerosene lamps that would have masked some of her flaws.

But when the house made its debut back in 1870 or so, the rooms must have gleamed with newness. Now age dulled the hardwood floors. Discolorations marred the pitted plaster walls and the tall ceilings. A thin crack ran through a corner of the marble hearth. The inspector had mentioned those issues and more in his report, but he’d said the house was basically sound from its foundation to its roof, and the water damage wasn’t recent. The house was in a condition appropriate to its age. It just needed sprucing up—a fact that was more obvious now that it was vacant, stripped of its furniture and the Christmas greenery that had dolled up the old stairway.

She walked farther in, the floor creaking under her feet, and entered the kitchen. The gas stove, dating from around 1970, still scared her a little, although it was allegedly in good working order. The tiny fridge at least hailed from the current century.

A sickly green shade of glossy paint coated the wooden countertops. She could hardly wait to change the color or replace them altogether. A Coke can lay on its side with a dried brown spot next to it. A defiant little gesture from the seller, perhaps. He wouldn’t cut the grass, and he wouldn’t clean up a spill.

She moved on, soaking up the details she’d missed earlier. The sink was too modern to be original to the house, but older than she remembered. She tried the tap. The water was on, as promised.

Without the muffling effect of furnishings and wall-to-wall carpets, every sound was magnified and sharpened. The sheer emptiness of the house made the cold bite deeper too. Feeling all alone, Tish pulled her phone from her pocket and called her mother.

She answered on the first ring. “Tish! Are you there yet?”

“Just got here. I’m standing in the kitchen.”

“Still feel good about it?”

“I love it.” Her eyes watered.

“I wish I could be there to help you unload, you crazy girl.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why I hired movers. And the moving van’s right on schedule. They’re supposed to arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. How’s the weather?”

“It’s colder than I’d expected, but the rain stopped.”

“Do you have utilities?”

“Water and power. I won’t have heat until I go to the gas company and leave a deposit, but I’ll be fine. I brought a space heater and blankets.”

“Be glad you’re out of Michigan. I saw on the news they’re having a terrible ice storm.”

“I know. Here, it’s wet but only in the fifties. Practically balmy,” Tish joked. “Well, I’d better get off the phone and get busy. Come see the ancestral home sometime, okay?”

“Sure, but it’s not my ancestral home, honey. Let me know when the hard work is done, and I’ll be right there.”

Tish laughed. “Okay, Mom. Talk to you later.”

She decided to walk through the whole house again before unloading her car. Her footsteps echoed on the bare wooden floor of the narrow hall. The sellers had left small reminders of their presence in nearly every room: a paper clip on the bathroom windowsill, a pen on the floor of the linen closet, faded blue valances over the tall windows in the downstairs bedroom.

She turned in a circle, considering the bedroom. It was the biggest one, but she’d rather make it the guest room. She’d take one of the upstairs bedrooms where the sunrise would spill in from the east, and the third bedroom would become a combination office and sewing room. She could whip up some new curtains and valances in no time, if she could find a fabric shop.

Her hand glided smoothly over the banister as she ran up the stairs. After turning to the right, she went straight to the bedroom window that overlooked the big backyard with its wilderness of shrubbery. The last vestiges of the storm still dripped from the eaves, and the wet glass blurred her view. Somewhere beyond the tangle of bushes stood the garage.

After a quick peek into the antiquated bathroom, she loped downstairs and back outside to the car in the twilight. She had to bring her special treasure inside first.

She eased the portrait out of the backseat. Padded with multiple layers of towels and cardboard, it was hard to get a grip on. She lugged her unwieldy heirloom across the yard, up the steps, and inside. With care, she pulled off the wrappings and leaned the ornate gilt frame against the wall. Her great-great-great-grandparents looked solemnly back at her.

Maybe Letitia looked a bit anemic after all, but ghoulish wasn’t the right word for Nathan. His hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes reminded her of Abraham Lincoln.

“Welcome home,” Tish said quietly. “You’re back where you belong.”

She wanted to hang the portrait, but it wasn’t a one-person job.

Her stomach growled, bringing her back to the present. Once she’d unloaded the car, she would call in an order to Bag-a-’Cue. That was a privilege Nathan and Letitia had never known.

She’d made it home, and except for her feet, Mel had stayed mostly dry. Wet feet were the worst, though. They made her cold all over. If she hadn’t lost her duffel bag, she wouldn’t have lost her cash either. She might have had enough to buy shoes and socks and jeans. Of course, if she still had her bag, she wouldn’t need replacements.

Lowering the hood of her jacket, she lifted her face to the dark sky. It was a good thing the storm was over. Her folks weren’t home, and her house key didn’t work anymore.

She was trying not to read too much into it. People changed locks all the time. For lots of reasons. Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with the big blowup. After all this time, they should’ve gotten over it, shouldn’t they?

She tucked her keys carefully into the waterproof side pocket of her bedroll with the last of her cigarettes. She couldn’t lose those keys. Even if the house key didn’t work anymore, the car key was important.

She eyed the tall wooden fence separating her from the backyard. Maybe they’d forgotten to lock the sliding glass door of the sunroom.

It was worth a try, anyway. She crossed the wet lawn to the side yard where the old oak arched its branches over the fence. She edged her bedroll over the top, and it landed with a plop. She shimmied up the trunk, crawled along the thickest branch, and dropped over. Easy-peasy, like high school except this time her bedroom window wouldn’t have been left conveniently cracked open. And she didn’t dare do anything that would set off the burglar alarm. She didn’t know the code to disarm it anymore, and she didn’t want the cops all over her. She’d be so embarrassed if Darren was one of them. He would’ve graduated from the academy by now and maybe he’d stayed in town.

