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Boston, Massachusetts

The house on Cedar Street was gone, destroyed by fire and demolished by the city. The remaining lot resembled a large grave covered by Mother Nature with ragweed and dandelion. Near the center of what had been the backyard lay a toppled concrete birdbath, a crumbled memory of where people once lived and died.

In front of the lot, Trish Harmon sat behind the wheel of her Camry, its motor off, its windows down allowing a slight breeze to flow past her shoulder length blonde hair. Through the windshield she could see the Boston skyline awakening from evenings sleep to another warm July day.

She sat unmoving, her brown eyes fixated on the empty lot; a place she dreamt of since the fire. An Aer Lingus jumbo jet crossed the brightening sky, its shadow slid over the landscape like a receding wave cresting on the horizon. The shadow covered the lot then slipped over the Camry as the aircraft proceeded to Logan International across the harbor.

Trish blinked a few times then returned her gaze to the lot and its memories. Visions of the house became clearer in her mind while watching the lot’s undergrowth move in unison with the morning breeze. She heard imaginary voices of children playing, talking, laughing and filling the neighborhood with the sound of youth. One voice in particular echoed from the house next door.

Sixteen-year old Sadie McGinnis singing along with a tune blaring from their first floor home in the double decker her mom rented. Her voice ran a gamut of emotions; from subdued to gleeful, frightened to courageous, boisterous and loud, and sometimes silent. All from crack cocaine tried for the first and last time.

A tear formed as Trish remembered Sadie as a well-mannered young woman with aspirations to become a nurse. She was the only daughter to Joan, life-long friend to the Harmon girls, and a proud single mom.

Trish sighed recalling the small Cape previously within the now empty lot; shrubs under each front window. A maple stood in the far corner of the backyard where its limb supported a length of rope for the girls to swing like Tarzan. Around the corner of the house, a separate entrance attached the garage, home to the family’s Ford Escort with a side path of blue stone laid in a pattern by Dad.

Trish shook it from her mind; a terrible moment better left alone. A day neither Harmon girls liked to recall. She thought instead of childhood wonders, teenage hopes and young women desires; all hatched in their little home atop Cedar Street. It all came back to her; the home, the neighborhood, friends and family, sights, sounds and especially the people. All the while, Sadie’s voice continued ringing in her ears.

Chapter One

Six months earlier

“My head is killing me,” Trish’s sister Cindy moaned, her body prone along the sofa, a hand lazily holding a damp facecloth to her brow.

“I told you and Joan to slow down, but noooo,” Trish said from the kitchen doorway, “you just had to open the other bottle.”

Trish went to the adjacent kitchen, turned on the sink tap and began rinsing china. “Now we’re out of Zinfandel, and you know I like my wine.”

“I wish it was you that drank it,” Cindy whispered from the throb pounding at her temples. She moaned pressing the cloth to her eyes, “God in heaven, can you do all that noise later. I think I’m gonna barf.”

Trish closed the tap and wiped her hands. She straightened a wall hanging then lit one of the many aromatherapy candles positioned throughout the house. With the same match, she lit a cigarette and took a seat across from her suffering sister. Content in her own comfort, Trish crossed her legs and grinned at Cindy’s agony.

“Soooo,” she exhaled, watching smoke drift toward the ceiling, “luckily neither of you needed a designated driver.”

Cindy’s nostrils twitched as the candle scent reached her, “That ‘nilla?”

“No, vanilla enhances sensuality.”

Cindy tried to laugh but only half giggled, “Ha, see where my mind’s at?”

“What you smell is Eucalyptus. It will help sooth your wine soaked brain, a good stress reliever,” Trish stated.

“Oh…” Cindy moaned pressing on the cloth, “Joan must feel terrible.”

“Ask her,” Trish said.

Cindy turned her head toward her younger sister’s voice, as if seeing through the facecloth. “What? Why, where is she?”

“If you’d come alive you’d find your drinking buddy stretched out in the Lazy Boy, snoring,” Trish said.

Cindy hesitated a moment as though verifying the sound of her best friend and neighbor, Joan McGinnis, where Cindy had last seen her as they laughed and cried about God knew what.

She heard the nasal mumble and removed her eye covering, focusing on Joan’s form across the room. She smiled and returned her weary head to the sofa cushion. “Yup, that’s her, Joan of Arc, no, no, Joan of Apple Hill. I guess she never made it home?”

Trish mocked her, “Well, my gawd Cindy, it’s a long walk across our lawn to her front door.”

“Do I detect sarcasm?” Cindy asked softly.

“I just don’t think she should have left Sadie over there all night alone. I mean the girl is traumatized enough from the divorce and —”

Joan interrupted, “The girl is fine, thank you.”

Awkwardness fell on the room. Cindy uncovered her eyes and Trish held the cigarette halfway to her lips. Both glanced to their friend on the recliner. Joan smiled then closed her eyes with a frown.

“I appreciate the concern but Sadie is fine with the divorce. Maybe you forgot she witness Joe whack me around like a punching bag a year ago, drunk as the louse he is,” Joan said.

“I’m sorry, I was worried,” Trish said.

Joan held up a hand, “Not to worry, believe me, she’s all right, but I should get back. It’s Saturday and Sadie is usually up early, makes breakfast and starts the laundry. It’s her reverse psychology plan to make me feel guilty if she stays out late. I think I’ll go home; as comfy as this chair is, I really need my bed.”

Joan made her way to a standing position, steadied, then stretched. “My god, will I ever learn that ‘girls night’ really means, ‘get hammered time’.”

Her remark made Trish laugh as Joan trudged toward the door. Cindy spoke without removing the cloth. “Call you later…”

Trish raised a hand with a smile, “get some rest, lady.”

“I plan on it, adios amigos,” Joan said, softly closing the door behind her.