Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - Family Ties (M/F)
Dear @LunaDog, maybe tomorrow's episode will show us if and how Erica decides.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Erica walks out onto the front porch, the old boards beneath her heels giving a familiar creak.
The kind of sound that once meant she was trying to sneak back in too late, or her father stepping out with a mug of coffee to watch the rain roll in.
Now, it is just a memory - a gentle shift of wood and air beneath her.
The light is thinning. Late afternoon bleeds into the softer hues of early evening, and the trees - bare, brittle with the retreat of winter - cast long shadows across the lawn like reaching fingers.
She breathes in: dry grass, cold stone, a trace of spring dust and old wood.
It’s strange, how a place can smell like both childhood and emptiness.
Pulling her phone from her coat pocket, she scrolls to a name in her contacts: Steve McKinley.
It’s been a while since they had met on the cruise.
Erica remembers those warm, peculiar nights at sea, when she was trying to put that encounter with Tony Maze behind her.
Sometimes, she still feels the sting in her right shoulder where Maze had shot her, a phantom ache that she unconsciously rubs for a second before pulling her hand away.
Steve had been looking for love on that cruise, but Erica had to tell him that she wasn't ready for a new relationship.
She still isn't.
Steve understood and eventually, met Antonia, who seemed to be the yin to his yang, the soulmate he had been searching for.
The phone rings twice.
"McKinley Contracting - Steve speaking."
His voice makes her smile, unbidden.
A little raspier than she remembers, but still rough around the edges in the best way.
"Hi Steve. It's Erica Sinclair."
A beat, then a chuckle that wraps around her like an old sweatshirt.
"Well, I'll be damned. The legal eagle herself. Thought you’d be too busy saving the city from collapse."
"Still trying," she says. "How are you?"
"Busy. Good. Tired. Still got more work than hands. I swear I'm hiring guys faster than I can train 'em, and I'm still behind. But hey - Toni and I are engaged."
Erica blinks. "Seriously?"
That really is good news.
She had been happy for Steve back then, glad he'd found someone after all his searching, and it's even better now hearing that they are still together planning a future for themselves.
Antonia had seen beyond Steve's rough edges and recognized the truly good man he is, a loyalty Erica both admires and secretly envies.
The thought surprises her with its unexpected sharpness.
"Yup. She said yes, can you believe it?"
A soft laugh rises in her chest. "Congratulations, Steve. That's really great news."
"She's already planning everything. I mostly just nod and say "yes, honey." We’re looking at a fall wedding. October, maybe. You'll get an invite, of course."
"I'll be there," she says - and she means it.
A quiet moment settles between them.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
"I'm actually calling about something," she says finally. "I'm back in Scarsdale. At my parents' house where I grew up."
Another pause.
This one feels different - measured, thoughtful.
“It's a long story, but here I am. And I think I want to do something with it. Renovate. Open it up again. But before I throw a fortune at some glossy contractor with a fake smile and a Pinterest board, I'd rather have someone I trust take a look. Give it to me straight."
"You want my honest, professional?" he asks, tone easy, but sincere beneath it. "Even if you won't like what I might say?"
"Exactly."
“Well hell, alright. I can come down this Saturday. See what you're working with.” He chuckles, a low rumble. "You always did prefer the unvarnished truth, even if it came with splinters."
"No renderings, just reality,” she confirms, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Steve. I really appreciate it."
"Scarsdale, huh?" he teases. "Fancy place. Just the right thing for a successful lawyer."
She smirks, saying nothing.
What might have been a sleepy small town back in her childhood days is now high on the list of America's wealthiest suburbs.
Getting the house back into shape might actually not be a bad idea.
Not a cheap one, but good things usually come at a cost.
Steve laughs. "I'll bring Toni. She’s been itching for a trip. Still talks about that cruise, believe it or not.
"It's been a while," she says. "I'm looking forward to seeing you both."
"Same here, Erica. Really."
When the call ends, she lets her arm drop, phone still in hand.
The porch feels a little less hollow beneath her feet.
The house behind her creaks - not accusing, but curious.
Waiting.
And for the first time since she arrived, something shifts inside her.
Not quite hope.
But close enough to feel like the beginning of something.
The tightness in her chest, a familiar companion of the day, eases its grip just a fraction.
A faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreads through her, like the first tentative ray of morning light breaking through a long, dark night.
“Took you long enough,” Elisa would have said.
~~~
The kind of sound that once meant she was trying to sneak back in too late, or her father stepping out with a mug of coffee to watch the rain roll in.
Now, it is just a memory - a gentle shift of wood and air beneath her.
The light is thinning. Late afternoon bleeds into the softer hues of early evening, and the trees - bare, brittle with the retreat of winter - cast long shadows across the lawn like reaching fingers.
She breathes in: dry grass, cold stone, a trace of spring dust and old wood.
It’s strange, how a place can smell like both childhood and emptiness.
Pulling her phone from her coat pocket, she scrolls to a name in her contacts: Steve McKinley.
It’s been a while since they had met on the cruise.
Erica remembers those warm, peculiar nights at sea, when she was trying to put that encounter with Tony Maze behind her.
Sometimes, she still feels the sting in her right shoulder where Maze had shot her, a phantom ache that she unconsciously rubs for a second before pulling her hand away.
Steve had been looking for love on that cruise, but Erica had to tell him that she wasn't ready for a new relationship.
She still isn't.
Steve understood and eventually, met Antonia, who seemed to be the yin to his yang, the soulmate he had been searching for.
The phone rings twice.
"McKinley Contracting - Steve speaking."
His voice makes her smile, unbidden.
A little raspier than she remembers, but still rough around the edges in the best way.
"Hi Steve. It's Erica Sinclair."
A beat, then a chuckle that wraps around her like an old sweatshirt.
"Well, I'll be damned. The legal eagle herself. Thought you’d be too busy saving the city from collapse."
"Still trying," she says. "How are you?"
"Busy. Good. Tired. Still got more work than hands. I swear I'm hiring guys faster than I can train 'em, and I'm still behind. But hey - Toni and I are engaged."
Erica blinks. "Seriously?"
That really is good news.
She had been happy for Steve back then, glad he'd found someone after all his searching, and it's even better now hearing that they are still together planning a future for themselves.
Antonia had seen beyond Steve's rough edges and recognized the truly good man he is, a loyalty Erica both admires and secretly envies.
The thought surprises her with its unexpected sharpness.
"Yup. She said yes, can you believe it?"
A soft laugh rises in her chest. "Congratulations, Steve. That's really great news."
"She's already planning everything. I mostly just nod and say "yes, honey." We’re looking at a fall wedding. October, maybe. You'll get an invite, of course."
"I'll be there," she says - and she means it.
A quiet moment settles between them.
Not awkward.
Just… full.
"I'm actually calling about something," she says finally. "I'm back in Scarsdale. At my parents' house where I grew up."
Another pause.
This one feels different - measured, thoughtful.
“It's a long story, but here I am. And I think I want to do something with it. Renovate. Open it up again. But before I throw a fortune at some glossy contractor with a fake smile and a Pinterest board, I'd rather have someone I trust take a look. Give it to me straight."
"You want my honest, professional?" he asks, tone easy, but sincere beneath it. "Even if you won't like what I might say?"
"Exactly."
“Well hell, alright. I can come down this Saturday. See what you're working with.” He chuckles, a low rumble. "You always did prefer the unvarnished truth, even if it came with splinters."
"No renderings, just reality,” she confirms, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Thank you, Steve. I really appreciate it."
"Scarsdale, huh?" he teases. "Fancy place. Just the right thing for a successful lawyer."
She smirks, saying nothing.
What might have been a sleepy small town back in her childhood days is now high on the list of America's wealthiest suburbs.
Getting the house back into shape might actually not be a bad idea.
Not a cheap one, but good things usually come at a cost.
Steve laughs. "I'll bring Toni. She’s been itching for a trip. Still talks about that cruise, believe it or not.
"It's been a while," she says. "I'm looking forward to seeing you both."
"Same here, Erica. Really."
When the call ends, she lets her arm drop, phone still in hand.
The porch feels a little less hollow beneath her feet.
The house behind her creaks - not accusing, but curious.
Waiting.
And for the first time since she arrived, something shifts inside her.
Not quite hope.
But close enough to feel like the beginning of something.
The tightness in her chest, a familiar companion of the day, eases its grip just a fraction.
A faint, almost imperceptible warmth spreads through her, like the first tentative ray of morning light breaking through a long, dark night.
“Took you long enough,” Elisa would have said.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Well, she's thinking about it.
Hello Folks, I am back! I have some serious catching up to do, after returning from my Vacation
Dear @LunaDog, we'll see what the contractor has to say about the house.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Dear @Caesar73, it's so good to have you back.
You'll be up to speed on this story in no time.
You'll be up to speed on this story in no time.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The apartment is quiet when Erica opens the door. That New York City kind of quiet - underlaid with the faint sounds of traffic and distant sirens.
She exhales and steps inside.
And immediately she hears the scramble, a patter of furry paws on the polished hardwood floor, a flurry of soft bodies and vibrating purrs barreling towards her. A blur of motion, one grey-striped, one black with a white tuft of fur on his chest.
“Mrrrowwwrr!” Tiger bounds in first, all limbs and bravado, winding figure-eights around her legs like a tiny cyclone, his tail a flag of absolute delight. Spot is right behind him, chirping his high-pitched little trills, a melodic complaint of her absence, tail straight up like a question mark."
She barely gets the door shut before she drops to her knees and opens her arms, the weight of her handbag forgotten.
It’s an immediate, instinctual surrender, shedding the armor of the day. “Hey, my lovelies,” she murmurs, letting them clamber over her - Tiger trying to lick her nose with a sandpaper tongue, Spot pressing his soft forehead into her collarbone, a warm, insistent demand for affection. Their bodies are warm and soft, their purrs vibrating against her chest like tiny, ancient engines."
"Miss me much?" she asks softly, already knowing the answer.
They don’t care where she's been.
Not one bit of judgment.
Only that she is back.
Only now.
Only her.
She scoops them up, one under each arm like furry hot water bottles, and walks them into the living room, sets them down, picks up their empty bowls. Spot races ahead toward the kitchen, circling her feet as she opens the cabinet. Tiger stays put by the door, watching with narrowed eyes, as if inspecting her technique.
First, she rinses their bowls - because heaven forbid there's a single crumb left from breakfast - and pops open a can of salmon and chicken.
The kittens go wild.
Spot nearly trips her.
Tiger lets out a short, outraged bark when she sets the bowl down on the plastic mat in the living room.
"Maybe I should bring you two when I visit Aunt Elisa," she says absently as she watches them devour their dinner. "You’d love the old place. Lots of windows. Real stairs. Probably mice, too. You'd have a whole house to play in."
Spot’s already too busy eating to respond. Tiger takes a pause between mouthfuls to meow over his shoulder, like obviously.
She leaves them to it and heads to the bedroom to change, slipping out of her business armor, hanging it nicely on the closet door to air out, then she drops her silk blouse in the laundry basket. She pulls on the familiar, soft grey sweatsuit. The “cat mom” suit, she's dubbed it - somewhat loose-fitting, fleece-lined, the elbows and knees already baggy, worn soft with countless evenings of quiet companionship. It's the uniform of surrender, and in her sanctuary now, that’s exactly what she wants.
