The Promise of Paradise - By Allie Boniface Page 0,57
the locals didn’t mean she belonged here, even if Marty had just offered her the perfect opportunity for staying. She dodged a baseball that rolled into the street and kept her eyes down. She didn’t want to see who it belonged to or play the matching game with another local face.
Another turn, this time onto a quiet street, thick with oak trees. St. James Avenue curved up toward the community college, and she followed it, slowing as the hill grew steeper. Here the houses pushed together, one atop the next like postage stamps in a line. All one-level, all neatly tended, almost all brick with white or black trim and flowers on the stoop. Here and there, a flag in the window or a bronze nameplate broke the pattern. Don’t they mind? Don’t they want to look distinct? Or is there comfort in fitting in?
Ahead of her, a wrought iron gate stood open beside a sign welcoming her to New Hampshire Central Junior College. Ash wrapped her fingers around the bars and stared at the squat buildings, made of the same red brick as the houses behind her. Near the entrance stood a white building with cupolas on top and a sign that read “Admissions” in front. In the background she could see the three story library accented with flowerbeds and a stone lion statue sitting regally in front. It looked like every other local school, plopped in a tiny town, anywhere in the country.
Except it wasn’t. This one belonged to Paradise, New Hampshire. And suddenly, she heard Eddie’s voice again inside her head.
“… people have the same problems no matter where you go. Big city or small town, people get hurt. Friends steal from each other. Men cheat on their wives. Kids sneak out at night and get drunk while their parents think they’re sleeping. People get divorced, same as every other place…At least here, in Paradise, you know someone’s got your back. You know there’s always someone you can count on, someone you grew up with who’s gonna forgive you no matter how bad you screw things up…”
She turned away from the college. Two benches flanked the fence, and she dropped onto one, not caring that rainwater had puddled inside it.
Is that why she liked it? Because there was something here that made her feel like she belonged? Something that told her people would look out for her? Stand up for her? Forgive her when she screwed things up?
She ran one finger along the bench’s scrollwork.
“…I know it probably ain’t the dream job you got lined up inside your head. But you’re damn good at it. The customers like you. Lot of ‘em come in to see you…”
True, the town didn’t seem to care who she was. The people living here hadn’t asked questions when she’d moved in. They’d taken her word and welcomed her just the same. And she liked that she hadn’t relied on her last name to find a job. To make connections. To make love.
Eddie chose me. Not my pedigree. Not my degree. He chose his screwed-up, neurotic, upstairs neighbor who slept late and occasionally spilled coffee on people and chewed her thumbnail when she got nervous. He chose me. The realization washed over her in hot waves.
She had to tell him how he'd changed her, how this place had changed her. If Marty was offering her a chance to stay, to explore the possibilities that Paradise held for her, then Ash wasn’t about to say no. Not just yet. Not when everything between her and Eddie felt so unfinished.
She stood and made her way back down St. James. At the bottom, she broke into a jog. The church clock boomed out eleven o’clock, and she hurried on. Why was it that time only dragged when you wanted to rush it along, and when you really wanted to slow it, it insisted on running away from you?
She headed back to Lycian Street. If Eddie wasn’t home yet, she’d leave him a note. She'd wedge it inside his door and ask him to come to Blues and Booze later on. She didn’t care that maybe he’d spent the night with Cass. She had explaining to do. And apologies to make.
“Hi, Ash!” Toby Darling, Celia’s son, sat on the front step of the library, tossing a baseball from one hand to the other.
A few weeks back, she’d given the ten-year-old a dish of leftover ice cream, the night the power went out and every restaurant on