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They say lots of things about going home. Home is where the heart is. There's no place like home.But Emma Jansen was, in fact, going home again. Well, not home, exactly, because the place she grew up wasn't really hers, never really belonged to her.
Emma walked to the cab stand. No David Larrabee in sight. She adjusted her tote bag on her shoulder as she got in line for a taxi. Moments later, she was in the back of a cab, windows down."No, I grew up here," she said, forcing a smile as she looked out the open window. "This it?" the cabdriver asked. A tiny sign on the gate read, Sales Center, with an arrow directing cars to drive through.
It looked abandoned. Which was what it was, really. When the family left, it had been bought by a real estate developer who'd planned to flip the house and the property. But then the recession hit, and there were no buyers for the house and its surrounding eight acres. It soon went into foreclosure and sat empty for years. As the estate deteriorated, it became harder and harder to sell, because even though the property had value, it was a fixer-upper.
When I heard Mr. Lombardi in the alley, I invited him into the kitchen for coffee. He delivers a supply of colored glass stones to the shop on the last Monday of the month and I was expecting him. I told him I needed to get to Boston, where my sister was ill. I have no sister, but he did not know that. If he would take me to the Fox Point station when he left, I could catch the afternoon train to Boston. When he agreed, I asked him not to tell Ank.
I read Maddie's instructions for the hundredth time. Once I reach Boston, I am to take a train to Albany, where I will board an Erie Canal packet boat which will get me as far as Buffalo. In Buffalo, I am to board a lake steamer to Chicago. The fare in steerage will be three dollars. In Chicago, I am to find a place on a wagon traveling to a port on the Mississippi River called Galena. Then another steamboat from Galena to St.
The rumble of the crowd beat against his dressing room door. A moment ago, he'd welcomed it like a quilt tucked around his shoulders, but now he felt the pressure of the audience's expectations enshrouding him, a white torrent against his chest.
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