Back in the living room, she tucks herself into the couch, blanket over her lap, laptop warming her thighs.
The boys are still eating - Spot crouched daintily, Tiger hunched over the bowl like someone might steal it.
Erica opens a new tab and types:
Care facilities near Scarsdale NY
Page after page loads, not only in and around Scarsdale, but also some as far away as Syracuse.
Each click brings a fresh wave of polished promises and carefully curated images.
Brochures to download from shiny websites.
Posed photos of smiling seniors in sunlit lounges, too perfect to be real.
She scrolls, eyes glazing over, feeling the cold, impersonal weight of the task.
This isn't a legal brief, where logic and precedent guide her.
This is a life.
She clicks through all of them, one by one, measuring something she can’t quite name.
A feeling.
A fit.
Some are too fancy, all chandeliers and aromatherapy, like they’re trying to distract you from what they really are.
Others feel too clinical, all white walls and plastic chairs.
She finds a smaller one, tucked just outside town. No big marketing push, just a quiet website, real photos, a note about homemade meals and a weekly book club. She bookmarks it. Another one near a park catches her eye. She opens that in a new tab too.
A dull ache settles behind her eyes.
She exhales.
Long.
Heavy.
"Am I trying to make up for the years I ignored her?" she says it out loud, disrupting the usual quiet of her apartment.
Could her parents forgive her for not taking care of Elisa better?
The thought arrives without permission.
It needles.
A sharp, insistent prick behind her ribs.
It’s the voice of her conscience, usually so well-silenced, now rising to the surface, demanding to be heard.
She pushes it aside.
First things first.
She grabs her phone and scrolls to Claire’s name.
Hesitates a beat before hitting call.
It rings twice.
"Erica," she says. "I was getting worried for a moment…"
Voice soft, Erica apologizes. "Sorry, I didn't call back earlier. I've been… knee-deep in something. Still am, really."
Somehow, it feels good to talk about it. Maybe Dr Parker wasn't wrong when he said that she didn't have to do this on her own.
"It's about my aunt, Claire. Nothing scary, just - something I should have dealt with a long time ago."
Without thinking twice, because this is how she feels for her boss and almost-friend, Claire offers "Is there anything I can do?"
Erica blinks.
The question floats between them like a lifeline.
She swallows.
Although she has known her assistant for several years and trusts her more than most people in this world, letting her in on her private life feels so incredibly difficult.
As if she’s peeling back a layer of her own skin, exposing something raw.
She closes her eyes, takes a steadying breath, and then the words tumble out, quiet and a little hoarse: “Maybe… Actually, would you… would you be up for visiting care homes with me tomorrow? On company time, of course."
Claire doesn’t even hesitate. "Of course. Just tell me where and when."
Erica exhales.
The tightness in her chest loosens just a little, the unexpected relief making her almost lightheaded. It's a tangible easing of a burden she hadn't realized how heavily she was carrying.
This woman, her assistant, her friend, is a steady anchor.
"Thank you," she says, her voice just above a whisper. "Would eight in the morning be okay? I'll pick you up at the office."
"Don't mention it, Erica. I'll bring coffee."
"Thanks. I don't know what I would do without you."
They say goodbye, and Erica sets the phone down, staring out at the city beyond her window. It's dark now. The kittens have curled up - Spot on the blanket near her feet, Tiger perched like a king on the armchair.
Tomorrow will be hard.
But tonight, she's here.
With her boys.
With peace.
With something that almost feels like forward.
~~~
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She exhales and steps inside.
And immediately she hears the scramble, a patter of furry paws on the polished hardwood floor, a flurry of soft bodies and vibrating purrs barreling towards her. A blur of motion, one grey-striped, one black with a white tuft of fur on his chest.
“Mrrrowwwrr!” Tiger bounds in first, all limbs and bravado, winding figure-eights around her legs like a tiny cyclone, his tail a flag of absolute delight. Spot is right behind him, chirping his high-pitched little trills, a melodic complaint of her absence, tail straight up like a question mark."
She barely gets the door shut before she drops to her knees and opens her arms, the weight of her handbag forgotten.
It’s an immediate, instinctual surrender, shedding the armor of the day. “Hey, my lovelies,” she murmurs, letting them clamber over her - Tiger trying to lick her nose with a sandpaper tongue, Spot pressing his soft forehead into her collarbone, a warm, insistent demand for affection. Their bodies are warm and soft, their purrs vibrating against her chest like tiny, ancient engines."
"Miss me much?" she asks softly, already knowing the answer.
They don’t care where she's been.
Not one bit of judgment.
Only that she is back.
Only now.
Only her.
She scoops them up, one under each arm like furry hot water bottles, and walks them into the living room, sets them down, picks up their empty bowls. Spot races ahead toward the kitchen, circling her feet as she opens the cabinet. Tiger stays put by the door, watching with narrowed eyes, as if inspecting her technique.
First, she rinses their bowls - because heaven forbid there's a single crumb left from breakfast - and pops open a can of salmon and chicken.
The kittens go wild.
Spot nearly trips her.
Tiger lets out a short, outraged bark when she sets the bowl down on the plastic mat in the living room.
"Maybe I should bring you two when I visit Aunt Elisa," she says absently as she watches them devour their dinner. "You’d love the old place. Lots of windows. Real stairs. Probably mice, too. You'd have a whole house to play in."
Spot’s already too busy eating to respond. Tiger takes a pause between mouthfuls to meow over his shoulder, like obviously.
She leaves them to it and heads to the bedroom to change, slipping out of her business armor, hanging it nicely on the closet door to air out, then she drops her silk blouse in the laundry basket. She pulls on the familiar, soft grey sweatsuit. The “cat mom” suit, she's dubbed it - somewhat loose-fitting, fleece-lined, the elbows and knees already baggy, worn soft with countless evenings of quiet companionship. It's the uniform of surrender, and in her sanctuary now, that’s exactly what she wants.
Back in the living room, she tucks herself into the couch, blanket over her lap, laptop warming her thighs.
The boys are still eating - Spot crouched daintily, Tiger hunched over the bowl like someone might steal it.
Erica opens a new tab and types:
Care facilities near Scarsdale NY
Page after page loads, not only in and around Scarsdale, but also some as far away as Syracuse.
Each click brings a fresh wave of polished promises and carefully curated images.
Brochures to download from shiny websites.
Posed photos of smiling seniors in sunlit lounges, too perfect to be real.
She scrolls, eyes glazing over, feeling the cold, impersonal weight of the task.
This isn't a legal brief, where logic and precedent guide her.
This is a life.
She clicks through all of them, one by one, measuring something she can’t quite name.
A feeling.
A fit.
Some are too fancy, all chandeliers and aromatherapy, like they’re trying to distract you from what they really are.
Others feel too clinical, all white walls and plastic chairs.
She finds a smaller one, tucked just outside town. No big marketing push, just a quiet website, real photos, a note about homemade meals and a weekly book club. She bookmarks it. Another one near a park catches her eye. She opens that in a new tab too.
A dull ache settles behind her eyes.
She exhales.
Long.
Heavy.
"Am I trying to make up for the years I ignored her?" she says it out loud, disrupting the usual quiet of her apartment.
Could her parents forgive her for not taking care of Elisa better?
The thought arrives without permission.
It needles.
A sharp, insistent prick behind her ribs.
It’s the voice of her conscience, usually so well-silenced, now rising to the surface, demanding to be heard.
She pushes it aside.
First things first.
She grabs her phone and scrolls to Claire’s name.
Hesitates a beat before hitting call.
It rings twice.
"Erica," she says. "I was getting worried for a moment…"
Voice soft, Erica apologizes. "Sorry, I didn't call back earlier. I've been… knee-deep in something. Still am, really."
Somehow, it feels good to talk about it. Maybe Dr Parker wasn't wrong when he said that she didn't have to do this on her own.
"It's about my aunt, Claire. Nothing scary, just - something I should have dealt with a long time ago."
Without thinking twice, because this is how she feels for her boss and almost-friend, Claire offers "Is there anything I can do?"
Erica blinks.
The question floats between them like a lifeline.
She swallows.
Although she has known her assistant for several years and trusts her more than most people in this world, letting her in on her private life feels so incredibly difficult.
As if she’s peeling back a layer of her own skin, exposing something raw.
She closes her eyes, takes a steadying breath, and then the words tumble out, quiet and a little hoarse: “Maybe… Actually, would you… would you be up for visiting care homes with me tomorrow? On company time, of course."
Claire doesn’t even hesitate. "Of course. Just tell me where and when."
Erica exhales.
The tightness in her chest loosens just a little, the unexpected relief making her almost lightheaded. It's a tangible easing of a burden she hadn't realized how heavily she was carrying.
This woman, her assistant, her friend, is a steady anchor.
"Thank you," she says, her voice just above a whisper. "Would eight in the morning be okay? I'll pick you up at the office."
"Don't mention it, Erica. I'll bring coffee."
"Thanks. I don't know what I would do without you."
They say goodbye, and Erica sets the phone down, staring out at the city beyond her window. It's dark now. The kittens have curled up - Spot on the blanket near her feet, Tiger perched like a king on the armchair.
Tomorrow will be hard.
But tonight, she's here.
With her boys.
With peace.
With something that almost feels like forward.
~~~
html thumbnail embed
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Em, decisions, decisions! I suppose a lot depends on just what the structural survey says.
Dear @LunaDog, we'll see, but at least she has someone ready to help her doing this survey.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The buzz of Erica's alarm pierces the quiet at 5:00 AM sharp. She fumbles across her nightstand, silencing it with a swipe before her mind has fully emerged from sleep.
At the foot of the bed, Spot stirs and blinks at her with drowsy eyes, then settles again with a contented sigh, the tip of his tail curling back around his body. Tiger doesn't even wake - he's sprawled in blissful feline abandon.
Careful not to disturb them, Erica slips out from beneath the duvet and pads barefoot across the hardwood floor. Her apartment is still wrapped in a hushed blue-gray of pre-dawn, the only sound a faint hum from the refrigerator.
In the kitchen, she rinses the kittens' bowls under warm water, watching a few sleepy bubbles drift across the sink before refilling one with softened kibble and the other with fresh water.
Spot finally ambles in, tail high and curious, trailed closely by Tiger.
They weave between her ankles as she sets the bowls down on the plastic mat, purring like tiny engines, their love unconditional, uncomplicated.
Erica allows herself a faint smile.
These two have a way of grounding her.
She slips out of her maroon silk kimono and into her black running outfit: fitted leggings, a racerback tank, and a breathable windbreaker.
Her sneakers wait by the door.
Keys and phone go in the zippered side pocket and she's ready.
Stepping into the cool morning air, she begins her run down 72nd Street, her pace steady, mechanical at first, then faster and more rhythmical.
The city is still sleepy, the sidewalks slick with dew.
As she winds her way into Central Park, the rhythm of her breath and footfalls lull her into clarity. The trees shimmer faintly with early light.
It’s her way of shaking off the world before it can take hold.
Each mile on the pavement feels like a brushstroke, smoothing the chaotic lines of yesterday's problems into a coherent, manageable form.
By the time she returns home, flushed and invigorated, the city has fully stirred.
