For several seconds, nobody moved. Not Art, not Emily, and certainly not the three Bellamy sisters.
Ruth stood in the doorway of the little house next door to Art with one hand resting on the doorframe.She was small, but not frail—there was a difference. Small, neat, silver-haired, and straight-backed, with the kind of posture that suggested she'd spent a lifetime refusing to let age tell her what to do. She wore a pale yellow cardigan over a white blouse, sensible shoes, and a string of pearls.
Lou leaned toward Vivian. "She has pearls."
Vivian nodded. "Good ones, too."
Martie whispered, "Would y'all hush?"
"I am whispering."
"You're whispering loud."
"I have never been accused of being quiet."
Ruth's eyes moved from one sister to another. Then she smiled. "You're the Bellamy sisters." All three froze.
Vivian recovered first. "Well, yes."
Ruth smiled wider. "I knew I'd like you."
Martie frowned. "You've never met us."
"No, but I did my research on the neighborhood before I chose my new home."
Art's face changed. Emily noticed. "So you knew Mama?" Ruth turned to her. "I knew your mother very well."
Art finally found his voice.
"How?"
Ruth looked at him. And for the first time, the smile disappeared. "Because before Margaret was your wife, she was my best friend." Art stared at her. Something old moved behind his eyes. A memory. Not a bad one. Just one he hadn't visited in a very long time.
"Ruth Meachum." whispered Art.
She nodded. "Hello, Arthur."
Lou's eyebrows shot up. "Arthur." Martie grabbed her arm. "Don't."
"What?"
"You heard the way she said it."
"I heard everything."
Vivian looked between Art and Ruth. "Well," she said softly, "this just got interesting."
Art took a step toward the doorway. "Ruth... what are you doing here?"
"I bought the house."
"I can see that."
"I thought you'd be pleased."
Art stared at her. "Why?"
Ruth's smile returned. "Because Margaret would have been."
Art looked away.
Emily stepped closer. "What happened between you two?"
Ruth looked at her. "Nothing happened between us."
Then she glanced toward Art. "That's the point."
Art rubbed his forehead. "Ruth, I haven't seen you in forty years."
"I know."
"You disappeared."
"No."
She shook her head. "I moved."
"That's the same thing."
"No, Arthur. Disappearing is when you leave without saying goodbye."
She paused. "I said goodbye."
Art stared at her. "Did you?"
Ruth smiled sadly. "You were busy being twenty-nine and convinced you knew everything."
Lou whispered, "He hasn't changed much." Art heard her. "I heard that."
"I know."
Ruth laughed. It was a warm laugh. A familiar laugh. And Art suddenly remembered it.
He remembered a summer afternoon. A lake. Margaret sitting on a picnic blanket. Ruth beside her. Three young people laughing about something that didn't seem funny anymore. He remembered Margaret saying, Ruth, stop encouraging him. He remembered Ruth answering, I'm not encouraging him. I'm enjoying watching him make a fool of himself.
Art blinked. "You remember."
Ruth nodded. "I remember everything."
Art looked at the house behind her. "Why here?"
Ruth's expression softened. "Because I'm old."
Vivian gasped. Martie elbowed her. Ruth continued. "And because I'm tired of living somewhere that doesn't have anyone who knows who I used to be."
That silenced everyone. Art looked at her.
Ruth smiled. "You're the only person left who remembers me before I became somebody's widow, somebody's mother, somebody's grandmother." She glanced around. "I wanted somewhere I could just be Ruth again."
Art swallowed. "I understand that."
"I thought you might."
For a moment, the two of them simply stood there. Two people who had known each other when their lives were still wide open. Before marriages. Before children. Before funerals. Before regrets. Before the years had started taking things away.
Emily looked at her father. "Dad?"
Art looked at her. "Yeah?"
"How did you meet Ruth?"
Art smiled faintly. "She was Margaret's best friend."
Ruth corrected him. "Best friend and worst influence."
"That too."
Lou stepped forward. "So..." Everyone looked at her. Lou smiled. "Are you the one who taught Margaret how to dance?"
Ruth laughed. "No."
She looked at Art. "Arthur taught her."
Art shook his head. "No, she taught me."
Vivian put a hand over her heart. "Oh, I like this woman."
Martie sighed. "Of course you do."
Ruth looked at the three sisters. "Are you always like this?"
Art answered before they could. "Worse."
Ruth laughed again. "Then I definitely bought the right house."