She picked up her bedroll, noticing the new muddy smudge. No big deal, though. She walked over to the sunroom door and tugged on the handle.

Locked. They’d wedged a security bar in the track too.

Peeking through the blinds, Mel scanned the dark room. Even in the dim light, she could tell the rattan furniture had new cushions in a tropical print. Magazines covered the low table, same as always, and houseplants stood against the low walls below the windows.

She loved that room, especially when all the windows were open. It had been the only room in the house where she could breathe. Where she didn’t feel suffocated.

After checking the windows and confirming she couldn’t sneak in without breaking something, she dragged one of the plastic deck chairs under the wide overhang of the roof in case another storm blew in. She wiped the seat dry with her hand, then unzipped her sleeping bag and spread it over the chair. She patted her shirt pocket to make sure her treasure was safe, then sat, pulling the sleeping bag around her and drawing the jacket’s hood over her head.

Her folks wouldn’t see her when they pulled in, but she would hear them. Hiding in the backyard was better than waiting on the front porch where the neighbors would see her and start gossiping again.

Now that she’d stopped moving, she ached all over. And her feet and ankles were like ice. She’d give anything for jeans that covered her ankles. Dry socks. Shoes that weren’t smashed and filthy.

A freezing wind blew through the yard, reminding her how cold Noble could get. She pulled the sleeping bag tighter, but it didn’t help.

Closing her eyes, she tried to pretend she was back in her own room. The room Grandpa John had helped her paint in a soft blue when she was fourteen.

“Same color as my car, almost,” he’d said.

“No, it’s my car,” she’d said, poking his shoulder to make him laugh.

“Yes, sweetie, it’ll be your car someday,” he’d said.

Grandpa John was the only person she’d never doubted. Because he’d never doubted her. He’d always believed the best about a person.

When she was a little girl, they’d passed a homeless man on the sidewalk. Grandpa John had said he would drop her off at the house and go back to buy the man a hamburger or something. “There but by the grace of God,” he’d said.

She’d thought it was a funny thing to say. Grace meant prettiness in your movements. Being surefooted. Not tripping over your own feet and making a fool of yourself. So it didn’t make sense. God wasn’t a real person with feet.

“Good night, Grandpa John, wherever you are,” she whispered.

Then she tried very hard to believe he winked at her from heaven and whispered back, “Good night, Melanie John.”

It was dark when Tish pulled her car into one of the few empty spots in front of Bag-a-’Cue and ran inside. For a Monday night in a small town, it was a busy joint that attracted a healthy mix of young and old, black and white. Noisy, friendly customers crowded a dozen picnic tables. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. A little boy ran around in red footie pajamas, his chin smeared with barbecue sauce.

She approached the counter and met the heavily lined eyes of the teenage girl working the register.

“Yes ma’am, how can I help you?”

“I called in a to-go order a few minutes ago for—”

“That’s the other end of the counter.” She pointed. “Where it says Pick Up Orders Here.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’m new here.” Giving the girl an apologetic smile, Tish proceeded to the proper spot.

A grown woman presided over the pick-up station. Excessive eyeliner seemed to be a locally popular style for all ages. “Hey,” she said with a smile.

“Hi. I called in an order to go …”

“Name?”

“Letitia.”

The woman blinked. “Okay.” She collected Tish’s money and counted out her change. “It’ll be up in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

Stepping aside to wait, Tish looked back at the tables full of customers and wondered if any of them were her new neighbors or people she would run into at the grocery store or the post office. Of course, she’d do her shopping and banking over in Muldro, a much larger town with more options and better prices. She’d go there in the morning to get the gas turned on and open a checking account.

But these people probably lived in Noble. Some of them could be her neighbors. Maybe they’d become her friends someday.

A young couple stopped at the condiment station. Loading red trays with plastic forks, paper napkins, and ketchup packets, they bantered back and forth with their friends who were already seated. The little guy in pajamas swiped a fry from his father’s plate and giggled.

“Letitia,” a man yelled. “Pick-up for Letitia.”

She turned toward the counter. “That’s mine,” she said, speaking into a sudden lull in the conversations behind her.

A burly old employee held a brown paper bag in huge hands. “Letitia,” he repeated loudly and unnecessarily. “That you?”

“Yes.” Her voice rang in the strange new silence.

The man slapped the bag onto the counter. “Here’s your order, Letitia.”

The way he said it took her back to whispered mockery of her old-fashioned name in a Michigan schoolyard. Saginaw? Yes. Fourth grade. Letitia, Letitia, Tish Tish Tish …

“Thank you,” she said. Even the rustling of the bag in her hand sounded too loud. Too conspicuous.

Someone snickered and whispered something she couldn’t catch.

She turned around. The people closest to the counter were staring at her. No one was smiling now except the tyke in red pajamas.

Whatever was going on, getting mad wouldn’t help. She drew a deep breath and managed a smile.

“I’m new here,” she blurted. “My apologies.”

No one spoke.

Bag in hand, she fled to her car. Was Noble one of those towns where everybody was related somehow, and they refused to accept outsiders? Or—she looked down at her University of Michigan sweatshirt. Did they hate Yankees? Could they be that provincial?

No. She was exhausted from the move, and she’d let her old paranoia kick in.

“I am Letitia McComb,” she said under her breath. “You can’t change who I am.”

She started her car and pulled out of the lot. In January, without Christmas lights, Main Street had lost some of its friendly charm.