In the shower, she lets the water course down her back, hot and unrelenting.
After toweling off and sweeping her damp hair into a sleek ponytail, she does her minimal makeup: foundation, a little mascara, and a nude lip gloss. More, she feels, would be too much. Not her true self.
Coffee…
The pad machine whirs to life as she pours water into the kettle for her quick oats. Soaking them in hot water, she prepares her oatmeal with a drizzle of honey and a generous dusting of cinnamon.
Two Sweet’n Low packets flutter into her mug, followed by a splash of almond milk.
That's breakfast - warm, comforting and wholesome.
She eats perched on the black leather couch, her eyes distant.
The TV is off this morning, but she revisits the care home websites on her laptop, making mental notes what to look for, and which questions to ask.
After rinsing her dishes and slipping them into the dishwasher, she moves to the bedroom.
Her walk-in dresser is immaculate, color-coordinated, precise: shades of greys, dark blue and black.
Monochromatic, as her friend Andrea Santos, computer forensics expert and certified hacker genius, calls her style.
Today isn’t a workday, but it isn’t casual either. She pulls out a fitted navy-blue pencil skirt and a light blue silk blouse, its fabric whispering as she buttons it. The tailored blazer matches perfectly. Medium-high heels in black leather complete the look. Polished. Smart.
But when she catches her reflection in the tall mirror, she sees it - that flicker behind her eyes.
The sadness.
The weight.
Her face, poised and serene, conceals the ache of regret and the quiet desperation to do better this time.
To make something right.
To not fail her parents again.
She checks on the kittens once more - Spot sprawled belly-up in a shaft of sunlight, Tiger dozing in the bookshelf cubby - and grabs her trench coat.
Purse over her shoulder, keys in hand, she closes the apartment door softly behind her.
Down in the underground garage, the black Volvo gleams under artificial lights.
She unlocks the doors, slides behind the wheel, the leather cold against her thighs, and exhales.
Time to go, no need to procrastinate what has to be done.
~~~
Claire Messner waits in front of the office high-rise on Park Avenue, bundled in her wool coat against early spring's morning chill, two tall cups of coffee in hand. She sees Erica’s car pull up, gives her a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
"You read my mind," Erica says, unlocking the passenger door.
Claire gets in, handing her a cup. "Two Sweet’n Low, almond milk. As always."
Erica smiles faintly. "Thanks."
They merge into traffic, the Volvo gliding through the early city noise.
For a while, the silence in the car is companionable - city sounds filling the background, coffee warming their hands.
Claire glances sideways, a question she doesn't dare to ask hanging between them.
Erica keeps her eyes on the road. "Just... a lot on my mind."
"You mentioned your aunt," Claire says gently.
There’s a pause.
Erica nods.
"I used to think I hated her." she says softly. "For all the wrong reasons, I guess. I thought she wanted to replace my mother… steal my father's heart…" She bites her lower lip, then adds quietly "Now I realize she carried her own load and was just trying her best. I wasn’t around when I should have been.”
Claire doesn’t speak right away, just listens.
Her presence is a quiet invitation, a space of non-judgmental acceptance.
It allows Erica to continue, to peel back another layer of her tightly guarded heart.
"I feel like I let her down," Erica continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "Now she needs help, and I'm trying to fix things. But I don't know if I'm doing it right."
"You are doing your best," Claire says, full of conviction. "That counts."
Erica turns her head, offers a grateful smile. "Thanks for coming with me today."
"Of course. You don’t have to do this alone."
Now, hearing this not only from Dr Parker, but also from Claire, Erica starts believing it.
A subtle loosening in her shoulders, a fraction of a smile that doesn't quite reach her lips but softens the severe line of her jaw.
“Claire…” she thinks.
Her assistant didn’t have to offer to come along today, could have chosen to do just another day at the office and it would have been a perfectly acceptable decision.
Yet she’s here with her now, being more of a friend than an assistant and Erica realizes that she’s leaning on her a lot more than she ever expected she would.
~~~
At the foot of the bed, Spot stirs and blinks at her with drowsy eyes, then settles again with a contented sigh, the tip of his tail curling back around his body. Tiger doesn't even wake - he's sprawled in blissful feline abandon.
Careful not to disturb them, Erica slips out from beneath the duvet and pads barefoot across the hardwood floor. Her apartment is still wrapped in a hushed blue-gray of pre-dawn, the only sound a faint hum from the refrigerator.
In the kitchen, she rinses the kittens' bowls under warm water, watching a few sleepy bubbles drift across the sink before refilling one with softened kibble and the other with fresh water.
Spot finally ambles in, tail high and curious, trailed closely by Tiger.
They weave between her ankles as she sets the bowls down on the plastic mat, purring like tiny engines, their love unconditional, uncomplicated.
Erica allows herself a faint smile.
These two have a way of grounding her.
She slips out of her maroon silk kimono and into her black running outfit: fitted leggings, a racerback tank, and a breathable windbreaker.
Her sneakers wait by the door.
Keys and phone go in the zippered side pocket and she's ready.
Stepping into the cool morning air, she begins her run down 72nd Street, her pace steady, mechanical at first, then faster and more rhythmical.
The city is still sleepy, the sidewalks slick with dew.
As she winds her way into Central Park, the rhythm of her breath and footfalls lull her into clarity. The trees shimmer faintly with early light.
It’s her way of shaking off the world before it can take hold.
Each mile on the pavement feels like a brushstroke, smoothing the chaotic lines of yesterday's problems into a coherent, manageable form.
By the time she returns home, flushed and invigorated, the city has fully stirred.
In the shower, she lets the water course down her back, hot and unrelenting.
After toweling off and sweeping her damp hair into a sleek ponytail, she does her minimal makeup: foundation, a little mascara, and a nude lip gloss. More, she feels, would be too much. Not her true self.
Coffee…
The pad machine whirs to life as she pours water into the kettle for her quick oats. Soaking them in hot water, she prepares her oatmeal with a drizzle of honey and a generous dusting of cinnamon.
Two Sweet’n Low packets flutter into her mug, followed by a splash of almond milk.
That's breakfast - warm, comforting and wholesome.
She eats perched on the black leather couch, her eyes distant.
The TV is off this morning, but she revisits the care home websites on her laptop, making mental notes what to look for, and which questions to ask.
After rinsing her dishes and slipping them into the dishwasher, she moves to the bedroom.
Her walk-in dresser is immaculate, color-coordinated, precise: shades of greys, dark blue and black.
Monochromatic, as her friend Andrea Santos, computer forensics expert and certified hacker genius, calls her style.
Today isn’t a workday, but it isn’t casual either. She pulls out a fitted navy-blue pencil skirt and a light blue silk blouse, its fabric whispering as she buttons it. The tailored blazer matches perfectly. Medium-high heels in black leather complete the look. Polished. Smart.
But when she catches her reflection in the tall mirror, she sees it - that flicker behind her eyes.
The sadness.
The weight.
Her face, poised and serene, conceals the ache of regret and the quiet desperation to do better this time.
To make something right.
To not fail her parents again.
She checks on the kittens once more - Spot sprawled belly-up in a shaft of sunlight, Tiger dozing in the bookshelf cubby - and grabs her trench coat.
Purse over her shoulder, keys in hand, she closes the apartment door softly behind her.
Down in the underground garage, the black Volvo gleams under artificial lights.
She unlocks the doors, slides behind the wheel, the leather cold against her thighs, and exhales.
Time to go, no need to procrastinate what has to be done.
~~~
Claire Messner waits in front of the office high-rise on Park Avenue, bundled in her wool coat against early spring's morning chill, two tall cups of coffee in hand. She sees Erica’s car pull up, gives her a smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes.
"You read my mind," Erica says, unlocking the passenger door.
Claire gets in, handing her a cup. "Two Sweet’n Low, almond milk. As always."
Erica smiles faintly. "Thanks."
They merge into traffic, the Volvo gliding through the early city noise.
For a while, the silence in the car is companionable - city sounds filling the background, coffee warming their hands.
Claire glances sideways, a question she doesn't dare to ask hanging between them.
Erica keeps her eyes on the road. "Just... a lot on my mind."
"You mentioned your aunt," Claire says gently.
There’s a pause.
Erica nods.
"I used to think I hated her." she says softly. "For all the wrong reasons, I guess. I thought she wanted to replace my mother… steal my father's heart…" She bites her lower lip, then adds quietly "Now I realize she carried her own load and was just trying her best. I wasn’t around when I should have been.”
Claire doesn’t speak right away, just listens.
Her presence is a quiet invitation, a space of non-judgmental acceptance.
It allows Erica to continue, to peel back another layer of her tightly guarded heart.
"I feel like I let her down," Erica continues, her voice barely above a whisper. "Now she needs help, and I'm trying to fix things. But I don't know if I'm doing it right."
"You are doing your best," Claire says, full of conviction. "That counts."
Erica turns her head, offers a grateful smile. "Thanks for coming with me today."
"Of course. You don’t have to do this alone."
Now, hearing this not only from Dr Parker, but also from Claire, Erica starts believing it.
A subtle loosening in her shoulders, a fraction of a smile that doesn't quite reach her lips but softens the severe line of her jaw.
“Claire…” she thinks.
Her assistant didn’t have to offer to come along today, could have chosen to do just another day at the office and it would have been a perfectly acceptable decision.
Yet she’s here with her now, being more of a friend than an assistant and Erica realizes that she’s leaning on her a lot more than she ever expected she would.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
It sure does. What more can one do?Jenny_S wrote: 1 month ago "You are doing your best," Claire says, full of conviction. "That counts."
Dear @LunaDog, it seems that Erica is disappointed that no matter how hard she tried to live up to her own expectations, she failed not only herself and Elisa, but mainly her parents.
This hits her the most.
This hits her the most.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Did she fail though? She allowed Elisa to live, rent free, in her house. Yes, ok, so she didn't connect with the woman but what effort did Elisa make to connect with her? It takes TWO to tango, after all.
Dear @LunaDog, you're right, it does. Erica is hard on herself. Too hard, actually.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
They reach Scarsdale a little more than an hour later, thanks to the morning traffic.
The town is quiet, suburban and tidy, the streets lined by old stone walls and maples – still looking bare, their branches like careful sketches of trees.
Spring was coming, but not in full force yet.
The first care home is a charming brick facility nestled on a sloping lawn, with flower beds getting ready for spring. Inside, the reception area is sleek, with piped-in classical music and a wall of cheerful brochures.
But the staff seems rehearsed, too polished - like salespeople rather than caregivers.
"I don’t know," Erica murmurs as they leave. "It felt...staged."
The second home is more modest, but something about it feels real.
An elderly man in a wheelchair watches birds from a window, a nurse gently adjusting his blanket.
The director, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a genuine smile, walks them through the hallways, answering every question patiently.
Erica notices the way the staff interact with the residents - small touches, eye contact, warmth.
They are experienced with demented residents, that's a big plus.
"This one felt better," she says as they return to the car.
The third home is newer, sleek, modern, but sterile.
Almost lifeless.
"Feels like a hotel, not like a home," Claire remarks.
Erica nods.
They both agree that this isn't an environment either of them would feel comfortable with.
And the fourth? It’s old, but beautifully kept, with a greenhouse and a common area filled with the scent of fresh baked bread.
