Unfinished Business

trunk for her suitcases. She didn’t have to stay if she was uncomfortable, she reminded herself. She was free to go anywhere. She was an adult, a well-traveled one who was financially secure. Her home, if she chose to make one, could be anywhere in the world. Since her father’s death six months before, she’d had no ties.
    Yet it was here she had come. And it was here she needed to be—at least until her questions were answered.
    She crossed the sidewalk and climbed the five concrete steps. Despite the trip-hammer beating of her heart, she held herself straight. Her father had never permitted slumped shoulders. The presentation of self was as important as the presentation of music. Chin up, shoulders straight, she started up the walk.
    When the door opened, she stopped, as if her feet were rooted in the ground. She stood frozen as her mother stepped onto the porch.
    Images, dozens of them, raced into her mind. Of herself on the first day of school, rushing up those steps full of pride, to see her mother standing at the door. Sniffling as she limped up the walk after falling off her bike, her mother there to clean up the scrapes and kiss away the hurt. All but dancing onto the porch after her first kiss. And her mother, a woman’s knowledge in her eyes, struggling not to ask any questions.
    Then there had been the very last time she had stood here. But she had been walking away from the house, not toward it. And her mother hadn’t been on the porch waving goodbye.
    “Vanessa.”
    Loretta Sexton stood twisting her hands. There was no gray in her dark chestnut hair. It was shorter than Vanessa remembered, and fluffed around a face that showed very few lines. A rounder face, softer, than Vanessa recalled. She seemed smaller somehow. Not shrunken, but more compact, fitter, younger. Vanessa had a flash of her father. Thin, too thin, pale, old.
    Loretta wanted to run to her daughter, but she couldn’t. The woman standing on the walk wasn’t the girl she had lost and longed for. She looks like me, she thought, battling back tears. Stronger, more sure, but so much like me.
    Bracing herself, as she had countless times before stepping onto a stage, Vanessa continued up the walk, up the creaking wooden steps, to stand in front of her mother. They were nearly the same height. That was something that jolted them both. Their eyes, the same misty shade of green, held steady.
    They stood, only a foot apart. But there was no embrace.
    “I appreciate you letting me come.” Vanessa hated the stiffness she heard in her own voice.
    “You’re always welcome here.” Loretta cleared her throat, cleared it of the rush of emotional words. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
    “Thank you. I’m glad to see you’re looking well.”
    “I…” What could she say? What could she possibly say that could make up for twelve lost years? “Did you…run into much traffic on the way up?”
    “No. Not after I got out of Washington. It was a pleasant ride.”
    “Still, you must be tired after the drive. Come in and sit down.”
    She had remodeled, Vanessa thought foolishly as she followed her mother inside. The rooms were lighter, airier, than she remembered. The imposing home she remembered had become cozy. Dark, formal wallpaper had been replaced by warm pastels. Carpeting had been ripped up to reveal buffed pine floors that were accented by colorful area rugs. There were antiques, lovingly restored, and there was the scent of fresh flowers. It was the home of a woman, she realized. A woman of taste and means.
    “You’d probably like to go upstairs first and unpack.” Loretta stopped at the stairs, clutching the newel. “Unless you’re hungry.”
    “No, I’m not hungry.”
    With a nod, Loretta started up the stairs. “I thought you’d like your old room.” She pressed her lips together as she reached the landing. “I’ve redecorated a bit.”
    “So I see.” Vanessa’s voice was carefully neutral.
    “You still have a view of the backyard.”
    “I’m sure it’s fine.”
    Loretta opened a door, and Vanessa followed her inside.
    There were no fussily dressed dolls or grinning stuffed animals. There were no posters tacked on the walls, no carefully framed awards and certificates. Gone was the narrow bed she had once dreamed in, and the desk where she had fretted over French verbs and geometry. It was no longer a room for a girl. It was a room for a guest.
    The walls were ivory, trimmed in warm green. Pretty