Years later, people in that little town still talked about the Bellamy sisters. They talked about Vivian's perfume, Martie's cooking. and Lou's mysterious conversations with birds.
They talked about Ruth, who eventually became so much a part of the family that nobody could remember exactly when she stopped being the new neighbor.
They talked about Emily, who came home every chance she got.
And they talked about Art. Especially Art. Because Art Caldwell had become something of a local legend. The grumpy old man who wasn't actually all that grumpy. The fisherman who still claimed he'd never mistaken a boot for a fish. The man with the crooked garden gnome, the ceramic rooster, and the enormous dog.
And the three women across the street who had somehow adopted him.
Every Sunday afternoon, they gathered on the porch. Sometimes there were four chairs. Sometimes six. Sometimes eight. Nobody counted anymore. There was always room.
One summer evening, Art sat quietly watching the sunset. Hank was asleep at his feet. The magnolia tree moved gently in the breeze. Vivian was inside arguing with Martie about dessert. Lou was explaining something to a bird. Ruth was reading. Emily was laughing.
Art looked toward the sky. "Margaret?"
He smiled. "I think you'd like it here."
The breeze moved through the trees. He leaned back.
"There's too much noise." He smiled. "Just like you wanted."
Then he looked toward the kitchen.
Somebody called his name. "Art!"
He closed his eyes. He smiled. "Coming." He stood.
And as he walked toward the laughter, he glanced once at the empty chair beside him. It wouldn't stay empty long. It never did. Because that's the thing about home. Sometimes you spend your whole life looking for it
And sometimes—home is simply the people who refuse to let you sit alone.
The End