Unfinished Business: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

“I…” What could she say? What could she possibly say that could make up for twelve lost years? “Did you…run into much traffic on the way up?”

“No. Not after I got out of Washington. It was a pleasant ride.”

“Still, you must be tired after the drive. Come in and sit down.”

She had remodeled, Vanessa thought foolishly as she followed her mother inside. The rooms were lighter, airier, than she remembered. The imposing home she remembered had become cozy. Dark, formal wallpaper had been replaced by warm pastels. Carpeting had been ripped up to reveal buffed pine floors that were accented by colorful area rugs. There were antiques, lovingly restored, and there was the scent of fresh flowers. It was the home of a woman, she realized. A woman of taste and means.

“You’d probably like to go upstairs first and unpack.” Loretta stopped at the stairs, clutching the newel. “Unless you’re hungry.”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

With a nod, Loretta started up the stairs. “I thought you’d like your old room.” She pressed her lips together as she reached the landing. “I’ve redecorated a bit.”

“So I see.” Vanessa’s voice was carefully neutral.

“You still have a view of the backyard.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

Loretta opened a door, and Vanessa followed her inside.

There were no fussily dressed dolls or grinning stuffed animals. There were no posters tacked on the walls, no carefully framed awards and certificates. Gone was the narrow bed she had once dreamed in, and the desk where she had fretted over French verbs and geometry. It was no longer a room for a girl. It was a room for a guest.

The walls were ivory, trimmed in warm green. Pretty priscillas hung over the windows. There was a four-poster bed, draped with a watercolor quilt and plumped with pillows. A glass vase of freesias sat on an elegant Queen Anne desk. The scent of potpourri wafted from a bowl on the bureau.

Nervous, Loretta walked through the room, twitching at the quilt, brushing imaginary dust from the dresser. “I hope you’re comfortable here. If there’s anything you need, you just have to ask.”

Vanessa felt as if she were checking into an elegant and exclusive hotel. “It’s a lovely room. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Good.” Loretta clasped her hands together again. How she longed to touch. To hold. “Would you like me to help you unpack?”

“No.” The refusal came too quickly. Vanessa struggled with a smile. “I can manage.”

“All right. The bath is just—”

“I remember.”

Loretta stopped short, looked helplessly out the window. “Of course. I’ll be downstairs if you want anything.” Giving in to her need, she cupped Vanessa’s face in her hands. “Welcome home.” She left quickly, shutting the door behind her.

Alone, Vanessa sat on the bed. Her stomach muscles were like hot, knotted ropes. She pressed a hand against her midsection, studying this room that had once been hers. How could the town have seemed so unchanged, and this room, her room, be so different? Perhaps it was the same with people. They might look familiar on the outside, but inside they were strangers.

As she was.

How different was she from the girl who had once lived here? Would she recognize herself? Would she want to?

She rose to stand in front of the cheval glass in the corner. The face and form were familiar. She had examined herself carefully before each concert to be certain her appearance was perfect. That was expected. Her hair was to be groomed—swept up or back, never loose—her face made up for the stage, but never heavily, her costume subtle and elegant. That was the image of Vanessa Sexton.

Her hair was a bit windblown now, but there was no one to see or judge. It was the same deep chestnut as her mother’s. Longer, though, sweeping her shoulders from a side part, it could catch fire from the sun or gleam deep and rich in moonlight. There was some fatigue around her eyes, but there was nothing unusual in that. She’d been very careful with her makeup that morning, so there was subtle color along her high cheekbones, a hint of it over her full, serious mouth. She wore a suit in icy pink with a short, snug jacket and a full skirt. The waistband was a bit loose, but then, her appetite hadn’t been good.

And all this was still just image, she thought. The confident, poised and assured adult. She wished she could turn back the clock so that she could see herself as she’d been at sixteen. Full of hope, despite the strain that had clouded the household. Full of dreams and music.

With a sigh, she turned away to unpack.

