Katie Sara signaled and turned left, then left again onto Wedgwood Way. Her new street and her new home.
During morning coffee and donuts at the Egg Basket, in line at Piggly Wiggly, and over after-work drinks at the Hole in the Wall, Paradoxians would undoubtedly speculate on where the money came from to buy the small house. Had she used money her dad had stashed away before they caught him?
Truth was, Grandma Beatrice had left her a small trust fund. Truth was, she’d much rather have Grandma.
For a long while, Katie Sara sat at the curb studying the house. The new paint job, the palest of yellow, with muted green shutters and a lavender tin roof, had added a whimsical touch. The white porch stretched the length of the front, crying out for rockers and a swing, some potted geraniums. And the white picket fence... The last owners had done it proud.
The realtor, Jennie Mae Benson’s mother, told her the new people—from New York City, no less—had dumped a ton of money into it. They’d wanted a cute little get-away and used it only two weeks the first year, less than that the second. Now, the Yanks had decided to unload it.
“Thank you, thank you,” Katie Sara whispered. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Karma.
Chia hopped out of the car with her and padded daintily up the sidewalk, sniffing pansies and verbena along the way.
Just as Katie Sara unlocked the door, the cat sneezed. “See? Always sticking your nose in things. Come on, Sneezy. Let’s take a peek inside our new home.”
She stepped into the foyer and squealed. “Yes, yes, yes!”
Gleaming wooden floors scattered in all directions. Running a hand over the stair banister, she imagined it at Christmas, decorated with holly and white lights.
“Home. At last.”
Chia wove between her ankles in agreement, and she knelt to rub the cat’s head. “It may not be easy, though, baby, because some people won’t be happy to see us.”
When she stepped into the U-shaped kitchen, she hugged herself. The area melted into a breakfast nook with a bay window, then on into the great room. A brick fireplace anchored the far wall. French doors led out to the yard and flooded the room with early morning light. Opening them, she tossed her head back delightedly when a gentle breeze carried the scent of the gardens inside.
Chia tried to slink out, but two steps past the door, he sneezed again.
“Get back in here, mister. Come on. Inside.”
The cat skulked back into the house and moved on to sniff the baseboards. Leaving him to check out the living room, she wandered upstairs to two small bedrooms and a master suite that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the backyard. Pure heaven.
Downstairs again, she migrated to the backyard. Just as she remembered it. Mrs. Larson’s hollyhocks splashed color along the side fence while sunflowers, wisteria, and lilacs clustered in the rear. A magnolia shaded the far edge of the yard. Ivy nearly covered a detached one-car garage.
She sighed. It was a yard made for a family, for children. But since she’d been on exactly two dates in the last eleven months... Couldn’t have one without the other, could you? Well, you could, but she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel on the conventional method—not just yet.
Rubbing her arms, she returned to her car and removed the urn. “I kept my promise, Daddy,” she whispered. “I brought you home to be buried.”
Hot tears tracked down her face. “The only thing in the world that could have brought me back to Paradox. I can’t leave you here all alone.”

Across the street, Philomena Passarelli and Marge Fisher drew aside the curtain in Philomena’s kitchen.
“Lord, girl must’ve driven all night,” Marge said. “It’s barely daybreak.”
“Ask me, she’s slinkin’ back into town like a thief...or a cat burglar.” Philomena eyed the Persian trailing Katie Sara.
“Now, Phil, that was her daddy. That little girl didn’t do anything wrong, and you know it. Her mama got her out of here and away from people like you who wouldn’t let it go and rightly so.” Marge dropped the curtain back in place and sipped her coffee.
The two were up early, hoping to catch a glimpse of the nasty no-gooder who’d taken to driving down their quiet street every morning at precisely six, radio blaring, waking everyone on the street. It had to stop. Today, they’d been ready, camera in hand, to record both car and license plate.
And so, of course, he hadn’t shown up. Murphy’s Law at work.
But tomorrow was another day. And, oh, they would get him. After all, true Southern women never gave up.
Instead, they’d witnessed Katie Sara McMichael’s return.
“Didn’t bring much with her, did she?” Philomena asked.
“Nope. Unlike some that are movin’ back. Of course, I don’t guess he’ll bring much with him, either,” Marge said. “You know, he’s not even stepped foot in the place, yet?”
“That fancy designer from Hotlanta sure has. Meetin’ delivery trucks practically every day. My nephew Arlo was in there. He says it’s not very homey lookin’. All neutral, you know? The new color.” She snorted. “No color.”
“I’d guess he’s met with the designer and he told her what he wants.”
“Wouldn’t you think he’d be curious, though? Want a peek?”
“Oh, yeah. If that honey of a house was mine, I’d be on it like stars on Old Glory. But it’s not. Maybe once you’ve got a Super Bowl ring you don’t have time for unimportant things like homes and families.”