The old neighborhood was nearly unrecognizable. Claire crept down the residential streets in her BMW rental. The sunglasses covering her eyes masked furrowed brows as her view took in the run-down houses and the weeds decorating the cracks of the sidewalks. She didn’t even have to think about the left turn, then right and right again onto the block that would take her to the address where her childhood home should have been.

She’d heard about the fires that had destroyed most of the houses. Had it been two years now or three since she’d taken the stilted call, distant in more than physical miles? She tried to recall, picturing the moment.

The shock took her back a step. It had been seven years. She’d been wearing her Betsey Johnson herringbone suit, a perfect choice for closing the condo deal with the music industry couple. He had been flamboyantly straight, enthusiastically creative and gushed constantly about the ‘feel of the space’. The woman had been buttoned up in a bold plaid print pantsuit, on her brand-new smartphone. Claire remembered envying the flashy phone from the panel-driven commercials. The sale had gone through the wife, clearly the more business-minded half of the couple, and Claire had been briefly, joyously, celebrating the incoming commission when she’d gotten the call from her once-home.

Matty was still a good old boy, the small town hero of the community volunteer response team. Claire knew it had likely been injury and a hospital stay that had kept him from calling her immediately, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Smoke inhalation or having crawled into some collapsed building to haul a helpless creature out… That was Matty all the way.

Allison Parker’s house was gone. That great big corner lot, once with the gorgeous white Victorian house, stood desolate and empty now. Claire pulled over across the sleepy street then opened her door. As she stared, unfolding herself from the seat of her BMW Z4, the memories came flying back.

The retaining wall remained, where they had all practiced their balance. Lines of kids would crowd that corner in the summer, tiptoeing along the narrow concrete, chanting nonsensical rhymes as they skipped rope, hopscotched and cartwheeled over the sidewalks at the wall’s base. They had been a mix of boys and girls at ages six, seven and ten, all dressed in the ragtag play clothes of summer—cutoff shorts and T-shirts from camp. The bikes would be crashed together, piled at the edge of the yard in the haste to get their turn to swordfight across the precarious perch. In her memories, Claire could see all their faces—red-haired Ted Monroe, trailed by his toddling little sister, Sara Dawson and her giant blue eyes, and Matty, always bandaged.

Allison had been queen of the neighborhood then, preening every day her mother would come outside with lemonade or popsicles for every kid gathered in their yard. The other mothers would sometimes join Mrs. Parker up on that wide wraparound porch, all of them perfectly attired in their chinos and silk-shell sleeveless tops.

As they’d gotten older, the wall had become the hangout for the girls. Allison, Marissa, Sara, Kayla and Claire would perch on the concrete discussing fashion, giggling over movies and watching the boys speed by on their bikes. But now the house was gone.

Surrounding the lot stood broken pieces of the neighboring houses. She’d been invited inside every one of them in those years past. She’d babysat for the Grants, had snuck into Matty’s bedroom after the senior bonfire, had sleepovers at Marissa’s all through middle school. Wouldn’t they all be surprised to see her now?

Claire pulled out of the neighborhood with its closely built homes and tragic past, turning toward town. The feeling of misery clung to her and she longed to shake free of it. The hotel had been a lucky find—something resembling luxury, even here, in small town scarcity. She could get checked in there before having to endure the inevitable trips down long-repressed memory lanes. No reason to hurry.

* * * *

Standing impatiently in the hotel lobby, Clair clicked her thumbnails against the screen of her smartphone. She typed out a quick email to the prospective buyers of her latest location. The condo had been an amazing find, just off the main shopping district in Chicago. The building was tall, adding the feel of stature to what would otherwise be an unremarkable apartment with its two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Claire could appreciate the clean lines of the structure and expected the sterile white walls to sell well to the old-monied crone who had tied up all her time lately with her endless questions about the property. This email left Claire feeling unsettled, tendrils of doubt about the woman’s decision creeping in.

The family of four in front of her finished the process of getting keys to their standard two-queen bedroom. Mommy and Daddy would likely end up regretting bringing the brats on vacation once they were both crowded in one bed, Claire thought as she put her phone aside.

The attendant seemed pleasant, giving a former-high-school-cheerleader grin of welcome as Claire advanced the few steps closer to the counter, the click of her stilettos sharp on the tile floor.