One of the residents is painting by a window, a nurse laughing softly at his commentary.
Erica lingers there a moment, taking it all in.
By early afternoon, they’re both quiet in the car again.
"I think I might take tomorrow off too," Erica says finally. "To bring her to see the second or the fourth place. Let her choose. It's going to be her home, after all."
Claire nods. "She should feel like she has a say."
Erica turns the wheel and heads toward the familiar side streets that will lead them to her childhood home.
"Before we go see my aunt… you wanted to see the house, right?"
Claire raises an eyebrow. "Only if you think I should."
She doesn't press.
Even if Erica decides not to show her the house where she grew up, she's going to be fine with it.
Keeping her eyes on the road, Erica says, a smirk on her lips. "Just… don’t judge the curtains."
"I would never," Claire replies, lightly. Then, softer: "Thanks for trusting me."
Erica just nods, swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat.
The simple truth of Claire's statement, delivered without fanfare, hits her with the force of a revelation. She is trusting Claire, in a way she trusts almost no one else.
And - for a change - it doesn't feel terrifying.
It feels... right.
~~~
Erica slows the car to a stop at the curb, the engine ticking softly as it cools.
In the clarity of daylight, the house looks less like a ruin and more like an artifact.
The paint, once cream, has faded to the color of old parchment.
Cracks spider out beneath the windowsills.
Ivy claws its way up the porch railing, curling over the steps like it’s trying to hold the structure together.
“Looks like an old sweater,” Claire says, stepping out beside her. “You know - frayed at the edges, missing a few buttons. But it would still keep you warm.”
Erica offers a tight smile. “More like moth-eaten and forgotten at the back of the closet.”
She knows, she should have put money into keeping the place in better shape a long time ago, not rely on Aunt Elisa to manage things.
She neglected this place, eased her mind with paying Elisa her monthly stipend.
It’s her fault, her childhood home looks like this now.
Claire lifts her gaze to the second-story windows, her eyes soft with something like reverence. “No. It has soul. I can feel it.”
Erica doesn’t respond.
She stands at the gate, keys cold in her hand, staring up at the facade.
There’s a strange pull here - something between dread and longing.
Like memory has a scent, and she’s just caught a whiff of it.
Before she can speak, a voice calls out, casual but carrying.
“Afternoon!”
They both turn. A man emerges from the side of the house next door, stepping around a hedge still heavy with last year’s dry leaves.
He’s tall, lanky, maybe late fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a clean, sun-lined face. He carries a folded step-ladder slung under one arm, paint smudged along his jeans and tanned forearms. His presence is solid but easy, like someone who’s always fixing things.
“Are you looking for Elisa?” he asks, friendly but alert.
Erica steps forward. “I’m her niece. Erica Sinclair.”
Something shifts in his expression - something like recognition.
“Ah,” he says, setting the ladder down carefully and offering a hand. “Frank Ellis. Next door neighbor for two years and a half now. I was the one who caught the smoke when she left that pot on the stove. Figured it wasn’t just overcooked pasta.”
Erica clasps his hand, grateful for the solid warmth of it. “Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Ellis. That could’ve ended a lot worse.”
He shrugs, modest. “Right place, right time. I’ve kept half an eye on her when I could. Not easy to tell how someone’s doing when they keep to themselves.”
His glance flicks briefly toward the house, then returns to her. “She didn’t seem all there lately, if I’m honest.”
Claire lingers by the gate, present but respectfully quiet, scanning the porch, the cracked front steps, the dead leaves gathered in corners like secrets.
Frank shifts the ladder, ready to move on, when he adds, almost offhandedly, “I mentioned it to your brother, actually. Told him she might need more regular help.”
Erica’s spine straightens, a sudden rigidity that belies her calm exterior. Her breath hitches, almost imperceptible. “My brother?” The words are out before she can control them, sharp with disbelief.
She has no brother.
There's only her.
And Elisa.
And... who else?
He gives her a puzzled look. “Young guy, white Camaro. Says he’s Elisa’s nephew. Thought you two were siblings.”
The air sharpens around her. “Right…”
Frank frowns slightly. “He’s been around off and on. Shows up, disappears. It’s hard not to notice the car, you know.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite land.
Erica’s voice is cool now, careful. This smells fishy. In her periphery, she can see Claire raise an eyebrow, but in response, she only shrugs, barely perceptibly. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Not since the fire. But before that, every couple of weeks, maybe. Always in the afternoons. Never said much.”
She nods once, lips pressed tight. A flicker of something cold coils low in her gut - instinct, maybe.
Or guilt laced with suspicion.
She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.
But she’s already halfway there.
Why would a young man visit an old woman and tell the neighbor he’s her nephew?”
“I’ll… talk to him,” she says, keeping her voice neutral.
Frank lifts the ladder again. “If you’re planning to fix the place up, it’s a good house. Bones are solid. And it’ll sell fast, this neighborhood’s got trendy.”
He nods politely to Claire. “Nice meeting you both.”
“You too,” Claire says, with a small, warm smile.
Erica waits until he’s gone before she moves again. Her fingers toy absently with the keys in her hand.
Claire watches her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Erica looks at the house again. Her childhood home. A place full of echoes - and now, maybe, shadows and someone lurking in them. “Let’s have a look inside.”
But as she walks toward the door, her thoughts are snagged.
The Camaro.
The stranger passing as family.
Elisa’s foggy memory.
And the quiet, creeping sense that someone else has been in her aunt’s life when she wasn’t - and that thought leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
~~~
The town is quiet, suburban and tidy, the streets lined by old stone walls and maples – still looking bare, their branches like careful sketches of trees.
Spring was coming, but not in full force yet.
The first care home is a charming brick facility nestled on a sloping lawn, with flower beds getting ready for spring. Inside, the reception area is sleek, with piped-in classical music and a wall of cheerful brochures.
But the staff seems rehearsed, too polished - like salespeople rather than caregivers.
"I don’t know," Erica murmurs as they leave. "It felt...staged."
The second home is more modest, but something about it feels real.
An elderly man in a wheelchair watches birds from a window, a nurse gently adjusting his blanket.
The director, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a genuine smile, walks them through the hallways, answering every question patiently.
Erica notices the way the staff interact with the residents - small touches, eye contact, warmth.
They are experienced with demented residents, that's a big plus.
"This one felt better," she says as they return to the car.
The third home is newer, sleek, modern, but sterile.
Almost lifeless.
"Feels like a hotel, not like a home," Claire remarks.
Erica nods.
They both agree that this isn't an environment either of them would feel comfortable with.
And the fourth? It’s old, but beautifully kept, with a greenhouse and a common area filled with the scent of fresh baked bread.
One of the residents is painting by a window, a nurse laughing softly at his commentary.
Erica lingers there a moment, taking it all in.
By early afternoon, they’re both quiet in the car again.
"I think I might take tomorrow off too," Erica says finally. "To bring her to see the second or the fourth place. Let her choose. It's going to be her home, after all."
Claire nods. "She should feel like she has a say."
Erica turns the wheel and heads toward the familiar side streets that will lead them to her childhood home.
"Before we go see my aunt… you wanted to see the house, right?"
Claire raises an eyebrow. "Only if you think I should."
She doesn't press.
Even if Erica decides not to show her the house where she grew up, she's going to be fine with it.
Keeping her eyes on the road, Erica says, a smirk on her lips. "Just… don’t judge the curtains."
"I would never," Claire replies, lightly. Then, softer: "Thanks for trusting me."
Erica just nods, swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat.
The simple truth of Claire's statement, delivered without fanfare, hits her with the force of a revelation. She is trusting Claire, in a way she trusts almost no one else.
And - for a change - it doesn't feel terrifying.
It feels... right.
~~~
Erica slows the car to a stop at the curb, the engine ticking softly as it cools.
In the clarity of daylight, the house looks less like a ruin and more like an artifact.
The paint, once cream, has faded to the color of old parchment.
Cracks spider out beneath the windowsills.
Ivy claws its way up the porch railing, curling over the steps like it’s trying to hold the structure together.
“Looks like an old sweater,” Claire says, stepping out beside her. “You know - frayed at the edges, missing a few buttons. But it would still keep you warm.”
Erica offers a tight smile. “More like moth-eaten and forgotten at the back of the closet.”
She knows, she should have put money into keeping the place in better shape a long time ago, not rely on Aunt Elisa to manage things.
She neglected this place, eased her mind with paying Elisa her monthly stipend.
It’s her fault, her childhood home looks like this now.
Claire lifts her gaze to the second-story windows, her eyes soft with something like reverence. “No. It has soul. I can feel it.”
Erica doesn’t respond.
She stands at the gate, keys cold in her hand, staring up at the facade.
There’s a strange pull here - something between dread and longing.
Like memory has a scent, and she’s just caught a whiff of it.
Before she can speak, a voice calls out, casual but carrying.
“Afternoon!”
They both turn. A man emerges from the side of the house next door, stepping around a hedge still heavy with last year’s dry leaves.
He’s tall, lanky, maybe late fifties, with silver-streaked hair and a clean, sun-lined face. He carries a folded step-ladder slung under one arm, paint smudged along his jeans and tanned forearms. His presence is solid but easy, like someone who’s always fixing things.
“Are you looking for Elisa?” he asks, friendly but alert.
Erica steps forward. “I’m her niece. Erica Sinclair.”
Something shifts in his expression - something like recognition.
“Ah,” he says, setting the ladder down carefully and offering a hand. “Frank Ellis. Next door neighbor for two years and a half now. I was the one who caught the smoke when she left that pot on the stove. Figured it wasn’t just overcooked pasta.”
Erica clasps his hand, grateful for the solid warmth of it. “Thank you for stepping in, Mr. Ellis. That could’ve ended a lot worse.”
He shrugs, modest. “Right place, right time. I’ve kept half an eye on her when I could. Not easy to tell how someone’s doing when they keep to themselves.”
His glance flicks briefly toward the house, then returns to her. “She didn’t seem all there lately, if I’m honest.”
Claire lingers by the gate, present but respectfully quiet, scanning the porch, the cracked front steps, the dead leaves gathered in corners like secrets.
Frank shifts the ladder, ready to move on, when he adds, almost offhandedly, “I mentioned it to your brother, actually. Told him she might need more regular help.”
Erica’s spine straightens, a sudden rigidity that belies her calm exterior. Her breath hitches, almost imperceptible. “My brother?” The words are out before she can control them, sharp with disbelief.
She has no brother.
There's only her.
And Elisa.
And... who else?
He gives her a puzzled look. “Young guy, white Camaro. Says he’s Elisa’s nephew. Thought you two were siblings.”
The air sharpens around her. “Right…”
Frank frowns slightly. “He’s been around off and on. Shows up, disappears. It’s hard not to notice the car, you know.” He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite land.
Erica’s voice is cool now, careful. This smells fishy. In her periphery, she can see Claire raise an eyebrow, but in response, she only shrugs, barely perceptibly. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Not since the fire. But before that, every couple of weeks, maybe. Always in the afternoons. Never said much.”
She nods once, lips pressed tight. A flicker of something cold coils low in her gut - instinct, maybe.
Or guilt laced with suspicion.
She doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.
But she’s already halfway there.