Then they all went inside. No one had planned to, it just simply happened. The Bellamy sisters followed Ruth through the front door carrying flowers, pie, and the basket they'd originally intended to deliver. Art stood outside for another moment. Emily touched his arm. "You okay?"
He nodded. "I think so."
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Art smiled. "No." He looked at Ruth. "Just a piece of my past."
Emily squeezed his arm. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
Art looked across the street at the Bellamy house. "No." He smiled. "Maybe it isn't."
Ruth's house was almost completely empty. There were boxes everywhere. A small sofa and two side chairs. A dining table, with mismatched chairs, and one old wooden cabinet that looked like it had been in the family longer than Ruth had.
Martie immediately began inspecting the kitchen. Vivian inspected the curtains. Lou inspected a box labeled CHRISTMAS — FRAGILE. Ruth watched her. "Don't open that." Lou froze. "I wasn't."
"You were."
"I was considering it."
"Don't."
Lou nodded. "All right."
She took one step away. Then looked back. "Do you have ghosts?"
Ruth blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Ghosts."
"No."
Lou nodded. "That's good."
She walked away. Ruth looked at Art. "She's something."
Art sighed. "She's Lou."
Ruth smiled. "I like her."
"Everybody does."
Ruth looked at the sisters. "How long have they been tormenting you?"
Art considered the question. "About eight months."
Ruth's eyebrows rose. "And you're still alive."
"Some days I'm not sure."
From the kitchen came Martie's voice. "Art, do you want coffee?"
"No."
"Too bad."
Ruth laughed.
Art pointed toward the kitchen. "See?"
Ruth smiled. "Margaret would have loved them."
Art's expression softened.
"She would have."
Ruth looked at him. "You know that?"
"Yeah." He looked down. "I do now."
Ruth studied him for a moment. Then quietly said, "Good."
Later that afternoon, after the boxes had been opened and the coffee had been poured and the pie had somehow become three slices instead of one, Ruth sat beside Art on the front porch. The others had gone across the street. Mostly. Lou was standing behind the curtains. Vivian was pretending not to watch. Martie was washing dishes. Emily was bringing everyone sweet tea.
Art looked at Ruth. "You really remember everything?"
"Not everything." She smiled. "But enough."
"Why didn't you ever write?"
"I did.
Art's head turned. "What?"
"I wrote."
Ruth looked toward the street. "Several times."
Art stared at her. "I never got anything."
"I know."
"How?"
"Margaret told me." Art's face tightened. "What did Margaret say?"
Ruth was quiet. Then she reached into the pocket of her cardigan. She pulled out a small, worn photograph. She handed it to him. Art looked down. His breath caught. It was Margaret. Young. Laughing. Her hair pulled back. Standing beside Ruth. And behind them—Art. Twenty-nine years old. Skinny. Dark-haired. Smiling.
A man who hadn't yet learned how much life could hurt. Art touched the edge of the photograph with his thumb. "Where did you get this?"
"Margaret gave it to me."
"When?"
"Years ago."
Art looked up. "Why?"
Ruth smiled. "She told me to keep it."
"Why?"
"She said someday you'd need to remember that you were happy before you knew what happiness cost."
Art stared at the photograph. His eyes filled. Ruth didn't touch him. She simply sat beside him.
After a long silence, Art whispered, "I'd forgotten that man."
Ruth shook her head. "No, you didn't."
He looked at her. "You just stopped looking for him."
Art swallowed. Across the street, three women had stopped pretending not to watch. Vivian lowered the curtain. Martie dried her hands. Lou whispered, "She brought him back."
Martie nodded. "Looks like it." Lou smiled. "Good." Emily was openly sobbing at this point.
Martie looked at all of them both. "Don't get any ideas." Vivian raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"Whatever you're thinking." Lou shrugged. "I wasn't thinking anything." Vivian stared at her. "You were absolutely thinking something." Lou smiled. "I was thinking we need another pie." Martie sighed. "That's the first sensible thing anybody has said all afternoon."
Across the street, Art looked at the photograph again. Then he smiled. Not the small smile he'd learned over the past few months.
A younger smile, one that belonged to somebody who had once believed life was going to be wonderful.
And for the first time in forty years—he remembered what that felt like.
He looked at Ruth. "Thank you."
She nodded. "You're welcome, Arthur."
Art smiled.
"Nobody has called me that in years."
Ruth smiled back.
Art had learned that sometimes the past doesn't come back to hurt you. Sometimes...it comes back to remind you who you were before you got hurt.