“Are we here for the reunion this weekend?” the smiley girl chirped.

Claire let her lips curl in a tight, grimacing sort of smile. “I am. Reservation for Wallace, please.”

The girl pressed a brochure over the counter, rather than pulling up the information in the computer as Claire expected. “Oh, you’ll have so much fun! The city sure has changed since graduation, hasn’t it?” Pointing to an itinerary that Claire had already received in her email, Smiley began describing the new banquet hall, the ballroom in their hotel, the businesses that had opened and the tours of the school Claire had attended. Claire’s attempt at pleasantry disappeared.

“I’m sorry. I said, reservation for Wallace, please.” The stare pinned the girl’s smile in place stiffly. Claire looked pointedly at her phone and armful of luggage. “I’d like to just get to my room, thank you.”

“Right.” The girl’s manner became clipped. With minimal further interaction, Claire was in possession of a key to one of the single king-bed suites. In her room, which was thankfully quiet, Claire swiftly unpacked the few items she needed and hung her wardrobe in the tiny closet.

The time prior to the opening dinner passed quickly for Claire, a flurry of emails and phone calls that would hopefully lead to some new showing appointments being made in the weeks to come. It satisfied her to know that she could still work remotely during this trip. There was really no reason for her to be present since the traffic to the condo had lessened drastically in the last week, but the knowledge that she could still communicate with potential clients helped to soothe that anxiety. Her alarm softly ‘pinged’ to tell her it was time to complete her work. The dress she’d worn to travel would have been sufficient for the evening, but she chose to change anyway.

The classic cut of the other dress emphasized the figure she worked hard for. In gunmetal gray, it couldn’t officially be called a ‘little black dress’ but was versatile enough for its purpose. The shantung silk from Zac Posen had closed more than one sale for her, personal and professional alike.

Claire had learned quickly that in sales, appearance was everything. Luxury was all about the look and feel, a hard-learned lesson for a girl who’d grown up in comfort and not privilege. After her first failing attempts—two years of trying to break into the market of luxury property management—Claire had been determined to change. The pitying looks from her clients who wore Hugo, Versace, de la Renta and Gucci, had made her hyperaware of her own out-of-season, knockoff wardrobe. Determined to make the adjustments, Claire had done exhaustive research, gathered a small fortune—or so it had felt to her—and had bought her first designer suit. Donna Karan had transformed her, and her next sale went to the image improvement. She wore labels now, bought designer accessories, worked to the bone and had the growing reputation to prove it. She went to sleep alone, but that was preferable to the alternative, wasn’t it? No need to complicate her life with something messy.

* * * *

Claire paused at the entrance to the new banquet hall the hotel clerk had been so enamored of. It had taken over the bones of an old downtown department store. She remembered shopping dates with her grandmother in these walls. The salon, where she had gotten impossibly intricate ringlets styled while Nana’s hair was being permed, had been just inside the door. The rows of taffeta and velvet holiday dresses she would try on had been near the back, beside the entrance to Santa’s Workshop every Christmas season. Their dates always ended at the tea room with hot chocolate and cookies. She remembered the clerks the most, always present and ready to assist with a shopping style that had been utilized since its opening in the early 1940s. It seemed the specialized service had become a thing of the past here, sacrificed to the big box stores that had opened along the main drag north of town.

The glass cathedral-height entryway was appropriate for a banquet hall, but the remainder of the architecture was too utilitarian to be the vintage classy they had been aiming for. With a heavy sigh, Claire stepped through the doors.

The table that greeted her in the hall was covered in the requisite name tags, naturally of the self-adhering variety. Claire found hers easily, choosing to carry it. She scoffed, horrified at the thought of putting the sticker on her seventeen-hundred-dollar dress. On it she was assigned a table number, but she bypassed the table for the bar on the other side of the crowded cocktail area.

A hand wrapped around her upper arm just before a body stumbled into her. The stench of cheap cigarettes and whiskey made Claire cough.

“Claire-bear!” came the bellow, slurred together by the drink.

Peeling the fingers from her arm, Claire pressed her lips together. She looked at the person who grinned at her. Red hair and a face blessed by a lack of freckles identified him. “Hello, Ted.”

“Didn’t expect to see you back here. Thought you never looked back, huh? I guess ten years was long enough to miss me, huh, Claire-bear?” Ted Monroe peered at her, weaving on his feet, even standing still.