Why would a young man visit an old woman and tell the neighbor he’s her nephew?”
“I’ll… talk to him,” she says, keeping her voice neutral.
Frank lifts the ladder again. “If you’re planning to fix the place up, it’s a good house. Bones are solid. And it’ll sell fast, this neighborhood’s got trendy.”
He nods politely to Claire. “Nice meeting you both.”
“You too,” Claire says, with a small, warm smile.
Erica waits until he’s gone before she moves again. Her fingers toy absently with the keys in her hand.
Claire watches her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Erica looks at the house again. Her childhood home. A place full of echoes - and now, maybe, shadows and someone lurking in them. “Let’s have a look inside.”
But as she walks toward the door, her thoughts are snagged.
The Camaro.
The stranger passing as family.
Elisa’s foggy memory.
And the quiet, creeping sense that someone else has been in her aunt’s life when she wasn’t - and that thought leaves a bad taste in her mouth.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The plot thickens. Just who is this 'brother?' And what is he after?
Dear @LunaDog, that is a question this story might answer. Stay tuned!
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The drive to Greenleaf Hospital doesn’t take long.
Erica slows the Volvo as they approach the familiar low building nestled behind a thicket of old maples.
The trees stir softly in the breeze, their leaves casting speckled shadows across the pavement. The parking lot is quiet.
Erica pulls into a space near the entrance and cuts the engine.
Claire glances over. "Do you want me to come along?"
"Absolutely," Erica nods. "It's just that I still need to get used to the idea that I have something like a family now."
She exhales slowly.
Claire waits another moment, letting the silence stretch without pressure.
Erica finally turns to her, and the faintest curve of a smile breaks the tension in her face. "Come on," she says. "Let's go meet my Aunt Elisa."
Inside, they are greeted by the same hospital smell that turned Erica's stomach the previous day.
They pass the reception desk, push through a set of double doors, down one corridor, then hang a left to follow another stretch of corridor to Elisa Teran's room.
No. 314.
Erica pauses outside the door.
Her heart is thudding, unexpectedly loud.
She lifts her hand and knocks gently, then opens the door without waiting for a response.
The blinds on the windows are half-drawn, letting in slanted afternoon light that falls across the fleece blanket on Elisa’s bed.
The woman is awake, propped up on pillows, glasses perched on her nose as she stares at a little book in her lap.
When she hears the door, she looks up.
For a moment, her expression is unreadable.
She seems to scrutinize Erica and Claire, trying to place them.
Then her face softens.
"You came back," she says, her voice a little hoarse from the dry hospital air.
"I promised you I would," Erica replies gently.
She realizes that she will have to get used to accepting that her aunt might not recognize her all the time and that some of her reactions might seem highly erratic.
Just one of the new rules of this world: memory was a flickering signal, not a steady light.
She steps inside and moves toward the bed, a little unsure. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."
Claire lingers just inside the doorway.
Erica turns to her, her voice steady but low with something like vulnerability. "This is... a friend. Her name is Claire."
It's the first time she's introduced Claire as anything more than her assistant, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in their relationship, a carefully guarded door finally opening a crack, feeling both terrifying and strangely liberating.
Claire steps forward with a warm smile, extending her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Teran."
Elisa's gaze flicks between them, sharp despite her age.
Something in her eyes narrows - but not with suspicion.
Appraisal, maybe.
She nods slowly. “Are you the girl with the thick glasses?" she asks as her gaze clears somewhat.
Erica feels a small pang of something akin to amusement, mixed with tenderness as it dawns upon her that Elisa might mistake Claire for Andrea Santos - who did, and still does, wear thick glasses.
“No, Aunt Elisa, this is Claire. We work together at the office. Andrea is the one with the glasses. My old friend from way back then.”
Elisa nods. “Oh,” she says. “Right. But she's your friend, niña. It's good to have friends.”
The simple truth, spoken with clarity in a moment of fog, hangs in the air, resonating deeply within Erica.
Erica clears her throat and sits on the edge of the armchair beside the bed. "Claire helped me today. We went to look at a few care homes where you could live. I wanted to see what the options are. I thought maybe tomorrow, if you're up to it, we could visit one or two together. Take a little trip…"
Elisa makes a noncommittal sound, the book still resting in her lap.
"You came back after all this time. That's already more than I expected."
Erica looks at her hands. "I know I was gone too long."
The words are heavy with silent apologies, with years of distance and neglect she can never fully reclaim.
"Yes," Elisa says simply.
Then she looks up, her tone lighter. "But you're here now, niña. And I'm still breathing, as you can see. So... we’ll work with that."
Claire smiles softly from behind them.
She doesn’t interrupt, doesn't try to insert herself - just listens, present, respectful.
Erica glances over her shoulder at her.
Their eyes meet, and Claire offers a small, knowing nod, a silent affirmation that means more than any words.
And something unspoken, a new thread of trust, passes between them.
"I'll take care of you, Aunt Elisa," Erica says, her voice conveying finality.
She doesn’t know if she could do it perfectly.
But she would try her best this time.
Her hand trembles slightly as she softly lays it on Elisa's right, the one with the missing pinkie. "Tomorrow, I'll pick you up after breakfast and then we look at the homes. You decide where you want to move in."
Elisa nods and smiles. "You are back, niña," she mutters. "I knew that Luisa's daughter would not leave me alone."
~~~
The Volvo hums steadily along the parkway, the late afternoon light slanting golden through the windshield. Erica drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in her lap. Claire sits beside her, sipping water from a small bottle they picked up at a convenience store just outside the hospital.
They've both been quiet for the past few miles.
Not awkwardly.
Just letting the day settle.
Erica exhales slowly and finally says, "I called someone yesterday."
Claire turns to her slightly. "Yes?"
"A contractor. Someone I trust. Old friend, actually." She glances at Claire. "He runs his own business out of Albany. I met him on the cruise ship. He and his fiancée are coming down Saturday to take a look at the house. He's going to give me an idea what it would take to fix it up. If it’s even worth it."
Claire’s eyebrows lift, but her voice stays gentle. "Are you… thinking of moving there?"
Erica keeps her eyes on the road.
A long beat passes before she responds.
"I don’t know yet," she says finally. "Maybe. Right now, it's just a thought."
Another pause, then softer, "You know, when I stood in there yesterday, all of those memories came back to me. This place, the house… it's where I grew up. Where I used to be happy."
She had left the place behind like shed skin.
But now, it was calling for her to come back, re-claim it.
Claire is quiet for a moment, then says, "You don't have to decide now. But if it feels right, even just a little, that's enough to at least look into it. Think of it – yesterday it may have looked like a ghost, and today… like home."
Erica swallows. The trees outside blur by in streaks of green and gold.
'I think it might be," she says, almost to herself.
Claire smiles faintly and looks out the window. "I could totally see you with a garden," she says lightly. "A proper herb patch. Tomatoes. Maybe even a greenhouse."
Erica huffs a surprised laugh. "Don’t get ahead of yourself. I don't exactly have a green thumb."
She pictures Claire’s image - rows of basil, thyme, tomatoes fat in the sun.
A ridiculous thought.
And still, she doesn’t hate it.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the wheel.
And her heart tugs in a direction she hadn't allowed herself to consider before today.
She won’t be running anymore.
Not from the house.
Not from Elisa.
Maybe not even from herself.
~~~
Erica slows the Volvo as they approach the familiar low building nestled behind a thicket of old maples.
The trees stir softly in the breeze, their leaves casting speckled shadows across the pavement. The parking lot is quiet.
Erica pulls into a space near the entrance and cuts the engine.
Claire glances over. "Do you want me to come along?"
"Absolutely," Erica nods. "It's just that I still need to get used to the idea that I have something like a family now."
She exhales slowly.
Claire waits another moment, letting the silence stretch without pressure.
Erica finally turns to her, and the faintest curve of a smile breaks the tension in her face. "Come on," she says. "Let's go meet my Aunt Elisa."
Inside, they are greeted by the same hospital smell that turned Erica's stomach the previous day.
They pass the reception desk, push through a set of double doors, down one corridor, then hang a left to follow another stretch of corridor to Elisa Teran's room.
No. 314.
Erica pauses outside the door.
Her heart is thudding, unexpectedly loud.
She lifts her hand and knocks gently, then opens the door without waiting for a response.
The blinds on the windows are half-drawn, letting in slanted afternoon light that falls across the fleece blanket on Elisa’s bed.
The woman is awake, propped up on pillows, glasses perched on her nose as she stares at a little book in her lap.
When she hears the door, she looks up.
For a moment, her expression is unreadable.
She seems to scrutinize Erica and Claire, trying to place them.
Then her face softens.
"You came back," she says, her voice a little hoarse from the dry hospital air.
"I promised you I would," Erica replies gently.
She realizes that she will have to get used to accepting that her aunt might not recognize her all the time and that some of her reactions might seem highly erratic.
Just one of the new rules of this world: memory was a flickering signal, not a steady light.
She steps inside and moves toward the bed, a little unsure. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."
Claire lingers just inside the doorway.
Erica turns to her, her voice steady but low with something like vulnerability. "This is... a friend. Her name is Claire."
It's the first time she's introduced Claire as anything more than her assistant, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in their relationship, a carefully guarded door finally opening a crack, feeling both terrifying and strangely liberating.
Claire steps forward with a warm smile, extending her hand. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Teran."
Elisa's gaze flicks between them, sharp despite her age.
Something in her eyes narrows - but not with suspicion.
Appraisal, maybe.
She nods slowly. “Are you the girl with the thick glasses?" she asks as her gaze clears somewhat.
Erica feels a small pang of something akin to amusement, mixed with tenderness as it dawns upon her that Elisa might mistake Claire for Andrea Santos - who did, and still does, wear thick glasses.
“No, Aunt Elisa, this is Claire. We work together at the office. Andrea is the one with the glasses. My old friend from way back then.”
Elisa nods. “Oh,” she says. “Right. But she's your friend, niña. It's good to have friends.”
The simple truth, spoken with clarity in a moment of fog, hangs in the air, resonating deeply within Erica.
Erica clears her throat and sits on the edge of the armchair beside the bed. "Claire helped me today. We went to look at a few care homes where you could live. I wanted to see what the options are. I thought maybe tomorrow, if you're up to it, we could visit one or two together. Take a little trip…"
Elisa makes a noncommittal sound, the book still resting in her lap.
"You came back after all this time. That's already more than I expected."
Erica looks at her hands. "I know I was gone too long."
The words are heavy with silent apologies, with years of distance and neglect she can never fully reclaim.
"Yes," Elisa says simply.
Then she looks up, her tone lighter. "But you're here now, niña. And I'm still breathing, as you can see. So... we’ll work with that."
Claire smiles softly from behind them.
She doesn’t interrupt, doesn't try to insert herself - just listens, present, respectful.
Erica glances over her shoulder at her.
Their eyes meet, and Claire offers a small, knowing nod, a silent affirmation that means more than any words.
And something unspoken, a new thread of trust, passes between them.
"I'll take care of you, Aunt Elisa," Erica says, her voice conveying finality.
She doesn’t know if she could do it perfectly.
But she would try her best this time.
Her hand trembles slightly as she softly lays it on Elisa's right, the one with the missing pinkie. "Tomorrow, I'll pick you up after breakfast and then we look at the homes. You decide where you want to move in."