When she was a child, it had seemed natural to use her room as a sanctuary. After rearranging her clothes for the third time, Vanessa reminded herself that she was no longer a child. Hadn’t she come to find the bond she had lost with her mother? She couldn’t find it if she sat alone in her room and brooded.

As she came downstairs, Vanessa heard the low sound of a radio coming from the back of the house. From the kitchen, she remembered. Her mother had always preferred popular music to the classics, and that had always irritated Vanessa’s father. It was an old Presley ballad now—rich and lonely. Moving toward the sound, she stopped in the doorway of what had always been the music room.

The old grand piano that had been crowded in there was gone. So was the huge, heavy cabinet that had held reams and reams of sheet music. Now there were small, fragile-looking chairs with needlepoint cushions. A beautiful old tea caddy sat in a corner. On it was a bowl filled with some thriving leafy green plant. There were watercolors in narrow frames on the walls, and there was a curvy Victorian sofa in front of the twin windows.

All had been arranged around a trim, exquisite rosewood spinet. Unable to resist, Vanessa crossed to it. Lightly, quietly, only for herself, she played the first few chords of a Chopin étude. The action was so stiff that she understood the piano was new. Had her mother bought it after she’d received the letter telling her that her daughter was coming back? Was this a gesture, an attempt to reach across the gap of twelve years?

It couldn’t be so simple, Vanessa thought, rubbing at the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. They both had to know that.

She turned her back on the piano and walked to the kitchen.

Loretta was there, putting the finishing touches on a salad she’d arranged in a pale green bowl. Her mother had always liked pretty things, Vanessa remembered. Delicate, fragile things. Those leanings showed now in the lacy place mats on the table, the pale rose sugar bowl, the collection of Depression glass on an open shelf. She had opened the window, and a fragrant spring breeze ruffled the sheer curtains over the sink.

When she turned, Vanessa saw that her eyes were red, but she smiled, and her voice was clear. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but I thought you might like a little salad and some iced tea.”

Vanessa managed an answering smile. “Thank you. The house looks lovely. It seems bigger somehow. I’d always heard that things shrunk as you got older.”

Loretta turned off the radio. Vanessa regretted the gesture, as it meant they were left with only themselves to fill the silence. “There were too many dark colors before,” Loretta told her. “And too much heavy furniture. At times I used to feel as though the furniture was lurking over me, waiting to push me out of a room.” She caught herself, uneasy and embarrassed. “I saved some of the pieces, a few that were your grandmother’s. They’re stored in the attic. I thought someday you might want them.”

“Maybe someday,” Vanessa said, because it was easier. She sat down as her mother served the colorful salad. “What did you do with the piano?”

“I sold it.” Loretta reached for the pitcher of tea. “Years ago. It seemed foolish to keep it when there was no one to play it. And I’d always hated it.” She caught herself again, set the pitcher down. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Loretta gave her a long, searching look. “I don’t think you can.”

Vanessa wasn’t ready to dig too deep. She picked up her fork and said nothing.

“I hope the spinet is all right. I don’t know very much about instruments.”

“It’s a beautiful instrument.”

“The man who sold it to me told me it was top-of-the-line. I know you need to practice, so I thought… In any case, if it doesn’t suit, you’ve only to—”

“It’s fine.” They ate in silence until Vanessa fell back on manners. “The town looks very much the same,” she began, in a light, polite voice. “Does Mrs. Gaynor still live on the corner?”

“Oh yes.” Relieved, Loretta began to chatter. “She’s nearly eighty now, and still walks every day, rain or shine, to the post office to get her mail. The Breckenridges moved away, oh, about five years ago. Went south. A nice family bought their house. Three children. The youngest just started school this year. He’s a pistol. And the Hawbaker boy, Rick, you remember? You used to baby-sit for him.”

“I remember being paid a dollar an hour to be driven crazy by a little monster with buckteeth and a slingshot.”

“That’s the one.” Loretta laughed. It was a sound, Vanessa realized, that she’d remembered all through the years. “He’s in college now, on a scholarship.”

“Hard to believe.”