Claire assessed what she was seeing with the practiced glance she often used to gauge her customers. His suit was off the rack—she could tell—but was nicer than some of the others around the room. Ted was still the big man on campus, it seemed. Claire felt his eyes peruse her shape, down and back up, mirroring her own visual measurement.

“Looking good, Claire-bear.” His body, the bulk of it making its way from firm to flab, swayed toward her suggestively. “Still feeling good, too?”

“Ted!” A sharp admonishment from behind him stole the lecherous look from his eyes. A spray-tanned hand grabbed his arm. “Behave yourself.” The peroxide-dyed hair was styled high and her dress was neon and clinging to all the worst places, but there was no mistaking the look of poison Marissa threw at Claire. “Oh, Claire. How are you?”

“Marissa? I’m doing well, thank you. How have you been?” Claire eyed the woman with a satisfied glee. The enhancements were obvious, some of them surgical in nature, but they did nothing to delay the march of time that made her dress bulge slightly over her midsection and thighs. The gaudy ring on Marissa’s fingers labeled her a Monroe now, a bit of information Claire vaguely remembered being invited to witness.

“Oh, we’re fantastic. Teddy’s been promoted again, so we’re buying in the old neighborhood. Going to build a nice, big house on the corner, aren’t we, Teddy?” At his lack of reaction, Marissa prodded Ted’s softened side. “Ted!”

His eyes moved slowly, drunk and unfocused, from Claire’s exposed legs and the sharp point of her Louboutins. “Yeah, right. Parker’s place. ’S right.” Turning to Marissa, he wheedled. “If we can get it. I told you they might not approve us, Mar.”

Claire was surprised at the sink of emotion in her gut. The thought of the neighborhood crown jewel turning into a conquest for this pair filled her with unease. “Well. Good luck with that. If you should need any help, I’m connected with a few developers that might be open to working this far from the city.” From her clutch, Claire produced one of her sleek business cards. She flipped it between her fingers, a trick to catch the light and Ted’s attention for anything flashy. “Call me.”

Marissa snatched the card just as Ted reached for it, her Barbie-pink, blown-out lips pursing. “Thanks so much. Claire.”

Claire was used to hearing her name spat and she smiled slightly at the way the other woman was obviously threatened by her. And how different they were—Claire’s Posen to Marissa’s clubwear, the red-soled stilettos Claire wore compared to the patent leather platforms Marissa teetered on, everything down to their tastes in men. True, Claire had gone out with Ted a couple times back in school, but it was clear her choice had been the better. A man like Ted Monroe could never keep up with her now.

Marissa dragged Ted away, back to the makeshift dance floor that surged with bodies determined to regain their youth through the songs they’d danced to back then. Claire’s lip twisted in embarrassment, watching the flailing and grinding they had all employed at school dances ten or more years ago. Turning away from the display, she made her way to the bar.

Leaning over it, a glass and chrome monstrosity that tried to indicate modern trendiness, Claire asked the bartender, “Where do you work?”

He responded with a confused glance, but replied, “Sazerac. Why?” He developed a greedy gleam in his eye, taking in her appearance. She knew she looked flawless. She wouldn’t accept anything else. “Going to come find me after work sometime?”

She tipped her head, considering. He was pretty. She knew the adage—young, dumb, and…well, she had before. Tonight, though, she shook her head. “No. Trying to figure out what not to order from you. Don’t bother with anything mixed. I’ll just take a chardonnay.” She tucked a bill into the tip jar, ignored his scowl, and left the bar with a glass of predictable white wine—the quality one would expect of an open bar.

Sitting at the table assigned to her by the handwritten number in the corner of the nametag, she sipped at the sharply acidic wine. Looking around, she cursed the sense of nostalgia that had brought her here. It had been ten years—or, nine years and ten months—since she had been back. She couldn’t be faulted for having expected the town that had raised her to have done some growing up itself. The neighborhood may be unrecognizable, but everything else seemed exactly the same—correction, not the same. It just seemed older.

A commotion started near the door, quickly turning into applause that filled the room. Claire wondered what caused it. Could one of their number have become a celebrity she hadn’t recognized?

The crowd parted to reveal a man with a familiar smile. Looking at the style of his dark brown hair and the shape of a well-toned body, though, little else about him was the same.

“Matty?”