Elisa nods and smiles. "You are back, niña," she mutters. "I knew that Luisa's daughter would not leave me alone."
~~~
The Volvo hums steadily along the parkway, the late afternoon light slanting golden through the windshield. Erica drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in her lap. Claire sits beside her, sipping water from a small bottle they picked up at a convenience store just outside the hospital.
They've both been quiet for the past few miles.
Not awkwardly.
Just letting the day settle.
Erica exhales slowly and finally says, "I called someone yesterday."
Claire turns to her slightly. "Yes?"
"A contractor. Someone I trust. Old friend, actually." She glances at Claire. "He runs his own business out of Albany. I met him on the cruise ship. He and his fiancée are coming down Saturday to take a look at the house. He's going to give me an idea what it would take to fix it up. If it’s even worth it."
Claire’s eyebrows lift, but her voice stays gentle. "Are you… thinking of moving there?"
Erica keeps her eyes on the road.
A long beat passes before she responds.
"I don’t know yet," she says finally. "Maybe. Right now, it's just a thought."
Another pause, then softer, "You know, when I stood in there yesterday, all of those memories came back to me. This place, the house… it's where I grew up. Where I used to be happy."
She had left the place behind like shed skin.
But now, it was calling for her to come back, re-claim it.
Claire is quiet for a moment, then says, "You don't have to decide now. But if it feels right, even just a little, that's enough to at least look into it. Think of it – yesterday it may have looked like a ghost, and today… like home."
Erica swallows. The trees outside blur by in streaks of green and gold.
'I think it might be," she says, almost to herself.
Claire smiles faintly and looks out the window. "I could totally see you with a garden," she says lightly. "A proper herb patch. Tomatoes. Maybe even a greenhouse."
Erica huffs a surprised laugh. "Don’t get ahead of yourself. I don't exactly have a green thumb."
She pictures Claire’s image - rows of basil, thyme, tomatoes fat in the sun.
A ridiculous thought.
And still, she doesn’t hate it.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the wheel.
And her heart tugs in a direction she hadn't allowed herself to consider before today.
She won’t be running anymore.
Not from the house.
Not from Elisa.
Maybe not even from herself.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
This really appears to be a situation that Erica has never encountered before. And therefore has on previous experience to draw upon.
Dear @LunaDog, correct. But we will see how the story unfolds further. Hang on!
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The next morning - as she had promised her aunt - Erica pulls into the parking lot of Greenleaf Hospital a few minutes past nine, the low thrum of the Volvo’s engine fading into silence as she kills the ignition.
She lingers for a beat, hand still on the key, the familiar tightness returning to her chest.
She grips the steering wheel a second longer.
Even the parking lot reeks of bleach and stale sadness.
She retrieves a slim flacon of lavender parfum from her handbag and sprays it - once on each side of her neck, again behind her ears.
Scented armor against the stench that always turns her stomach.
Before she left yesterday, she had left a note for Dr. Parker, detailing her plan to take her aunt out for a few hours, and asked the night nurse to have her ready after breakfast.
Still, she doesn’t know what to expect.
Elisa could be combative.
Or lost.
Or worse - lucid enough to notice just how far Erica had erased her from her life for too long.
When Erica steps into the room, the sight stops her short.
Elisa sits in the chair by the window, fully dressed in a knit cardigan and slacks, her gray braid tight and neat.
Her handbag rests on her lap like a shield, fingers curled around its strap.
She stares straight ahead, as if she’s been waiting for hours.
Somehow, she looks less like a dragon this morning.
The sharp cheekbones and aristocratic sneer are still there - but muted, softened.
Tired.
Human.
“Hello, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says gently. “Are you ready to go on a little trip today?”
Elisa turns her head. For a second, there's a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
Then it vanishes.
“Where are we going? Home?”
Erica bends slightly to help her up. “Not yet,” she says. “The house needs a lot of work. It’s not safe. But I want to show you a couple of nice places. You’d live with people your age, and there’s staff to help you while I’m at work.”
“I’m not that old,” Elisa says, adjusting her bag with a frown.
A hint of indignation tightening her jaw.
“No. But Dr. Parker thinks it’s the best thing right now.”
“Oh.”
She sounds skeptical.
Then she adds, as if to reassert something, “I still dance, you know. I’m not a plant.”
They walk slowly down the corridor, Elisa’s gait deliberate, a little stiff. Erica matches her pace.
A nurse smiles at them as they pass.
For a brief second, Erica wonders what the staff sees - a woman dragging her reluctant aunt out of the hospital for one last round of decisions?
A dutiful niece or a guilt-ridden one?
When they reach the car, Elisa studies it with suspicion.
“Why are you driving a hearse, niña?” she asks, frowning at the black Volvo.
Erica stifles a laugh. “It came this way,” she says, opening the passenger door. “It’s a great car. You’ll like it.”
Elisa squints. “It’s black. Like going to a funeral.”
“Well,” Erica murmurs, helping her in, “we can’t all drive red convertibles.”
Her aunt struggles with the seatbelt, fingers not quite nimble enough.
Erica leans in. “I’ll do it for you.” she says quietly.
Elisa doesn’t resist.
As the door closes, Erica feels it - that pinch of tension low in her stomach.
This is going to be a test.
Not only of logistics.
Of patience.
Of presence.
Of everything she never had to give until very recently.
She exhales and starts the engine.
~~~
The first stop is Brook Hollow Residence, nestled among tall oaks and manicured hedges. The building itself is modern but softened by ivy crawling up the brick façade. Inside, the air smells of lemon polish and freshly brewed coffee.
A young woman with kind eyes named Lara greets them at the front desk and gives them a brief tour. The halls are clean, bright.
Residents pass them by with walkers, canes, even a small fluffy dog on a leash.
Erica watches Elisa carefully, searching her face for signs of curiosity, resistance... or maybe hope.
“This is the shared living area,” Lara explains, leading them into a sun-drenched room with bookshelves, puzzles, and a large-screen TV. “And down this way are the gardens.”
Elisa nods, polite but unreadable.
When they reach a model room, she steps inside, runs a hand over the coverlet.
“Where’s the staff?” she asks.
Lara explains the call system, points to the discreet button on the wall.
Elisa only says, “Hmm.”
Outside, once they're in the car again, Erica turns to her.
“What did you think?”
Elisa adjusts her bag in her lap. “Feels like a hotel for the politely bored,” she mutters. “But not the worst I’ve seen.”
~~~
The second is Sunrise Manor, smaller, older, with a more lived-in charm. The staff is older too, with a gentle efficiency that Erica immediately likes. There's a faint scent of cinnamon in the air, and one of the residents is playing a soft tune on an upright piano in the lounge.
Elisa perks up slightly. Watches. Listens. A faint smile ghosts across her face.
A staff member named Tomás, with a slight Spanish accent, helps guide them through.
When Elisa speaks to him, a few phrases slip out in Spanish.
He responds fluidly.
Erica can feel something loosen in her aunt’s posture.
“We serve empanadas sometimes,” he adds with a smile. “They’re not quite like they do them in Bolivia, but close.”
When they leave, Elisa lingers by the door, turning once to glance at the lounge.
In the car, she doesn’t say anything for a full minute.
“Well?” Erica prods gently.
Elisa shrugs.
She doesn't speak for a moment.
Then, quietly: “It smelled like a house.”
~~~
To soften the weight of the morning, Erica takes Elisa to a small Spanish restaurant she’d looked up the night before.
Not Bolivian - nothing close - but it has arroz negro and tortilla, and flamenco playing in the background.
The space is dimly lit and warm, the kind of place where conversation settles instead of echoing.
Erica helps Elisa out of her coat and into a chair.
She fumbles in her bag, finds her glasses.
Scans the menu, lips pursed.
“I suppose this will have to do,” she says, as if granting a concession.
But she orders quickly and without complaint.
They sit in near silence at first.
Then, as the paella arrives, Elisa says, “You remember your mother’s peanut soup?”
Erica puts her fork down, shakes her head. “I was only two when Mom died, Aunt Elisa. I don’t remember her. Everything I know about her came from you and Dad.”
“She used too much garlic,” Elisa says. “But Luisa was a good woman. Everything about her was wonderful. From the heart.”
Erica stares at her aunt.
There’s no venom in the words.
Just memory.
Random maybe but popping up in her clouded mind in bits and pieces.
“I miss her,” Erica says before she can stop herself.
Elisa looks at her - really looks at her - maybe for the first time today.
Her gaze sharpens, just for a moment. “So do I, niña.”
She signals the waitress, pushes her plate toward the edge of the table a little and asks the young woman for a doggy bag.
The waitress obliges and takes the plate with the half-eaten paella to the kitchen.
Elisa watches her go, then leans a little forward, winks at Erica and whispers “I don’t have a dog, but she doesn’t need to know that.”
They finish their meal with an Americano.
Erica pulls out her phone and opens the folder where she stores photos and videos of Spot and Tiger and plays some of the short video clips for Aunt Elisa.
“They keep the mice away,” she comments but clearly enjoys the two furballs climbing all over their jungle gym in Erica’s living room.
~~~
On the drive back to Greenleaf Hospital, Erica renews her effort to explain the situation around her aunt’s future home.
“Tomorrow, I have an expert come around to take a look at the house and tell me what needs to be done,” she says. “Doctor Parker said you can’t live alone any longer, because… you forget things. So, you will need a place where you don’t have to do everything yourself.”
Elisa looks at Erica, releasing her grip on the doggy bag resting in her lap alongside her handbag, reaching for Erica’s hand.
“I’m an old woman now, am I, niña?” she says.
Erica swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the wheel.
She can’t imagine how painful those lucid flashes must be.
“Not old, Aunt Elisa,” she whispers. “But you need help that I can’t provide while I’m at work.”
“That second house will do,” Elisa says, her voice firm, with the dignity of someone making her own decision, shoulders back and her head held high.
“I think that is a wise choice, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says, glancing over at the woman in the passenger seat. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”
~~~
She lingers for a beat, hand still on the key, the familiar tightness returning to her chest.
She grips the steering wheel a second longer.
Even the parking lot reeks of bleach and stale sadness.
She retrieves a slim flacon of lavender parfum from her handbag and sprays it - once on each side of her neck, again behind her ears.
Scented armor against the stench that always turns her stomach.
Before she left yesterday, she had left a note for Dr. Parker, detailing her plan to take her aunt out for a few hours, and asked the night nurse to have her ready after breakfast.
Still, she doesn’t know what to expect.
Elisa could be combative.
Or lost.
Or worse - lucid enough to notice just how far Erica had erased her from her life for too long.
When Erica steps into the room, the sight stops her short.
Elisa sits in the chair by the window, fully dressed in a knit cardigan and slacks, her gray braid tight and neat.
Her handbag rests on her lap like a shield, fingers curled around its strap.
She stares straight ahead, as if she’s been waiting for hours.
Somehow, she looks less like a dragon this morning.
The sharp cheekbones and aristocratic sneer are still there - but muted, softened.
Tired.
Human.
“Hello, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says gently. “Are you ready to go on a little trip today?”
Elisa turns her head. For a second, there's a flicker of recognition in her eyes.
Then it vanishes.
“Where are we going? Home?”
