Sara Mathews gazed out at the lawn where she had played as a child. She stood at the window, absently tracing the delicate lace curtain with one well-manicured finger. The late afternoon sun filtered through her long blond hair, creating a golden silhouette. Tiny diamond studs twinkled at her ears, and a fine gold chain glistened at her neck. She wore a yellow, French cut tee shirt and white cotton shorts that showed off her long shapely legs.
The old oak mantle clock chimed and drew her attention away from the window. She glanced at her watch and shook her head. That clock was always wrong, even after many trips to the repair shop, but no one could bear getting rid of it. As far back as Sara could remember that clock had rested on the granite mantle piece, flanked by the silver candlesticks given to her grandmother on the day she was married. In fact, this whole room never changed. It was an old fashioned parlor, strictly for company. No television sets were allowed in here.
Sara reached for a sour ball from the crystal candy dish forever sitting on the drop leaf table behind the sofa. A linen runner, yellowed with age, covered most of the scars the table had acquired over the years. She ran her hand over the exposed surface, reassured and comforted by the familiar objects in this room.
She felt safe and ashamed at the same time. She had worked so hard to get away from this house, this town. And now here she was, back again, but not in triumph-a failure.
"Sara!"Her mother's voice jolted her out of her reverie.
"Yes, Mom?" she answered as she stepped into the kitchen.
"Oh, there you are. Will you please peel the vegetables for me? We want everything perfect for your brother's first big client."
Sara dumped the potatoes into the sink while her mother continued to chatter.
"He seems to be a very nice man, Joey's client, I mean. I met him yesterday at the post office, did I tell you that?"
"Yes, Mother." Sara was convinced this dinner was just another attempt at matchmaking.
"Joey says he's been divorced for over a year, now. The poor man. It was quite a tragedy, his son being killed over there in Lebanon. Joey says after that, the man just up and sold his practice-he's a lawyer, you know-and moved up here. Of course, it sure will be nice having the old Miller farm working again."
Sara agreed with that and could almost smell the aroma of freshly baked pies coming from Mrs. Miller's kitchen. Every year, she and Joey, as children, would look forward to apple picking time with great anticipation. Mrs. Miller always had a piece of apple pie and hot spiced cider for the children and adults who came to help harvest their apples.