Erica bends slightly to help her up. “Not yet,” she says. “The house needs a lot of work. It’s not safe. But I want to show you a couple of nice places. You’d live with people your age, and there’s staff to help you while I’m at work.”
“I’m not that old,” Elisa says, adjusting her bag with a frown.
A hint of indignation tightening her jaw.
“No. But Dr. Parker thinks it’s the best thing right now.”
“Oh.”
She sounds skeptical.
Then she adds, as if to reassert something, “I still dance, you know. I’m not a plant.”
They walk slowly down the corridor, Elisa’s gait deliberate, a little stiff. Erica matches her pace.
A nurse smiles at them as they pass.
For a brief second, Erica wonders what the staff sees - a woman dragging her reluctant aunt out of the hospital for one last round of decisions?
A dutiful niece or a guilt-ridden one?
When they reach the car, Elisa studies it with suspicion.
“Why are you driving a hearse, niña?” she asks, frowning at the black Volvo.
Erica stifles a laugh. “It came this way,” she says, opening the passenger door. “It’s a great car. You’ll like it.”
Elisa squints. “It’s black. Like going to a funeral.”
“Well,” Erica murmurs, helping her in, “we can’t all drive red convertibles.”
Her aunt struggles with the seatbelt, fingers not quite nimble enough.
Erica leans in. “I’ll do it for you.” she says quietly.
Elisa doesn’t resist.
As the door closes, Erica feels it - that pinch of tension low in her stomach.
This is going to be a test.
Not only of logistics.
Of patience.
Of presence.
Of everything she never had to give until very recently.
She exhales and starts the engine.
~~~
The first stop is Brook Hollow Residence, nestled among tall oaks and manicured hedges. The building itself is modern but softened by ivy crawling up the brick façade. Inside, the air smells of lemon polish and freshly brewed coffee.
A young woman with kind eyes named Lara greets them at the front desk and gives them a brief tour. The halls are clean, bright.
Residents pass them by with walkers, canes, even a small fluffy dog on a leash.
Erica watches Elisa carefully, searching her face for signs of curiosity, resistance... or maybe hope.
“This is the shared living area,” Lara explains, leading them into a sun-drenched room with bookshelves, puzzles, and a large-screen TV. “And down this way are the gardens.”
Elisa nods, polite but unreadable.
When they reach a model room, she steps inside, runs a hand over the coverlet.
“Where’s the staff?” she asks.
Lara explains the call system, points to the discreet button on the wall.
Elisa only says, “Hmm.”
Outside, once they're in the car again, Erica turns to her.
“What did you think?”
Elisa adjusts her bag in her lap. “Feels like a hotel for the politely bored,” she mutters. “But not the worst I’ve seen.”
~~~
The second is Sunrise Manor, smaller, older, with a more lived-in charm. The staff is older too, with a gentle efficiency that Erica immediately likes. There's a faint scent of cinnamon in the air, and one of the residents is playing a soft tune on an upright piano in the lounge.
Elisa perks up slightly. Watches. Listens. A faint smile ghosts across her face.
A staff member named Tomás, with a slight Spanish accent, helps guide them through.
When Elisa speaks to him, a few phrases slip out in Spanish.
He responds fluidly.
Erica can feel something loosen in her aunt’s posture.
“We serve empanadas sometimes,” he adds with a smile. “They’re not quite like they do them in Bolivia, but close.”
When they leave, Elisa lingers by the door, turning once to glance at the lounge.
In the car, she doesn’t say anything for a full minute.
“Well?” Erica prods gently.
Elisa shrugs.
She doesn't speak for a moment.
Then, quietly: “It smelled like a house.”
~~~
To soften the weight of the morning, Erica takes Elisa to a small Spanish restaurant she’d looked up the night before.
Not Bolivian - nothing close - but it has arroz negro and tortilla, and flamenco playing in the background.
The space is dimly lit and warm, the kind of place where conversation settles instead of echoing.
Erica helps Elisa out of her coat and into a chair.
She fumbles in her bag, finds her glasses.
Scans the menu, lips pursed.
“I suppose this will have to do,” she says, as if granting a concession.
But she orders quickly and without complaint.
They sit in near silence at first.
Then, as the paella arrives, Elisa says, “You remember your mother’s peanut soup?”
Erica puts her fork down, shakes her head. “I was only two when Mom died, Aunt Elisa. I don’t remember her. Everything I know about her came from you and Dad.”
“She used too much garlic,” Elisa says. “But Luisa was a good woman. Everything about her was wonderful. From the heart.”
Erica stares at her aunt.
There’s no venom in the words.
Just memory.
Random maybe but popping up in her clouded mind in bits and pieces.
“I miss her,” Erica says before she can stop herself.
Elisa looks at her - really looks at her - maybe for the first time today.
Her gaze sharpens, just for a moment. “So do I, niña.”
She signals the waitress, pushes her plate toward the edge of the table a little and asks the young woman for a doggy bag.
The waitress obliges and takes the plate with the half-eaten paella to the kitchen.
Elisa watches her go, then leans a little forward, winks at Erica and whispers “I don’t have a dog, but she doesn’t need to know that.”
They finish their meal with an Americano.
Erica pulls out her phone and opens the folder where she stores photos and videos of Spot and Tiger and plays some of the short video clips for Aunt Elisa.
“They keep the mice away,” she comments but clearly enjoys the two furballs climbing all over their jungle gym in Erica’s living room.
~~~
On the drive back to Greenleaf Hospital, Erica renews her effort to explain the situation around her aunt’s future home.
“Tomorrow, I have an expert come around to take a look at the house and tell me what needs to be done,” she says. “Doctor Parker said you can’t live alone any longer, because… you forget things. So, you will need a place where you don’t have to do everything yourself.”
Elisa looks at Erica, releasing her grip on the doggy bag resting in her lap alongside her handbag, reaching for Erica’s hand.
“I’m an old woman now, am I, niña?” she says.
Erica swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the wheel.
She can’t imagine how painful those lucid flashes must be.
“Not old, Aunt Elisa,” she whispers. “But you need help that I can’t provide while I’m at work.”
“That second house will do,” Elisa says, her voice firm, with the dignity of someone making her own decision, shoulders back and her head held high.
“I think that is a wise choice, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says, glancing over at the woman in the passenger seat. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
I think her aunt's mind is made up. The fact that they speak Spanish i guess.
Dear @LunaDog, Sunrise Manor seems like a good choice. One, Aunt Elisa made for herself.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Saturday comes quickly.
Erica pulls into the pickup zone at White Plains Airport, slipping her Volvo into park with a soft sigh.
She glances at the time on her Rolex.
9:38 AM.
Too early to be tired, but here she is - tired in that bone-deep way that has little to do with sleep and everything to do with emotional wear.
She eyes the travel bag in the back seat, a haphazard mix of clothing and toiletries packed in five distracted minutes last night.
She’s surrendered to the possibility of a night in Scarsdale.
It's ironic, she thinks, for someone who avoided this town for years, she’s now orbiting it like a reluctant moon.
“I might as well just move in right away,” she mutters under her breath.
Thankfully, Claire offered to take care of Spot and Tiger for the evening.
She’s such a blessing.
Erica has no idea how long Steve McKinley’s inspection will take.
If it’s anything like she suspects - thorough and unfiltered - she’s in for a long day.
The automatic doors slide open with a hiss. Passengers from Albany trickle out, most clutching overnight bags and duffels.
Her eyes scan the crowd - and then she hears him before she sees him.
Loud laughter.
A booming voice that doesn’t care about acoustics or social norms.
Steve McKinley, tall and broad-shouldered in a tan canvas jacket, strides toward her with Antonia beside him, hand-in-hand.
He looks like he just walked off a lumberjack calendar.
“Erica,” he calls, grinning like a kid who’s about to do something destructive and fun.
Antonia, a few inches shorter than Erica, glows in that unmistakable way that only comes from expecting a child.
Her skin, olive and luminous, frames eyes that sparkle with warmth.
One hand rests protectively on her bump, a clear difference to the slim midsection she had when they met on the cruise ship.
“Thanks for coming, you two,” Erica says, managing a smile as she hugs them. “Can I tempt you with a cup of coffee first, or do you want to dive into disaster mode right away?”
“Let’s get eyes on the house,” Steve replies. “Before I fall asleep in some hipster café.”
They pile into Erica’s Volvo - Steve up front, Antonia settled carefully in the back - and head south.
As they drive past the house the first time, Erica slows to a crawl.
The place looms just ahead, subdued by leafless trees and overgrown hedges.
A husk of memories and disrepair.
She pulls into the narrow service alley behind the property and swings the car into the short, cracked driveway.
Steve leans out the passenger-side window, squinting up at the facade. “Early '60s build,” he says like a detective naming the murder weapon. “Two stories, full basement, detached two-car garage. That chimney’s seen better days.”
As they get out of the car, Erica hurries to Antonia’s side. “Careful, Toni. The yard’s - well. It’s a little out of control.”
Antonia laughs, stepping gingerly over a gnarled root.
“Not the only thing around here in need of iron discipline,” Steve mutters, powering up his tablet. “But hey,” he adds more brightly, “I pulled some comps before boarding. Even if you decide to bulldoze this sucker, you’re looking at a cool 2.5 million for the lot alone.”
Erica nods.
That matches her own research, but it’s not the dollar signs she’s chewing on.
It’s the potential.
The ache to restore, reclaim.
Making it hers.
“The neighbor kicked in the back door when he saw smoke coming from the kitchen,” she says as she opens it. It hangs loose in the frame like a broken promise. “My aunt forgot she had a pot on the stove.”
“Oof,” Antonia winces. “Let me guess…”
“Yeah. She’s moving into a care home next week.”
Antonia perches on the padded bench in the breakfast nook while Erica heats water for tea. Chamomile - the only calming thing her aunt kept in the cupboard.
Steve disappears into the depths of the house, and soon the familiar thuds and curses echo from somewhere beneath their feet.
Pipes clang.
Boards groan.
Something topples.
“He’s enjoying himself,” Antonia says with a grin, cupping her tea. “Did he tell you we’re finally doing it?”
Erica raises a brow. “The wedding?”
Antonia beams, extending her left hand. The ring on her finger is elegant but solid - much like the man. “Mrs. McKinley, this fall.”
“And the baby?”
Antonia smirks. “Is it that obvious?”
“You could say that,” she says with a smile.
They sip tea and talk, catching up on work, the cruise, little things.
The kind of soft, pleasant conversation that keeps anxiety from spilling over.
Steve reappears almost two hours later, covered in cobwebs, dust in his hair, and a long scratch on his forearm. He heads straight to the kitchen sink, turns on the tap, and scrubs like he’s prepping for surgery.
“Well,” he announces between splashes of water, "You’ll get the full rundown later, but here’s the bottom line - this place has good bones,” Steve says, wiping dust from his hands. "Solid craftsmanship. They actually cared back then. This house was built to last. Roof’s been replaced - '90s, right?”
“Late ’90s.” Erica confirms.
“The heating system’s a dinosaur - it guzzles gas like it’s still 1974. You’ll want a new one. Carpets? Out. Wallpaper? Burn it. Electricals are outdated but serviceable. Nothing catastrophic.”
“So what am I looking at?”
Steve scrolls through his notes. “If I talk to a local guy to make sure he’s not putting you over the barrel… errrr… trying to take you for a ride… realistically, I’d not pay him more than 350.000 Dollar and that includes new heating, landscaping and enough modernization to bring the place into this century.”
Erica exhales, releasing a breath she’s been holding for the past few days.
Not cheap - but not a dealbreaker either.
She can swing it.
Even without selling the Upper West Side apartment.
She smiles faintly. “So… what are you two in the mood to eat - after Steve gets a shower?”
~~~
Steve emerges from the guest room freshly showered and changed into clean, lived-in jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He looks younger without the cobwebs, dust and grime.
Content, happy.
Antonia, equally relaxed in a soft sweater and ballet flats, reaches for his arm with casual intimacy.
Erica takes the three of them into downtown Scarsdale, the Volvo’s tires whispering over familiar roads.
She hasn’t been here in years, but the streets still recognize her - the bakery that used to sell homemade lemon drops, the bookstore now turned wine shop, Lucy’s, the quiet diner tucked beside the train tracks with red vinyl booths and a faded Coca-Cola clock above the register.
A throwback.
A time capsule.
A piece of her youth.
Inside Lucy’s Diner, the air is thick with the scent of frying onions and freshly brewed coffee.
They slide into a booth by the window.
A waitress in her sixties with steel-gray curls and orthopedic sneakers takes their order without writing anything down.
Once she leaves, Steve leans across the table, his fingers still wrapped around Antonia’s hand.
“This rich city girl looks like she’s made up her mind already,” he says, eyes twinkling.
Erica clasps her hands together, presses them against her lips, and bites the inside of her cheek. There’s a weight in her chest, but it’s a warm kind.
Steady.
She nods.
“Yes. I’ll do it,” she says quietly. “This is home. Always has been.”
She glances out the window - Scarsdale bathed in afternoon gold.
It’s not that she suddenly belongs; she realizes that she never really stopped.
In her heart, she’s still a small-town girl.
Steve leans back, satisfied. “Here’s the deal, Erica. If you want, I’ll talk to a contractor I know. He’s done half the houses on my street. I’ll show him my list, you sit down with him, and before you know it, you're living here minus the mice and the dripping faucets.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Erica says. “I’ve been away for too long.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “Speaking of too long…” He turns his head and shouts toward the kitchen, “How long does it take folks around here to cook a steak?”
A muffled voice responds from the back.
Laughter rolls out from the next booth over.
Erica shakes her head, hiding her smile behind her water glass.
~~~
They sit in the airport lounge, quiet now, the buzz of nearby departures drifting past them.
Steve drinks his coffee black, Antonia half-dozes against his shoulder.
Erica feels a strange knot of gratitude and something else - grief, maybe, or relief, or just the silent ache of parting.
When their flight is called, Steve hugs her tight.
“You’ve got this,” he murmurs. “If you need my help, just call.”
Antonia hugs her too, whispering something in Spanish Erica doesn’t quite catch but understands anyway.
And then they’re gone, swallowed by the terminal.
~~~
Erica pulls into the pickup zone at White Plains Airport, slipping her Volvo into park with a soft sigh.
She glances at the time on her Rolex.
9:38 AM.
Too early to be tired, but here she is - tired in that bone-deep way that has little to do with sleep and everything to do with emotional wear.
She eyes the travel bag in the back seat, a haphazard mix of clothing and toiletries packed in five distracted minutes last night.
She’s surrendered to the possibility of a night in Scarsdale.
It's ironic, she thinks, for someone who avoided this town for years, she’s now orbiting it like a reluctant moon.
“I might as well just move in right away,” she mutters under her breath.
Thankfully, Claire offered to take care of Spot and Tiger for the evening.
She’s such a blessing.
Erica has no idea how long Steve McKinley’s inspection will take.
If it’s anything like she suspects - thorough and unfiltered - she’s in for a long day.
The automatic doors slide open with a hiss. Passengers from Albany trickle out, most clutching overnight bags and duffels.
Her eyes scan the crowd - and then she hears him before she sees him.
Loud laughter.
A booming voice that doesn’t care about acoustics or social norms.
Steve McKinley, tall and broad-shouldered in a tan canvas jacket, strides toward her with Antonia beside him, hand-in-hand.
He looks like he just walked off a lumberjack calendar.
“Erica,” he calls, grinning like a kid who’s about to do something destructive and fun.
Antonia, a few inches shorter than Erica, glows in that unmistakable way that only comes from expecting a child.
Her skin, olive and luminous, frames eyes that sparkle with warmth.
One hand rests protectively on her bump, a clear difference to the slim midsection she had when they met on the cruise ship.
“Thanks for coming, you two,” Erica says, managing a smile as she hugs them. “Can I tempt you with a cup of coffee first, or do you want to dive into disaster mode right away?”
“Let’s get eyes on the house,” Steve replies. “Before I fall asleep in some hipster café.”
They pile into Erica’s Volvo - Steve up front, Antonia settled carefully in the back - and head south.
As they drive past the house the first time, Erica slows to a crawl.
The place looms just ahead, subdued by leafless trees and overgrown hedges.
A husk of memories and disrepair.
She pulls into the narrow service alley behind the property and swings the car into the short, cracked driveway.
Steve leans out the passenger-side window, squinting up at the facade. “Early '60s build,” he says like a detective naming the murder weapon. “Two stories, full basement, detached two-car garage. That chimney’s seen better days.”
As they get out of the car, Erica hurries to Antonia’s side. “Careful, Toni. The yard’s - well. It’s a little out of control.”
Antonia laughs, stepping gingerly over a gnarled root.
“Not the only thing around here in need of iron discipline,” Steve mutters, powering up his tablet. “But hey,” he adds more brightly, “I pulled some comps before boarding. Even if you decide to bulldoze this sucker, you’re looking at a cool 2.5 million for the lot alone.”
Erica nods.
That matches her own research, but it’s not the dollar signs she’s chewing on.
It’s the potential.
The ache to restore, reclaim.
Making it hers.
“The neighbor kicked in the back door when he saw smoke coming from the kitchen,” she says as she opens it. It hangs loose in the frame like a broken promise. “My aunt forgot she had a pot on the stove.”
“Oof,” Antonia winces. “Let me guess…”
“Yeah. She’s moving into a care home next week.”
Antonia perches on the padded bench in the breakfast nook while Erica heats water for tea. Chamomile - the only calming thing her aunt kept in the cupboard.
Steve disappears into the depths of the house, and soon the familiar thuds and curses echo from somewhere beneath their feet.
Pipes clang.
Boards groan.
Something topples.
“He’s enjoying himself,” Antonia says with a grin, cupping her tea. “Did he tell you we’re finally doing it?”
Erica raises a brow. “The wedding?”
Antonia beams, extending her left hand. The ring on her finger is elegant but solid - much like the man. “Mrs. McKinley, this fall.”
“And the baby?”
Antonia smirks. “Is it that obvious?”
“You could say that,” she says with a smile.
They sip tea and talk, catching up on work, the cruise, little things.
The kind of soft, pleasant conversation that keeps anxiety from spilling over.
Steve reappears almost two hours later, covered in cobwebs, dust in his hair, and a long scratch on his forearm. He heads straight to the kitchen sink, turns on the tap, and scrubs like he’s prepping for surgery.
“Well,” he announces between splashes of water, "You’ll get the full rundown later, but here’s the bottom line - this place has good bones,” Steve says, wiping dust from his hands. "Solid craftsmanship. They actually cared back then. This house was built to last. Roof’s been replaced - '90s, right?”
“Late ’90s.” Erica confirms.
“The heating system’s a dinosaur - it guzzles gas like it’s still 1974. You’ll want a new one. Carpets? Out. Wallpaper? Burn it. Electricals are outdated but serviceable. Nothing catastrophic.”
“So what am I looking at?”
Steve scrolls through his notes. “If I talk to a local guy to make sure he’s not putting you over the barrel… errrr… trying to take you for a ride… realistically, I’d not pay him more than 350.000 Dollar and that includes new heating, landscaping and enough modernization to bring the place into this century.”
Erica exhales, releasing a breath she’s been holding for the past few days.
Not cheap - but not a dealbreaker either.
She can swing it.
Even without selling the Upper West Side apartment.
She smiles faintly. “So… what are you two in the mood to eat - after Steve gets a shower?”
~~~
Steve emerges from the guest room freshly showered and changed into clean, lived-in jeans and a chambray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
He looks younger without the cobwebs, dust and grime.
Content, happy.
Antonia, equally relaxed in a soft sweater and ballet flats, reaches for his arm with casual intimacy.
Erica takes the three of them into downtown Scarsdale, the Volvo’s tires whispering over familiar roads.
She hasn’t been here in years, but the streets still recognize her - the bakery that used to sell homemade lemon drops, the bookstore now turned wine shop, Lucy’s, the quiet diner tucked beside the train tracks with red vinyl booths and a faded Coca-Cola clock above the register.
A throwback.
A time capsule.
A piece of her youth.
Inside Lucy’s Diner, the air is thick with the scent of frying onions and freshly brewed coffee.
They slide into a booth by the window.
A waitress in her sixties with steel-gray curls and orthopedic sneakers takes their order without writing anything down.
Once she leaves, Steve leans across the table, his fingers still wrapped around Antonia’s hand.
“This rich city girl looks like she’s made up her mind already,” he says, eyes twinkling.
Erica clasps her hands together, presses them against her lips, and bites the inside of her cheek. There’s a weight in her chest, but it’s a warm kind.
Steady.
She nods.
“Yes. I’ll do it,” she says quietly. “This is home. Always has been.”
She glances out the window - Scarsdale bathed in afternoon gold.
It’s not that she suddenly belongs; she realizes that she never really stopped.
In her heart, she’s still a small-town girl.
Steve leans back, satisfied. “Here’s the deal, Erica. If you want, I’ll talk to a contractor I know. He’s done half the houses on my street. I’ll show him my list, you sit down with him, and before you know it, you're living here minus the mice and the dripping faucets.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Erica says. “I’ve been away for too long.”
Steve raises an eyebrow. “Speaking of too long…” He turns his head and shouts toward the kitchen, “How long does it take folks around here to cook a steak?”
A muffled voice responds from the back.
Laughter rolls out from the next booth over.
Erica shakes her head, hiding her smile behind her water glass.
~~~
They sit in the airport lounge, quiet now, the buzz of nearby departures drifting past them.
Steve drinks his coffee black, Antonia half-dozes against his shoulder.
Erica feels a strange knot of gratitude and something else - grief, maybe, or relief, or just the silent ache of parting.
When their flight is called, Steve hugs her tight.
“You’ve got this,” he murmurs. “If you need my help, just call.”
Antonia hugs her too, whispering something in Spanish Erica doesn’t quite catch but understands anyway.
And then they’re gone, swallowed by the terminal.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Just began reading your Tale dear @Jenny_S - but before I continue to do so? My Compliment for the this Picture. It tells a lot about Erica. Without many Words at all!Jenny_S wrote: 1 month ago When called upon to take care of her aging aunt, Erica Sinclair does not only have to deal with her own mistakes, but also with shady characters taking advantage of other people’s vulnerabilities. She learns that some battles are not won in the courtroom, but in the heart.
